The Christmas Confection

by Shanna Hatfield

  Distracted by her dreams of Fred as she rolled out the pie crust, she’d been startled when she heard a loud pop and the back door swung open.

  The man with the scarred face charged inside. Elsa dropped the rolling pin in her hand and bolted up the stairs, locking the door as she glanced around for a weapon. She ran into the little kitchen and grabbed a knife, thinking she’d have been far wiser to have stayed downstairs and snatched up one of her heavy cast iron skillets.

  When the door to her apartment crashed open, she crouched down behind her small kitchen table.

  It took no time for the intruder to find her there. He flipped over the table and reached for her. That’s when she buried the knife in the tender web of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

  He yelped and jerked his hand back, dropping the gun he held. Before Elsa could reach it, though, he tucked it in his holster and grabbed her arm with his other hand.

  In spite of her fighting against him, he managed to drag her downstairs. “Put on your coat or freeze, it makes no difference to me,” he sneered, pointing to her coat by the door.

  Elsa yanked it on, snatching her scarf and wrapping it around her neck and over her ears then pulling on her warm gloves. She was glad she’d put on her heavy winter boots earlier when she’d walked over to Abby Dodd’s dress shop to deliver an order of bread to the woman.

  At least she could be glad he’d allowed her to put on her coat before he’d tugged her down the alley and over to where he met with five other men. Each outlaw appeared equally as frightening as the man some of them called Curly and others referred to as boss.

  The absurdity of calling the bald man Curly almost made Elsa smile. Almost.

  However, her dire circumstances forced away any humor she might have found. All six men seemed convinced she was a woman named Gloria who used to entertain Joe Decker at the Red Lantern Saloon.

  From what she could gather, they expected her to know the way to Joe’s hideout. Elsa had never met the man and, quite frankly, was glad for the fact considering all the terrible stories she’d heard about him.

  The notion that he and Fred shared the same blood left her perplexed. Fred was nothing like his father. He was such a good man, one of the best she’d ever met. How could he have come from such a despicable being as Joe Decker?

  Regardless of his parentage, Elsa sincerely hoped Fred was looking for her. Then again, she didn’t want him to get hurt by these outlaws. She held no doubt that they’d just as soon kill a man as talk to one.

  “How much farther, Gloria?” Curly asked, reining his horse in close to the mount Elsa rode.

  Her legs had gone numb hours ago and if all her toes weren’t frostbitten, it would be a miracle. She’d tucked her chin down into the warm depths of her scarf, but lifted her head slightly. When she did the frigid air snaked down her neck and caused her to shiver in spite of her efforts to keep from doing so.

  “Look at that, fellas. Our little girly gets all excited just having me near.” Curly leered at her. “Betcha I can make you forget how much you liked lovin’ on them two Decker boys. You never did say who you liked better. Was your favorite Fred or Joe?”

  Stunned by what Curly implied, that Fred had been… associated with the harlot known as Gloria, Elsa knew he’d been little more than a boy when she disappeared. Distraught and disgusted, she wouldn’t dignify Curly’s statement by acknowledging his presence.

  She kept her gaze forward and tucked her chin back into the protection of her scarf. Curly grabbed her arm and squeezed it until she winced.

  A quick glance at him showed his pleasure in causing her pain. A foreboding sense of warning made it clear he’d take joy in watching her suffer if she didn’t keep her wits about her.

  “It’s another hour or so,” she said, then jerked her arm from his grasp, nearly falling off the horse, but making her point that she tired of his bullying.

  In truth, Elsa had no idea where they were heading or what the men wanted from her. Curly operated under the delusion that she knew exactly how to find Joe Decker’s hideaway. According to him, she was the harlot, Gloria, returned to town to claim Joe’s hidden gold. If Gloria knew the location of Joe’s gold, Elsa wondered why Curly thought the harlot would hang around Hardman instead of snatching the gold and leaving. Truthfully, what he said held no trace of rationale. He’d muttered something about a key and a locked box, but it made no more sense than his convoluted reasoning.

  Curly reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She refused to flinch or duck away. Instead, she met his gaze.

  “You better not be lying to me, girl, or what ol’ Joe did to you the last time I saw you will seem like child’s play. You understand me?” Curly tightened his hold on her chin.

  Elsa pulled her head back and shot him a scathing glare. “Perfectly. And you better understand if you don’t want me to lead you around in circles that you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Woohee, she’s talkin’ mighty high for a gal about to get a bullet between her eyes,” one of the smelly, black-toothed men with Curly shouted. He took another swig from a bottle of booze he’d been nursing the last hour.

  At the rate he consumed it, Elsa was surprised anything was left in the bottle. Too bad more of them weren’t drinking. She might have a slim chance of escaping if they all were too drunk to ride.

  As it was, all but one appeared sober.

  Why had she foolishly told Ethan and Lottie to take the afternoon off? Would Curly have abducted her if her brother had been at the bakery? Then again, the outlaw most likely would have shot both Ethan and Lottie without batting an eyelash.

  No, she was glad her brother and his wife were safe at home. But would they miss her? Even if someone noticed her absence, would they know she’d been taken? How would they know which direction to look?

  What if these horrible men did what they promised when they failed to find Joe Decker’s hideout? Elsa sent up another prayer for deliverance as they continued riding across the landscape illuminated by a bright winter’s moon.

  Under other circumstances, Elsa might have enjoyed the picturesque scene around her as the silvery glow cast everything in a surreal, heavenly light. Stars twinkled overhead on a blanket of dark velvet while a world of white gossamer surrounded her beneath the covering of untouched snow.

  Truly, it was something from a storybook, except she had an idea this particular tale would not have a happy ending. In fact, if Curly and his men had their way, she’d be dead long before dawn.

  They rode over a hill and stopped. Below them, nestled down in the valley at the edge of a clearing was what appeared to be a small cabin or shack of sorts.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Curly said, yanking back on his reins and pulling his horse to a stop. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw then glanced at Elsa. “That Joe’s place?”

  “It certainly isn’t where Father Christmas resides,” she said, avoiding an outright lie by evading his question. Whether it was Joe’s cabin or not, Elsa cast a prayer heavenward that they’d found shelter against the freezing cold of the night.

  The men around her chuckled and Curly even smiled. “Nice to see you got some of your sass back, Gloria. Let’s get down there and out of the blasted cold weather. I could use a little warmth before we dig out the gold.” Curly’s gaze slid over her in a way that made Elsa feel sick to her stomach. “Might even be a little time for you to warm my bed, too.”

  “Aw, Curly! You promised you’d share her,” the drunk whined.

  “Shut your pie hole, you dunce. Ain’t nobody touching her until I say so.” Curly spurred his horse forward and they all rode down the hill.

  With each step the horse carried her closer to the building, Elsa prayed for help, for someone to rescue her, or a means of escape.

  They were halfway down the hill when she heard a loud crack and one of the men toppled out of his saddle into the snow.

  “Ride! Ride!” Curly shouted, grabbing her reins an
d kicking the sides of his horse.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fred took a deep breath and closed one eye, siting down the barrel of his rifle. Gently, he squeezed the trigger and watched as one of Curly’s men fell out of his saddle and remained motionless in the snow.

  Without hesitation, Fred aimed and fired again, taking down another outlaw as they raced down the hill.

  He could see Elsa, her golden hair flying like a banner in the moonlight, as she looked back over her shoulder, sending silent pleas for help.

  Fred fired again and watched a third outlaw grip his shoulder, but continue riding. He’d hoped to catch up to them hours ago, but he’d lost their tracks once when they crossed a creek and had to backtrack. By the time he’d picked up the trail again, he’d had to push Festus to catch up. Now, it appeared Curly had either stumbled upon Joe’s hideout, or the outlaws were desperate to find any sort of shelter against the cold.

  The gang was too far away for Fred to hit any of them. He ran toward Festus through the snow, trying to formulate a plan for taking out four outlaws on his own when they were holed up inside the shack in the distance. He could burn them out, but he worried about what would happen to Elsa. If only he’d listened to the sheriff and taken time to gather a posse.

  Then again, Fred hadn’t wanted to be there when men refused to go with him. After all, he was the son of Hardman’s most notorious criminal and a woman who’d brought grief to many with her waspish tongue.

  Whatever Fred faced, he’d face it alone. No matter how hard he’d tried, how much he’d worked to overcome his past, it was always there, reminding him he’d never be truly accepted as part of Hardman’s community.

  Once he rescued Elsa and returned her to Hardman, he was leaving. He couldn’t bear the thought of staying, especially when she’d no longer want a thing to do with him. His father and the things he’d done was the entire reason she’d been taken by Curly and his gang. By now, Curly had probably told her all about the days when Fred hung out in the saloon, availing Gloria and some of the other women at the Red Lantern of the services they offered.

  What would she think of him?

  Desperate and depressed, Fred shoved his rifle in the scabbard on his saddle and swung up to the seat. The ground shook and he heard a pounding echo, like hoofbeats. He glanced behind him to see a dozen men galloping his direction.

  Even in the moonlight, he recognized Tom Grove, Luke Granger, Arlan Guthry, Blake Stratton, and some of his friends from town. Even Ethan Lindstrom had joined the posse.

  Festus spun around in a nervous circle before Fred pulled back on the reins, keeping him steady.

  “What are you all doing here?” Fred asked, shocked by their arrival.

  “Heard you needed a little help,” Luke said, pointing to the shiny star pinned to his coat. “The sheriff deputized those of us who weren’t already and we followed you as quickly as we could. We’d lost the trail back there a little ways, but the gunshots guided us right along.”

  “Thank you,” Fred said, hoping those two small, thoroughly inadequate words expressed the depths of his gratitude. For now, they’d have to do. He pointed toward the crest of the hill. “Two of them are down and one more hit. Four outlaws and Elsa are riding toward a shack at the bottom of the valley.”

  “Then I guess we better flush them out so we can get Elsa home in time to bake cinnamon buns for breakfast,” Arlan teased as he rode up beside Fred. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Everything will be okay.”

  Fred nodded, unable to speak beyond the lump lodged in his throat.

  “Before we ride down that hill and get picked off one by one, here’s what I propose,” Luke said, taking on the role of leader.

  Five minutes later, Fred watched as the men rode through the trees surrounding the shack where they wouldn’t be seen. Luke had devised a good plan, if it worked.

  When the men appeared to be in position, Fred narrowed his gaze and stared through the trees, seeing a slight glint of moonlight off a rifle, knowing the other men were in place, ready to take action.

  Fred guessed the structure at the bottom of the hill had probably been an old miner’s shack, or maybe a line shack a rancher once used. From what he could see, it was most likely abandoned years ago, since it listed to the left and looked as though a strong wind might knock it over.

  Quickly going over what he needed to do, Fred waited for the signal to move forward. With every muscle tense and on alert, Fred watched as Luke stood up in his stirrups and waved his rifle in the moonlight, the signal for him to proceed with their scheme.

  Fred slapped the reins of the two horses that belonged to the outlaws he’d felled earlier. Using them as a shield, he raced down the hill toward the shack, creating the distraction needed for the other men to save Elsa.

  It didn’t take long for the outlaws to open fire. The horses in front of him tried to veer away, but Fred kept a tight hold on the reins and gave them another slap, driving them faster down the hill. A bullet whizzed past his ear with a buzzing sound that made him bend further over Festus’ neck.

  About twenty yards from the shack, a bullet caught Fred in the left arm and he dropped the reins to one of the horses. It veered to the left and the other one followed, nearly jerking Fred out of the saddle before he let go of the reins. White hot pain seared across his side as another bullet found its mark.

  Rather than stop, Fred urged Festus onward as his friends surrounded the shack. When he approached the door, Fred abruptly turned Festus to the side then let the momentum carry him out of the saddle and into the door.

  It caved beneath his weight and he rolled inside, coming up with his Colt in his hand, firing at Curly and hitting the outlaw in the thigh.

  The men from town swarmed into the little shack and subdued the gang before any lives were lost.

  Heedless to the blood flowing down his arm and from his side, Fred rushed over to Elsa where she sat tied to a rickety chair. He pulled a knife from his boot and cut the ropes then hauled her into his arms. Joy flooded his heart to find her alive as he held her close, letting it sink in that she was well, whole, and safe.

  “Elsa, Elsa,” he whispered, raining kisses on her unbound hair. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  “I’m fine, Fred,” she said, clinging to him like she’d never let him go. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

  For a moment, Fred forgot there was anyone else in the shack. For a moment, he allowed Elsa to glimpse into his soul. For a moment, he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her with all the passion and tenderness he’d stored in his heart these last several months while he was falling in love with her.

  Then clearing throats and a slap on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Ethan pulled Elsa to him and gave her a hug. Blake and Arlan set the door back in place while Tom built a fire in the rusty stove. Luke noticed the blood pooling on the floor beneath Fred.

  “Sit down before you pass out, Fred,” Luke ordered, helping him remove his coat, shirt, and woolen undershirt then pushing him down onto the rickety chair Elsa had occupied.

  “Make sure Elsa warms up,” Fred said, giving Ethan a pointed look. He avoided Elsa’s gaze as she gaped at his bare upper body. He didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes as she saw the scars he bore — scars from his father that went far deeper than the skin.

  Yet, today, surrounded by his friends, Fred felt the wounds healing. For the first time in his life, he no longer felt alone. He had true friends, people who’d risk their lives to help him. And he couldn’t ask for more than that.

  The men around him soon had the outlaws gagged and bound in a corner, a fire blazing in the stove, and Elsa settled on a derelict bench with her toes warming by the fire while she held a cup of hot coffee.

  Luke ransacked the outlaws’ saddle bags and found a few bottles of whiskey.

  Jaw clenched, Fred sucked air through his teeth when Luke poured most of a bottle over the wound on his side and the
n his arm. The bullet had just grazed across his upper arm, leaving a deep cut. The one that hit his side missed any vital organs and exited out his back.

  When Luke pushed him forward and poured more booze in the exit wound, Fred clenched the chair seat to keep from toppling over on the floor. Before he could protest, Luke took a needle and thread from a small packet in his jacket pocket and started stitching him up.

  “Filly sent along some threaded needles, just in case,” Luke said as he held the edges together of the wound on Fred’s back and took careful stitches.

  Fred clamped his lips into a thin line and swallowed down the pain as Luke worked. He had no idea the banker had any doctoring skills, but Fred had been stitched up enough times to know Luke did a fair job at it. He released a sigh of relief when the man finished.

  “That should keep it from getting infected. Doc will probably want to take a look when we get back to Hardman,” Luke said, studying both of Fred’s wounds after he poured more whiskey over the stitched flesh. He took what remained in the bottle and poured it over the bullet wound in Curly’s thigh. The outlaw looked like he’d rather have the whiskey to drink, but no one cared about his preferences.

  Elsa reached down and ripped a long strip from her petticoat then walked over to Fred. “We should bandage that.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll just…” Fred sucked in more air when Luke held him upright and Elsa wrapped the cloth around his side. She tore another smaller strip to cover his arm.

  Blake yanked the leather stampede string out of one outlaw’s hat and tied it around Curly’s leg to slow the bleeding before stepping outside and returning with a pile of saddlebags.

  “We’ve got food,” Luke said, setting his saddlebags on a table that looked as though it might collapse at any moment. “Filly sent bread and ham. She would have made sandwiches if I’d given her time.”

  “Ginny sent food, too,” Blake said, taking a tin from his saddlebag. At the dubious looks on the faces around him, he removed the lid and grinned. “Rest assured, my wife didn’t make these biscuits. She bought them for the baby to gnaw on when he started teething. If you dunk these in coffee, they’re quite tasty.”