by Jo Noelle
“Merry Christmas, Waylon.” Vivian’s heart expanded in her chest. This was family. She would cherish this season and hold this night as a special memory all her life.
When all was done, they settled back to the busy work they did each night before retiring.
Waylon said, “I’m going to take Vivian’s dresses to Creede tomorrow. Does anyone need me to pick up anything else?”
No one spoke up, but Vivian picked up the dress and began sewing the last few buttons in place.
“I’ll leave after breakfast.”
Vivian looped the thread through the button’s shank several times, then wrapped it around the base before knotting it off. The group sat in companionable silence, giving her over to her thoughts about Waylon. She admired him. At first, his strong jaw and expressive eyes had drawn her in, but his love for his family impressed her. He took care of them. He looked after the cowboys who work for them as well, often asking his brothers about this one or that by name and the concern he has. He worked hard, doing the same kind of jobs he asked of others to do, and didn’t shy away from hard tasks. His lips looked soft from up close. She pushed that thought away. Just an observation, not a wish. Okay, it was a wish but not an expectation—anymore.
“Thank you for mending my trousers, Ma,” Waylon said.
“I didn’t. That was Vivian.”
“Thank you, Vivian. You did a fine job.”
“You’re welcome.” Vivian paused until he looked her in the eye, and then she said, “It’s my pleasure, Waylon.” She giggled, and he suppressed a laugh as well. Seffi just looked between the two of them.
Vivian found that she took more pride in making Waylon’s clothes ready for him than she did the dresses to sell. She still hoped that, one day, she’d have a family to sew for.
The next morning, Vivian wrapped some bread and cheese in cloth and took it out as Waylon prepared his horse. She watched as he carefully put the folded dresses in his saddlebags. She saw him hold the green party dress by the shoulders and lower it as if a woman were wearing it. He looked at it for a while until he noticed Vivian walking his way.
He cleared his throat. “I need your help refolding this one. It…came undone, and I’m not right sure how to do it back up.”
“This is for your lunch.” She handed him the sack, then refolded the dress before passing it back.
His hands lingered on hers with the dress between them. They stood looking at each other, remembering the last trip to Creede. Well, Vivian was, anyway.
“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for my ma. She seems happier since you’ve been around...we all have.” He swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re here, Vivian. I wonder—when I get back…if I might speak to you about…”
“Lon, I do need a few things,” Seffi yelled as she ran from the house.
Vivian backed away, and Seffi gave him a list. He nodded in acceptance.
He glanced back at Vivian. “Thank you for the lunch.” He tucked the paper in his pocket then put on his gloves.
The vaquero joined him and tipped his hat to the women. “Señora. Señorita.” Then the men rode off.
Both women pointed at the vaquero. “He’s the one who helped me at the train station,” Vivian said at the same time Seffi said, “That’s the man who told me you needed help.”
“That’s more than a little strange,” Seffi said.
Vivian felt the hair on her arms rise. It seemed too convenient to be a coincidence. She contemplated what it meant but didn’t come up with an answer.
That afternoon when Waylon returned, he sought out Vivian. “Mr. Jackson sent some more fabric and some money.” He held out a little pouch.
“What? Why?” The bag was heavy. “He was going to pay me after he sold them.”
“Well, there was a bidding war for your fancy dress. As soon as he put it in the window, ladies started scrapping about who would get to buy it.” Waylon handed her a paper-wrapped package. “This is the fabric for more dresses. He said he could sell them as fast as you can make them. Benita didn’t win the bid for the green dress, though she tried. She’d like to order one directly from you. I told her I’d pass along that message.”
Vivian forced a smile and thanked Waylon, then she went to her room. It seemed possible for her to support herself with her needle. She didn’t know how to feel about the possibility of living in town and not at the ranch. She supposed that it was something she wanted but only because she couldn’t have what—or who—she really wanted.
The next morning was Sunday. As the family walked into the church house, Seffi followed Vivian, sliding between the pews to take the seat she had the past two Sundays. Waylon came in, and instead of sitting on the aisle as usual, he passed by his mother and stood on Vivian’s other side.
“Is this seat available?” he asked.
“Yes,” Vivian replied. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry, so the words were as soft as a whisper. It seemed to Vivian that Waylon had made an important announcement to her and to his family—maybe to the whole community. Her heart felt as if it would burst, and a warm glow stayed with her throughout the meeting.
Reverend Theodore sure gave an energetic sermon. There was more hellfire and damnation than Vivian expected from such a young man, but she was glad they had a church in Creede now, so they could attend more often than if they had to go clear up to Reverend Bing’s chapel in Bachelor. However, she’d always enjoyed the talk of redemption, love, and grace more. Sitting next to Waylon eclipsed everything else that was said, making it all more tolerable.
Though Vivian felt like a woman with a new path stretching before her, she wouldn’t get her hopes up. One boat trip, one train ride, and one Sunday meeting does not a life make. She was going to have to wait and see what happened.
After the benediction, the pastor walked down the aisle to greet the congregation at the door as they left the service. Vivian stepped into the aisle as the woman in front of her whirled around and shoved a baby into her arms, then ran for the door.
“Ma’s been running for the doors for a couple of weeks now,” a young girl said.
Vivian snuggled the baby in her arms. It felt right to hold a little one. She longed to be a mother. Maybe she would get the chance after all.
“I’m her sister,” the girl said, pointing to the baby. Of the toddler she’d taken by the hand, she said, “This is Rose, and my name’s Rachel.”
“Is there anything I can do to help your mother?” Vivian followed the girls down the aisle, walking slowly as people stopped to visit.
“It only seems like Ma’s sick,” she answered. “I don’t think she really is, though. As soon as she’s done, she’s fine until she runs again. Mornings are the worst time.”
Vivian greeted the pastor then followed the girls out and around the corner. With the two other girls going before her, she realized how much she’d missed children. Maybe it was the influence of living at the children’s home where there was always someone to hug or play with, but she realized she wanted a large family. She thanked the Lord for this sweet understanding—the best sermon for her that day.
As they approached, the woman stood with one hand on the wall and her other arm swiping across her forehead. She looked a little pale but not weak. To the girls, the woman said, “You two run along to the wagon and tell Royce I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Are you okay?” Vivian asked.
“I will be by spring.” She smiled sweetly. “My name’s Marta Campbell. I mean, Clark.”
Vivian knew the story of the women who had been abducted but were found and were safe now. She also knew that one of them had married the rancher next door. “I’m Vivian Leete.”
“I know. After Waylon took to sitting at your side during service today, I suppose everyone knows who you are now. He’s a friend of my husband’s. We live on a ranch to your west. We’re neighbors, in a way.”
“I’m so glad to know you.”
“I married the girls’ father,
Royce Clark, a couple of months ago, and I’m expecting for the first time. I think that just the thought of rattling around in that wagon on the drive home made me sick—or at least sicker.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m glad that happened before we started moving.”
The women turned the corner back to the front of the chapel. The Morgan family was talking with Reverend Theodore. The women waved goodbye to each other, and Vivian joined the Morgans.
“That’s settled then, Pastor,” Seffi said. “You’ll come out to the ranch with us and stay for dinner.”
Vivian rode home in the wagon with the skids gliding over the packed snow on the road but didn’t join in the conversation around her. She was filled with gratitude for the tender mercy she had been given. It was a miracle that she was in America, that she was tossed out when she was, that the Brides Train was there that night, that the Mexican cowboy talked to her when he did, that Seffi approached her, and that Waylon was warming to her. She saw God’s hand in all of it. Thank you, Lord, for your mercy in my life. Her heart was full of love.
They parked in the drive, and Seffi got down from the wagon as did the men from their horses. When Vivian stepped off, three men approached on horseback, their faces set in hard looks.
“Oh, no,” Holt whispered beside her.
Waylon’s hand had reached toward the scabbard on his saddle, but his rifle wasn’t there.
The women stepped backward, and the men instinctively stepped forward.
As the men rode up to the family, they pulled guns with both hands and pointed them at the Morgans.
The man in the middle was missing his left eye, and a long scar ran from that vacant hole to his ear.
“I do believe I have a wife hereabouts. I got a telegram from the Brides Train saying my bride got misplaced, and I’ve come to fetch her.” The man in the middle pointed his gun at Vivian. “I asked for an English duchess to be my bride. You must be her.”
Vivian took a step back. She realized then that she’d taken the wrong train. Shock ran through her—that also meant that Waylon hadn’t sent for her. She looked at Waylon. His jaw clenched twice as he stared at the men. Her chest became heavy, and she could hardly breathe.
“I see you have a preacher. That will save us the time of having to hunt one down.” He waggled the barrel of his gun at Reverend Theodore. “You’ll perform the ceremony.”
She recoiled, ice surging though her, knowing she’d accepted his money to travel and that she was bound to that man. But he was the same type as the Plems. The same as the new headmistress of the children’s home. Each of them enslaving her for their own gain.
The preacher asked Vivian, “Do you wish to marry this man?”
Vivian shook her head. She was relieved to recall that either party could reject the arrangement.
“I sent for her and paid for her. Say the words Preacher Man.”
Vivian saw a sheen of sweat glossing Reverend Theodore’s brow. “I won’t.”
“I don’t need no marriage anyhow. I’ll take her as she is.”
Reverend Theodore stepped in front of Vivian, blocking the men from even looking at her. “She might not be the woman you’re looking for.”
“Say something,” the one-eyed man shouted at Vivian.
“No.” Her voice was soft.
“Did you hear an accent, boys? I don’t think I heard one at all. Say something longer.”
She shook her head.
“I bought and paid for you.” Each word shot out of his mouth like a blow. He sneered in her direction. “Say, ‘I’ll do or say anything you want, so you don’t kill this whole family.’ Say it!”
Vivian’s heart stopped. She had brought this evil down on all of them. Seffi had rescued her when she was without a home or food or even her clothes. She would not let them die for her mistakes. For a fleeting moment she thought she understood the phrase, “Remove this cup from me, but if not…”
She knew she would go with him, and somehow, someday, she would find a way to escape.
She looked at Seffi, the woman she had come to think of as her own mother. She tried to smile at her. She wanted to see Waylon one more time, too, but tears clouded her vision. She covered her mouth to hold in a sob.
“I’m not a duchess.” Vivian sagged. It seemed like life was intent on defeating her.
Chapter 12
Waylon Morgan
Waylon whistled for the dogs to crawl toward him. He disguised the sound by immediately saying, “Whew, there’s no need for guns. We could just talk about this—work something out.” He used that whistling command to get his dogs into position during a cattle drive without spooking the herd, and even now, they were sneaking in behind the men.
His gut wrenched to be so far away from Vivian. It was only two large steps, but with guns trained on them, he didn’t dare provoke the outlaws. He wanted to protect her. The men held six guns between them, already drawn. They could kill, would kill, everyone in seconds. He caught the eye of the preacher and with a nod directed him to be ready.
“Sheriff!” Waylon shouted and pointed toward the vaquero and the sheriff from South Fork galloping up the road. As he’d hoped, Lonny Curtis glanced that way. At the diversion, Waylon whistled again, and the dogs launched themselves at the men flanking Lonny. Boone and Holt jumped into action, pulling them from their seats. Even Reverend Theodore and Waylon’s mother helped by stepping on the men’s wrists to remove the guns.
In a swift motion, One-Eye Curtis swung a gun toward the sheriff. A blast echoed off the mountains in a repeating ricochet. Lonny Clark fell to the ground, the sheriff’s shot true to his mark.
Silence followed.
Vivian was in Waylon’s arms, his body blocking her view of the dead man. He hadn’t realized that when the commotion started, he’d bolted for her. She had become the most important piece of his life. He felt her shaking against his chest. Was she trying to back away?
As he loosened his arms, she flung hers around his waist and tightened them.
He bowed his head, resting it on the top of hers, and held her as close as he could—her tiny waist and the soft curve of her hips under his hands. He had no desire to ever let her go.
He was hers, heart and soul, if she’d have him. Waylon wouldn’t ask her to choose her future at this violent scene, but he would ask her, and soon.
Waylon knew what was going to happen next. He pivoted them around but didn’t release her. As he expected, Death rode in on a glowing white stallion, seemingly undetected by anyone except him and the vaquero. The horse’s mane and tail were ablaze with red fire, sparks dripping from the strands of hair. His hooves beat with thunderous percussion, flaming embers flying from the snow.
Death dismounted, placed one hand over the man’s face, and ripped the soul out of Lonny “One-Eye” Curtis. He slung it over the rump of the house, climbed into the golden saddle, then nudged the spirit horse, riding a ways it into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The horse hovered. Death flicked his hand and pushed the villain’s soul off the back of the horse. It plummeted to the ground and splattered into dark, oily shards. Each piece sank into the earth with a sizzle and a pop of fire.
Although the man was shot for drawing on the sheriff, Waylon felt a little justice had been paid for his father’s death too. Grateful for his family’s protection that day, he nodded to the vaquero, who tipped his hat and turned his horse away.
Chapter 13
Vivian Leete
It had been four days since the madman had been killed. Vivian opened her eyes to a beautiful Christmas Eve morning. The smell of bacon filled her room. She needed to help Seffi get breakfast on for the family and the ranch hands. Waylon had been gone from the house more than usual and even more than his brothers the past few days, saying he had some extra work that he needed to take care of before Christmas. Breakfast might be the best time to see him, or surely he’d stay for Christmas Eve that night.
Just to be sure, she decided t
o hurry. She dressed and pulled the braid out of her hair, then smoothed it down and re-braided it. She hustled down the stairs and pushed into the kitchen, stopping immediately.
“Oh, no, no, you don’t.” Waylon waved his hands in front of him as he walked toward Vivian. He had an apron tied around his waist as did Boone and Holt. “I guess we forgot to tell you about this tradition. On Christmas Eve, the men make breakfast.”
“What a treat. Thank you.” Vivian reached for her coat from the peg by the back door.
“Where are you going?” Waylon asked. He raised only one eyebrow as he gazed at her.
How does he do that? “I guess I could go gather eggs?”
“Already done,” Holt said from across the room, where he was cutting biscuits from dough.
“I’m not sure she knows how to do this, Waylon,” Boone added from the other side of the kitchen.
“I see your point,” he answered, pulling off his apron. Then to Vivian, he said, “Let me show you how it’s done.” Waylon abandoned the pancake batter and handed his mixing spoon to Holt. “Take over.”
Waylon took Vivian’s hand, and a jolt passed through her. She had never felt quite so alive before. Well, she had, but he hadn’t kissed her then, either. The memory of his lips close to hers was enough to send chills racing after the jolt. She squeezed his fingers in reaction, and his smile grew. Oh, how she wanted to see that smile every day.
In a few steps, Waylon pointed to the sofa. “You see, the idea is to sit and do nothing.”
Vivian sat.
Waylon sat very close to her. She could smell his soap. He didn’t release her hand. In fact, his other hand turned hers palm up. Then with one finger, he traced the outline as it was cradled in his. Vivian could hardly breathe. The tingling sensation may have originated in her hand, but her head was alive with it—hundreds of little sparks traveled through her. She watched, stunned, as he traced every line that crossed her palm or creased along her fingers.
