Hang Your Heart on Christmas: A Clean & Inspirational Western Historical Romance (The Brides of Evergreen Book 1)

by Heather Blanton

  To Dent, staying in Evergreen for any reason sounded like a punishment akin to working a chain gang. Only a chain gang would be more exciting. He did owe Ben something, though, and most likely, there were some pretty ruffled feathers after this fiasco. His negligence had cost the town a good man and a fine sheriff. Dent didn’t have a clue how he was ever gonna get past that, but sitting around watching mud dry didn’t sound like the way to do it.

  Doc slapped his knees and stood, Dent with him. “You think on that. And, while you’re thinkin’, you might want to pop your head inside my examination room and apologize to the lady whose head you fired at.”

  “I didn’t fire at her head.”

  “She doesn’t know that. For all she knows, you could’ve missed Needles.” He tossed up a hand. “I know, I know, you don’t miss. But it would be a nice gesture on your part to apologize to the girl. Heck of a welcome for our new schoolteacher. I’m not sure she’ll stay now. She’s pretty rattled by the reception.” Doc winced at Dent’s shirt. “And all that blood isn’t gonna help. Why don’t you change first? I’ve got a spare I’ll loan you.”

  Dent sighed, a deep, weary exhalation of grief and frustration. “Sure.”

  Alone, sitting on the bed in the examination room, Amy stared at her hands. Would they ever quit shaking? Echoes of the gunfire resounded in her head. She plastered her palms over her ears in a futile effort to stop the noise.

  She could still feel that vile man holding his hand against her stomach, his hot, sweaty body pressed to hers, and the cold point of the gun barrel between her breasts.

  Somehow, it all blurred together with the attack back in Swanton. The acid taste of fear in her mouth, the men grabbing at her and spinning her around, the sound of her dress tearing, and the stench of cheap whiskey and filth filling her nostrils.

  Her hand crept around to the back of her head as she recalled the pain of her skull smacking the sidewalk. It all still felt so real, as real as if she was back there again, screaming, clawing, the cold air swarming her shoulder as her dress was ripped away, that chilling laughter ... and the single pistol shot that chased the attackers away.

  She covered her face with her trembling, fragile hands, and stifled the sobs crying for freedom. Slow, determined tears spilled down her cheeks. Oh, God, why has all this happened? I feel like a shell of who I was. I’m so afraid ...

  “Uh, ma’am?” a male voice called through the door as he knocked gently.

  Amy wiped her face and squared her shoulders, but she didn’t have the energy to stand. “Yes? Come in.”

  A handsome young man with shoulder-length, wavy, black hair and eyes the color of chocolate drops peered around the door; the marshal who had shot at her ... or, rather, at her assailant. His square, handsome face, full of trepidation, warmed a bit and he nodded as he stepped into the room. “I’m U.S. Marshal Robert Hernandez. I wanted ...” he trailed off and shrugged. “Um, I guess, to apologize. I’m sorry for all this trouble. I hope you’re all right.”

  Amy stared at him, clueless as to a response. She didn’t feel all right, not at all. “You could have shot me,” slipped out. It felt good to let a little of the fear mix with some anger, and she rose. “What if you’d missed? Did you really think the place for a shoot-out was a crowded train platform? What kind of town is this?” Hysteria tried creeping into her voice. “I came here because I was assured Evergreen was a safe, quiet community with virtually no crime and, yet, I’m thrust in the middle of gun-play before I even step off the train.”

  “Ma’am,” Dent patted the air and spoke gently. “I am truly sorry for what transpired. I’m truly sorry you were caught in the middle. However, I can assure you what happened today probably won’t happen again in Evergreen for another hundred years.”

  Amy sank suddenly to the bed, her knees going all weak and wobbly. Peace and quiet. Crickets. Law-abiding residents. More churches than saloons. Her physician had assured her Evergreen was the perfect place to quiet her fears and calm her nerves. She closed her eyes and tried slowing her racing heart. She despised this feeling of being so ... emotionally precarious. “I was told there was no crime here. Not even petty larceny. Is that true, Deputy Hernandez?” She lifted her gaze to him, and was surprised to find him staring back with a mixture of concern and confusion.

  “I give you my word, Miss, Evergreen is one of the finest, safest towns in the West. You couldn’t be any safer if you were back East.”

  She bit back a bitter laugh. “The East certainly isn’t what it used to be ... but I thank you for your assurance.” She scanned the spartan little room and realized none of her belongings had come with her. Attempting to pull herself together, she stood once more and faced the marshal. “My things. My suitcases, satchel—”

  Marshal Hernandez opened the door all the way and motioned to the outer room. “I’m sure between Doc and me, we can find your items and get you settled ... um, wherever you’ll be staying.” Amy nodded a quick thank-you and moved to exit the room. As she passed by the marshal, he leaned in a little. “And one other thing, Miss.”

  She paused, waiting.

  “I wouldn’t have shot you by accident. I never miss.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’ll take care of the bags, dear.” Doc closed his office door behind the plump Mrs. Woodruff and the much more petite Miss Tate. Through the window, Dent absently watched the ladies amble down the boardwalk. His mind was back at the jail wondering when he could head out with Happy.

  Grinning, Doc tagged Dent in the ribs. “Yep, I guess I’d stare, too, if I was a young, single man.”

  Dent didn’t catch Doc’s drift at first, but then he shook his head. “No sorry. I was lookin’ in her direction, but thinking about Happy Jack. I need to go check on him and get my report written.”

  Doc reached up and laid the back of his hand on Dent’s forehead, then touched the pulse at his neck. Flustered, Dent swatted his hand away. “What’s the matter with you? I ain’t sick.”

  Doc dropped his hand onto his hip. “I’m trying to make sure you’re not dead. You even notice how pretty that gal is?”

  Dent let his gaze drift out the window again. “Maybe.” Which was the same thing as saying not really. “I’ve had a few things on my mind in the last hour.”

  “True.” Doc sighed at the reminder of Ben’s death, tugged his hat from a hook, and grabbed the doorknob. “Well, she’s my houseguest till her cabin’s ready. You come by for dinner. Maybe you’ll take a minute to notice.” He pulled the door open.

  “I noticed her on the train, and now Ben’s dead.”

  Doc stopped in his tracks. He thought for a moment then wheeled around to Dent. Sixty or so, he was still tall and straight, and carried himself with authority. “It’s not that girl’s fault.”

  Dent flinched at the steel in his friend’s tone. “No sir. I didn’t mean to imply it was.”

  The apology seemed to satisfy Doc. He nodded and slipped through the door. Dent was a little surprised by the man’s unusual protectiveness of the new schoolteacher, but didn’t give it much heed. His own misery and guilt crowded out the observation as he dropped his hat onto his head.

  “A deal? You want to make a deal?” Dent looked past a wide-eyed, hopeful Happy Jack, to the bars in the cell’s window. He thought about all the times he’d passed through Evergreen on his way to find some outlaws. Ben had been a solid reminder that good men, law-abiding men, still held sway in the country. Now, he was gone and Dent had a good mad on. He was as surly as a bear. “No, Jack, I ain’t too interested in a deal.”

  “Aw, come on, Marshal.” Jack approached the bars. “I didn’t know what Needles was gonna do and I didn’t help him. I stepped outta the way. That oughta be worth somethin’.”

  “Not really.”

  Jack scowled at Dent’s deadpan answer. Then an evil tease lifted his brow. “What if I had some information?”

  Dent sniffed and rested his hand on his gu
n. “For instance?”

  The criminal grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten or missing teeth, and clutched the bars. “I hear tell every time you arrest somebody, you ask ’em a question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Somethin’ about ‘was you in Sheridan on July 10, ‘67?’“

  “Were you in Evergreen, on or about the evening of July 3, 1880?”

  “Yea, that’s it.” Jack squinted. “Why that date?”

  “You said somethin’ about some information.”

  Jack hesitated for a moment. “What if it is worth somethin’ to ya?”

  “I might mention to the territorial judge how you were not involved in the fray at the depot, and that you did not aid Needles in his attempt to escape ... but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Jack thought about it long and hard then shrugged, as if he didn’t have anything to lose. “I was in Fort Carson a few months ago. Played poker with a fella that said he shot a Wyoming lawman and probably would never step foot in the territory again. The lawman had a son who wouldn’t let it go.”

  Dent had to admit the piece of information was intriguing, though specifics would have been helpful. When and where in Wyoming had this supposed murder taken place? On its own, another useless clue. But the part about the lawman’s son piqued his interest. “He didn’t say a name? His or the lawman’s? Can you describe this fella?”

  “I did not get his name, or any others, but he wore a stovepipe hat and had bad scars on his wrists, like he’d been—”

  “Shackled? Like he’d been on a chain gang?”

  Jack smiled, big and wide. “Now that’s information you can use.”

  Possibly. Identifying marks were usually mentioned on Wanted posters and the scarred wrists could mean the man had been on a railroad chain gang. “Fort Carson, huh?” Yes, these were solid leads. “I’ll be sure the judge knows what happened today, Jack.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ben had saved all the Wanted posters that came into his office. He had a collection going back twenty years. Dent pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and scooped up an armful. If it took till the Second Coming, he would go through every one of these.

  The second step he’d take care of on the way to Doc’s house. He’d send a telegram to the Union Pacific asking for the names of the prisons that had supplied chain gangs between the peak building years of ’65 to ’70. A shot in the dark, but maybe he’d get lucky and match some names with these Wanted posters.

  He dropped into the squeaking, leather office chair at the desk ... and froze. How many times had Ben settled his old bones into this very seat and recalled his days chasing outlaws with Pa? Dent had loved those stories about the wild-and-wooly pair of lawmen.

  Now both of them were gone.

  And Dent felt ... lost.

  He rubbed his temples and tried to think about business. The report he’d have to write ... explaining how he’d let a killer get hold of his gun. Most likely, the report would end his career, and maybe that was as it should be. Penance.

  Sagging inside, he leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. No way to fix this mess.

  Then plow right through it.

  Working was better than wallowing in self-pity and grief. Determined not to waste a potential lead, he started flipping through the posters. The report, though, haunted his mind, poked at him like a kid with a stick. He couldn’t sugarcoat a dang thing. Nothing he could do, in fact, except spell it out.

  He shook his head and stood. If he had to write the report that would end his career, he could at least do it with a good dinner in him. He wouldn’t shirk it. He’d write it tonight while it was still fresh in his mind then turn it in tomorrow when he delivered Happy …

  And let the chips fall where they may.

  “Dent, I hate to talk about this at dinner,” Doc ladled steaming chicken and dumplings onto his plate, the aroma filling the small dining room. “And I especially hate to talk about this in front of Miss Tate,” he nodded at the schoolmarm, “but, well, you’re the only thing Ben’s got for family. Least ways no one’s seen his wife and son in years.” He returned the spoon to the pot and settled back. “We need to make arrangements, and I know for a fact he left you his ranch—”

  “His ranch?” Dent nearly choked on a dumpling. “He left me his ranch?”

  “Oh, I know it doesn’t really qualify as a ranch, what without cattle and all, but it’s a fine spread. You could fix it up and—”

  “No, no, no,” Dent waved his hand, earning him a confused, almost fearful, look from Miss Tate. “I can’t be tied down to property.”

  Dent’s emphatic reaction brought the table to a halt. Susan Woodruff frowned hard and clutched the schoolteacher’s hand, as if to assure her the U.S. Marshal wasn’t coming unglued. “Dent, no need to get so excited,” she said gently. “If you don’t want the property, you can always sell it, like you did your pa’s place. The more immediate need would be to talk to Pastor Wills to arrange Ben’s funeral.”

  Dent sighed so heavily he ’bout blew the food off the table. He wasn’t prepared for any of this. Dang, he wished he could shoot Needles again, just to make himself feel better. “Susan, I’m between a rock and a hard place.” He rubbed his jaw and shifted his attention to Doc. “I’ve got that business tomorrow over in Cheyenne.”

  Doc’s eyes narrowed and he and Susan swapped strained glances. Unspoken messages swirled at the table. Perhaps aware there was something here that was none of her business, Miss Tate dropped her head as if her vittles had suddenly become more interesting.

  “Yes, that business,” Doc repeated. “Not something you can get out of, at least not at this late date.”

  “Henry and I can talk to Pastor,” Susan offered. “We’ll make the arrangements, if that’s all right with you.”

  “That’s best, Susan, if you don’t mind. Thank you.” And Dent truly was appreciative. The feeling he was drowning rose up in him. Given the choice, he preferred a hanging to making funeral arrangements and wondered what that said about the condition of his heart.

  Specializing in dyin’ ...

  “Miss Tate,” Susan shifted her attention to their guest, “this can wait until after supper,” she flicked a warning glance at Doc. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. You.” She patted the girl’s hand. “I understand you were a librarian most recently, but you have been a schoolteacher?”

  Dismissed from the conversation, and glad of it, Dent hunkered down over his food and focused on eating.

  “Yes ma’am.” The girl laid her fork down and shoved her glasses up a bit. “I taught elementary school for six years, but I love books so much that when I had the opportunity to move to the library, I jumped at it.”

  Dent stabbed a dumpling and almost laughed at the girl’s history. Since she was about as exciting as a brick, he figured she’d fit right in with Evergreen. A schoolmarm and a librarian. At least he’d never be arresting her for anything. And maybe he had noticed she was a little on the pretty side. He risked a quick glance to confirm that. Her cheeks were soft and smooth, flawless, and the color of a ripe peach. Dainty auburn curls wafted gently around her face as she moved. Dent ducked back to the safety of his meal.

  Doc pushed a biscuit around his plate as he sopped up the remaining chicken broth. “In case you were wondering, Miss Tate, the town doesn’t know much about your personal history.”

  An odd, stilted tone in the man’s voice drew Dent back in. He saw the cautious exchange between Miss Tate and her hosts. Something had been said without being said, but he couldn’t have cared less. He had his own matters to worry about.

  Susan picked up the pitcher and poured more water for herself and Miss Tate. “The search committee tells me you will be starting a library as well as teaching?” Dent heard the forced cheer, getting them past the unspoken message.

  “Yes ma’am.” Miss Tate wiped her mouth and set her napkin on the table.
“Because of my work at the library, I’ve met many, many patrons who love to share the joy of reading. I’m sure we’ll have hundreds of books donated by spring.”

  “Oh, that’s so exciting. I love to read, too.” Susan rose and started to clear the table. “Well, we’ll have dessert and coffee in the living room.”

  “Let me help,” Miss Tate started to rise.

  “No, no,” Susan shook her head. “You’re a guest. You and Dent go on in.” She waved a hand toward the hallway. “Henry and I will bring in the pie.” Susan pulled Dent’s plate away from him, although he wasn’t done. He followed it stubbornly for a moment, but her raised brow convinced him to let it go. Not sure why she was in such a hurry to get him away from the table, he licked his fork, and surrendered it. “Fine. I’ll stoke the fire.” He rose and left the room.

  Amy could have huffed her indignation at the marshal’s abrupt departure from the room, but clearly he would not have noticed. He seemed totally absorbed in his own matters.

  “He was raised better, Miss Tate,” Doctor Woodruff rose and proceeded to assist his wife by picking up his own plate and glass. “I hope you’ll overlook his preoccupation. It’s been a difficult day for him … for everyone.”

  “Ben was probably his oldest friend.” Susan hoisted a stack of dirty dishes to her hip and hooked two mugs with her fingers. “And … he’s never dealt well with grief.”

  Considering the circumstances, Amy should have let it go. Not being escorted from the dinner table by a gentleman was certainly not the worst thing that had ever happened to her. No, it was more than that. The marshal looked right through her, as if she wasn’t even in the room. She’d been through quite a bit lately, but still had some pride. Being treated as if she were no more important than a rug on the floor stung.

  Susan backed up to the kitchen door, her arms full of dishes. “Go on, now. We’ll be right there with the pie and coffee.”