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

by Heather Blanton

  Surely, Tom Packett would do the right thing for Israel.

  But Dent wasn’t sure of it.

  Missing Amy so much it hurt, he ventured to her side of town. He climbed the steps to the little schoolhouse with heavy footfalls, the sound muted by the snow. From inside, he heard a bell and, within seconds, a stampede of children nearly ran him over. The door flew open and children diving into coats, swinging books, and shoving their hands into gloves flowed past Dent like a wild, debris-filled river.

  He laughed as he dodged them, swatting them with his hat, then he looked up at the door. The laughter melted away. The heartbreak in Amy’s eyes nailed him to the spot, and his own heart sank. She melted back inside, moving like a ghost. Flinching, Dent followed, but his legs felt as if he was slogging through wet cement.

  She stood at the blackboard with her back to him, arms clasped tightly across her chest. He’d come to tell her how he much he’d missed her, that she’d never left his thoughts in the weeks he’d been gone, that, because of her, he was thinking maybe he could stay in Evergreen for a while, see if this sheriff business might suit him.

  He couldn’t say any of it now. “You can’t stand it, can you? Who and what I am.” He was not surprised, but it stung nonetheless.

  “I left Swanton to forget the violence done to me. Instead, I’ve come to a place where it is all around me. The harm you would do that boy—”

  “I brought his father in. I believe Packett will testify Israel was coerced because of you—”

  “Because of me?” She spun on him. “How is that?”

  “Before he died, Watson said Tom Packett threatened to hurt you if Israel didn’t come along to act as lookout.”

  She stumbled toward a desk, the color draining from her face, and Dent reached to help her. He eased her into a seat, but she didn’t acknowledge his hand. Rebuffed, he quietly withdrew. She pulled off her glasses and set them in her lap, her head down. “Oh, Israel,” she whispered.

  “Amy, you can be a character witness for him. I suspect your testimony will go far.”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks and sniffled. “Yes, of course I will.”

  Standing there, watching her deal with all this pain and death, Dent suddenly hated himself. “You came here to heal, and all you’ve done is fight my demons. I’m sorry, Amy.”

  “Dent.” Those blue eyes of hers, the deepest, most soul-piercing sapphires he’d ever seen, searched his face, and his heart. “When was the last time you were really a peace officer?” She gave the question a moment to sink in. “That’s the man I want to love. He wears the badge to uphold the law, and cares about the people he’s protecting ... all of them.”

  “I care about Israel.”

  “Then why can’t you tell me you won’t hang him?”

  “I don’t know, Amy. I ...” He stepped back, and pressed his hat against his chest. He didn’t know how to separate justice and vengeance anymore. “I’ve never questioned ...” A verdict. Hang ’em all. Let God deal with ’em. If he questioned, he couldn’t pull the lever.

  After all these years, sorting his mistakes from the things he’d done right was impossible. He was a flawed man, growing cold, fading away, losing touch with life. She was destined for better things, a better man. He could give her that at least.

  “I just don’t know anymore,” he muttered again, drifting toward the door. He hoped she’d stop him, come running to him, beg him to stay. By the time he grabbed the doorknob, though, he knew they were finished.

  And the shine on Evergreen dulled considerably.

  Amy continued in a daze as the week ticked down. Israel’s trial drew closer and closer. Her happiest moments were at school. The children brought her such joy, and reminded her that hope springs eternal. Her saddest moments were at the jail, visiting Israel, though she tried to be as optimistic about his future as possible.

  Today, she had something special for him. His reading had improved so substantially that she wanted him to try something for fun. She let herself into the sheriff’s office, glanced at the empty desk, tried not to think about Dent, and strode to Israel’s cell. She prayed for courage and peace, and offered the young man a bright smile. “Good afternoon, Israel.”

  He was sitting on the cot, reading Mark Twain. He smiled at her, but his enthusiasm dwindled a bit every day. In the cell next to him, Tom Packett slept, or appeared to.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tate.” He set his book aside and joined her at the bars. He’d aged in the weeks he’d spent behind these bars. Experience and disappointment lent an edgy cut to his face, adding a few years. He no longer resembled the innocent boy of fifteen. His face was gaunt and pale, and his glossy dark hair had dulled. “You heard from the sheriff?”

  “He sent Doc a telegram a few days ago. I think he’ll be back soon. Honestly, he sounded frustrated. He said tracking Stanton and the others is like tracking ghosts ... and he’s tired.”

  “Yes ma’am, I understand, and I appreciate the way he’s worked so hard to—” he spoke carefully, so as not to let another name slip, she assumed, “to try to find the others.”

  “Israel ...” She wanted to beg him to give her the names of all the gang members, but his trial started tomorrow. She couldn’t discuss it without weeping. Instead, she held up her gift. “I brought you a book with a very special poem in it. Would you read it to me? I’m quite certain you’ll enjoy it.”

  He nodded and took the gift from her. “Casey at Bat?”

  She pulled up a chair and made herself comfortable. “Go ahead.”

  Israel cleared his throat. “The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play ...”

  With but one inning more to play. Like Casey, she thought, we’ve run out of time.

  She peered through the bars at Tom Packett. Though he hadn’t said a word, she sensed he was listening. Listening to his son read a poem about baseball, the only other thing in this world Israel held dear.

  She leaned her head on a bar and smiled as he read about the crowd, and the first two strikes. He read the poem with enthusiasm, and she only had to correct him a few times. He did quite well, even using inflection. Then came the end.

  “... And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.” Israel stared at the words for a moment more then slowly shut the book. “I guess I know how they feel in Mudville.”

  In the adjacent cell, Tom Packett stood up, stretched, strode to the bars separating his cell from Israel’s and leered at Amy. “Why are you here? If he doesn’t hang, he’ll be sitting in prison for years.”

  “Pa,” Israel begged.

  Packett grabbed the bars and shook greasy, dark hair out of his face. “What good is reading about baseball gonna do him there?”

  “Reading, Mr.Packett,” Amy stood and lifted her chin defiantly to the man, a herculean effort, since he terrified her, “will open his cell door and take him anywhere he wishes to go. He can ride a flying carpet in Persia or paddle up the Mississippi River with Tom Sawyer.”

  Packett snorted and flounced his hands like a girl, extending his pinkies. “Paddle up the Mississippi River with Tom Sawyer,” he mocked in a girlish voice. He pounded his chest then tried to shake the bars. “He needs to learn to fight and to kill if he wants to survive prison.”

  “He doesn’t need to go to prison at all,” she practically screamed, stomping her foot. “Why can’t you do the right thing, and say you held a gun to his head and forced him to go to that robbery?”

  “Because he didn’t,” Israel whispered.

  Amy deflated and clutched the bars. “Sheriff Hernandez told me your father threatened to hurt me if you didn’t help him.”

  “He did, but,” Israel dropped his voice to a whisper, “I still coulda run. I coulda run straight to the fall festival and told Sheriff Hernandez. I didn’t. I was too
scared.” He turned away in shame, and Amy closed her eyes against the disappointment.

  Packett laughed, a low, evil rumbling in his chest. “Birds of a feather flock together. Hey, I’m a poet and don’t know it.” His laughter exploded.

  Fighting tears, Amy glared at him. “Will you at least tell the judge Israel didn’t have a gun?”

  “Well, that would be the truth, missy.” His laughter, empty, soulless, pierced her with its darkness. “I don’t reckon it’s gonna do much good, though. We flock together. We’re just liable to hang together, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Amy held her skirt out of the ankle-deep snow, and approached the half-dozen men raising the Christmas tree in the town square. She gasped as the laborers, tugging and straining, used a web of ropes and pulleys to raise the enormous tree. A good thirty or so feet tall, it rose like a waking giant. A deep, vibrant, forest green, it was a perfect triangle. She smiled sadly, imagining it decorated with brightly-colored ornaments, ribbons, and bows. Christmas was a magical time. A time for miracles. She glanced back over her shoulder at the sheriff’s office, and prayed for one.

  “Miss Tate.”

  Grimacing at the mayor’s voice coming from somewhere behind her, she resigned herself to a conversation, but resolved it would be brief. She turned and smiled as best she could. “Mayor.”

  “Isn’t it lovely?” He waved grandly at the tree now being shored up by the workers. “I do enjoy Christmas. Especially in Evergreen.”

  “It is a beautiful tree, but I must be going—”

  “Miss Tate?”

  His humble, but direct, stare stopped Amy. There was no way to leave without blatant rudeness. “Yes, Mayor?”

  “Do you believe a man can change?”

  “By change, do you mean ...?”

  “Grow up. Get wiser.” He shrugged, searching for examples. “Become a better person.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When I first came to this town,” he gave her a wry grin, “you may have heard, I was not a model citizen.”

  Amy surveyed the handsome, dapper man before her, manicured nails, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, tailored suit, cashmere coat. Hard to believe he was the blue ribbon troublemaker Dent had described. “Dent—Sheriff Hernandez, that is—did tell me you’d had a run-in with his father not long after you arrived in Evergreen.”

  “Oh, I was a handful,” he chuckled and shook his head. “There was a prison cell somewhere with my name on it. That’s for certain.”

  Curious now, Amy tilted her head.

  “Sheriff Ben Hayes had more to do with my transformation than anything. Oh, we had a rocky start at the beginning, but we eventually became friends.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “At times, he was even a mentor. Ben was a wise man, and I will miss his counsel.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t see—”

  “I tell you this, Miss Tate, only in the hopes you will evaluate me on my present, and not my past. I ...” he cleared his throat nervously, “Well, I was hoping we might become better acquainted.”

  “Mayor Coker, I am not in the habit of becoming better acquainted with married men.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes, to the young lady who lives with you, who you escort to church on Sundays.”

  Mayor Coker laughed loudly and richly. “My, what a misunderstanding,” he chuckled, and shook his head. “You aren’t getting out of that cabin enough, that’s clear. May Beth is my sister. And she’s returned to Wisconsin to spend the holidays with our parents.”

  “Oh.” Amy didn’t know if this was good news or bad. She’d had a hard enough time avoiding the mayor.

  “So, I am alone at the most joyous time of the year.” He rested a hand on his heart. “And I hope you might reconsider your opinion of me, now that you realize I’m not a cad.”

  “Have we established that? Dent said you were trying to get him out of town because you want his property and the oil on it. Is that true?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His frankness surprised her.

  “I’m the mayor, but I’m also a businessman. Dent doesn’t have the financial acumen or political resources to develop that oil. Not to mention, he hates Evergreen. If he’d listen to me, instead of throwing punches at me, I’d like to make him a fair offer on Ben’s place. I mean, Dent’s place. And, if he’d leave, I might have a chance at getting a certain pretty little schoolmarm to join me for dinner sometime. Alone.”

  Amy was off-balance. Perhaps she had misjudged the mayor. Regardless, the truth was she held no affection for him and she wouldn’t lead him on. “I appreciate your candor, Mayor. I truly do.”

  “But ...”

  “Well, I ...”

  “I see. Dent’s still in the picture.”

  Was he? “No … I, well to be honest, once Israel’s trial is over, I don’t think I’ll be staying in Evergreen.”

  Again, an inscrutable look passed over the mayor’s face. Almost as if he wanted to glare at her, but held it in check. He took her hand and sandwiched it in between his. “I certainly hope that proves not to be the case. Evergreen needs you, Miss Tate. And if you depart, I’m quite sure Dent won’t stay.”

  Over the mayor’s shoulder, Amy saw Dent astride his horse, watching her. How long had he been there? Their eyes met, held for a moment, and then he tapped Ginger and continued on down Main Street, his expression inscrutable and cold.

  Because that’s the life he’s lived these last eight years. I think he needs you, Amy. I think that’s why God sent you here. To reach Dent and show him there’s more to life than death.

  Susan’s words echoed in Amy’s head as she slowly let herself into the sheriff’s office. Her heart beating out of her chest, she paused when she realized Dent was not in.

  A little relieved and disappointed, she hid her gloomy mood and held up her early Christmas present for Israel. A baseball. His mouth rounded, and he sucked in an excited breath. “A baseball, Miss Tate?”

  “Yes, Israel, a baseball. Your old one is fairly beaten up.” She walked over and handed it to him through the bars. She prayed that Israel would not ever have to go to prison, but since that was better than hanging, she thought a little reminder of home might make incarceration a bit easier.

  “So he can play in prison?” Tom Packett stepped out of the shadows and hung his arms on the cross bar between their cells.

  “No,” she lied, indignant. “No, I–I ...”

  “It’s all right, Miss Tate,” Still grinning, Israel tossed the ball up in the air, over and over. “Everything is going to be all right. Don’t worry about me.”

  His light mood perplexed her. The trial started tomorrow. Perhaps he was just glad the waiting was over. Before she could question him, the door opened and Dent stomped in, shaking off snow. He paused when he saw her, then approached Israel’s cell.

  “See what Miss Tate got me, Sheriff?” Israel proudly displayed the baseball, tossed it in the air, then bounced it off the back wall and caught it.

  “That’s nice, Israel.” Dent’s tone was solemn, even cold, and he didn’t look at Amy again.

  “I expect you to continue reading Tom Sawyer, Israel,” she wagged her finger at the boy.

  His face fell a little. “Yes ma’am.”

  Dent eyed Israel’s cell, top to bottom, did the same with Packett’s, receiving a baleful stare from the man, then marched to his desk and sat. He pulled a pencil out of the center drawer, and commenced to writing on a notepad that appeared to be half full already.

  Feeling dismissed, Amy tapped the bars. “Well, Israel, I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the courthouse.”

  He caught the ball and froze. A melancholy expression settled on his face and he wandered back to the bars. “Miss Tate, you sure are a good teacher. Nobody ever took the time with me that you did. Thank you. Yeah, Ma sure would have liked you.”

  “Well, when this is all o
ver, we’ll pick right up where we left off.”

  He smiled slightly, his lips quivering. “Yes ma’am.”

  On her way out, she stopped in front of Dent’s desk. He peered up at her. She wanted desperately to say something, anything, to change things between them. But she didn’t know what that would be. She had heard the whispers around town, children talking at school. The Packetts were in trouble.

  Judge Swain was a hanging judge.

  And Dent was a hangman.

  When the door closed, Dent set his pencil down and stared blankly at his notes for the trial. Riding the territory this month, hunting for the last member of Packett’s gang, had made him just about the most miserable he’d been in his life, second only to the first few years after his pa’s murder. The fury had nearly eaten him alive.

  Between fury and misery, he’d take the fury, hands down. This misery was ... like death. It stole his spirit, his will, his desire to put one foot in front of the other. He despised the morose thoughts, the loneliness, the pining for her. How had everything gotten so muddled? All she wants is for me to be that lawman. The one who can wear the badge to uphold the law, not wield it like a sword of vengeance ... and care about the people I’m protecting.

  He slid his gaze over to Israel, who was still innocently tossing the baseball around.

  Could he hang the boy? Was justice that blind?

  Was he?

  Dent brushed snow off his shoulders and wandered into the mostly-empty saloon. Wandered was a good word for it. He felt aimless. No matter this trial’s verdict, he was being forced to take a cold, hard inventory of his life.

  He didn’t care for the tally.

  He skirted a table of three dull-eyed men playing a low-stakes poker game and trudged up to the bar. Rip Cullum acknowledged him with a nod. “What can I get ya, Sheriff?”