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

by Heather Blanton

“Just a beer.”

  Cullum poured it and slid it down the bar to him. Dent grabbed it, scouted out a quiet table in the corner, and settled into the shadows. He didn’t really want the drink, and set it down.

  “Sheriff, you look like somebody shot your dog.”

  Coker. Dent gritted his teeth as the man sat down. “You show up everywhere, don’t you?”

  “I was out and about, getting things ready for the Christmas play Friday night. Saw you walk in.”

  “Something I can do for you?” He was in no mood to bandy words with this peacock. Worse, he didn’t think he had the will to punch him again.

  The mayor waved a finger at Cullum. An instant later, the bartender delivered a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “I thought we could talk about the trial.” Coker poured each glass half full, slid one to Dent, and sat back with one in his hand. “Tell me, do you care what happens to that boy and his pa?”

  Dent didn’t touch the whiskey. “I care what happens to Israel.”

  Coker smiled.

  Funny, how he can do that, Dent thought. A smile that isn’t really a smile at all.

  “You realize, of course, things are bleak for him,” Coker said. “The defense attorney, John Posey, said he’s advised the boy to throw himself on the mercy of the court, but he has to testify against his father. So far, he’s not willing to do that. Tom Packett may well walk out of that courtroom free as a bird.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There are no witnesses who can place Tom at the robbery. If Israel won’t give up any names or implicate his father, this is going to be a very short trial.”

  Dent tapped his fingers on the table. He hadn’t considered the possibility that, if Israel didn’t offer any kind of defense, Tom could go scot-free. “Packett. He won’t let his son take the blame.”

  Coker poured another drink. “Posey, who of course can’t tell me much, said that is exactly Tom Packett’s plan.”

  “That lousy son of a ...” Dent faded off and grabbed the whiskey. It burned going down, didn’t clear his head, didn’t help him think. He set the glass down and pushed it away. If Packett wouldn’t take some of the blame, then all Dent had done by bringing him back to Evergreen was deliver a witness against Israel.

  “And Packett didn’t have any of the bank money on him?”

  “Not one red cent,” Dent admitted.

  “As I said, the situation is bleak, but I can help.”

  Coker’s voice reminded Dent of the snake in the Garden of Eden. A promise of light veiled something dark.

  “How?”

  Coker shrugged. “Judge Swain has ... debts. I don’t need to say any more. But there is a price for my help.”

  Ah. Always a price. “Just another crooked politician with a judge in his pocket.”

  “Crooked or straight, if I don’t do something, you’ll be hanging Israel before Christmas.”

  “And why does that matter to you?”

  “Leverage. Sell me your ranch, and I’ll save his life.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t, he swings. I’ll guarantee it.” He leaned in. “And I’ll make sure you’re the man who gets to do the honors.”

  Dent didn’t know what to say. Was Coker bluffing?

  “How do you think I’ve amassed my fortune, Sheriff Hernandez? It’s built on dirt. Other people’s dirt. Their secrets. Everyone’s got secrets. Even that pretty little schoolteacher.”

  Dent didn’t think. No rational thought guided him. He launched across the table, desiring to do nothing but choke the life out of Mayor Ed Coker. The two men tumbled to the floor in a shower of glass and whiskey, and the punches started flying. Dent swiped a hard right hook across Coker’s jaw as they scrambled to their feet, melting snow, mud, and sawdust sticking to them. Blinking, Coker shook his head and nailed Dent in the kidney, but without much force. Dent returned a vicious uppercut. It hurt Coker, and blood spilled down his chin.

  Breathing like a winded mule, the mayor wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and grinned, a bloody, leering contortion of his lips. “Maybe you’d rather hear a secret about Ben?”

  “I don’t want to hear you say another word.” Dent raised his fists. “We stop this now, or I will beat you unconscious.”

  “But I know who killed your father.” Coker swayed, blood dribbling from his mouth to the floor. “And so did Ben.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dent’s fists lowered a few inches, out of shock. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” The mayor spit blood onto the floor. “Didn’t you ever wonder how I came to this town with nothing, and in less than a year, owned a saloon?”

  Dent’s arms went soft, like dough. “Say it plain.”

  Coker straightened up some and lowered his fists. He fished out a bandana and wiped the blood away from his mouth. “Ben had a son. A troubled youth, in and out of jail.”

  “Joe?” Dent whispered.

  “Joe, yes. I met him and Cherokee Bob in Denver. Joe said they wanted to see the lovely little ranching community his pa had moved to. He told us his father was Ben Hayes, a U.S. Marshal.” A puzzled expression crossed the mayor’s face. “I don’t think he had much affection for the man. He seemed to think it was pretty funny coming here to steal horses. Anyway, as luck would have it, the night they went to do their thieving, I parted company with them. A fateful decision, as a game of poker and a pretty redhead turned out to be perfect alibis.

  “Ben questioned me because I was the only stranger in town. He didn’t know Joe had been here for three days, scouting out horses and cattle ... I told him. And I told him Joe carried a .44.”

  Dent recalled the brass casing in the tin box. And the Wanted poster. “Who is Tom Newcomb?”

  Coker’s brow rose slightly. “Joe’s alias.” He let that roll over Dent then added, “So, it’s simple economics from there.” He eyed the bloody rag then tossed it away. “Ben couldn’t stand the idea of you finding out his son had killed your pa. He, therefore, became very cooperative in helping me build a new life here in our idyllic community.”

  Enraged, Dent moved to throw another punch, but Coker raised his hands. “Go ahead, hit me again. It won’t change a thing.”

  Dent’s fury drained away, like blood pouring from an artery. Ben had lied. All these years. “Where is Joe?”

  Coker weighed his answer. “I really don’t know. I never saw him again after that night, and Ben never mentioned him. I wish I could tell you he’s in Denver or Dodge City, because you’d ride hell-bent for leather after him, but I honestly don’t know.”

  Dent staggered, caught himself. The betrayal overwhelmed him.

  “I guess you’ll sell me that ranch now, maybe even give it to me.” Coker lifted his chin, cocksure of the effect of his news.

  Dent shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with it, but I’ll sell it to you when hell freezes over.”

  The mayor’s mouth fell open and Dent half-staggered, half-stormed from the saloon.

  Dent stopped thinking. He couldn’t open his mind to it all. Instead, he ran on pure emotion, but he couldn’t identify what he was feeling. As empty as a dry well, he rode Ginger hard and fast, until they were standing in front of Ben’s house.

  Had he left the ranch to Dent as a form of penance, a way of asking for forgiveness?

  He climbed down off Ginger, dropping her reins. He stared blankly at the log home. Eight years. Eight years he’d dug up, smoked out, tracked down, not to mention, hung every low-life Wyoming Territory could throw at him in the vain hope of someday getting the right man.

  And Ben knew the truth all along.

  Fury exploded in his chest like a stick of dynamite. He snatched a snow-covered rock off the ground and hurled it at the cabin, bellowing like a grizzly. Again and again, he lobbed rocks at the structure, breaking windows, tearing chunks of wood from the logs. He raged and he screamed, until, finally, in the last r
ays of the setting sun, he fell to his knees in the snow.

  He wanted to burn it, burn it to the ground, and all these last years with it. He realized his eyes were wet. Ashamed, he blinked the moisture away. A man who shot bad hombres and hung killers ... fighting tears, like a little girl.

  He looked up at the purple and blue sky quickly revealing a tapestry of stars, and wondered why he wanted to shake his fist at heaven. He hadn’t paid any attention to God. He assumed God hadn’t paid any attention to him. Or maybe He had. Maybe that was why Dent had dealt in death so often. His gift to mankind, never missing a shot, never botching a hanging.

  He’d give anything if he could erase it all, start over, be the man she wanted, the kind of lawman she believed in.

  Only, he had no idea how to start.

  His ma had been a God-fearin’ woman, and she would have told him to pray. All that she’d tried to teach him, though, had been lost in the haze of these last hard years.

  “God ...” His throat tightened up, choking off his words. It felt like he’d swallowed a bandanna, and he couldn’t speak. God, I need ... He didn’t even know. Discouraged, reeling from the anger pumping through his being, he climbed to his feet. He reckoned he needed a friend, but he didn’t have the courage to knock on her door.

  It had snowed another two or three inches overnight. Amy did her best to keep her skirt out of it as she hurried toward the sheriff’s office. She wanted to walk beside Israel as Dent transferred the boy and his father to the courthouse. She wanted Israel to know she was in his corner. She wasn’t convinced Dent wanted her there ... but she wasn’t convinced he didn’t. And what did she want? A man who wasn’t blinded by revenge and duty.

  Could he ever ... ? She didn’t finish the thought. It was too much on top of the trial.

  Evergreen was just beginning to stir, sluggishly because of the fresh snow. She waved at Mrs. Olsen at the dress shop, who was hanging a pretty red Christmas ensemble in the window. She passed the mercantile, where a young man was brushing snow off Christmas trees stacked up against the wall. Mrs. McGyver hadn’t been in the store since her husband’s death.

  This whole situation was so heartbreaking, for everyone involved.

  Shaking off the melancholy, Amy checked both ways for the meager traffic, and stepped into the street, headed for the sheriff’s office. Halfway there, she heard a terrible commotion from inside. Something like furniture splintering, perhaps; grunts, more crashing, snapping sounds. Suddenly Dent and Tom Packett exploded through the front door in a shower of splinters, slid across the boardwalk, rolled down the steps, and landed in the snowy street.

  Both men staggered to their feet and started swinging. Packett had shackles hanging from his left wrist. He swung at Dent, missed, but the open handcuff clipped him in the chin, drawing blood. Behind them, Israel raced from the sheriff’s office, scanned the street, and bolted for two horses tied next door in front of the hotel. “Come on, Pa,” he yelled on the run. “We lucked out. There’s two horses.”

  Dent went for his gun and Tom leaped on him. They danced and spun, wrestling wildly for the revolver. A blur of hands fought and clawed for the weapon. It slipped from its holster and Amy gasped. She couldn’t tell who exactly had hold of it. Vaguely aware of the danger she was in, she knew she should run and hide, but the unfolding drama froze her to the spot.

  God, please protect Dent.

  The long-barreled Colt disappeared between him and Tom, and, an instant, later, fired with a boom that rocked the peaceful town. Tom clutched his side, swung hard at Dent, and knocked him down. Tom whirled and ran toward Israel as blood gushed over his fingers. He reached the horse, pulled a rifle from the scabbard, and rounded on Dent. Both men fired.

  Israel pulled the rifle from his horse’s scabbard, backed the animal away from the hitching post, and looked back. Tom Packett, a hole in his forehead, pitched headfirst into the snow. Israel paused for an instant, grimacing, and spun his horse toward Dent. He lifted the rifle, but stopped it halfway to his shoulder. He stole a sideways glance at his father, face-down in the snow, and shook his head. A sorrowful expression said his goodbye. He jerked his horse around toward the opposite end of town and spurred his mount to a gallop. “Yah!” he bellowed at the animal, “Yah!”

  Dent raised his revolver. Every muscle in Amy’s body clenched. “Please, no ...” she prayed.

  Israel’s back grew smaller as he and his horse barreled down the street. Then Amy saw Dent’s hand move to the right, just a hair. He fired, and the top of a street sign adorned in garland exploded just as Israel passed beneath it. The boy raced on toward freedom.

  Dent lowered his hand.

  Amy broke free of her spell and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. “You missed,” she cried, “you missed. Thank God.”

  He held her with one arm, lightly, as he dropped his revolver back into its holster. “I didn’t miss.”

  The profound sadness in his voice brought her face up. “Are you going to go after him?”

  Before he could answer, two bootless men exploded from the hotel, suspenders and unbuttoned shirts whipping about them. Guns drawn, they raced into the street. Positioning themselves back-to-back, they stopped, quickly surveyed the scene, and jogged over to Dent, noting Tom Packett’s body on the way. U.S. Marshal badges pinned on their open shirts banged against their chests as they ran.

  “What happened here, Dent?” A tall, gaunt man asked.

  “Tom Packett and his son tried to escape.”

  The other man, just as tall, but twice as thick, surveyed the street. “Where’s the boy?”

  Dent laid a hand on his gun. “I missed. He got away.”

  Both men exchanged shocked glances.

  “You mis—?” The gaunt man said. Then a knowing kind of expression dawned on the Marshals’ faces. “Well, I don’t reckon it matters too much. We got Stanton late yesterday. He signed a full confession, implicating Tom Packett, and clearing the boy of having a weapon. He also named the bank teller who handed over the combination. We haven’t found him, yet, but we will. Stanton’s at the doc’s recovering from the arrest.” The man regarded the snowy street with regret. “Sure wish that boy hadn’t stolen my horse.”

  The other man started hopping from one foot to the other and glanced at the gathering crowd. “Better yours than mine. I’m gettin’ my boots.”

  Dent shook the Marshals’ hands. “Thanks for your help, boys.”

  The men didn’t say anything else, but Amy saw some kind of understanding pass among them. Then they turned back to the hotel. She desperately wanted to speak, but sensed a gulf between her and Dent. He searched the crowd, and asked two men to take Packett’s body down to the doctor’s. The crowd surged, swallowed her, forming a barrier between her and Dent. Head down, emotions roiling, she walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Amy lolly-gagged after school, taking her time cleaning up and straightening things. But Dent didn’t come by. She wrestled every moment with how she felt about him and how he felt about his job.

  She couldn’t love a man who would so coldly execute his job, no pun intended. And, yet, she did. And he hadn’t. He’d let Israel go. She knew it.

  Frustrated, she returned the dustrag to her desk and stared out over her empty classroom, the Christmas break upon them. She loved these children. She loved Evergreen. She loved Dent. And he had all but said good-bye to her.

  She had prayed so earnestly that God would save him from himself. But today she had prayed that God would show her whether to stay in Evergreen or go home.

  In spite of her confusion, she hoped for a moment the jingling wagon she heard outside would deliver him. Her spirits plummeted when Susan peeked in the door. “Amy, I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Amy leaned back on her desk. “Susan, I’m sorry, but ...” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’d like to walk home today. I’m sorry I made you come after me.”

  Susan smi
led warmly, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. “You sure?”

  Amy nodded. “I’d like some time to think, yes.”

  Susan meandered up to the front of the classroom, dragging her fingers lightly across each desk she passed. Amy could see the woman had something to say, and waited patiently.

  “Amy, Dent just spent some time with us. He told us ...” Her bosom heaved with a troubled sigh, “He told us a terrible story.” She sat down at a desk, barely fitting her portly proportions into it. Amy didn’t laugh. Clearly, Susan needed to sit down before whatever was on her mind made her fall down. “He said Ben knew all along who killed his pa.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard Susan correctly.

  “He said all those years ago, Ben’s son, Joe, came to town with another man to steal horses. Ben and Will stumbled across them. Ben didn’t even know who he was shooting at until several days later, and after Will was dead.”

  Amy was stunned. “How ... how does Dent know this?”

  “Mayor Coker rode into town with Joe, but parted company with him before the trouble. Last night, he and Dent got into it at the saloon, and Coker told him ... I think hoping the news would make Dent want to leave town.”

  “So, Ben knew ...?”

  “For years.”

  Amy’s heart broke for Dent. All those years of lies ... She trudged over to the desk beside Susan and sat, shaking her head in disbelief. “Dent. Is he ... does he ...?” She was too sad for him to complete the thoughts.

  “No, he’s not all right, and does he ... feel betrayed? Angry? Oh, yes.” The fear in Susan’s eyes jolted Amy. “And I’m afraid, when he gets his wits about him, he’s going to go after Coker.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “Coker admitted to blackmailing Ben. He swore he’d tell Dent who killed his pa unless Ben made things easier for him here in town. So Ben lived with the threat for nearly a decade.”

  Amy flinched and dropped her head into her hands. “That is so awful. Poor Dent. All those years looking for a killer ... Coker is an abhorrent man.”