A Texas Hill Country Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  A woman burst out of the crowd and ran toward them, crying, “Seth! Seth!” A boy chugged along behind her, his short legs pumping. As the woman came alongside Ace’s horse, she clutched at Sam Brant’s leg and asked with tears running down her face, “Is he alive?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ace said, “but he sure needs help.”

  “Get him down and take him in the parsonage,” one of the local men said. “We’ll fetch a doctor.”

  The Jensens, Will Porter, and Evelyn Channing remained on horseback as gentle hands carefully lowered Brant and carried him into the little house behind the church. The woman went with them, still crying as she held Brant’s limp hand, but the boy stayed behind.

  “Son,” Luke said to him, “who is that?”

  “Why, that’s Mr. Seth Barrett, the preacher,” the boy said. “He’s our pastor here. And he’s my ma’s friend. Mine, too. He saved my life from those outlaws.”

  Luke grunted, said, “Good man, is he?”

  “Mr. Barrett? Why, I reckon he’s just about the best man in the whole Hill Country!”

  Smoke looked over at Luke, smiled faintly, and cocked an eyebrow. Luke just grimaced.

  He caught the eye of one of the locals, nodded to the four prisoners, and asked, “What about them?”

  “They were inside the church, tryin’ to tear up the floor under the pulpit, when some of us got here to check on the creek. We got the drop on ’em and tried to make them tell us what in the world they were doin’, but so far they won’t talk.”

  “I reckon they will once they’re locked up,” Luke said. He had already recognized the men as more members of Oliver Hudson’s gang. Sam Brant’s gang, once. But no more. Because evidently Sam Brant was now Seth Barrett, pastor of the Enchanted Rock Baptist Church.

  If Barrett lived, Luke knew he was going to have a decision to make.

  Instead of the leering face of the Devil or one of his imps, which was what Seth expected, he saw another angel when he woke up.

  Or rather, Delta Kennedy, but that was the same thing as far as Seth was concerned. Her eyes were red from crying, but she wore a smile and her hands were strong and warm as they gripped his hand. He drew comfort from that.

  “I’m not . . . dead . . . ?” he whispered.

  “No, and you’re not going to be,” she told him. “Not for a long time yet. You’re going to be right here with me and Charlie.”

  Seth sighed and closed his eyes. He had never felt better in his life.

  Later, when he heard music playing, he asked Delta where it was coming from.

  “The church, of course,” she told him. “Everyone’s decided to hold a Christmas Eve prayer service. To give thanks to the Lord for getting us through that terrible storm and for bringing you and Charlie back to us. And to pray for you to recover and grow strong again.”

  “That’s what I intend to do,” Seth said. Worry still nagged at him, though. “Those men you told me about, the ones who brought me here . . .”

  “Some of them are still here. The ones called Smoke and Matt said they had to go help a friend of theirs, a man named Fielding. But Luke and Ace and Chance are still here. I think Ace and Chance are over at the church, but Luke is waiting in the front room. He said he wanted to talk to you when you were strong enough.”

  Seth nodded. He was starting to feel a little hollow inside. For a while he had allowed himself to hope, but it looked like that dream was about to be snatched away from him again.

  “You can bring him in here,” he told Delta. “Wait, though . . . everything I told you earlier today . . .”

  She looked at him and said, “You didn’t tell me anything except that you would bring my son back to me. And you did, Seth. None of the rest of it matters.”

  “Yes, it does. All the things I’ve done—”

  “That’s right.” She gripped his hand again. “All the things Seth Barrett has done since he became part of our lives. Those are the only things any of us around here care about.”

  He swallowed hard. He understood what she was trying to say. She was holding out forgiveness to him, and all he had to do was take it. He wanted to, more than he had ever wanted anything.

  But Luke Jensen would be a different story.

  “Tell Mr. Jensen I’ll talk to him,” Seth husked. “And when you go out . . . could you leave the door open, so I can hear the music better?”

  “Of course. I’ll open the front door, too.”

  Seth lay there, looking at the ceiling in the warm yellow light from the lamp on the table beside the bed. The music got louder as Delta opened the doors as she had promised. Hark, the Herald Angels Sing, he thought. Beautiful.

  He heard a soft footstep and looked away from the ceiling to see Luke Jensen standing beside the bed, holding his hat. Luke said, “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Barrett.”

  Seth licked his lips and said, “You know—”

  “I know there’s a reward for the outlaws your deacons captured,” Luke broke in. “I’m going to see to it that they collect. But all of them have already said that they’re giving the money to the church.” Luke smiled a little. “I’m sure you can use it to repair the damage those owlhoots did, with plenty left over to help out any of your congregation that need it.”

  “Yes . . . Yes, I could do that . . . if I was—”

  “If you were a man of God named Seth Barrett? It’s a good thing that’s who you are. You see, a fine young man named Charlie told me all about you, Mr. Barrett. He said you were the best man in the Hill Country, and the more I learn about you, the more inclined I am to believe that. Charlie also said you were friends with him and his mother. I think once you’re back on your feet, you ought to see about being even more than that. That boy could use a father, Seth.”

  “Yes,” Seth whispered. “I . . . I think he could, too.”

  “I just wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing,” Luke went on. “I’ll be honest with you, I’m not much of a church-goer. Haven’t set foot in one more than a dozen times in as many years. But I think I’ll walk on over and join the prayer service for a while. My new friends Ace and Chance are there, and Mr. Porter and Miss Channing.” Luke chuckled and shook his head. “What are the odds of running into some Jensens who aren’t even related to me, right in the middle of all that trouble? Well, no more than the odds of my brothers showing up like that to tip the scale in our favor, I suppose.” He put his hat on and tipped it at a jaunty angle. “Jensens have a way of doing that, I guess.”

  With that, he lifted a hand in farewell and left the room. Delta came back in, pulled a chair over by the bed, and sat down so that she could take hold of Seth’s hand again. He rested his head on the pillow and looked at her. The hymn in the church had ended and another song was playing, but not on the piano this time. Someone had brought out a guitar, and the sweet notes of “Silent Night” drifted through the darkness as the congregation sang softly.

  “I . . . I don’t deserve this,” he said.

  “None of us deserve the Lord’s grace,” Delta said, “but He gives it to us anyway.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his forehead. “Merry Christmas, Seth.”

  He squeezed her hand, listened to the music, and drifted off to sleep, secure in the knowledge that she would be there when he awoke.

  EPILOGUE

  Fredericksburg, 1975

  “That’s a good story,” the oldest of Helen’s grandsons said. At twelve, he already had some of the cockiness of his rapidly approaching teenage years. “But it’s crazy.”

  Helen frowned and asked, “What’s crazy about it?”

  “Okay, you’ve told us stories before about all those gunfighting Jensens, and it was far-fetched enough when you said Smoke thought his brother Luke was killed in the Civil War and was dead for all those years, but really he was a bounty hunter and used another name until he and Smoke met up. And then that business about Luke having twin sons he didn’t even know about—”

  “That
’s the way it happened,” Helen said sternly. “It’s all documented. I’m not making it up.”

  “And nobody even heard of Matt starting out,” the boy pressed on. He threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “And what about Billy and Bobby?”

  “They came later,” Helen said calmly, “after Smoke and Sally had children of their own. We just haven’t gotten to them yet.”

  The boy shook his head and was about to argue some more, but his younger sister swatted him on the arm and scolded, “Just hush, Ben. I want to hear about how Will Porter married Miss Channing and they lived happily ever after.”

  Helen sighed and shook her head.

  “I hate to say it, but that’s not the way it worked out. They never got married. Mr. Porter’s undying love for her . . . well, maybe it wasn’t quite as undying as he claimed. He did become a writer, though. Have you heard of O. Henry?”

  “The candy bar?” one of the little girls asked.

  “No, that was the name Mr. Porter used for the stories he wrote. He became very famous. He even wrote a story about a famous outlaw called the Cisco Kid.” Helen nodded. “I like to think he was inspired some by the adventure he had with the Jensens.”

  “What about Ace and Chance?” one of the boys asked. “Did they ever find out that Luke was their father?”

  Ben, the twelve-year-old, muttered something, but Helen ignored him.

  “Of course they did, but not until a good while later. They had all sorts of adventures first. I can tell you about them . . . but not today. I think dinner’s ready, and afterwards we’re going to sing Christmas carols and open one present apiece.” She held up a finger. “But just one. We’ll open the rest in the morning . . . after Santa’s been here.”

  “Santa Claus,” Ben said. “That’s about as believable as—”

  The stern look that Helen directed at him made him stop talking.

  “What about Preacher?” the youngest boy said as they all made their way to the dining room. “You didn’t say anything about Preacher, and he’s my favorite.”

  “Well, he wasn’t there for that adventure,” Helen answered. “He couldn’t be everywhere you know. He’s not like Santa Claus . . . although I’ve heard it said that he looked a little like Santa.”

  “Yeah, if Santa was dirty and wore buckskins,” Ben said.

  “That’s just about enough out of you, young man.”

  “There are more stories about him, though, aren’t there?” the youngest one persisted.

  “Oh, my, yes. Lots and lots more stories about all of them.” Helen smiled to herself, knowing that she would never live long enough to tell all the exciting tales there were about the brave men and women of the Old West named Jensen.

  But there would always be someone to carry on.

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2015 J. A. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3589-2

  First electronic edition: November 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3590-8

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3590-0