A Western Christmas Homecoming: Christmas Day Wedding Bells ; Snowbound in Big Springs ; Christmas with the Outlaw

by Lynna Banning

Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  This was the last place he wanted to be. The last thing he wanted to do. Trudging through knee-deep snow during a blizzard in Eastern Colorado was for men who didn’t want the finer things in life. He did. He wanted good card games, strong whiskey and pretty women.

  “I’m not even dressed for this kind of weather!” Welles Carmichael shouted. Not that it did any good. The howling wind swallowed up his words faster than he’d said them. The same wind that was making icicles form on his eyelashes. Yes, his eyelashes. He could feel the frozen crystals. See them every time he blinked.

  Blinking didn’t do any good, either. He couldn’t see a foot in front of his face. The only thing he had to tell him he was heading in the right direction was the long wooden pole the conductor had given him to poke into the snow and hit the iron rails to make sure he stayed on the railroad tracks. The ones that led into Big Springs. A place he’d left five years ago, and had only missed a few things about it.

  “Not the wind!” he shouted. “Didn’t miss this!” Every part of him was cold. Frozen. Stiff.

  He’d missed Gramps. The chance to say hi was the reason he’d been on the westbound train that was stuck in the snow a good two miles behind him. At least he hoped it was two miles behind him because that would mean he only had another mile to go.

  Another mile ahead should be the little wooden sign, letting people know they were rolling into the Big Springs depot. The town hadn’t been much five years ago, and Welles wasn’t optimistic enough to believe it had grown into some sort of metropolis.

  He might not even be optimistic enough to believe he’d already walked two miles in this blinding snow, but he sure hoped that was the case. The bitter cold had seeped all the way into his bones, making it harder and harder to lift his legs high enough to take a step, and his fingers were so burningly cold, holding on to the pole was growing difficult. Any part of his body he could feel was shivering.

  The only thing that seemed to be unaffected by the blizzard was his mind, the part that held memories. And dreams. He’d imagined himself stepping off the train at the Big Springs depot in his new three-piece tailored suit—black with a white shirt and sky blue vest—and black boots, completely unscuffed and still shining like brand-new.

  The boots were new. Not even a week old, and he’d lost feeling in his toes shortly after leaving the train. He still had on the suit, too, but it was covered with the quilt he’d tied around himself. And his new hat, well, the brim wouldn’t still have the steamed curled edges, because he had a woman’s knitted scarf tied beneath his chin, holding his hat on and keeping his ears warm.

  It wasn’t working. His ears probably had more icicles hanging off them than his eyelashes did.

  Deep in the midst of feeling sorry for himself, freezing to death as he was, Welles almost missed the sign he’d been hoping to see for miles. He stumbled to a stop, squinting to see through the millions of swirling white flakes of snow. A heated flash of excitement raced through him, but cautious, because he’d learned to be that way. He used the pole to help him take a couple more steps, until he was close enough to wipe away the snow stuck to the flat board with one sock-covered hand.

  Big Springs.

  He’d made it.

  If he had the energy he might have laughed or gave out a triumphant shout. As it was, it took a good amount of his energy to shake the snow off his hand and turn left. If nothing had changed in the past five years, which he highly doubted, all he had to do was cross the road, which he couldn’t see, of course, then he’d be on Gramps’s property.

  The livery stable, the big barn he’d helped build nearly ten years ago when he’d been fifteen and thought he knew all there was to know about horses and was overly excited to be working with them, would be first. Then, no more than fifty yards from there would be the house.

  Warm and cozy and smelling like coffee. Gramps drank pots of coffee. Morning, noon and night.

  Welles used the pole, poking it into the snow just as he had while following the tracks. Without the iron rails to keep him walking straight, he could easily get turned around in the wind, end up walking back in the direction he’d just come, or veer off one way or the other. He’d miss the stable if he did that.

  As if someone overhead had finally decided he could use a guardian angel, a hole appeared for a split second in the swirling snow. It didn’t reveal much, but he saw red. Red. The color of the Big Springs livery barn.

  His feet were too cold, too numb, to lift over the snow as he slogged onward, using the pole to pull him forward, shaking harder with every step.

  Another sense of euphoria filled him when he stumbled into the stable, but by the time he made it around the building, even shuffling his feet through the snow had become nearly impossible. He fell, several times, while crossing the yard between the livery and the house, and though he wanted to rest, if only for a moment or two, he found the wherewithal to get up, try again. Had to. If he didn’t make it, a train full of people wouldn’t, either.

  * * *

  The thud on the front porch had Sophie George looking across the table at Chester, who was spooning soup into his mouth with one hand and holding a slice of bread, ready to bite into, in his other hand.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  Chester swallowed before he nodded. “The wind.”

  The blizzard had grown stronger all morning. When she’d crossed the yard to the livery after breakfast, there had only been a few flakes, but less than an hour later, she’d barely been able to see the house through the blowing snow. She set her spoon down as another thud sounded. “That was more than the wind.”

  Chester, who liked the entire world to believe he was a grumpy old man—which he could be at times but she knew the real Chester Carmichael—huffed out a breath as he pushed his chair away from the table the same time she did. The uneven thud of his cane followed her into the front room.

  She pulled apart the curtains on the window, not wanting to open the door and let in the cold if not necessary. Frost had collected in the corners, and peering through the glass was like looking at a wall of white. Sophie was still in the midst of trying to see beyond the swirling snow when Chester pulled open the door, letting in a blast of cold air.

  “Someone’s there!” he shouted.

  The wind was doing more than whistling; it was howling and filling the house with snow. Sophie hurried around him. “Who would be out in—” She gasped at the sight of a snow-covered person staggering up the steps and rushed forward. “Hold the door open while I get them inside!”

  It wasn’t until she and Chester had the man propped against the wall next to the parlor stove and had peeled away the snow-crusted quilt and the thickly knit scarf that was frozen stiff, that Sophie realized who it was.

  So did Chester.

  “It’s Welles,” Chester said gravely, taking in his grandson’s condition. “Glory be! Why didn’t he write to let us know he was coming home?”

  Sophie pulled the socks, which were stiff, off Welles’s hands, hoping his fingers weren’t blue, or black, meaning they’d been frozen beyond repair. “If we don’t get him warmed up, he’ll freeze to death before we get a chance to find out.”

  She rubbed Welles’s hands, one then the other, between hers, thankful they were red, but she didn’t like how icy they were. Her heart was missing every other beat. At one time Welles was the only person in this town she’d considered her friend, until he’d run off with Colleen Sanders, and every penny Chester had to his name. “Go get a quilt while I get his boots off.”

  His face was just as red as his hands, and Sophie wondered if his eyes were frozen shut. Not even his lashes fluttered as she pulled his boots and socks off. When Chester returned with the quilt, she tucked it around Welles and then stood. “Watch him. I’ll
get some coffee.”

  She added a couple of logs to the parlor stove, stirring up the coals so the logs would catch flame, and then went to the kitchen, where she wrung her shaking hands together.

  Welles had returned to Big Springs. A part of her wanted to rejoice, but another part of her was too filled with fear. Would he send her packing as soon as he awoke? That was a possibility. She’d known she couldn’t live with Chester forever, but over the past four years, an alternative hadn’t come about. Options for the daughter of the town’s founding madam were few and far between.

  Knowing there was no time for pondering right now, she filled a cup with coffee from the pot on the stove and carried it back into the parlor.

  “He’s been mumbling about a woman and a train,” Chester said.

  Probably remembering the last time he’d been in town, when he ran off.

  Sophie bit her tongue to keep that thought to herself and knelt down. Welles was still shaking, his teeth chattering as she held the cup up to his lips. “Try to take a drink,” she encouraged. “It’ll warm you up.”

  She wasn’t cold, but shivered as if she was as chilled as Welles when he opened his eyes. They were as blue as she remembered and staring straight at her.

  “Soph—?”

  “Drink,” she said.

  His hand wrapped around hers, and he tipped the cup, almost downing all the coffee in one gulp.

  She pulled the cup away. “Not so fast. Go slow.”

  He nodded and pulled the cup closer again and drank the rest of the coffee. Chester was right beside her and switched cups, the empty one for a full one. Sophie helped Welles drink this one, too, much slower.

  With a heavy sigh, he leaned his head back against the wall. “Th—thanks.”

  “What are you doing out in this weather?” Chester asked.

  “Train. Stuck. Snow. People. Die.”

  He was still shivering, his teeth still chattering, and talking seemed to exhaust him, but he planted both hands on the floor, as if to get up.

  “Sit still,” Chester said at the same time she spoke.

  “You can’t get up yet.” Sophie tucked the quilt around him tighter. “You’re still shivering.”

  “Have to,” Welles mumbled. “Train full. Die.”

  Sophie shivered at the thought. He was right. Anyone stuck out in this weather could freeze to death.

  “I’ll go get the sheriff,” Chester said.

  “No.” Sophie stood. “You get some more coffee in him. I’ll go get the sheriff.”

  Both men protested, Chester much louder than Welles, but she wasn’t listening to either one of them. Even if Chester would have been able to walk across the room without the aid of his cane, he was too old to be out in a blizzard, and Welles was too cold. In the kitchen, she piled on the clothes. The heavy coat she wore doing chores—which had been Welles’s when he’d lived here—mittens, a scarf and her tall boots. They were men’s, but far more practical for working in the stables than any of the women’s styles.

  As she walked through the parlor, she told Welles, who was trying to get up but his legs and feet weren’t cooperating, “You need to get out of those wet clothes.” She then told Chester, “Make him eat some soup. It’s still on the stove.”

  The wind tried to steal her breath before she’d even shut the door behind her. She pulled the scarf up over her face, leaving only her eyes exposed, and made her way down the porch steps. There was no way to know if the sheriff was in his office, and even if he was, he’d need help. Blizzard or not, there was one place men were sure to be.

  The Whistle Stop.

  It was closer to the livery than the sheriff’s office, but she hadn’t stepped foot inside the building for four years. Ever since the fate-filled events that had changed her life forever.

  Despite what her mother’s occupation had been, not a day went by when Sophie didn’t miss her. Lola George had been an amazing woman. With quick wit, an infectious laugh and the ability to outsmart the wiliest fox, Lola had made her own way in life. It had been a way that many hadn’t approved of, but Sophie had never wanted for anything.

  Except for her own life.

  That want had started shortly after they’d moved to Big Springs. Up in Wyoming few had taken much notice of the little girl living quietly, yet securely, in the back room of the house on the end of the street. There she’d even had a few friends who didn’t care if she was “that girl.”

  But here, where there had been a few more “respectable” families who had made a point of singling her out, she’d started wishing things were different. That Lola wasn’t her mother. By then she’d been twelve, and old enough to understand what took place in the rooms on the second floor while she slept in her comfortably furnished and securely locked back room on the first floor.

  The guilt of that, of wishing Lola hadn’t been her mother, once again stirred inside Sophie as she trudged through the blinding and freezing snow. Older now, at the ripe old age of nineteen, she understood Lola had simply been making a living for the two of them in the only way she knew how. Furthermore, Sophie had to admit, her life would be very different right now if she hadn’t been so stubborn. When she’d turned fifteen and voiced her loathing of her life, Mother had arranged to send her east, to boarding school, to a place where people didn’t know who she was, or who Lola was, and wouldn’t hold that against her. But she’d refused to go.

  Sophie’s blind footsteps encountered something so solid she almost fell. Would have if the pole holding up the wooden awning that stretched over the boardwalk hadn’t been right there for her to grasp ahold of. The Whistle Stop was the fourth building down. Using the pole, she stepped up onto the boardwalk and then shuffled left, up against the building.

  It was like a refuge. Though it was still snowing and blowing, between the building and the awning she was protected a great deal from the elements and could actually see through the blinding whiteout. She was also able to walk faster, which she did, and arrived at the heavy outside doors that covered the swinging batwing doors that were used in the warmer months.

  Her hands shook as she reached for the doorknob. The shaking wasn’t completely because of the cold, nor was it because of the saloon. It was because the reason she hadn’t wanted to leave Big Springs so long ago was the exact reason she was tramping through a blizzard and about to enter the saloon.

  Welles Carmichael.

  Chapter Two

  Welles wasn’t certain if it was the coffee, the heat from the parlor stove or the shock of seeing Sophie that warmed him, but he was doing considerably better than he’d been when he’d first opened his eyes and thought he was seeing things.

  He’d gotten to his feet a short time ago and walked around the house he’d grown up in, getting himself more coffee and getting the blood flowing throughout his system now that it had thawed out.

  “How long has she been living here?” he asked, staring at the bowl of soup Gramps had set down on the table.

  Sitting down at the table, Gramps smiled. “Pert-near five years. Sit down and eat. She gets persnickety when it comes to not eating food while it’s hot.”

  Welles glanced at the table that showed his arrival had interrupted their meal. “Why?”

  “I suspect ’cause she doesn’t like eating cold food,” Gramps said while chewing the bite of bread he’d taken. “Don’t bother me none. It still tastes good. Yours is hot. I scooped it out of the pot on the stove.”

  Welles glanced through the parlor toward the door Sophie had left through a short time ago. He hadn’t been in any condition to go out there then, but he might be now. She wasn’t a lot bigger than she’d been back when she’d bugged him to let her feed and water the horses. Turning back to the table, he picked up the bowl of soup. Drinking it would be faster, and should chase away the last of his chill so he could head back out. “I mean why has
Sophie been living here for four years?”

  With a shrug of his shoulders that weren’t nearly as broad and muscular as they used to be, Gramps said, “Didn’t have nowhere to go after her ma died.”

  “Her ma?” Taken aback, Welles nearly spilled the soup. “Lola George is dead?”

  “Yep. She tried stopping some fella from shooting up the saloon and got shot.”

  “When?”

  “Pert-near five years ago,” Gramps said. “Want some bread?”

  Welles shook his head and lifted the bowl to his lips. Lola George had run an enterprising business. Although some folks had looked down on the saloon owner, others had appreciated her business, and no one ever said no to the generous donations she’d made to every worthwhile cause in Big Springs.

  He finished the soup, which had been so tasty he felt a bit guilty about drinking it down so quickly rather than using a spoon. “Why didn’t Sophie have anywhere to go? Lola had to have plenty of money when she died. Money Sophie could have used...” He let his voice trail off, not sure what a young girl would have done, rather than move in with an old man. He was also looking for his boots.

  “Lola did,” Gramps said, “but James Hooper, you remember him, he was the bartender, he knew the combination to the safe and cleaned it out while everyone was at the funeral.”

  That was too close for comfort. So close it made Welles’s spine stiffen. He hadn’t stolen, but Colleen had. After she’d admitted whom she had stolen from, they’d parted ways, but the money was long gone. “Did they catch him?” Welles asked, spying his boots near the stove.

  “No.” Once again Gramps shrugged his shrinking shoulders. “Eventually, word of him reached town. His corpse, that is. In a mortuary out in California.”

  Not as concerned about James Hooper as he was Sophie, Welles asked, “What about the building? Did Sophie sell that?”

  “Couldn’t. Little gal didn’t have any way to make the payments. She was just a girl. Bank took it and sold it to Hector Franklin. He calls it the Whistle Stop now.”