The Gift of Family: Merry Christmas, CowboySmoky Mountain Christmas (Cowboys of Eden Valley)

by Ford, Linda

  Colt’s thoughts reined to a skidding halt. He could not get his brain or his feet to function.

  “We go.” Little Joe grabbed his hand and led him toward the door.

  Colt followed like one of those mindless sheep Macpherson had mentioned. He stepped into the living quarters and stared at Becca bent over the table with Marie.

  She glanced up. “You’re just in time. I’m showing Marie one of the books I read as a child.”

  Little Joe trotted over to his sister, pushed a chair close and climbed up beside her, chattering away about the pictures.

  Becca’s expression indicated she waited for a comment from Colt.

  “That’s nice.” Certainly not very profound, but it was the best he could do. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied.

  “This is one of my favorites. It’s a Bible story book. Maybe you’re familiar with it.” She waved him over to examine it.

  He managed to make his feet move to the table and bent over the children, aware Becca did the same thing next to him.

  She turned a page. “Look how worn the edges are. That’s because it was my favorite. The story of Jesus born in a manger.”

  “Will you read it to us?” Marie asked.

  “I’d love to.” Becca straightened and looked at Colt as she told the story. Once she turned a page, but she never referred to the book.

  Colt suspected she had the words memorized perfectly, but he didn’t turn from her gaze to look at the page, so he couldn’t say for certain. He was trapped by her voice and blue eyes...and something more that he couldn’t name. A sense of being drawn forward by a woman who would remain forever out of his reach. At the same time, a memory pulled him to the past.

  “I spent Christmas one year with a family at the fort.” The words came slowly and without forethought. He simply spoke the memory as it formed in his mind.

  “The mother read this same story.” Her three children had gathered round her knees. Colt had been allowed to listen from a distance. But the words enticed him then, even as they did now.

  “I like the story,” Marie said, pulling Colt back to the present.

  He stepped back until the big armchair stood between himself and Becca.

  Marie continued. “Papa told us this story just before Mama died. He said Mama went to live with Jesus.” A sob escaped her lips before she clamped them together. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks.

  Becca gave Colt a despairing look, as if hoping he could somehow fix Marie’s pain. He couldn’t. Tears made him itch with discomfort as he recalled being cuffed across the head for shedding a few of his own when he wasn’t much bigger than Marie.

  But Becca seemed to know what to do. She lifted Marie from the chair and sat down, cradling the little girl in her lap. She rocked back and forth, making comforting sounds.

  Little Joe scrambled from his chair and edged close to his sister to pat her leg. “Not cry. Not cry.”

  “It’s okay little guy,” Becca soothed. “She’s not hurt.”

  Marie struggled to contain her tears, but seemed powerless to stop their flow.

  Little Joe wrinkled up his face. An ear-piercing wail rent the air.

  “Don’t cry,” Colt ordered, which only made him cry harder.

  Becca tried to pat both children but couldn’t quite manage. She shot him a look so full of appeal he couldn’t resist. He sat on the chair next to her, pulled Little Joe to his lap. Imitating Becca, he patted the boy’s back. Little Joe’s cries softened to shudders as he clutched Colt’s shirtfront. Colt tried to decide if this felt right or if it threatened his careful self-containment.

  Marie sat up. “I’m better. Thank you.” She stood before the table and paged through the storybook.

  “You done, too?” Colt asked Little Joe, then tried to put him down, but he burrowed his fingers into Colt’s shirt and hung on.

  Becca chuckled at the sight. “Guess he needs to be held a little longer.”

  Colt settled back. “Guess so.”

  Becca gave him a look brimming with warmth and—he swallowed hard—approval? She chuckled again.

  “He seems very content.”

  “Huh?” Oh, Little Joe. Of course. “Probably worn out from kicking me all night.”

  Becca laughed, and Colt allowed himself a grin.

  But Little Joe wasn’t prepared to sit quietly for long. He wriggled down and began to trot about the room. He stopped in front of a small table near one of the chairs and reached for a picture. Glass. If he broke it—

  Colt leapt to his feet and crossed the room in three strides, capturing the picture before Little Joe got it.

  “This isn’t for little boys,” he explained to the startled child.

  Little Joe giggled. “You run fast.”

  “Guess so.” He looked at the picture. A beautiful woman in a fancy outfit.

  Becca crossed the room to his side. “My mother.”

  “I see the resemblance.”

  “She’s the reason I’m going east. Here, I’ll put it out of his reach.” She took the framed photograph from Colt and set it on top of a cupboard.

  Colt tried to sort out his scrambled thoughts, but they were so tangled he needed a rake to arrange them. With a mother like that, Becca didn’t belong in the untamed West. No wonder she planned to leave. Yet she seemed the sort of woman the West needed. She seemed unfazed by the storm, as well as the challenge of frontier life. She was gentle, accepting of half-breed kids...

  He allowed one thought to surface. She’d been kind to him as well, as if oblivious to his mixed race.

  Little Joe ducked behind the chair and poked his head around. “Peek.”

  Becca nudged Colt. “Someone wants to play with you.”

  “Me?” He sucked in air. She thought he should play with the boy? The idea both thrilled and frightened him.

  Little Joe poked his head around the chair on the other side. “Peek.”

  Colt laughed.

  Becca grinned. “He’s adorable. They both are.”

  Colt sobered. “Too bad everyone won’t see that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. He wouldn’t voice his reasons in front of the kids, knowing how much it hurt to hear the words people would use to describe them. Instead, he hunkered down and crab-walked forward until he was at the front of the chair. He waited for Little Joe to poke his head around the corner.

  “Boo.”

  The boy jumped and then giggled. “You scared me.” Mischief flashed through the child’s eyes seconds before he rushed forward to tackle Colt, catching him off balance. The pair tumbled to the floor, and Little Joe bounced happily on his chest.

  Marie sidled up to them, searching Colt’s face as if to make sure he wasn’t upset.

  “Come here, you.” He grabbed the girl, pulled her down beside him and tickled her.

  Becca sank down in the chair, so close her skirts brushed his arm. She chuckled, her eyes brimming with amusement and—he would not make the mistake of thinking she smiled approval on him. But when had he ever felt so...so...

  As if he’d arrived where he belonged?

  The children’s laughter washed through him. Becca’s smile melted the edges of his heart.

  He shifted the kids to the floor, pushed to his feet and brushed himself off—more because he needed to collect and arrange his thoughts than because he’d found any dirt on the floor. He strode to the window. Every nerve in his body screamed to leave right now.

  While every beat of his heart longed for each minute to last forever.

  Thankfully, Macpherson chose that moment to step into the room. “The temperature is dropping.” He glanced around the room, and Colt wondered if he resented having his space invaded by three visitors. But Macpherson smiled.r />
  “I think some games for the children would be a good idea.” The man might not approve of Colt, but at least he didn’t seem to look at the children with the same narrow-eyed concern.

  “Games?” Marie’s eyes widened with hope.

  Becca clapped her hands. “Oh, yes. Pa, do finger puppets for them.”

  “Very well.” He pulled pen and ink from the cupboard.

  “I’ll show you on my own finger.” Macpherson dipped the pen into the ink and drew a simple face on one finger.

  “This is a little boy. He can hide.” He curled his fist and the puppet boy disappeared.

  “He can dance.” Macpherson sang a little ditty, and the finger danced.

  “He can talk.” He held the finger to his ear and listened intently, nodding as if he understood a whispered secret.

  “Who wants to go first?”

  Marie edged forward and held out her hand.

  “I can make one or a whole family. Which would you like?”

  “A family. A mama, a papa, a little girl and a littler boy.”

  Colt realized the importance of Marie’s choice—her own family. He couldn’t look at Becca, but heard her suck in air. It drew his attention. He glanced her way to see if she was okay. Her blue eyes glistened with tears, and she pressed her lips together. She looked at him and gave a watery smile.

  He returned her smile, wondering if his lips trembled just slightly.

  “There you go,” Macpherson said, and Colt jerked his attention back to Marie, who thanked the man and stared at her fingers. A slow, dazzling smile filled her face, and she pressed her hand to her chest.

  This time Colt dared not look at Becca. Instead he forced his attention to Little Joe, who stood before Macpherson with a fist held out.

  Macpherson took the tiny hand and drew a face on the index finger. Little Joe backed away, staring at his finger. He circled the room holding the finger up, turning it toward objects then back toward him.

  Macpherson chuckled. “It doesn’t take a lot to amuse children.”

  “Or make them happy.” Becca’s voice rounded with emotion.

  Marie sat cross-legged on the floor, murmuring softly to her finger people.

  “I wish they could be protected from the harshness of life.” Becca spoke softly, so only the adults would hear her comments.

  Her pa went to her side and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “Life is generally what we make of it. If what I’ve seen of this pair is any indication, their parents have prepared them to face things with calm assurance. That’s bound to go a long way.”

  Colt shifted to block Becca and her pa from his view, and wished he could likewise block their words from his mind. Sometimes a child didn’t have any opportunity to make good or bad of his life. Other people did that for him.

  He concentrated on slow, deep breaths. He was no longer a child. Now he could make what he wanted of his life. A few days ago he had no doubts about what that was—an isolated cabin and a pen of horses to work with over the winter.

  Now long-buried, long-denied wishes seemed determined to reestablish their useless presence. All because of two children who needed a home and acceptance. Their requirements so clearly mirrored what he’d wanted, but never had, as a child.

  I am no longer a child. I no longer need or want those things.

  He didn’t succeed in putting his thought to rest.

  Chapter Four

  Becca ached to pull the children to her lap and hold them close. If only she could protect them from the cruelties she knew they’d face.

  The children weren’t the only ones she wished she could help. She’d seen the hurt in Colt’s face before he turned away. It pained her to think of the sort of memories that brought such a reaction. A shudder started in her chest, and she stepped away from Pa. With his arm across her shoulder, he might feel it and ask the cause. She began lunch preparation, determined the children and Colt would leave this place with memories of kindness and good food. She stared at the stove a moment, trying to think how she could make the meal special. Smiling, she pulled out pots.

  Her mother had always made tomato soup for special occasions. She would do the same, though she’d never managed to make it as good as Ma did.

  A little later the soup was gone, as was the bread she’d served with chokecherry jam.

  Little Joe had purple jam smeared on his face, along with a look of satisfaction.

  Marie managed to eat more neatly, and smiled at Becca. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

  Colt’s head jerked up, and his dark eyes bored into her. What had she said to make him look at her that way?

  He shifted his attention to Little Joe. “I think a little boy is ready for a nap.” He swung from his chair and lifted the child.

  “Put him on my bed.” She rushed ahead and opened the door.

  Colt hesitated.

  “He’ll get a good rest here.” Still, the man did not move. “Is something wrong?”

  Colt’s gaze found hers, and she saw confusion.

  “Oh, give him to me and I’ll put him down.” But Little Joe fussed and clung to Colt.

  Marie marched ahead and climbed on the bed. “I’ll take him.”

  Little Joe went eagerly to his sister, and the pair cuddled together. Becca covered them with a quilt, then turned to speak to Colt but he’d disappeared.

  “Pa, where did he go?”

  Pa yawned and stretched. “Said it was a good time to check on the horses. He’ll be back when he’s done.” He went to his room and closed the door. He’d sleep maybe an hour before returning to the store. If a customer came, Becca would wake him.

  Suddenly she was alone. Would Colt take all afternoon to complete his chores? She wanted to ask him some questions.

  After she finished cleaning the kitchen and doing some chores of her own, he stomped into the store. A few seconds later he stood in the doorway.

  “Come on in.”

  His gaze darted about the room. “Where’s your pa?”

  “Resting.” She tilted her head toward the closed door.

  Colt began to back away.

  “Don’t go. Sit and visit awhile.”

  He swallowed loudly.

  She thought he would turn tail and run, but he slowly crossed the threshold.

  She sat in one of the big chairs and waved him toward the other, but he slowly circled the room and came to a stop in front of Ma’s picture. “Is your ma back east?”

  “No. She died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “There’s no way you could know without asking.”

  He nodded. “You ever been east?”

  “Once. When I was fifteen. Ma had been sick quite some time, and Pa sent her to Toronto to see a doctor.”

  “Did you like it there?”

  She thought of the strangeness of the city...the dirt, the noise and the way people rushed about. “Not really.”

  “So why are you going back?”

  “My mother asked for my promise as she lay dying. The least I could do was agree.”

  He turned toward her, his eyes watchful. “The least? Why do you say that?”

  “Because it was my fault she didn’t get better.” The words she’d never confessed to another soul fell from her lips.

  The way he raised his eyebrows requested an explanation.

  “I was unhappy in Toronto. I missed Pa. I missed the open prairies and the sight of the mountains. I asked Ma to let me go home. She agreed and we returned, but she wasn’t better. She never got better.”

  “I see.”

  The way he said it made her curious. How could he possibly
know what it was like? “What do you see?”

  “You blame yourself for her dying, though it seems to me if you believe what the Bible says, you have to believe it’s God’s doing.”

  The words jolted through her with the power of a flash flood, upending roots of guilt and regret. “If I hadn’t been such a crybaby, she would have stayed and gotten better.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Certainly.” She faltered. “I always thought so.”

  “Maybe you thought wrong.”

  She stared at him, not really seeing him. Rather, seeing the accusations she’d flung at herself. Had they been unfounded? No one had ever said Ma should stay and get more treatment. No one had ever suggested she might get better if she stayed in Toronto. Had she blamed herself needlessly? How could Colt have seen it so quickly? Yet she wasn’t sure she believed it. If only she hadn’t cried to return home.

  Time to change the subject before she was forced to examine her opinions more closely.

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  He jolted as if shot and turned away, staring at Ma’s picture. “Ain’t nothing to tell.”

  “How can that be?” Had they been so cold and uncaring he didn’t allow himself to mention them?

  “I don’t know who they are. Never met them.”

  “Never?” Shock rattled her thoughts. “Colt, how dreadful.”

  He shrugged and turned away. “It’s neither here nor there.”

  “But—” Of course it was. No wonder he carried a wounded look.

  “How long do you think the kids will sleep?”

  She understood what he didn’t say. As far as he was concerned, the subject was closed. But she ached for him and wished she could say something to comfort him, although words could not adequately convey her sympathy any more than they could erase the pain of not knowing who his parents were. She wanted to ask who had raised him. Had he known happiness as a child? But she sensed he wouldn’t welcome any probing.