Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms

by Leigh Greenwood

  “Right now?” Sister Rachel asked. It was almost a shriek.

  “Yes, right now,” Mary confirmed.

  Brother Samuel looked horrified. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Joe asked. “You’re a preacher, and you have two witnesses.”

  “You don’t have a license.”

  “Please?” Mary asked.

  “I can’t without a license,” Brother Samuel repeated, looking belligerent.

  “Mary can’t travel into town for a while yet,” Joe said. “And I don’t intend to set one foot off this ranch until she does. Unless you want me to ruin that reputation you were so worried about, you’ll marry us right now.”

  “It wouldn’t be right. I can’t—”

  “Oh, shut up, Samuel, and marry them,” the sheriff said. “We can make out the license when we go into town. I’ll bring it out tomorrow. I think we’ve caused this man enough trouble as it is.”

  * * *

  “I still can’t believe it,” Mary said that evening as she snuggled down next to Joe. “I swore I’d never get married again. Wait until I tell my family.”

  Holly was asleep in her cradle. Over in the corner, Sarah had burrowed deep into Joe’s bedroll. Samson lay next to her. Joe and Mary occupied the bed alone.

  “I’m not sure Brother Samuel believes it, and he married us.”

  “Poor man. I thought he would choke on the words. He looked miserable.”

  “Not half as miserable as you’d have been if you’d married him.”

  “I never would.”

  “Let’s forget about Brother Samuel and Sister Rachel. From now on, it’s just you and me.”

  “And Sarah and Holly.”

  “And General Burnside and Samson.”

  “And Queen Charlotte and her calf-to-be.”

  There seemed to be no end to the love that surrounded Joe. But that was the way it ought to be. Love was what Christmas was really about.

  About the Author

  Leigh Greenwood is the award-winning author of over fifty books, many of which have appeared on the USA Today bestseller list. Leigh lives in Charlotte, North Carolina. Please visit his website at leigh-greenwood.com.

  A Chick-a-Dee Christmas

  An Outlaw Hearts Novella

  Rosanne Bittner

  Foreword

  Because the fourth book to my Outlaw series, The Last Outlaw, was published just one month before this Christmas story, I decided to bring back the wonderful characters from my Outlaw books, picking up their lives at their first Christmas following a terrible family ordeal that took place in The Last Outlaw. Because the event in The Last Outlaw left the Harkners with much to celebrate and to be thankful for, a Christmas story is perfect for them.

  A Chick-a-Dee Christmas is about a family that has known tragedy and triumph, a family spawned by outlaw/lawman Jake Harkner, who once knew nothing about love, whether giving it or receiving it. His saving grace was the love of a good woman, his beloved Miranda, who taught Jake everything he’d never known about love, guiding him on a journey of hope and support and God and light…dragging him from the depths of hell into a world he once never imagined he could enjoy, and a beautiful, loving family of whom he never felt worthy.

  I think you will love this delightful story, although it has its dark moments. This is a story about how a once-ruthless man, who can kill in the blink of an eye—especially when defending his family—can take on an entirely different personality when it comes to his loved ones. For those who know how ruthless Jake Harkner can be, watching him with his grandchildren, especially his two little granddaughters, is almost comical. They bring out a side of Jake that most don’t realize exists.

  I hope A Chick-a-Dee Christmas will make you want to read the full series of books about Jake and his “Randy”—how they meet in Outlaw Hearts, and on through thirty-two years together in Do Not Forsake Me, Love’s Sweet Revenge, and The Last Outlaw. It’s a family saga filled with love and devotion and forgiveness and the adventure created when facing incredible challenges that come with settling America’s Great West.

  One

  Late November, 1898…

  Cole Decker knocked on the front door of Jake’s log home. “Riders comin’ in,” he yelled.

  Jake got up from his favorite big red leather chair near the stone fireplace and ordered his adopted son Ben to stoke the fire and add some wood to it. His wife, Miranda, peeked through a front window.

  “Jake, they’re all strangers,” she told him. “Only one of them looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “Probably looking for work.” Jake walked to the front door, where his famous .44s hung over the doorway, too high for Jake’s several grandchildren to reach, but at six feet four inches, Jake had no problem reaching them. He strapped them on.

  Ben, fourteen, threw a couple more logs on the fire. “Be careful, Pa.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Grampa, will you get hurt again?”

  The question came from Jake’s six-year-old granddaughter, Sadie Mae. Hardly a night went by that one or more of the grandchildren wasn’t staying overnight with their grandparents. Last night it was Sadie Mae, who belonged to Jake’s daughter, Evie, and five-year-old Tricia, one of his son’s several children. The little girls played with dolls near the hearth in the kitchen while their grandmother cleaned up from breakfast.

  Jake winked at them. “No, sunshine, I won’t get hurt again. We have lots of good men guarding us. I’m betting that rooster out in the henhouse is more dangerous than those men out there.”

  Sadie Mae smiled, her dark eyes twinkling and her dimples deepening. She was the official egg gatherer, and she considered all the hens in the chicken coop hers and called the baby chicks “chick-a-dees.” She took pride in the fact that the ornery rooster, who was this very moment crowing, never came after her or pecked her when she gathered eggs. But the proud, cocky master of the henhouse—whom the children called Outlaw—seemed to have it in for Jake Harkner. They’d had their differences, and the rooster usually won, although if it weren’t for Sadie Mae, Jake would gladly shoot the strutting monster and boil it for dinner.

  Jake leaned down and pulled on worn leather boots he kept by the front door, wincing with pain as he did so. Inwardly he cursed the leg he’d broken a little over a year ago in Mexico. It had never been properly set, thanks to the men who’d captured and tortured him and left him for dead. The leg would likely plague him with pain the rest of his life, sometimes keeping him up at night, other times reasonably bearable. He took his fleece-lined corduroy jacket from its hook and put it on, then stuck his Stetson on his head.

  His wife touched his arm, and he saw the same look in her eyes he always saw when she feared someone was out to kill him just because he was Jake Harkner. He leaned down to give her a quick kiss. “Cole is out there, and probably a couple of other men who brought the others in. It’s okay, Randy. Just keep the girls inside.” He paused to light a cigarette, then opened the door and went out onto the wide veranda that wrapped around the front and both sides of their huge log home.

  Both girls ran to a front window to watch. “There’s Jake,” Sadie Mae told her cousin, pointing out her big brother. Once called Little Jake, the proud young man who worshipped his infamous grandfather almost beyond measure was nearly eleven now, and he preferred to be called just Jake. To clear up any confusion, his grandfather was now called Big Jake, although to all the children he was simply Grandpa.

  Outside, five men sat on their horses in front of the house, all of them wearing six-guns and sporting rifles tied to their saddles. They all wore winter jackets, varying from wool to leather to corduroy, two with wide-brimmed hats stained from summer sweat, the other three wearing wool hats, one with earflaps that hung loose. Behind them sat two cowhands who worked for the J&L, guards who always watched for strangers o
n the Harkners’ vast spread. Few made it onto the J&L without being noticed, and almost none made it all the way to the homestead without a J&L cowhand escorting them, rifle in hand. Jake and Lloyd wanted it that way to make sure their wives and children were always protected.

  Their best ranch hand, Cole Decker—known as Uncle Cole to the Harkner grandchildren—remained standing on the veranda when Jake stepped out. He watched the riders carefully. Young Jake moved to stand next to his grandfather, but Big Jake knew how dangerous that could be if any one of these men was really here to make a name for himself.

  “Move a bit away, Jake,” he told the boy, watching the riders as he spoke.

  Young Jake obeyed, eyeing the men closely, always ready to defend his grandfather and his sister and cousins and grandma and anybody else in the family who might need protecting. There was not an ounce of fear in the young man, and he never failed to make sure others knew it, even if they were bigger than he was.

  “Something I can do for you boys?” Big Jake asked the visitors. He kept his cigarette between his lips as he spoke.

  “Just lookin’ for work,” the apparent leader answered. He was a medium-built man who looked hard and experienced.

  “We don’t have any work,” Jake told him. “I know the government is moving in and changing things. A few ranches have folded, but not the J&L—and it damn well won’t. Part of the reason is we keep the help down to the fewest we can that still allows us to keep things going, so I’m sorry, but we can’t hire anyone.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw his son riding toward them from where he’d been stacking wood behind a shed.

  “How about horses?” the leader asked. “We could use a couple of fresh ones.”

  “You have a name?” Jake asked him.

  The man nodded. “Porter Evans. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

  “You worked for Cal Bennett. He sold out to us.”

  Porter’s horse shifted and whinnied, its hooves mixing a light snow with unfrozen dirt underneath it and creating mud. November had brought heavy snows in the higher elevations of the Rockies, but here in the foothills there wasn’t much on the ground, and the sun was actually peeking out from behind a few clouds. “Might you be Jake Harkner?” the man asked.

  “I might.”

  Porter nodded. “Everybody knows who runs the J&L. Two ex–U.S. Marshals, one of them an old outlaw who ought to be sittin’ in prison, seems to me.” He grinned. “That man must be you.”

  Jake drew deeply on his cigarette and took it from his lips. He kept all five men in his sights. He pushed the side of his jacket back behind his six-gun. “Everybody has a right to his opinion, and you’re probably right that I should be in prison. But right now I’m standing here a free man and telling you there’s no work. As far as horses, that’s up to my son, who just rode up.”

  A very handsome younger man with straight black hair that hung nearly to his waist approached them, riding a big roan mare. Porter eyed him, figuring him to be about thirty. He looked back at Jake. “Looks more like an Indian to me.”

  “His choice,” Jake answered. “He never did like to sit still for a haircut.”

  “What’s going on, Pa?” Lloyd asked. He remained on the horse as he turned the animal to face the visitors.

  Jake nodded to Porter. “That man there is Porter Evans. He and the men with him used to work for Cal Bennett. They’re looking for work. I told him we don’t need the help right now, but they’re asking about horses.”

  Lloyd eyed the men just as warily as his father did. The family had been to hell and back more than once, which brought out a natural defensive attitude. “I can spare a couple of horses. But I’ll only take one man with me to look at them. The rest of you can stay here.”

  Porter nodded. “I’ll go.”

  Lloyd glanced at one of the J&L men sitting behind the others, rifle in hand. “Come with me, Terrel. Cole and Vance can stay here with the others.” He turned his horse and rode off with Porter and Terrel. One of the other visitors pulled his wool jacket closer around his neck and shivered. He was a big, heavy man who sat on a horse that looked like it should be pulling a plow rather than carrying a man.

  “It’s cold out here,” the man grumbled. “You got any coffee inside that house?” he asked Jake.

  “I do.” Jake scanned all of them again. “But I’m afraid I don’t normally ask strangers inside my home. The wife’s a bit skittish. You can understand why.”

  “Yeah, she’s probably been through hell, being married to a man like you,” one of the others, a much younger man, sneered.

  Jake eyed him darkly. “Mister, this being the day after Thanksgiving and still sort of a holiday, I’ll ignore that remark.” He turned to the bigger man. “You and your men can go on over to the bunkhouse. The men will have coffee over there, and you can go inside and warm up.”

  The young man who’d made the remark about Jake’s wife moved his horse closer, rudely shoving a couple of the other horses aside. He was a small-built man, which reminded Jake of something he’d told his grandsons and adopted son once. Some men are like little dogs—meaner than the big ones. They’re quicker on defense and they’ll bite for no good reason.

  “My name is Tommy Tyler. You ever heard of it, Jake Harkner?”

  Jake almost laughed at the young man’s cocky confidence. He was little more than a kid, but a smart-ass young man with a gun could be more dangerous than a grown, seasoned man, who generally had a lot more sense. “A hot temper and foolish words can get you in a lot of trouble, kid,” he told the young man, eyeing him carefully.

  “Well, now, everybody knows you have a hot temper too, Jake Harkner. Only you’re gettin’ a little too old to be able to back it up.”

  “Is that so?”

  Tommy moved a hand to his six-gun. “Yeah. That’s so.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Tommy,” the heavier man warned. “That there is Jake Harkner, and you ain’t near good enough to take him on. Get on over to the bunkhouse.”

  Tommy eyed Jake a moment longer. “I think there ain’t never gonna be a better chance to take this man on. When a man gets older, he gets slower.”

  “He ain’t the kind that age affects him,” the heavy man told him. “I’m thinkin’ Jake Harkner ain’t one second slower than he ever was. Now get your ass to the bunkhouse!”

  “Yeah, ain’t nobody faster than my grandpa,” young Jake boldly told Tommy. “You’d better get on out of here, or my grandpa will shoot you down so fast you won’t even get your gun out of its holster.”

  “Jake, that’s enough!” Big Jake ordered. “Go on in the house.”

  The boy raised his chin and eyed Tommy a moment longer before reluctantly going inside.

  Tommy continued to stare at Jake, who held his gaze steadily.

  “Tommy, I really don’t want to kill a man today,” Jake told him. “We’re still in a holiday mood, and you’re awfully young.”

  “I think you’re just scared I’ll pull this gun on you,” Tommy sneered.

  “Suit yourself, son,” Jake told him.

  Tommy hesitated a moment. Jake could tell he was trying to drum up the courage to back his threats. Then the kid went for his gun. In a split second Jake’s gun boomed and Tommy’s hat flew off his head. Staring in shock, the others could hardly believe how fast Jake drew. They never even saw it. Tommy stared wide-eyed at Jake, his hand still on the butt of his gun, which had not even cleared its holster.

  Jake held his .44 steadily on the boy then, pointing it directly at Tommy’s head. “Mister, there was a time when I would have blown your stupid brains out—gladly! But two of my little granddaughters are watching, and I don’t think they should see that kind of a mess!”

  Lloyd was already charging back to the house from the distant corral, where he’d been showing horses to Porter Evans.

  “Get the he
ll off the J&L,” Jake growled at Tommy, “before I change my mind about not putting a hole in your forehead! One of you other men take his gun. He can have it back when all of you leave. He’s goddamn lucky I’m letting him leave in one piece!”

  The heavier man turned his horse and faced Tommy. “Hand over that gun belt, you stupid sonofabitch!” he ordered.

  Tommy backed his horse, contemplating not obeying the order. Finally, he angrily removed his gun belt and threw it on the ground, glaring at Jake. “Merry damn Christmas!” he sneered. He glanced at a front window then, noticing two little girls watching him. He made a little jerking move and shouted “Boo!” He chuckled when one of the girls screamed, then grinned at Jake. “Maybe one of them little cuties can come out here and pick up my hat for me,” he goaded. “Then again, maybe you could send out that wife of yours. I hear she’s somethin’ to look at—your daughter and daughter-in-law, too. Have the wife leave her coat off so’s we can all see those curves.”

  He laughed and turned his horse, heading for the bunkhouse. Bum leg and all, Jake charged off the veranda and ran up to Tommy, grabbing the young man off his horse from behind and throwing him to the ground with surprising force for a man a good forty years older.

  “Pa, wait!” Lloyd reached the house and dismounted, but not before Jake picked Tommy back up and landed a big fist between his eyes, sending him sprawling again.

  “Do you really think I’ll let you go warm up at our bunkhouse after a remark like that?” Jake roared.

  Lloyd held back. When Jake Harkner was this angry, there was no stopping him, especially if he was defending someone in the family.

  Jake picked Tommy up once again and pistol-whipped him across his cheek. Tommy cried out with pain as his body whirled sideways and again landed in the snow.

  “You bastard!” he screamed at Jake. “I think my cheekbone and my nose are both broke!”

  “And you think I care?” Jake reached down and picked up the younger man by his coat collar and the back of his pants and threw him over his horse. “If I ever see your face again, it will be in a lot worse shape when I’m through with you!” he warned. He slapped Tommy’s horse on the rump and yelled “Ha! Git up!” Blood from Tommy’s nose and cheek dripped onto the ground as the horse took off at a gallop. “Follow him!” Jake ordered one of the waiting ranch hands. “Make sure he fully leaves J&L property!”