About the Author
Linda Broday resides in the panhandle of Texas on the Llano Estacado. At a young age, she discovered a love for storytelling, history, and anything pertaining to the Old West. There’s something about Stetsons, boots, and tall rugged cowboys that get her fired up! A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Linda has won many awards, including the prestigious National Readers’ Choice Award and the Texas Gold Award. Visit her at lindabroday.com.
A Texas Ranger for Christmas
A Match Made in Texas Novella
Margaret Brownley
One
Two-Time, Texas
November, 1879
Sadie Carnes sensed trouble the moment she stepped foot outside her farmhouse. Holding her six-month-old son in her arms, she anxiously surveyed her property. She had good reason to worry. A pack of wolves had been spotted the day before, and only last week a black bear was seen lurking by the woodshed. For now, at least, all looked calm—except for the dark clouds gathered on the distant horizon.
Convinced it was just the threat of an early winter storm making her uneasy, she sat her son in his wicker carriage next to the clothesline, where she could keep a close eye on him. After tucking a warm blanket around him, she handed him a piece of hardtack to chew.
“There you go,” she said, ruffling his wispy blond hair. His toothless smile made her sigh with motherly pride. Adam was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She couldn’t believe that something so precious could come out of what had been the worst mistake of her life.
Gripped with a fierce need to protect him, she scanned the yard again. Only after every shadow had passed inspection did she fetch the basket of wet wash off the porch.
Just as she pegged a towel on the clothesline, she noticed a cloud of dust on the road running parallel to her property. Watching with narrowed eyes, she hoped the single horseman would pass her by. No such luck. Instead he rode his horse beneath the rusty iron archway leading up to her farm.
Swiping a strand of blond hair away from her face, she chewed on her bottom lip.
“That better not be another bill collector,” she muttered. The fool tax man had taken the last of her egg money. Before him, the general store owner had insisted she pay in full before making any more purchases. Even the druggist had demanded she make good on what she owed before he would sell her tooth balm for her teething son. Well, a pox on all of them!
The horseman kept coming. Astride his brown gelding, he looked larger than life. Though he appeared to be in no hurry, Sadie sensed an urgency in him that put her nerves on edge. Face half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, he looked sober as an old bone. The Colts holstered at his hips looked like they meant business too, as did the shiny cartridges circling his waist in a looped leather belt.
“That sure ain’t no creditor,” she said beneath her breath. “And he sure don’t look like no peddler either.” As encouraging as that was, her relief lasted for only as long as it took for the man’s true identity to dawn on her. As much as she hated to think it, his erect carriage marked him as a Texas Ranger. The carbine slung on the side of his saddle seemed to confirm it.
A shiver rushed through her that had nothing to do with the cool breeze. Only one reason a ranger would be heading her way, and it sure in blazes wasn’t to bring good news.
Willing her knees not to buckle, she balled her hands by her side. Her heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe; her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Greeting her with a finger to the brim of his hat, the stranger dismounted. Dressed in dark trousers, flannel shirt, and knee-high boots, he looked just as tall and commanding on the ground as he did in the saddle.
He wrapped the reins around the clothesline post and stepped in front of her, spurs jingling. He glanced at her son before turning back to her. “I’m looking for Mrs. Carnes,” he said, his blue-eyed gaze sharp as an arrow.
She braced herself with a ragged breath. “You found her.”
A muscle tightened at his jaw. “I’m Captain Cole Bradshaw, Texas Ranger.” He studied her for a moment, and she had the uneasy feeling that he didn’t miss a thing. Not the patches on her calico dress, or the stained apron, or even the messy strands of hair that had strayed from her bun. Feeling self-conscious, she hid her callused hands in the folds of her skirt.
“Well, get on with it,” she snapped. Bad news was best delivered quickly.
His eyes widened briefly before he spoke. “I’m sorry to inform you that your husband, Richard Carnes, was killed in the line of duty.”
She gulped back the bile in her throat. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words. At the age of ten, she’d been told the same thing about her Texas Ranger pa. Still, familiarity didn’t soften the impact. Swaying slightly, she clasped her hands to her chest.
He caught her by the elbow. “You all right, ma’am?”
Nodding mutely, she forced a breath and forbade herself to faint. Though his touch was strangely comforting, she nonetheless pulled away.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word. His eyes, however, spoke volumes as he gazed past her to the farmhouse, with its peeling paint and sagging porch. The last norther had done a number on the roof. What few shingles remained curled up as if waiting to hitch a ride on the next strong wind. The barn was in no better shape.
He turned his gaze back to her. “Just so you know, ma’am, we gave your husband a proper burial.”
She stared at him and said nothing.
His forehead creased. “That yours?” he asked with a nod at her son.
It seemed like a strange question. Who else would he belong to? The nearest neighbor was more than a mile away. “He’s mine,” she said.
Something that looked like sympathy flickered in the depth of the captain’s eyes, and she grimaced. The last thing she wanted from him—from anyone—was pity.
Pivoting toward his horse, he reached into his saddlebags. After a moment he turned and handed her a brown-wrapped package. “Your husband’s belongings, ma’am.” She heard him inhale. “I’m afraid his horse didn’t survive the gun battle that killed him.” After a beat, he added, “I’ll make arrangements to ship his saddle to you.”
She clenched her jaw. A million questions flitted through her head. “Was it…Indians?” The Texas-Indian wars had ended, but last month Comanche renegades had raided a ranch up north in the Panhandle.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
As if to discourage further questioning, he placed a small leather pouch in her hand. “My men took up a collection for you and”—he slanted his head toward the carriage—“your son.”
Her back stiffened. The business about her son was a bald-faced lie, but curiosity kept her from calling him on it. She set the package next to her wash basket and fingered the bulging pouch he’d handed her. It felt heavy with coins. Though it was an answer to a prayer, she didn’t want his charity. The Texas Rangers had robbed her of her father and now her husband. No amount of money could make up for such losses. Just as she was about to hand the pouch back, her son cooed, reminding her that necessity came before pride or even animosity.
Reluctantly, she tucked the pouch into the pocket of her apron. Since the ranger was watching her, she directed his attention back to her son. “His name is Adam. He’s six months old.”
“Nice-looking boy.” He hesitated as if sensing her disapproval. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carnes,” he said at last. “Please, if there’s anything I can do…”
She refused to give in to the tears burning her eyes. “Can you bring my husband back?”
“Would if I could, ma’am.” His gaze traveled from the barn to the house and back to her. “If there’s nothing else…”
She shook her head.
“Well, then…” He gave her an apologetic look. “I’ve got a long j
ourney ahead. Better get a move on.” With a tip of his hat he untied his horse, jabbed a foot into a stirrup, and mounted in one easy move. Astride his saddle, he gazed down on her. “Sorry I had to bring you such bad tidings.”
She drew in her breath. “Me too.”
With one more glance at the house and barn, he tugged on his reins and rode away. She watched him until she could no longer hold back the tears. The wash forgotten, she reached for her son and made a quick dash across the yard and into the house.
Two
The sign on the door of the Silver Spur saloon forbade floozies, suffragists, Methodists, and other troublemakers from entering the establishment.
Since it said nothing about Texas Rangers, Cole strode inside and bellied up to the polished oak bar. Still early in the day, the saloon was empty except for two other patrons—one a drunk slumped over a table, the other a bearded man the size of a bear.
The sound of distant gunfire failed to merit so much as a flicker of curiosity by the saloon keeper. Hammered and Bear didn’t react either; the one kept snoring and the other kept working on the bottle of whisky in front of him.
For such a small town, Two-Time sure did have attitude. Already, Cole had witnessed more brawls on Main Street than could be found in the Huntsville penitentiary. Even the dogs roaming the streets seemed more ornery than most.
He rested a dusty boot on the gold railing.
The proprietor swiped a cloth across the bar. Bear had called him Stretch, and it was easy to see why. He towered over Cole’s six-foot height by a good four inches. Now he looked Cole up and down.
“Haven’t seen you in these parts.”
“Just passing through,” Cole said. Actually, he’d expected to be on the way to headquarters in Austin by now, but at the last minute had decided to spend the night in town and get an early start in the morning. He wasn’t feeling all that well. Maybe he was coming down with something. Or maybe he was just tired. It had been a hard day. He couldn’t stop thinking of Mrs. Carnes and her little boy. He felt sorry for the woman, and not just because she was a widow.
She’d looked exhausted, her hands callused. Keeping up a farm that size was no easy task, especially with a young child. Most women in her shoes would have collapsed upon hearing of a husband’s death, but not her. She bore the news with the same sort of grit Cole expected from his men.
“What can I do for you?” Stretch asked.
“Just water,” Cole said. He was hot and his mouth dry.
Stretch placed a glass of water in front of him. “Much obliged,” Cole said, and took a long sip. The cool liquid quenched his thirst but did nothing to alleviate his dark thoughts.
It was his job to keep his men safe. Not to have seen the ambush coming was pure carelessness. He’d been warned that the Carpenter brothers were tricky and would do anything to keep from getting caught. He should have known they’d pull a trick like that. Now a child was without his father and a woman without her man.
Cole reached into his pocket for his watch and grimaced. It hurt to move his arm. Hurt like the dickens. The doctor had warned him not to exert himself, but he’d wanted to deliver the news to Carnes’s widow in person. It was the least he could do.
He waited for the pain in his shoulder to subside before asking, “What time you got?”
“That depends.”
Cole clamped down on his jaw. He was in no mood for games. “I just want to know the time so I can set my watch.”
Stretch shrugged. “Like I said, that depends.”
Cole gave the man a fish-eyed stare. “On what?”
“On whether you go by Lockwood time or Farrell time.”
Bear set his empty glass on the bar and reached for the half-filled bottle. “That’s how the town got its name, Two-Time.”
Stretch tossed his rag aside. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go by Lockwood time, but stay clear of his three daughters. When it comes to them, the old man’s a tiger.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. So I ask again, what time is it?”
Stretch pulled out his watch and flipped the lid open with his thumb. “Three thirty-five.”
Cole set his watch and hoped that his next question would have a less complicated answer. “Do you happen to know Mrs. Carnes?”
“Yeah, I know her from church. Haven’t seen her around much, since her baby was born.”
No one in town knew of Carnes’s death, and it wasn’t Cole’s place to break the news. That was up to the widow to do whenever she was good and ready. “Does she have family around?”
“You mean other than her no-good husband? Not that I know of.”
Cole rubbed the back of his neck. No-good husband? Carnes hadn’t been his best ranger, but neither had he been the worst.
“I take it there’s no love lost between you and Carnes,” Cole said.
“The man owes me money. So whadaya think?” Stretch narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, anyway? Why you askin’ all these questions?”
“Just curious, is all.”
“Yeah, well, here in Two-Time, curiosity can git you in a whole peck of trouble.”
Cole flipped a coin onto the bar. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Loud voices greeted Cole as he stepped outside, along with another round of gunfire.
Hand on a holstered pistol, Cole stood on the boardwalk and stared at the mayhem in front of him.
A group of women marched down the street, carrying signs demanding the right to vote. Since they held up traffic, the suffragists were partly to blame for the curses that rent the air.
Two men shot out of the saloon across the way. Rolling off the boardwalk and onto the packed dirt road, they battered each other like angry rams. From farther down the street came the sound of gunfire, setting off a chorus of barking dogs.
Cole shook his head. He’d traveled through some pretty wild towns, but this one took the cake. Where was the sheriff? Did they even have one?
Since the road was blocked, Cole left his tethered horse and started on foot toward the hotel. After securing a room, he’d stable his horse. It was still afternoon, but he was dog-tired and his shoulder throbbed to high heaven. A good meal and some shut-eye should put him in good stead for tomorrow’s journey.
As he passed the general store, something caught his eye. Though Christmas was still a few weeks away, the window was decorated with a tree surrounded by gaily wrapped packages. But it was the little wooden horse that caught his fancy. Carved out of pine, the horse sat on a wagon that had four wheels and a string for pulling.
The toy reminded him of something.
He slapped his forehead and groaned. He’d forgotten about the little wooden soldier Carnes had whittled. He walked back to his horse and checked his saddlebags, finding the carving at the bottom of one.
Holding it in the palm of his hand, he tried to decide what to do. The widow Carnes was still very much on his mind. She and her little boy. Her husband had carved the figurine, and no doubt she would want it. He could mail it, of course, along with the saddle, but somehow that seemed cold and impersonal.
With a shake of his head he stuffed the wooden soldier into his saddlebag. Shut-eye was what he needed right now. The rest he would figure out in the morning.
* * *
Sadie had just finished giving Adam his morning bath when the chickens started making a god-awful racket.
“Oh, no! Not again.” She placed Adam in his carriage where he would be safe, grabbed her broom from the kitchen, and dashed outside.
Panic reigned in the hen yard. Chickens squawked and ran in frantic circles, flapping wings and tossing feathers. At first Sadie couldn’t see what had them all up in arms. Then a strong musky smell drifted through the air, telling her that the old fox was back even before she spotted a flash of reddish-brown fur behind a bale of hay. Fortunately,
he hadn’t yet made it into the chicken yard.
Wielding her broom—and wishing she’d grabbed her shotgun instead—she started after him. She wasn’t about to lose more precious egg-layers to that furry thief. “Scat! You yella-bellied scoundrel!”
The fox dodged under a bush. Crouching low, Sadie peered beneath the leafy shrub. Yellow eyes stared back, followed by a low growl and bared teeth.
She brought her broom down hard and the fox raced away. But once started, she couldn’t seem to stop, and a knot of emotions broke loose. She raised the broom over her head and slammed it down again and again. The animal forgotten, she continued beating the bush.
“Dang you, Richard Carnes!” Feelings she had held back for more than a year spewed out of her like wildfire. “I begged you not to go. You shoulda listened to me!”
Long after the fox had wiggled under a hole in the fence and vanished in the chaparral, she vented her anger and frustrations on that hapless bush. Richard had promised to quit the rangers if she married him. Always wanted to have a family, he’d said. Always wanted to own a farm. The man had a way with fancy talk. He knew what to say and how to say it and, fool that she was, she had taken him at his word.
If he’d kept his promise, he would still be alive. Adam would have a father, and she wouldn’t be standing in her backyard, acting like a madwoman.
She beat that bush until it was ground to a pulp. She was breathing hard and still she kept wielding that broom. All the frustration and anger bottled inside gushed out of her like hot lava.
“I think you can stop now, ma’am.”
The male voice startled her and she whirled about. The ranger stood a short distance away, holding Adam in his arms. His gaze dropped to the broom she held like a weapon. “I don’t think that bush will give you any more trouble.”
Embarrassed to be caught in a fit of temper, she lowered the broom, but nothing could be done about her flaring red face. What a frightful sight she must look, her hair falling down her back in tangled waves and her hands and face covered in dust.
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