Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms

by Leigh Greenwood

  “Está bien?” he asked when he reached her, after she had returned his embrace and kissed his jaw.

  “You really have to stop asking me that every five minutes,” she teased. “It’s a baby, not some dire disease.”

  He smiled and pressed his palm to her stomach. “It’s our baby,” he reminded her, “and I worry about both of you. And you can do nothing about that.” He turned to his mother. “I’m taking Louisa for a walk, Mama. I’ll send somebody in to help you.”

  “No, gracias. Go, the two of you.” Juanita shooed them away and then stood at the open door fanning herself with her apron, watching them go.

  “Mama is so excited about this baby,” Rico said as hand in hand they made their way down the path leading to the creek that connected the Porterfield ranch to that of Louisa’s parents. “She brags about her first grandchild to anyone who will listen,” he continued and chuckled as he added, “The other day I heard Papa tell her she needed to stop.”

  Louisa giggled, imagining her shy, quiet father-in-law, Eduardo, standing up to his wife for once. “I would like to have witnessed that,” she said.

  The walk to the creek took them past the barn, where the conveyances the guests had driven to the party were lined up. People were still arriving, so Rico took hold of her elbow to steer her clear of the moving horses and wagons, lifting his hand in greeting to those he knew—those who still spoke to them, Louisa realized, as a couple from church pointedly looked the other way in passing.

  “Don’t let them see you upset,” Rico counseled when Louisa stopped and turned back, prepared to call out to the offending couple. “That just shows them they can get to you. It makes them feel like they’re within their rights to disrespect you.”

  “Well, they do get to me, and they are definitely not within their rights—and besides, it is both of us they disrespect, not just me,” she fumed, although she knew he spoke from experience she needed to learn to heed, experience they would have to teach their child to follow.

  “Dance with me,” Rico said.

  She knew exactly what he was doing, and she loved him for it. Over the months of their marriage, there had been many times when someone in town or visiting the ranch had either pointedly ignored Louisa or covered some insult with a smile. And then there had been those occasions when Mrs. Porterfield insisted she join her and her guests for a glass of lemonade. Not infrequently there would be some comment made about the value of Mexican servants, followed by a sly glance at Louisa and an assurance that, of course, they didn’t mean to imply Rico or his family were simply hired help.

  “Come on, Louisa, let it go.” Rico held out his arms to her.

  “There’s no music,” she grumbled.

  He hummed and swayed in time to the tune. He grinned at her and swept his hat off as he gave her a deep bow. He was, as always, irresistible.

  Louisa managed an awkward curtsy. “I’d be delighted to dance with you, kind sir.”

  Laughter and conversation drifted their way from the party. The fragrance of Juanita’s cooking mingled with the scent of juniper and sage used to stoke the fires that burned in the yard for guests to warm themselves. They moved slowly to the music he hummed.

  “After the ball is over, after the break of morn,” he sang, his lips close to her ear.

  It was a popular song of the time, but so very sad in its story of love lost. She knew Rico wasn’t thinking of that, but she pulled back anyway. “Bunker is headed back to the stage,” she said. “Break’s over.”

  She kissed his cheek and together they walked to the house, passing small gatherings of guests as they went. It took her a moment to realize one of those groups included her parents. She heard her father’s voice, heard him break off in midsentence as she and Rico walked by, heard the silence that seemed to drown out everything else. She let go of Rico’s hand and quickened her pace until she reached the sanctuary of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Louisa’s hand slipped from his as she gathered her skirt and hurried past her family and into the kitchen. Rico paused, taking in the uneasy silence that had enveloped those gathered around the small bonfire. He removed his hat, looked directly at Louisa’s mother and father for a long moment as they avoided his stare and gazed into the fire. “Buenos noches, señor, señora,” he said as he replaced his hat and kept on walking. But afterward, as he followed Bunker’s lead and played reels and waltzes, he wasn’t hearing the music. He was thinking about Louisa and how, through the months of their marriage and her pregnancy, she had put such a brave face on things when it came to her family. Surely, as her husband, it was his job to mend that fence once and for all.

  The following morning he asked for time off. “Got something I need to do,” he said.

  Chet Hunter, the ranch foreman and the husband of the eldest Porterfield daughter, raised his eyebrows but did not pry. “You’ll be back by noon?”

  “Maybe sooner,” Rico agreed. He liked Chet—liked working for him.

  “You don’t think you ought to give this a bit more thought?” Chet asked, and Rico understood he had guessed the reason for his request.

  “It’s been long enough.”

  Chet nodded and then clapped him on the shoulder as he walked with him to the corral. “Hold your temper,” he advised. “George Johnson is a good man, but he will try to prove that what he thinks of you is right.”

  “Funny how his opinion of me changed when he realized I was in love with his daughter.”

  Chet held the reins as Rico mounted one of the ranch horses. “His opinion changed when he realized that Louisa was in love with you,” he said. “He can’t understand that.”

  “Past time he found a way,” Rico replied as he turned the horse toward the open trail and rode off.

  Even though the Johnson ranch bordered that of the Porterfields, it still took over an hour of steady riding to cover the distance between the two properties. That gave Rico plenty of time to consider how best to approach his father-in-law. It also gave him time to have second thoughts. Maybe he should have made an appointment. Just showing up might not be his best choice. Of course, for much of his life he hadn’t thought twice about riding over to the Johnson place unannounced. In those days, George Johnson had always welcomed him with a handshake and a smile. As a rancher with no sons, he seemed to look forward to seeing Rico join him for chores and to sit with him while they discussed the changing role of ranching.

  That had been before he realized that Rico’s visits were not always about helping out.

  “I’ll remind him that in those days, before Louisa and me…”

  He shook off the idea as he rode past the open land where the cowboys from the Johnson place were working their herd. A couple of the hands sitting near the chuck wagon called out to him and he raised his hand in return, but did not stop. Seeing those men, it occurred to him Mr. Johnson might not be at home—he might have gone into town on business or for a meeting of the cooperative several of the smaller ranches had formed. And that’s when he decided perhaps a conversation with his mother-in-law might be the wisest first step toward healing the breach between his wife’s family and him. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was Mrs. Johnson was the key to the matter. Even though Louisa had told him of the ill-fated meeting at Eliza McNew’s store, Mrs. Johnson had always had a soft spot for Rico.

  He switched his thinking to how he might make his case to her, and lost in those thoughts, he failed to notice the rider coming toward him at full gallop.

  “You lost, boy, or just trespassing?”

  George Johnson was a heavy man, and that plus the exertion of the ride had left his face flushed to a mottled red and his barrel chest heaving to catch his next breath.

  Rico reined in his horse. “I was coming to see you, sir,” he replied, shaking off the insult. He tipped his hat back so Johnson could see his face—his eye
s. “Louisa misses her family, and in her condition…”

  “You defile my daughter and have the nerve to speak of her ‘condition’? Get off my land. Tell Louisa she is welcome any time, once she has come to her senses and understands her mistake, but you are not welcome under any circumstances.”

  “Louisa is my wife.”

  “So you say, but until she takes her wedding vows in a proper church service delivered by a priest, she is no man’s wife.”

  “And that will end this? If we stand before Father Sanford and…”

  “Not with you—never with you or any of your kind. You tricked my daughter into sneaking around behind our backs, and then when she ended up in a family way, she thought she had no choice. And that’s when you got her to agree to slip away with you and go down to Tucson and…”

  Rico tightened his grip on his saddle horn. How much was he supposed to take before he stood his ground? Spoke for himself—and his people?

  “Louisa was not defiled by me or anyone else.” He forced himself to speak calmly. “We were legally married, and now we are to have a child together—a child conceived weeks after our marriage. I will provide for my family following the fine example set for me by you and Mrs. Johnson and by my familia, and I will love your daughter until the day I die. My heritage plays no part in any of that. I am as much a man of honor as you, and there was a time when I believed you knew that.”

  George Johnson pulled a rifle from its sheath at the back of his saddle, cocked it, and aimed directly at Rico’s heart. “For the last time, get off my land and never let me catch you anywhere near here again.” His voice shook with emotion and his hand on the gun was unsteady.

  Rico tugged his hat low on his forehead and gathered the reins. “Please let Mrs. Johnson and Helen know they are welcome to visit Louisa any time at the Porterfields—and that goes for you as well, sir. I can accept that you do not wish to see me, but please do not punish my wife in the bargain. Good day.”

  As he rode away, he kept his horse at a slower pace, half expecting the sound of the rifle firing and the blaze of a bullet striking him in the back. And he knew shooting him would carry no penalty. Shooting him would achieve what Johnson wanted most—the return of his daughter to the fold. It surprised him to realize how much he understood what it must take for George Johnson to not pull that trigger.

  That night, as he and Louisa prepared for bed, he studied his beautiful wife for a long moment as she sat on the side of their bed, brushing her hair. “I went to see your father today,” he told her.

  She paused in midstroke. “Oh, Rico, why? There is nothing to be gained and…”

  “I want you to go visit your family after they get home from church on Sunday afternoon. I’ve asked Mrs. Porterfield to go with you—at least the first time. They won’t turn her away.”

  She resumed brushing her hair, and the fierceness of the strokes told him he had upset her. “You spoke of this to Mrs. Porterfield, but not me?”

  “Your father…”

  “And you went to see my father without telling me?”

  “He is hurting, Louisa, and…”

  “And we are not?” She stood and paced the confines of the anteroom. “I cannot believe you did this. My family has made their choice. It is not for you or anyone else to try and dissuade them, and it is certainly not for you to go groveling to my father…”

  “I did not grovel.” He and Louisa had argued before, and he had learned the only answer to her fiery temper was to remain calm and silent, allowing her to get out all of her fury before he attempted to reason with her. The minute he spoke, he knew he should have remained silent a little longer.

  Louisa stared at him, her hands instinctively cradling their unborn child. “You went to him, when you have done nothing but love me. It is my father who is in the wrong here. It is his stupid prejudice that has made a mess of everything. It is his refusal to remember what you have meant to our family even before we…”

  She burst into tears and threw up her hands as she turned away from him.

  He wrapped his arms around her, turning her so that her head rested on his shoulder, her sobs sending shudders through her entire body. “Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the baby.” It was a private joke they had used in the early months of her pregnancy, when in the throes of lovemaking, one or the other of them would cry out. As he stroked her hair and felt her relax against him, he led her to their bed. Once she was settled against the pillows, he stretched out beside her, fingering a curl as her crying subsided into hiccups.

  “Louisa, we have to keep trying, and I see these Sunday visits as one way to do that. It will be difficult in the beginning, but that’s why if Mrs. Porterfield goes with you, they might listen to reason, and in time…”

  She stroked his face. “Rico, I don’t want to have to choose you or my family—I want both.”

  “You can have both, querida. Just not at the same time—at least for now.” She started to protest but he laid his finger against her lips. “You are unhappy, Louisa, and that can’t be good for our child. I’m just trying to be a good papá here, so how about it? Will you give this a try?”

  She frowned, then smiled. “I love you so, Rico.”

  “But?”

  “No buts. You are going to be the best papá.” She placed his hand on her swollen belly and he felt his child moving. Louisa ran her finger down the center of his chest.

  “Louisa,” he said, his voice breaking with wanting her.

  “I mean, as long as the little darling is already awake…”

  “But Doc Wilcox said at this later stage…”

  “Seems to me before we were married you had all sorts of ways to love me—and taught me what pleasured you in return.” She pressed her hand lower and grinned when he groaned in reaction to her touch.

  “You’ll go see your family on Sunday?” he managed.

  “That depends,” she whispered as she pulled him close and stroked his ear with her tongue.

  “On?”

  She didn’t say a word but moved his hand so that it rested on the apex of her thighs. He chuckled and pushed aside the fabric of her gown.

  * * *

  The visit was a disaster. Not even the presence and charm of Constance Porterfield could soften Louisa’s father. While his wife served tea and cake, he sat stone-faced, his arms folded across his chest, refusing to look at Louisa. Mrs. Porterfield kept up a lively conversation filled with tidbits of news she had gathered in town. Louisa’s mother smiled and nodded as she sipped her tea and glanced nervously at her husband. Perhaps if Helen had been there, things might have gone better, but Helen had spent the night in town with her friend and had not yet returned.

  “George,” Mrs. Porterfield said, addressing him directly for the first time, “do you recall the time you and my Isaac decided to go camping over the New Year and got so terribly lost in the snow?”

  Louisa’s father turned his attention to Constance Porterfield, which meant he was also looking directly at Louisa for the first time since she had arrived. She smiled at him, for everyone in both families remembered that misadventure. For years it had been a source of good memories and laughter.

  “What of it?” her father grumbled.

  Mrs. Porterfield did not miss a beat. “I was just recalling how young Rico finally tracked the two of you down. Even as a child, that young man could find the proverbial needle in a haystack.” She laughed and took a sip of her tea.

  Louisa’s father stood and addressed his daughter. “If it is your thought that bringing Mrs. Porterfield here to remind me of that boy’s positive qualities in order to have me come round to what he has done to you and this family, you have seriously misjudged the severity of the situation, Louisa.” He nodded to Mrs. Porterfield and left the room, crossing the center hall to his study and firmly closing the door. Louisa could not help but
think that it seemed as if lately every occasion with her father ended in a closed door. The symbolism of that was not lost on her, and she set her teacup back on the tray.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we left, Mrs. Porterfield,” she said softly. “The days are so short now and we want to be home before dark.”

  Mrs. Porterfield stood, but she faced Louisa’s mother, who remained seated on the settee. “Really, Dorothy, this is your daughter,” she entreated.

  Louisa’s mother twisted her napkin and nervously glanced at the closed door across the hall. “Just go, please, before you make matters worse—as if things could get any worse.”

  “Dorothy,” Mrs. Porterfield continued gently as she reached over to cover her friend’s hand with hers. “You are to be a grandmother. This rift between you needs to be repaired if for no other reason than for the good of the child. Louisa…”

  Now Louisa’s mother stood and led the way to the front door. “My daughter has made her choice and now I must make mine. It seems we have each decided to choose our husbands. Goodbye, Louisa, Constance. Please do not attempt to visit again.”

  Once they were in the buggy and Constance Porterfield had taken up the reins, Louisa stared out at the horizon. Had her mother just disowned her? Surely not. And yet…

  “Thank you, Mrs. Porterfield. I am sorry Rico has involved you in what should be a private family matter.”

  “You and Rico are part of my family, Louisa. Be very clear about that. His parents are among my dearest friends, and I have known Rico since before he was born.” She gave a nod toward the swell of Louisa’s stomach. “As I now am getting to know you and that baby there.”

  “Still…”

  “Your father is a good man, but even good men can be wrong, and George Johnson is wrong in this.”

  They rode in silence for a while.

  “Did you know he threatened to shoot Rico?” Louisa watched Mrs. Porterfield’s face, carefully gauging her reaction to this news.