Caroline Lee's Christmas Collection: Six sweet historical western romances

by Caroline Lee

  “She is, and should be back over here any minute.” The Crownes—and their dogs—had moved into the apartment over Mayor’s Books some months ago. “My son is getting fussy for his mama. Hungry, probably.” The expression of pride on the man’s face was almost heart-breakingly sweet, and Rose had to look away, pretending interest in the selection of threads. Would she ever have a husband who spoke of her that way? Who cherished her and her children as Ian cherished his?

  As if conjured, the bell over the front door—already bedecked in Christmas finery—tinkled, and Ella swept in. “Hello, Rose! What a nice surprise.” Rose sent the dark-haired woman an awkward wave, wishing she’d spent more time in town, as her sister did, getting to know the inhabitants. “And there’s my big boys!” Ella swept both her husband and son into an embrace, and Rose blushed to see their kiss. She wondered if she could use Ella and Ian as a model for the kiss between Sheriff Caraway and Miss Molly at the end of her current book. After all, she’d never been kissed herself, and this was as good an example as any. She sort of wished she’d had her notebook with her…

  “So, Rose, what can we help you find today?” Ella sat down and rearranged her cloak and blouse to put the fussy baby to her breast.

  “Snow sent me to see if you had any bright-white satin embroidery floss, and I’d love a new notebook.” She’d written so much yesterday that she was running low on pages. If they had more money, she could order them direct, but as it was she had to ration her paper.

  Ella was smiling sweetly down at little Erik, so Ian hefted himself to his feet with the help of the ropes. “I don’t think we’ve gotten any more of the satin thread since the last time your sister bought us out, but I’ve been saving a journal for you.”

  The kind man always made sure to put aside something for her, and sometimes not even charge full price. Rose blushed slightly, thinking about this young family’s kindness, when she barely knew them. She hurried to the counter to pay for the journal that Ian had pulled from the shelf beside him, but turned when the bell over the door twinkled merrily again.

  Zosia Spratt had tight curls that never managed to stay completely contained, and her bonnet looked like something out of a Christmas magazine. Her round face broke into a grin when she saw the baby, and she hurried to push the door shut to block the wind. “Good morning, everyone! Hello, Rose. Is Snow in town?”

  “No, she has to finish a…project.” Rose’s sister was a brilliant seamstress, crafting stunning christening gowns from broderie anglaise lace that she cut and embroidered herself. The style was hugely popular in England, and Snow had realized that would mean wealthy American parents would pay top-dollar for such works of art. But she’d long ago decided to keep her talent a secret from her neighbors, and sold her gowns through a distributor in San Francisco. Rose wasn’t even sure if Snow’s best friend Zosia knew about her “projects”, but had agreed to keep her sister’s secret.

  Zosia didn’t seem to notice Rose’s pause, though. “Well, tell her I’ll stop by and visit one day this week, when your mother…”

  Rose nodded, understanding. Mama didn’t approve of many people in what she called This little backwater town, and the Jewish Spratt family was towards the bottom. “I heard Mama mention that she’d be visiting Mrs. Muffit on Monday afternoon.”

  The other girl smiled appreciatively. “Then that’s when I’ll visit, thank you.”

  Rose turned back to finish her transaction as Ian asked Zosia, “What can I get for you today, Miss Spratt?”

  “A pound of baker’s chocolate, please. Pape has run out again, now that he’s trying to keep Briar’s old customers happy.” Mr. and Mrs. Spratt owned what was currently the only eatery in town, and Briar Jorgenson used to sell her fabulous desserts there, before she quit to help Gordon MacKinnon—her fiancé—prepare to open his own restaurant. “But really, I came to gossip.”

  She laughed as she admitted the sin, and Ella joined in. “Do tell! I confess I’ve missed out on plenty, since Ian forces me to go home and sleep most days.”

  “Understandable, I think.” Zosia winked at the new mother. “I was visiting with Rojita, who heard it from her husband.” Rojita’s grandmother had been close friends with Mrs. Spratt, so it made sense that the two were friends. “Sheriff Cutter got word about a gang of robbers over in Granger who attacked a mail coach, can you believe it? He’s gone over that way to be part of the posse, if they needed help.” The Crownes expressed various degrees of shock and interest. “Rojita said that Hank didn’t think there’d be much for him to do, though. Apparently the gang stole what they could, and high-tailed it up into the mountains. He’ll almost certainly be back home before Christmas.”

  “Mail coaches?” Ella shifted the baby to the other breast, clucking disapprovingly. “Are banks too easy, now?”

  Ian chuckled. “It’s Christmastime, darling. So many people are sending and ordering things. Maybe even greenbacks. Mail coaches are probably easy targets.”

  As Zosia and the Crownes speculated, Rose’s thoughts were running wild. A robbery in Granger? That wasn’t too far away. Was her mysterious outlaw part of the gang who robbed the mail coach? Had one of the local lawmen tried to stop them, and shot Bear?

  But how could that be the truth? He hadn’t seemed threatening to her, despite his air of danger, and it was hard to imagine him shooting at a lawman.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to get home to ask him all about his life of banditry. Maybe, while she took notes and learned all she could for her books, she could cleverly pump him for information about the recent robbery. Then, when Sheriff Cutter returned from his investigation, she could lay all the evidence in front of him, and have Bear… she swallowed. Have Bear arrested.

  Buck up, missy. He’s a criminal, and deserves to be in jail. But as she hurried to pay for her purchase, and said her goodbyes to the gay holiday gossipers, she couldn’t ignore the hollow pit in her stomach. If the compelling stranger in her barn was part of the gang who took property from the people of Granger, then he deserved to be in jail.

  But why did that thought—and the thought of helping to put him there—make her feel like a terrible person? Maybe caring for him, touching him, had been a bad idea. Maybe she was beginning to see him as more than a source for writing better books… maybe she was beginning to see him as a man.

  Oh, dear.

  For years, Mama had been trying to find her a “suitable” husband. And for years, Rose had wished for a man who could take her away from Everland and her mother’s overbearing influence. But a bandit? Even she couldn’t sink that low, could she?

  Oh, dear, indeed.

  Chapter 5

  The last week had been torturous. Bear could feel himself getting more and more pitiful, just lying here on the pallet. The first time he’d tried standing, two days after he’d arrived, he’d blacked out and fallen down and tore something that started his leg bleeding. Rose hadn’t said anything, but just gave him a scolding look while she patched him back up again.

  But he couldn’t stop trying, and by seven days after the aborted ambush in Granger, he was able to stand for longer than five minutes. He’d tried walking, but his right leg just wouldn’t support any weight, and he’d have to catch himself from collapsing each time. But at least he was upright, which was something. Now, when she’d come to check on him—once in the mornings, once in the evenings, he’d be sitting up against the log pile, the quilts piled around him, cursing his own inability to move.

  How was he going to stop Quigg and his boys from hitting their next target, if he was laid up in this mysterious barn in not-quite-the-middle-of-nowhere? Shoot, he couldn’t even walk, and his horse was someplace else.

  But he still had the dime novel, and he got to see her twice a day. Two weeks ago, if someone had told him that the highlight of his day would be to have a gorgeous woman peel his blankets off and touch his thigh, he would’ve assumed something very different. But today he couldn’t deny it; he looked forward to he
r poking and prodding at him. He even looked forward to her odd conversations.

  Which is why he was already staring at the barn doors when the one on the left opened that morning. The pigs went crazy, squealing and hollering as always, but he didn’t even mind. Shoot, he’d started talking to them, and had even named a few. It was dang lonely, otherwise. And besides, they kept his little area warm enough.

  He couldn’t help his smile at the cute little bounce in her step as she crossed to his pallet. She smiled in return, and dang if his day didn’t just brighten.

  “’Morning, Rose Red.”

  The way she stumbled told him that the dumb little nickname had surprised her. “Wh—What did you call me?”

  He shrugged, shifting his shoulders against the logs, and glad that his exercise of the last few days meant the movement was effortless. “Rose Red. I just figured it was fitting.”

  She sunk to her knees beside him, a bundle of food in her lap. She didn’t look up from it when she whispered, “My last name is ‘White’. Papa used to call me ‘Rose Red’ because he said that ‘Rose White’ wasn’t a good name for me.”

  Bear smiled, and shifted his weight to his left buttock, to allow her to poke at his wound if she wanted. “Makes sense. I’ve never seen hair as red as yours.” Even now, his fingers itched to feel the strands that caressed her ears. “If you were a rose, you’d be a red one.”

  Was that a blush he saw, climbing up her cheeks? She busied herself with unwrapping the bandage, and cleaning the wound, and he tried to concentrate on her actions, rather than how downright beguiling she looked today, in her green jacket and sparkling topaz eyes. “Looks good. Not infected at all.”

  He agreed, and knew that it was thanks to her. If he hadn’t been lucky enough to have his horse stumble into her barn, he would’ve frozen to death or died of infection days ago. As she went to rewrap the linen, he impulsively dropped his hand over hers, trapping her delicate fingers against the skin of his thigh.

  She sucked in a startled gasp, but he barely noticed; he was too busy being startled himself. She’d removed her glove to poke at his flesh, as she always did, and that meant that her tiny hand—her bare skin—was against him now. Shoot, his hand was twice the size of hers, and hairy and sun-darkened to boot. He didn’t look like the kind of man who should be touching a lady like her…but at that moment, Bear didn’t give a plug nickel.

  Finally, after too few heartbeats, her fingers twitched under his, and he heard her begin to breathe. That’s when he realized he’d been holding his breath too. He looked up from their hands and met her eyes, and thought that he could just fall straight into those clear gems. They were the exact color of a topaz necklace he’d once seen on display when he investigated a jewelry store robbery in Salt Lake City. Thanks to her, he didn’t think that he’d ever forget that color.

  Her flush deepened, and he watched her swallow, his eyes drawn to the smooth skin of her neck. The green coat she wore was buttoned all the way up, but still left tantalizing glimpses of creamy flesh. It wasn’t the first time his body reacted to her nearness, but Bear was suddenly almost overwhelmed with the desire to pull her across his lap and unwrap all of her layers. She’d be the best Christmas present ever.

  Instead, he forced himself to clear his throat, to release her hand, to look away. It was one of the hardest things he’d done, but scaring her with his thoughts wasn’t his intention. Instead, he tried to concentrate on what they’d been speaking of moments before.

  “So, Rose Red…this is the first time you mentioned your father.”

  She was pretending great interest in laying out the food she’d brought. “He’s been dead a while. We came out here from Alabama after the war, but he wasn’t as good a farmer as he’d thought. Now, my sister and I try to keep the house up as best we can. I take care of the hogs that we use for barter, and make a bit of money by selling—”

  She cut off her confession by biting her lower lip, and Bear nearly groaned, to think of tasting that lip himself. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on her words. “Selling…?” This was more than she’d told him about herself all week.

  But her smile was brittle when she looked up again, not quite meeting his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, really. Now, how are you enjoying Black Bart’s Revenge?”

  The change in topics confused him. “The book? I’m only about a chapter from the end.”

  “Oh, so he’s rescued Samantha already?”

  Bear smiled at the eagerness in her voice, but doubted that she could see it under his beard. “Yeah. That was pretty exciting.”

  “When Black Bart was dangling her over the cliffs like that? No matter how many times I read it, I still get chills!”

  Bear had to agree. “I sure read it faster than I’d expected. That Bart is one evil rattlesnake. He deserves to be—“ Bear swallowed down his impolite words, and shrugged in apology. “I mean, I’m looking forward to seeing what Captain Reasinger does to him.”

  Rose cocked her head to one side, looking at him oddly. “The bad guy always loses in the end, Bear.” He nodded, agreeing. In books, the bad guy always loses.

  “But in real life, sometimes the bad guys get away.” He couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice as he stared at his wounded leg. In real life, it was up to men like him to make sure that the bad guys paid, somehow, but it didn’t always work out the way they hoped. But when he glanced back up at her, he was surprised to see a look he couldn’t define on Rose’s face; part disappointment, part confusion, part sadness. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to bring real life into this discussion, or something.

  She bit her lip again, and rearranged herself so that she was sitting beside his pallet, her arms wrapped around drawn-up knees. His boots could’ve knocked against her skirts, if he’d twitched, but she didn’t seem to notice the nearness.

  “How about you?” She asked suddenly. “You must have plenty of good stories, right? Do the good guys always win?” She lowered her voice to what she must’ve thought was a wheedling tone. “You’ve got to know about horse chases and shootouts and stuff, right?”

  Bear sighed. This again? For the last few days, since he was able to sit up, she’d asked him something similar. Sure was an odd line of questioning, coming from a poor farmer’s daughter. Maybe she just really liked adventure stories, but what about him made her think he knew any? Oh, sure, he had plenty of adventures under his belt, enough to rival Captain Reasinger, but nothing that he could tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone; not until he managed to get his sorry butt to a telegraph office to wire for backup to help stop Quigg.

  “Sorry, Rose Red. I prefer to read about heroes in white hats.” That much was true; Bear was never going to be confused with one of the heroes in her books.

  “Yeah, but…” Guess she wasn’t done trying to get information out of him. “I mean, look at you.” Her nod encompassed his rumpled jacket—pulled on for warmth overnight—and his unkempt beard. “Can’t you just tell me one of your adventures? Just something that I could—”

  She bit her lip again, apparently not wanting to give away too much, and met his eyes. When he raised a brow at her, she blushed prettily and looked away fast enough that he wondered if he’d offended her or something. She sure looked scorched by something.

  Bear tried to make a peace offering. “I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you anything.” It was the truth. Not because he didn’t have any stories, but he couldn’t let himself share them. If she knew—if word got out—that a US Marshall was wounded in her barn, every lowlife around would be gunning for him…and she’d be in danger too. Without his Colts, he couldn’t hope to protect either of them, but he didn’t want to ask her for them either. She’d been carting one of them around since he met her, and it obviously made her feel safer to have it. Maybe that feeling of safety—that confidence, was what let her ask him so many questions.

  Although why in the heck a little lady like her would be so fascinated by tales of derring-do and narr
ow escapes, he didn’t know. On the other hand, seeing her sitting in the dirt with her knees drawn up like that, and her cute little chin perched on her forearms while she pouted, Bear had to admit that she didn’t look like any other “little lady” he’d ever met. She was a gal who liked adventure, and was stuck here tending hogs. He knew exactly what being trapped felt like, and cursed his busted leg once more.

  “Rose Red? Why don’t you tell me one of your adventures? I’ll bet you’ve got plenty—”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Abruptly, she stood, still not meeting his eyes. “I… I have…” She was collecting the discarded plate from last night, and a few other things, throwing it onto the tray she’d brought this morning. “I’ve got to go. I’ve been here too long anyhow.”

  And before Bear could apologize for whatever he’d said, or ask her to stay, she was hurrying across the barn floor and pushing open the door to the December snow outside.

  She’d left. Bear sighed, and allowed his head to thump back against the logs he’d fashioned into a slightly-less-uncomfortable rest. She’d left, and he wasn’t going to see her again until that night, unless he’d scared her off for good. What would happen if she didn’t return? He’d have to drag his sorry butt across the barn and out that door, he supposed, and hop around looking for her.

  And wouldn’t that be a pitiful sight? He had to chuckle at himself then. He had it bad for his little rescuer, and she didn’t even realize what she was doing to him. Heck, she didn’t even know the first thing about him, because he hadn’t told her a blessed thing. Maybe she figured he was the outlaw he looked like; that might explain all those cryptic comments of her about the bad guys always losing. That sure would be funny, if that’s what she thought. The urge to tell her the truth was so strong he could taste it, but he had to keep reminding himself that his subterfuge served a purpose. Served justice.