Kathryn Albright - A Western Christmas Homecoming - Christmas Day Wedding Bells / Snowbound in Big Springs / Christmas with the Outlaw

“Alice.” Sheriff Rivera’s voice. “It’s hard to accept something like this, so just take your time.”

She drew in a shaky breath and pushed aside the whiskey the marshal held out. “I d-don’t drink spirits,” she said in a ragged voice.

“Maybe not,” he said. “Might make an exception today, Miss.” He folded her fingers around the glass.

She took a tentative sip. It burned all the way down her throat and brought tears stinging into her eyes. She coughed, then took another, bigger swallow.

The marshal was still kneeling in front of her. “What did you say your name was?” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Logan, Miss. Randell Logan.”

“How do you know about my—my sister? Were you there?”

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t. I’m a US Marshal out of Colorado Territory. I was called in by the Owyhee County sheriff to investigate your sister’s death. Actually, I’m working for Pinkerton on this case.”

Alice began to feel disconnected from what was going on around her. “Pinkerton? How was Dottie killed? I mean, was she stabbed or...?”

“She was shot,” the marshal said quietly. “If it’s any comfort to you, the sheriff in Silver City said she died instantly.”

“Oh. Oh, my God. Murdered... Oh, my God .” She gripped the whiskey glass and began to rock back and forth. Everything felt unreal, as if she were dreaming. Some of the whiskey splashed down the front of her shirtwaist, and she felt the marshal’s hand on her shoulder.

“You gonna faint?”

“No. I n-never faint. I just feel...numb.”

Then Sheriff Rivera was standing beside her, lifting the whiskey out of her hand. “Alice, do you think you can walk? I want you to go back to your boardinghouse and lie down.”

She nodded but kept on rocking.

Rand saw that her eyes were shut. Something about the small hand clenched in her lap made his belly tighten.

Sheriff Rivera tipped his head toward her. “Rand, could you...?”

“Sure.” He rose and reached under her armpits to help her stand. “Come on, Miss Montgomery. I’m gonna walk you home.”

“She lives at Rose Cottage,” the sheriff said. “Over on Maple Street. Take a right off Main about two blocks down.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey, then sent Rand an inquiring look. “Want a shot?”

He did, but not until he got Miss Alice over to her boardinghouse. “Later, Hawk.”

“I’ll be at the Golden Pheasant in an hour.”

“Yeah.”

Miss Montgomery moved unsteadily toward the door. Rand kept his arm around her shoulders and guided her out onto the street. She walked slowly past the mercantile and the hotel, but when she got to the saloon, she bobbled a step. He slipped his arm around her waist to steady her and she grabbed on to his forearm.

A fresh-faced kid shot around the corner. “Hiya, Miss Montgomery.”

She raised a listless hand as he skipped by.

“You a schoolteacher?” Rand asked.

She shook her head. “I am the librarian.” Late-afternoon sunlight fell across her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her straw sun hat was still clutched in her hand.

At the front gate of Rose Cottage she paused to pick a yellow rose from the tumble of blooms along the fence. “Dottie loved roses,” she murmured. “Especially yellow ones.”

As he moved her up the walk, a grizzled older man rose from the porch swing. “Alice?” Frowning, he clumped down the front steps. “Alice, are you all right?”

“Yes, Rooney,” she murmured. “Just...tired.”

The man took a closer look at her face, tramped back up onto the porch and banged through the screen door. “Sarah! Got trouble!”

Rand sat Alice down in the swing just as a handsome older woman bustled out the door. “Alice! Child, whatever is the matter?”

He took the woman and her husband aside, identified himself and explained the situation. “Oh, no,” Sarah moaned. “Oh, Alice, honey, I’m so sorry.” She sank down beside Alice, folded her into her arms and began to rock her back and forth.

“Gol-dang-it,” the older man, Rooney, swore. “How come it’s the good ’uns that get stomped on?”

Rand had no answer for that. It was something he’d often asked himself over the years.

“Life sure never gets any easier,” Rooney said with a sidelong glance at Alice. “Fightin’ Indians is lots easier than watchin’ something like this.”

Sarah stood and helped Alice move toward the screen door. “You’ll stay to supper, Marshal Logan?”

He hesitated. He’d been in the saddle since mid-August, sleeping on the ground and eating canned beans and bacon. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in over a month.

Rooney laid a hand on his arm. “Look, Marshal, I used to scout for Wash Halliday, so I know what it’s like, bein’ a lawman. Every so often ya need to kick back and take a night off. ’Specially if there’s a fine-tastin’ supper involved. Besides, my Sarah would be highly insulted if you walked off her front porch without acceptin’ her hospitality.”

Rand thought about sharing a drink with Sheriff Rivera at the Golden Pheasant, then weighed it against explaining the rest of his mission to Alice. Alice won.

“Okay, Rooney, sounds good. Thanks.” He would tell Alice the rest after supper.

Alice came downstairs to supper feeling as if a freight train had smashed her flat. She had tried to sleep for an hour, but every time she closed her eyes Dottie’s face rose before her. She was so numb she couldn’t cry, but her entire body ached, and when she thought about her sister her heart pounded erratically. She felt like screaming.

On top of everything else, one of her blind headaches was coming on. If Sarah had not insisted, she would not be coming down for supper but crawling into bed with a cold cloth over her eyes.

Voices drifted from the dining room. She recognized Rooney’s low rumble and old Mrs. DuPont’s quavering soprano. Doc Graham never said much. Sarah’s grandson, Mark, rarely spoke during a meal, but tonight he was rapid-firing questions at someone. His nine-year-old voice broke when he got excited, and apparently the answers were exciting; one minute he was a soprano, the next he was a baritone.

When she reached the table, the marshal, Randell Logan, rose to his feet, followed by Rooney, Doc Graham and young Mark. Iris DuPont clucked at her sympathetically, and Alice gritted her teeth. If anyone said one single word about Dottie or how sorry they were she would lose control. Better to pretend it was a perfectly normal fall evening in Smoke River and nothing was wrong.

She took her seat and automatically unfolded the napkin lying beside the blue-flowered plate. The marshal rested his gaze on her for a long moment, and then resumed speaking to Mark. “Actually, Mark, a young man must be at least eighteen to become a United States Marshal.”

Mark groaned. “How old were you, Marshal Logan?”

He shot Alice a glance and quickly returned his gaze to Mark. “I was well over eighteen when I joined up. Actually, I was twenty-seven.”

“Golly, what took you so long?”

The marshal laughed. “Just living, mostly.”

Alice realized the marshal sensed how shaky she was feeling and was purposely carrying on this conversation with Mark to keep attention focused away from her.

Mark’s blue eyes snapped with interest. “Didja fight Injuns, like Rooney?”

“Yep.”

“With the army?”

“Yep.” Rand reached for the ceramic bowl of mashed potatoes.

Mark leaned toward him. “Didja have a girl?” he whispered.

Rand drew in a slow breath. “Yes, son, I did.”

“Didja marry her?”

Rooney’s wife, Sarah, saved him by plunking down a platter of fried chicken and nudging her grandson’s shoulder. “Mark, we don’t ask our guests such personal questions.”