Linda Ford - The Gift Of Family - Merry Christmas, Cowboy

“You are most generous,” he murmured, letting his gaze rest momentarily on her face, taking in her sunny smile and sky-colored eyes. He would never forget her. Recalling her features would warm many cold, lonely nights. He jerked away to confront Macpherson.

“I’ll get those supplies now and be on my way.” He headed for the door, expecting Macpherson to follow.

But before her pa could take a step, Becca sprang forward and grabbed Colt’s arm.

“You can’t mean you intend to leave.” She kept her words low so the children wouldn’t hear, but nevertheless, they rang with accusation. “They’ll be so upset, they won’t be able to enjoy Christmas. You must stay and help me make it special for them.” She pleaded silently, her eyes soft, then her face filled with determination. “Didn’t you promise them—and me—you would stay until they were on the stage?” When he didn’t answer, she turned to her pa. “Tell him to stay. Tell him we need him to make this work. Tell him—” She ran out of steam.

Macpherson studied his daughter for some time, then shrugged and turned to Colt. “Really doesn’t make sense to ride out on your own unless you’re in a hurry to get someplace.”

Was he? Part of him said he should leave now before he was driven away. Leave with his pride intact. His heart untouched.

“Please stay,” Becca murmured.

Her voice made him forget all the sound reasons for going.

“For Christmas?” Was it really what she meant?

“We’ll make it the best Christmas ever.”

Did she realize she hadn’t added “for the children”? Was it worth risking all the solid walls he’d built around his soul to find out?

“I’ll stay.”

A large portion of his brain told him he would be less thankful before this sojourn ended, but he could only hope he’d be able to say it had been worth whatever pain it brought.

Chapter Three

Colt meant to see that no one regretted having him spend Christmas here, so when Macpherson returned to the store, Colt followed hard on his heels, scooping Little Joe into his arms again before the boy could start his ear-splitting cries. Marie seemed content to keep Becca company.

“Can I do something to help?” he asked the older man.

“Thanks. I could use a hand.” Macpherson prepared to move a barrel to the other end of the counter.

Colt put Little Joe down. “Stay here.”

“If I take the bolts of fabric off this table, I can shift it closer to the corner and give me room for a better display of tools.”

“I’ll do that.” Colt lifted the bolts to the counter. Little Joe stuck to his heels like a tick on a warm dog. He wanted to warn the boy not to get used to Colt being there.

Even at the fort they could expect to be shunned by both races because of the blood of the other flowing through their veins. Colt learned a person fit nowhere but in his own skin. He’d found his place by doing what he liked best, what he was good at—caring for horses and riding the high pastures.

The table was empty, and Macpherson indicated Colt should help shove it into the place he’d chosen. That done, he handed Colt a rag. Little Joe tagged along after Colt’s every step.

“Might as well clean it while it’s empty.” The older man grabbed a broom and swept the floor.

“Nice prayer this morning,” Colt said. The man’s words stuck in his brain. Did he really mean them, or had he simply uttered them out of habit?

“My pa, God rest his soul, believed a man could only order his days aright if he put God first.”

“You really think God cares about a man’s daily activities?”

“I do believe so.”

Colt wondered if that only applied to a select few. “I suppose it’s only for white men.”

“Nope. For everyone. Seems to me if God makes all men, then He must like different skin colors.” Macpherson scooped up the pile of dirt and dumped it in the ash bucket.

“Hmm.” No doubt the sound contained more of Colt’s doubts than he meant it to. But he’d seen the caution and warning in Macpherson’s expression as he watched Colt when his daughter was around.

Macpherson leaned into the counter and considered his words. “Maybe it’s like a farmer with his animals. Think about it. Sheep, goats, chickens, pigs, horses, cows...each is so different, yet of great importance to the farmer.” He shrugged. “Here, give me a hand putting the fabric back.”

Colt welcomed the task providing, as it did, an opportunity to consider Macpherson’s words without having to comment on them. He’d seen no evidence that God cared for a man of mixed heritage.

Or—he jerked up and stared at the display of harnesses and yokes—was he mistaking man’s actions for an indication of what God thought? Interesting concept. He’d have to give it some study.

They finished rearranging things to Macpherson’s liking. The man circled the room, as if hoping to find something else to do. Little Joe trotted after him. Finally Macpherson went to the counter and sighed. “I have accounts to deal with. You might as well take the little guy into the living quarters. Maybe Becca can find something to amuse him.” Every time either one of them turned around, they practically tripped over Little Joe.

Colt’s thoughts reined to a skidding halt. He could not get his brain or his feet to function.

“We go.” Little Joe grabbed his hand and led him toward the door.

Colt followed like one of those mindless sheep Macpherson had mentioned. He stepped into the living quarters and stared at Becca bent over the table with Marie.

She glanced up. “You’re just in time. I’m showing Marie one of the books I read as a child.”

Little Joe trotted over to his sister, pushed a chair close and climbed up beside her, chattering away about the pictures.

Becca’s expression indicated she waited for a comment from Colt.

“That’s nice.” Certainly not very profound, but it was the best he could do. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied.

“This is one of my favorites. It’s a Bible story book. Maybe you’re familiar with it.” She waved him over to examine it.

He managed to make his feet move to the table and bent over the children, aware Becca did the same thing next to him.

She turned a page. “Look how worn the edges are. That’s because it was my favorite. The story of Jesus born in a manger.”

“Will you read it to us?” Marie asked.

“I’d love to.” Becca straightened and looked at Colt as she told the story. Once she turned a page, but she never referred to the book.

Colt suspected she had the words memorized perfectly, but he didn’t turn from her gaze to look at the page, so he couldn’t say for certain. He was trapped by her voice and blue eyes...and something more that he couldn’t name. A sense of being drawn forward by a woman who would remain forever out of his reach. At the same time, a memory pulled him to the past.

“I spent Christmas one year with a family at the fort.” The words came slowly and without forethought. He simply spoke the memory as it formed in his mind.

“The mother read this same story.” Her three children had gathered round her knees. Colt had been allowed to listen from a distance. But the words enticed him then, even as they did now.

“I like the story,” Marie said, pulling Colt back to the present.

He stepped back until the big armchair stood between himself and Becca.

Marie continued. “Papa told us this story just before Mama died. He said Mama went to live with Jesus.” A sob escaped her lips before she clamped them together. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks.

Becca gave Colt a despairing look, as if hoping he could somehow fix Marie’s pain. He couldn’t. Tears made him itch with discomfort as he recalled being cuffed across the head for shedding a few of his own when he wasn’t much bigger than Marie.