William Johnstone: A Rocky Mountain Christmas

A ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS

WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

PROLOGUE

Lambert Field, St. Louis, Missouri—

December 20, 1961

Rebecca Daniels Robison awaited her flight in the comfort of the Admiral’s Lounge. A huge Christmas tree sparkled with blinking lights and shining ornaments and Christmas music played softly over the lounge speakers. Rebecca was reading the newspaper when she was approached by a very attractive young woman.

“Ambassador Robison? My name is Margaret Chambers, and I’m a reporter for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat . I wonder if you would consent to an interview?”

“Why would you want to interview me, dear? I’m no longer an ambassador.”

“No, but you are still active on the international scene, and a recent poll put you as the country’s most admired woman.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Eleanor Roosevelt is the most admired woman.”

Margaret laughed. “You came in second, and Mrs. Roosevelt doesn’t count. She’s been the most admired woman for the last thirteen years.”

“And rightly so,” Rebecca said. “She has certainly been most gracious to me, over the years.”

A voice came over the intercom. “Attention passengers, all flights are on temporary hold until the runways can be cleared of snow.”

“I was about to say there wouldn’t be time for an interview,” Rebecca said. “But it appears that my flight has been delayed, so I would be happy to talk to you. I suppose you want to hear about my time as ambassador to Greece.”

“No, ma’am,” Margaret said. “I’m doing a story for our special Christmas edition. I understand you once had a most harrowing Christmas experience when you were a child.”

“Harrowing? Yes, I suppose it was, though that’s not exactly the word I would use. But it was also the most uplifting experience of my life.”

“Could you share that story with our readers?”

“How much do you know about that incident?”

“Hardly anything. Just that you’ve been very reluctant to discuss it in all these years and that you’ve turned down every request for it. Your father was a U.S. Senator then . . .”

“A state senator in Colorado,” Rebecca corrected.

“Yes, thank you. According to what little information exists, you and your family were on a train going from Pueblo to Red Cliff, Colorado, during a blizzard.”

“That’s correct. But that is only part of the story. If I told you everything, I’m afraid you would have a very difficult time believing it. Which is why I have never told the story before.”

Margaret held her little narrow reporter’s pad on her knee and raised her pencil, poised to take notes. “Why don’t you try me? I would love to hear the entire stor y.”

“Margaret, is it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, since my plane is delayed, Margaret, I will tell you the whole story of that Christmas so long ago. I’m almost eighty years old and don’t much care if people think I’m a crazy old lady or not. I guess now is as good a time as any to finally tell it. “

“Thank you, Ambassador Robison.”

“Let’s sit down, Margaret. And please, no questions until I am done.”

CHAPTER ONE

New Orleans, Louisiana—July 9, 1889

The Delta Mist was moored to the bank, running parallel with Tchoupitoulas Street. Matt Jensen showed his ticket to the purser, then boarded the vessel, a packet boat that made the run between St. Louis and New Orleans and back again. Instead of going directly to his stateroom, he stopped at the rail of the texas deck, looking back toward the city of New Orleans, at the flower-bedecked ironwork trellises and balconies, and the belles of New Orleans strolling the streets in butterfly-bright dresses under colorful parasols.

Of all the cities he had visited, New Orleans was one of the most unique. Although it was an American city, it retained much of its French heritage, and although it was a Southern city, it had its own unique culture, making it stand apart from other cities of the South. Aromas of food, flowers, and a “perfume” distinctive only to New Orleans wafted toward the boat. Music, interspersed with laughter—loud guffaws of men and high trills of women—came from a riverfront bar on Tchoupitoulas Street.

The captain of the boat stood on the lower deck, frequently pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. It was obvious he was waiting for someone, and whoever it was, was late, contributing to an increasing agitation.

Matt watched a cab approach the river, the horse in a rapid trot, then pull to a stop at the river’s edge. A woman got out, handed a bill to the driver, and hurried across the gangplank and on to the boat.

“Uncle, I’m so sorry. I was shopping and lost track of the time,” the woman apologized.

“Jenny, I can’t hold up the entire boat because my niece can’t keep track of the time,” the captain said.

From his spot on the texas deck, Matt was able to examine the woman rather closely. She was an exceptionally pretty woman with red hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. If one had asked her about her lips, she might suggest they were a bit too full.

“Mr. Peabody!” the captain called.

“Aye, sir,” answered one of the other officers.

“Away all lines. Pull in the gangplank.”

Matt maintained his position at the rail on the texas deck, watching as the boat crew performed the ordered tasks. Captain Lee had reached the wheelhouse, and once the boat was free of its restraints, a signal was sent to the engine room. Smoke belched from the twin, fluted chimneys and the stern wheel began to turn, pushing the boat away from the bank and into the middle of the Mississippi River. The boat turned upstream, and the great red and yellow paddle wheel began spinning rapidly, leaving behind it a long, frothing wake.

Jenny Lee worked for her uncle as a hostess in the Grand Salon of the Delta Mist. It was her duty to see to the comfort and needs of the passengers who came into the Grand Salon. She also arranged friendly games of whist, checkers, and even poker for the passengers who wanted to participate.

Over the past two days, the boat had been averaging twelve miles per hour and was approaching Memphis, 704 miles by river from New Orleans. She was passing pleasantries with some of the passengers when a loud, angry voice got the attention of everyone in the salon.

“No man is that lucky! You have to be cheating!”

The speaker was standing at one of the tables, and the object of his anger and the subject of his charge was Matt Jensen.

Unlike the angry man, Matt was composed as he sat across the table.

Not so the other two players who, at the outburst, had stood up and backed away from the table so quickly they knocked over their chairs.

For a long moment there was absolute silence in the Grand Salon, with nothing to be heard but the sound of the engine, the slap of the stern paddle, and the whisper of water rushing by the keel.

“Mister, nobody cheats me and gets away with it,” the man addressed his hostility toward Matt.

“You’re out of line, Holman.” Dr. Gunter was one of the other players at the table. “Nobody has been cheating at this table.”

“The hell there ain’t nobody been cheatin’! I ain’t won a hand in the last hour. And he’s won the most of ’em.” Holman reached for the money piled up in the middle of the table. “I’m just goin’ to take this pot to make up for it.”