Christmas for Ransom (6 page)

“Darlin’?” The word slipped out without him thinking it through, and the sound of it sent his blood pounding. “Those tears on your face are gonna freeze.” His gloved finger soaked them right up, and he wished he could meet her cheek flesh to flesh. “What’s wrong? Your pageant turned out right fine.”

Eliza nodded, and her red plaid dress crinkled in the night wind. As she sniffed and smiled up at him in the lantern light, he reckoned her green velvet jacket didn’t warm her enough. Shrugging out of his new wool overcoat, he wrapped her inside it.

“I know. It was perfect,” she said.

“Then what’s the matter?” He knew more about the mysteries of a woman’s body than he did her heart or mind but recalled learning they sometimes wept in happiness. “I’m proud as punch over you.”

“It was Artie Finch’s poem. About missing his granny. How the Christmas Star is really her bright eyes smiling down at him from heaven.” She wrapped her fingers about her face in a sob, and Ransom had no choice but to sling his arm across her shoulders and pull her close. He patted her back like an infant, but his manpart pounded now.

“Now, now. Thought you read all the poems beforehand.”

“Oh, I did. And Artie got top marks. But it hit me when I heard his words out loud. Not reading them like a school report. Oh, Ransom, I’ve been at odds with Granny so long.” She gulped. “It isn’t just about finding her horses anymore. It’s about being friends. About her and me getting along. About Christmas peace.”

He considered her words deep down. “I think I understand. My gram-maw meant the world at one time. Now, let’s go get some supper in you.” He reached for her hand, once again hating his glove.

“No. I couldn’t eat a thing. I want to leave now, Ransom, get some miles behind us. It isn’t a hard trek to the Southern Star. They’ll put us up for the night. And likely you can get information from their wranglers about other spreads with new horses.”

Southern Star. Ransom felt heat rise. Rolly Gitts had unloaded a horse there. He recalled the mare right off. Even fixed up to look different, the mare was a beautiful thing. Southern Star folk weren’t likely to part with her. Worse than that, riding off alone in the nighttime with Eliza reckoned to lead him into temptation it might be wiser to avoid.

“Can’t think it a good thing,” he said. “You riding off with a strange man in the dark.”

She chuckled, squeezing his hand in return. “I’ve already got my things packed. And you worry for nothing. Miss Letha May knows I’ve hired you to see me safe to Stony Brook.” She laughed out loud now. “Besides, everybody hereabouts knows I’m an independent female who cares nothing about gossip.”

The shiny cloth of her dress made some kind of rustling sound underneath his coat, but he liked her words more. A woman unafraid of tittle-tattle even if he himself was bound for respectability. Still, the Texas night had gone cold. “It’s turned freezing. We can wait ’til morning. Get Nitro and ’Walker all rested up.”

The glare in her eyes was pure stubbornness. “Now. The moon is full. The road’s good, and the weather dry. A little cold never hurt anyway. If we leave right away, we can get another lesson before it’s time to turn in.”

That plan intrigued him. Just the recollection of their thighs touching while they pored over books and slates got him hard.

“All right then,” he said, wishing he still wore his long coat. “I’ll see to the horses, and you rustle us up some grub to pack along.”

It was damn cold as they started off ten minutes later. A smidge of satisfaction rolled over him. Most womenfolk he’d tangled with took hours and hours to get themselves ready.

Moonlight brushed enough silver on the miles of sagebrush and mesquite to have him think stars had fallen. But Texas wasn’t in his blood yet. The high plains didn’t touch him like the lush, thriving prairie, but with Eliza close by, Texas seemed right fine.

They’d ridden a few miles when the lowing sounds of cattle let him know the Southern Star wasn’t long off. Eliza slowed ’Walker down.

“We’re nearly there.” Her words came out in puffs of cold air. “And I couldn’t be happier. Clouds are coming in, and the wind sure is picking up.” She looked skyward. “I bet it snows tonight.”

Even with gloves on, she rubbed her hands together, and Ransom itched to warm her in every way he could think of.

She pointed to the gate.” Why, there he is. Come on. How do, Crusty?”

Ransom followed and rode underneath a gate bearing the brand of a star over a bar. Aha. He got it right off. A Dixie star and bar. They met up with an old man carrying a lantern from the barn.

“Ransom, this is Christopher Bowman, owner of the Southern Star.” Eliza quickly dismounted and gave the codger a hug. It was a daughterly gesture to be sure, but Ransom envied Crusty the embrace anyway. Ransom followed and shook hands.

“Welcome. Call me Crusty. What are you two doing out this time of night? Everything all right?”

“Yes indeed. I’m on my way to the Stony Brook for Christmas, and Ransom’s helping me track Granny’s thieved horses.”

“Well, that’s a mighty fine deed, young man. You’ll be spending the night of course. Now, Eliza, you head to the house. Mother might have some stew left to heat up. You, Ransom, there’s likely chuck in the bunkhouse.”

Eliza frowned, and Ransom’s disappointment had to show, too.

“Fine,” she said, “but can he and I meet in the parlor for a spell? After we eat? We’ve got some…business to transact.”

Crusty guffawed and winked at Ransom. “Sure enough. You two need time for spooning. Too cold to do it on the porch. Help yourself.” He handed Ransom the lantern. “You need help with the horses?”

“No.” Eliza and Ransom spoke at the same time and shared a smile so secret Ransom’s leg bones quivered, and it had nothing to do with the ride.

“I’ll tend Firewalker, Crusty. Tell Miss Ida I’ll be in shortly.”

“You go investigate Mother’s new Christmas mare. I’ll get her to get you a bed ready,” the old man said with a salute.

Get a bed ready? Ransom’s breath caught with a thrill across his neck until he realized their host meant for Eliza to sleep alone.

Ah well. A bunkhouse was a sight better than using yet another tumbleweed for a pillow.

****

The barn, warmed by the living breathing creatures wintering within, invited Eliza inside. Comfort slid down her spine to her toes, much of it having to do with Ransom’s nearness, but soothing Firewalker came first. After she unsaddled him and settled him in a stall with fresh water and feed, she took a stroll around the large structure while Ransom tended Nitro.

“Fine horseflesh here,” she called out. “I wonder how Crusty managed to escape those marauders.” Her thoughts turned suddenly dark as she recalled the main purpose of their quest. “If we’d had any inkling Perkins was close by, why, we could have stood guard in the barn. Instead….”

“Likely Perkins picked a holiday on purpose. Folks distracted with food and family. You couldn’t have known.”

A horse in the stall nearest her started up a friendly whicker, and she could barely hear Ransom’s soft drawl over it. Not for the first time, she wondered how his velvet voice would sound in her ear murmuring words of love. Suddenly she recalled how her twice-time lover Royal at Desolation hadn’t as much as said her name. She pushed the ugly memory away and thought back on Ransom’s kiss instead. Even now, her bosoms tingled underneath the thickness of her woolen cardigan and suede vest.

“You’re probably right,” she said right as the cold nose of the happy-sounding horse nestled against her neck. “Why, hello, pretty one.” She turned to rub the horse’s muzzle and stiffened at the equine eyes staring at her. Recognition sparked from her own eyes as well. Oneida. Inside her chest, luck, joy, too many other emotions swirled like a flock of geese. “Ransom?”

“Yes, darlin’?”

Even in her tension, his new name for her dripped like honey off his tongue. He strolled quickly to her side.

“This mare. She’s got a white blaze and socks, but I swear she’s Granny’s sweet girl from home, Oneida.” Her fingers splayed across the white splotch on the mare’s nose.

“You sure?”

She nodded. “I’d swear it before God Himself. Do you think…”

Ransom nodded, words coming soft and slow. “Could be, I reckon.”

She grabbed his hand in fervor. “I reckon outlaws are masters with paint and disguise. Let me see if she’s wearing the Stony Brook brand. An S and a B facing each other.”

“What?”

“You know your letters well enough.” Impatient, she grabbed his hand, tried to ignore the sizzle as their skin met while she traced the letters into the inside of his palm. “Let me check out her flank.”

In a flash, she located a brand, but her fingers found two B’s facing each other. Disappointment came from her throat in an angry puff.

“Don’t matter,” Ransom said, mild, and took her hand like she’d done his. “Likely fixin’ brands is easy enough for somebody skilled with it.”

“Of course. Add some loops to get a B. Oh, goodness. It’s her. I know it.” She kissed Oneida’s muzzle. “I should get Firewalker stabled next to her. They can catch up on their gossip. Are you done here? I need to talk to Crusty. This will be Granny’s best Christmas gift, I promise you.”

She grabbed Ransom’s hand and gasped as they entered the dark night, frigid now by any standards. The moon hid. Snow was on its way. Inside the house, the hot air almost thickened inside her nose. Maybe she was more an outdoor girl than she’d ever thought before.

“Crusty?”

“Shhhhh.” The old man, wrapped in a gentlemanly dressing gown that had seen a better year, came through the dark hall. “Mother fell asleep over her knitting. But there’s dried chokecherry pie leftover from supper, and I brewed you up some fresh Arbuckle’s.”

“That’s good. Thanks. But Ida’s Christmas mare, Crusty. I…” Eliza wasn’t sure how to proceed. She couldn’t very well accuse a decent God-fearing man of acquiring a stolen horse for his wife’s Christmas present. “Where’d you get her?”

Crusty shrugged. “Young man from a ranch outside Odessa fell on hard times. The Double B. Came through the territory with a string of ponies.”

“How long ago?”

“Three days, no more.”

Eliza’s heart sank. There was no reason to ask for a bill of sale. If a horse could be disguised so expertly, forging a fake document couldn’t be hard at all.

“Fine looking youngster,” Crusty went on, “albeit a masculine scar across his cheek. Might still be staying in Cahoots.”

“Crusty…” Something in her voice must have alerted the old man, for he took her hand.

“You’re not thinking, are ye, Eliza? This is a stolen piece of goods?”

“I’m thinking so, Crusty. I’m sure I recognized Granny’s Oneida. And she me.”

“I’ll be damned.” Crusty Bowman ran his gnarled fingers through the few strands he had left atop his head. “What do we do now?”

Chapter Six

“Alert the law, of course,” Eliza said, her beautiful eyes shining. “And of course I’ll repay you whatever you spent on her.”

Ransom held on to his calm. A fine-looking youngster with a masculine scar on his cheek. Rolly Gitts wore that scar as a proud badge, having battled with a drunk and a Bowie in a bar fight not six weeks past. But the fool knew damn well how to cover it with mud.

Same time a punch of anger clamped Ransom’s shoulder, cold sweat ran down his backbone. Gitts getting caught by the law would sure as hell get fingers pointed at Ransom. Too yellow to face a noose by his lonesome, Gitts would squeal for sure. Somehow Ransom had to find the gang, let Ahab know one of them had left a clue behind this time.

Then get back quick as he could to his woman.

“I’ll send a ’hand to Cahoots at daybreak,” Crusty said, rubbing a hand across his eyes. The old man looked done in, and Ransom felt a pang for his worries, for Miz Ida’s empty Christmas.

Eliza’s face lit up like a summer day, and she turned to him, lips parted. He longed to devour them. “Why, Ransom. You should be able to find him in a heartbeat.”

“You the law?” Crusty asked.

“No. Tracker.”

As Ransom spoke, the old man held his hand to cup his ear like he had trouble hearing. Ransom stopped himself from raising his voice just in time. His catarrh might be gone, but more than ever now, he needed to keep his voice disguised.

“He’s a tracker.” Eliza spoke for him. “Oh, Ransom. This is a true blessing. Leaving tonight, that is. We likely wouldn’t have gone inside the barn if we passed through in daylight.”

Crusty sighed. “Can’t do much before dawn. Now, you get to them vittles I set up in the parlor. I recall you need some time together. And Eliza, don’t you worry. We’ll get it sorted out.”

“I can’t wait for the vandal to rot behind bars,” she said, standing tall on tiptoe to kiss the old man’s cheek. “Or better yet, get his neck stretched.”

A worse chill tightened Ransom’s bones this time. But his empty stomach was his main concern just now. While they ate in the parlor, Eliza set up the primer and slate. At least her sitting so close kept his mind on bodily needs and away from thoughts of the noose. Even through the suede of her split skirt, he could feel her heat. Even with a stick of chalk in his fist, his fingers itched to touch her. Undress her. Love her like mad just in case she found out who he really was and turned him in.

He might have vowed to be respectable but fact was, he wasn’t, not one single bit. And his wicked past might be catching up unless he did something about it.

“I can hardly believe how quickly you’re recalling your alphabet,” Eliza said in a proud school-teacher voice.

At least that was good news. Somehow his brain had soaked up more than he’d allowed Gram-maw to know those years ago.

“I see the letters making more and more sense,” he told her. “Must be your teaching. Thing is…”

“Yes, Ransom?”

“The poem about grannies that made you cry? You think I could try learning to read that? Seems to go easier when I sound out real words.”

“Of course.” Quicker than a blowfly, she wrote something on the slate and leaned into him, going over each word slow and careful. He liked the sound of her, the scent of her, but he fixed his brain on the job at hand. Just like he’d recognized different brands and now to fix them, just like he’d recognized his old name “Canyon” on wanted posters, the logic of the alphabet made more and more sense inside his skull. A poem of his own began to birth itself. A poem of love.