Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection (2 page)

Moisture glistened in her eyes. “No it’s not. I know how important those stockings are to you.”

“Just something I wear on my feet.”

“But your mother—”

He set his other hand on the socks. “These aren’t the ones she made. Those wore out a long time ago.” A small scrap remained, and he always carried it with him in his pockets—his lucky talisman. “I’ll buy another pair.”

“Good.” She gave a decisive nod. “Good. Better buy two. Three even, since I won’t be darning them anymore.”

“Will do.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then released it. Scooping up the clothes, he rose. “Thank you for doing the laundry.”

Pink rose in her cheeks, and she swatted toward him. “Get along with you. Don’t be wasting your Irish blarney on me. Better you find a nice young lady who can darn your stockings. Use your silver tongue on her.”

Red laughed. He wished he did have the famed Irish blarney his grandfather had possessed. Or so his mother had told him. He also wished he could find a woman to court. But running a ranch, with few trips to town, made wife-hunting difficult.

Mrs. Dean bustled over to the stove and pretended to be busy stirring a pot.
 

Red watched her for a moment, then walked to his room. One thing was sure. His housekeeper was getting old, and he’d have to find her some help. But given her pride, the shortage of womenfolk around, and their lack of money, help was going to be hard to come by.

We’ll just have to pitch in more. Curly Joe’s gonna have a fit when he hears he’ll be doing women’s work.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Red stood in the aisle of the Cobbs’ mercantile, looking through the selection of men’s stockings. He saw black and brown and blue pairs, but no red ones. Not that he expected to find red. The mercantile had never stocked them before, and even though it was Christmas season, the Cobbs didn’t have them on hand now, either.

Red picked up a pair of brown stockings, holding the pair in his hand as if they could magically change color. Then he dropped them back on the shelf and walked away. On the verge of striding out, Red remembered Mrs. Dean had charged him with buying white sugar and flour. He grabbed a sack of each and took them to the counter to pay.

He inhaled the scent of fresh bread, wafting from the loaves on the shelves by the counter, and hunger pangs tempted him to buy one. But Mrs. Dean would scalp him if he bought something she could bake herself.

A white apron, hanging on a hook, caught his eye. The pattern of blue flowers embroidered around the hem and big pocket looked just like something Mrs. Dean would fancy.

He stepped closer, eying the apron and debating with himself.

Our household doesn’t exchange Christmas presents.
The memory of sadness on Mrs. Dean’s face when they’d talked yesterday tempted him to buy her something to cheer her up. But he and his partners had been saving to buy a special bull, cutting their personal spending to the bone.

“Well, dang it anyway,” Red muttered. He grabbed the apron off the hook and set it on the counter next to the flour and sugar.

Mr. Cobb, standing behind the counter, twitched his bulbous nose. Thankfully, the shopkeeper didn’t say anything, but just added up the purchases.

As Red reached for his coin, a flyer on the end of the counter caught his attention.

KNITTING LESSONS

An idea popped in his mind. The mercantile was a bubbling pot full of gossip, so he didn’t pick up the paper to show his interest. Instead, Red memorized the address on the flyer.
 
The best way to get his red stockings… have someone make them for him.

Absently, Red paid for his purchases.

Mr. Cobb’s, “Merry Christmas,” sounded a bit morose.

“To you, too, Mr. Cobb.” Red hurried out of the store, dropped his packages off at the livery stable, and strode in the direction of the address listed on the flyer—a short street set back from the more populated area of town.

He arrived at a small house with no porch, just a step into the entry. Hoping an elderly woman—one he’d feel comfortable talking to—would answer, Red hesitated, then knocked.

The door opened and a young lady wearing a black knitted cap, scarf, and coat peered around the side. The dark color set off her wide brown eyes. She looked at him in curiosity. “Yes?”

Seeing her attractive face dammed up his words. Red hoped she’d continue on her way out the door, and he could deal with her mother. But forced to answer, he said, “I saw a flyer about knitting lessons?”

Her face lit up. “Come in,” she cried, throwing open the door, waving him in, then quickly shutting it after him.

The cold of the front room puzzled Red, and he wondered why she didn’t have a fire in the fireplace. “Are you the teacher?”

She blushed and nodded, then led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to take a seat at the square table that had been pushed next to a pot-bellied stove. Tepid heat drifted from the stove.

Maybe she’s not going outside. Maybe this is how she lives.

He looked around, trying to see a sign of another inhabitant—a husband maybe. Blue-checked curtains were tied back from two windows to let in the light. A matching tablecloth covered the table. A pot boiled on the stove. In spite of the chilly temperature, the room seemed welcoming.

She picked up two thin pieces of wood from a scanty pile, opened the stove, and shoved the sticks inside. “There,” she said, peeling off her mittens. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. “I’m Miss Cannon. Louisa Cannon.”

“Red Macalister, ma’am.”

“Did you have something specific in mind, Mr. Macalister?”

“Stockings.”

“Ah,” Miss Cannon said. “Why don’t you have a seat at the table, while I find my extra pair of knitting needles?”

Extra pair of knitting needles?
With dawning horror, Red realized Miss Cannon thought he’d come for lessons. He opened his mouth to correct her, but she reached up to pull off her cap, unwind the scarf from around her neck, and slip off her coat. She hung it on a peg near the doorway.

Red noticed that Miss Cannon had a trim figure and slender neck. He caught himself staring and turned away, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

Miss Cannon picked up a basket from a corner of the room, filled with colorful balls of yarn. One had a pair of long needles stuck into it.

Tendrils of wavy brown hair had slipped down from the braid coiled around her head. Intelligent brown eyes that showed a hint of anxiousness flicked back and forth between him and the basket.

She carried the basket to the table. “Stockings aren’t the easiest things to start with. I remember the first pair I made for my father. Quite misshapen.” Her smile was soft, and, as she reminisced, a far-away look replaced the anxiousness in her eyes. “Although he wore them with pride.”

Red felt a strange tightening of his stomach. Right then and there, he decided not to tell pretty Miss Cannon he wanted her to make him some stockings. If she figured to teach him, he’d try to learn. It would give him an excuse to remain in her company.

He took off his hat and shed his coat. The room was marginally warmer than when he’d entered, and, if she could tolerate the temperature, so could he.

Red just hoped his partners wouldn’t get wind of this. He’d never hear the end of it. Worse, they’d probably spread the news all over town, and it would be a long while before he could have a peaceable drink in the saloon. “Ah, if you don’t mind… I’d like to keep our business between ourselves.”

“Of course.” With a serious look, Miss Cannon handed him the needles. “I should sit next to you, so I can help guide your hands.”

Red suppressed a grin. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said, keeping his tone even.

Her hand hovered over the basket.

He had a twinge of disappointment when she passed right over a ball of red yarn to settle on a blue one.

Miss Cannon picked it up and raised her eyebrows to see if he agreed with her choice.

Since admitting to wanting red yarn wasn’t manly, he gave her a nod.

She tossed the ball to him, surprising him with the playful gesture. “Unroll a few feet.”

Red caught the ball with one hand and grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, as though holding up a curious object. Her giggle sent warmth into his stomach. He found the end of the yarn and began to unwind it. When he’d finished, he looked to her for approval.

The anxious look returned to her eyes. Red hoped that his prowess as a knitter would soon make his pretty teacher smile.

After all, how hard can knitting be?

~ ~ ~

Louisa tried to quell her nervousness. She’d never dreamed a
man
would show up to take knitting lessons, much less a handsome one with coal black hair and matching short beard, and the most vivid blue eyes she’d ever seen. He was sturdily built, too, and wore worn blue pants and a blue-and-black plaid flannel shirt. When he moved, his spurs made sounds like tiny bells when he moved.

A student is a student, and his money will be just as good as a woman’s.
Or so she told herself as she set up the preparations for his lesson.

Once Red Macalister unwound the yarn and looked up at her with an expression of expectation, she sat in a chair next to him, scooting it close until their legs almost touched.

His nearness brought about a sudden realization of the impropriety of their situation.
I’m his teacher
, she tried to reassure herself, bringing up her needles and the blue yarn and demonstrating how to cast on stitches. Ideally, she should stand behind and above him, placing her arms around his shoulders and her hands on top of his to move them. Just the thought made heat rise in her cheeks.

Banishing the image, Louisa explained each step and showed him what to do. Then she pulled the stitches off the needles and repeated the whole thing. “Your turn.”

He turned a searching gaze her way.

Louisa’s heart began a quick patter, patter, and she found breathing hard.

Mr. Macalister tried to mimic her movements, but the yarn fell off the needle, to curl across his leg. He made a face, picked it up, and tried again, only to have the same thing happen. He growled.

Oh, dear.
Louisa had a sudden fear that she’d lose her first student before they’d even begun. “Let me help.” She leaned over and placed her hands on his. The contact with his skin sent a sizzle through her fingers and up her arms.

Startled, she jerked away.
Don’t be silly,
she scolded herself, placing her hands back over his.

He shifted.

Louisa lost her balance and fell against his shoulder. “Oh, excuse me.” She pulled herself upright, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.

He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “Nothing to excuse. I’m the one who’s fumble-fingered. Let’s try again, shall we? I think if you guide me, I’ll figure this out.”

Louisa took a breath and moved his fingers. “Knit two, purl two.” She continued to direct him. They bumbled through the sorriest row of stitches she’d ever seen. When they reached the end, she had him stop and took her hands away.

Mr. Macalister lifted the needle with his handwork up to eye height and peered at it. “That’s going to let in a lot of cold air. I might as well stick with the holey pair of stockings I have now.”

“We’ve just gotten started,” Louisa chided, worried he might quit. “As you knit more rows, the stiches fill in naturally.”

He gave her a skeptical look.

“I’m sure when you began learning—” She cast her mind for a cowboy example “—Roping, you missed the first time.”

Red shot her a look of mock offence. “I’ll have you know my very first throw landed exactly where I wanted.”

“Oh,” Louisa said, amused. “Naturally, Mr. Macalister.”

“Around the cat.”

“The cat!”
 

“Yep. Took off with a yowl. Almost dragged me off the porch. My ma tanned my hide that day.”

Imagining the scene, Louisa laughed. “How old were you?”

“Six. A neighbor gave me the rope for my birthday.”

“Sounds like you knew you wanted to be a cowboy from a very young age.”

His expression grew serious. “That I did. I have a small ranch now with two partners. Good men, both of them. Known them a long time. We have big plans.” He glanced out the window. “I should be on my way. Don’t want to be riding in the dark.”

“Of course.” Louisa took the yarn and needles from him and set them on the table.

He gave her a questioning look. “I think I can make it back tomorrow for a bit. That be all right with you?”

Louisa tried not to show she felt as giddy as a girl at the thought of seeing him again. “Certainly,” she said in a calm voice.

“Well then.” Red lingered a moment before putting on his coat. “Thank you for the lesson.” He pulled out some coins, pressed them in her hand, and closed her fingers over them. “Til tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

Two weeks later, a brisk knock at the door had Louisa jumping up and smoothing her hair. Her heart pounded, and she hurried to the window, glanced outside, and saw Red on the doorstep, his arms full of wood.