A Texas Hill Country Christmas (11 page)

Seth Barrett put the pen down next to the sheets of paper in front of him and leaned back to rub his eyes with both hands. He had been sitting here at his desk all evening, working on his sermon for the Sunday morning service. He looked at the words he had written in the light from the lamp at the corner of the desk, but the letters seemed to blur before his eyes until they no longer made sense.

He was worrying about it too much, he thought, putting too much pressure on himself. But this would be the first Christmas sermon he had ever preached, and he wanted it to be a good one.

That was one thing about hearing the Lord's call and coming to the ministry late, he mused. There were a lot of first times for everything.

He got a clean sheet of paper, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the inkwell. As he leaned forward again, he muttered, “Bethlehem . . . manger . . . wise men . . .”

Too bad that last didn't apply to him, he thought wryly. He was trying, but he didn't figure anybody would ever call him wise.

A gust of wind struck outside, causing the window in Seth's study to rattle in its casement. Bare branches tapped against the glass, and fingers of cold rain clawed down the smooth surface.

Seth was glad he was inside tonight. Even though the little whitewashed parsonage behind the Enchanted Rock Baptist Church had its share of drafts, the weather outside was a lot more miserable.

Seth scrawled a few lines on the clean piece of paper, then paused to read them over. Unsatisfied, he gave in to a sudden urge and crumpled the paper.

Then he chided himself for being wasteful, smoothed out the paper, and turned it over to make a fresh start again on the other side.

After a while he at least had an opening that he was satisfied with. Thinking that was enough for tonight, as well as something he could build on, he put the pen back in its holder and stood up to stretch after being hunched over the desk for what seemed like a long time. He winced as stiff muscles caught and twinged. He had some bruises and scrapes from the fracas with Felix Dugan the day before.

He wondered what the members of the congregation would think when they heard that their pastor had been brawling with the rancher. That wasn't a good thing for him to be doing, and he had known it at the time. He just hadn't been able to control that wild, reckless streak in him, especially knowing that Delta Kennedy was there watching....

The thought of Delta made him frown. He didn't have any business being interested in the pretty widow. It would be a mistake for him to get involved with any woman, especially one as nice as her. What he needed to do was concentrate on the work that had called him here, ministering to the spiritual needs of the people in this area instead of worrying about himself and the loneliness that sometimes gripped him.

“You think too much,” he told himself out loud this time. Picking up the Bible sitting on the corner of the desk, he leaned over and blew out the lamp. It was time for him to retire for the evening. Before he went to sleep, he would read for a while from the Good Book. The beautiful power of the language always soothed him. He would forget about the storm outside, forget about Felix Dugan, even forget about Delta . . . although the image of her beauty that was burned into his brain would make that more difficult.

Most of all he would forget about the things that had brought him here, the past that lurked behind him like a lobo skulking along after its prey.

 

 

Two men sat on horseback under the dripping trees about thirty yards from the parsonage. The bare branches didn't offer them much protection from the cold rain. In slickers and wide-brimmed hats, they hunched miserably in their saddles as they watched the window's glowing yellow rectangle and then saw the light go out.

“Looks like he's turnin' in for the night,” one of the men said. “We could go in there and get him, Deke.”

The man called Deke shook his head, causing more water to run off his hat brim.

“You know that's not what the boss told us to do, Packy,” he said. “We're not supposed to do anything except keep an eye on him.”

“Shoot, we ain't even sure he's the right fella, are we?” Packy asked.

“It's him,” Deke said heavily. “It's got to be. Nothin' else makes sen—Hold on.” He stiffened and leaned forward. “Somebody's comin'.”

It was true. Several riders were approaching the church and the parsonage. The two men under the trees drew their mounts back deeper into the shadows.

The newcomers rode around the church and into the small yard between the bigger building and the parsonage. They drew rein there. One man swung down from his saddle and went up the three steps to the porch. He pounded a fist on the door and yelled, “Preacher! You in there, preacher man?” His voice was loud enough that the watchers heard him clearly over the drip of the rain.

Packy edged his horse forward a step and said quietly, “Deke, we better do somethin' about this. That hombre sounds mad, and the boss won't like it if anything happens to that so-called preacher.”

Deke lifted a hand to hold back his companion. He sounded amused as he said, “No, for now we're gonna just wait and see how this plays out. I don't think we have to worry. If we're right about that fella, those men have bit off more than they can chew.”

 

 

Seth had lit a candle in his bedroom and was about to get undressed and put on his nightshirt when the pounding came on the front door. He frowned as he swung around in that direction, wondering why anybody would be visiting at this time of night. Maybe someone was sick or hurt....

Then he heard the raucous shout and recognized the voice. For a second, Seth closed his eyes and sighed.

He knew that hoping the caller would go away was asking for too much. He picked up the candleholder and started toward the front of the house.

The man was still beating on the door and yelling when Seth twisted the latch and pulled the panel open. The slicker-clad figure swayed forward a little when the door wasn't there for him to hit anymore. He caught himself and blinked at Seth, owl-eyed in the candlelight.

“What do you want, Andrews?” Seth asked the puncher who rode for Felix Dugan.

Whiskey-laden breath gusted in Seth's face as Andrews leaned toward him again.

“Come to settle up with you, preacher man,” the cowboy said.

“You don't owe me anything.”

That brought a harsh bark of laughter from Andrews. He said, “It's you that does the owin', Barrett! You laughed at the boss, and then you whipped him. You got to pay for that.”

“I'm sorry I laughed at Mr. Dugan,” Seth said. “I shouldn't have done that. It was un-Christian of me. And you can tell him I said so. Or I'll apologize to him myself the next time I see him.” Seth paused. “As for the fight . . . he attacked me. I had a right to defend myself.”

Andrews shook his head stubbornly and said, “You think a bunch o' words are gonna make it go away? It's gonna take more'n that, preacher man.”

“You're drunk,” Seth said, not bothering to keep the disgust out of his voice.

“Not too drunk to teach you a lesson.”

Seth had the candleholder in his left hand. His right clenched into a fist. It was pure instinct, as was the urge to knock the drunken, loud-mouthed cowboy off his front porch.

Forcing himself to relax, Seth said, “I'm not going to fight you, Andrews. You might as well go home.” He couldn't stop himself from adding, “Besides, in your condition, it wouldn't be a fair fight.”

“Think I'm too drunk to whip you, huh? Well, maybe I am.” Andrews moved back a couple of steps, to the edge of the porch, and pulled his slicker open, sweeping it back to reveal the butt of the revolver holstered on his right hip. “But I ain't too drunk to make you dance a hot lead jig!”

The cowboy's hand streaked toward the gun. Seth knew Andrews intended to blast some shots at his feet and make him jump to avoid the bullets. The thing of it was, Andrews probably wasn't good enough with the gun to do that even when he wasn't stinking drunk. The condition he was in now, his shots were more likely to smash Seth's legs and cripple him.

That thought flashed through Seth's mind in the time it took Andrews to grab his gun. As the weapon cleared leather, Seth flung the candle and its holder into Andrews's face. The cowboy shrieked and jumped back as the flame burned his face. A fraction of a second later, Seth's left hand closed around the gun's cylinder. His right fist crashed into Andrews's jaw and knocked the man backward off the porch. Andrews lost his grip on the revolver, which remained in Seth's left hand.

One of the two punchers who had ridden up with Andrews yelled, “Look out! The preacher's got a gun!”

They clawed out their own Colts. Seth could have jumped back into the house and slammed the door, but the thought never occurred to him. Instead, he flipped the revolver in the air with his left hand, and his right deftly plucked it from its flight. Colt flame spurted redly in the gloom as the cowboys opened fire on him. Seth crouched as a slug thudded into the wall near him and another sizzled through the air beside his head.

The gun in his hand roared as he triggered four swift shots. Even though he had never held this revolver until now, its grips felt natural and comfortable against his palm. The gouts of flame from its barrel lanced out, lighting up the yard between the church and the parsonage. He saw one of the cowboys topple out of the saddle, and the other man slumped forward as he tried to control his skittish mount.

Suddenly it felt as if the world had fallen away underneath Seth, even though his boots were still planted firmly on the porch planks. Dizzy horror engulfed him. What had he done?

Andrews scooted backward in the mud, crying, “Don't shoot me! Please don't shoot me!”

The man who had fallen off his horse reached up, got hold of the trailing reins, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. At least he wasn't dead, Seth realized as relief went through him. But there was still the other man to worry about.

He stepped back in the house and set the gun on a table just inside the door. The candle had gone out when it fell on the wet porch, of course, but a lamp sat on the table with a little box of matches beside it. Seth had it lit in a matter of seconds. He started to step out onto the porch with it, then paused and picked up the gun again as well.

The light from the lamp washed over the yard. Andrews, seemingly shocked sober now, was helping the unhorsed man to climb back into the saddle.

“How bad are they hurt?” Seth asked.

“Cole's got a hole in his arm where you drilled him,” Andrews replied. “Your bullet knocked Jimmy's saddle horn off and it hit him in the belly, knocked the wind out of him. Reckon they'll both be all right.” Andrews swallowed. “You've still got my gun.”

“That's right, I do,” Seth said, his voice hard and flat. It hid the vast relief he felt at knowing he hadn't killed anyone tonight, even though that was blind luck—or someone watching over him. “I'll leave it here on the porch. You can come back and get it tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to hang on to it while the three of you get out of here.”

“We're goin', we're goin',” Andrews muttered as he reached for his own horse's reins. “Don't think this is over, though, preacher.”

“You keep saying that,” Seth responded coldly.

“Yeah, but now I know how good you can shoot.”

They wheeled their horses and rode out, vanishing around the church.

Seth sighed and blew the lamp out, not wanting to stand there and make a target of himself. As the darkness closed in around him again, he thought that Andrews was right.

It wasn't over . . . and Seth had to wonder if it ever would be.

 

 

In the trees off to the side, Packy laughed softly and said in a half-whisper, “You were right, Deke. That's our man. Ain't no doubt about it now.”

It was a cold, wet, miserable night on the trail for Porter and the Jensen boys, one of too many spent that way lately for Ace and Chance. Porter wasn't used to such hardships, and he looked forlorn the next morning as he sat on a stump while Ace tried to find enough dry wood for a fire.

“My health has never been all that good, you know,” Porter said. “That's one reason I came to Texas. I thought the climate might be better here.” He let out a laugh tinged with bitterness. “Little did I know!”

“I figure it's not always like this,” Ace said. “We've never been down in this part of the country in December before, so we weren't sure what to expect.”

“As close as Texas is to Mexico, though, I figured it'd be warmer,” Chance added as he checked on the horses. “We just didn't realize how blasted
big
the place is.”

“The state does stretch for a considerable distance in all directions,” Porter agreed.

After a while, Ace gave up on getting a fire started.

“It's just too wet,” he said disgustedly. “We might as well ride on to Fredericksburg, if you're still bound and determined to go there, Will.”

“I haven't given up on my dream,” Porter said. “I can't.”

“Well, then, let's saddle up and get started,” Chance said.

Ace had some jerky in his saddlebags. As they rode, he passed around the dried, leathery strips of meat. They were better than nothing, but they would have gone down a lot easier with some biscuits and hot coffee.

The rain fell off and on all morning, sometimes just a drizzle and other times a downpour. However, as the middle of the day approached, the rain stopped falling, and a few patches of blue sky appeared.

“Don't believe it,” Chance said scornfully. “The weather's just teasing us. Before you know it, the sky will turn black, and the bottom will fall out again.”

“I'm afraid you're right,” Ace agreed. “It's rained so much I'll believe it's going to dry out when I see it.”

At least the better weather held until they reached Fredericksburg, which was nestled in a valley surrounded by wooded hills. As they rode into town, Ace studied the houses they passed, most of which were built of stone with a coating of whitewash. Many of the doors had wreaths hung on them, reminders that Christmas was only a few days away.

They came to a large wooden building in a distinctive circular shape. A sign identified it as the
Vereins Kirche
. Ace couldn't read German, but the place looked like a church to him, so he figured that was what
Kirche
meant.

Everyone they passed, whether on foot, horseback, or in a buggy or wagon, smiled at them. Chance returned the smiles and commented, “Friendly folks around here, from the looks of it.”

As they approached the town square, wreaths and garlands decorated with bright red berries and colorful cloth ribbons became more prominent. In the square itself, a large evergreen had been set up and decorated.

“That's one of those Christmas trees I've heard about,” Ace said as he nodded toward the evergreen. “Folks all over are starting to put them up as part of celebrating Christmas.”

On another corner of the square stood an elaborate, three-tiered carousel with Nativity scenes and other holiday decorations on it. None of the three newcomers had ever seen anything like it. They reined in and tried not to gape at the thing.

One of the townsmen paused and said, “You like our Christmas pyramid,
ja
?”

“Is that what you call it?” Chance asked.

“Yes. The
Social Turn Verein
builds one every year.”

“
Turn Verein
?” Ace repeated with a frown.

“The local social and athletic club.” The citizen hooked his thumbs in his vest and added proudly, “I am a member myself, you know.”

“Well, you fellas do good work,” Chance told him. “Looks like you've got the whole town decorated for Christmas.”

“
Ja
, it is the biggest holiday of the year.” The man frowned. “But this rain threatens to wash out all our plans.”

“Maybe it'll dry up,” Ace said, even though he wasn't convinced of that.

Porter asked the local man, “Could you tell us where the stagecoach station is?”

“You missed it. Go back a block and half a block to the left.”

Ace touched a finger to the brim of his hat and said, “We're obliged to you, friend.”

“How about a good place to eat?” Chance asked.

That put a grin on the man's face. He pointed and said, “A block that way. Opa's Haus. That's H-A-U-S. Try the schnitzel.”

“We will,” Chance said with a laugh.

Porter turned his horse back the way they had come. Ace and Chance followed suit. Porter said, “I think we should try the stage station first and find out what time the coach from Johnson City is expected.”

“No matter what the schedule says, the coach isn't here yet,” Ace pointed out. “It would have had to pass us on the road, and it didn't.”

“But I want to be on hand when it arrives. You fellows go on and eat, if you'd like. I'll understand, since I know we all missed breakfast this morning.”

“No, we'll stay with you for now,” Ace said. He glanced at Chance, who shrugged and nodded. They both knew that Porter probably planned to confront Evelyn Channing and Oliver Hudson again, and if he did, no doubt it would provoke more unpleasantness. Neither of the brothers wanted Porter to have to face that by himself.

As they headed back to the stagecoach station, they passed the Nimitz Hotel, which looked like the biggest and best hotel in town. With their funds starting to run low, they wouldn't be able to stay there, Ace thought. But he was sure they could find some other inexpensive place to put up while they were here.

He wondered how long that would be . . . and if he and Chance would wind up having to hog-tie Porter, throw him on his horse, and take him back to Austin by force to keep him from getting shot.

Because from what he had seen so far, Ace didn't think there was a chance Evelyn would ever change her mind about marrying Oliver Hudson.

The rain and the bad roads had the stagecoach more than an hour behind schedule. Evelyn was willing to put up with the delay, though, in order to reach her destination and get started on the rest of her life—the life she intended to spend with Oliver Hudson.

She thought fleetingly about William Porter as she looked out the coach window at the wet landscape. William was a nice enough young man, and when he had first expressed a romantic interest in her, she had considered—briefly—seeing where that might lead.

But he was also a dreamer. Oh, he worked at one job or another, she had to give him credit for that, but he was also content to spend most of his time singing or playing the guitar or envisioning a future where he was a rich, successful author. That was a ridiculous way to live, and Evelyn wanted no part of it. She was a practical young woman and had been for a long time, ever since she'd been on her own.

Now, Oliver was different. When Oliver promised that they would be rich and that she would never want for anything, she believed him . . . even though as far as she could recall, he had never mentioned
how
that was going to come about.

But all she had to do was look at him and see how handsome and strong and capable he was, and she believed every word he said.

“You look like you're lost in thought, Evelyn,” he said, breaking into her reverie as they swayed a little on the coach seat. “What's going on in that mind of yours?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, not wanting him to know that she'd been daydreaming about him. Her future husband didn't need a swelled head even before they got married.

A snore came from the old, white-bearded man on the other seat, who was the only other passenger. He was going to visit his granddaughter and her family in Fredericksburg, he had explained to them, and then he had promptly dozed off. Evelyn didn't see how anyone could sleep in a bouncing, jolting stagecoach, but she wasn't as ancient as their traveling companion, either.

The rain had stopped, the coach was moving a little faster, and she hoped it wouldn't be long now until they were in Fredericksburg. She asked Oliver, “How much farther do you think it is?”

“Oh, I'd say about five miles,” he replied as he looked out the window and studied the passing countryside. After a moment he added, “Almost exactly five miles.”

Evelyn frowned, wondering how he knew that, but before she could ask him, the coach lurched and began to slow down. They shouldn't be stopping now, she thought, not if they were still that far out of town. She hoped there was nothing wrong with the stagecoach or the team that would delay their journey even more.

As the vehicle slowed and then came to a halt, the old man sputtered and roused from his sleep. He blinked rheumy eyes, looked around, and asked in a quavery voice, “Are we there yet?”

“Not yet, old-timer,” Oliver told him.

From the box on the front of the stagecoach, the driver called, “You folks stay inside.” Evelyn thought he sounded nervous. No, more than that.

He sounded scared.

A moment after that, a gun went off somewhere nearby. The unexpected boom made Evelyn cry out. Instinctively, she clutched at Oliver and exclaimed, “What—”

“Don't be frightened,” he told her. “I won't let anyone harm you.”

On the opposite seat, the old-timer just looked confused.

Hoofbeats thudded on the wet ground. A man on horseback loomed up at the window on the coach's left side, reached over from the saddle to grab the door latch, and jerked it open. He held a huge revolver with a barrel that looked as big around as a cannon to Evelyn. Pointing the gun at them, he growled, “Get outta there.”

The driver had told them to stay in the coach, but Evelyn was afraid the shot she'd heard had been directed at the poor man. She shrank back against Oliver, but he said, “We'd better do what he tells us, darling.”

He moved past her and stepped down from the coach to the muddy road, then turned to assist her. Evelyn's muscles didn't want to work, but when he held his hands out toward her, she drew strength from his calm demeanor. She swallowed hard, then took his hands and let him help her climb down from the coach. Once her feet were on the ground, he put his arm around her shoulders again.

“You, too, you old pelican,” the man with the gun ordered. He wore a long, mud-splattered duster, and a bandanna was tied across the lower half of his face under a pulled-down hat.

While the old man was climbing awkwardly out of the coach, Evelyn risked a look around. She saw half a dozen more men, all wearing dusters and masks like the first one, sitting on their horses as they formed a line blocking the road. Some held rifles while others had pistols in their hands, but they all looked ready to kill at the slightest excuse.

Evelyn glanced at the box and saw the driver slumped on the seat, clutching a bloody left arm where he'd been wounded. She had been right about the target of the shot she'd heard.

“They're here,” said the outlaw next to the coach. “Bring up the horses.”

One of the other masked men rode toward them leading two saddled, riderless horses. Evelyn's eyes grew huge as she realized what was happening.

She and Oliver were about to be kidnapped!

William Porter
, she thought wildly. As insane as it sounded to her, he must have put these terrible men up to this. He had hired desperadoes to kidnap her and Oliver. They probably had orders to kill Oliver!

“All right, you two,” the man who seemed to be the leader said. “Get on these horses. You're comin' with us.”

“We're not going anywhere with you,” Oliver said bravely.

“You better think twice about that, mister.” The outlaw's tone was hard and menacing.

At that moment, the old man, who had still been looking around as if he didn't comprehend what was going on, suddenly yelped, “Road agents!” Moving with surprising speed for someone so decrepit, he reached under his coat and hauled out a long-barreled pistol that looked almost as ancient as he was.

The man on horseback turned his gun and fired. Flame spurted from the barrel, close enough to the old man that the sparks started his coat smoldering as the bullet slammed into the frail body. The old-timer was blown off his feet and landed like a bundle of sticks at the edge of the road.

“Blast it!” the outlaw shouted. “Why'd the crazy old coot do that?” Without waiting for an answer, he pointed the gun at Evelyn and Oliver again and snapped, “Get mounted!”