A Victorian Christmas (9 page)

As the snow melted, the days ticked by. Christmas approached, and Fara’s heart grew tighter and the lump in her throat more solid. The prospect of her Christmas tea held scant joy. The anticipation of business meetings and sloppy mud streets made her positively morose. But she knew her emotional turmoil had little to do with Christmas and everything to do with Hyatt.

She had utterly failed in her missionary project, she thought one bright afternoon as she carried his lunch from the big house down toward the cabin. All her Bible reading had elicited no tearful remorse over train robberies and horse rustling. Hyatt had confessed to no dastardly crimes. He had never spoken of the man who had shot him with the least measure of vengeance in his voice. In fact, Hyatt seemed as good and as kind a man as had ever lived.

If anyone had been changed in the two weeks of her campaign, it was Fara herself. She had laughed harder, prayed more fervently, and enjoyed herself more thoroughly than she had since her papa had died. She had been eager to start each day and sorry to go to bed each night. And Hyatt—always Hyatt—had filled her thoughts.

Things couldn’t go on this way. The night before, Fara had made up her mind. It was time. Past time.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” she said softly as Hyatt held the door open for her. “Old Longbones says the trails are clear and almost dry.”

Hyatt watched her in silence as she spread a white cloth and set out dishes and spoons. She could feel his eyes following her around the room, and she knew he sensed the tension in her movements. Her hand trembled as she dipped out a ladle of hot soup. The lid clanged against the pot. She sank into her chair and turned to him.

“Your arm is better now,” she said.

He nodded. Joining her, he sat in the chair near the stove. She led them in a brief prayer; then she stirred at her soup. “I reckon you’ll be wanting to head on out,” she said.

His hand paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Out?”

“Back to Phoenix . . . or wherever.”

“Are you running me off?”

She sipped at her soup. “I won’t be around to tend you after today,” she said. “I’m going to town. I have things to do.”

“Things?”

“Christmas things.”

They ate in strained silence. Finally Hyatt cleared his throat. “I guess I always knew this time would come. I thank you for your care of me. I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me a thing. I’ve done what any Christian woman should.”

“My angel.”

“Don’t call me that!” She blinked back the unexpected tears that stung her eyes. “I’ve failed—failed at what I thought I should do for you. I don’t have the strength of heart my father had. I’m weak. Willful.”

“Human?” He reached toward her, but she drew back.

She couldn’t stay with him. Not a moment longer. If she did, she would be the one confessing—blurting out how much joy he had brought, how deeply she had come to care for him, how empty her heart would feel when he went away. She pushed back from the table and stood.

“I’m going now,” she said. “I won’t see you again.”

“Wait—” He caught her hand. “Where are you going?”

“To visit Papa’s grave for a few minutes. Then I’ll be leaving for town. Old Longbones is saddling my horse. He’s getting one ready for you, too. You’re welcome to take it—my gift.”

“Filly—” He followed her to the door.

“Please don’t.” She held out a hand, touching him lightly on the chest. “Give me this time alone.”

Before he could restrain her, she hurried out of the cabin and flew down the steps toward the path that led to the lonely grave. Tears flowing now, she lifted her heavy skirts and ran until the chill air squeezed her breath, and her heart hammered in her chest. When the little granite stone came into view, she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

I love him, Lord. I love him! Make me strong enough to let him go.

Hyatt strode down the muddy path, his conviction growing with every step. Filly was wrong! She had not failed her father’s memory. Strength and kindness lived in her heart. Her tender ministrations had taught Hyatt more than Filly would ever know. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly care about another human being—no matter her wealth, her education, her pedigree, or her circumstance.

As he marched after her, he hardly noticed the bright blue sky or the green juniper and piñon branches that stretched toward it. He didn’t care that his boots were caked with mud and the sleeves of his borrowed shirt barely came to his wrists. He didn’t feel the chill wind, and he gave the ache in his injured arm no heed. Pride had held him in its bondage—pride that informed him he was too good for a prospector’s daughter. But now he knew he had important business. Business he should have taken care of before now.

“Filly?” He spotted her crumpled on the ground by a smooth gray headstone. “I have to talk to you.”

She swung around. “Hyatt.” Coming to her feet, she motioned him away. “Don’t come here. Please. Go back to the cabin. I can’t talk to you. Not anymore.”

“Filly, wait.” He caught her arm as she brushed past him. “There’s something I must say to you.”

“No, Hyatt. Old Longbones is waiting. I’m expected in town.”

“Listen to me.” He gripped her arms and forced her to stop. Turning her toward him, he met her eyes. She had been crying— and he sensed that this time her tears had little to do with her father’s death. If he was right—
Dear God, let me be right
—she felt exactly as he did. If she accepted him, he would have a woman who loved him for the man he was—and not for the riches he could give her. And she would have a man who longed to give her the treasures of his heart.

“Filly,” he said.“Two weeks ago, you found me half-dead in the snow. These hours we’ve spent together have been the sweetest . . . the brightest . . . of my entire life. In many ways, I feel I’ve known you forever. If I tried, I couldn’t invent a better companion—at chess, at storytelling, at debate—than you. I couldn’t wish for a more beautiful woman to sit beside me at my dinner table—”

“Hyatt, please.”

Her brown eyes filled with tears again, but he went on, determined to have his say. “We know so much about each other— hopes and dreams. Even fears. But there’s something you don’t know about me. Something I’ve kept hidden. I . . . I am not . . . not completely . . . the man you believe I am. I have not wanted to tell you the truth. But, Filly . . . I love you. I must tell you—”

“No,” she cut in, distress shuddering her voice. “I don’t want to hear it. Leave things as they are, Hyatt. Leave us with good memories. With the days of joy we’ve spent together. Don’t talk. Don’t tell me your secrets. I can’t bear it.”

“But, Filly—”

“No, Hyatt. I can’t love you. Not in the way you mean. Not in the way my heart demands. I can’t.”

She pulled away from him and began running down the path. He watched her go. The fringes of her buckskins swung around her ankles beneath her heavy skirt. Her blonde braid thumped against her back. The piñon trees closed in, and his angel—the gold and shining beauty of his life, the joy of his heart—vanished in the thick forest.

Fists clenched, Hyatt turned on his heel and stared at the place she had been kneeling. The patch of bare ground was strewn with juniper branches. The little granite headstone rose from the mud.
Papa
. Her papa. He walked toward the grave. Then he stopped and stared at the name carefully carved in the cold gray stone.

Jacob Canaday

CHAPTER FIVE

“What is the matter with you, Farolita?” Manuela leaned over Fara’s shoulder. “Ever since you came down from Pinos Altos yesterday night, you have been so quiet. You do not even fight me when I try to lace the corset.”

Fara picked up a hand mirror and held it behind her head to evaluate her chignon. “A little tighter, please, Manuela,” she said. “The ribbon loops, not the corset.”

Sighing, the housekeeper fussed over the satin bow that held Fara’s bun high on her head. “Did that old
Indio
treat you poorly?” she asked. “When I saw that you had brought him down to Canaday Mansion, ai-yai-yai, I could not believe my eyes. What will the poor children think of that Apache? He will frighten them half to death!”

“Old Longbones couldn’t scare anyone if he tried. He’s going to be my Santa Claus.”

“Him? A Santa Claus with long black hair and skinny legs? A Santa Claus who once came to these mountains to murder everybody?”

“Manuela,” Fara said softly. “That was years ago. People change, you know. They . . . they’re not always what they seem.”

For the hundredth time, Hyatt’s blue eyes flashed into her thoughts. Fara swallowed, forcing away the memory of the last moment she had seen him.
“I love you,”
he had told her.
“I love
you.”
And she had pushed him away, run from him, fled the truth she knew he must confess.

As she rode down the mountain, she had turned his words over and over in her mind. Always, she came to the same conclusion. To care, to minister, to love with the love of Jesus Christ— that was right. But to give her heart to a man who had chosen a life of crime, a man who had shown no indication of remorse or intent to change? No, she could not do it.

She had made the correct choice in walking away from Hyatt. She had done her part to care for him as her father had cared for Longbones. But it would be wrong to yoke herself to a man whose life contradicted what her father had taught Fara was right and good. No matter how much she had come to love him.

Lord, help me,
she prayed as Manuela fastened the twenty tiny buttons that ran up the back of her velvet gown.
Help me let him
go. Help me to do Your will always—no matter the consequences.

As she stood to pull on her long white gloves, she could hear the children pouring through the mansion’s wide front doors. Giggling, chattering, exclaiming in joy over the decorations and tables groaning with treats, they scattered down the halls. Fara smiled.

“The
ratóncitos
!” Manuela cried. “They swarm, they nibble, they make holes in the carpet and leave crumbs in the settee.”

Chuckling in spite of herself, Fara started down the long winding staircase. Below her, she could see that the little mice were indeed stuffing their faces with pecan tarts and bite-sized sandwiches. A group of ragtag boys chased each other through the foyer, their muddy boots thudding on the white marble floor. A tiny girl with a mop of tangled red curls was the first to spot their hostess.

“Miss Canaday!” she cried. “It’s Miss Canaday! Here she comes!”

Fara continued her descent amid a chorus of cheers. The children swarmed around the foot of the stairs to touch her skirt and gawk at the pearls dripping from her necklace. Fara sank to her knees among them and gave each grimy hand a little squeeze and each ruddy cheek a kiss. “Merry Christmas!” she whispered. “And what’s your name, my little man? Oh, that’s a fine ribbon you have, young lady. Have you tried the mincemeat pies?”

Laughing with delight, the children took her hands and dragged her toward the large living room. As she passed the dining room, she spotted Old Longbones, the sack of toys and goodies at his feet. He and Manuela were arguing over the correct way to wear the long red robe and white beard, and Fara shook her head and smiled.

In the living room, the fifteen-foot pine glowed with a hundred tiny white candles, each perched on a branch and held by a silver clip. Blown glass balls from Germany and Bohemia glistened in the golden light. Paper fans, feathered doves, and tiny angels twirled on the thin red ribbons. In the fireplace, piñon logs crackled and snapped, sending off a spicy fragrance that filled the room.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Auchmann, Mrs. Tatum, Mrs. Finsch,” Fara called as she approached the group of society matrons gathered in a clump to observe the city’s annual charity tea. They had positioned themselves perfectly beside the tree for the newspaper’s photographer to capture their benevolent actions.

“Mrs. Ratherton,” she said, clasping the hand of her nosy next-door neighbor. “How good of you all to come. This year I’d like all of you to help me with the children. Mrs. Auchmann, you’ll take charge of the tart table. I’ve already spotted a little fellow who will make himself ill if he doesn’t restrain himself. Mrs. Tatum and Mrs. Finsch—how lovely you both look. Please go down to the kitchen and help the cooks bring up the pies. And Mrs. Ratherton. My dear Mrs. Ratherton. Won’t you assist in carving the turkeys?”

“Turkeys!”

Fara gave them her most gracious smile as she strolled over to the photographer. “Mr. Austin, thank you for coming. Please keep your focus on the children this afternoon.”

“Anything you say, Miss Canaday.” He whipped the daily paper from his pocket and held it open. “Your tea is the headline story, Miss Canaday,” he said. “I had to fight the editor to rank it over the capture of the gunslinger who shot that fellow in Phoenix. But I knew our local charity event was—”

“Gunslinger?” Fara grabbed the paper.

“Frank Hyatt. They caught him in West Virginia three days ago.”

Fara stared at the blur of words. But Hyatt had been in her cabin in Pinos Altos three days ago.