The Christmas Journey
Read The Christmas Journey Online
Authors: Winnie Griggs
Why had he pressed her so hard? Her dream of escaping Knotty Pine was a driving force with her, probably all the more so since she’d had to put it on hold for so long.
She was a wild pony, yearning to trade the lush grasslands and security of the herd for a pair of wings. If only she could see it came with a price—a view of the world from a lonely distance, and sometimes, living life in a gilded cage.
Well, if her dream was that important to her, then he’d find a way to give her a taste. A journey of some sort—it would be his Christmas gift to her. But he’d do it in such a way that she would have a safety net. And maybe help her see how wonderful her life here was by comparison.
is a city girl born and raised in southeast Louisiana’s Cajun Country who grew up to marry a country boy from the hills of northwest Louisiana. Though her Prince Charming is more comfortable riding a tractor than a white steed, the two of them have been living their own happily-ever-after for thirty-plus years. During that time they raised four children and an assortment of dogs, cats, fish, hamsters, turtles and 4-H sheep.
In addition to her day job at a utility company and her writing career, Winnie serves on committees within her church and several writing organizations, and is active in local civic organizations—she truly believes the adage that you reap in proportion to what you sow.
In addition to writing and reading, Winnie enjoys spending time with her family, cooking and exploring flea markets. Readers can contact Winnie at P.O. Box 398, Plain Dealing, LA 71064, or e-mail her at [email protected].
Delight yourself also in the Lord; and he shall give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.
—
Psalms
37:4–5
To my dear friend Joanne Rock, who dropped everything to give me a much needed “fresh eyes” read and invaluable assistance in brainstorming when I needed it most.
November 1892
Knotty Pine, Texas
“H
ey!” The reedy voice coming from inside Wylie’s Livery and Bridle Shop thrummed with outrage. “You can’t take those horses ’til you settle up with Joe.”
Ryland Lassiter halted outside the entry and swallowed an oath. Sounded as if a disagreement was brewing inside.
The last thing he needed was another delay. This trip had already taken too long. He wasn’t about to sit cooling his heels, waiting for the railroad tracks to be cleared—not when he was this close.
Ry reached into his coat and fingered Belle’s letter. There’d been an air of desperation in her plea to see him, a sense of urgency that gnawed at him. And the closer he drew to Foxberry, the stronger that feeling grew.
Pushing back the worry, he tugged on his shirt cuffs. Might as well wade in and do what he could to help settle matters. The
quicker he could get going again, the sooner he could find out what was going on with Belle.
A burst of rough laughter from inside the stable added impetus to his decision. That first voice had been a boy’s, but these sounded older and about as friendly as cornered badgers.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Ry stood inside the wide doorway. His jaw tightened as he spied a boy of ten or so squaring off against a pair of sneering thugs, looking for all the world like David before Goliath.
Unfortunately, this would-be giant-slayer didn’t have so much as a sling to do battle with.
The larger of the two men, a barrel-chested brute with a scraggly mustache, shoved past the boy. “Outta my way, kid. Those are our horses and we aim to get ’em.”
The man’s heavy-handed move forced the boy back a step, but the youngster kept his balance and gamely thrust out his jaw. “You can’t take them until you settle your bill,” he insisted, hands fisting at his sides.
Ry silently applauded the boy’s pluck.
But the pair of philistines didn’t share his admiration. The second oaf, whose crooked nose and scarred cheek gave him a more villainous appearance than his partner, scowled. “Like we already said, we settled up with Joe this morning.” The man’s voice rasped like a dull saw on a stubborn log.
The boy crossed his arms. “Joe didn’t say nothin’ about it.”
Mustache stopped in the act of opening a stall gate. “You calling us liars?” He swiveled toward the boy, jabbing his fist into his palm with a forceful
thwack
.
That did it. Ry couldn’t abide bullies. And he was pretty sure the good Lord hadn’t put him here at this particular moment just so he could stand by and watch.
Clearing his throat he strolled forward, casually nabbing a
pitchfork from a pile of straw. “Good day, gentlemen. Is there a problem?”
The pair froze, then turned to eye him suspiciously. Ry held his genial smile as he mentally gauged his options.
As he’d expected, once they got a good look at his tailored clothes and “citified” appearance, their cocky grins reappeared. Better men than these had mistakenly equated polish with softness. His years at law school had added the polish, but he was still a born and bred Texan, able to stand with the best of them.
“No problem,” Scarcheek finally answered. “The boy’s confused is all. You just stay out of the way, and we’ll be done in a minute.”
Not likely
. Another three unhurried steps placed Ry between the youth and the two men. He pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open with his thumb.
As expected, both men’s gazes latched onto the gold-cased timepiece with a covetous gleam.
“I don’t know.” Ry glanced down, then closed the heirloom with a snap. “It appears this is taking a good deal longer than a minute, and I’ve already wasted more time in Knotty Pine than I cared to.”
Scarcheek met Ry’s relaxed opposition with a lowered brow. “Unless you want to get them fancy duds and that pretty-boy face of yours messed up, you’d best stay out of matters that don’t concern you.”
Ry flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Well, now, that could be difficult. You see, it’s an unfortunate failing of mine that I find there are so many matters that
do
concern me.”
Scarcheek drew his pistol and pointed it at Ry’s chest. “Don’t know where you come from, Mister, but around here that’s not a very healthy attitude.”
Ry’s smile never wavered as he coolly calculated his next
step. Using the pitchfork to knock Scarcheek’s gun out of his hand would be an easy maneuver. Handling Mustache, who was just out of reach, was a bit trickier. He’d hoped the sight of his watch would tempt the bully to step closer. Still, a few agile moves and a bit of finesse just might help him avoid a bullet while he disarmed the man.
He hoped to handle this without drawing his pocket pistol—the fewer bullets zipping around, the less chance of the boy getting caught in the crossfire.
Bracing himself, Ry shifted his weight and tightened his hold on the pitchfork. No time for doubts. But, as his mother had liked to say, there was always time for prayer.
Lord, I know I don’t say it often, but Your help is always welcome, and right about now would be a good time to provide a distraction.
No sooner had Ry formed that thought than the metallic click of a cocked rifle sliced through the tense quiet of the livery. “What’s going on here?”
“Joe!” The boy’s shout signaled both relief and warning.
Then everything happened at once.
Scarcheek spun around, gun raised, just as the boy started toward the newcomer, putting himself directly in the line of fire.
Fueled by concern over the boy’s safety, Ry swung the pitchfork with a speed and force that surprised even him. The blow connected with Scarcheek’s wrist, drawing a yelp and string of curses from the man as the gun went flying.
Before the gun hit the floor, Ry dropped the pitchfork and dove for the boy, tackling him to the ground. Covering the boy’s back with his own body, he left the newcomer’s line of fire clear to take care of Mustache if need be.
“Hands where I can see them.” The rifle-wielding local’s command carried the cold hardness of a marble slab.
With the sunlight at their rescuer’s back, Ry couldn’t make out many of his features. All he got was the general impression that this Joe fellow was a wiry young man who radiated a give-no-ground toughness.
Deciding it was safe to let the squirming stableboy up, Ry stood, though he kept a restraining hand on the lad’s shoulder. Now that everything seemed under control, he was actually feeling a bit proud of the way he’d handled himself. He still had it in him, it seemed.
Joe’s gaze shifted briefly toward the two of them. “You okay, Danny?”
“I am now.” The boy rubbed an elbow as he glowered at Mustache and Scarcheek. “They was fixing to take off without paying what they owe.”
“Is that right?” The inquisitor turned back to the surly pair, tightening his hold on the rifle. “You two planning to leave town without settling your bill?”
“Look here, no need to get all riled up.” Scarcheek cradled his wrist against his chest. “Clete and I were just pulling the kid’s leg a bit.” He shot Ry a hot-for-vengeance look. “Before this stranger stuck his nose in, we was about to pay up.”
Danny stiffened. “Hey! That’s not—”
Ry squeezed the boy’s shoulder, cutting off the rest of his protest. Joe was obviously in charge of the livery and it would be best to let him control the stage for now. Ry did, however, slip his free hand into his coat, palming his pistol. Wouldn’t hurt to be ready if things turned ugly again.
He felt rather than saw Joe’s gaze flicker his way. Apparently his movement hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought.
Then the livery operator’s focus returned to Scarcheek and Mustache. “Well, you can hand over the cash now or decide which horse you’re going to leave as payment.”
Scarcheek scowled, then called over his shoulder. “Pay up, Clete.”
Mustache reached into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills. He took a step forward, but halted when Joe shifted the rifle, pointing it dead center at his chest.
“Just set it on that barrel.” There was a flash of teeth as Joe gave a wolfish grin. “Being as you two are such reliable souls, I’ll trust it’s all there.”
Confident
and
cautious. Ry’s assessment of the man raised another notch.
“Now, get your horses and gear, and move on.” Joe lowered the rifle, but Ry doubted anyone in the stable thought he’d lowered his guard. “And don’t plan on doing business here again.”
With dark looks and muttered oaths, the men complied, and in short order were leading their horses into the street. The look Mustache shot Ry as he brushed by was pure venom.
Ry released his hold on Danny and the boy bolted to Joe’s side.
The livery operator dropped an arm around the lad’s shoulder never taking his gaze from the unsavory pair as they rode off.
Retrieving his hat, Ry brushed at the brim. He’d give them another minute to reassure themselves, then maybe he could finally get down to the business of renting a rig. Now that the little melodrama was over, he was more anxious than ever to be on his way. While Novembers in Texas weren’t nearly as cold as those in Philadelphia, the days were every bit as short. He needed to make good use of what daylight was left.
Belle had said in her letter that he was her last hope—an ominous statement coming from the down-to-earth girl he remembered. She’d been like a sister to him back when they were growing up and he still felt that old tug to look out for her.
As he watched the man and boy, something about their pose
niggled at him, like a faintly off-key passage in an otherwise flawless aria. What was it…
He shook his head, letting go of the puzzle. He was
not
going to get diverted again.
They turned and stepped into a pool of light, giving him his first clear look at the rifle-toting, overall-wearing, hard-mannered livery operator.
Ry stiffened and felt his world tilt slightly off-kilter.
It couldn’t be.
But the proof was there, standing right in front of him—barely perceptible curves under masculine attire, long lashes over flashing green eyes, ruddy but smooth cheeks that a razor had obviously never touched. And if he needed further proof he got it when Joe’s hat came off, releasing a long, thick braid.
No, not “Joe,” but “Jo.”
He’d let a woman face down two brutes while he just stood by and watched.