The Christmas Brides (10 page)

His bed was within kicking distance, narrow and made up with clean blankets, obviously secondhand. There was a bathtub, too, a great, incongruous thing served by a complicated system of exposed pipes, equally close, and with a copper hot water tank attached to the wall above it.

He smiled to himself. If only his mother could see him now.

Morgan lit the gas jet under the boiler on the hot water tank—it would take a while to heat—and put coffee on to brew while he waited. Finally he filled the tub with water, steaming gloriously. His clothes and other belongings were still on the train, out there on the mountainside, but thanks to the McKettricks, he'd been
provided with a change of clothes, shaving gear, soap and a tall bottle of whiskey.

After he poured coffee into a chipped cup, also donated no doubt, and then added a generous dollop of whiskey for good measure, he stripped and lowered himself into the tub.

The bath was bliss, and so was the whiskey-laced coffee. But the best thing was knowing Lizzie was all right, safe upstairs, being cared for by her stepmother.

John Brennan's family had been right there to greet him as soon as they arrived, and two of the townsmen had carried him, blanket-wrapped and half-delirious, toward the mercantile. If John made it through the night, Morgan figured he'd have a good chance of surviving.

Whitley Carson was resting in one of the hotel rooms, as were the Halifaxes, the Thaddingses and Woodrow.

Morgan hadn't seen where the peddler was taken, but he assumed he'd been gathered up, too, by kinfolks or friends. For the time being, Morgan could allow himself to simply be a very relieved, very tired man, not a doctor.

He finished the coffee and soaked until the water began to cool, then hastily shaved, scrubbed and got out of the tub. Dressed in his borrowed clothes, he headed for the lobby. The place was so crowded he'd have sworn somebody was throwing a party.

After a few moments, he realized his first impression had been right. The entire town seemed to be present, hoisting a glass, celebrating that the lost had been found. Kade caught his eye and beckoned, and Morgan followed him through the cheerful throng into the hotel dining room.

“Figured you'd be hungry for hot food,” McKettrick said.

Morgan
was
hungry, though he hadn't realized it until that moment. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he sat down at one of the tables next to the window, looking out at the Christmas-card snowfall.

A waitress appeared, and Kade, seated across from him, ordered for them both. There was no one else in the dining room.

“Thanks,” Morgan said.

McKettrick raised one eyebrow, but didn't speak.

“For coming for us,” Morgan clarified. “Lizzie said you would. I don't think she ever doubted it—but I wasn't so sure.”

Kade smiled fondly at the mention of Lizzie's name. “If there's one of us missing from the supper table,” he said, “the rest will turn the whole countryside on its top to find them.”

“It must be nice to be part of a family like that,” Morgan said, without really meaning to. He didn't feel sorry for himself, and he didn't want to give the impression that he did.

“It has its finer moments,” Kade answered mildly. “I take it you don't come from a big outfit like ours?”

“There's just me,” Morgan replied. “That peddler— Mr. Christian—did somebody come to meet him?”

Kade frowned. “Who?”

The waitress returned with hot bread, a butter dish and two cups of coffee, all balanced on a tray.

Morgan didn't answer until she'd gone again.

“Mr. Christian. An older man, a peddler with a sample case.”

Kade shook his head. “I don't recall anybody fitting that description,” he said. “There was you and Lizzie, the Halifaxes, the soldier, an elderly pair with a bird and the yahoo with the broken leg.”

Morgan started to rise from his chair, certain the old peddler must have been left behind by mistake. Or maybe he'd fallen off the sleigh, somewhere along the way, and nobody had noticed—

“Sit down,” Kade said. “We got everybody off that train. Everybody who was still alive, anyway.”

Morgan sank back into his chair, befuddled. “But there has to be some kind of mistake. There was an old man—ask Lizzie—ask any of the others—”

“I'll do that, if it makes you happy,” Kade allowed.

“But we got everybody there was to get.”

The food came. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, green beans cooked with onions and bacon. It was a feast, and Morgan was so desperately hungry that he practically dove into his plate. He was done-in, he told himself. Not thinking straight. In the morning, after a good night's sleep, he'd make sense of the matter of Mr. Christmas, as the children had called him.

 

T
HEY'D LIGHTED THE CANDLES
on the tree for him, and made him up a nice bed on the settee, there in the fine apartments above the mercantile, and his wife and boy were staying close, while the in-laws hovered in the distance. There was good food cooking, and a fire blazing on the hearth, and John Brennan figured he'd died for sure and gone straight to heaven.

 

“S
T
. N
ICHOLAS
DID TOO
COME
,” Jack told his smilingly skeptical father. “He brought a paint set for Ellen and me.”

“Did he now?” Ben Halifax asked his son. Mama, Ellen and the baby were all sleeping, cozied up in the same hotel bed. Ben and Jack would share the other, and, in the morning, if the weather was good and everybody was up to the trip, they'd all head out to the Triple M, where they'd be staying on, not just passing through. “I guess he must have been in two places at once, then, because he filled some stockings out at the ranch, too.”

Jack widened his eyes. He'd had supper, and he knew he ought to be in bed asleep, like his mama and sisters, but he was just plain too excited. “But me and Ellen wasn't there to hang any stockings,” he argued.

“I hung them up for you,” his father said. “And darned if I didn't wake up this morning and find those old work socks just a-bulging with presents.”

Jack blinked, wonderstruck. “I guess if anybody could be in two places at once,” he said with certainty, “it would be St. Nicholas who done it.”

Ben laughed, ruffled the boy's hair. His eyes glistened, and if Jack hadn't known better, he'd have bet his pa was crying. “It's Christmas,” Ben said, his voice sounding all scrapey and rough. “The time when miracles happen.”

“What's a miracle?” Jack asked, puzzled.

“It's having you and your ma and your sisters right here with me, where you belong,” Ben answered. Then he did something Jack couldn't remember him ever doing before. He lifted Jack onto his lap, held him
real tight, and kissed him on top of the head. “Yesiree, that's all the miracle I need.”

 

Z
EBULON
T
HADDINGS BENT TO
strike a match to the fire laid in the hearth of the sumptuously decorated parlor. The lamps all had painted globes, the rugs were foreign, the furniture plentiful and fussy, and there were naked people cavorting in the paintings on the walls.

“Your sister has done well, for a dressmaker,” he told Marietta, who was gazing about with an expression of troubled wonder on her dear face. In point of fact, he hadn't wanted to make this journey in the first place, since he'd known all along, even if his wife hadn't, how Clarinda had been able to afford the fine jewelry and exquisite clothing she'd worn when she visited them in Phoenix. There simply hadn't been any other possible explanation.

Zebulon had lost his job running an Indian school, and with it, of course, the minuscule salary and the tiny house provided for the headmaster and his wife. They were destitute. The plain and difficult truth was that they had hoped Clarinda would take them in, along with Woodrow, not just welcome them for a holiday visit.

They'd had nowhere else to go, and Zebulon had used the last few dollars he had, to pay for their train fare to Indian Rock.

Now they were basically squatting in Clarinda's grand house. God only knew where they would go next, but for the time being, at least, they had a roof over their heads, a bed to sleep in, and a pantry stocked with foodstuffs.

Woodrow, provided with a fresh supply of birdseed
by a kindly shopkeeper, sat in his shiny cage, looking around.

“Why are all these people…naked?” Marietta fretted, wringing her hands a little as she took in the large and scandalous painting above the fireplace. Bare-fleshed men and women lay about a forest, some of them intertwined, eating grapes, sipping from elaborate chalices and generally looking swoony.

“Naked!” Woodrow exclaimed. “Naked as a jaybird!”

Woodrow mostly repeated the words of others, but occasionally, like now, he added commentary of his own from his past repertoire. Zebulon had to smile.

Crossing to Marietta, the Turkish rug soft beneath the thin soles of his shoes, he embraced his wife. She'd been a true helpmeet over the years, never complaining about their near penury, never voicing her great disappointment that they hadn't been blessed with children of their own.

“Dearest,” he said, after clearing his throat. “About Clarinda—”

Marietta looked up at him, tears gleaming in her gentle eyes. “She isn't a dressmaker, is she?”

Zebulon shook his head. “No,” he answered.

“What are we going to do, Zebulon?”

Zebulon's own eyes burned. He blinked rapidly. “I don't know,” he said.

“Perhaps Clarinda intends to return soon,” Marietta speculated hopefully, brightening a little.

“Perhaps,” Zebulon agreed, though doubtful.

“Hadn't we better send her a wire or write a letter? Someone in Indian Rock must have her address.”

The scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air.
Clarinda's possessions were all around, giving the strange impression that she'd merely left the room, not the territory.

“You ought to lie down and rest awhile, dear,” Zebulon told Marietta. “I'll brew a nice pot of tea.”

Marietta hesitated, then nodded. Gently raised, and a preacher's daughter into the bargain, she hadn't quite accepted the obvious—that her spirited younger sister ran a house of ill repute. She settled herself on the long, plush sofa facing the fireplace, and Zebulon covered her tenderly with a knitted afghan.

“Tea!” Woodrow chirped, as Zebulon left the room, headed for the massive kitchen. “Tea for two!”

 

W
HEN
L
IZZIE OPENED HER EYES
, the room was full of snow-gleam, and her young brothers were standing next to her bed. Well, at least, John Henry was standing—Doss and Gabriel were jumping up and down on the foot of the mattress, shouting, “Wake up! Wake up!”

Lizzie laughed, used her elbows to push herself upright. After fluffing her pillows, she leaned back against them.

Lorelei appeared and whisked the younger boys away, both of them protesting vigorously. Was Lizzie going to sleep all day long? Wouldn't they
ever
get to go home and open their Christmas presents?

John Henry stayed behind, regarding Lizzie with solemn, thoughtful eyes.

She ruffled his hair.

“I saw you in our room,” John Henry signed. “On Christmas Eve.”

A shock went through Lizzie as she remembered her
imagined visit home. “I was still on the train on Christmas Eve,” she signed back.

John Henry shook his head, repeated, the motions of his small, deft hands insistent, “I
saw
you, Lizzie,” he reiterated. “You were wearing a man's coat and your hair was all mussed up. You said not to worry, because you were coming home soon.”

Lizzie blinked. Something tightened in her throat, making it impossible to speak.

The door of the hotel room opened, and her father came in. He sent John Henry downstairs to have breakfast with his brothers, and the child scampered to obey, but not before he cast one last, knowing look back at Lizzie.

Holt dragged a chair up alongside the bed. “Feeling better?” he asked. Lizzie nodded.

“Lorelei's bringing up a tray. All your favorites. Sausage, hotcakes with lots of syrup, and tea.”

He offered Lizzie his hand, and she took it. After swallowing, she managed to speak. “Morgan,” she said. “Is he…is he all right?”

“He's fine,” Holt answered with a slight frown. “I guess I figured you'd be more interested in the other one. According to young Mr. Carson, he means to set about claiming your hand in marriage, first chance he gets. Already asked for my permission to propose.”

Lizzie's emotions must have shown clearly on her face, because her father's frown deepened. “What did you say?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“I told him you were nineteen years old, and if you want to marry him, that's all right by me.” Holt shifted
in the hotel chair, which seemed almost too spindly to support his powerful frame. “Should I have said something different, Lizzie?”

A tear slipped down Lizzie's cheek. “I don't love Whitley, Papa. I thought I did—oh, I
really
thought I did—but when everything happened up there on the mountain—”

Holt leaned forward, folded his arms, rested them on his knees as he regarded his daughter. “It's the doctor you love, then,” he said. “Morgan Shane.”

“I wouldn't say I love him,” Lizzie replied slowly, after some thought. “I don't know
what
I feel. He's strong and he's good and when people were hurt and sick, he forgot about himself and did what had to be done. On the other hand, he makes me so angry sometimes—”

Holt smiled. “I see. I assume Mr. Carson didn't comport himself in the same way?”

“No,” Lizzie said. “But I suppose I could overlook that, if I wanted to. It's just that, when I met Morgan, everything changed.”