Hill Country Christmas

“Thanks,” he said, deliberately ignoring her inquiry and not giving his name in return. In a small town like this she would already know that he was a stranger, anyway. He extended his cup, his gaze returning to the view out the window. Once his coffee had been refreshed, however, the waitress showed no signs of leaving.

“Who’s that fancy gent standing at the bank door?” he asked, the more to keep her from asking him any further personal questions than from a real desire to know.

She put a hand above her eyes to shade them against the glare, then peered through the dusty glass, squinting. For a moment Jude thought she might actually be too nearsighted to answer him. But then she leaned down again.

“Why, that’s Charles Ladley, the mayor’s son,” she said, sighing. “He sure is a good-looking fella. Wish he’d smile at me like that, though I doubt it’ll do that Keller girl any good neither.”

“What do you mean?” Jude kept his voice casual. He knew it was none of his business, but he couldn’t seem to keep himself from asking.

Polly gave an elaborate shrug. “Birds of a feather flock together, they say, and the Ladleys have always been as rich as King Midas. The preacher’s granddaughter—Delia Keller, that’s who he was talkin’ to—don’t have two pennies to rub together. ’Specially now that Reverend McKinney’s gone and died. Wouldn’t be surprised if she don’t have to come here and work ’longside a’ me.” There was a trace of satisfaction in her tone as she turned back to Jude.

If only you knew, Jude thought. With Delia’s status about to change radically, she and the mayor’s son would now be on equal footing. Any impediments to a relationship between them were about to melt like icicles in a Texas summer.

Aloud, he said, “Miss Polly, I’m sure the right man is out there, just looking for you. And when you find each other,” he added, trying to sound encouraging, “he’ll be so perfect for you, you’ll be glad you didn’t waste your time with that fellow.” He kept his eyes on Ladley, who was finally entering the bank.

The waitress’s eyes brightened. Jude realized that if he wanted her to go away soon and leave him to his thoughts, he’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“My, that’s an awfully sweet thing for you to say, in spite a’ bein’ a stranger an’ all that,” she gushed in that suggestive voice that wasn’t nearly as inviting as she apparently thought it was. She glanced quickly over her shoulder in an obvious effort to make sure the hotel owner wasn’t watching, then leaned closer. “Where did you say you was from?”

“I didn’t say,” he said, his gaze swinging back to the window, hoping she got the hint.

But Polly was nothing if not tenacious. “You plannin’ on stayin’ ’round these parts? I have to work till seven, but after that I could show you around the town.”

That would take all of about five minutes, he thought. “Thank you, Miss Polly, but I—”

“Or we could go to the church social next Saturday night,” she interrupted. “I know about everyone in Llano Crossing, so that’d be a real nice way to meet folks….”

He felt a twinge of pity for the girl. He hadn’t even given her his name, and here she was laying out the welcome mat. He held up a hand, knowing he had to stem her flow of eagerness. “Miss Polly, much as I appreciate your kindness, I’m not sure what my plans are just yet. I’m not planning on staying long in Llano Crossing, nice as it is. I’m either going to be riding along tomorrow or doing some odd jobs for a while before I head back West.”

Polly’s face fell and her overbright eyes dimmed. “Sure. I understand—just wanted to be neighborly, that’s all. Will you have some peach pie for dessert?”

Jude shook his head and asked her how much he owed. He would have liked some pie, but he thought it best to leave so the waitress could regain her composure. He left her an extra ten cents in addition to the dollar he owed for the meal.

Striding back into the early afternoon sunlight, Jude pondered his options. He could go to the saloon, he supposed.

In the war, he’d spent time in taverns with some of his men—too much time—between the horrendous campaigns that had led to too many lost and shattered lives. Nothing good had ever happened to him, or anyone else as far as he could see, anywhere near such a place. He’d met Nora, after all, as he was coming out of a tavern in Virginia, his judgment clouded with whiskey.

Stop thinking about her. It’s over. You have to learn from it and go on.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you, the Scriptures promised. All very well, but if he wasn’t going to seek out a card game, what was he going to do with himself?

The smartest thing, he mused, would be to get his horse, Shiloh, out of the livery stable and ride west out of Llano Crossing. He could stop when he felt tired, sleep under the stars and live off the land between here and Nevada. He wouldn’t have to feel responsible for watching over Delia Keller as she navigated her new life of comfort and ease. It looked like there was an even chance the mayor’s son would be more than willing to take over that responsibility.

But didn’t he have a moral obligation to his dead friend, Will Keller, to make sure his orphaned daughter was going to be all right, even if he wasn’t going to marry Delia?

In any case, it was a waste of money to leave Llano Crossing today when he was paid through tonight at the hotel. Tomorrow he needed to have a plan, but tomorrow was soon enough. In the meantime, Shiloh was standing idle in his stall in the livery stable, no doubt eating his head off the unaccustomed rich grain and hay. Maybe the best thing to do was take the stallion on a run over the hills around Llano Crossing. They’d return in the evening, tired but content, and hopefully the silver buckskin’s mile-devouring gallop would have left Jude Tucker’s demons far behind.

Within fifteen minutes, Shiloh was saddled and showing his heels to the little town. For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, Jude and his mount explored the rolling limestone-and-cedar-studded hills, climbing until the Llano River showed as little more than a winding silver ribbon next to a collection of matchstick buildings of the town. Hawks soared overhead, taking advantage of the updrafts. Mockingbirds and crows darted among the mesquite trees and cedars, and occasionally he spied a roadrunner, darting here and there in search of the insects and snakes on which it fed.

Occasionally he spied a ranch house with outbuildings and a corral, and he knew he ought to stop and inquire if the owner needed another hand, but he felt no strong compulsion. He was enjoying the solitude and the opportunity it gave him to think.

The sun was warm on his back. He remembered, as he paused to let Shiloh drink from a cottonwood-shaded creek, how he had once used such solitary rides to gain inspiration for his sermons. It all seemed like a hundred years ago.

In those carefree days, he’d had no bigger concerns than planning next Sunday’s service and wondering and praying about when the Lord was going to provide him with a wife. Every man needed a wife, but a bachelor-preacher surely had more need than most, so as to keep his concentration on the Lord’s work. Fully half a dozen unmarried misses plus a widow or two decorated his front pew every Sunday morning, smiling up at him, but none of them had seemed quite right for him. Surely the Lord would shine a special light on the woman who was meant to be his wife, wouldn’t He? But as yet, no such illumination had been provided.

Then the shadow of war had cast itself across the land, and Jude sensed this wasn’t the time to be marrying and leaving a wife behind, her belly perhaps swelling with his child, a woman who might become a widow. The Lord was calling him to serve as one of His representatives in the army. There was time enough to think about marrying when the war was over, when—if—he resumed his position at the Mount Mulberry Church. A lot could happen during a war, he’d known, but as it turned out, he hadn’t guessed the half of it.

And then the war, and the things he’d done during the war, had changed him so completely that there seemed to be no point in even trying to return to Mount Mulberry and its church. He wasn’t fit to be its or anyone else’s pastor anymore.

With twilight drawing on, Jude and Shiloh had descended the hills and rejoined the road back to town. Jude had been humming “Tenting Tonight,” an old Civil War tune, when a shot rang out in the distance, echoing among the hills. The stallion stopped stock-still, his ears pricked forward. He gave a snort and then whinnied as if responding to a call.

Jude stopped humming, listening, too, and then he heard it—the faint cry of a man somewhere off the road among the dense mesquite and cedar. He urged his stallion off the road, navigating carefully among the cacti, the shrubs and the low trees, and after a few moments, he found the old man.

He was sitting alone on a limestone boulder, cradling his right arm, his floppy-brimmed hat shading his features.

“Howdy, stranger. I sure was thankful to hear you coming. I think this arm is broke. I tried walking, but I got to feelin’ kinda fainty-like.”

Jude dismounted. “What happened?” he asked, going toward the man.

“I rode out here just to have a glimpse at my old spread. Used t’ live here afore me and the missus got too old t’ be ranchin’ anymore and moved t’ town. I sold my acres to the neighboring rancher, even though I never thought much a’ Dixon Miller. Anyway, I was ridin’ along an’ someone fired a shot—not at me, I think, but real close t’ the road, like. My fool horse was so spooked, he threw me and took off,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “Didn’t see him run past ya, did ya?”

Jude admitted he hadn’t.

“Don’t know where he’s got to, though it wouldn’t surprise me none if Miller’s boys find him and put him in with their stock. All I wanted was just a glimpse of our old home,” he said wistfully, then he straightened. “James Heston’s the name,” the old man said, extending his other hand, though he grimaced when he loosed his careful hold on the broken right arm. His face was craggy and lined but his gaze honest and direct.

“Jude Tucker. Let me help you onto Shiloh, here, and we’ll get you into town. Is there a doctor in Llano Crossing?”

The old man gave a mirthless snort. “None I’d send my worst enemy to, let alone go myself. There isn’t any need, anyway. Nothing feels out of place.” He felt along the forearm as if to demonstrate, wincing as he did so. “My ranch is just over that ridge. If you could just help me get home, Jude Tucker, I’ll be fine. And I’m sure my missus will give you supper by way of thanks.”

Jude assisted Heston to mount, thankful that Shiloh was even-tempered enough not to mind a strange rider, especially one who trembled slightly with the effort to raise his foot to the near stirrup. Then he walked alongside the buckskin in the direction of town.

They found Heston’s horse halfway back. The beast had apparently cut across country and was calmly grazing. Jude mounted him rather than put Heston to the trouble of changing horses, and they rode on to Heston’s house.

“That was delicious, Mrs. Heston,” Jude said, two hours later, as he pushed himself back from the table and the remains of a dinner of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, corn bread and peach pie—it seemed as if he was fated to have peach pie today, even though he’d declined it at the hotel.

The comfortably plump woman with strands of iron-gray hair coming loose from her bun beamed at him. “My goodness, Mr. Tucker, it was the least I could do after you were kind enough to bring my Jim home,” she said, bestowing a smile of immense warmth. “It’s such a rare treat to have company, in any case.”

“My wife is the best cook in these parts,” James Heston bragged. He hadn’t eaten that much himself, even though his wife had cut up his chicken and buttered his corn bread so that left-handed eating would be easier. His forearm was splinted now and lying in a makeshift sling of bright yellow calico, so perhaps the pain had dimmed his appetite.

She beamed. “Thank you, Jim. And what brings you to these parts, Mr. Tucker?”

“Just passin’ through,” he said. “I’ve been mining out in Nevada, but I had to come here…on some business,” he said, deliberately being vague. “I’ll be heading west again, soon as I raise a little traveling stake.”

Heston’s eyes met those of his wife. “Lookin’ for work, are you?” Heston inquired.

Jude shrugged. “I might be. I’ve done some carpentry, but I can turn my hand to most anything.”

“I’m going to need some help around here with the chores for a little while, till this bone knits itself back together. And you saw when we came in from the barn that I’m in the midst of addin’ on a room to the back.”

Jude nodded. Heston was about halfway through framing the addition, from the looks of things.

“We couldn’t pay you much, but we’d include room and board for as long as you want to stay. It’d certainly be cheaper than the hotel or the boardinghouse.”

Jude was aware that both the elderly man and his wife were holding their breath awaiting his answer. Surely their offer was an answer to a prayer he hadn’t even prayed yet.

“Thank you. I’d be pleased to do that for a spell, Mr. Heston,” he said, humbled by their kindness to a stranger.

Chapter Five

“Who can find a virtuous woman?” Delia read in the last chapter of the book of Proverbs three mornings later after Tucker had come to see her. She loved to read her Bible there, with the sun just beginning to warm the worn wood of the rocker. Even the raucous cries of the grackles, hunting bugs among the grass, didn’t usually bother her, though they could be disruptive when she tried to pray!

She was getting mighty tired of drinking her coffee without sugar, Delia mused as she sipped the unsweetened brew. She had used the very last of the sugar yesterday, so a trip back into town to sell her eggs was a must. And maybe while she was in town, Amos Dawson would see her going by the bank and run out to let her know the certificate had been confirmed by the bank in Nevada.

Delia, time enough for worldly business later. The Lord deserves your full attention right now. She could almost hear her grandfather’s cracked voice saying the words.

“For her price is far above rubies.” Why, it wouldn’t be long until she could buy rubies—or at the very least, those garnet earbobs in the window of the mercantile that she had been yearning for forever.

Oh, please, God, don’t let anyone buy them before the bank in Nevada releases my money! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to march right over to the mercantile and make the garnet earbobs my very first purchase?

But then in her head she heard, “For the love of money is the root of all evil.”

The voice was so clear that she had to look around her to make sure Reverend McKinney wasn’t standing behind her.

But how could it be wrong to rejoice in the windfall her father had provided for her? Her grandfather and she had had to skimp and save for so many years—surely the only thing she needed to regret was that he wasn’t here to be given the comforts she could now provide!

Her eyes skipped down the page of her grandfather’s well-worn Bible with his many handwritten notations in the margins to the verse: She consider-eth a field, and buyeth it.

Perhaps she’d be considering a field soon, though she’d rather plant a house on it than the vineyard the verse went on to mention. A big, fine, white-painted frame house, with lots of rooms. She’d have one room just to store her clothes in, another for her jewelry, another to entertain her many guests—perhaps even a ballroom on the second floor, with a veranda extending around at least two sides of the structure.

Skimming over the verses that showed the virtuous woman rising early and working long into the night, she read, “Her clothing is silk and purple.” Well, wasn’t that marvelous? She’d love to have a lace-edged silk camisole and pantalets under a purple silk dress with a bustle. It had always been one of her favorite colors. Perhaps she would take a few minutes this very day to study the better fabrics in the mercantile, the ones she’d never even allowed herself to look at back in the hardscrabble days when she and her dear old grandfather had not been sure where supper was coming from.

But you’re in mourning, a voice within reminded her, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the greedy path her thoughts had wandered onto. Propriety dictated that she wouldn’t be wearing anything but black any time soon. And she would have to graduate from black slowly, lightening the somber hue with gray or lilac.

“Her husband is known in the gates,” the text went on, “when he sitteth among the elders of the land.”

“Miss Delia?” A familiar voice intruded as she read the twenty-third verse. Delia looked up to see a landau parked outside the fence and Charles Ladley coming down the stone-flagged walkway, one hand using a carved mahogany walking cane, the other clutching a bouquet of velvety red roses.

She jumped to her feet, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her abrupt motion sent the china cup clattering off the arm of the rocker. Fortunately the cup didn’t break, for it had fallen into the folds of the shawl she had shed as soon as the coffee had warmed her, but it was still half-full. With dismay, Delia saw the brown liquid splash against the hem of her everyday calico dress and soak into the dark folds of the shawl.

“Oh! Charles! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t s-see you coming!” she stammered, horribly aware of the untidy picture she made. Her hair was still in the plait she had braided at bedtime last night, with tendrils escaping it and curling wildly around her face. If only she was wearing something better than the dress she had donned to go feed the chickens! She had planned to change before her trip to town. Hopefully she had no feathers clinging to her….

“No, it’s I who should apologize for intruding on a lady in the midst of her devotions,” he said with that smile that was like a thousand lit candles. “I just came to bring you these,” he added, extending the hand that held the roses, “picked from my mother’s garden this very morning—with her permission, of course.” He winked. As if to testify to the truth of his words, the crimson petals sparkled with dewdrops in the sunlight.

“Thank you so much,” she said, wanting to surreptitiously pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Charles Ladley had just brought her flowers.

“Won’t you have some coffee?” she said, accepting the roses with a hand that she prayed wasn’t trembling with the delight that she felt. How heavenly it would be to sit on the front porch sipping coffee with Charles Ladley, for all the world to see! Wouldn’t it be fun if nosy neighbor Mrs. Purvis peeked out of her kitchen window and saw them!

Charles’s smile dimmed with regret. “I’m afraid I can’t stay—I must attend the Committee for Civic Improvement meeting that’s due to start in—” he reached down and turned the face of the gold pocket watch on his waistcoat so he could see it “—just a few minutes. I only came to bring you these, to let you know we were thinking of you, Father, Mother and I, and to ask you if you’d consent to go with me to the church social on Saturday night. I know it’s disgracefully late to be asking you—you’ve probably long ago agreed to attend with some other beau, one of your many admirers…” His voice trailed off as if he was uncertain of her acceptance.

Delia was conscious of an urge to laugh at the very absurdity of his suggestion that she had a string of other beaux. “Why, no, Charles, I’m happy to say I haven’t,” she said, remembering not to admit no one else had asked her. “I always used to go to these occasions with Grandpa….” Her voice trailed off.

“Ah…I didn’t mean to make you sad, Miss Delia,” he said, leaning over to wipe away the stray tear from her eye. “If you think it’s too soon since his passing to attend a social event, I’ll understand.” His face was a study of disappointment.

“Oh…oh no!” she said quickly, alarmed that Charles would think she was still too full of grief to be good company. “That is, I think Grandpa would want me to go and have a good time.”

Ladley’s face cleared. “Then we shall go,” he said, “and lift our glasses of punch in his honor. I’ll call for you at six, if that’s agreeable, Miss Delia.”

“That would be lovely.” Then she had a sudden thought. “Charles, you know that…that is, you won’t mind that I—I must wear black, will you?” She had longed forever to be invited out by Charles Ladley—now she had been and she was forced to wear that lifeless color! How she wished she could don some bright, festive color—anything but black! But she could imagine how tongues would wag if she violated the ironclad rules that governed mourning.

“Of course not,” he responded. “Miss Delia, I’ve always admired your virtuousness, your—” he seemed to struggle for the right word “—moral excellence. I will be proud to be seen with you, even if you choose to wear a flour sack—dyed black, of course.”

Delia couldn’t help but chuckle with him at the thought. “I solemnly promise I will not be wearing a flour sack when you call for me on Saturday night.”

He pretended to mop his brow in relief, causing her to laugh again. “Very well then,” he said, bowing, as courtly as any European prince. “Six o’clock on Saturday it is.”

He turned to go, and as Delia watched him walk away, she saw that he was favoring his left leg slightly, leaning more heavily on his cane when stepping onto his left foot.

“Charles, you’re limping.” She was touched to see him pause and turn back toward her, seemingly as loath to leave as she was to see him go. “Is your war wound bothering you?”

Everyone in Llano Crossing knew the mayor’s son had marched off to join the first Texas cavalry regiment formed, and that he had been wounded and sent home in the middle of the war.

“Miss Delia, you are kindness itself to notice,” Ladley said. “But don’t concern yourself. Yes, the old wound aches whenever it’s about to rain. With any luck it’ll be better by Saturday, and I can leave this cane at home.” He waved and continued down the walk to the waiting landau. Delia’s heart warmed with compassion as she saw how he strove to conceal a grimace of pain as he climbed up onto the platform.

With Charles’s carriage out of sight, she allowed herself a celebratory twirl of delight, hugging herself with sheer joy. Charles Ladley had asked her to the church social! He said he appreciated her virtue and her moral excellence!

Well, she might have to wear black to the church social, but it didn’t have to be that borrowed, ugly bombazine she’d worn to Grandpa’s funeral! She’d seen a black moire silk dress with satin ribbon trim at the neck and cuffs in the window of Miss Susan’s shop, but the price tag had been one that had made her walk regretfully on. Perhaps, if she hinted to Miss Susan that she was about to come into some funds, the seamstress would extend credit to her and agree to make any needed alterations, so that Delia could go to the party, resplendent in a beautiful new dress—even if it was black!

Was it going to rain? Delia studied the sky and was surprised to see clouds forming up in the west. She must have been oblivious to them developing while she and Charles had been talking. Would she have to wait until later to do her shopping?

Absolutely not! That’s what umbrellas were for! She was Miss Delia Keller, who was about to become a very rich young woman—what were mere raindrops to her? As happy as she felt, she wouldn’t even notice them!

The dress fit as if Miss Susan had known she would be the one wearing it. It clung to Delia’s figure, enhancing her curves without being at all revealing, and the lace trim at the waist emphasized Delia’s lithe frame.

“It will only need,” the rawboned, horse-faced seamstress opined, “a slight shortening of the sleeves and a few tucks in the waist, since you, Miss Delia, are one of the few ladies in Llano Crossing who don’t need to be tightly corseted. It would be a joy to see my creation on you, Miss Delia.”