Читать книгу A Texas Christmas Reunion - Carol Arens - Страница 11

Chapter Two

It was half past midnight when Trea Culverson dragged the grease-splattered apron off over his head for the last time. He folded it in a neat square then set it on top of the laundry pile.

The saloon washerwoman would have it cleaned by morning for the new cook.

Grease coated his hair, his arms and even the creases of his eyes. If he never fried another chicken it would be a fine thing.

Opening the door of the huge iron stove, he checked the fire to make sure it was small enough to leave unguarded.

With a last look about the place that had employed him for the past several years, he bade it farewell.

The job was far from his ideal occupation, but it had earned him the money to pursue the one that was. At last, his training was finished and he was ready to begin the career he had been working so hard toward.

Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him. The moon looked like a glowing ball suspended partway between the horizon and the North Star. The full of the moon always struck him as a magical sight.

The door hadn’t clicked closed before he heard, “Trea! Wait!”

“Good night, Mags,” he said to the woman stepping out onto the porch.

Cold moonlight shone down on her face, revealing the creep of middle age that she fought so hard to hide.

“You were leaving without a goodbye kiss?”

“Not much for goodbyes.” Since he’d never even kissed the woman hello, it would have been awkward to kiss her goodbye.

“I’ll miss you, Trea.” The waitress lifted one shoulder. The strap of her gown slipped. “We all will—but...well, I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to sleep at the livery on your last night? It’s warmer in my room.”

She touched his cheek with soft fingers.

There had been a time when he’d have sought this woman, kissed and bedded her within an hour of meeting her, but that would have been a long time ago.

“You’re too fine a lady for a greasy fellow like me.” He caught her hand, lowered it, but squeezed softly as he let go. “I can’t afford a moment of your time, Mags.”

“As if I’d charge you.” She went up on her toes, kissed his cheek. “Be on your way, then, you handsome young thing. I hope you find what you are looking for back in your hometown.”

“Reckon I’ll know once I get there.”

“Safe travels,” she said with a half smile, then she went back inside and closed the door behind her.

He hadn’t lied when he told her he could not afford her time. Couldn’t afford the bath he was headed for, either, but only soap and hot water would scrub the grease off his skin and hair.

Truth be told, he’d have bathed in the stream in order to save money if it weren’t nearly frozen over. But he also needed a shave. He’d neglected the condition of his chin for far too long.

He walked uphill toward the bathhouse. Luckily the facility was owned by the saloon and would be open for another two hours, plenty of time for the soaking he would need.

Warmth filled his lungs as soon as he walked in out of the cold. Humid air wrapped around him.

He paid the fee to a sleepy-looking woman sitting near the front door, and within ten minutes he was behind a screen, submerged in water that was, if not completely clean, at least good and hot.

With his eyes closed he felt the kiss of steam curling about his neck and face. For him this visit was a luxury. In pursuit of his goal, he’d rarely indulged in anything that was not food, basic clothing or shelter.

Because he’d been living in a shed attached to the livery, he’d been able to put aside a fair amount of money. Last month he’d purchased a house in Beaumont Spur, sight unseen. He hoped it was all the previous owner claimed it to be. With so many decent folks leaving town, he’d been able to buy the place for a good price.

The last time he’d been in Beaumont Spur it had simply been Beaumont. As pretty a place as anyone could imagine. When he’d run away from it, with ash embedded in his skin and his clothes, coughing smoke out of his lungs, he’d been accused of a heartless crime.

The looks folks had cast him hurt worse than the burn on his hand. Even if he’d tried to explain that it had been an accident—one he could have done nothing to prevent—they would not have believed him.

That wicked night, everyone thought he was the spawn of the devil. Thinking of his father made him wonder if it might be true.

He hadn’t seen Ephraim Culverson since then, but he’d heard that his father had been forced to shutter his freight-hauling business when the spur came to town.

The word was, he’d opened a couple of saloons in its place. In Trea’s opinion that suited him better than the rough work that went into running teamsters. Not that Pa had done much but sit behind his desk, drink and curse at his employees.

From nearby he heard the snap of a leather strap, the swish of a razor being stropped.

Heavy footsteps rounded the curtain.

“Reckoned you didn’t want a woman, Culverson, so I’m all you’ve got at this hour.”

“Blamed if I don’t want a woman, but I’ve got a reputation to repair, Goudy.”

“I’ll try not to tarnish it.” The heavyset man plunked a stool down beside the tub. He sat on it with a grunt and a short bark of laughter. “I’ll do what I can not to cut you, either.”

“I appreciate that.” Trea leaned his head on the back edge of the tub and lifted his chin.

He closed his eyes. Images of the past flashed on the backs of his eyelids. Mostly the faces of girls whose names he couldn’t quite recall. He clearly remembered how he’d wronged them, though.

The clean scent of shaving lather filled his senses.

So did the image of one pretty young face. He hadn’t forgotten that one.

Juliette Yvonne Moreland had been an angel in his eyes. She had been consistently kind, sweet-natured and always smiling.

She was also probably the one girl he had never shamed or whose heart he had not broken—at least, he hoped he hadn’t.

Oh, he’d dreamed of kissing her, all right. His boyish heart had been infatuated with her.

“You’re thinking about a woman right now. Don’t claim you aren’t.”

“Not a woman, Goudy—a girl.”

“Don’t forget I’ve got a razor in my hand.”

“You could cut my throat for a lot of things—but not that. The girl, Juliette, is someone I grew up with. She’s the one person from Beaumont Spur that I never could forget.”

No doubt because she had been the one person who never judged him harshly.

For all that he had dreamed of it, he had never touched her. The thing was, she was too good and he was too bad. The thought of breaking her heart—he couldn’t do that any more than he could pull a kitten’s tail.

He’d always had the suspicion that sweet Juliette was the only person in Beaumont who saw the real Trea Culverson. He figured she was the only one who wasn’t waiting to smack him on the hand with a gavel.

“Wonder if she’s still there,” Goudy said, stroking a shaving brush in pleasant-feeling circles on Trea’s face.

“If she is, she’ll be married, I imagine, with half a dozen children.”

“The good ones always are.”

In memory, he saw Juliette wink at him and smile, the event still clear in his mind. In that moment, at twelve years old, his heart had tumbled.

He’d been in the general store, wandering about, looking at this and that—mostly at the peppermint sticks. The store owner had been scowling at him the whole time, sure he was about to steal something.

Maybe he would have. But Juliette shot him that wink, fished a coin out of her pocket and purchased two candies. She gave him one, then blushed and ran out of the store.

No doubt she was married now to some lucky fellow. He hoped so. She deserved that kind of happiness and more.

He also hoped she was still in Beaumont Spur. There was something in him that wanted her to know the wild boy was gone, grown into a man wanting to make his reputation right.

Juliette’s opinion mattered to him very much.

* * *

Juliette ought to have bid the moon good-night before her feet started aching with cold, but she’d lingered too long over its beauty.

Coming inside, she feared that, as tired as she was, she might not be able to sleep because of it. Without a man to warm her toes against, she was doomed to lie awake until they finally warmed on their own.

Passing through the parlor, she spotted the hatbox with the bright yellow bow, where she’d set it down on the table next to the fireplace.

With all the hustle getting everyone down for the night, she’d all but forgotten about the curious item.

She stirred the coals with the poker then watched the embers flare to new life. Perhaps if she sat down to read the letter attached to the delicate-looking box, her feet would have time to warm before she went upstairs.

“What on earth could this be?” she murmured to the dozing household. She could guess all night long and not come up with a logical answer.

She opened the envelope, slowly withdrew the note, then leaned close to the glow of the fireplace to better read the script written in a fine feminine hand.

Dear Mrs. Lindor,

First of all, I cannot say how grateful I am for the time the time I spent in your establishment. It was a refreshing change from the dreariness of the hotel.

“Well, yes...” Juliette muttered. “Anything would be.”

And your children are sweet angels.

Hungrier-than-average angels, though. She ought to get some sleep before they woke for their middle-of-the-night feeding.

As far as her restaurant went? She was dedicated to keeping it scrupulously clean. While she might live in a ragtag town, she would not be a part of the sorry state of affairs.

She read on.

I have recently come into a large sum of money. Not through any hard work on my part, though. No, I simply collected the reward for those miserable Underwoods, a man I used to trust being among them.

I find that I do not want the money, but I suspect that you will find a way to put it to good use.

Please accept this Christmas gift to you and your beautiful babies.

With all good wishes,

Laura Lee Quinn, very soon to be Laura Lee Creed

The flower-scented paper fluttered to Juliette’s feet, covering the stocking-clad toes of one foot. She stared at the letter for a long moment then reached for the hatbox.

What on earth? A gift? Of money? Juliette could scarcely believe it. No doubt she had been more tired than she knew—had climbed the stairs huddled under her covers and fallen asleep in spite of her cold feet. Clearly this had to be a lovely dream that she was about to wake from. Before she did, though, she ought to open the lid of the hatbox and see how much money was in it. No doubt she would jerk back to reality before she discovered that, but—

She lifted the lid, blinked hard at what was inside then closed it again. She didn’t dare to touch the cash because dream money always vanished before one’s eyes. It tended to turn into carrots or a ball of yarn or one of the many things dream objects transformed into. And here she would sit, wondering how to pay the mortgage, same as she did every month.

Tucking the hatbox under her arm, she went upstairs, got into bed and curled herself around the pretty yellow gift.

If it was still there when she awoke in the morning, she would believe it. But not until then. Not until sunlight shone on the treasure inside and it did not vanish like dreams mostly did.

* * *

Dawn came and the money in the hatbox proved to be as real as the slush Juliette swept off the porch in front of her restaurant.

Everything about the day was as normal as peas, except that she had more money than she could have ever imagined.

True to form, her father-in-law complained that the babies were fussing and that he was hungry. Levi Silver sat at his customary table, eating his breakfast of eggs and bacon cooked to a crisp.

Cold seeped through her boots while she swept, same as it always did, but this morning she barely felt it. Her mind was so full of possibilities for the future of her family that she didn’t give the ordinary tasks of the morning a thought. She went through them by rote, her mind flitting among the clouds.

With her newly come tidy little fortune, she could leave Beaumont Spur along with so many others.

Or she could stay in the place she loved. Even in the state it had fallen to, this was home, the place the roots of her heart grew deep. She could build a beautiful home at the edge of town where life would be more peaceful. She could stay home all day long just watching her babies grow.

Gazing at the mountain range that circled Beaumont Spur like a snowy crown, she knew it would be a difficult thing to leave the place where her dreams and her family members were buried. Perhaps she would not be able to, even if it might be for the best.

The way things seemed now, she wondered if Beaumont Spur even had a future.

She would not want to invest her heart and her money in a place that was doomed to fail.

Her money? The idea was still fresh enough to not seem real.

Who would have imagined that a gang of scruffy outlaws would be worth so much?

Until this morning, Juliette Lindor would not have believed it.

The sound of a hammer on wood cut the quiet morning. Juliette looked up suddenly to see Mrs. Elvira Pugley pounding the tool on the front door of The Fickle Dog Saloon.

“Ephraim Culverson, your saloon is ruining my hotel!” she shouted.

After a few moments of incessant hammering, the door was flung open and the owner of the saloon burst onto the boardwalk wearing a knee-length nightshirt and a pair of argyle socks. Even with one big toe poking out of the tip of the sock, the man looked formidable.

“Stop your bleating, woman!” Ephraim’s bellow had always been loud enough to shake windows. This morning, having no doubt been awoken after a night of debauchery, it was even louder.

“I demand that you keep your fleas on your own side of the wall. Folks are complaining all day and night!” Elvira Pugley was as hot-tempered as her neighbor.

“My fleas be damned!” Ephraim Culverson snatched the hammer from her hand and pitched it halfway across the road. “It’s your fat, hairy rats carrying them to my place.”

“Of all the insulting—I’m not the one who named my business The Fickle Dog. Dogs have fleas.”

“No more than rodents do!”

Juliette was pretty sure her windows rattled, but she shrugged and continued to sweep. This was not the first time the saloon owner and the hotel owner had erupted in a battle of words.

No doubt both places had fleas borne by rats. She didn’t care much who’d had them first, so long as the vermin kept to their own side of the road.

“I’ve a mind to sell the hotel rather than spend another day next door to you.”

She had? For how much?

“Sure would suit me not to hear you hammering on my door in the wee hours.”

To Mr. Culverson the wee hours were what others would call eleven in the morning.

Did she dare make an offer for the hotel?

If the saloon owner considered Mrs. Pugley a bothersome neighbor, well, Juliette would be worse. Not as loud, perhaps, but more persistent in the quest for cleanliness.

But to restore the hotel and hopefully attract a more family-oriented sort of person to Beaumont Spur, to make the ones who were leaving reconsider? The possibility niggled around in her mind until it turned into downright temptation.

“I just might take the train out of this town before that no-good, thieving, arsonist, taker-of-innocence son of yours comes back to town, and I hear he is.”

At the mention of Trea, Juliette stopped sweeping, leaned for a moment against the broom handle.

The last thing she expected was for her heart to kick at the mention of that long-absent boy.

Maybe he was going to come back to town and be his father’s pride and joy—but he had never been that, not really.

He would have needed a blacker soul in order for his father to be proud of him.

For all that Trea acted like the town’s black sheep, Juliette saw someone different.

She saw a boy with a decent heart looking for acceptance from people who would never respect him. And mostly because of his bully of a father.

That boy had sought affection in whatever way he could.

Just now her heart reacted to the mention of him the same way it had so many years ago, with a thump, then a yearning. She could not deny that she had been in childish adoration of him.

Over the years she’d often wondered about him, remembered the mischievous glint in his warm brown eyes, the hurt and rejection caused by those whose approval he so desperately wanted.

Of course, he would never have gotten it. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree she’d heard time and again in reference to Trea.

How many times had she wanted to shout that trees and their nuts were a far different thing than human beings and their children?

It was her long-held opinion that a child should not have to bear the sins of the father. It had been shocking to her to discover that, in the opinion of most folks, they did.

Most especially when the acorn, the product of a sinful man, was named Trea Culverson.

“You better take that train, Elvira. I aim to promote my son to head man around here, right under me. Don’t reckon you’ll like having my young hellion to answer to.”

The argument over Trea and fleas continued for another five minutes before the combatants went back inside their own places of business.

It wouldn’t be long before they were back at it, though, unless Mrs. Pugley was serious about selling.

If she was? Well, the idea was likely to leave Juliette distracted all day and sleepless all night.