ENCHANTED CHRISTMAS
By Alice Duncan
(Writing as Emma Craig)
Enchanted Christmas
Copyright © 1998 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Published 1998 by Dorchester Publishing Co.
Leisure Love Spell
Smashwords edition September 1, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.net
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Chapter One
Once upon a time, on a fair October day in 1869, a little girl and an old man worked side by side. The two lived in the tiny community of Rio Hondo, which squatted between the Spring, Hondo, and East and West Berrendo Rivers in the southeastern corner of the New Mexico Territory,
An old rag doll, clad in a dress made of the same material as the little girl’s, sat on a stump beside them. Her jolly embroidered face gave made her an amiable expression, and she seemed to be supervising their activities. She looked as though she’d been loved quite hard during her days on earth.
A sound caught the little girl’s attention, and she glanced up from the rope she’d been coiling into a tidy stack. “Listen, Mac. Somebody’s comin’.”
Alexander McMurdo, proprietor of McMurdo’s Wagon Yard, favorite stop-over of cowboys trailing herds from ranches in the Pecos Valley and Seven Rivers country, took the old briar pipe from his mouth and looked. He smiled when he saw a solitary man, slumped slightly in his saddle, riding across the plains toward Mac’s wagon yard. Mac had been expecting this. About time, too.
“Looks like we got us a visitor, Maddie, m’lass.”
Five-year-old Maddie Richardson jumped with joy and clapped her hands. Visitors were a rare and welcome experience for the girl. She lived, after all, in the only—and very small—oasis of civilization within a two-hundred-mile radius. The land stretching between Rio Hondo and other seats of society was as bare and unspoiled as her own heart but much, much harder.
Rio Hondo sat in the middle of southeastern New Mexico Territory like the hub of a spoked wheel, with trails leading east and south into Texas, west to the Arizona Territory, and north into Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and the Colorado Territory. Fort Sumner and Fort Stanton resided within that two-hundred-mile radius as well, and provided what passed as protection for the citizens residing in this part of the territory. There weren’t many of them. The army had rounded up most of the Indians in the early sixties, so that nowadays the most trouble settlers and ranchers could expect came from one another.
Maddie shaded her eyes and squinted through the harsh, cold sunlight at the stranger, now slowly making his way through the wide-open, double wagon-yard gates. “He’s on a pretty horse.” Excitement vibrated in her voice.
“That he is, lass. Let’s you and me go see what the fellow needs. He’s lookin’ a little trail-worn.”
“He’s all dusty,” Maddie agreed.
“So’s his horse.”
Maddie grabbed up her dolly and clasped the gnarled old hand Mac held out to her. Mac peered down at her, clucking softly when he noticed she wasn’t wearing her sunbonnet. That meant she’d slipped outside in spite of her mother’s vigilance. He grinned around his pipe.
She was a charmer, Maddie was. Almost as charming as her mother, but a great deal less bowed down by life. Which figured, as the wee lass had scarcely had time to collect burdens. With luck and his own help, Mac trusted that Maddie would grow up to be as fine a woman as her mother—and that her mother’s heart would heal at last. He matched his stride to hers, and they walked over to where the stranger had pulled his tired horse to a stop and was dismounting.
Mac shook his head as he studied the newcomer and felt a little sad. It appeared to him as though the poor fellow had made it here just in time. Another year or two, and not even Mac’s magic could touch him.
# # #
Noah Partridge was almost as tired as he’d ever been in his life. He was sure sick of riding. This was the place for him, though; he knew it in his bones—all of which ached as if he’d been in a brawl. The countryside around Rio Hondo was as barren as Noah’s soul, as bleak as his past, as desolate as his future, and as hard as his heart. The wind blew across it like a demon from hell, sometimes so stiffly that the dust and grit could tear a man’s skin off his face. Noah shook out the bandanna he’d worn over his mouth and nose to protect them from blowing dust. The cloth was stiff with dirt.
The only sign of life Noah had seen for at least twenty miles—until he rode into Rio Hondo—was low-growing grama grass and a few scrubby bushes. Greasewood, mesquite, yucca, and cactus dotted the landscape here and there. Every time Fargo, Noah’s horse, had stepped on a clump of greasewood, the tangy odor of creosote nipped at Noah’s nostrils. He kind of liked the smell—as much as he liked anything, which wasn’t much.
As he’d neared the community of Rio Hondo, he’d noticed a stunted shinnery oak that looked as if the wind had sculpted it. It leaned to the northeast, bowing against the prevailing winds as if it had given up the struggle to stand upright. The very air Noah breathed was hard, the water was harder, and Noah had a gut feeling he and they belonged together. He was harder than both of them put together.
Hell, even the animal life out here was sinister. Scorpions, rattlesnakes, coyotes, cougars. Wild Indians even, he supposed, unless the army’d gathered them all up. He’d seen about a million buzzards too, although he imagined they’d be gone soon. They’d all fly south to winter in the sunny climes of Mexico and wouldn’t show up again until the springtime. Which only went to show that Noah Partridge was tougher than a buzzard. He grinned a small internal grin that didn’t make it to his lips. Yup. This was the right place for Noah, all right.
He turned when he heard footsteps. The greeting he’d been about to pronounce withered and died when he saw a child walking with the old man whom Noah presumed was Alexander McMurdo. Hell, Noah hated kids. He hated kids almost as much as he hated adult men and women.
“Howdy, stranger,” the old fellow said.
His voice was cheerful and faintly tinted with a Scots burr. It grated on Noah’s nerves like a metal file. He tipped his hat. “Hello. You McMurdo?” His voice was leathery and cracked with disuse.
“I am.” The proprietor’s eyes twinkled like stars. Noah didn’t appreciate the effect.
“Understand I’ll have to put up in your wagon yard while I take care of business here. You have room for me and my horse? I don’t have anything but what’s on the old boy’s back.” He gestured to his bedroll and saddle bags, which carried all his earthly possessions. Everything else he’d ever owned was gone now. Bitterness twisted though him as he thought about it, so he stopped thinking.
“Oh, aye, I expect we can handle you and your horse.”
The old man chuckled. His teeth were as white as pearls and were clamped around what looked to Noah like it must be the oldest pipe in the universe. Because he could no longer tolerate the presence of merriment, he turned and took longer unfastening his pack than he needed to.
When he turned around again, the little girl who’d walked up with Mr. McMurdo had let go of the old man’s hand and stood about a foot away from Noah himself, her raggedy old doll dangling, evidently forgotten, in her right hand. She peered up at him as if she were looking upon something strange and foreign. Which she probably was. She undoubtedly hadn’t met up with too many hollow men in her day.
Since he didn’t know what to do with her, he resumed his work. He glanced at her once or twice out of the corner of his eye and wished she’d go away or that Mr. McMurdo would do something with her. The kid made him nervous.
After a couple of very long moments, McMurdo did as Noah had wanted. “Maddie, me wee lass, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Noah Partridge. Mr. Partridge, this here sweet bairn is Miss Maddie Richardson.”
“Partridge?” Maddie broke into a huge smile. “Like in the pear tree?”
She was just a kid. Noah reminded himself of that when he had the urge to holler at her. How could a little kid understand that while Noah hated men, women, and children, he abominated Christmas and everything associated with it, including the blasted songs. Christmas was a season of sentimental hogwash, filled with sappy music, perpetrated by greedy merchants, and geared to pacify fools. Christmas was the season during which Noah’s own personal life, which hadn’t been a whole lot of fun to begin with, had gone straight to hell. He’d loathed it ever since.
He said, “Yeah,” in a voice as hard as the local water.
Mac seemed unaffected by Noah’s aloofness. He put a hand on the little girl’s bonnetless head. Noah knew his eyes were suffering from the territory’s harsh sunlight when dots of diamond-like sparkles seemed to flood from Mac’s hand and diffuse in the air around them. “Maddie is turnin’ six years old next month, Mr. Partridge.”
“In November, eh?” said Noah, for the sake of saying something.
Wait a minute. When had he told McMurdo his name? He couldn’t remember saying anything at all except that he wanted a place to stay in Rio Hondo while he conducted business. Noah’s eyes narrowed, and he watched McMurdo closely. Something was odd here, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Whatever expression he had on his face seemed to amuse McMurdo. He grinned like Father Christmas himself and said, “Give Mr. Partridge a curtsy, Maddie, like your mama taught you, and shake his hand to welcome him to Rio Hondo.”
“All right.” Evidently as happy as the proverbial lark and much more obedient than any kid Noah’d ever known, Maddie executed a curtsy that would have looked charming to anyone but him. Then she looked up at him and gave him the sunniest smile he’d ever seen. Her smile struck him like acid, and he grimaced before he could stop himself.
Because he figured he should—after all, even though he hated kids on principle, he didn’t necessarily want to wound one of them—Noah smiled back. It had been so long since his last smile that this one damned near fractured his cheeks. He took off his worn leather glove and shook her hand. It was as soft as silk and as undamaged as a fresh peach. Noah hadn’t been around anything undamaged in a month of Sundays.
Maddie released his hand and stepped back. She looked up at Mac, and her small face took on a confiding, somewhat sorrowful expression. “Mr. Partridge isn’t used to smiling, Mac. His insides must hurt, like Mommy says hers do sometimes.”
If he hadn’t been holding his gear, Noah might have stuck a finger in his ear to clean it out. Had that kid just said what he’d heard?
He didn’t have time to relish his astonishment. The patter of running feet caught his attention, and he turned to see a woman racing towards them, her skirts caught up in her hands, her apron ribbons flying, headed away from what looked like it might be a small mercantile establishment. Good. He needed supplies. He ignored the woman, again on principle.
“Oh, Maddie! There you are. I was looking all over the place for you.”
The woman was breathless. Noah tried to continue ignoring her, but it was tough when she breezed right past him and knelt before her daughter. At least he assumed Maddie was her daughter. They had the same honey-colored hair and blue eyes; Maddie’s hair was a little lighter and brighter than the woman’s, but not by much. As she passed him, a faint scent of something sweet, like roses, assailed his nostrils. He turned his head brusquely away from it. Damned woman was wearing some kind of perfume. Reminded him of home, and he hated it.
He set his gear on a stump Mac indicated. Now how the hell had such a big stump managed to get itself out here, in Rio Hondo? Near as Noah could figure, there wasn’t a tree as big as that within seventy miles of the place. He didn’t ask, because he didn’t really care.
“Me and Maddie were just meeting Mr. Noah Partridge, Grace. Mr. Partridge plans to stay a spell in the wagon yard whilst he takes care of business.”
“In Rio Hondo?” Grace looked up at Noah, surprise written all over her face.
Her eyes were clear and wide and as blue as the sky, and framed by dark lashes. Noah noticed them. He hadn’t noticed a woman’s eyes for a long, long time. But Grace Richardson’s eyes were very like Maddie’s. That’s the only reason he’d noticed, he was sure. Most women’s eyes didn’t have that unspoiled quality he detected in Grace’s. At least the women back home in Virginia didn’t. Of course, they’d lost everything, including their innocence, during the war that had ripped their homes to pieces and killed their men.
Anyway, he was probably wrong about this female. She most likely only looked unspoiled and was rotten underneath. Lots of women had that trick about them, and used it to beguile. Too bad for this one that Noah was no longer capable of being beguiled.
“Yeah. Thought I’d look for some land to raise cattle.” His voice cracked again. He’d have to oil up his vocal chords since he’d probably be doing a lot of jawing until he found what he wanted. Then he could shut up again and stay shut up. Good thing, too.
“Well, there’s lots of that around here, I guess.” She stood and took up her daughter’s hand. Noah had a feeling she did so because she was nervous and needed something to hold on to. If so, she was being foolish. If there was one thing Noah didn’t have any designs on, it was a female. Any female. Of course, she couldn’t know that.
“Grace Richardson, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Noah Partridge. Mr. Partridge comes to us from the grand old state of Virginia.”
Noah’s gaze sharpened upon McMurdo again. Dammit, he knew he hadn’t told this old devil where he was from.
“How do you do, Mr. Partridge?”
His gaze slid to Grace Richardson. She was holding out a hand as if she expected him to shake it. He looked at it for a second, before he took it and said, “How to you do?” It was automatic. He didn’t really care how she did. Or anybody else in the world, for that matter.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for in Rio Hondo, Mr. Partridge.”
Noah let go of her hand when he realized she was exerting some pressure to get it back under her own control again. Jesus, what was wrong with him? Sparkles in the air, people knowing things he hadn’t told them, him holding a woman’s hand. Maybe he was losing his mind. He might as well God knows, he’d lost everything else. Sure as hell, his mind hadn’t been of any use to him for years now.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
Grace gave him a puzzled look and a faint smile and peered down at her daughter. “Come into the mercantile with me, Maddie, and let’s not bother the men. You can help me stack the canned goods, all right?”
“All right.”
Noah’d never seen such an obedient child. Of course, he was no expert on children. He remembered Julia’s younger brother, though, and he’d been a real brat. A spurt of fury shot through him for thinking about Julia, and he slammed the door shut on his memories.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Partridge. I hope you enjoy your stay in Rio Hondo.” Grace seemed almost shy.
Noah didn’t believe her. He nodded and didn’t feel obliged to speak.
“Bye, Mr. Noah,” Maddie said with another one of her sunny smiles.
He nodded at her too.
The two females turned towards the little store. “You forgot your sunbonnet again, Maddie. You know I want you to wear a sunbonnet outside so you won’t get sunstroke in the warm weather or frostbite this time of year. That’s why I made you and Priscilla matching sunbonnets.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
Noah shook his head. They looked like a couple of animated statues to him, one a miniature of the other. For a split-second, he was almost curious as to who Priscilla was. The doll, he supposed. Then he took himself to task for caring.
As Maddie and her mother walked away from him, he heard Maddie say, “Mr. Noah looks just like the man in my dream last night, mama. The one who brought you the reed organ for Christmas.”
“Does he? My goodness.” Grace gave a little laugh and didn’t look back.
As for Noah, he stared at the kid’s back and experienced an urge to rush over to her, pick her up, shake her hard, and ask her what the hell she meant. How the devil had she just happened to pick reed organs out of the air as if organs were as common as dirt and people dreamed about them all the time?
He shook his head again, hard, and turned to Mac, frowning. Mac gazed at him like some kind of benevolent gnome, as if he understood the source of Noah’s unhappiness and confusion and pitied him. Noah resented him for it.
He decided to skip the reed organ issue. “How the hell did you know I was from Virginia?” The question was probably too sharp, but Noah hadn’t had to use company manners for a long time and was out of practice.
Mac winked at him. “Accent, Mr. Partridge. Accent.”
“You recognized my accent as being from Virginia?”
“Sure. We get us lots of folks from different states back east. ‘Cause of the war and all,” he added as if imparting a confidence.
The coldness that had engulfed Noah several years before suddenly turned a degree frostier. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure that’s true.”
“Well, now, Mr. Partridge, let me show you where you can stow your gear, and where to stable your horse. The two of you could use a bath, I reckon, even though the weather’s nippy.”
“I reckon.”
“Over here’s the wash house.” Mac gestured to a small shack of a building. “There’s a pump in there, and Mrs. Richardson keeps it supplied with soap and towels. She changes ‘em every week, too, so we manage to stay pretty clean here. You know women.” He laughed a jovial laugh.
No. Noah didn’t know women. Not any longer. The only women he’d ever known were dead. Even Julia was dead now, and so was the baby she’d been trying to give birth to. Not that Noah cared about that. Hell, it hadn’t been his kid. She hadn’t bothered to wait for him. Not that there was much to wait for by the time he got back from the war. He gave himself a shake, irritated that he’d allowed bitter memories to crowd into his head. He thrust them out again, feeling vicious.
He said, “Yeah.”
Mac led him to the back of the yard where a row of stables stood, protected by corrugated tin roofing material. The stables looked like stout, sturdy soldiers, standing side by side at attention. “Now, here we have a grand stable for your horse, lad. There’s curry equipment, a grain bin, and a water trough, so the poor beast can recuperate from ridin’ you out here. I’ll bring ye some oats if you’re low on horse fodder.”
Noah frowned, and wondered if Mac expected him to apologize for putting his horse to the use God—if there was a God, which Noah doubted—had intended for horses. The old fellow was smiling as if he found life a grand joke, so Noah didn’t snap back at him. Noah considered life a joke too, but he didn’t find it an amusing one.
“Looks fine,” he muttered. “I’ll take the oats. Thanks.”
“Aye. I’m sure old Fargo will be right as rain in no time at all.”
Noah tried to recall when he’d told Mac his horse’s name, then gave it up. The old fellow just seemed to know things; things Noah’d doubtless forgotten he’d mentioned. Hell, he was unused to talking to people. His silent thoughts and his spoken words were probably getting all mixed up since he was accustomed to the one and out of practice at the other. Besides, he really was crazy; he’d known it for some time now, although the knowledge no longer had the power to hurt him.
He grunted to show Mac he’d heard him.
“You can sleep in this stable next to your horse if you’re of a mind to, Mr. Partridge. We don’t have any other visitors at the moment. They mostly come in the spring and fall, you know, when they drive the cattle to Fort Sumner or up north. Don’t get us too many strangers this close to Christmas.” His merry blue eyes took on a confiding sparkle. “Folks like to be with their families at Christmas time, don’tcha know.”
Yeah. Noah knew. His guts felt like somebody’d‚ tied a knot in them. He grunted again, not trusting himself with words.
“Now it hasn’t been awfully cold lately, but I expect it’ll begin to frost any day now. If you get too cold out here, you just knock on the door of my house.” Mac gestured to another tidy building, situated right next to his store. “Ye can bed down on the floor of the parlor in front of the fireplace, if it starts to freeze these nights.”
Because he figured he should, Noah said, “Thanks.” In truth, he looked forward to the cold. It suited his temperament.
“And if ye get tired of fixin’ your own grub, I always have a pot of stew bubblin’ on the stove.” He winked again. “My own receipt, and it’s tasty stuff. Ye can get yourself a bowl of my famous stew, a slab of my famous cornbread, and a cup of coffee or a glass of beer for a nickel.”
Noah nodded. He wondered how Mac’s stew had come to be famous. Hell, there couldn’t be enough people living out here to make anything famous. Which was encouraging.
“Of course, Mrs. Richardson cooks for little Maddie and me, and I’m sure one more mouth to feed wouldn’t be a burden on her. She and Maddie would welcome the company, too, I reckon. It’s mighty lonely out here, especially for a lady with a little girl to care for.”
Yeah. Sure. Noah would perish fifty ways from Sunday before he’d be taking meals with Mrs. Richardson and her daughter. The mere thought made him tense up like a spring.
“And if ye ever get a mind for the company of another feller your age, and maybe a drink or two, there’s the Pecos Saloon across the way.”
Noah didn’t bother looking where Mac pointed. If there was one thing he couldn’t imagine a use for, it was company. Whiskey he could buy and use on his own if he ever got snake-bit. Otherwise, he didn’t care for whiskey any more than he cared for the company of his fellow man.
Another one of Mac’s chuckles brought Noah’s thoughts back to his companion. “Aye, there’s whiskey over there, and one or two pretty girls, too. The Pecos Saloon is where the cowboys go to have a drink after they’ve bought their supplies from me and before they go back to the ranches where they work. Poor souls. It’s a solitary life out there on the plains.”
This time Noah looked—in the direction of the plains. His tension lessened a bit. “Yeah.” That’s exactly what he’d hoped for. He craved solitude like other men craved money, whiskey, and women.
Mac went on, his voice friendly, as if he were in the presence of somebody who cared. “Got several ranchers in the area, though. There’s the Blackworth spread, and a couple of lads recently come here from Texas—Cody O’Fannin and his cousin Arnold. Chisum, of course, has the biggest spread hereabouts and runs the most cattle.”
Noah had heard of Chisum. “Sounds like a lot of people,” he murmured. He hoped to flinders all the good cattle land wasn’t gone already. Hell, the territory had barely opened up; it couldn’t be settled already, could it? Damned humanity always horned in where nobody wanted it to. Sometimes Noah wished he’d been born a cougar or a coyote himself. Out here, where there was nothing for hundreds of miles but—nothing.
Mac’s laugh rang out, hearty and loud. “A lot of people? Bless your soul, Mr. Partridge, there’s land enough for thousands out here, and not a one of ‘em would ever bump into another one unless he was of a mind to.”
Thousands. Cripes. Noah hoped not. He tried to smile at the old man, but couldn’t get his mouth to perform the unfamiliar exercise. “Know of any unsettled parcels of land hereabouts that I might buy or settle on, Mr. McMurdo?”
“Call me Mac, laddie. Everybody does.”
Although he didn’t want to get on nickname terms with anyone, Noah conceded the point. “Mac.” It was easier than arguing.
The old man chuckled. It must be Noah’s imagination that made this chuckle sound particularly canny, as if Alexander McMurdo knew Noah through and through—had known him for years, in fact—and therefore, knew exactly what it cost Noah to unbend enough to call anyone by a pet name. He examined the old man keenly, but couldn’t detect anything familiar in his face or manner. He was sure they’d never met before. He shook his head again, chalking this latest fancy of his up to exhaustion—or his soldier’s heart. And what a fancy name for lunacy that was.
“Aye,” Mac continued. “I reckon I can take you out and show you all sorts of properties that might appeal to ye, laddie. Best give yourself and your horse a day to rest up, and we can set out the day after tomorrow.”
That sounded all right with Noah. Although he wasn’t keen on having the chatty old man for company as he looked at land, his aims could be achieved with greater facility if he had a guide to show him around. He nodded. Since Mac wasn’t looking at him and couldn’t see his nod, he was forced to say, “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Glad to help, Mr. Partridge. It will be my pleasure.”
He sounded like he meant it, too. Noah didn’t understand, so he didn’t respond.
“Ye can build a fire here.” Mac gestured to a small, soot-blackened, sheltered fire pit that had been dug in front of the stable Noah’d be sleeping in. It had been lined with rocks, and boasted a corrugated tin shield on three sides and above it, and a serviceable iron spit upon which a man could roast meat or hang a pot. “But don’t forget ye’re not obliged to take your meals out here by yourself.”
By himself was exactly the way Noah wanted it. He only nodded again. This wagon yard of Mr. McMurdo’s was a right nice place; just in Noah’s line. It sounded like Mac could help him find a place to settle too. In the meantime, he could camp out in this little stall in Mac’s wagon yard and still have the solitude he craved. He hoped that little kid wouldn’t turn out to be a nuisance.
“Need any help getting yourself settled, lad?”
Noah’s imagination—an item that hadn’t been called upon to work much in recent years—made Noah believe he heard compassion in the old man’s voice. He shot him a sharp, quick glance. “No.” That sounded too curt a response to a civil question, so he added, “I’m fine, thanks.”
Noah was positive Mac was taking stock of him. The old fellow, pipe clamped between his teeth, a grin on his face, looked him up and down as if he were inspecting a side of beef. It made Noah uncomfortable. Damn it, what was the matter with this old man, anyway? He looked away and pretended to study his sleeping stall again. There wasn’t much to study. At least the straw looked clean.
“Aye, laddie,” Mac said after a moment that seemed to crackle. “I expect ye’ll be fine one of these days, at any rate. I’ll leave ye to your horse and your own thoughts now. I’d surely like to know where ye expect to find a reed organ for Mrs. Richardson out here, though.”
And, while Noah gawked after him, Mac walked away, leaving a trail of smoke rings and chuckles in his wake.
Chapter Two
The next day dawned as cold as ice, as silent as death, and as clear as crystal.
Disoriented at first, Noah had to sit up and look around before he remembered where he was. Then he sank back down on his bedroll as a feeling of peace, as foreign to him as any exotic language, stole through him.
He breathed deeply of the morning’s freshness before he rolled out of his bed, hurried on his clothes, and jammed his feet into his boots. He’d slept pretty well last night—couldn’t recall a single night vision, and he hadn’t heard any voices. No shrieks or moans or groans. Not a single plea for help that he couldn’t give. Maybe this place would be his cure. He doubted it.
He picked up his kit and headed for the wash house. The clean, pure air seemed to call to him, though, and no sooner had he taken a step or two toward the wash house, than he discovered himself veering over to the wooden fence encircling the wagon yard. The fence only stood about five feet high, and Noah, being a shade over six feet himself, could see over it quite well. He was even able to fold his arms, rest them on the top rail, lift his face to the sun and shut his eyes for a minute.
The sun’s pale autumn rays beat against his closed eyelids. Noah fancied that a few of them were leaking into his brain and burning the bad parts out. He even grinned a little at his whimsical thought before he opened his eyes again and gazed out into the plains. He knew he should be washing up and seeing to old Fargo, but he couldn’t seem to stop staring at that great, stark landscape.
The plains weren’t flat, exactly. Noah saw where the land rose and dipped briefly, almost gently, here and there, but nothing dramatic happened on those rises. They looked as bleak as the rest of the countryside. One lone mountain rose off to the west, and three wispy clouds hung over it like puffs of smoke. He wondered if the mountain was an extinct volcano. It looked like one to him, although what he didn’t know about volcanoes could fill volumes. He liked the idea of something violent and once capable of immense destruction now looming over the countryside, its energy spent, a silent and passive observer of the world’s follies. It reminded him of himself.
Lord, this place was empty. For as far as his vision stretched, Noah didn’t see a single other person. Mac’s wagon yard sat at the edge of what passed for the town. Rio Hondo. Noah gave a small snort. Pretentious of its settlers to call it a town. That was the way of man, though. Seemed impelled to give himself airs. Noah knew better. Men were weak—mere floundering, peacocking babies—compared to other forces.
But, oh my, these plains were empty. Almost. As he watched, two deer, startled by something only they perceived, bounded off, catching his eye. He hadn’t known deer lived out here, and was pleased to have found out. At least he wouldn’t have to look far for food. Noah allowed himself a brief vision of himself on his own place somewhere out there in that gigantic nothingness.
Surely he could afford enough land on these plains to start a small business. He didn’t want much. Only enough to support himself and Fargo. Maybe he’d get a dog. He didn’t hate dogs the way he hated people, although he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of one for a long time. But if he settled here, he wouldn’t mind having a dog. Dogs weren’t any trouble. And they were loyal. Noah could tolerate some loyalty at this point in his life.
He’d plant some trees. Not enough to interfere with the view, but only a few to act as a wind break. He understood it snowed out here occasionally, and he already knew there would be some fierce winter winds to contend with. So a wind break would be all right. Maybe some poplar trees. They were hardy. Any tree’d have to be hardy to survive out here. Anything weak wouldn’t last a month.
Noah was strong. He’d survived a lot worse than New Mexico Territory and any winter winds it could throw at him. He’d get along fine here. Fine.
With Mac’s help, maybe he could find himself a parcel of land with a river running through it. Even though the land looked as if water hadn’t touched it for a hundred years or more, Noah knew, because he’d done his research well, that there were rivers all over the place, and underground streams from which a man could get plenty of water if he dug himself a well. So he’d find himself a river and some land, and build himself a soddy—he didn’t need a regular house—and squat there with his dog and his horse and his cows and his poplar trees until his time came to die.
It was the first refreshing thought he’d had in days. He sucked in another breath of air so cold it nearly froze his lungs, and went to take care of his morning ablutions and Fargo.
# # #
Noah thanked his lucky stars that little Maddie Richardson didn’t seem to be a nosy child. Although she waved a cheery greeting, she didn’t pester him. He waved back and nodded and didn’t guess he had to smile.
He noticed Grace Richardson, too, as he took stock of his supplies and made note of those he needed to buy at Mac’s store. She’d evidently come outside to do some chore or other, and gave him a brief smile and a wave as she returned to the porch. There she paused to fiddle with something Noah couldn’t see from where he sat.
He nodded at her, looked down again, then found his gaze drifting up from his list and fastening on her. She was a slender woman, and her movements were fluid and lithe. For all the harshness of the air and the naked sun that even now, as winter approached, beat down on the plains like a fierce god out of an Indian myth, her complexion seemed clear and unwrinkled. He wondered how old she was. Probably no older than he, although she looked much younger. Of course she hadn’t gone through the things he’d gone through. Anybody looked younger than Noah Partridge did.
Noah, who hadn’t a romantic bone in his body, decided her name suited her. Grace. She was definitely full of grace; not an awkward thing about her. Then he wondered where that thought had sprung from.
Lord, he really was crazy. With an impatient shift of his shoulders, he wrenched his mind away from Grace Richardson, licked the end of his pencil, and went back to his list.
Mac had been right about the well-stocked nature of the horse stalls and the usefulness of the fire pit in the wagon yard. Noah’d given Fargo a good brush-down then fed and watered him, using the oats Mac supplied and the water from the pump in the washroom. Fargo had appreciated both the brushing and the food.
The washroom, too, was a luxury Noah hadn’t expected. Last night he’d given himself a good all-over bath, donned clothes that were clean, if not as fresh as they might be after having spent a couple hundred miles in his saddlebag, and felt almost human again afterwards.
Almost.
Noah had known for several years that his humanity had been all but starved out of him during the war. Any remaining spark had been doused when he finally made his way back home to Virginia. Or to what was left of his home. In what was left of Virginia.
Angry that he’d let his mind wander, he shrugged irritably and stood up from the stump on which he’d been sitting. Hell, his mind hadn’t dwelled this much on old times for years now. What the devil was the matter with him?
He was suffering from a lack of useful work to do, he reckoned, and aimed to remedy that problem right away. He took another good look at his list, tried to think of anything he’d missed, couldn’t come up with a thing, and walked over to McMurdo’s mercantile establishment.
# # #
Grace couldn’t stop thinking about that man, Noah Partridge, and she wished she could. The first time she’d looked into his eyes and seen the stark pain they held, she’d felt a strong compulsion to put her arms around him and rock him like she rocked Maddie when she stubbed her toe.
Why, his eyes had looked as tormented as hers had right after Frank died, only colder. Much colder. She wondered if the poor man had lost his wife.
She gave herself a shake and told herself to stop thinking about Noah Partridge. There were lots of wounded men wandering around out west these days—wounded both in body and in soul, if Grace was any judge. Poor things. She couldn’t take care of all of them. She couldn’t take care of any of them, actually. Besides, she had enough to do in tending to Maddie and keeping Frank’s dream alive.
The front door of the store opened, and she looked up from sorting thread. Her chest gave an uncharacteristic spasm, and she told herself to calm down. Mr. Partridge might look a little frightening because of his air of remoteness and repressed violence, but Mac seemed to like him, and Grace would trust Mac with her daughter’s life. In fact, she did.
With a small effort, she managed to smile in a friendly way. “Good morning, Mr. Partridge. Did you sleep all right out there in the cold?”
He didn’t smile back. Grace got the impression he used his smiles sparingly. “Yes.” After a moment, as if he’d only just then remembered his manners, he added, “Thanks.”
Mr. Partridge was definitely not a friendly man. Grace sensed that his detached manner sprang more from unhappiness than antagonism, although she had nothing upon which to base her feeling. Nevertheless, she persisted. “I’m sure Mac has already told you this, but if you get too cold out there, please feel free to come in and sleep by the fire in the front parlor. It can get perishingly cold here in the winter, even though we don’t get the snow and freezing weather some places do.”
It took him a minute, but he finally said, “Yeah. He did mention it. Thanks.”
Grace cocked her head to one side as she studied Noah Partridge. He didn’t look awfully old—maybe somewhere around thirty—but she sensed something almost ancient about him. With a little shake of her head, she decided she was only being fanciful.
“Please let me know if you need help finding anything, Mr. Partridge.” She gestured to the jumble of thread on the counter. “We got a shipment of goods from Saint Louis. The package of sewing notions fell out of the wagon and broke open, and now I have to sort it all out.” She laughed softly.
Noah stared at her as if he’d never heard a woman laugh before. Grace wondered if she’d done something wrong.
He said. “Yeah. Thanks. I will,” and went back to inspecting the goods displayed in the mercantile.
She wondered if he were a normally taciturn man, or if she’d annoyed him somehow. She hoped not. With a small sigh, she decided that if she had, it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t be anything but herself; she knew, because she’d tried. Every time she’d attempted to live up to someone else’s expectations, she’d failed. Eventually, she’d stopped trying, and now she only endeavored to be the best Grace Richardson she could be. She still failed, but not nearly so dismally.
That was one of the reasons she’d loved Frank so much. He hadn’t wanted her to change. With a little shiver, she yanked her thoughts back from where they seemed determined to wallow in memories and went back to her task.
“Where’s your kid?”
Grace looked up quickly and found Noah Partridge watching her from in front of the shelf of canned goods she and Maddie had arranged last evening. How strange that he should ask that question. Yesterday she’d gotten the strong impression that he didn’t care for children.
She gave him another smile, because he looked like he hadn’t been given enough of them in his life. “She’s outside with Mac, pestering the chickens.”
He nodded and didn’t smile. “He’s got chickens here, does he?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. McMurdo is extremely self-sufficient.”
He nodded again. His face remained stony. Grace wondered if he rationed his smiles out one by one—if he counted them and feared he’d run out.
With a gesture that looked jerky, as if he were unused to such spontaneous actions, he said, “He’s got a pretty well-stocked store her, for such an out-of-the-way place.”
Grace’s grin was genuine and entirely spontaneous—she wasn’t used to anything at all calculated herself. “Yes. He certainly does. And quite frankly, I have no idea where he gets everything.”
“Saint Louis?”
She let out another soft laugh. “Some of it. But he has other sources that remain a mystery to me. Frank—my husband—and I were astonished when we first set foot in Alexander McMurdo’s Wagon Yard. I’m still astonished.”
He grunted and turned away from her. Grace stared at his back for a moment, then returned to her thread.
An interesting man, Mr. Noah Partridge. Grace would like to hear his story, but she knew better than to ask. Especially out here in the territory, people were apt to be touchy about revealing too much of themselves. She knew that many of them had suffered ghastly losses in the war. Still others were running from things—the law, families, responsibilities, sorrows. Grace wasn’t about to rub the scabs from old wounds.
Mr. Partridge looked particularly weighed down to her, although she knew her own soft heart often gave people the advantage of benefits they hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve. Still, there was something about him . . .
Physically, he was lean and hard and haggard. His features were fine, almost classical. His nose was straight, his chin firm, and his eyes quite—quite beautiful actually. Green. They had looked green to Grace yesterday. They were probably hazel.
But his face had a drawn look about it that she’d seen before in people who had recovered from bad accidents and illnesses. She wondered if he’d once been terribly ill. Perhaps he still was. He wouldn’t be the first consumptive person to come out to the dry heat of the high plains for his health. She understood doctors were moving out here all the time, hoping to cash in on the white plague by offering clinics to its sufferers.
Studying him from under her lashes, she decided his gauntness looked more as if it had come from an old injury or illness. Like Uncle Henry. She remembered how Uncle Henry had looked after he’d almost died during the war. It had taken him months and months to recover, and he’d born the look of it afterwards—that emaciated tightness Grace thought she detected in Mr. Partridge’s face. She wondered if he’d fought in the war and been wounded.
Poor Uncle Henry had suffered even after his physical wounds had healed, too. He’d had terrible nightmares and so forth. Grace understood that wasn’t uncommon among soldiers who had been through the horrors of battle.
How sad. She didn’t understand why people couldn’t solve their differences in a manner less devastating than war. And this last one, with families torn apart, brothers fighting brothers, entire states ravaged—well, Grace couldn’t comprehend any of it. She realized her eyes had begun to leak, and wiped her tears away impatiently.
For heaven’s sake! If she didn’t stop being so blessed sentimental, she didn’t know what would become of her.
Of course, she didn’t know what was going to become of her anyway. With a sigh, she tucked the thought away. She’d survive. And she’d make sure Frank’s dream survived, too. Thanks to Mac, she had a way to do it, if only there was time enough.
“Do you have any whiskey, ma’am? For snake-bite. I don’t want to go to the saloon if I don’t have to.”
Noah’s voice penetrated her murky thoughts and made her jump. He spoke in a gravelly baritone, a little rough, as if he didn’t use his voice much and hadn’t worn the edges smooth. She gave a deprecating laugh to show how silly she was to have let him startle her.
“Yes, we do, Mr. Partridge. Mac keeps it here behind the counter—just in case, you know.” She smiled.
“Yeah. Reckon I do.”
She got the impression he didn’t know at all and was merely humoring her. She asked kindly, “Would you like a bottle of whiskey?”
“I suppose I’d better. Reckon it keeps.”
Either Mr. Partridge wasn’t a big drinker, or he was going to pains to make her believe he wasn’t. She took a peek at him and decided he wasn’t the type to pretend. Maybe he was making a joke. Another look told her he wasn’t. She gave him another smile, because she sensed he needed as many as he could get. “I’ll fetch it for you.”
He nodded and resumed his examination of the leather goods. Harnesses and leather strapping hung from hooks. Two neat piles, one of leather chaps and one of vests, resided on a table next to a pile of shirts.
Mac had several good saddles on display, a couple of them used, and several pairs of shoes. Boots, too. Most of the cowboys in the area would wear their boots until one or the other needed to be replaced. Then they’d buy a boot, wet it, and wear it until it conformed to the shape of whatever foot they needed it for. Grace shook her head as she opened the cabinet built into the counter, thinking how painful breaking in a new boot must be. She emerged with a brown-glass bottle and a big smile.
“Here you go. Guaranteed to cure snake-bite.”
“Yeah?” He took the whiskey and set it on the counter alongside two heavy blue flannel work shirts he’d collected.
Was it her imagination, or did his mouth twitch slightly, as if he might be the tiniest bit amused by her medical opinion? His mouth seemed to have reverted to what looked like its permanently grim expression. It had probably been her imagination. She went back to her thread.
The only noise in the room for several minutes was the sound of Noah Partridge’s heavy boots as he made a slow circuit around the store, and the rustle and click as Grace sorted spools of cotton twist. They were a mess, but at least none of the spools had unwound. The colors were a jumble, though, and there were at least a hundred different spools. The main problem was that when the package had broken open, several papers of pins had managed to get themselves mixed in with the thread, and Grace had a time of it not to prick her fingers on the sharp points of the pins as she gently pried the thread away.
From time to time, her attention wandered from her work to her customer. There was something about him that intrigued her. The good Lord knew, men weren’t exactly scarce out here. Except for Susan Blackworth and those poor females who had to work in the saloon, the only people anywhere near Rio Hondo were men.
Grace had never had eyes for any of them. The only man she’d ever loved had been Frank, and she figured that was it for her. There were plenty of men out here who’d marry her in a minute if she’d give them an ounce of encouragement. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t bear the thought of another man in her life now that Frank was gone. Frank was the one man she wanted, and he was dead.
Not, of course, that she had eyes for Mr. Partridge. Yet she couldn’t deny there was definitely something about him. It didn’t attract her, exactly. It was more a feeling of intrigue. Grace discovered herself curious to hear his story, even though she was almost certain it would break her heart, if her heart hadn’t already been shattered beyond repair by Frank’s death.
The thought of her dead husband sent Grace’s mind spinning back to the happy days of her marriage, and she sighed heavily.
“Anything the matter, ma’am.”
Again, the sound of Noah’s voice startled her. She pricked her finger and muttered, “Ow!” Like the little girl she’d once been, she sucked her sore finger until she realized what she was doing and yanked it out of her mouth. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Mr. Partridge. This is such dull work, my mind wandered and I didn’t pay attention to what I was doing.”
He gestured at her finger. “Hurt yourself?”
“Not really. Just pricked my finger a little on a pin.”
“That’s quite a mess you have there, ma’am.”
She sighed again. “Yes, it certainly is. It wouldn’t be so bad without the pins mixed in.”
“Reckon not.”
With that, he set two pairs of heavy socks down next to the whiskey and shirts and wandered off again. Grace looked after him, and her sore finger found its way to her mouth once more. What was it about him? She wished some of the friends she used to know back home were here. They’d have a delightful time gossiping over tea about Mr. Noah Partridge.
She shook her head. She really didn’t mind living out here, even though there weren’t any other women nearby. But without Frank . . .
Grace told herself not to start dwelling on that again. Frank was dead; that part of her life was over; she was alone with Maddie. She loved her daughter more than life itself, and she owed Maddie her very best efforts. Frank would have expected no less from her, and she’d not fail him. She couldn’t help the way her heart ached, though, or the way she couldn’t get over missing him.
Which was nothing to the purpose. At last, the final spool of cotton twist freed itself from the last pin on the paper, and Grace muttered a satisfied, “There! Finally!”
The door burst open, and little Maddie Richardson dashed in, hands cupped in front of her, a huge grin on her piquant face. Grace’s heart lit up.
“Mama! Mama! Mac and me, we seed a roadrunner, and looky here. I found a horny toad all by myself!”
Maddie could barely reach the counter. Grace leaned over and saw the horned toad—it looked like a runt or a baby, although it was awfully late in the year for babies—resting in her daughter’s two grubby hands. Maddie held her hands together as if she were offering a gift to the gods.
“My goodness, what a beautiful horny toad, Maddie! Are you going to keep him?”
Maddie’s braids bounced against her back as she nodded. “Yes. And then after winter goes away, you can put him in your garden, and he’ll eat the bad grasshoppers that ate your carrots last year.”
“What a clever fellow!”
“Mac builded a box to keep him in, and I’ll feed him flies and keep him alive real good.”
“I’m sure you will, sweetheart.”
Grace heard Mac—she would recognize the old man’s step anywhere—and looked up. She did love him so much. He was like a grandfather to Maddie, and he’d been better than a father to Grace. She gave him the best smile in her repertoire. “Thank you for taking Maddie with you this morning, Mac. I appreciate it.”
He winked. Mac was always winking. It was a charming trait, and Grace loved it almost as much as she loved him. “Ah, Grace, m’lass, Maddie was a big help to me.”
“Were you?” Grace eyed her daughter and doubted it.
“I was, Mommy, honest! I feeded all the chickens, and then Old Pete runned away, and I peeled my eye and looked and looked.”
My goodness, that sounded perfectly ghastly. Grace glanced at Mac, a question in her own eyes.
He chuckled. “Aye, that ye did, lass. Ye kept your eye peeled real well, and you spotted that old runaway mule before I did.”
Ah. Grace understood now. Peeled eyes, indeed. She didn’t laugh because she didn’t want to hurt Maddie’s feelings. “I’m glad you were such a good helper, Maddie.”
In truth, Mac had kept Maddie with him so she wouldn’t try to help her mother detach thread from pins. They both feared she’d end up stuck full of pins if she did.
Maddie whirled around. “See my horny toad, Mr. Noah?”
Grace took note of Mr. Partridge’s startled expression, and grinned. “Poor Mr. Partridge is doing some shopping, Maddie. I don’t think he has time for horned toads right now.”
He glanced from Maddie to Grace, and Grace was shocked to her toes to see that he was actually smiling. Almost.
“That’s all right, ma’am. I’ve always been partial to horny toads.” He looked at the toad.
The neck ruff of Maddie’s bonnet, intended to keep the sun’s rays from burning the back of her neck, squashed against the little girl’s back as she tipped her head back far enough to look Noah in the face. “Wanna hold him?” she asked brightly.
“Um, well, I seem to have my hands full right now, Miss Maddie, but he’s sure a fine looking horned toad.”
Maddie tipped her head to one side. “You need some more practice, Mr. Noah.”
Noah blinked down at her. “Beg pardon?”
Grace, who anticipated her daughter’s next words—which she’d never keep to herself because she hadn’t learned anything about the world yet—hurried to intercept them. “You take your nice horny toad outside now, Maddie. Mr. Partridge is quite busy at the moment. You need to look for grubs and bugs for him, too. Have to get him big and strong for his work in the garden.”
But Maddie, who had no playmates and was therefore unused to being sidetracked, continued staring at Noah. Noah stared back and looked nervous.
“Mac says if you practice anything, you’ll get better at it. He says that sometimes even if you practice you won’t be bestest, but practice always helps. I practice my letters and numbers every day.”
“Is that so?” A muscle jumped in Noah’s jaw.
Grace, who could see plainly that he longed for escape, tried again. “Maddie, take your horny toad outside now, and leave Mr. Partridge alone.”
Maddie turned, and Grace saw that she’d managed to offend her. She sighed.
“I’m not pestering him, Mommy. Honest, I’m not. Mac says that sometimes people don’t know how to go about things. I’m only ‘splaining to Mr. Noah that if he practices smiling, he’ll get betterer.” She peered up at Noah once more, her face a picture of earnestness. “Honest, Mr. Noah.”
“Thanks, Miss Maddie. I’ll keep that in mind.”
It looked to Grace as though the infinitesimally small smile he bestowed upon her child was the work of a mighty effort. She wondered what had happened to the man that smiles were such an effort for him. Maybe Maddie was right; he did seem to need practice.
She shook her head when she realized her child wasn’t done with Noah Partridge yet. She glanced over to Mac, knowing he’d nod or something if he thought she should scoop Maddie up and haul her off before she could disconcert Mr. Partridge further. Mac winked again, and Grace knew he would solve the problem. God bless Alexander McMurdo.
“Why, I do declare!” Mac’s exclamation drew everyone’s attention—even Maddie’s, and she was as persistent as a bulldog with a bone once she got started.
Grace knew Mac well enough to know what her next line should be. “Why, whatever is the matter, Mac?”
“I do believe I found me a licorice whip in my back pocket.”
Slick as a whistle, Mac reached a hand behind him, and produced a long black twist of licorice. Grace looked from his hand to her daughter, and smiled when Maddie’s eyes grew huge with wonder.
“Ooooh!”
Grace’s daughter had been drilled too well in proper manners to ask if the licorice whip was for her, but her soft exclamation left no doubt of her hopes. She left off staring at Noah, who almost sagged with relief. In spite of herself, Grace grinned.
“And, since one little girl I know ate a good breakfast, and since dinner is a fair ways off, I reckon her mama wouldn’t mind if I were to give this gift from heaven to her.”
“My goodness,” said Grace, playing the game. She tapped her chin with the finger she’d recently stabbed with a pin and tried to look as if she were pondering one of life’s deeper mysteries. “I wonder what little girl you could possibly be talking about, Mac.”
“Let’s see, now. How many little girls there are in here.”