The Gift Of Family: Merry Christmas, Cowboy

He concentrated on slow, deep breaths. He was no longer a child. Now he could make what he wanted of his life. A few days ago he had no doubts about what that was—an isolated cabin and a pen of horses to work with over the winter.

Now long-buried, long-denied wishes seemed determined to reestablish their useless presence. All because of two children who needed a home and acceptance. Their requirements so clearly mirrored what he’d wanted, but never had, as a child.

I am no longer a child. I no longer need or want those things.

He didn’t succeed in putting his thought to rest.

Chapter Four

Becca ached to pull the children to her lap and hold them close. If only she could protect them from the cruelties she knew they’d face.

The children weren’t the only ones she wished she could help. She’d seen the hurt in Colt’s face before he turned away. It pained her to think of the sort of memories that brought such a reaction. A shudder started in her chest, and she stepped away from Pa. With his arm across her shoulder, he might feel it and ask the cause. She began lunch preparation, determined the children and Colt would leave this place with memories of kindness and good food. She stared at the stove a moment, trying to think how she could make the meal special. Smiling, she pulled out pots.

Her mother had always made tomato soup for special occasions. She would do the same, though she’d never managed to make it as good as Ma did.

A little later the soup was gone, as was the bread she’d served with chokecherry jam.

Little Joe had purple jam smeared on his face, along with a look of satisfaction.

Marie managed to eat more neatly, and smiled at Becca. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Colt’s head jerked up, and his dark eyes bored into her. What had she said to make him look at her that way?

He shifted his attention to Little Joe. “I think a little boy is ready for a nap.” He swung from his chair and lifted the child.

“Put him on my bed.” She rushed ahead and opened the door.

Colt hesitated.

“He’ll get a good rest here.” Still, the man did not move. “Is something wrong?”

Colt’s gaze found hers, and she saw confusion.

“Oh, give him to me and I’ll put him down.” But Little Joe fussed and clung to Colt.

Marie marched ahead and climbed on the bed. “I’ll take him.”

Little Joe went eagerly to his sister, and the pair cuddled together. Becca covered them with a quilt, then turned to speak to Colt but he’d disappeared.

“Pa, where did he go?”

Pa yawned and stretched. “Said it was a good time to check on the horses. He’ll be back when he’s done.” He went to his room and closed the door. He’d sleep maybe an hour before returning to the store. If a customer came, Becca would wake him.

Suddenly she was alone. Would Colt take all afternoon to complete his chores? She wanted to ask him some questions.

After she finished cleaning the kitchen and doing some chores of her own, he stomped into the store. A few seconds later he stood in the doorway.

“Come on in.”

His gaze darted about the room. “Where’s your pa?”

“Resting.” She tilted her head toward the closed door.

Colt began to back away.

“Don’t go. Sit and visit awhile.”

He swallowed loudly.

She thought he would turn tail and run, but he slowly crossed the threshold.

She sat in one of the big chairs and waved him toward the other, but he slowly circled the room and came to a stop in front of Ma’s picture. “Is your ma back east?”

“No. She died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“There’s no way you could know without asking.”

He nodded. “You ever been east?”

“Once. When I was fifteen. Ma had been sick quite some time, and Pa sent her to Toronto to see a doctor.”

“Did you like it there?”

She thought of the strangeness of the city...the dirt, the noise and the way people rushed about. “Not really.”

“So why are you going back?”

“My mother asked for my promise as she lay dying. The least I could do was agree.”

He turned toward her, his eyes watchful. “The least? Why do you say that?”

“Because it was my fault she didn’t get better.” The words she’d never confessed to another soul fell from her lips.

The way he raised his eyebrows requested an explanation.

“I was unhappy in Toronto. I missed Pa. I missed the open prairies and the sight of the mountains. I asked Ma to let me go home. She agreed and we returned, but she wasn’t better. She never got better.”

“I see.”

The way he said it made her curious. How could he possibly know what it was like? “What do you see?”

“You blame yourself for her dying, though it seems to me if you believe what the Bible says, you have to believe it’s God’s doing.”

The words jolted through her with the power of a flash flood, upending roots of guilt and regret. “If I hadn’t been such a crybaby, she would have stayed and gotten better.”