A Texas Christmas Reunion Read online

  “I suppose that’s a risk I’ll have to take if Lena and Joe are to survive.”

  Nannie Breene tipped her head to one side, frowning. Unless Juliette missed her guess, the girl would have spent no less than an hour and a half this morning arranging her blond hair in flirtatious curls about her face.

  “I’m sure you know best, of course. But wouldn’t a wet nurse do as well?”

  “A wet nurse in Beaumont Spur?” Juliette would not hire one even if there had been a woman wanting the job. Love and cuddles went into the feeding as much as life-sustaining food did. “Someday you’ll—”

  Nannie cut her off with a crisp snap of her fingers.

  “My news!” Her small eyes flashed in clear anticipation of Juliette’s coming reaction. “You won’t believe this!”

  Nannie sat down in a chair across from Juliette, anchored her elbows on the table then stretched her neck forward, leading with her dainty, pointed chin.

  “It’s hardly news that the bank has been robbed,” Juliette pointed out. “Can I get you some tea—a cookie?”

  “How can I even think of it? Not knowing what I know—and it certainly is not something as common as the bank being robbed.”

  For all that Nannie was bursting to repeat her news, she was apparently waiting for Juliette to drag it from her.

  Very well. “What is your news? It must be something urgent.”

  “Oh, it is!” Nannie leaned farther forward and whispered, “Trea Culverson is returning to Beaumont Spur.”

  * * *

  It was after midnight when Juliette wrapped a blanket about her shoulders and stepped onto the back porch of her small house. She stared up at the moon. It was full and bright. Not even halfway up the sky, it looked huge and close, almost as if she could reach out and touch it.

  Her day had not ended when she bade the last customer good-night then put the Closed sign on the restaurant door. She’d wrapped the babies against the late November chill, tucked them in the pram then bundled her father-in-law up in a heavy coat.

  As he normally did, Warren Lindor had insisted on being led to The Saucy Goose. As she always did, she pushed the pram with one arm and dragged the old man home by the coat sleeve.

  Luckily, home was only a block away from her café.

  By the time she fed the babies, tucked them into bed, gave Warren a snack and settled him into his room, and then baked the pastries for the next morning, it was late. Her neighbors had doused their lamps hours ago.

  Perhaps she ought to do the same, but now was her time. No matter the weather, it was her custom to stand on her porch and listen to the quiet whispers of deep night. The sounds changed with the seasons, but her sense of peace in the moment did not.

  In the beginning, when she’d first discovered this precious time, she had stood in this spot gazing up at the deep sky, often weeping while she held the image of Steven close.

  But it had been a year since he went away to work for the railroad. She still thought of him. She always would, of course. But she did not do it as frequently now, and when she did it was with smiles more often than tears.

  She had been blessed beyond reason with a daughter and a son. Oh, she might have been crippled by grief and loneliness, but because of the babies she carried a song in her heart.

  After selling the big house she had shared with Steven and his family, she had been able to purchase her restaurant and this cozy cottage.

  Each morning she had a purpose in waking, breathing, smiling at the new day and wondering what it would bring.

  If the gossip was correct, it would soon bring the return of the prodigal son.

  Although, unlike the prodigal, there would be no loving father’s arms open in welcome. For Trea there would be no fatted calf given in celebration.

  Everyone in town, except a dozen girls with fluttering hearts, had been glad to see the last of him.

  And Juliette? She had not been happy to see him go. It had broken her young heart.

  Even after all these years, she remembered his expression in the instant he’d fled.

  The reflection of flames consuming the livery that night had cast his face in a red-orange grimace. To many people his silence, his failure to declare his innocence while he risked his life leading horse after horse to safety, was the same as an admission of guilt that he’d set the fire.

  That was not what Juliette believed. To her way of thinking, Trea would never have done anything to endanger an animal.

  Was she the only one to have noted that every able-bodied man standing and witnessing the destruction had done so from across the street, leaving the rescue of the animals to a seventeen-year-old?

  While it was true that Trea had always been the town bad boy—a hellion born of one—unlike his father, he was never mean-spirited.

  More often than not his crimes involved kissing the girls in town. As far as Juliette could tell, none of them considered it a crime at all.

  It did, however, cement his reputation as the black sheep begotten of a black sheep. Whenever a minor crime of any kind was committed, it was assumed that Trea was the perpetrator.

  Juliette had valid reason to believe he was not the wicked child they had cast him as. Perhaps, in part, due to the fact that he had never kissed her. She might be the one girl in Beaumont who had never had her heart broken by him.

  Which didn’t mean that she had not envied those girls and spent dreamy moments wondering about Trea’s kisses. How many nights had she lain awake in her bed imagining what it would be like to feel his lips, hear sweet whispers of affection, and all the while brooding over which of her friends might be finding out right that moment?

  And now, if the gossip proved true, Trea Culverson was coming home.

  Even though she was a woman grown, a widow with children, her heart beat a little faster, even her belly tickled.

  She knew it was silly. Years had passed. Trea was no longer the daring, forbidden boy who’d taken her breath away.

  He was a man grown. Heaven only knew who he had grown to be.

  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.
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  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.