Wild West Christmas. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ glanced from his uncle’s empty hand back to his uncle. Why the devil hadn’t he thought to buy a peppermint stick? Instead he had brought them nothing. How appropriate. “You remember me, son?”

      Cody nodded. “Yes, sir. You use to come by Sundays for supper and play the fiddle. You used to pour medicine from a bottle into your coffee when Ma wasn’t looking. Are you feeling better now?”

      Dillen glanced to Alice, whose look showed reproach at this revelation. It was true. He had brought liquor into his sister’s home. Young and dumb, he’d been. Now that memory shamed him, but it did serve to illustrate what he already believed. He’d make a terrible parent, maybe even worse than his own father, if that were possible.

      Dillen gave the boy a gentle punch in the arm. “I still occasionally feel the need to take a dose.”

      Alice might as well know that he was not the man she hoped he’d become. Show her right off the disappointment he was and confirm in her mind that she was well rid of him. No use putting it off. Dillen rose to face her.

      “The front of your coat is all wet.” She lifted a gloved hand to touch him, and then hesitated. He looked at the finely made, fitted black leather sheathing her hand like a second skin. Had she bought her mourning attire especially for this journey? Of course she would have. Nothing but the best for the Truett family. Their eyes met and held.

      “Why’d you bring them, Alice, when I asked you not to?”

      She bristled as if he had struck her clean across the face. “You said nothing of the sort.” She released Cody and rummaged in a small velvet reticule that hung from her slim wrist by a satin cord. A moment later her gloved hand reemerged holding a folded scrap of paper. She straightened the page and cleared her throat before reading aloud. “‘Interested in taking the pair. Stop. Immediate delivery. Stop. Will pay for transport for both plus handler. Stop. Wire arrival date and time.’”

      Dillen’s stomach dropped six inches as he realized two things simultaneously. He’d sent Alice the wrong telegram, and that meant that the horses that his boss was expecting him to have purchased were not going to be delivered.

      Dillen snatched the telegram and read. Then he threw down his hat and swore.

      “Holy hell!”

      Alice gasped and covered Colin’s ears too late as Dillen pressed a hand to his forehead and swayed. He had two duties. Help Bill Roberts with the jobs he could no longer manage at the ranch and purchase and train those two green horses. How was he going to tell his boss that he’d failed to buy the twin Welsh ponies? Worse yet, how was he supposed to train two horses he didn’t have?

      What had he wired Alice exactly? Something about writing after the first of the year. He muttered a curse, because he knew the breeder had at least one other offer.

      He retrieved his hat, turned to Alice and said, “I gotta go.”

      “What?” she yelped.

      But Dillen didn’t answer because he was already running over the icy platform toward the telegraph office.

Chapter Three

      Dillen Roach ran to the telegraph station. If Alan Harvey found out that he’d sent that telegram, then he was out of his situation in the dead of winter.

      Dillen waited in a panic for Morecastle’s reply.

      What had Sylvie done, leaving her boys to him? Surely there had to be a better situation than this. But maybe she didn’t realize that. His sister couldn’t know how hard his life was, for he’d kept it from her. He should have been honest. If he had told her the truth, she would never have left her children in his custody.

      He thought of Alice and the boys waiting at the station and decided he’d best go fetch them. And bring them where? As he contemplated this, the telegraph sprang to life and his message came through. Mr. Morecastle now wanted him to come to Cripple Creek in person with cash immediately, or he would not hold the pair. Dillen sent his reply.

      Now he needed to find a place for Alice and the boys while he headed up the line to Cripple Creek. His first thought was Mrs. Louise Pellet. She was his foreman’s niece and ran a clean boardinghouse in town. Maybe she’d be willing to take the boys for a spell if he could persuade her to let him pay her on time. He and her Bill ate Sunday supper at Mrs. Pellet’s table, which was a meal he anticipated all week. He couldn’t think why she’d do him this favor, but she was a Christian woman. Maybe that was reason enough.

      The only other person he thought might help him was a woman whose name he wasn’t quite sure of. Alma, or Erma? He knew the last name was McCrery and he thought she was the wife of Sylvia’s husband’s uncle. He recalled she was a widow who lived alone in a big house in Chicago. He knew the street as well, since he’d met her at Sylvia’s wedding and attended the reception there. She’d been ancient then and the connection was tenuous, but it was all he had.

      The telegram that he sent to Mrs. Edna McCrery was brief. Just that since the death of Sylvia and Mrs. McCrery’s nephew, Ben Asher, there were two orphan boys who he could not care for. Would she take them?

      He didn’t wait for a reply. Leaving Alice alone on the train station platform had been a combination of raw panic and bad judgment. If she was wise she would have boarded the next train heading down the mountain.

      Dillen removed his hat before entering the railroad station and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. He wished he’d had time for a cut and to shave off his three-days’ growth of beard before seeing her again, because he knew he looked like what he was: a no-account bronc breaker. When he entered the depot and found it empty, Dillen broke out in a sweat.

      He was still sweating when he heard someone call his name.

      “You Dillen Roach?”

      He turned to see a man in uniform shuffling forward. The stationmaster, he realized. The man was so stooped he appeared to be addressing Dillen’s boots.

      He nodded, then spoke up. “Yes, sir.”

      “She headed over to the hotel.”

      There were several hotels in Blue River Junction, and more than a few were wholly unsuitable for a lady to enter and all of which he could not afford.

      “Which one?”

      The man scowled. “Blue River Junction Hotel, course!”

      Dillen replaced his hat.

      “She left you a message.” He slid a small white envelope across the counter.

      Dillen had to remove his work gloves to open the tiny thing. Inside was her calling card with her name embossed in raised black font—Alice Lorraine Pinter Truett. He flipped the card and saw her neat looping script in pencil.

      We are lunching at the hotel.

      Please feel free to join us at your earliest convenience.

      * * *

      Alice secured a porter and, after speaking to the ticket operator, determined that the only acceptable hotel in this small oasis in the mountains was the Blue River. She was told the establishment СКАЧАТЬ