A Texas Christmas Reunion. Carol Arens

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ