Cowgirl Under The Mistletoe. Louise Gouge M.

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      He chuckled in that way of his that always put her at ease. “I could use your advice.” He tilted his Stetson back on his head a ways. Once again, she felt pleased that he hadn’t worn his dandified bowler hat. That thing sure did annoy her, though she couldn’t say why she concerned herself so much with his appearance.

      “About shooting?”

      “No. I think we covered that this morning.” He gazed east across the San Luis Valley toward Mount Blanca, which was nearly snow-covered despite it only being October. “I have guests coming to visit from Virginia around the first of December. Joel Sutton’s a childhood friend. After the war, he and his folks were the only people who remained friendly. The rest treated my family badly because my uncle fought for the North.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Some in the South continue to fight the war even though it’s been over for almost twenty years. Even my decision to attend seminary in Massachusetts angered many people, and they didn’t want any part of me after I graduated. Couldn’t get hired in a church, no matter how many I applied to.”

      Grace shook her head in disgust. The war wasn’t his fault. In fact, he was truly a man of peace. Those people didn’t know what they were missing to reject him that way. “Their loss is Esperanza’s gain. Now tell me about this Joel Sutton.”

      The Rev leaned down to pat his horse on the neck, a gesture Grace found endearing. He took care of his horse just like he took care of the folks in his congregation and anybody else who needed a kind touch, including her. “Joel and I have been corresponding for a few years, and now he wants to come out here, he and his sister.”

      Grace didn’t need for the Rev to tell her the rest. This sister was probably a gracious Southern belle like Susanna Northam, all pretty and petite and just what the Rev needed in a preacher’s wife. But if all things worked together for good, then Grace should assist him all she could. Maybe she’d even play matchmaker and help him get the job done.

      “So, are these folks going to stay at the hotel, or should I see if Mrs. Foster wants to take in a couple of new boarders?” Grace liked that plan. She could get the measure of the woman and decide if she was good enough for the Rev.

      “No, I think they should stay at the parsonage. I have those two extra bedrooms, and they’re rarely put to use.”

      Grace held her breath and counted to ten while she considered how to answer. “Will you be comfortable with a single lady staying in your home?”

      “I’m not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. Do you think anyone will be offended, considering that Joel will be there, too?”

      For some odd reason, Grace wanted more than anything to say yes, the whole town would be offended. That by all means, Joel and his sister should stay someplace else. Anyplace else. But she couldn’t lie. Nor could she explain her reservations about the plan. After several seconds of listening to the clop of their horses’ hooves and an occasional bird calling out from the thickets along the road, she sighed to herself.

      “Well, Rev, we don’t have a whole heap of gossips around here, and most folks don’t pay them any mind when they do speak out of turn.” She had to force a smile as she finished her thought. “I think you should have your friends stay at your house so they don’t have to pay rent. Maybe that sister can feed you some fine Southern cooking and put some meat on your bones.”

      Why had she said that?

      He sent a worried frown her way. “You think I’m too thin?”

      Oh, my, no. Not thin at all, and certainly not the opposite. He appeared as strong as any hardworking cowboy, although she had no idea how a preacher who read books and visited the sick all day could be so well put together. She also had no idea why she’d made such a foolish remark about putting meat on his bones. The local ladies kept him well fed with their best cooking. Now, how could she turn this into teasing?

      “Naw, not too thin.” She grinned. “Just on the edge.”

      He laughed. “Don’t say that to Mrs. Foster. She already sends over enough food for a small army.”

      “I’ve noticed that.” Grace chuckled. After some serious thought last evening, she’d decided to put four pieces of her special fried chicken into Mrs. Foster’s basket. Of course he had no idea, and Mrs. Foster had promised not to tell. Not that Grace meant anything by it. She was just trying to be helpful. That was all. Yet it pleased her that he hadn’t complained about last night’s supper.

      * * *

      “She did something special with that fried chicken last night.” Micah could still taste the mouthwatering fare. “Best I’ve ever eaten.”

      Grace looked away quickly, and Micah followed her gaze westward toward the San Juan Mountains, seeing nothing of significance.

      “Something grab your attention?”

      “Nope. Just checking the landscape.” She gave her familiar dismissive shrug, but when she faced toward town again, she seemed to be fighting a smile.

      Maybe she was embarrassed about her comments regarding his health. Ladies and gentlemen didn’t usually discuss such matters. And yet Grace always spoke the truth, painful or not, so Micah had a feeling she might be right about his condition. He’d always vowed not to become a flabby, indolent preacher, like some he’d met. However, being too thin wasn’t any healthier. So far he’d managed to stay fit, but maybe he needed more exercise.

      Very few people knew that, weather permitting, he rose early six days a week before anyone else was out and about so he could run around the outskirts of Esperanza. After that, he lifted the barbells Bert, the blacksmith, had made for him, which he kept hidden in one of his extra bedrooms. He’d have to find a new place for them before Joel and Miss Sutton arrived. Would have to find another place to do the lifting. Maybe when he ran, he needed to add another lap around town.

      Other than Bert and the sheriff, no one seemed to know about his exercising, which was just as he preferred it. Like his writing, he kept his exercise private, a part of his life that belonged to him alone. Once he married, he’d tell his wife, of course. But for now, he did what he had to do to keep up with the hardy folks in his congregation. No one needed to know how he managed it. In fact, telling others about it might seem boastful. And surely his cowboy friends would laugh at him for having to go out of his way to stay strong and healthy while their normal work kept them in fine fettle. Not that he minded teasing. Their good-humored remarks made him feel even more a part of the community. But he would still keep his exercise a private matter.

      “I hope Miss Pam still has some of her beef stew left,” Grace said as they dismounted in front of Williams’s Café. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” She nodded toward the brand-new clock tower above the bank. “One thirty. The pickings will surely be slim.”

      Before Micah could voice his agreement, Mrs. Winsted barged out of her store two doors down from the café.

      “Grace, where have you been? I couldn’t find the sheriff, either.”

      All business now, Grace hitched up her gun belt and strode over to Mrs. Winsted. “What happened?”

      Stifling his surprising disappointment that their time together would be cut short, Micah followed her onto the boardwalk and focused his attention on Mrs. Winsted.

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