Kindle Edition
Amazon
Julie Lence
amazon
Category:
Christmas
Publisher: Amazon
Copyright: November, 2015
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
Chance McBride’s Christmas wish is for Tabitha to ease the restlessness festering inside him
U.S. Marshall Chance McBride has spent weeks tracking Steve ‘Smarty’ Jones. Ambushed and wounded by the outlaw, Chance is forced to seek help at a nearby school. But the teacher isn’t what he imagined. Instead of a male wearing trousers, a female takes charge of his care. Bright blue eyes and soft curves; Tabitha’s sassy nature awakens a deep-seated loneliness only she and a Christmas wish can soothe.
Tabitha Weston has never favored anything girlie. She’d rather saddle-break wild horses than bat her eyelashes and flirt with a man. But one glimpse into Chance’s molasses-colored eyes and Tabitha’s abhorrence to relationships is suddenly corralled by her need to win the lawman’s favor. Can a wish upon Christmas snow for him to trade the freedom of the trail for a home with her actually come true? She’s about to find out.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Coyote, CO December 1880
Chance McBride cracked open one eye. Then the other. With the exception of the moon’s pale light filtering through the trees, darkness surrounded him. His teeth chattering disturbed the stillness hanging on the air, and awakened his other senses. His legs and bottom were wet and numb, his fingers stiff, and his side burned.
What the? His gaze collided with the snow he sat in. Droplets of blood marring the tufts beside him loosened his memory. Damn, Smarty. The bastard had left him for dead this morning.
Pushing aside an image of himself tightening a noose around Smarty’s neck, Chance stifled a groan and peered around the Cottonwood he slumped against. Not more than twenty paces from where he shivered a dim light shone behind a curtained window. He’d happened upon the schoolhouse when the sun had dipped toward the west―staggered toward it had been more like it. Hunkering down between snow-laden limbs and overgrown shrubs, he’d watched boys fling open the front door and hurl snowballs at one another as they raced along a trampled path to town. Girls clad in woolen scarves and mittens had followed at a slower pace. But a teacher had never appeared.
Chance grimaced and grabbed a handful of snow. He reached beneath his coat and pressed it against his side, shifted his gaze north to the structure he remembered seeing in the daylight. The headmaster has to exit sometime. If for anything to use the privy.
Sneering, he returned his attention to the school and studied the large addition that had been built onto the back. Earlier he’d noted a festive wreath nailed to the side door; the silver ribbons a grim reminder he wouldn’t celebrate Christmas with his brother. Shoving the thought aside, he inhaled the aroma of wood burning and something else―food cooking.
His stomach grumbled at the prospect of a hot meal. It’d been four days since he’d tasted something more rewarding than stale biscuits and jerky. Not that he complained. He was alive and hoped the same held true for his mare. She’d taken offense to bullets pelting her hooves, had reared up on her hind legs and unseated him before bolting toward the hills. Truth be told he couldn’t blame her. Being ambushed didn’t sit well with him, especially when a bullet from Steve ‘Smarty’ Jones’ Colt found its way into his side. The best he could hope was his mare galloped to safety, even though it meant he was horseless―again.
“Shoulda never bought her,” he lamented. “Green as she is.” But his trained Appaloosa and loyal companion of five years had come up lame on a late November day. Unless he’d wanted to lose Smarty’s trail, he’d had no choice but to purchase the young mustang.
The side door opened. A ray of light brightened the threshold and the figure stepping outside.
Shit! His gut spasmed. The teacher wasn’t what he’d imagined. Instead of trousers and a hat, Chance saw a slim body in long skirts. Bile filled his mouth. Overpowering a female wasn’t to his liking, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d been out in the elements too long and his aching side demanded relief. He had to get indoors and patch himself up―with or without her permission.
The woman stepped away from the door and moved toward a woodpile at the rear of the building. Chance awkwardly pulled himself to his full height of six feet two inches and stifled a groan. The flow of blood returning to his legs brought on the feel of a thousand needles pricking his skin. Ignoring the sensation, he stumbled forward on quiet feet, closing the distance between him and the woman. As she lifted a log from the top of the pile, he clamped his left hand over her mouth and his right arm around her waist.
“Mmmmmmmmm…” she screeched behind his hand, dropping the wood and trying to twist free from his clutches.
“Easy,” he barked out a whisper, pulling her flush against him. A sharp stab of pain speared his side and he sucked in a deep breath, felt himself sway on his feet. “I don’t aim to hurt you, ma’am.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm…” she screeched again and tried to kick him. He avoided the blow to his shin.
“I’m Chance McBride,” he panted. “U.S. Marshall.”
Heated, garbled words sounded in her throat.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he quipped dryly before turning them toward the door. His gut threatened upheaval and he paused to tamp down the queasiness. They cleared the threshold and Chance welcomed the blast of warm air pelting his face. He kicked the door shut and released her, only to have the air swoosh out of his lungs when she whirled around and faced him.
Thick, lustrous honey-colored hair cascaded over her shoulders to curl around her waist. Smooth, ivory skin, a pert nose and a tiny dimple set in her chin lent way to a decidedly feminine body. But it wasn’t her soft curves or the sight of his blood staining her calico dress that robbed him of breath. Eyes the shade of a deep blue sky glared up at him. And stirred something within.
“Do you make it a habit of manhandling women?” Her gaze raked him with contempt.
“No,” he rasped. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Hmph! A Marshall―if you’re truly a lawman, and I have my doubts. I don’t see a badge―always has a choice.”
“Not this time.” He shoved a hand into his pocket and withdrew a piece of tin, held it up for her to see. “Does this make you think better of me?”
She studied the star then wrinkled her nose. “No.” She averted her gaze, only to jerk her attention back to him. “You’re hurt!” She came forward, her hand reaching toward the blood encrusting the hole marring his coat. “Foolish man. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I―” Chance grinded his teeth when her fingers came into contact with his side. “It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.”
She fixed him with a perturbed look. “My little cousins lie better than you.” She knelt before him, pushed his coat aside and tugged his shirt free of his trousers. Gently, her fingers probed the hole in his side. “Why is your shirt wet?”
“I kept snow pressed against me most of the day.”
She nodded as if to say, Oh, then shifted her hand to his back and felt along his skin, eliciting a croak of… something from him.
“There’s no exit wound,” she said matter-of-fact, the hem of his shirt falling to his waist as she rose. “The bullet needs to come out. I’ll get my coat and help you to the clinic. My uncle’s a doctor. He’ll have you feeling better in a day or two.”
“No doctor,” he said flatly.
“Don’t be difficult. Or do you prefer to bleed all over my floor before you die from infection? Blood’s not the only thing seeping out of you.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts, dared him to defy her.
Chance looked around the room. To his left were the window he’d stared at, a sink and counter, and a stove. A stew pot sat on top of the cast iron. The delicious aroma he’d inhaled earlier wafted toward him.
A heavy curtain of green hung from a rod stretching across the width of the room, concealing the back wall and corners. Directly across from him, a fireplace took up most of the outer wall, the mantle bedecked with Christmas greenery and candles. A floral sofa faced the hearth, and in the center of the room stood a table and two chairs. Peppermint sticks, pennies, red ribbon and scissors were strewn across the top of the smooth wood. Behind the table, he presumed the closed door led to the schoolroom. Beside the door, a pin cushion filled with needles and a spool of thread were tucked into the corner of a sideboard.
“It’s best we stay here.” Smarty believed him dead. Habit dictated the outlaw spend the night at the nearest saloon celebrating his victim’s demise. No doubt, this town had a saloon. If Chance were to allow her to escort him to the clinic and Smarty spotted him, in his weakened condition, Marshall or not, he wouldn’t be able to protect her. Or himself. He had to track Smarty’s whereabouts alone. “Just stitch me up. I’ll be fine.” He brought his attention back to her. Once he had Smarty behind bars, he’d find her uncle and have him remove the bullet. “You’ve got needles and thread.” He nodded toward the hutch.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I stitch animals.” And snapped her gaze back to him. “Not people.”
Chance shrugged. “Skin is skin.” He staggered past her and dropped down onto a chair. “Please,” he begged, then swore inwardly. Helplessness had never agreed with him. “I would’ve done so myself, but my horse fled with my gear.” He removed his Stetson and set it on the table.
“Stubborn fool,” she bristled. But then, her blue eyes softened. “I suppose you want me to take that slug out of you, too?”
He paused a moment and gave thought. Waiting to have the bullet removed wasn’t the smartest decision. But it did afford him the time he needed to locate the saloon and Smarty. No way in hell was he losing sight of the bastard who’d killed two lawmen.
Then again, weak as he felt, if he went to the saloon right quick, he might not have the strength to hogtie the sonofabitch and toss him in the calaboose. But if the pretty lady standing over him removed the bullet and allowed him to rest here for a short spell, dragging Smarty out of the watering hole and to the jailhouse wouldn’t prove his demise. “Would you?” He met her gaze, hopeful.
She bit the inside of her lip and considered him. For a long moment, Chance was certain she’d refuse.
“I suppose,” she finally said, an uneasy expression contorting her features. “You’ll need whiskey before I dig around inside you.” She went to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle and handed it to him.
“Obliged, ma’am.” He drank down a healthy swallow.
“No ma’am. I’m Tabitha Weston.”
“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Tabitha.” Chance winked at her before drinking more of the whiskey.
“There’ll be none of that.” She pointed a stern finger at him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, subdued. And then, he winked at her again.
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