A Hard Candy Christmas Read online

  A Hard Candy Christmas

  By

  Hebby Roman

  West Texas Christmas Trilogy Book 1

  Estrella Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  A West Texas Christmas Trilogy Book 2

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Del Rio, Texas 1895

  Clint Graham folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. From beneath the wide brim of his Stetson, his gaze scanned the crowd, trying to assess its mood. What he saw, he didn’t like. The crowd, composed mostly of ranchers like him, appeared edgy and restless. They’d listened to their fellow ranchers complain about the proposed rate hikes and how the new rates would ruin them. Now it was time for a representative of the Southern Pacific Railroad to speak. But the crowd didn’t appear to be in a listening mood.

  The railroad representative, a slight, balding man, formally attired in a suit, strode to the edge of the depot’s platform. Lifting his hands above his head, he gestured for quiet. The ranchers glanced at him, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats. The representative began his speech, talking about the new laws Congress had mandated for the railroads, droning on about the cost to replace existing equipment with new safety devices.

  The crowd shifted and muttered. The muttering grew louder, punctuated by boos and cat-calls. The ranchers, their fists raised in the air, weren’t listening. They shouted curses, drowning out the railroad official’s words.

  A six-shooter roared, and the bullet whined overhead. The balding representative ducked and scurried to the back of the platform. An uneasy quiet descended on the crowd. The county sheriff, Lyle Cunningham, leapt onto the platform, demanding to know who had fired the shot. His answer was a second shot, which knocked the hat from his head.

  Clint glimpsed the glint of sun on metal and reacted without thinking. Grabbing the shooter’s forearm, he stopped the man from shooting again. They stood, locked together with Clint’s hand gripping the man’s arm. The air sizzled with unspoken animosity. Clint stared him down.

  The shooter, Pete Baker, a rancher with a penchant for picking fights, finally lowered his eyes. Clint took the gun from his hand and pushed him toward the platform. Sheriff Cunningham intercepted them and cuffed the shooter.

  “That will cost you a night in jail for disturbing the peace, Baker,” Cunningham said.

  Then Cunningham did something unexpected. He ripped the badge from his shirt. “Taking Baker into custody is my final official act.” Holding the badge up, he added, “Who wants it? I don’t. I see trouble coming. You ranchers ain’t willing to listen to reason. And I didn’t sign on as a moving target.”

  More cat-calls ensued and shouts of “coward” filled the air. Cunningham shrugged and tossed the badge onto the platform before leading Baker away. The crowd watched them go, muttering and shaking their heads.

  The mayor strode to the edge of the platform and declared they needed a new sheriff. He also said they didn't have time for a special election. And he urged the crowd to select a likely candidate.

  “How about Graham?” A voice shouted from the back of the unruly mob. “He was quick enough to catch Baker. And he was a bounty hunter before he took to ranching.”

  At the suggestion, Clint lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder, wondering who thought he was sheriff material. He’d hated bounty hunting, but he’d done it because he had few options and it paid good money. He’d dreamed of settling on a ranch and living out his life in peace. Like most ranchers in the area, he’d lost half of his stock to bluetongue this year. And there wasn’t any money to rebuild.

  The sheriff’s job paid good money.

  Having made his decision, he swept the Stetson from his head and picked up the discarded badge. He nodded to the mayor and turned to face the crowd. “I accept your offer to be your new sheriff.”

  ***

  Abigail Kerr Sanford set the tray on the floor beside the heavy oak door and raised her hand to knock. Hesitating, she mentally reviewed her list of chores. The laundry was done, the empty room had been cleaned and the linens changed, the final meal of the day had been prepared and served, the larder stocked, and the menu for tomorrow planned.

  Her father expected the boardinghouse to run with precision and a profit. He supervised the operation from the privacy of his suite of rooms, seldom mingling with the boarders. It was Abigail’s job to carry out his instructions.

  She knocked and waited.

  “Come in, Daughter.”

  She turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches. She bent to pick up the tray. With the tray occupying her hands, she widened the opening with her foot and entered the room.

  Her father, William Kerr, sat in his favorite chair before a table in the curve of a large bow window. He raised his head from his newspaper and removed the spectacles from his long, thin nose. With his usual meticulous care to detail, he placed the spectacles on the table and folded the newspaper, putting it beside his glasses.

  Abigail stood at attention, holding the tray and waiting for instruction.

  He waved one hand. “I’m ready to be served, Daughter. You may put the tray down.”

  She set the tray on the table. Her father nodded, and she stepped back. He uncovered the tray, inspected its contents, settled the napkin on his lap, and re-arranged the silverware. Taking up his fork, he speared a piece of pot roast and chewed it slowly. Obviously finding the food to his satisfaction, he nodded again and inclined his head toward a chair.

  Having passed the first test, Abigail exhaled and seated herself on the edge of the chair. She folded her hands in her lap and composed her features. She waited for her father to begin their evening discussion.

  “Good evening, Abigail.”

  The formal greeting was the only time he used her given name. Other than that he called her “daughter” to remind her that she was his possession, nothing more. And something less than a person.

  “Good evening, Father.”

  “All is well with the boardinghouse?”

  His opening words never varied, and he didn’t like surprises. The ensuing list of questions might be long or short, but she limited herself to brief answers, rarely venturing

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Did Juan post the ‘Room for Rent’ sign?”

  Juan García was responsible for the heavier tasks at the boardinghouse. Elisa, his wife, shared the household and cooking chores with Abigail.

  “Yes, Father, he put the sign out this afternoon.”

  William Kerr nodded for the third time and ate in silence for several minutes. Abigail waited patiently, knowing she couldn’t rush him.

  “That’s good. With the shortage of housing we should have a new boarder within the week. Don’t you think so, Daughter?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Is the empty room cleaned and aired?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And the shopping and laundry?”

  “Both are done.”

  “Did you check my schedule?”

  “Yes, Father. I stopped by the roundhouse this afternoon. You are to report at three o’clock tomorrow.” Her father expected her to know his railroad schedule so she could plan meals and household chores with his convenience in mind.

  “Good. That means my scheduled run hasn’t altered. I checked
the board when I returned from my last trip. They’ll send a runner if it changes.” He sliced a boiled potato. “And the menu for tomorrow night?”

  “Liver with garden vegetables and cream pie.”

  “You remember well, Daughter.” There was an uncommon note of approval in his voice. “I dislike liver, but it’s an economical choice to serve our boarders.” He put his fork and knife to one side and patted his flat abdomen. “And you know I don’t eat cream pie. Too fattening. A competent railroad engineer must remain fit to properly execute his job.”

  Abigail said nothing, knowing he didn’t expect a response. She’d never understood his avoidance of certain foods, especially rich desserts. His spare, wiry frame didn’t possess an ounce of extra flesh. Viewed without his coat jacket, he appeared almost gaunt, silent testimony to his austere existence.

  William Kerr raised his head and his gaze met hers. His eyes were gray-cold, reminding her of the snow-leaden skies of her former home in St. Louis.

  She shivered and trembled, meeting his gaze. Knotting her hands, she willed the tremor to pass. Her father never looked at her directly unless he was angry or on very rare occasions, pleased.

  She held her breath, afraid to avoid his penetrating gaze. She cast about in her mind for something she’d done or neglected to do that might have displeased him.

  He wiped his mouth with the napkin and lowered his head. Rising from his seat, he signaled his finish. He moved to the large, curved window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. “It’s a pleasant evening.” Pulling his railroad pocket watch from his vest, he said, “I’ll be leaving shortly for my deacon’s meeting.”

  Abigail rose, too, and then almost collapsed backward, limp with relief. She’d been anxious for no reason. Her father wasn’t displeased, he was thinking about his meeting. His one passion, besides the railroad and making money, was his allegiance to the Presbyterian Church. He’d served as a deacon for twenty years. She moved to the table and started stacking dishes on the tray.

  “You’ve done well this month, Daughter. The boardinghouse is running with the precision of a railroad—as it should. I’m pleased.”

  Taking courage from his rare praise, she broached a subject that had been on her mind. “Father, I heard there was trouble today. Elisa said someone shot at Sheriff Cunningham, and the mayor selected a new sheriff. Do you know what happened?”

  She saw his back straighten and his shoulders tense. Seeing his reaction, she wanted to snatch her words back.

  “It’s none of your concern, Daughter. The ranchers are bitter over the railroad raising their rates. The shooting was an accident. Sheriff Cunningham is a coward, and the new sheriff will have his hands full.” He turned to face her, his features drawn in a stern line. “Your concern is the boardinghouse, not the town and its politics.”

  “Yes, Father. But if there is danger, I need to know for Kevin’s sake.”

  At the mention of his eight-year-old grandson, William Kerr’s features softened. “You’re right, Daughter. I wasn’t thinking. We can’t be too careful where my grandson is concerned.” He smiled—another rare gesture. “Have Juan walk him to and from school and keep Kevin close to home.”

  She nodded, agreeing with her father’s precautions, while realizing how hard it would be to enforce restrictions on her active son. She lifted the tray and turned to go, waiting for her father’s customary dismissal.

  “Good night, Daughter.”

  ***

  Clint Graham stood before the gabled, three-story Victorian house. It was a handsome place with two large bow windows in front and deep porches surrounding three sides. The setting sun glinted off floor-to-ceiling windows, reminding Clint of the lateness of the hour.

  He’d intended to find a room to rent before nightfall, but he’d been delayed when Jezebel, his sorrel mare, had thrown a shoe. Not wanting to risk laming her, he’d walked the remaining miles, leading the mare.

  When he took the job as sheriff, he’d realized he would have to move to town. If he was honest with himself, moving away from the ranch was almost as attractive as the salary he would draw. In the beginning, his small spread on the Devil’s River had been a welcome refuge.

  But that had been before the tragedy. Now the shimmering river was a daily reminder of his inadequacy and inconsolable grief. It had been a relief to leave his ranch in the capable hands of his foreman.

  He would have preferred to live at the sheriff’s office. But Del Rio’s jailhouse was pathetically inadequate, consisting of one tiny room, half of the space taken up by an open cell for prisoners.

  After giving it careful thought, he’d decided to live at Kerr House, a local boardinghouse. The place was known for its tasty food and cleanliness. The huge house fronted Main Street and was a scant block from the railroad yard.

  Encouraged by the sign offering a room for rent, he tied Jezebel to the white picket fence. When he reached the ornately carved, multi-paned front door, he wiped his boots and removed his Stetson. Then he rang the doorbell.

  A dark-haired Mexican woman, who was almost as broad as she was tall, answered the door.

  Tipping his head, he announced himself, “I’m Clint Graham, ma’am, and I want to rent the room you have.”

  The woman bobbed her head. “I’m Elisa García, the housekeeper. You will need to speak with Mrs. Sanford. I will bring her.”

  “May I come inside to wait?’

  “Sí, señor.” She opened the door wider. “Por favor, come inside. It is suppertime and we’re busy serving, but I will bring Mrs. Sanford to you.”

  “If you’re busy, I could come back at a better time.”

  “No, no, señor, it is no trouble.” Urging him in front of her like a farm wife shooing chickens, she pointed to a large room off the front corridor. “Por favor, wait in the parlor. Only one moment, señor.”

  “Thank you.”

  She hurried off in a rustle of petticoats, and Clint entered the parlor. Glancing around, he was intrigued by what he saw. The fireplace boasted fine Italian marble. The wooden wainscoting was fashioned from rich mahogany. The cornices appeared to have been carved by a master and the bow window was magnificent. But the rug was a cheap imitation and threadbare. The draperies were old and stained. And the furniture consisted of ladder-back chairs, one worn rocker, and a moth-eaten settee.

  The room was a curious study in contrasts. It looked as if it had been crafted for a millionaire, only to be inhabited by a pauper.

  Hearing the light tread of someone approaching, he turned. His mind envisioned Mrs. Sanford before she appeared. She would be a no-nonsense, middle-aged woman with a dozen keys dangling from her ample waist. Contrary to his expectations, his gaze found a slender young woman of medium height who wore a stained apron.

  She entered the room but hovered silently on the threshold. He thought her behavior odd but decided to take the initiative. He closed the distance between them and offered his hand. “I’m Clint Graham. Are you Mrs. Sanford?”

  Staring at his outstretched hand, she made no move to take it. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Sanford.”

  Uneasy at her rejection, he dropped his hand. He thought he recognized her, but each time he’d glimpsed her in town, she’d had her bonnet pulled close and tight, hiding her features. He couldn’t understand why she would hide her face.

  Her features were attractive, especially her wide-set, green eyes and generous mouth. Even her hair, which was pulled into a severe bun, was comely. Her hair was thick and glossy, a deep chestnut color that glowed with hidden depths of fire. Mrs. Sanford wasn’t what he’d expected, but he could easily adjust to such a pleasant surprise.

  When she lowered her head, he glimpsed the faintest tint of rose coloring her cheeks. Realizing his scrutiny had embarrassed her, he chided himself for openly studying a married woman.

  He cleared his throat. “I would like to take the room you have.”

  Lifting her head, she stared at a point above hi
s shoulder and recited an obviously prepared speech. “The room rents for five dollars a week including board. The meals consist of breakfast and supper as well as a cold box lunch. Pets and members of the opposite sex aren’t allowed in the rooms. I’ll need two weeks’ rent in advance, and your rent is due each Saturday.”

  “I don’t have a pet, but I do have a hungry mare outside,” he replied. “Do you stable boarders’ horses?”

  His question appeared to catch her by surprise. Her gaze slid over his face before she averted her eyes. “We don’t usually get requests for stabling horses, but there is a barn out back and Juan could care for your mount. It would cost extra, and I would need to consult my father.”

  “Can you ask him? I had hoped to rent a room for tonight.”

  “He’s not here. My father is William Kerr, and he’s a railroad engineer. He’s out on a run tonight. You can leave your horse at the livery stable for now. Is that satisfactory?”

  Her answer cleared up one of the questions circling in his head. He knew William Kerr owned the boardinghouse but when the housekeeper had said Mrs. Sanford would see him, he’d assumed she was the landlady. It seemed all of his assumptions about Mrs. Sanford had been wrong. She wasn’t a hired hand, and she certainly wasn’t middle-aged and frumpy.

  If she was the daughter of the owner, he wondered where her husband was and what he did for a living. Clint didn’t get to town much, but Del Rio was a small place. He couldn’t remember any Sanfords living in the area.

  Glancing at her rigid, almost defensive stance, he realized she probably wouldn’t be eager to answer his questions, especially personal ones. Besides, all he wanted was a decent room and a place to put his horse.

  “Of course, I can leave my mount at the livery stable for tonight.” Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give the blacksmith time to replace Jezebel’s shoe.

  Even though it was a solution to his problem, he was surprised Mrs. Sanford didn’t have the authority to stable his horse for one night without her father’s permission. And where was her husband? Couldn’t he step forward to handle the situation?