The Cowboy Who Saved Christmas

by Jodi Thomas, Sharla Lovelace, Linda Broday

Genres: Holiday books; American Romance

Synopsis

In these Texas-set stories of romance and adventure, the Civil War is over, Christmas is coming—and it’s time for three rugged fighters to become lovers . . .

FATHER GOOSE
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Jodi Thomas
Dispirited by war, when Trapper Morgan accepts a job hauling five little rich girls to Dallas, all he cares about is the money. He doesn’t expect they’ll awaken his spirit—or that their intriguing nursemaid, Carolina, will awaken his heart. And when danger strikes as Christmas Eve nears, he definitely doesn’t expect Carolina and the girls to risk their lives—for him . . .

THE MISTLETOE PROMISE * Sharla Lovelace
A catastrophic storm, an ailing herd, and a failing cattle ranch have left Texas rancher Josie Bancroft in danger of losing everything her father worked for. Still, she’d rather die than merge with her neighbor rancher Benjamin Mason, the man who broke her heart years ago, on Christmas Eve. As old sparks fly and secrets are revealed, however, Ben is determined to help Josie—and prove that this time around can be different. That the misunderstandings of Christmas past need not define their future . . .

CHRISTMAS ROAD * Scarlett Dunn
Yellow Fever has hit Clint Mitchum’s Texas hometown and taken his father and siblings, leaving Clint ever more cynical. Racing homeward to be by his mother’s side, Clint finds only a note from her, asking that he help her caregiver, a young woman named Amelia. Assuming his mother has passed, in his grief Clint ventures out to search for Amelia—and finds the best of gifts—just in time for Christmas . . .

Release date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Trapper Hawkins rode into the settlement of Jefferson, Texas, at dusk, just as he had the day before. Late sunshine flickered off Big Cypress Bayou like diamonds on new-formed ice.

The wind was cold, promising rain that might change to snow by midnight. The temperature didn’t matter. He’d been cold to the bone so long he wasn’t sure he was alive. Now and then he thought if someone cut out his heart, he’d still function.

Memories drifted in his mind like sand on the wind. He’d been seventeen when he’d signed up to fight for his state, Tennessee, in a war he didn’t understand between states. But his three big brothers were excited to go, and Trapper didn’t want to be left home on the farm with his father.

The old man blamed Trapper for his mother’s death. His father never looked at his youngest and left Trapper’s raising to his older sons. One of his first memories was being locked out of the cabin for forgetting to do something. He’d been four and the night was cold. He lay on the ground without cover and pretended he didn’t feel the cold. Pretending became his first defense.

Trapper grinned to himself. His bad luck might have started at birth, but he chose to remember his childhood as easy, not the hard reality it had been. Maybe that was how he made it through the war. Maybe that was why playing the part of a gambler at night fitted him well. No one knew him, so he could be whoever he wanted to be.

As he moved down the main street of Jefferson, Trapper saw two soldiers walking toward him. The war had been over for two years, yet he still came to full alert when he saw Yankee blue.

He leaned forward, patting Midnight’s neck so the soldiers couldn’t see his face. “Easy now, boy,” he whispered as he had a thousand times during the war. The horse seemed to understand to remain still and not make a sound.

Trapper never wore a uniform in the war. He’d first been assigned as a dispatcher. He rode from camp to camp delivering messages. He was tall and lean at seventeen. Young enough, or maybe dumb enough, to think it fun to tease danger. He’d cross the lines, play the part of a farmer when he was questioned, and set traps so that anyone following him would be sorry.

Often the traps caught game, and as the war lingered on, the fresh meat was much needed. That was when the men began to call him Trapper. By the end of the war, he barely remembered his given name or the life he’d once had.

“Hello, mister,” one of the soldiers yelled, drawing Trapper’s attention. “Mind telling us why you’re out so late? Shouldn’t you be home having dinner?”

Trapper had no idea if this town had a curfew. When the soldiers came in after the war, they set all kinds of rules. Jailed people for pretty much any reason. Most of the Yankees were just doing their job, but a few, who came south to make a fortune, liked to cause trouble.

Trapper kept his hat low. Few could identify him from the war, but if someone did, he was a dead man. He’d been a spy many times. He’d traveled through northern states, picking up information. Men who crossed the lines were sometimes called gray shadows. They were the only Southerners not pardoned.

“I ain’t got no wife.” Trapper made a Southern accent drip from every word. “I’m heading to the saloon for my dinner. Heard it’s only two bits.”

One soldier moved closer. “Did you serve in the war?”

“I did.” Trapper straightened. “I was one of the cooks for General Lee. They call me Trapper ’cause I can trap a rat, roast it with onions and greens, and you’ll think you’re eating at your mother’s table.”

Both men laughed. “My mother never cooked rat,” one answered.

The other soldier waved him off.

Neither one questioned Trapper’s lie. He’d figured out the more elaborate the lie, the easier it was believed.

As he neared the saloon, he smiled. Maybe, if his luck held a few hours, he’d make enough money to buy a ticket on the westbound stage. Following the sun was his only goal.

When he’d gone home two years ago, he’d learned his brothers were dead, the farm had been sold for taxes, and his pa had disappeared. That night he’d slept in the trees near town and realized there was no home to go back to or memories to keep.

Trapper grew up during the war. All he’d learned was to fight, and he’d had enough of that for a lifetime. The only skill he’d developed was passing unnoticed through towns and open country. He could shoot and track any animal or man. He could live off the land, but he didn’t know how to live with people.

Ever since the South surrendered, he’d watched people, never getting too close to anyone. You make friends, they get to know your secrets, and then they’re not secrets anymore. In his case, one secret could end his life.

Saloons seemed to be the easiest place to find a cheap meal and disappear among strangers. He’d learned to play poker well during the war and followed three rules from the first day he walked into a saloon: One: Never step away from a table broke. Two: Never cheat. Three: Never sleep with one of the soiled doves who leaned on his shoulders from time to time.

They were the only women he met. A respectable woman wouldn’t talk to a drifter or a gambler. Which left him with no midnight life, even though he left the tables with money in his pocket.

As the months rolled by, he kept moving west until he finally crossed into Texas. Here, there was less of a stain on the earth from war. The people might be poor, but they were still dreaming, not like most he’d seen. Yankees and Rebels even talked over a drink now and then. Texas had more to worry about than scratching at old wounds. The state was still untamed, with most saloons little more than tents with dirt floors. If the storms and the rivers didn’t kill you, outlaws and Apaches would.

Folks said half the men who survived the war were broken, but it seemed the ones in Texas were also downright crazy.

Trapper thought there must be good people in the world—settlers, farmers, traders—but the men he saw at the gaming tables often had dead eyes. They’d given up on life even though they still walked the earth. Others had become hunters looking for their next prey, be it animal or man. But here, in the Lone Star State, he’d found dreamers. And dreamers will always take a chance on the turn of the cards.

He managed to avoid the broken men or those who preyed on the weak as much as he could. Trapper studied people and saw few he wanted to remember.

As the sun set, he tied Midnight to the hitching post in front of the saloon. Be ready to ride had always been his motto. The town might be an important inland port, but Trapper feared trouble could be coming toward him just beyond the bend. A fast horse and lightning action had kept him alive many times.

A wreath of evergreen branches hanging in the bar window looked out of place. Three weeks away from Christmas, he thought, and the saloon boiled with unrest. In a few hours the place would be packed with men, angry and drunk. Like most, Trapper didn’t care about the holiday. It was just another night.

He took a seat at a corner table near the kitchen. When he signed up for the War Between the States, he soon learned that one meal a day was a luxury. He always saved that one meal until sundown.

The thin cook, looking more kid than woman, brought him a plate of the nightly special. Trapper didn’t look up.

“You want anything else?” The shy girl barely raised her head, and the worn hat she wore hid both her hair and her eyes.

“No, I’m good.” He never talked to the women in the saloon more than needed, not even the kitchen help. He knew that as soon as this one filled out, she’d double, maybe triple her pay by climbing the stairs a few times a night. One night he’d see her in a fancy, low-cut dress, and not the rags she wore now. She’d be billed as a virgin for a few months, then the new girl for a while, and finally her rate would drop a bit and she’d simply be one of the doves. Her fancy dress would become ragged and her eyes dull from whiskey.

When the kitchen girl came back for his empty plate, he tipped her. She whispered a thank-you and moved away as a few men joined Trapper, ready to play cards.

Here among down-on-their-luck cowboys, outlaws, and river rats, the game was far more than poker. Trapper had to be able to read men. Sore losers, cheats, men looking for a fight, and even a few looking for a way to die.

But until he found work, it was his only way of making money. He could have just lived off the land, but he liked his bath in a bathhouse and he liked his one meal on a plate.

Trapper played his cards close. He never bragged when he won or complained when he lost. Tonight the game was casual, slow moving. It seemed the men at the table were simply drinking and playing to pass the time.

Trapper was about to call it a night when a barrel-chested teamster sat down at the table. He played with coins for a while, then offered his next hauling job as his ante.

“It’s a three-week haul and pays five hundred dollars. Best part is I don’t have to come back to Jefferson with the wagon. It’s a one-way trip that pays ten times the normal rate. That should be worth money.”

The drunks at the table laughed. “Yeah, all you have to do is stay alive between here and Dallas. Outlaws, raiders, storms, and who knows what. I heard this morning that one guy is already thinking about ambushing your wagon thanks to all your bragging. Must be something special if they pay so much.”

Another man added in a mumble, “You shouldn’t have been crowing so loud, mister. You just may have signed your own death certificate. There are men in this town willing to do anything for money.”

The teamster smiled at the men. “But if you win this pot, and make it to Dallas, you’ll have more than you made last year in your pocket. All you have to do is transport one wagon full of something priceless.”

The big man patted his chest. “I may have got a bit drunk and said too much, but when I win this pot and take all your money, I’ll be able to hire help. If one of you wins the pot, the trip will no longer be my problem.”

Every man was in on the hand. A year’s salary for a few dollars bet would be worth the chance.

Trapper didn’t even smile; he simply played his cards.

Ten minutes later all were out but the teamster and Trapper. The pot was worth more than any since Trapper had been in Texas. If he won, he’d have money and a free ride to Dallas.

The teamster called. Trapper showed his hand. A pair of jacks.

The teamster smiled and laid down a pair of eights. “Looks like you win, stranger.”

Trapper raised an eyebrow. The man looked too happy to have just lost.

The teamster leaned closer and whispered, “One thing I need to tell you. The cargo is five little girls. Spoiled and pampered rich kids. You’ll need a lady’s maid, a few men to ride shotgun, and probably a cannon to get them to Dallas. Every outlaw within a hundred miles has probably heard of the girls coming home and plans to ransom them after they leave you for the buzzards.”

The teamster shook his head. “I might still have tried the trip except for one thing. The little girls’ daddy has sworn to kill me if his daughters arrive with even a scratch. I figured out tonight that I’d be double dead if I took this job.”

Trapper looked in the man’s eyes and saw true fear. “Why don’t the parents come to meet them?”

“Word is there’s a big range war north of Dallas. If he leaves, he stands to lose all the land he’s fought for. Some say he tried writing to the school to keep them over the holiday, but the girls were already on their way.”

The teamster shrugged. “You’ll spend all your money hiring guards and still not have enough.” He stood. “Well, I’m heading home fifty dollars richer thanks to the advance they gave me. I’ll keep the money left after I’ve bought the wagon and supplies. You can collect the rest if you make it to Dallas. If . . .” He walked away whistling.

Trapper didn’t argue. It was too late. He’d won the pot. “Where do I find them?” he yelled at the teamster’s back.

The man turned around. “They’ll be arriving before noon tomorrow by paddleboat. The nurse with them will turn them over to you and return as soon as the boat is reloaded. A wagon will be waiting for you by the dock. It ain’t big, but it’s got a cover. I stocked it with enough food and water to last the trip.”

“Aren’t you going to be there to see us off?”

“No. I’m staying home with my wife. She’s been complaining about having to go along since I signed on. She might be happy enough to be nice to me.”

Trapper nodded. He’d faced worse odds before, like every night in the war, when he’d crossed enemy lines. Five hundred would give him a real start. So he’d take the job no matter what danger came with it.

Besides, how much trouble could five little girls be? They’d probably look at it as an adventure.

Emery Adams watched the card game from the door of the kitchen. She usually tried to be invisible once she stepped into the saloon, but she liked serving supper to the tall man called Trapper. Once he’d glanced up at her, and she’d seen kind eyes in a hard face that rarely smiled.

He couldn’t be much older than she was, twenty-four maybe, but he looked so confident. Sandy brown hair a bit too long, as most Westerners wore it, and blue eyes as blue as a summer sky.

He wasn’t like the other men. He never tried to talk to her or kidded her about being so homely that men wouldn’t take her upstairs even if the ride was free.

A few men would try to see if she was developing, but her mother wrapped her breasts every morning before Em slipped on the dress made of rough wool. It hung to her ankles and was hot in the kitchen, but it was the only way her mother would risk her working in the saloon.

If anyone knew she was twenty, she wouldn’t be invisible. So she dressed the part of a girl not grown and shuffled her feet as she stared at the floor.

Eight years ago, when she’d just turned twelve, her father pulled her out of her bed before dawn and said it was time she earned her keep. Two of her sisters had married the year before and the third had run off.

Em was the only one of his worthless daughters left, and her father planned to take advantage of her shy ways. He knew she wouldn’t fight him; he’d beat that out her when she was little. She’d do as she was told. Em, the baby, would never run away. She wouldn’t have the energy after she learned to work. He’d make sure of that.

Em had to play the role or her father swore he’d turn her out to starve. She was small, but beneath her baggy clothes her body was definitely a woman’s. Her mother cut her honey-brown hair blunt to her shoulders with bangs that hung in her eyes. As time passed, she braided it so her mother wouldn’t cut it again.

At first she just washed dishes at the saloon where her father tended bar. She hauled supplies for the tiny kitchen, kept the fire going, and helped the old cook. When the cook died two years later, Em did both jobs.

Her father made sure she never saw her pay.

Though she had three sisters, her father swore Em would never leave him. Her hair was usually dull brown from the cook stove’s smoke. As it grew longer, she stuffed it in an old hat she’d found left in the bar. Her skin was dull from never seeing the sun, and her body thin. Em’s arms were scarred from burns. It had taken her a year to grow strong enough to lift the heavy pots without occasionally bumping her skin.

Her father reminded her now and then that she was worthless. She’d questioned him once about her pay, and he’d bruised the entire left side of her face with one blow. Em stayed, never owning a new dress or even a ribbon for her hair. Six nights a week she cooked, then cleaned at the saloon after midnight.

On the seventh day the saloon was closed. While her parents went to church, Em went in early to clean the upstairs. Half of the rooms were for the doves and their hourly guests. The other half were rented out to travelers. Once a week the sheets were changed and the rooms swept out, no matter how many times the rooms were rented.

The barmaids were nice and often left a quarter on their beds. A traveler once left a dollar. Em kept whatever money was left in the rented rooms hidden away in a rusty tin in the kitchen. It was mostly only change, but someday she might need it.

Long after Trapper’s poker game was over and the saloon closed, she cleaned. In the silence she wished she could go on his journey. Even a dangerous adventure would be better than this. She’d grow old here, her days all the same.

When she finished cleaning, she heated one more pot of water and carried it upstairs to a back storage closet. At one time it had been a tiny room, but now the bed was broken, the windows boarded over to prevent a draft.

An old hip tub sat in one corner. Once a week, in the stillness before dawn, Em took a bath and pretended to be a lady. The drab, scratchy dress came off, as did the wrappings to make her look flat-chested. By candlelight she dreamed of more to her life than cooking and cleaning. If she just had a chance, she’d be brave, she told herself as she used the bits of lavender soap the girls tossed out.

In the silence, with warm water surrounding her, she relaxed and fell asleep. The tiny room’s door was locked. No one would look for her.

When a noise downstairs jerked her awake, sunlight was coming through the cracks in the boards.

Em jumped out of the tub so fast she splashed water on her wool dress. Panic gripped her. She’d freeze walking the mile home in wet clothes.

She wrapped herself in a towel one of the barmaids had given her when she left, headed back to New Orleans on one of the paddleboats.

The barmaid had whispered, “Get out of this place, honey. It will rot your soul.”

Em knew her parents wouldn’t worry about her being late today. She often slept in the corner of the kitchen on the bench where deliveries were dumped. Her father never wanted to wait on her to finish her cleaning, and it never occurred to her that he might come back for her. She’d stayed in the kitchen a few times on Sunday so she could catch up.

As long as she did her work, he didn’t care where she slept.

Em paced the tiny room. Over the years it had become a storage room for broken things no one had time to fix and lost luggage no one ever came back to claim.

A dusty black bag in the corner caught her eye. It was worn. The leather had been patched on one side. It had been in the corner for years.

She remembered the day she’d turned twelve and her father said she had to work. He’d almost dragged her into the back of the saloon. He’d showed her around the place and told her she’d have no more birthdays. She couldn’t remember how long after that she’d found the forgotten little room. It became her one secret place where she could think and dream.

Now, feeling much like a thief, she loosened the straps on the old bag. Maybe she’d find a shawl or coat she could wear home. Em promised herself she’d return it tomorrow.

One by one she pulled the things from the bag. A black dress, undergarments, a shawl someone had crocheted with great care, and a pair of ladies’ boots with heels too high to be practical.

It seemed to be everything she needed. She’d dress like a lady in the fancy clothes if only for a day. She’d walk through town with her head up. She’d be a woman and no longer pretend to be a girl.

In the bottom of the bag she noticed a thin black ribbon. When she tugged, a false bottom pulled open. Below lay three black boxes. They were made the same size as the bag, so unless someone looked closely, no one would see them.

Em pulled them out as if finding a treasure. The first was a small sewing box, packed full. The second was loaded with creams, a little brush, and a comb set to keep her hair in place. The third box held a Bible with money hidden one bill at a time between the pages. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to buy a ticket on the paddleboat or passage on the stage to the next town.

A gold ring lay in the corner of the third box.

Em slipped on the ring. It was a perfect fit. It was small, thin, the cheapest kind sold at the mercantile, but she’d never worn a ring before, so she felt beautiful wearing it.

Carefully, she began to put on the underthings. They smelled of dust, but they were clean. To her surprise, each fit. She’d seen camisoles in the stores, but she’d never felt one lightly touch her skin. The bodice pushed up her breasts and slimmed her waist.

With each piece she felt like she was shedding her old skin and putting on another. The shoes were a bit too big. The jacket a little too small.

When she stood and looked in the cracked mirror, Em didn’t recognize herself. She pulled her damp, clean hair back with the combs and a woman stood before her. A lady in black with a widow’s pin over her heart.

A plan shot through her thoughts. This was her chance. If she didn’t take it, she’d wish every day for the rest of her life that she had.

Em rolled up the damp wool dress along with the towel and put them inside the leather bag. Then she circled the shawl over her shoulders, held. . .