A Texas Christmas Reunion. Carol Arens
weather, it was her custom to stand on her porch and listen to the quiet whispers of deep night. The sounds changed with the seasons, but her sense of peace in the moment did not.
In the beginning, when she’d first discovered this precious time, she had stood in this spot gazing up at the deep sky, often weeping while she held the image of Steven close.
But it had been a year since he went away to work for the railroad. She still thought of him. She always would, of course. But she did not do it as frequently now, and when she did it was with smiles more often than tears.
She had been blessed beyond reason with a daughter and a son. Oh, she might have been crippled by grief and loneliness, but because of the babies she carried a song in her heart.
After selling the big house she had shared with Steven and his family, she had been able to purchase her restaurant and this cozy cottage.
Each morning she had a purpose in waking, breathing, smiling at the new day and wondering what it would bring.
If the gossip was correct, it would soon bring the return of the prodigal son.
Although, unlike the prodigal, there would be no loving father’s arms open in welcome. For Trea there would be no fatted calf given in celebration.
Everyone in town, except a dozen girls with fluttering hearts, had been glad to see the last of him.
And Juliette? She had not been happy to see him go. It had broken her young heart.
Even after all these years, she remembered his expression in the instant he’d fled.
The reflection of flames consuming the livery that night had cast his face in a red-orange grimace. To many people his silence, his failure to declare his innocence while he risked his life leading horse after horse to safety, was the same as an admission of guilt that he’d set the fire.
That was not what Juliette believed. To her way of thinking, Trea would never have done anything to endanger an animal.
Was she the only one to have noted that every able-bodied man standing and witnessing the destruction had done so from across the street, leaving the rescue of the animals to a seventeen-year-old?
While it was true that Trea had always been the town bad boy—a hellion born of one—unlike his father, he was never mean-spirited.
More often than not his crimes involved kissing the girls in town. As far as Juliette could tell, none of them considered it a crime at all.
It did, however, cement his reputation as the black sheep begotten of a black sheep. Whenever a minor crime of any kind was committed, it was assumed that Trea was the perpetrator.
Juliette had valid reason to believe he was not the wicked child they had cast him as. Perhaps, in part, due to the fact that he had never kissed her. She might be the one girl in Beaumont who had never had her heart broken by him.
Which didn’t mean that she had not envied those girls and spent dreamy moments wondering about Trea’s kisses. How many nights had she lain awake in her bed imagining what it would be like to feel his lips, hear sweet whispers of affection, and all the while brooding over which of her friends might be finding out right that moment?
And now, if the gossip proved true, Trea Culverson was coming home.
Even though she was a woman grown, a widow with children, her heart beat a little faster, even her belly tickled.
She knew it was silly. Years had passed. Trea was no longer the daring, forbidden boy who’d taken her breath away.
He was a man grown. Heaven only knew who he had grown to be.
It was half past midnight when Trea Culverson dragged the grease-splattered apron off over his head for the last time. He folded it in a neat square then set it on top of the laundry pile.
The saloon washerwoman would have it cleaned by morning for the new cook.
Grease coated his hair, his arms and even the creases of his eyes. If he never fried another chicken it would be a fine thing.
Opening the door of the huge iron stove, he checked the fire to make sure it was small enough to leave unguarded.
With 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