Hero for Christmas Read online

  A Hero for Christmas

  Western Short Collection

  Cheryl Pierson

  Smashwords Edition

  A Hero for Christmas

  Presented by Western Trail Blazer

  Digital ISBN: 9781301676897

  Copyright © 2012 Cheryl Pierson

  Cover Art Copyright © 2012 Karen Michelle Nutt

  Produced by Rebecca J. Vickery

  Design Consultation by Laura Shinn

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this ebook without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  A Hero for Christmas is a work of fiction.

  Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

  [The stories in this collection previously

  appeared in various anthologies from Victory Tales Press

  and later as individual short stories.]

  Dedication

  "This book is dedicated to my husband, Gary Pierson, my very own personal hero who let me live out my dream of writing.

  With much love, always."

  A Hero for Christmas

  Western Short Collection

  A four-story Western collection from award winning author,

  Cheryl Pierson

  A Night for Miracles

  Widow Angela Bentley takes in injured Nick Dalton and three orphans on Christmas Eve. Angela determines to keep her distance – until the children drag in a scraggly Christmas tree.

  Homecoming

  A holiday skirmish sends Union officer, Jack Durham, on an unlikely mission for a dying Confederate enemy. Will a miracle be able to heal his heart and reunite him with his beloved?

  Meant to Be

  Robin Mallory is shocked when she is tackled by a man in a Confederate uniform. A flat tire and a coming snowstorm have stranded her in the middle of a re-enactment – or is it?

  Scarlet Ribbons

  Persuaded by a vendor, Miguel Rivera ~ El Diablo ~ makes a foolish purchase—scarlet ribbons. Will they, and a mysterious meeting, set him on a new path?

  A Night for Miracles

  "Come lie down with me, Angela." In spite of the pain, a teasing dare veiled his voice, as though he believed she would deny him. But when he looked at her, his eyes weren't laughing. "It's a hell of a thing to remember. To talk about." He smiled crookedly. "Besides, I've got your bed."

  The need she saw in his expression was so great that Angela could not refuse. This wasn't proper, she thought, even as she stood up to comply. It was scandalous, to lie down with this man – a man she barely knew – but she was so lonely, so cold, so tired of being strong. She wanted to be a woman tonight, to lie next to a man and be safe in his embrace. She gave him a last doubtful look, and he reached for her with a heavy sigh.

  "I promise, I can be a gentleman," he said, "when I have to."

  She moved to the space beside him, taking the invitation he had so casually flung out. Carefully settling herself next to him, she let him draw her close – and nothing had ever felt more right.

  Chapter One

  Angela Bentley breathed a sigh of pure exasperation. She'd been watching the two horses as they wound their way across the snowy whiteness toward her cabin. She set her mouth in a grim line and let the yellow gingham curtain fall back into place. She stood the Winchester by the front door, then lifted the curtain again for one last look.

  At first, she'd thought the riders to be two men. With trembling hands, she'd made certain the rifle was loaded. Two men, and she was here alone. But in the deep December twilight, the blue shadows of early evening had been, thankfully, deceiving. Once the horses got past the stand of snow-laden oak trees that bordered the north edge of her property, it had become evident there was nothing to fear but some unwanted company.

  For as they neared the front porch, she could see there was only one man – and he was bad hurt. He gripped the reins tightly, his leather coat stained with a river of blood. His cobalt eyes were glazed with fever, yet grim with determination. That was all that had managed to keep him in the saddle, she thought. A young boy of no more than six shared the stranger's big black. Not the man's son, by the look of him. The child held himself apart stoically, not resting too heavily against the wall of hard muscle at his back. Under the battered wide-brimmed hat he wore, the boy's hair was so blond it was nearly white. The two riders on the other mount were clearly his brother and sister. The older boy wore a look of aged and constant worry in the lines of his young face. The girl's relief was obvious by the way her eyes lit up the near darkness, like shining stars in the gray twilight. Her slumped shoulders lifted slightly. Maybe it meant that much to her, Angela thought, the idea of getting a meal and a bed, of coming in from the blowing cold that promised even more of the blizzard-like snow before this night ended. How long had they been riding?

  No matter. Angela Bentley was not one to get involved in other people's affairs, and this would be no exception. Common charity dictated she let them get warm and rest here for the night. Give them something to fill their stomachs. She'd do that for any traveler in this harsh weather. Tomorrow she'd send them on their way, if the man was able. And she would not ask any questions.

  She pulled the door open and stepped into the cold just as the older boy jumped from the saddle, his legs nearly failing him. He reached to help the younger children down, first the girl, then the boy who shared the man's saddle. The girl's shy expression had turned to one of hopeful expectation, her cornflower blue eyes lighting with genuine joy.

  Angela gave her a nod, her gaze returning to settle on the man. In the striking depths of his sapphire eyes, Angela saw a personal agony with which she was familiar, a pain completely separate from the physical wound he had suffered.

  A wound to his soul.

  It drew her to him in spite of her intention to remain aloof. She placed a steadying hand on his side. He muffled a groan and stiffened at her gentle touch. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He looked to be in much worse shape than she had first thought. When Angela drew her hand away, it was smudged red-brown in the fading light, and sticky with his blood. He took a shallow breath, raspy and ragged.

  The older boy looked at her, eyes wide.

  "Let's get him inside," she said, fighting to hide her alarm. The stranger slid from the saddle with a harsh groan. His knees threatened to buckle, but the boy rushed forward and caught him as he looped an arm through the stirrup. Angela moved quickly to slip under his shoulder. Between the two of them, they supported his large, muscular frame as they stumbled through the high snow. Once inside the small cabin, they managed to cross the front room, halting for a moment when they reached the bedroom door. The cabin had been built larger than most, boasting four rooms—the bedroom behind the front living room, the kitchen, and separate dining area to the left. The man took a deep shuddering breath, and Angela felt his cloak of determination draw tightly around the three of them.

  "Let's go," he muttered, taking an uncertain step toward the bed. For a minute, they were off balance, the boy and Angela holding him between them. The boy faltered and gave a br
eathless grunt under the unexpected weight. But it lasted only an instant as the stranger forced his legs to work and took the next laborious step, and the next, until they'd crossed the bedroom. Angela guided him gently to the edge of the bed, and the boy slipped out from under his shoulder as he lowered himself down.

  The boy removed the man's worn Stetson, and eased the leather coat off his tense, broad shoulders. He carefully pushed the stranger back onto the white eyelet pillow shams, but the man resisted, shaking his head.

  "Will, no." He focused his unsteady look on the boy's face for an instant. His gaze shifted to the dark crimson smear he'd left on the counterpane. "The blood—"

  But the young hands were firm, the man too done in to resist their insistent pressure. He closed his eyes and sank back into the softness.

  "Take his boots off and make him comfortable," Angela said, as she started for the kitchen. She'd need to put some water on to boil. "Those linens will wash."

  "I'm scared, Will." The youngest stood nearby, his wide stare going from the man's weary face to his older brother's. "I'm really scared. Is he dead, too?"

  "No, he ain't dead." The older boy's voice contained a measure of repressed fury at the innocent question, and Angela wanted to scold him for his scornful sharpness. But in the next moment, the caring she'd seen in his expression earlier came through as he regained control. "Leah, you an' Charlie go get warm by the fire. I'll take care of things here. It'll be all right. He ain't gonna die."

  Angela returned with bandaging and salve as the girl put her arm around her younger brother's thin shoulders and led him into the front room.

  Chapter Two

  Will pulled the man's boots off with gentle care and lifted his legs to the bed.

  Angela glanced worriedly at the sleeping stranger. The boy stood by in silence. He must be all of twelve, she thought, probably as scared as his little brother, but unable to show it at his age. She smiled at him, and his face relaxed.

  "You're Will?" She laid out the medical supplies she would need.

  "Will Thompson, ma'am." He peered toward the front room, bobbing his ash-blond head. "That there's my sister, Leah, and my brother, Charlie."

  "I'm Angela Bentley." She laid the sharp tweezers on the night table and reached to shake his hand. "This your father?" she asked, knowing full well he wasn't.

  Will shook his head. "No, ma'am. My father's dead."

  Angela bit her lip and unbuttoned the wounded traveler's faded chambray shirt. "I'm sorry. Did it happen recently?"

  The boy studied the floor in silence, then said, "Two days ago."

  Angela gave him a sympathetic glance, but he didn't look up. She decided not to pursue the subject, realizing she couldn't divide her attention between comforting him and seeing to the wounded stranger.

  She drew the bloodied chambray material away from the man's hard, overly warm body, and grimaced at the severity of the bullet wound in his right side. It was not something these children should witness, especially the younger ones. She knew instinctively this man would not want them – any of them – to be present. He had put up a brave front, but looking at him now, studying the grooves of determination that bracketed his finely sculpted lips, she knew he wanted to keep his suffering private. He would only share it with her out of necessity.

  She turned to give Will a quick smile. "I'll bet y'all are hungry, aren't you? There's a pot of beans on the stove and some cornbread in the pie safe. You're welcome to dish some up for the three of you."

  "Much obliged," he said, clearly trying to deepen his voice. As he reached the door, he hesitated. "What about Nick? Will he be all right?"

  "He'll be fine. You go eat now. I might need your help later."

  That was a lie. She would not betray this man by allowing the children to see him at a weak point. She reached for the whiskey, uncorked it, and liberally soaked a clean cloth.

  Only at her assurance did Will turn to go

  Chapter Three

  Angela placed the whiskey-damp cloth against the jagged wound. The man flinched, but held himself hard against the pain. Finally, he opened his eyes. She looked into his sun-bronzed face, his deep blue gaze burning with a startling, compelling intensity as he watched her. He moistened his lips, reminding Angela that she should give him a drink. She laid the cloth in a bowl and turned to pour the water into the cup she'd brought.

  He spoke first. "What…what's your name?" His voice was raspy with pain, but held an underlying tone of gentleness. As if he were apologizing for putting her to this trouble, she thought. The sound of it comforted her. She didn't know why, and she didn't want to think about it. He'd be leaving soon.

  "Angela." She lifted his head and gently pressed the metal cup to his lips. "Angela Bentley."

  He took two deep swallows of the water. "Angel," he said, as she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. "It fits."

  She looked down, unsure of the compliment and suddenly nervous. She walked to the low oak chest to retrieve the bandaging and dishpan. "And you are…"

  "Nick Dalton, ma'am." His eyes slid shut as she whirled to face him. A cynical smile touched his lips. "I see…you've heard of me."

  A killer. A gunfighter. A ruthless mercenary. What was he doing with these children? She'd heard of him, all right, bits and pieces, whispers at the "back fence". Gossip, mainly. And the stories consisted of such variation there was no telling what was true and what wasn't.

  She'd heard. She just hadn't expected him to be so handsome. Hadn't expected to see kindness in his eyes. Hadn't expected to have him show up on her doorstep carrying a piece of lead in him, and with three children in tow. She forced herself to respond through stiff lips. "Heard of you? Who hasn't?"

  He met her challenging stare. "I mean you no harm."

  She remained silent, and he closed his eyes once more. His hands rested on the edge of the sheet, and Angela noticed the traces of blood on his left thumb and index finger. He'd tried to stem the blood flow from his right side as he rode.

  "I'm only human, it seems, after all," he muttered huskily. "Not a legend tonight. Just a man."

  He was too badly injured to be a threat, and somehow, looking into his face, she found herself trusting him despite his fearsome reputation. She kept her expression blank as she approached the bed with the dishpan, the bandaging tucked beneath her arm. She fought off the wave of compassion that threatened to engulf her. It was too dangerous.

  When she spoke, her tone was curt. "A soldier of fortune, from what I hear."

  He gave a faint smile. "Things aren't always what they seem, Miss Bentley."

  From the hint of chiding tolerance in his voice, she knew she wasn't the first to censure him to his face. Nor would she be the last. Somehow, the thought unsettled her. She shored up her determination to show him she didn't care one whit about his feelings. Or her own rudeness. He was a gun hawk, after all.

  "Meaning?" She sat down on a chair next to the bed and pulled it close. Her heart raced as she leaned near the gunman. His dark, tousled hair fell across his tan forehead. His smoldering blue eyes regarded her lazily from behind heavy lids. He'd lost a lot of blood, but not enough to remove the threat completely. He was dangerous. Deadly. Still, she couldn't help the stirrings of compassion she felt. Or the unwanted feeling of attraction that had shot through her when she'd touched him.

  She cleared her throat when he didn't answer. "What should I expect from you, Mr. Dalton? That you've changed?" Her voice sounded clipped and distant.

  "I guess that all depends on whose version of my life you've been listenin' to, doesn't it?" He looked away, suddenly seeming to let his guard down. "I might've done a couple of good things to go along with the rest," he said softly. "Whatever you've heard, I'm not all bad."

  Angela tried to ignore the chiding note in his words as she began to clean away the blood. She bit her lip as he winced, stopping for a moment to give him a breath.

  "You…all alone here?" he asked, steadying his deep barito
ne voice against the pain.

  Again, she leaned over him in the dim lamplight, intent on her task. "Yes. My husband was killed two years ago in an accident." She pressed a folded bandage against the renewed bleeding, grimacing in sympathy as his dark brows slashed together. His breath hissed inward, and Angela moistened her lips, her eyes meeting his and holding. "I've been living here alone since then."

  His gaze remained fixed on her.

  Angela reached for another piece of cloth, ignoring his scrutiny.

  "What a waste."

  "Sir, you presume—" She started up quickly, but he caught her wrist, holding her with easy pressure, despite his injury.

  "Hey." His voice was graveled, but his grip was velvet iron across her skin. "I just meant—hell, it doesn't matter." He released her and she slowly sat back down.

  After a moment, she picked up the tweezers. His rough fingers grazed her hand, and she felt the unsolicited forgiveness in his touch.

  "Let's get on with it," he muttered in a low, hoarse voice.

  She nodded. "Yes." She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she examined the wound. It was bad enough, even though the bullet didn't appear to have struck bone.

  "You ever done this before?"

  Angela lifted her gaze to his at the softly spoken question. "Yes. It never gets any easier."

  He sighed, his breath drawn up short. "I didn't want to keep riding," he said quietly. "No, that's not right." He shook his head. "I couldn't keep riding. When I saw this cabin, it was like an answer to a prayer." She raised an eyebrow, and he slanted her a rueful smile. "No, I'm not one to pray too much, but sometimes hope's all there is. That, and believing maybe everything will come around right – for once." He sighed and closed his eyes. "We've barged in on you, haven't we? Gave you no choice but to grant us shelter. I'm sorry—"