A Texas Christmas Reunion. Carol ArensЧитать онлайн книгу.
of a heartless crime.
The looks folks had cast him hurt worse than the burn on his hand. Even if he’d tried to explain that it had been an accident—one he could have done nothing to prevent—they would not have believed him.
That wicked night, everyone thought he was the spawn of the devil. Thinking of his father made him wonder if it might be true.
He hadn’t seen Ephraim Culverson since then, but he’d heard that his father had been forced to shutter his freight-hauling business when the spur came to town.
The word was, he’d opened a couple of saloons in its place. In Trea’s opinion that suited him better than the rough work that went into running teamsters. Not that Pa had done much but sit behind his desk, drink and curse at his employees.
From nearby he heard the snap of a leather strap, the swish of a razor being stropped.
Heavy footsteps rounded the curtain.
“Reckoned you didn’t want a woman, Culverson, so I’m all you’ve got at this hour.”
“Blamed if I don’t want a woman, but I’ve got a reputation to repair, Goudy.”
“I’ll try not to tarnish it.” The heavyset man plunked a stool down beside the tub. He sat on it with a grunt and a short bark of laughter. “I’ll do what I can not to cut you, either.”
“I appreciate that.” Trea leaned his head on the back edge of the tub and lifted his chin.
He closed his eyes. Images of the past flashed on the backs of his eyelids. Mostly the faces of girls whose names he couldn’t quite recall. He clearly remembered how he’d wronged them, though.
The clean scent of shaving lather filled his senses.
So did the image of one pretty young face. He hadn’t forgotten that one.
Juliette Yvonne Moreland had been an angel in his eyes. She had been consistently kind, sweet-natured and always smiling.
She was also probably the one girl he had never shamed or whose heart he had not broken—at least, he hoped he hadn’t.
Oh, he’d dreamed of kissing her, all right. His boyish heart had been infatuated with her.
“You’re thinking about a woman right now. Don’t claim you aren’t.”
“Not a woman, Goudy—a girl.”
“Don’t forget I’ve got a razor in my hand.”
“You could cut my throat for a lot of things—but not that. The girl, Juliette, is someone I grew up with. She’s the one person from Beaumont Spur that I never could forget.”
No doubt because she had been the one person who never judged him harshly.
For all that he had dreamed of it, he had never touched her. The thing was, she was too good and he was too bad. The thought of breaking her heart—he couldn’t do that any more than he could pull a kitten’s tail.
He’d always had the suspicion that sweet Juliette was the only person in Beaumont who saw the real Trea Culverson. He figured she was the only one who wasn’t waiting to smack him on the hand with a gavel.
“Wonder if she’s still there,” Goudy said, stroking a shaving brush in pleasant-feeling circles on Trea’s face.
“If she is, she’ll be married, I imagine, with half a dozen children.”
“The good ones always are.”
In memory, he saw Juliette wink at him and smile, the event still clear in his mind. In that moment, at twelve years old, his heart had tumbled.
He’d been in the general store, wandering about, looking at this and that—mostly at the peppermint sticks. The store owner had been scowling at him the whole time, sure he was about to steal something.
Maybe he would have. But Juliette shot him that wink, fished a coin out of her pocket and purchased two candies. She gave him one, then blushed and ran out of the store.
No doubt she was married now to some lucky fellow. He hoped so. She deserved that kind of happiness and more.
He also hoped she was still in Beaumont Spur. There was something in him that wanted her to know the wild boy was gone, grown into a man wanting to make his reputation right.
Juliette’s opinion mattered to him very much.
* * *
Juliette ought to have bid the moon good-night before her feet started aching with cold, but she’d lingered too long over its beauty.
Coming inside, she feared that, as tired as she was, she might not be able to sleep because of it. Without a man to warm her toes against, she was doomed to lie awake until they finally warmed on their own.
Passing through the parlor, she spotted the hatbox with the bright yellow bow, where she’d set it down on the table next to the fireplace.
With all the hustle getting everyone down for the night, she’d all but forgotten about the curious item.
She stirred the coals with the poker then watched the embers flare to new life. Perhaps if she sat down to read the letter attached to the delicate-looking box, her feet would have time to warm before she went upstairs.
“What on earth could this be?” she murmured to the dozing household. She could guess all night long and not come up with a logical answer.
She opened the envelope, slowly withdrew the note, then leaned close to the glow of the fireplace to better read the script written in a fine feminine hand.
Dear Mrs. Lindor,
First of all, I cannot say how grateful I am for the time the time I spent in your establishment. It was a refreshing change from the dreariness of the hotel.
“Well, yes...” Juliette muttered. “Anything would be.”
And your children are sweet angels.
Hungrier-than-average angels, though. She ought to get some sleep before they woke for their middle-of-the-night feeding.
As far as her restaurant went? She was dedicated to keeping it scrupulously clean. While she might live in a ragtag town, she would not be a part of the sorry state of affairs.
She read on.
I have recently come into a large sum of money. Not through any hard work on my part, though. No, I simply collected the reward for those miserable Underwoods, a man I used to trust being among them.
I find that I do not want the money, but I suspect that you will find a way to put it to good use.
Please accept this Christmas gift to you and your beautiful babies.
With all good wishes,
Laura Lee Quinn, very soon to be Laura Lee Creed
The flower-scented paper fluttered to Juliette’s feet, covering the stocking-clad toes of one foot. She stared at the letter for a long moment then reached for the hatbox.
What on earth? A gift? Of money? Juliette could scarcely believe it. No doubt she had been more tired than she knew—had climbed the stairs huddled under her covers and fallen asleep in spite of her cold feet. Clearly this had to be a lovely dream that she was about to wake from. Before she did, though, she ought to open the lid of the hatbox and see how much money was in it. No doubt she would jerk back to reality before she discovered that, but—
She lifted the lid, blinked hard at what was inside then closed it again. She didn’t dare to touch the cash because dream money always vanished before one’s eyes. It tended to turn into carrots or a ball of yarn or one of the many things dream objects transformed into. And here she would sit, wondering how to pay the mortgage, same as she did every month.
Tucking