Christmas homecoming, p.1
Christmas Homecoming, page 1
CHRISTMAS HOMECOMING
LACY WILLIAMS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Exclusive invitation
Also by Lacy Williams
Acknowledgments
A special thank you for my readers
CHAPTER 1
1914 - One week before Christmas
The whistle sounded. Weak afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows of the train compartment.
In a few seconds, Walt White knew the brakes would release with a loud hiss and the train would start down the track. He was so close to completing his mission.
He glanced around the car. He’d learned the hard way that he could never be too careful.
The seats directly across and facing him were empty, but the train car was full otherwise. Everyone was carefully avoiding looking the U.S. Marshal—him—in the eye. Everyone except for a young boy whose head popped above the seatback, four rows in front of where Walt and his charge sat.
Walt held his curious stare until it turned wide-eyed and the boy slunk down in his seat.
That was right. Nothing to see here. Just a man doing his job.
As expected, the train’s brakes hissed, and there was a jolt beneath Walt’s feet. The scents of coal and too many bodies were only slightly dissipated by the cold air coming in through the cracks around the windows.
“I need to make a trip to the toilet.”
Walt glanced at the man beside him as the train slowly chugged into motion. “No, you don’t.”
Tom Seymour smiled a charming smile as if this were any normal conversation. As if he weren’t in handcuffs, leg irons, and chained to Walt himself. “Yes, I do.”
He heard noise behind him and turned in his seat to see a flurry of movement at the door where the train car connected to its nearest neighbor.
Walt saw two frilly dresses, though a couple of wide-brimmed hats kept him from seeing the ladies’ faces. He didn't discount that they might be trouble—he’d learned not to trust anyone—but for now it was the man across the aisle, two rows ahead, who held Walt’s attention.
While the man had been asleep—or faking it—with his hat over his face, now he roused. He had several days’ worth of whiskers on his jaw and wore a rumpled suit. But Walt focused on his eyes. They had a certain hardness about them, a sharpness that made Walt’s instincts sit up and take notice.
Right now, he was more of a threat than the two women.
“You’re really not going to let me use the toilet?"
Walt shook his head. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end, his senses telling him that danger was near. He’d been on his toes since the day before when he’d captured Tom at a hotel in Salt Wells. He’d spotted Tom, one of the three notorious Seymour brothers, in the lobby. Walt had followed him to a nearby saloon, watched him for over an hour to determine that he was really alone. Then he’d sauntered up behind Tom and arrested him. No fuss. No struggle.
He’d been chasing the outlaw for five years. He’d never thought it would be so easy to capture him.
“We’ll be in Cheyenne in a few hours. You can see to your needs there.”
"And if I can't make it that far?" One of Tom's eyebrows went up. It’d been five years since Walt had had a conversation with him. He still remembered the utter betrayal he’d experienced when the man who’d begun a friendship with him had turned out to be part of the illustrious Seymour gang. Tom had fooled Walt completely.
Never again.
The man wasn’t to be trusted.
Walt shrugged. "I guess you'll be uncomfortable until we get where we're going."
"That's inhumane.”
It wasn't Walt’s problem. Tom was wily. A trickster and a liar and a thief.
Walt knew Tom would jump at the first chance to slip out of his grasp.
He knew more about Tom and his older brothers, who’d started the outlaw gang, than anybody else did. Tom’s oldest brother, Tristan, had shot two people during a bank robbery. One of them had died. Hector, the next oldest, was known for his cruelty. He pistol whipped anyone who got too close to him. Witnesses and victims put him at the scene of at least ten robberies over the last six years. Banks, stages, trains. These were the Seymours’ favorite targets.
The other players in the outlaw gang changed frequently. Another pair of brothers, unrelated to the Seymours. A cousin was involved in some of the heists. Other men shifted in and out of the gang, like the man who’d been spotted breaking in to at least two bank vaults using explosives. None of the witnesses had been able to name him.
During the years Walt had tracked the Seymours, he’d traveled ten states. He’d interviewed countless witnesses and come close to catching the entire gang twice. Last year, in the Medicine Bow Mountains, he’d managed to apprehend a gang of five robbers who’d been imitating the Seymour gang’s heartless style.
He’d spent six weeks tracking Greg Reeves and his four buddies to their hideout in the foothills. With the help of a local sheriff and his deputies, he’d put the gang in prison. He’d received a commendation from his boss, and someone had even written a lengthy newspaper article about it.
But Walt had been bitterly disappointed. Because it was Tom he’d wanted, Tom and the rest of the Seymour gang.
Tom had made a fool of Walt back home in Bear Creek. His brothers had robbed the stagecoach and injured Walt’s friend Claud, while Tom had stood lookout and played Walt for the fool.
He’d gotten lucky, stumbling upon Tom in Salt Wells. He’d questioned Tom extensively this morning, but Tom had refused to divulge any information on the whereabouts of his brothers.
That was all right. Walt would find them, too, after he delivered Tom to the nearest circuit judge in Colorado.
Rustling fabric told Walt the two women had moved up the aisle and were close behind him.
He hated to be rude, especially a week out from Christmas, but it didn’t matter how full the car was. He wanted the seats across from him empty.
The first woman drew even with him, and he glanced up, already speaking. “I’m a U.S. Marshal and I need to keep this space clear—”
“Walt?”
He would know that voice anywhere, even if he hadn't raised his eyes.
At his side, Tom perked up, straightening in his seat.
“I can't believe it's you.” His sister Ida, younger by two years, stared at him as she scooted across the narrow space between his feet and the seat across.
“You can't sit there,” he blurted.
He saw the flash of hurt cross her face. Saw the stubborn way her chin lifted. It was a gesture he recognized from a childhood spent as close as a brother and sister could be.
She kept moving, settling in the seat across from Tom with her arms crossed, banging the small carpetbag she carried into her knee.
“There aren’t any other seats,” she said.
“You’ll have to try another car, then.”
The young woman—a friend of Ida’s?—hesitated in the aisle. Walt hadn’t meant to sound so gruff, but Tom was a snake, one who would have no compunction taking advantage of a young lady. Or even putting his hands on her to try and get out of Walt’s custody.
The train went around a curve, and Ida’s friend used her hand to brace herself against the nearest seat back. Walt spared a brief glance for her, noting the blonde hair curling under her hat and curious blue eyes.
His attention was split trying to make sure Tom didn't move a muscle while he argued with his sister.
"We've been up and down three cars,” Ida said. “My feet hurt.”
“These seem to be the only open seats,” Ida’s friend added. Her voice was melodic and apologetic.
"I'm not joshing," he told his sister in a low voice. “Seymour is a dangerous criminal, and I don't want you anywhere near him."
For the first time, Ida's gaze shifted to the man sitting beside Walt. He saw her take in the handcuffs and shackles first, and then Tom’s face. Her eyes narrowed. “Do I know you from somewhere?"
"I'm wounded.” Tom raised his hands so he could press his palm against his heart. “It's been years, but I never forgot your beautiful face.”
Walt’s right hand crept toward the revolver at his hip, but Tom let his hands fall back into his lap with a clink of metal.
“Shut up," Walt growled.
Ida’s gaze jumped to Walt. He saw the wheels turning in her head. Would she remember Tom from five years before? They’d met only once.
Ida’s friend was still standing in the aisle, and Ida looked up to address her. “Sit down, Libby. I'm certain we’ll be fine right here.”
Walt opened his mouth to argue, but Tom beat him to it. “You can tell the marshal to stop worrying. I’d never do anything to hurt someone as pretty as you."
"I said shut up." Walt didn't believe him for a minute. He’d interviewed plenty of folks who had been burned by Tom's charming ways. The man was a lying sack of manure, and Walt knew he would do whatever it took to escape.
Libby Kearney’s heart was pounding, but she pretended calm as she perched on the seat across from Ida's brother.
She was nervous enough about going home after two years away at nursing school. She hadn’t seen Mama or Papa in all that time. She’d sent letters home. Received a few.
Not enough, but how could she blame them after everything that had happened? The fault was hers.
And now her schooling was completed. She was expected to return home and find work. She had Ida’s offer as a backup plan, should she need it.
She didn’t need additional problems to heighten her nerves, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the shackled man across the narrow space. He looked completely normal. He wore a slate-gray suit and fancy boots. He hadn’t shaved that morning, judging by the dark line of stubble at his jaw. Libby had cared for dozens of patients during her time at the Sweetwater hospital but she’d never seen eyes as startlingly clear blue as his.
What was his crime? Was she in danger sitting so close?
Ida’s brother was almost as frightening as the man in leg irons. He hadn’t shaved, either, though his stubble was blond and harder to see. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his very presence was menacing.
He’d made Ida angry.
Ida rarely got riled up, and Libby had never seen her friend so livid.
Libby’d been uncertain and alone when she’d arrived at the dormitory that first night only to find Ida White already in the bedroom with its two narrow cots.
Libby’s new roommate was her opposite in nearly every way. She was bubbly and bright, even first thing in the morning. She was smart but never had to pore over her textbooks, not like Libby did. She was effortlessly beautiful, while Libby had to spend time every morning getting the stubborn locks of hair she’d been born with to behave.
Libby was now an only child, while Ida came from a big family. Ida often regaled her with stories of her older brothers and her wild sister, Breanna. Some of the brothers had children close to Ida and Libby’s twenty-one years.
But Ida had rarely mentioned Walt, though he was only two years older.
The family resemblance was easy to see. Ida’s brother had the same dark blond hair and the same brown eyes. She studied the shape of his mouth and was fairly sure that if he smiled, it would match Ida’s too.
But he was frowning fiercely.
“Maybe if we keep looking, a seat in one of the other cars will open up," she said softly to Ida.
But she knew her friend. Ida wouldn’t budge.
"Good idea,” Walt said. “You should listen to your friend.”
Ida’s stubborn expression didn’t change. “We've got two seats together here. We shouldn’t have to move. Besides, Mr. Seymour promised to be on his best behavior.”
Libby hadn’t heard anything of the sort. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt Ida because she was pretty, but what kind of promise was that?
Right now, his eyes were fixed on Ida. His lips widened in a slow smile, one that made another kind of promise.
A flush rose high in Ida’s cheeks, and her gaze flicked away.
Walt made a sound that was half grunt and half growl. He glanced around the train car, his eyes stopping pointedly on something behind Libby.
Libby didn’t understand why Ida pretended to be unfazed in the face of her brother’s frustration. Maybe she was unfazed.
Meanwhile, Libby’s stomach was jumping with nerves. She didn’t know where to look and couldn’t seem to settle.
Ida still had her carpetbag on her lap and reached inside to take out the knitting she’d been working on during what seemed like every spare minute in their shared room. She counted some stitches in the mass of what was slowly becoming a fuzzy pink blanket, and then her needles began moving. As if nothing were amiss.
"You should put those away," Walt muttered. “They could be used as weapons.”
Ida’s needles only gathered speed. She’d tried to show Libby once how to knit, but Libby had tangled things hopelessly. Unlike Ida, who was a skilled knitter.
"I'm fairly sure you would have your gun pulled and trained on him before he could take them from me," Ida said without looking up.
Walt scowled again.
"Besides, if something did happen, Libby could patch me up." Ida's glance slipped to Walt and then back to her knitting. “Or I would patch myself up. We’ve just finished nursing school.”
“Congratulations,” Tom said cheerfully.
Walt’s expression was like stone.
“Not that you’d know or care.” Ida directed her words to her brother.
Libby flinched at the icy tone. The bitterness was clear as a bell. Walt would have to be hard of hearing to miss it. But with his jaw locked up tight, his expression didn’t change.
"I still need to use the toilet," Seymour said.
Walt didn't answer. His eyes were scanning the train car again.
"Could you tell him it's inhumane not to let me use the toilet?" The outlaw directed his question to both Ida and Libby.
It was Ida who parroted, "It's inhumane to keep him from going to the toilet." Her eyes never rose from her knitting. She’d clearly only said the words to needle her brother.
But Libby did feel it would be cruel and possibly could cause a great deal of pain to refuse to let someone empty their bladder. During nursing school, she’d been taught compassion, not cruelty.
Walt glared at the top of Ida’s head.
Somehow, the outlaw sensed Libby’s compassion. His gaze slipped from Ida to Libby, and something in his expression flickered. It was so minute that it was barely noticeable. He didn't pout or frown, but somehow that smallest change in his expression made him look as if he were in pain.
The look was so calculating and so quickly done that Libby felt a frisson of fear slice through her.
Walt squinted her direction, still frowning. "He doesn't actually have to use the toilet. He's trying to manipulate me, and if I let him go in the washroom, he'll try to find a way to escape.”
“Aw, now. That ain’t true.” The outlaw’s focus remained on Libby. He still wore a pained expression.
She looked out the window. If the U.S. Marshal said the outlaw shouldn’t use the washroom, who was she to interfere?
The window cast a reflection of the train car, and Libby caught a glimpse of Ida’s fierce concentration on her knitting.
The man sitting across from Libby seethed silently.
She couldn’t have known that stepping on this train would put her in the middle of this family drama. She’d hoped that during the journey she’d be able to soothe her own nerves about going home. Make a plan for facing Mama and Papa. Try to steel herself to wake up to another Christmas morning without Christopher.
How was she supposed to find a measure of peace in the midst of the siblings’ near-silent confrontation?
CHAPTER 2
After the quiet argument about finding seats elsewhere, Libby’s roommate didn’t budge for an hour. Her blanket had grown in size, the knitting needles whirring. She’d lose the last of the afternoon light soon, though.
Walt seemed determined to ignore his sister, which was a shame. If Libby were gifted one more day with Christopher, she wouldn’t waste time giving him a cold shoulder. She’d grab him and hug him and ruffle his hair.
But it was too late for her. She could never hug Christopher again.
The lawman spent all his energy scanning the train car, fully alert. Meanwhile, the warmth of so many bodies and the constant motion and rhythmic noise of the wheels clacking against the rails made Libby sleepy.
Too bad she couldn’t calm down. Not with a wanted criminal sitting just across.
Seymour was so relaxed he looked as if he could slip off to sleep at any time. He was sprawled in his seat—as much as he could be with his hands and ankles cuffed—his expression calm and unruffled. As if he were on this train for a leisure trip.
