Rekindled (4 page)

Larson rode through town, passing Flanagan & King Feed and Flour, Faulkner’s Dry Goods and Post Office, Speck’s Groceries, and the St. James Hotel. A two-story frame building with a sign that read
Tappan General Store
towered over a smaller bakery to its right. Most of the buildings were constructed of logs or hewed wood, but some were fashioned of quarried stone from the nearby hills. He saw the deserted streets and closed shops and, again, his selfishness hit him square in the gut. The snatches of holly and brightly colored red bows affixed to every storefront and lamppost only accentuated his guilt. He should have written something in his note to Kathryn at least acknowledging what day it was. But in his haste and excitement, he’d forgotten.

Doubting any shop would be open on Christmas Day, Larson still found himself scanning the businesses and reading the shingles hanging above the doors. Despite the darkened windows, he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and he’d learned long ago to trust that inner voice. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. Plodding his mount northward, he scanned the town around him.

By the time he reached the white-steepled church perched at the edge of town, he figured fatigue was swaying his instincts—and that his prospects of finding a gift for Kathryn were doomed. Passing by the cemetery, its headstones shrouded in snow, he suddenly remembered the scores of shops in Denver and his spirits lightened. Surely he would find something suitable for Kathryn there.

Travel proved slower than Larson would have liked. By mid-afternoon a steady wind blew hard from the north and the grayishblue clouds hooding the mountains to the west held the certain promise of more snow. Accustomed to Colorado’s winter, he had worn several layers of clothes and was warm enough but knew a fire and shelter would be needed by nightfall.

Topping a gentle rise of land, his gaze was drawn east. He made out what looked to be a wagon, half blanketed in snow, one side tilted precariously toward the ground. Slowing his pace, Larson hesitated, watching for any sign of life.

Then he spotted it. A man crouched waist deep in the drift, shoveling snow from around the wagon. The man must have sensed his presence because he turned at that moment. He straightened and began waving furiously.

An hour later Larson had the wagon dug completely free of the drift and the wheel mended enough to get the old peddler into town. He loaded the cargo back into the bed of the wagon, marveling at the old man’s odd collection of mostly junk amid a few nicer furniture items.

The man’s eyes were bright and attentive. “Name’s Callum Roberts. I’m just movin’ to Willow Springs, and if all the folks is as kind as you, I’ll be makin’ my home there for sure.”

Taking hold of Callum Roberts’ surprisingly strong grip, Larson offered his name. “I was glad to be of help, sir.” Even if he hadn’t planned on the delay. He eyed the sun as it touched the tips of the highest peaks, then gauged the bitter wind and knew he needed to make his destination before nightfall.

“I thank you for stoppin’ to help me, son.” Roberts worked his right shoulder and gave it a rub. “Don’t think these old bones coulda stood a night out here.”

Larson pointed back to town. “Follow my tracks straight over that rise and then due south for about three miles. You should make Willow Springs a bit after dark. Jake at the livery should be able to help you.”

Larson was astride his horse when he looked down to see the ancient hawker rummaging through his wagon bed. Anticipating Roberts’ intentions and eager to be on his way, Larson spoke up. “You don’t owe me a thing for this. I said I was glad to do it.”

Callum Roberts kept digging through the piles of wooden crates. “Are you married, son?” he asked over his shoulder. “I have some mighty fine personal items for the little woman.” He pulled out an ornate brush and mirror set that looked anything but new, much less clean.

“Really. I don’t need anything.” Larson shook his head. Then he stopped and reconsidered his statement. On the off chance Roberts did have something of value, Larson much preferred to pay him rather than a mercantile in Denver. The old codger could obviously use it.

Roberts turned, and a smile lit his face as he handed something up to Larson. “Now this, this is something worthy of the kindness you’ve shown me.”

Larson almost hated to look inside the small burlap-wrapped package. Seeing the excitement in the old peddler’s eyes, he determined that whatever it was, he would purchase it. Larson pulled back the burlap and felt a jolt run through him at seeing the metal box, hardly big enough to fill his gloved hand. He ran his thumb over the smooth top and around the edges. Larson sensed the man’s curious stare and looked down at him.

“It’s a music box, son. Made it myself. Well, most of it anyhow. When I got the thing it wouldn’t even play. But I fixed it all up. Now it plays a Christmas tune. Here, let me show you.” He took the box and wound a simple key on the side. “And see in here.” Roberts tilted the box up. “I left a place where you can put your own words inside, where you can make it your own.”

Larson couldn’t help but smile when the music box started playing a familiar Christmas melody. But it was the man’s enjoyment that deepened his grin. “I’ll take it, sir. And my wife will be all the more pleased when I tell her how I came by it.”

Roberts fairly leapt with pleasure. He refused the money Larson held out to him, but finally took it at Larson’s insistence. Larson tucked the box inside his coat pocket and waited for the man to climb up before he started off in the opposite direction.

With each minute, the sun dipped lower behind the mountains, taking its scant warmth with it. After an hour of riding farther north, Larson topped a hill and spotted the vague outline of what he’d been watching for.

Ahead was a thin ridge of land extending eastward from the mighty Rockies. Jutting upward from the prairie, the ridge resembled an arthritic finger, twisted and bent. On the southern side of the crest was a sparse outcropping of scrub oak and boulders. Larson had camped there before. It would serve well to shelter him through the night.

Darkness had descended by the time he reached the ridge. The moon’s silvery sheen reflected off the snow and provided enough light for him to make out his surroundings. He soon had a fire crackling and a parcel of earth cleared of snow where he could bed down for the night. Jerky and tack biscuits filled his belly. Coffee warmed his insides, even if it wasn’t as good as Kathryn’s.

He imagined what she was doing right then and wondered if she was thinking of him.

Reminded of the music box, he took it from his coat pocket and examined it more closely. It didn’t begin to compare with any in the collection Kathryn once had. Regret over yesterday passed through him again. The look of loss on her face when the box had shattered into pieces haunted him.

Simple as it was, this box—in his estimation anyway—possessed a quality the others had lacked. It spoke of something more lasting. Something beyond what money could buy.

He laughed out loud at the thought, and the sound of his laughter surprised him. Here he was, setting out for a business opportunity he hoped would bring him wealth, and he’d bought Kathryn something that bespoke the opposite.

As he turned the box over in his hands, the lid fell open. He looked at the scratched and tarnished metal plate that Roberts had affixed inside. What had the old guy said this was for? He nodded, remembering.
“Where you can make it your own.”

An idea struck him. Larson pulled his knife from his boot and moved closer to the fire. He situated the music box on a rock and pressed the tip of his knife into the plate. He smiled when it made a slight indention. Not the highest quality of metal, but that served his purpose at the moment.

Larson lost track of time as he knelt by the fire, making the gift his own. Making it Kathryn’s. He hoped she would be pleased and felt somehow that she might be. Even if the value of this gift wasn’t as impressive as his gifts one day would be, Kathryn had a soft spot for the elderly and would be pleased that he’d stopped to help the newcomer.

When he finished, he put his knife back into its sheath and slid the music box into the inside pocket of his winter coat. The coat Kathryn had bought for him. He ran a hand along the sleeve and remembered their first Christmas together. Before giving it to him, she’d sewn their cattle brand into the inner lining along with his initials,
making it mine,
he thought with a smile. Not for the first time, he wished he’d done better by her. She deserved so much more than—

A sudden whinny from his horse brought Larson’s head up.

He remained crouched by the fire and scanned his surroundings. The spot he’d chosen far into the ravine provided shelter from the wind. Frozen scrub oak and snow-covered boulders bordered him on all sides but one. He squinted and focused on the night sounds around him. A rustle sounded off to his left, but that could be a rabbit or a squirrel.

His heart kicked up a notch when it happened again. He reached for his rifle propped on a rock beside him. He cocked the chamber slowly, deliberately, giving warning.

“Hello, the camp!” a voice sounded to his right.

Larson turned to see a man step from behind a boulder into the shadowed flicker of the campfire.

The stranger extended his hands palm up, showing he wasn’t armed. “Can I share your fire, friend?”

Eyeing him, Larson felt his pulse slow a mite. “Sure, come on in.” He kept his rifle within easy reach.

At first glance, the man appeared to be about his age. He wore no gloves, and when he stretched his bare hands over the fire, Larson noticed a tiny tremor in them. He wondered if it was from the chill of the night or if the stranger had another need.

“My horse went lame on me a couple miles back. I been walkin’ since dark.” The man’s pants were caked in snow and ice, and his boots were worn through on one side.

Larson motioned to the coffeepot set on a rock among the glowing white embers. At the man’s nod, he tossed the remnants from his cup and poured a fresh one. He rose to hand it to the stranger and heard a horse whinny some distance behind him, on the other side of the ravine.

Too late, Larson realized the man’s intent.

The sight of the revolver pointing at his chest sent white-hot emotion pouring through Larson’s body. Instinctively, he tossed the hot coffee at the man’s face and dove for his rifle. He hit the ground as a thunderclap exploded in his ears. Searing heat tore through his upper right thigh. Sickening warmth and weakness pulsed in his right leg, then spread the length of his body.

Everything swirled in a fog around him. He fought to remain conscious.

When Larson opened his eyes he saw only a dark blanket of sky pierced with specks of light dancing in a nauseating rhythm. He blinked twice to clear his mind.

The night air suddenly felt like an icy blanket hugging him from all sides, and he soon realized why. His coat, boots, and gloves were gone.

He tried to sit up, but a solid kick to his ribcage brought him down. The freezing snow against his face helped keep him conscious. He gulped for air.

Be still
.

Larson felt the urging more than heard it. But he didn’t want to be still. Everything within him wanted to fight.

He heard movement in the camp and slowly opened one eye. The stranger now wore his coat and boots and was rummaging through his saddlebags. Larson raised himself slowly till he was sitting. He silently reached for the weapon beside him and took aim dead center on the man’s back. He cocked the rifle. “Hold it right—”

The man turned, his gun holstered.

The explosion was deafening. But it hadn’t come from Larson’s rifle.

A look of utter surprise and disbelief contorted the man’s features before he fell headlong into the snow. Larson’s heart ricocheted off his ribs as he struggled to his knees. He searched the darkness around him. The night grew eerily quiet. Knowing he provided an excellent target in his current position, he gripped his rifle and limped to an outcropping of boulders.

Sinking to the ground, he clamped a hand over the pulsing wound in his right thigh and pressed back against the icy stone. A rifle blast split the silence. A flash of light glinted off the boulder, inches from his head. He fell to his belly and started crawling through the snow and scrub brush, away from the light of the campfire.

Another gunshot sounded, hitting only a few feet to the side of him.

Larson took quick breaths through clenched teeth. His skin suddenly grew clammy even as the wound pulsed hot. Trying to ignore the pain, he prayed like he hadn’t done in years. Larson knew the Almighty had no reason to listen to him. Not after he’d ignored Him all these years. Even so, he prayed, with an urgency he didn’t know he had in him.

Figuring he’d crawled about twenty yards, he stopped to catch his breath. His throat burned from the cold. He looked down at his right leg and saw the snow staining crimson. His feet and legs were going numb. His fingers ached.

“I know you’re in there, mister. Might as well come out and get it over with.”

The words were spoken in a singsong tone, lending a macabre feel to the already perilous situation. Larson lay perfectly still, listening to the crunch of the man’s boots on frozen snow. He gauged the man to be ten yards south. And moving straight for him.

His options limited, Larson pushed ahead on his stomach through the brush and across a narrow gully. He edged his way up the side of the ravine until he heard the unmistakable
tink
of metal against metal. Loading chambers. At the cock of the rifle, the night went dead quiet.

He waited for the inevitable. But no gunshot came.

Instead, he heard humming.
Humming
. And the sound of it— high-pitched, carefree, something a person might hear at a picnic— made him go stock-still.

“Mighty cold out here tonight, and expectin’ a heap more snow. You can die slow or fast, mister. Don’t make no matter to me. But I hear freezin’ to death ain’t no way to go.”

The night air pulsed with the absurdity of the voice. Death threats mingled with the weather. Larson pressed back into the brush.