“And the second thing?” I managed to push past the lump in my throat.
“Easy peasy,” she said. “Your husband, of course.”
Christmas Road
SCARLETT DUNN
Special Thanks
Much respect and appreciation goes to John Scognamiglio—always professional, always generous with his time, and responds to emails faster than anyone.
Many thanks to Elizabeth Trout, and the invaluable staff at Kensington who work diligently to see the projects come to fruition—you make everything possible.
A heartfelt thank-you to the readers. My goal is to write stories that will take your mind away for a few hours. Your reviews, comments, and emails are genuinely valued.
Also, to the special people in my life who tolerate me, encourage me, and give me their unending support—thank you. I love you more than you can imagine.
Chapter 1
Slumped over in the saddle, Clint Mitchum jerked awake when his horse stumbled. Born from years of experience on the trail, Clint whipped out his pistol, leaned low over his horse’s neck, making himself a smaller target until he gained his wits. He listened for any threatening sounds lurking in the darkness. Seconds passed, but hearing nothing amiss, he holstered his pistol and stroked his horse’s neck. “Everything okay, Reb?”
Reb turned his head to the side, giving Clint the look and snorted.
As tired as he was, Clint still managed a chuckle. The evil eye was Reb’s way of letting him know he was the smart one in this group of three. “You’re right, we’ve ridden too long.” It was one thing for him to push himself past exhaustion, but he needed to take care of his horses. Reb and Champ had given all they had on this journey and they deserved a nice, long rest.
Wasting no time, Clint made a deft maneuver from the trail, and within minutes he found a suitable place to make camp. After he cared for his horses, he built a fire to ward off the nippy night air. Deciding to forgo dinner, he settled for a cup of coffee he had warming over the fire. Once he tossed his bedroll near the fire, he settled back against his saddle, lit a cigar and pulled the worn piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He’d already read the letter so many times since he’d received it at the post office in Santa Fe that he could almost recite it word for word, but he felt a need to read it again. With eyes burning from lack of sleep, he held the letter to the flickering firelight and read the fine script.
October 1, 1867
La Grange, Texas
My Dearest Son,
It is with the heaviest heart that I write to tell you that your two brothers, and now your father, succumbed to yellow fever. Dr. Sims did his best, but even he couldn’t prevent me from contracting this dreaded disease. Sadly, I am too weak to pen this missive, but my lovely neighbor, Amelia, is seeing to this one last chore for me. Though she lost her parents to the fever, she has not abandoned me in my time of need. Son, I fear I may not have many days as this fever runs its course, no matter how much I have tried to cling to life just to see your face one last time. It has been my most fervent prayer to have one more Christmas together before my time here came to an end.
Dr. Sims told me 20 percent of our neighbors have died since the fever came to our town in August. Many of those not afflicted have fled their homes out of fear. It’s been weeks since we’ve received mail, and most businesses have closed with the exception of Stanton’s mercantile. The situation here is dire indeed.
I’ve worried Amelia has stayed too long caring for me. She has promised me she will leave with the Nelson family once she can do no more for me. Mr. Nelson gave me his word that he would wait for her. It breaks my heart that we have lost so many children, and the ones left behind have little to look forward to this Christmas season. What should be a time of joy and thanksgiving is now filled with dread and sadness.
I am uncertain if this letter will reach your hands, but your last letter said you were headed to Santa Fe, and I pray you made it there. There is much I wanted to say to you, Son. Just know how much I have missed you and how much I love you. We understood your difficulties since the war, but I know you are in the palm of God’s hand, and He will see you through. Remember we cannot judge ourselves harshly by the trials of war, nor should you carry the horrors with you the rest of your days. Time is fleeting and life quickly passes you by, so you must appreciate each day. I hope you will return home and train horses one day. I am certain you will learn to love the ranch again, and caring for God’s creatures will renew your soul and help you to find your purpose. Find someone to love and share your life, and give thanks for every breath.
Have faith, my beloved son, and always believe in the magic of Christmas.
I love you,
Mother
P.S. Mr. Mitchum, please come home, your mother needs you desperately. Amelia
Clint removed his hat and tossed it on his saddle horn. He leaned back, clutched the letter to his chest and closed his eyes. Thankfully, he’d been in Santa Fe when the letter arrived at the post office three weeks from the date it was written. Even though his mother said they weren’t receiving mail, he’d immediately sent a telegram, encouraging her to hold on until he arrived. He needed to see her again. He had to see her again. It was important to tell her how sorry he was that he hadn’t been there
