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An Old-Fashioned Texas Christmas

By Karen Witemeyer

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Chapter 1
December 24, 1893 – Palestine, TX
Jim Archer loaded the rocker he'd crafted as a Christmas gift for his newest sister-in-law into the back of his wagon, then locked the door of his carpentry shop. Everyone would be at the ranch later this morning. Crockett and Joanna got into town yesterday and were already installed with Travis and Meri. With all the young'uns underfoot, the ranch house would be crowded, but lively. Cassie had offered to host Crock's brood this year, but Joanna had declined. The children loved being together, she'd explained, and she hated to separate them when the cousins saw each other only once or twice a year.
A needle of grief jabbed Jim's heart as a blast of icy wind blew down from the north to spear through the wool of his coat. He gritted his teeth against the cold, both inner and outer varieties, and climbed into the wagon. Cassie would be waiting for him. She doted on her nieces and nephews and had spent all of yesterday with them, decorating cookies and stringing popcorn for the tree that the men would chop down later today, but she'd wanted to see Clara's rocker before anyone else. To add the red calico cushion she'd made to the seat, so the gift would truly be from both of them.
Jim smiled to himself as he drove the wagon through the quiet streets of Palestine, Texas. Cassie never had gotten the hang of cooking, but her stitching had improved over the nine years they'd been married. She'd even taken up knitting. Her efforts wouldn't win any ribbons at the county fair, but the bright blue scarf at his throat kept him warm despite its lopsided ends.
The drive out to the homestead didn't take long, not with thoughts of Cassie's bright smile greeting him. But instead of hurrying to the house to let her know he was home, Jim left the horses hitched in the yard and tromped around the barn to the slight rise at the edge of the pines. After ducking through the fence, he shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and wrapped his gloved fingers around the tiny wagon he'd whittled. He pulled it out, gave each of the four wheels a turn on their axles, and smiled in satisfaction when they spun in tandem.
His steps slowed as he reached the edge of the trees, and he forced his gaze to the stone he faced only once a year.
William Carey Archer
Born Dec. 23, 1890 Died Dec. 24, 1890
Our beloved son rests not here
but in the arms of Jesus.
Jim hunkered beside the headstone and cleared away a few shoots of now dead grass that had grown tall enough last summer to cover his son's name. Two wooden horses, dirty and weather worn, their hooves anchored in the earth, stood sentry at the base of the stone.
"Made you a wagon this year, Billy." Jim set the carving behind the horses to measure where the wheel ruts should go, then took a stick and dug out a pair of slender trenches before setting the wagon into its place. "Happy birthday."
His eyes started to itch, so he didn't linger. He pushed to his feet with a sniff and a hardening of his heart. Cassie needed him to be strong. She battled melancholy every year at this time. Oh, she hid it well, playing her role of Auntie Cass to the hilt. Smiling, laughing, filling the Archer cabin with her sparkling energy and joy. But at night, when everyone had gone to bed, and she was alone in his arms, she cried herself to sleep.
He'd not make it harder on her by allowing his own grief to become visible.

Cassandra waited until Jim rounded the corner of the barn then ran out to greet him. She knew where he'd gone. He made the same visit every Christmas Eve, and she loved him for it—loved him for having the strength to do what she couldn't, visit the tiny grave on the hillside. Deep in her mother's soul, she knew that if she visited the site, her heart would shrivel into dust, leaving nothing for the man who deserved the best she could give. The one who loved her with such quiet intensity, she never quite felt worthy.
"You're home!" Crossing the last few feet separating them, she smiled and launched herself into his arms, exulting in the feel of his closeness as he crushed her to his chest.
He lowered her slowly, her feet dangling above the ground for a delicious heartbeat before her toes touched. Then his palm cupped the back of her head and he took her mouth like a desperate man, his grief exposing the raw edges of his emotions more than usual. She drank it in, giving freely of herself in the process. He was her rock, but every now and then, she had the privilege of being his as well.
Wishing they had time to move this sensual salutation into the bedroom for a more thorough exploration, Cassandra regretfully dipped down off her toes and stroked a finger along her husband's square jaw as her lips broke contact.
"Travis and Meri are expecting us," she murmured, her voice breathless as her pulse struggled to regulate.
Jim touched his forehead to hers. His eyes slid closed. "I know."
He sounded so forlorn, she couldn't help but giggle.
He lifted his head and raised his right eyebrow. "You laughing at me, wife?"
"Yes!" Using her palms, she pushed off his chest and twirled away from him, giggling again when he swatted her backside.
Goodness, how she loved this man.
Dancing away from him and over to the wagon, she glanced over her shoulder. "I want to see the rocker."
In three running steps, Jim was at her side, sweeping her into his arms and swinging her over the side of the wagon as if she were a child and not a thirty year-old woman who'd added a bit of padding to her once girlish figure.
He might not bury her under a mountain of words each day, but he communicated his feelings just fine.
As she found her balance in the wagon bed, Jim came around to the back and lowered the tailgate. The wagon shifted as it accepted his weight, but she barely noticed. Her attention was fully captured by her husband's latest masterpiece.
The rocker might seem a simple design, but she saw all the love poured into it. The hours of carving and lathing, sanding and staining. The lacquered finish that would protect it from wear and make it a family heirloom to treasure and hand down to future generations of Archers. A nearly identical rocker sat in her own parlor, though hers had a more ornate bouquet of flowers carved into the top of the back rest. Clara's had a small sprig of feathery blooms. The wood bore no paint to indicate their color, but Cassandra knew at once what they were.
"Indian paintbrush?" She ran her finger along the motif that so aptly represented the newest addition to the Archer clan.
"Yep."
Cassandra smiled at the lack of explanation. She didn't need one, anyway. After nine years, she'd learned to read her husband, to see the soft heart hiding beneath the sturdy exterior.
Many looked down on the newest Archer bride for her Comanche blood, but just as God directed red Indian paintbrush flowers to bloom amid Texas bluebonnets, he'd brought Clara to bloom and belong among the Archers. With Neill at her side, the two of them would flourish. That's what her husband had carved into the oak. Not a pretty decoration, but a statement of acceptance and commitment.
She twisted her head to meet his eyes. "It's beautiful."
He cupped her face in his hand, his thumb caressing her cheek. He didn't have to say the words. She felt them down to her toes—felt beautiful beneath his searing gaze.
She cleared her throat and turned back to the chair, her cheek still tingling where Jim's touch had been. "I'm so glad I went with red for the cushion. It will be perfect. I'll just . . . .um . . . run back to the house and grab it along with the box of gifts I set out for the children. We really ought to be going . . ." And she really ought to stop rambling, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Besides, if she talked too much, Jim was liable to—
His arm snaked around her waist, spinning her around so that his lips could meld with hers.
Cassandra sighed into the caress. What would a few more minutes hurt? It's not like Travis would send out a search par—
"Hello, in the wagon!"
Jim groaned. Cassandra hid her face in her husband's chest and bit her lip to keep an embarrassed giggle from escaping.
Apparently, Travis had sent out a search party. Or at least a search brother.
"Crock," Jim grunted.
"What? You're not happy to see me? It's been months!" The most jocular of the brothers sat atop his horse feigning indignation.
"I would have greeted you more cordially if it had been months plus about a half hour." Jim scowled at his brother, but clambered down from the wagon. Not abandoning his wife, he turned back for her, set his hands at Cassandra's waist, and helped her to the ground.
"Don't mind him," Cassandra said with a grin aimed at her brother-in-law. "We're thrilled to see you. Did Joanna and the kids settle in last night?"
"Yes, ma'am." Crockett nodded then sent her a wink, chuckling softly when a growling sound rumbled out of Jim's throat. "Martha and Hazel have been up since dawn and started asking about an hour ago. Which naturally got Susanna and Emily worked up, too. Enough that Joanna and Meri sent me to fetch you, worried the house would fall down around their ears with all the commotion."
Cassandra laughed, delighted at the idea of her nieces clamoring for her arrival. "Well, then I guess we better get on over there. Can't risk a roof collapse." And truth to tell, being around those precious babies was just what her heart needed today. She couldn't kiss her own child's cheek or tickle his tummy, but she could lavish all her pent-up love on his cousins, and maybe give her sisters-in-law a much-needed break in the process. What better way to spend Christmas Eve?
"I'll just grab a few things from the house, then I'll be ready to go." She grinned and dashed off to collect Clara's cushion and the gifts she set aside the night before. Already wearing her coat, she had only to grab her gloves and bonnet from the hook by the back door. The wind was chilly, but with few clouds to impede the sun, the temperatures were relatively mild, though in Texas, one never knew when things would change.
Jim met her as she came out and relieved her of the box of gifts. Keeping hold of the cushion, she followed him back to the wagon where Crockett stood in the bed, examining his brother's handiwork.
"Here, Crock," Jim groused. "Make yourself useful."
He handed the box up to his brother who grinned unabashedly and accepted the chore as his penance for his ill-time interruption earlier. Once he had the box settled, Cassandra asked for a second favor.
"Would you mind?" She held up the cushion. "If you set this in the rocker's seat, I can tie the strings in place from the front bench."
Crockett turned the pad around in his hands then flopped it onto the seat. "Like this?"
Well, he managed to get the tie strings at the back, at least. She grinned. "Yes. Except it's upside down."
"Oh."
That earned a chuckle from her husband. Cassandra shot Jim a quelling look, not that it did much good. He and Crockett had always been the most competitive of the brothers. Probably because they were the closest in age. And the most drastically different in temperament.
Crockett flipped the cushion over. "That better?"
"Perfect! Thank you."
He tipped his hat and made for the back of the wagon while Jim handed her up to the seat at the front. As she settled onto the bench, her foot hit a cloth-wrapped bundle on the running board.
"Jim?" she queried as her husband circled around the front of the team. "What's this?"
"You don't recognize the traditional Archer doorstop?" His eyes danced. "Your mother brought it by the shop this morning."
Cassandra fixed a scowl on her husband as he checked the team's harness. "Bowie Archer. Is that my mama's Christmas fruitcake on the floor of your wagon?"
"Yep."
No apologies. No explanations.
She turned her back on him, more to tie the cushion into place than because she was actually vexed, but he didn't need to know that. She fiddled with the fabric ties until they formed two perfectly even bows.
"Crockett, did you hear what he called my mama's fruitcake?"
"You mean the doorstop?" His eyes twinkled as he mounted and brought his horse closer to the front of the wagon. "Everyone calls it that."
"What?" Affronted on her mother's behalf, Cassandra turned to her husband as he climbed onto the seat next to her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged. "Figured it might upset you."
"Might upset me? That my husband and his family are disparaging my mother's gift behind my back? Why would that possibly upset me?"
Jim gave her one of those looks. The ones that said she was getting worked up for no sensible reason. "Have you ever tasted it?"
She opened her mouth then closed it, suddenly feeling the urge to straighten her skirts. "I don't care for fruitcake."
"Neither does anyone else. Especially not when Noreen makes it. I nearly threw my back out hefting that brick into the wagon. Last year, Meri begged me not to bring another one. Said not even the animals would eat it."
"Is it really so horrible?"
His eyes met hers, his face as stoic as always, except for the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that told her he was working hard to keep from laughing. "Worse than your rutabaga pie."
"Oh, heavens. That stuff was awful!" She laughed as she pulled a face, recalling the over-salted, mushy mess that had been her one and only attempt at replicating the meat and vegetable pie Jim had particularly enjoyed at the hotel they'd stayed at for their first anniversary.
The smile that finally broke out across his face made her belly dance. "Neither you nor your mama have any business near a stove."
He just had to go and ruin it, didn't he? Cassandra swatted his arm even as she laughed, for everything he said was true. Jim was the cook in this family, and he did a fine job of it.
"Well, guess we better get going then," Cassandra said. "We have a doorstop to deliver, after all."
The rare sound of her husband's laugher rumbled rich and deep beside her as they set off. It vibrated through Cassandra with an infectious joy that portended good things to come this day.

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