Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection by Debra Holland
Authors: Debra Holland
Tags: Western
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Gentry on his way home. “A poor man’s expression of thanks,” he’d said. “For the life of a daughter.” K.C. fingered the candy, remembering Gentry’s stilted thanks, the sheen of emotion in his eyes as he tried to express his gratitude.
From the desk, K.C. could see through the open doorway into the living quarters, where a small potbellied stove radiated comfortable heat into a room that held a narrow bed, a small round table, two chairs, and some shelves, along with several hooks in the walls for clothing.
K.C. pushed back her hat, wishing she could take it off indoors. But the scarf she still wore kept her neck and chin nice and warm. She had no desire for Holmes to wake up and discover his captor was a woman. She relaxed back in the chair, but kept glancing over at the Christmas tree perched on the table and marveling how pretty it looked.
With the man safely behind bars, K.C. finally allowed herself to relax. Seems like she’d been tense for weeks. She flexed her tight muscles, trying to get them to unkink. She hadn’t lingered in the bath for a hot soak, just quickly scrubbed herself, so she could get back to the jail.
Now she could rest secure in that she’d finally done her job—kept her promise to the Stewart family to bring their son’s killer to justice. Holmes wouldn’t be harming any more good men like Charles and tearing families apart with grief. She forced herself to unwind, muscle by muscle, drinking the hot chocolate provided by the shopkeepers—she’d already forgotten their names. But she sipped the rare rich brew and appreciated their gift.
A knock on the outer door brought her to her feet, energy surging through her body. Then she remembered this wasn’t her town, and she wasn’t responsible for keeping the peace here. Strange how much she’d come to feel at home in only a few short hours.
She pulled her boots back on and strode to the door, keeping her footsteps light. She didn’t want to wake Holmes, preferring he sleep.
K.C. opened the door to see Mr. Carter, a woman, and an older man standing outside.
Mr. Carter touched his hat. “Sheriff, this is my wife, Pamela, and our minister, Reverend Norton. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Of course.” K.C. quickly ushered them inside.
Mrs. Carter, her plump face wreathed in a bright red scarf, reached out her hands, took K.C.’s and squeezed. “Thank you so much for apprehending that criminal. I shudder to think what could have happened here if you hadn’t.”
Heat crept into K.C.’s cheeks. How long has it been since someone’s touched me? Not counting the punches she often took when wrestling a drunk into a cell. Even Charles had kept his hands to himself, although she had wished he wouldn’t. She’d looked forward to that changing when at last they were married.
“We’re a close-knit town, Sheriff,” said Mrs. Carter, pulling K.C. into the present. “If someone had been murdered, we all would have been affected,” she said, her brown eyes anxious.
“Don’t think about it, ma’am. You’ll just tie yourself in knots for nothing.” K.C. hastened to reassure her.
“Wise words, Mr. McNamara.” Carter took off his hat to expose his thinning sandy hair. Up close, K.C. and the rancher stood about the same height.
K.C. glanced at the snoring Holmes, decided he was down for the night, and then waved the three of them into the back room, pulling in the desk chair. She set it down at the table and gestured for Mrs. Carter to take a seat. While her visitors unwrapped their winter wear, she returned for the other desk chair. She closed the door and then sat down, looking at each one.
The reverend had an austere, white-bearded face, and intelligent blue eyes. She bet he could preach a good hell-and-brimstone sermon. Not that the kind of men who needed to hear about the wages of sin ever darkened a church.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Mr. Carter said. “For the last year, we’ve been searching for a
From the desk, K.C. could see through the open doorway into the living quarters, where a small potbellied stove radiated comfortable heat into a room that held a narrow bed, a small round table, two chairs, and some shelves, along with several hooks in the walls for clothing.
K.C. pushed back her hat, wishing she could take it off indoors. But the scarf she still wore kept her neck and chin nice and warm. She had no desire for Holmes to wake up and discover his captor was a woman. She relaxed back in the chair, but kept glancing over at the Christmas tree perched on the table and marveling how pretty it looked.
With the man safely behind bars, K.C. finally allowed herself to relax. Seems like she’d been tense for weeks. She flexed her tight muscles, trying to get them to unkink. She hadn’t lingered in the bath for a hot soak, just quickly scrubbed herself, so she could get back to the jail.
Now she could rest secure in that she’d finally done her job—kept her promise to the Stewart family to bring their son’s killer to justice. Holmes wouldn’t be harming any more good men like Charles and tearing families apart with grief. She forced herself to unwind, muscle by muscle, drinking the hot chocolate provided by the shopkeepers—she’d already forgotten their names. But she sipped the rare rich brew and appreciated their gift.
A knock on the outer door brought her to her feet, energy surging through her body. Then she remembered this wasn’t her town, and she wasn’t responsible for keeping the peace here. Strange how much she’d come to feel at home in only a few short hours.
She pulled her boots back on and strode to the door, keeping her footsteps light. She didn’t want to wake Holmes, preferring he sleep.
K.C. opened the door to see Mr. Carter, a woman, and an older man standing outside.
Mr. Carter touched his hat. “Sheriff, this is my wife, Pamela, and our minister, Reverend Norton. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Of course.” K.C. quickly ushered them inside.
Mrs. Carter, her plump face wreathed in a bright red scarf, reached out her hands, took K.C.’s and squeezed. “Thank you so much for apprehending that criminal. I shudder to think what could have happened here if you hadn’t.”
Heat crept into K.C.’s cheeks. How long has it been since someone’s touched me? Not counting the punches she often took when wrestling a drunk into a cell. Even Charles had kept his hands to himself, although she had wished he wouldn’t. She’d looked forward to that changing when at last they were married.
“We’re a close-knit town, Sheriff,” said Mrs. Carter, pulling K.C. into the present. “If someone had been murdered, we all would have been affected,” she said, her brown eyes anxious.
“Don’t think about it, ma’am. You’ll just tie yourself in knots for nothing.” K.C. hastened to reassure her.
“Wise words, Mr. McNamara.” Carter took off his hat to expose his thinning sandy hair. Up close, K.C. and the rancher stood about the same height.
K.C. glanced at the snoring Holmes, decided he was down for the night, and then waved the three of them into the back room, pulling in the desk chair. She set it down at the table and gestured for Mrs. Carter to take a seat. While her visitors unwrapped their winter wear, she returned for the other desk chair. She closed the door and then sat down, looking at each one.
The reverend had an austere, white-bearded face, and intelligent blue eyes. She bet he could preach a good hell-and-brimstone sermon. Not that the kind of men who needed to hear about the wages of sin ever darkened a church.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Mr. Carter said. “For the last year, we’ve been searching for a
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