Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection by Debra Holland Page B

face, Sheriff, if you want to play with those boys in the saloons … make sure no one’s cheating.”
    Mrs. Carter looked around the room. “Will your quarters be adequate?”
    K.C. wanted to laugh, but she could see the woman was sincere. “Just fine, ma’am. Similar to what I have in Grant Hills, but decorated a bit more festive.”
    Carter named a salary that was more than she currently earned and mentioned some benefits, one of which was eating at Widow Murphy’s boarding house. From the face his wife made, K.C. wondered if that was a benefit after all. Did she burn the food?
    The minister placed his hands on the table. “Speaking of festive—” He rose. “We have a Christmas pageant starting in a little while. I must be going. Sheriff, I’m sorry you have to miss it. Perhaps next year your jail cells will remain empty and you’ll be able to join us.”
    “She hasn’t said yes,” Carter commented. He slanted her an inquiring glance. “Well, K.C. McNamara. Will you have us?”
    At the marriage-vow-sounding question, K.C. felt a smile play around her lips, perhaps the first one since Charles’ murder. In keeping with the formality of his question, and because a little imp of humor prompted her, she said, “I do.”
    All three faces lit up. Carter slapped his leg. “Splendid. When can you start?”
    She lifted her chin in Holmes’ direction. “I’ll pack up and leave Grant Hill as soon as that one’s hung and buried.”
    The men shook her hand, and Mrs. Carter surprised her by leaning over and giving her a hug. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Sheriff K.C. I’ll look forward to knowing you better.”
    Stunned by the rapid turn of events, K.C. watched them wrap up for the cold and escorted them to the door. She shut it behind them and stood there for a moment, still holding the doorknob.
    The honking snores from the cell told her she didn’t have to worry about Holmes. She stood a moment watching him and pondered. Perhaps angels had directed his path. He could have headed anywhere, but he came here, and, thus, brought me here.
    Or maybe it wasn’t angels. Maybe the guide was Charles. She touched her mouth, feeling her lips curve under her fingers at the thought.
    Abruptly, she turned and strode into her room, canting the door partially closed. Standing by the table, she reached out and fingered a tiny carving of a horse, fastened to a branch of the Christmas tree. For a moment, K.C. imagined the soft brush of a hand over hers. Her fingers fisted around the horse. Tears came to her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.  
    “Goodbye, Charles,” she whispered. “I’m moving on to a new town … a new life. Wish me well.”
    Another light touch on the back of her hand, and he was gone. Around the edges of her pain, K.C. felt hope seep into her heart, and she knew… Someday, she’d find love here in Sweetwater Springs. The occasion might not be for a while, but it would come.  
    Still holding the ornament, she closed her eyes and gave thanks for her very own Christmas miracle.

 
    FELIZ NAVIDAD
     
    Jose “Pepe” Villagomez Sanchez sat in a pew in the middle of the church, attending the monthly Catholic Mass given by Father Fredrick, the traveling priest. The afternoon sun’s weak rays bounced off the snow and through the plain windows, sparkling on the silver crucifix and communion chalice set upon the white cloth-covered altar. The sweet fragrance of incense filled the wooden building.
    The morning had loomed overcast, looking to storm, so only a few people attended the Protestant service held earlier in the day. But by noon, the clouds blew away, making traveling to Mass possible for the Mexican, Irish, and Italian population of Sweetwater Springs.
    “ Kyrie, Elèison ,” the priest intoned. “ Christe, Elèison ...”
    Pepe should have been listening to Father Fredrick chant in Latin. For the most part he tried to concentrate, but his attention kept straying to the young woman,