A Lone Star Christmas by William W. Johnstone Page B

bit. That was a despicable thing to do!”
    â€œI didn’t mean anything by it,” Dalton said again.
    â€œDusty?”
    â€œYes, ma’am?” Dusty replied. Dusty was the oldest of all the cowboys who worked at Live Oaks.
    â€œPlease take my brother home.”
    â€œI ain’t ready to go home yet,” Dalton said.
    â€œYou aren’t ready?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. And you can’t make me go home.”
    â€œI guess you’re right. I can’t make you go home,” Rebecca said. “But I can’t protect you either. So if these gentlemen feel they have a score to settle with you, there is nothing I can do to stop them.” She turned toward the angry cowboys. “Go ahead, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
    â€œNo! Sis! Wait!” Dalton shouted. “No need for that. I’ll go home with Dusty.”
    â€œI thought you might feel that way,” Rebecca said. By now it wasn’t just the cowboys, but everyone at the dance who had gathered around to watch the drama play out before them.
    â€œGo on back to enjoy the dance,” Rebecca said to the others. “I’ll get a new punch bowl and replace the punch.”
    â€œMiss Rebecca, how are you goin’ to replace the punch? There must’ve been ten bottles of whiskey in it,” one of the others asked.
    His question was greeted with laughter which, fortunately, broke the tension.
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    â€œDalton does find ways to get himself into trouble, doesn’t he?” Dusty commented that night after they had all returned to the bunkhouse and were getting ready for bed.
    â€œHe’s a good man,” Mo said.
    â€œHow can you say that?” One of the other cowboys asked. “Like you say, he’s always into first one thing and then another.”
    â€œI mean when you consider that me ’n him are good friends, what with him bein’ rich and me bein’ nothin’ but a cowboy.”
    â€œGood men don’t pee into a punch bowl,” Tom said.
    â€œHe just needs a little discipline is all,” Dusty said. “But I think Mo is right. I think that deep down, he is a good kid. What I don’t understand is why he is like he is. I mean, he’s got everything anyone his age could possibly want, but somehow it don’t seem to be enough for him.”
    â€œIt isn’t a condition that is entirely unheard of,” Tom said.
    Tom didn’t elaborate, but he could have. He had seen many a young man, and woman, children of the very wealthy, who for some inexplicable reason were spoiled rotten. Dalton was proof that this particular syndrome was not limited to Boston.
    After Tom got to bed he lay there far into the night, thinking of Rebecca. He was sure that if he had wanted to, he could have kissed her that night.
    What was he talking about? He did want to kiss her. He wanted to very much. But he knew that if he had, it could open up a can of worms that he wouldn’t be able to close again. He was not ready for love—not yet—maybe never again. Not after what happened to Martha. Tom was beginning to think that he should not have gotten off the train in Fort Worth.
    Live Oaks, June 1
    â€œLook at that,” Mo said, pointing to a broken spoke on the right rear wheel of one of the three heavy freight wagons that belonged to the ranch. “That wheel is going to have to be replaced.”
    â€œI’ll help you,” Tom said.
    â€œWell, the first thing we have to do is get it up on a stand,” Mo said. “I’ll get the stand and the lever.”
    A moment later, Mo came back from the barn with a stand, a long lever, and a block. Putting the block and lever in place, Mo picked up the jack stand.
    â€œI’m smaller than you are, and I can get under the wagon easier,” he said. “You lever it up, and I’ll get the jack stand set in place.”
    â€œAll right,” Tom