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

several.”
    Sally upended the pillowcase on the counter, and the scarves spilled out.
    Mrs. Cobb’s expression pinched in disapproval. “These are undyed! What are you thinking, girl? People want color—brown, green, blue, red. No one will buy undyed wool scarves.” She pushed them off the counter into Sally’s arms.
    Sally’s happiness shattered. The disappointment stabbed deep, and tears welled in her eyes. How silly of her to think Mrs. Cobb would buy something so plain. She clutched the scarves to her chest and turned away, heading blindly for the door. All her plans for Christmas had come to naught.
    “I’ll buy one,” said a masculine voice to her left.
    Sally blinked to clear her eyes.  
    A man stepped closer, obviously a cowboy, from the raccoon skin coat he wore over chaps and the hat he carried in one hand. As he walked, his spurs jingled. He wasn’t much taller than her, with a tanned, rugged face and brown hair. Not an attractive man, but the sympathy showing in his brown eyes drew her toward him. “Planned to buy a scarf today, but all they have here is red.” His eyes twinkled, and he grinned. “Spook the cattle I will, wearing one of them.”
    “Really?” She didn’t dare believe he meant the offer.
    “Really,” he echoed, holding out a silver dollar.
    Mrs. Cobb sniffed. “You’re just throwing your money around. The scarf is not worth that.”
    The cowboy looked into Sally’s eyes. “It is to me.”
    Sally could feel a blush creep into her cheeks. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you!” she said in a gush of excitement, taking the coin. “Now I’ll be able to buy some things for my family for Christmas. My brother and sisters would thank you if they knew you. That is, um,” she stammered. “They won’t know ‘til Christmas, but I’ll tell them it was because of you.” She separated one of the scarves from the tangle she held and handed it over to him.
    “Don’t think I’ve ever been called sir before. How ‘bout you call me Harry? I’m Harry O’ Hanlon.”
    “Oh, you’re Irish. My Da’s Irish, although you don’t sound like him.”
    Harry laughed. “That’s cuz my parents were the ones who came over from the Green Isle,” his voice changed to an Irish drawl. “American, born and bred, I am.”
    She liked the way the lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
    He ran the scarf through his hands. “This is so soft.”
    “I spun the yarn from our sheep.”
    “Sheep, eh. You know what they say about ranchers and sheepherders.”
    Sally made a face at him. “We only have seven. A ram and six ewes. My brother takes care to see they don’t over graze. Hardly a threat to the cattle herds.”
    “Well, considering what fine products come from your sheep, I hardly can object, can I?” He dug into his pocket. “In fact, I’ll take another one. Give it to my buddy for Christmas. He saved my life last summer. Guess I owe him.”
    A warm glow tingled through Sally. She handed him a scarf, and he gave her another silver dollar.
    “I hope they keep you both nice and warm.”
    “I’m sure they will.” He hesitated, glanced at Mrs. Cobb, then back at Sally. “Well, I’ve got what I came here for. Merry Christmas, Miss O’Donnell.”
    “Merry Christmas, Harry O’Hanlon.”
    His gaze lingered on her face, and then with obvious reluctance, he turned and left the store.
    Feeling an odd emptiness, she watched him go.  
    “Well,” Mrs. Cobb said with a sniff. “Guess I’ll take the rest of your scarves, Sally O’Donnell. Seems like the cowboys might take a shine to them. We’ll see. But I’m not giving you a dollar for each. Outrageous. A dime each.”
    Sally turned toward the shopkeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.”
    “Buy colored yarn with your money. I’ll not be adverse to taking some more scarves from you, provided they’re in color. In the winter, both you and Louisa Cannon can keep me supplied.”
    “All right, providing I get a quarter for the colored