Ghost of Christmas Past

Three

Three

 

Crossroads, Nevada

December 22, 1869

"You know, Lilly, men are really nothing but big children themselves.” Mrs. Harrison, a kindly matron of perhaps fifty, smiled teasingly from her seat beside the hearth. Her green eyes twinkled.

“So you’re telling me that once the baby comes I’ll have two children to keep after instead of just one?”

“Yes!”

Lilly laughed along with the two ladies who’d stopped by for a visit late in the afternoon and then stayed long into the evening. Word of Davy and Jack riding out so close to Christmas had spread quickly and Lilly had had no shortage of company. She was glad for the distraction. Normally when Davy was gone for extended periods she took the time to read and work on her newspaper, but lately she’d been having difficulty concentrating. She blamed pregnancy for her lack of discipline, and was growing far more excited about beginning her family than opening a law practice.

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth, a woman a bit closer to Lilly’s age, chimed in. “Marshal Langston doesn’t seem terribly childlike to me. I was in the bank the other day when he learned that you’d witnessed the Foster Gang’s robbery. He was fit to be tied.” She shivered. “I was actually worried for you, Lilly.”

Lilly waved off her friend’s concern. “Davy is a bit overprotective,” she explained. “He lost his first wife and child almost ten years ago. He never really recovered.” Lilly sighed. It was nice to have someone to confide in. “When we married and moved west I thought he’d finally moved past some of his worries, but lately…” her voice trailed off and she shrugged. “All I can do is be patient.”

“It sounds as though you understand what it is to lose someone,” Mrs. Harrison said. “Were you married before as well?”

Lilly shook her head. “No, not married. I was engaged though.”

“Oh?” Both Elizabeth and Mrs. Harrison sat forward, interest piqued. “What happened?”

“He died in the war. His name was Daniel.”

Heavy pounding on the front door interrupted Lilly before she could elaborate further. “Lilly!” a man’s frantic voice called. “Are you home?”

“Jack?” She quickly set aside her coffee cup aside and rose, instantly concerned. Before she could take a step, the door flew open, and Lilly gasped as her gaze fell to Jack’s disheveled figure. “Oh, my God. What’s happened?"

Haggard and dirty he stumbled off the darkened porch into the lit house. His vest and shirt were torn and muddy, and a bloody bandage encased his left upper arm.

“What’s happened? Where’s Davy?

“They shot him.” Jack’s dark eyes met with hers. “We were ambushed. He’s dead.”

Dead?

Dull ringing hummed in Lilly’s ears. Dead! She swayed on her feet, suddenly very lightheaded, reeling from Jack’s declaration. Gripping the back of the chair she dragged a haggard breath into her lungs, forcing herself to focus on Jack. “Am-ambushed? By whom, the Foster Gang?”

Jack gave his head a grim shake. “I don’t know. The attack came out of nowhere. Davy was down before either of us knew what was happening.”

Horrible images seared her mind. Davy shot and bleeding… Davy falling from his horse… Davy lying motionless in the dirt… “Where is he?” Devastation ripped through her. “Are you certain he’s dead? H-he could be hurt!” Anguish and denial pumped through her. Her husband was so vibrant and virile. He’d survived over ten years in military service—to include four miserable years at war—and another four as a U.S. Marshal, surely it would take more than a cowardly ambush to cut him down. “Why did you leave him?”