A Texas Hill Country Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

attractive couple. A perceptive observer might have taken the man for the owner of a successful ranch and the woman as his wife. And that was exactly what they were . . . as far as it went.
    As a porter took the couple’s bags from a baggage car, he asked, “You want me to have those taken to one of the hotels, Mr. Jensen?”
    â€œNo,” Smoke Jensen said. “We’re not staying overnight in Fort Worth. We’re supposed to catch a stagecoach later today.”
    â€œA stagecoach?” the porter repeated. “Not many of those runnin’ anymore, since the railroad’s come to Texas.”
    Smoke smiled and said, “The railroad still doesn’t go everywhere.”
    â€œWhere are you and the missus bound, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
    â€œWe’re going to spend Christmas on a ranch owned by a man named Chester Fielding, down on the Llano River south of Mason,” Smoke explained. “I’ve come down here to do a little business with him.”
    Sally Jensen’s arm was linked with her husband’s. She smiled and tightened her grip a little as she added, “And since it’s almost Christmas, I certainly wasn’t going to be separated from Smoke at this time of year if I could help it. So we’re making an excursion of it.”
    The porter shook his head and said, “Well, you folks sure didn’t pick a very good time for a trip. I hear it’s a mess down that way, what with all the rain.”
    The sun was shining here in Fort Worth at the moment. Smoke frowned and said, “I hadn’t heard about that.”
    â€œWord’s come in over the telegraph from Austin and San Antonio that it’s been rainin’ off and on for days down south of here. You’re liable to run into some high water on that stagecoach.”
    â€œWell, I hope not,” Smoke said. “I want to get to Fielding’s spread and see about this prize bull he’s got that I want to buy. Ought to be a good deal for both of us.”
    â€œSo your bags need to go to the stagecoach station?”
    Smoke nodded and said, “That’s right. The Cross Timbers Stage Line, over on Belknap Street.”
    â€œKnow right where it is,” the porter said. “I’ll see that the bags are delivered there. When does your stage pull out?”
    â€œTwelve thirty this afternoon.”
    â€œYou’ve got some time to kill, then.”
    Sally frowned slightly, and Smoke knew why.
    She didn’t care for the phrase the man had used. Too many times in the past, for Smoke “time to kill” had to be taken literally.
    In the years since young Kirby Jensen had headed west with his father, right after the Civil War, violence had dogged his trail. A chance meeting with an old mountain man known as Preacher, an attack by Indians, a desperate fight for life . . . and Preacher had dubbed Kirby “Smoke,” since he was that fast and accurate with a gun. The lethal skill was something that came natural to the young man, and over time it had been honed to the point that many people considered Smoke Jensen to be the fastest, deadliest gunfighter the West had ever seen.
    The fact that Smoke had married, settled down, and become a successful rancher in Colorado had done nothing to lessen his reputation. Trouble still seemed to seek him out and follow him wherever he went.
    Smoke knew Sally was hoping this trip would be different. So did he, but experience had taught him to have a more fatalistic attitude. Whatever happened would happen, and he would deal with it to the best of his ability . . . which was considerable.
    He and Sally left the depot while the porter was supervising the loading of the bags onto a cart that would carry them to the stage station at the other end of Fort Worth’s business district. They strolled along Calhoun Street and cut over to Throckmorton. It was a beautiful winter day in Texas, with crisp, cool