Read Online A Victorian Christmas by Catherine Palmer - Free Book Online

stared into his blue eyes. Who was this gunslinger who liked to break horses and could quote from The Pilgrim’s Progress ? “I believe you must have been brought up well,” she said.
    “I was.”
    Then what went wrong? she ached to ask. What had led him into a life of crime? She shook her head. It would never do to know too much about a man like Hyatt. If she understood his past, she might come to feel a measure of sympathy for him. Then his sins might seem forgivable.
    “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
    “Confound it!” she snapped.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I am plagued, Mr. Hyatt.” She pushed away from the table. “Positively plagued. A man brought up well ought to behave well, don’t you think? He shouldn’t commit sins.”
    “I reckon everyone is a sinner in one fashion or another. Even you.”
    “I’m talking about big sins. Great ones.”
    “As I recall, Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress was carrying on his shoulders a very great burden. Yet he was seeking that incorruptible inheritance laid up in heaven. When he came up to the cross, ‘his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble—’”
    “‘And so continued to do, till it came to the mouth of the sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw it no more,’” she finished. “Yes, I know the story, Mr. Hyatt.”
    “If Christ can forgive very great sins, why shouldn’t we?”
    Fara stared at him. Was this man an angel sent to test her? Or was he a demon sent to tempt her with his blue eyes and clever words? Was he a desperado—a gunslinger—or was he just a man?
    “I brought a straightedge,” she said, laying the razor on the table. “And some soap. There’s hot water on the stove.”
    Hyatt reached out and laid his hand over hers. “Miss Filly,” he said, “I can barely bring this slice of honey bread to my mouth. Left to my own devices, I’ll have to grow a beard that reaches my knees before I’m able to use a razor. I would be much obliged if you were to do me the honor of giving me a shave.”
    Fara slipped her hand from beneath his. “Mr. Hyatt,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Prepare to become the best-shaven gentleman this side of the Gila River.”
    She set the razor, a towel, and a bowl of hot water on the table. Behind him, she began whipping the soap into a white lather. She watched his movements, anticipating the moment when he would reveal his true character. He would grab the razor, leap to his feet, hold the blade to her throat, and demand money, horses, a rifle. But he made no move toward the razor. Instead, he sat contentedly eating the bread and sipping coffee from a tin cup.
    “Did you bake this?” he asked. “I’ve never tasted better bread.”
    Fara felt as vanquished as if he had used the razor. Her image of the fierce desperado evaporating, she flushed and nodded as her pleasure at his compliment spread in a warm glow through her chest. She had been praised as a businesswoman. Honored for her charity work. Admired for her fine gowns and elegant hairdos. But her bread?
    “It’s the cinnamon,” she confided as she drew the towel over Hyatt’s shoulders and tied it behind his neck. “I use just a pinch. It brings out the flavor of the honey.”
    “Cinnamon, huh?”
    “It’s a spice. It comes from the bark of a tree.”
    He chuckled. “I know what cinnamon is, ma’am. I just never thought of putting it in bread.”
    She wished she could tell him about the goodies she loved to bake for her Christmas tea—the Mexican wedding cakes, the biscochitos , the piñon nut logs. This year she had left the baking to the cooks at Canaday Mansion. But maybe . . . maybe she would just whip up a few biscochitos . If he liked the taste of cinnamon, Hyatt would love those.
    Fara used her papa’s big brush to lather the desperado’s chin and jaw. “You sure managed to sprout some tough-looking whiskers,” she said. “Lucky