A Lawman's Christmas: A McKettricks of Texas Novel by Linda Lael Miller Page A

for the sheer joy of it, and they soon reached their destination, the flat acres where Clay intended to erect a house and a barn.
    There, he dismounted and left Outlaw to catch his breath and graze on the scant remains of last summer’s grass, paced off the perimeters of the house and marked the corners with piles of small rocks. He did the same for the barn, then stood a while, the wind slicing clear to his marrow, and imagined the place, finished.
    The house, a kit he’d sent away to Sears, Roebuck and Company for, amounted to a sensible rectangle, the kind he could easily add on to as the years went by, with windows on all sides, white clapboard walls and a shingled roof. He’d have to hire some help to put the thing together, of course, but he planned to do a lot of the work with his own hands, and that included everything from laying floorboards to gathering rock for the fireplace and then mortaring the stones together.
    With the McKettrick family expanding the way it had been for some years, Clay had helped build several houses, and put up additions, too. The kit wouldn’t arrive until late April, but he’d need to have the foundation ready, and the well dug, too.
    Of course, a lot depended on what kind of winter they were in for—Blue River was in the Hill Country, and therefore the climate wasn’t as temperate as it was in some parts of Texas—but he could already feel the heft of a shovel in his hands, the steady strain in his muscles, and he was heartened.
    Next year at this time, he promised himself, he’d be ranching, right here on this land. He’d have a wife and, if possible, a baby on the way. Christmas would be getting close, and he’d go out and cut a tree and bring it into the house to be hung with ornaments and paper garlands, and there would be a fire crackling on the hearth—
    But that was next year, and this was now, Clay reminded himself, with a sigh. He assessed the sky again, then whistled, low, for Outlaw.
    The horse trotted over, reins dangling, and Clay gathered them and swung up into the saddle.
    â€œWe’ve got our work cut out for us,” he told the animal.
    The snow began coming down, slowly at first and then in earnest, when they were still about a mile outside of town, and by the time he and Outlaw reached the livery, it was hard to see farther than a dozen feet in any direction.
    Zeb Dooley, the old man who ran the stable and adjoining blacksmith’s shop, came out to meet him. Taking Outlaw’s reins as soon as Clay had stepped down from the saddle, Zeb shouted to be heard over the rising screech of the wind. “Best head on over to the jailhouse or the Bitter Gulch, Marshal, because this blow is bound to get worse before it gets better!”
    Clay took the reins back. “I want to look in over at the schoolhouse,” he called in reply. “Make sure the children are all right.”
    Zeb, clad for the cold in dungarees and a heavy coat, shook his balding head. “Miss Krenshaw will keep them there ’til it’s safe to leave. The town makes sure there’s always a stash of firewood and grub, in case they need it.”
    Clay’s worries were only partially allayed by Zeb’s reassurance. A storm like this sure as hell meant troublefor somebody, and he didn’t feel right about heading for the jailhouse to hunker down with Chester and wait it out, not just yet, anyway.
    Clay turned away, mounted up again, bent low over Outlaw’s neck to speak to him and started for the far edge of town.
    He rode slowly, Outlaw stalwartly shouldering his way through the thickening snow, up one street and down another, until he’d covered all of them. Nobody called out to him as he passed, and lantern light glowed in most of the windows so, after half an hour, he and the horse felt their way back to the livery.
    There was no sign of Zeb, and the big double doors of the stables were latched and rattling under