Page 10 of A Texas Christmas Carol

Why in blazes had he come here? Evan looked around the small parlor George Wiggins had just shown him into and fought down a rising panic. Everything was out of control. A pair of girls ran literal circles around a man bouncing a large-ish infant in front of him. The baby chewed on a fist—causing all manner of drool to dampen his father’s sleeve—while kicking, waving, and gurgling demonstratively as he tried to keep track of the waving girls as they trotted by. The man at the center acted as if nothing were amiss, chatting amiably with a fellow similar to him in age who had arrived moments before Evan.

“You know my sons-in-law, don’t you?” George queried. “Henry Flanders is Charity’s husband. Works at the cotton gin in town.”

“Flanders.” Evan nodded, hoping to avoid a babe-infested handshake, but it was not to be.

Flanders slid his right hand out from under the tyke’s rear and thrust it at Evan. “Good to see you, Beazer.”

Evan shook his hand, trying not to think about where it had recently been situated. At least it wasn’t the one covered in drool.

“And this is Randall Sullivan. He’s married to my Serenity. They have a farm about half a mile east of here.”

Sullivan was a more circumspect fellow. No wide grin or twinkling eyes, just a penetrating stare that seemed to take Evan’s measure. He extended his hand but made no comment.

Evan clasped it, appreciative of the silence even if he did wonder how far short of the mark he’d fallen on Sullivan’s mental measuring stick. No one belonged less among this boisterous crowd than Evan.

“Hmba! Hmba!”

In a flash, Sullivan’s gaze tore away from Evan to divert to a tiny boy lunging toward the hound currently playing tug-of-war with a school-aged lad holding a knotted dishrag.

“Easy, Casper,” Sullivan said as he hurried to intercept the toddler before he could make a grab for the dog’s wagging tail.

George Wiggins chuckled. “Gotta keep a sharp eye on these little ones, but there’s nothing Prudence and I love more than having the entire family together for Monday night supper. Grandchildren keep a man young,” he declared, thumping Evan on the arm and drawing him toward the hearth, the only unoccupied place in the room. “It’s good for Felicity too, to have her sisters around regularly. They’ve always been close, and though she’d never say so, I think it’s been a little hard on her, seeing them both marry and start families while she remains at home.”

The chaos of the room instantly disappeared as all of Evan’s attention zeroed in on his host. Praying he sounded merely polite and not keenly interested, Evan asked in a bland tone, “Has she not had suitors of her own?”

“Felicity?” George made a scoffing noise. “She’s had several, though none of them captured her fancy. Of course, her mother’s illness played a role in that. Prudence fell ill three years back, and her health flagged for nearly a year before she finally rallied. The other girls both had newborns to tend as well as homes of their own, so Felicity shouldered most of the burden of nursing, housekeeping, and cooking, which left no time for courtship. So the local lads did what hot-blooded young men do and turned their focus to girls who were more available.”

Evan bristled at the injustice of it. Not that he liked the idea of Felicity having suitors, but anyone with half a brain could see that she was a woman worth waiting for. The fact that none of the young bucks gave her that courtesy spoke poorly of their collective intelligence.

George’s face softened, his joviality fading into something more sentimental. “My Felicity never complained. Not once. And every time her mother or I bemoaned her lack of suitors, she insisted that God’s timing was perfect and she wouldn’t muddle the waters with impatience.” George paused for a moment to study Evan. “That girl’s something special, Mr. Beazer. I hope you recognize that.”

“She is certainly a determined young woman,” Evan said, the fire in the hearth behind him suddenly growing twice as warm. “Her negotiating skill would put most businessmen of my acquaintance to shame.”

“She is a firecracker.” George grinned. “My wife says she inherited that from me. Blames the red hair.”

He winked and ran a hand over his perfectly shorn red locks. His was more of a faded carroty-orange than the deep cinnamon color of his daughter’s, but he somehow made red hair look dapper. As the local barber, George Wiggins knew his trade well. It made Evan feel rather shabby in comparison, with his wild silver locks hanging well past his collar.

“Aunt Lissy!” One of the little girls broke ranks and scurried across the room to wrap her arms around the knees of the woman who had just entered.

Felicity smiled down at the child before lifting her head and shyly peering at Evan. His pulse stuttered in alarming fashion.

“Dinner’s ready.” She made the announcement to the room at large, but when her gaze rested on him, he felt as if her words held special, private meaning.

Utterly ridiculous, of course, yet his chest still warmed. And when she crossed the room to him, that warmth turned into a full conflagration.

Shaken by his reaction, Evan sought out George Wiggins as a buffer, but the fellow had abandoned him to help herd his grandchildren into the dining room.

Trapped by the hearth fire behind him and Felicity in front, Evan stood his ground, his back going rigid.

She maneuvered to his side, probably more to get out of the way of the toddler herd than to ease his discomfort, but having her at his side instead of staring directly at him eased him nonetheless. It was the position of a comrade, a partner.

“Thank you for coming,” she murmured softly.

He nodded, not quite knowing what to say. She might have blackmailed him into putting in an appearance with her Humbug threats, but they both knew he could have refused with little to no repercussions. Which placed a level of significance on his presence he wasn’t ready to analyze.

Dinner should have been an awkward travesty, with him being an outsider and not given to social niceties, yet it was amazingly . . . not. He did his best to stifle his more acerbic qualities, mainly by holding his tongue whenever possible and giving succinct answers when required. While such action on his part might have decreased the chance for unpleasantness for everyone else at the table, it did nothing to increase his personal enjoyment. No, all of the credit for his not having a horrid time lay squarely at Felicity’s feet.

She sat to his left and served as his interpreter. Whenever conversation veered to a story steeped in family nuance or recollection, she’d lean his way and provide a short, quiet explanation so that he would be able to follow the conversation and appreciate the humor of each anecdote. She included him.