Page 20 of A Texas Christmas Carol

“Come on, lad,” Wiggins said, clapping Evan on the back. “I’m itching to get my hands on your hair.”

As long as his hands didn’t end up around Evan’s neck. George Wiggins might be a jovial fellow under most circumstances, but even cheerful sorts could turn bearish where their daughters were concerned.

It didn’t ease Evan’s mind any when Felicity’s father flipped the closed sign in his window to face outward once they entered the narrow shop. The turning of the lock only added to the menacing atmosphere.

“Take a seat.” Wiggins smiled and gestured to the second of two barber’s chairs. “I’ll take your hat, cane, and coat.”

Evan dutifully handed over the items, feeling stripped of his armor when he took his seat. Oddly reluctant to view himself in the large mirror poised in front of him, Evan examined the dark walnut vanity instead, noting the stone countertop that held shaving mugs and brushes, soaps, lotions, and combs. Various drawers stood at the ready, as well, no doubt filled with straight razors, straps, and shears. Evan shifted in his seat. He’d never considered how many deadly weapons barbers kept at hand.

The loud crack of fabric being snapped sharpened Evan’s attention. Keeping a keen eye on Wiggins through the mirror, he forced himself to relax when the barber simply fit a sheeted cape around his neck to protect his clothing from falling hair.

Wiggins picked up a comb, then met Evan’s gaze in the mirror. “It took a good ten years off my life, hearing that gunshot, then looking out my window to see Felicity lying on the ground. I thought I’d lost her.”

Me too. Evan didn’t say the words aloud, but perhaps he didn’t have to, for George Wiggins broke eye contact and busied himself with combing Evan’s hair, first with a dry comb, then with it wet.

“My daughter’s taken quite a shine to you, Mr. Beazer,” he continued, reaching for a pair of scissors. Their metallic snipping did little to dull the pleasure that pumped Evan’s pulse at those words. “To be honest, I have no idea why.”

“To be honest, sir, . . . neither do I.”

Wiggins paused, scissors raised, his gaze locked on Evan’s. “Good.” An odd response.

Evan’s brows arched.

“It means you have sense enough to know my Felicity isn’t after your money.” He returned his attention to Evan’s hair and snipped a rather large hank off in one fell swoop. “If Felicity was interested in wealth, she would’ve paid more attention to Bruce Warren when he tried to pay court to her a year ago.”

Warren had paid court to Felicity? Bruce was a railroad man. Twofold richer than Evan, at least. He’d come to town last year to discuss a partnership in a hotel venture. Evan had eventually turned him down, deciding to stay true to his more modest business model and the clientele who made his inns successful instead of letting temptation lead him back into the realm of the elitist hotels he’d despised in his youth. Warren had been persistent, though, and clever in his arguments. He’d nearly persuaded Evan. If he’d done half as much to persuade Felicity, it was a miracle she wasn’t married with a babe on the way by now.

“Felicity has always let her heart lead her. Sometimes into trouble.” Snip, snip. “I worried that her roping you into that Christmas basket project would lead her to heartache.” Snip, snip. “I never expected you to actually go along with it, you see.” Snip. Snip, snip, snip. “But once you agreed, I figured it would be for the best.” Snip, snip. “She’d spend some time with you.” Snip. “Discover how ill-suited the two of you are.” Snip. “And that would be the end of it.” Snip, snip, snip.

The scissors halted.

“But then I saw your reaction today when she went down. You care for her.”

Not a shred of doubt colored Wiggins’s voice. Although Evan couldn’t pick out any particular approval either.

He met George Wiggins’s gaze in the mirror. “Yes, sir. I do.”

The affirmation did nothing to soften the barber’s fierce expression. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

The idea of claiming Felicity as his own filled him with an elation that surpassed even the satisfaction of owning his first inn. But just like that inn, there was a lot of uncertainty about what the future would hold if he signed the contract and how he would navigate unfamiliar terrain. Much more was at stake. Not only his happiness, but Felicity’s as well. Failure would cost him not just money, but his heart. Though even that he was willing to risk. It was risking Felicity’s heart that made him hesitate. Such an open, loving heart it was. So exposed and vulnerable. He was liable to trample it without even realizing it until the damage was done. Just as he’d done today, marching away from her to lick his wounds without giving a care to how that would make her feel.

The barber’s scissors had resumed their work while Evan had been lost in thought, and when Evan focused again on the mirror, he was shocked at what he saw. His hair, cropped close to his head, made him look like a completely different man. One unafraid to be seen, to be known. One with nothing to hide.

“God places nobility in all of us, son,” Wiggins stated as he set aside his scissors and rested his hands on Evan’s shoulders. “Finding it requires learning which parts to cut away and which parts to keep.” He whisked off the cape and spun the chair around to look Evan in the face directly, without the distortion of mirror glass between them. “My daughter deserves to marry a noble man, Mr. Beazer. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not you qualify.”

nine

“THAT’S THE LAST ONE.” Charity stood and pressed a hand to her lower back. “I can’t believe we packed all the baskets before supper.”

Felicity grinned at her sister as she surveyed the family parlor, a room that had more closely resembled an overstuffed mercantile three hours ago. “Serenity did a great job of organizing everything into piles for us before she left. It made our job much easier.”

“And those lists Mr. Beazer wrote proved very helpful. I knew exactly what to place in each basket.”

At the mention of Evan’s name, Felicity’s heart gave a painful twinge. After yesterday’s disagreement, she’d started questioning whether their differences in temperament might be too vast to overcome after all. She’d slept little last night. Too much fretting, even with a healthy dose of prayer thrown in.

She’d had such hopes, and he’d been living up to every one of them. Assisting her. Spending time with her. Sharing bits of his past with her. And that miniature cane he’d made for Timothy Little! Nothing could be a clearer sign of a kind heart. Or so she’d thought.