Christmas Magic
CHAPTER 1 - DALE
Driving from Torrington in the slatted, pre-blizzard rain just two days before Christmas, Dale Fairweather turned the wipers on to double time, squinting through the truck’s windshield as he headed west along Highway 313. Even if the visibility was shutting down, he could be grateful because at least he wasn’t on the main highway with the idiots who imagined they had the skills to outrun the storm or the smarts to get the hell off the road.
He was also grateful that after a quick stop at the Torrington Livestock Market to check on potential breeding stock and putting a bid on slots for the next yearling and calf sale come January, he was headed home.
The errand could have waited till after Christmas, but but the owners of the Yellow Bee Ranch, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, who lived in New Jersey and liked to imagine themselves real ranchers but were really only hobby ranchers, wanted to stay on top of the market. Probably so they could brag to their friends at the Elks Club or whatever elite watering hole they belonged to.
The pictures along the large staircase in the main house atthe Yellow Bee, where Dale was shacked up for the winter, housesitting, testified to the family’s love of large cowboy hats, Ariat and Lucchese cowboy boots, belt buckles with enough shine on them to send signals to the space station. The photos of Mr. and Mrs., sons and daughters, and a host of smiling grandchildren, also inevitably included brand new lariats artfully draped over carefully weathered hay bales, lariats that, as Dale could plainly see, still had the plastic bands on them, keeping them in place, and that had not a single cow hair on them, horse hair, or even human hair. They were just for show. As was the whole of the Yellow Bee.
The one thing Dale could say was that the Yellow Bee, in spite of being a hobby ranch run distantly by sunshine ranchers, had up-market everything. Brand new barn, painted a cheery red, sparkling new paddock, painted a glowing white, standing out among the wild grasses and short, flinted hills that surrounded it.
The property, a few miles from Chugwater was south of the train tracks, situated in the prettiest valley with rich, fertile bottom land, fed by Chugwater Creek.
Maybe in someone else’s book, probably most people’s, the area would have been considered a gully, and from Iron Mountain Road, that ran past the ranch, the place didn’t look like much. That was the beauty of the ranch because once you crossed the tidy wooden bridge, the low slope of the land showed the glory of twenty-five thousand acres spreading out along the wide creek, and you could just about smell money in the air.
The main complex didn’t slouch either, being made up of an enormous white painted house, a guest house which was a mini version of the main house, plus there was a shiny metal-roofed sorting barn, a supply barn, another barn for whatever ATVs and trailers they might own.
At the very far end of the main complex was the brand newpair of double-wides, four bedrooms each, where the hired help resided.
Normally, that’s where Dale would have unpacked his things for the winter, but the Palmers were concerned that with the hard winter coming, the pipes might be at risk. So, consequently, he was staying at the main house, in one of the guest rooms, the one with the pale blue paint and white everything else that faced east, which, at least, spared him from the winter gales that often rattled the window panes, no matter how well they’d been installed.
This was fine by him. He didn’t mind being a temporary resident, feeling entirely out of place amidst the soft surroundings, because, come spring, he’d be headed back to his job at Farthingdale Guest Ranch. There, his ranch hand duties, including helping guests, working in the barn, and taking long trail rides into the hills, suited him just fine.
Leland Tate, the manager of the ranch, was a good man, and knew the value of hiring and keeping good men and women to give guests who came to the ranch a top-notch experience for their money. Which was a lot. Dale knew that guests paid four hundred, even five hundred dollars a night to stay at the ranch, which was a testament to the fact that some people had more money than sense. But what did he care? The tips were good, and Dale was saving to buy his own cattle ranch someday. One day.
In the meantime, he turned north up Lone Tree Road so he could skirt across Chugwater, go under the bridge to the 211 and get home before the roads got really bad. Right now they were wet with slatted snow. In another hour, they’d be freezing over. Fine by him. He’d be tucked in, snug, ready for the blizzard, doing his best to ignore Christmas and everything to do with it.
Unlike for most folks, the guys and gals at the stock yard, the lone attendant at the Stop ’n Go in Torrington, pretty mucheverybody he’d chanced to meet up with forweeks, there was no magic for him in the thought of a white Christmas. What was the point when there was nobody to share it with? At twenty-nine his prospects were the ranch he hoped someday to purchase and run and that was about it. He’d given up on dreams years ago.
Driving slow through town, he passed the Chug Chug Gas and Go and slipped under the bridge for I-25, and started along Highway 211, known to locals as Iron Mountain Road. He’d be home and unpacked in under ten minutes.
CHAPTER 2 - DALE
The snow was coming down hard on the other side of the bridge, as if he’d passed into a wholly different eco-system, so he’d not expected to see two small figures walking along the wrong side of the road, headedintothe snow.
When he saw them, he put on the brakes.
Given the lack of recent snow, the chemicals on the road rose up in a foam, and he skidded sideways, almost hitting them. When he came to a stop, his heart was jackhammering in this chest, his palms sweaty, the back of his neck tight.
The two little girls were behind him now, on the wrong side of the road than they should be, as they were walking with traffic, not against it. Luckily there was no traffic, just him and his over enthusiastic brake-brake-brake reaction.
Turning the wipers to slow, he pulled over, watching ahead of him on the road, and behind him in the rear view mirror at the same time, thinking crazy bad thoughts about how maybe he’d actually hit them, that they were so small, he’d not even noticed.
Leaping out of the truck that he’d left in idle, the parkingbrake solidly on, he went around the front of the truck at a trot, and there they were. Two sad-eyed, wet-haired, shivering little girls, wearing not enough coat for the coming weather, which was going to be a two-day blizzard, if not more, bringing with it a white Christmas.
Any fool could see the way the clouds clawed at the low ridge of mountains to the west, any fool could see the way the sky was coming down like wet, gray towels. So what fool let his kids go outside like that?
“You girls okay?” he asked them, slowly, keeping his voice low and calm.
They both looked at him silently, the wind pressing their wet hair against their pale faces. The smaller girl had bright pink earmuffs that were falling back off her head, and the other girl had a scarf that was still letting in the wind and snowy rain.
“Where you headed?” he asked, coming a little closer.
His truck was a bit too far out in traffic, not enough on the shoulder, for his liking, and somebody might hit it if they weren’t paying attention. Luckily there was no traffic, so as long as he kept watch, he could get the girls safely in his truck, and take them wherever they were wanting to go.
“You going home?” he asked, still patient. “Can I give you a lift?”
