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  HIS FOR CHRISTMAS

  Copyright © 2011 by Fiona Shin

  This book is a work of ficton. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  HIS FOR CHRISTMAS

  FIONA SHIN

  For Ashley.

  Well, I finally went and did it. The holiday novella, I mean. Without you, I might add. We still have that Halloween duo-fic we said we’d release, but never did it! I even wrote something, too. We have to do it next year. What if you die before the world gets to know your genius/prowess at the mighty keyboard and Word? No one will understand why I’m such a fangirl. And that simply is not done! Now, stop playing COD, get off your XBOX live (I should take some of this advice. SKYRIM, SKYRIM!), get back on the computer, and write, woman!

  Love you.

  Stay strong.

  Chapter One

  December 10, 1883

  Branford, Illinois

  Christmas.

  It was enough to make him feel ill to the pit of his stomach.

  How different things had turned out! When he was a boy, and even when he had grown out of childhood, Christmas was something to look forward to, something to think about and smile at the fond memories that were as familiar as songs carolers sang at the corner of Graham’s Emporium.

  “God bless ye, merry gentlemen…”

  God bless ye, merry gentlemen, indeed.

  His ward, Timothy Farland, stared into his face, the boy’s freckles seeming even starker under his worried expression and pale face. “Are you all right, Mr. Whitley?”

  Are you all right?

  No. No, he wasn’t.

  But like hell he was going to admit as much to the young boy of nine. “Well enough, I suppose. Do you like Christmas, Timothy?”

  The boy’s face nearly split from his wide grin. “Do I ever, Mr. Whitley! Why, that’s like…like asking a girl if she likes dolls! Who doesn’t like Christmas, Mr. Whitley?”

  Me.

  With a forced smile that matched none of the boy’s brilliance, he ruffled Timothy’s hair and slipped a coin into his mittoned hands. “How about you get some peppermint sticks from Graham’s? One for you and one for me. Maybe even one for Mrs. Chang.”

  He barely heard the boy’s small sound of joy before Timothy launched himself to the large store, flurries of newly fallen snow kicking up from his new leather shoes.

  Well, at the very least, this Christmas wouldn’t be so lonely for him. Usually Mrs. Chang would go back home to Charleston for the holidays, so the last three Christmases had been rather quiet and nondescript. But that was before he found a ragged street urchin curled up in his stables almost a year ago.

  Shivering with a high fever that worried him to no end, Elliot called for Doc Warner, who’d sat down with the boy, having administered to the small, trembling bundle that seemed to weigh far too less than it should’ve.

  “I don’t know, Elliot,” tsked Doc Warner under his breath, brushing two fingers down his meticulously kept mustache. “He’s suffering from severe malnutrition and those wounds on his back…looks like the boy was beaten. Pretty badly, at that.”

  It was the wounds, the four lash marks on the boy’s back that very nearly undid him.

  And then, it was the small cries he heard as he washed the boy’s back that really undid him.

  Timothy never talked about himself. Other than telling Elliot his name and that he’d hitched a ride from Aurora, those were the only two clues he had regarding the boy’s past. And truth be told, he wasn’t even sure if Timothy was the boy’s birth name…

  He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

  The carolers had stopped, thank God, but to his dismay, realized it was only to turn the pages of their songbooks and discuss among themselves which songs to plague the townspeople, judging from the way they whispered and stabbed fingers at the various pages.

  Soon, too soon, they seemed to come to a compromise, although the sour look on the tall, spare man at the end hinted at a less--than--fair decision and Elliot decided it was time to move. Better to move than stand next to them and quite possibly, roll the world’s largest snowball and launching it in their direction.

  His reputation would be shot, and God knew, as the town’s newest solicitor, reputation was all he had.

  Timothy had been in the emporium for some time and Elliot walked into the large general store, with no small amount of trepidation, the small silver bell tinkling merrily as he opened the heavy wooden door. “Timothy?”

  His charge stared at him with no end of embarrassment as Mrs. Graham clucked over the boy, a length of dark wool hanging from her ample arms. When her pale blue eyes fell on Elliot, he swallowed.

  “Ah, Mr. Whitley! Just the gentleman I was looking for!” she said and Elliot felt a brief pang of shame that he wanted to turn on one hell and run away, run somewhere far, far away where he wouldn’t be forced into buying something he definitely did not need.

  For that was the power of the matron of the emporium. It was a very well--known fact a man needing only a bag of flour, would stumble out with four pounds of potatoes, a length of red ribbon, two bushels of apples, two mugs, three lanterns, five pounds of oats and a bag of flour.

  No wonder Mr. Graham had the funds available to add another extension onto the store. At this point, the emporium would probably put all the other vendors out of business.

  “Tell me, what do you think of this length of wool, Mr. Whitley? Do you not think it is of the utmost highest quality? Just in from Boston! For you and your boy, I think we can come to some sort of monetary agreement?”

  A roll of dark, scratchy wool was shoved up under his chin and very nearly launched him out the door.

  Which, in retrospect, might not have been so bad after all.

  It would’ve stopped him from having bought what seemed like an entire wardrobe for Timothy and himself and enough food to feed an entire army of hungry beggars.

  They staggered out of the emporium and Elliot was almost sure he heard Mrs. Graham cackle as the door swung shut behind them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitley,” said Timothy, his face muffled from behind a package of spiced fruits that, according to Mrs. Graham, would be a treat for Christmas dinner. “All I wanted were the peppermint sticks.”

  That really was all anyone ever wanted. Just one or two things to see them through the next couple of days. It wasn’t anyone’s fault they left with what seemed like half the store’s inventory and Elliot tried to think just where the hell he was going to put the fifteen pounds of flour Mrs. Graham had so cheerfully thrown over his shoulder.

  Fifteen pounds of flour! What the hell was Mrs. Chang going to do with that?

  Well, in any case, she was sure to be happy. Happily perplexed, that is, since they had gone down to the Stonefield farms just the day before and had a larder full to exploding.

  “Don’t give it any mind, Timothy,” he replied, face and mouth obscured by a package of salt pork, balanced somewhat precariously on a sack of walnuts. “Stronger and older men than you and I have walked through those doors and emerged with more than we have at the moment.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Whitley.”

  Timothy’s words and dry tone brought a smile to Elliot’s lips.

  Damn, he used to smile all the time. He’d smile so much, even laugh like a loon sometimes and th
ink nothing of it. Now, every smile, every laugh was enough to get his attention, as if to say, ‘Look, isn’t this rather abnormal behavior?’

  How was it possible a single woman could change so much, could take so much with her actions?

  No. He didn’t want to think about Meredith anymore.

  No more.

  “Leave right now! Shoo!”

  “No, please! I’m begging you. Please let me stay here. Just a while!”

  “And have you scare away the customers? I shouldn’t think so!”

  Was that the strident voice of the formidable Ms. Blakely? The one with the terrifying eyes and hatchet nose? He tried to shift the package of salt pork with little success.

  “Please! Have mercy!”

  He could hear the muttering and whispers of onlookers, but damned if he could see what was going on, what with this bag of salt pork in his eyes.

  Not that he cared much for whatever was causing interest, but if there was an incident, then it was sure to present some sort of trouble were he to run into someone, which was a certainty if the growing number of voices proved anything.

  And even if he couldn’t see a damn thing, he did have excellent hearing.

  He hoped his rather formidable height and the fact he had more on his back than a pack mule would get him through the crowd. “Excuse me. Coming through. Excuse me. Pardon.”

  “Look at her,” he thought he heard a hushed female voice whisper. “Has she no shame?”

  Her partner said in an equally quiet voice, “I’ve seen her before. She was at the station begging for a ticket to New York. Something about her maid having stolen everything and left her there.”

  The first woman tittered. “I heard something very scandalous about her.”

  And despite himself, his ears perked at that word. He couldn’t help it. Scandalous was very similar to libel and it was his trade, after all.

  “…at that brothel…”

  Brothel?

  “Get out!”

  A woman cried out and suddenly, someone plowed into his side.

  “Whoa there!” He wobbled in place, fighting vainly to stay in place, or more importantly, keeping a hold on all the articles in his arms.

  But it was a losing battle and in a split second, Elliot knew he was going to drop everything on the presumably muddy ground of Main Street.

  He did.

  Drop everything, that is.

  Only, he didn’t drop them on the ground.

  Someone screamed as a sack of potatoes fell on a dark heap on the snowy ground.

  And the bacon.

  The length of dark wool meant to be winter coats for he and Timothy.

  Finally, the sack of flour slipped off his shoulder and landed with a very decided ‘thud’ on the coat--wrapped thing he realized was a person.

  And not just a person.

  A girl.

  His mind curiously blank, not even registering the scream like a whistling tea kettle from Ms. Blakely, he fell to his knees next to the unmoving pile of herringbone patterned coat and tangled dark hair.

  Timothy set down his packages with much more care than he and hastened towards him.

  “Is she dead, Mr. Whitley?”

  This started off another wave of whispers and mutters from the townspeople who, much to Elliot’s disgust, failed to do anything much but mill about and talk amongst themselves. “I hope not. God, I hope not.”

  The girl’s eyelashes made dark crescent shadows on her pale, sunken cheeks and gently, he propped her in his arms, hoping against hope to get a reaction, any reaction.

  Her head lolled back on his arm and he noted the dirt smudges on her face, the tangles in her hair, the smell of unwashed flesh. He’d seen it all before, with Timothy and inwardly, he could only laugh hysterically at the sense of humor Himself seemed to have.

  ‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘You must really, truly hate me. Or love me. I just don’t know.’

  But what he did know was the girl needed attention. And maybe a warm meal. Already, a darkening bruise began to spread across her hairline and he hefted her in his arms, alarmed at just how light she was. She couldn’t weigh any more than Timothy and the boy was only nine! “Anyone know where Doc Warner is?”

  Someone spoke up, a vaguely familiar man who he might’ve seen at the train station at some point. “I think he’s at a birthing.”

  Ms. Blakely, blond hair tied back in a severe and unbecoming fashion, hastened down the three stairs, wringing her ink--stained hands. “Oh, Mr. Whitley! Are you quite all right? I apologize. I only meant to get the vagrant girl out of our doorway. She simply would not leave!”

  He watched her lips curl back in disgust as her sharp blue eyes fell on the girl in his arms and felt, if possible, even sicker. “I’m sure you were doing what any person here would do.”

  She tipped her head to one side, as if trying to decide if he was insulting or complimenting her. “Ye…yes, of course. A vagrant like her is simply terrible for business. Customers were starting to complain. I can’t have something like that sullying our reputation!”

  Aware they were drawing, if possible, even a larger crowd, quite possibly even the whole of Branford, he tightened his grip on the girl. Jesus, how old was she, anyways? “Of course. I completely understand. I understand you can’t possibly offer any sort of aid or comfort to this girl who does not have a thing in the world. I understand how this would put off your customers, Ms. Blakely.”

  He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, hadn’t meant to be so damn rude.

  Or maybe he had.

  “But-”

  He made an angry motion with his head and settled the unconscious girl more comfortably in his arms. “Never mind. I suppose there’s no point in pointing out one of the most fundamental qualities of Christmas. Something about charity towards your fellow man?”

  The painfully skinny woman clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes glistening and he turned away from her, unable to keep the anger at bay any longer.

  “Timothy, let’s go.”

  The boy looked up from trying to heft the sack of flour onto his almost nonexistent shoulder. In any other situation, it might’ve made him laugh. “But what about our things, Mr. Whitley? Are we just going to leave it here? What if someone takes them?”

  A rotund woman with perpetually red cheeks detached herself from the crowd, or rather, elbowed her way through. “Well, this is certainly quite a spectacle, if I may say so myself, Mr. Whitley.”

  Mentally, Elliot groaned. Was she going to suggest they buy something else? Perhaps some kind of ointment or splint?

  But that was not to be the case.

  “Don’t you worry about your merchandise,” said Mrs. Graham, an unusually grave look on her face. “I’ll have Henry and Albert deliver the goods. Just you take care of that girl.”

  Abruptly, she turned on her heels, hands on her ample hips, eyes fixed on Ms. Blakely. “And shame on you, Lucinda! Have you no sense of charity? And with Christmas so soon! Why, what your dearly departed mother would say if she could see you now, I’d most certainly like to know. I’m sure Margaret never raised you to be such a spiteful girl--”