will see you through. Remember we cannot judge ourselves harshly by the trials of war, nor should you carry the horrors with you the rest of your days. Time is fleeting and life quickly passes you by, so you must appreciate each day. I hope you will return home and train horses one day. I am certain you will learn to love the ranch again, and caring for God’s creatures will renew your soul and help you to find your purpose. Find someone to love and share your life, and give thanks for every breath.
Have faith, my beloved son, and always believe in the magic of Christmas.
I love you,
Mother
P.S. Mr. Mitchum, please come home, your mother needs you desperately. Amelia
Clint removed his hat and tossed it on his saddle horn. He leaned back, clutched the letter to his chest and closed his eyes. Thankfully, he’d been in Santa Fe when the letter arrived at the post office three weeks from the date it was written. Even though his mother said they weren’t receiving mail, he’d immediately sent a telegram, encouraging her to hold on until he arrived. He needed to see her again. He had to see her again. It was important to tell her how sorry he was that he hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. The postscript written by his mother’s friend, Amelia, heightened his sense of urgency. Though it was only one sentence, he felt the panic in those few words. What had he been thinking to stay away so long? Before he’d received his mother’s letter, he’d been planning to return home for Christmas this year and stay to run the ranch for his father. Now it was too late. What a cruel twist of fate.
Tears threatened as he thought about the precious time he’d wasted, all because he couldn’t come to terms with the past. The last time he’d shed tears was the day his childhood friend was shot dead as he rode beside him during the war. Clint was a sharpshooter in the war, always proficient at his duties—until that fateful day. He’d failed to see a man ready to waylay him and his fellow sharpshooters. His best friend died in his arms. Like so many men who returned from the war, Clint couldn’t understand why he’d survived when so many were killed. What was the purpose of neighbor killing neighbor? When the answers didn’t come, Clint buried his feelings so deep that nothing, and no one, touched his heart. Until tonight. Tonight he cried. He cried for the loss of his family, his friends and for the loss of precious time. Time is fleeting. His mother’s words were haunting.
* * *
Hours later, Clint was still wide awake, with his many regrets playing over and over in his mind, when he heard his horses restlessly moving about in the makeshift corral. He knew their habits as well as his own, and they were signaling something was not as it should be. Listening intently, he heard horses slowly approaching. Two horses. He heard a man’s voice in the stillness, which told him the riders weren’t trying to surprise him. Still, he was a cautious man. Moving to a sitting position, he silently pulled his Colt from the holster and held it by his side.
“Hello to camp,” came a deep voice from the brush.
“Come ahead.”
A man leading two horses came into view. As the man drew closer, Clint saw two children sitting atop one horse.
“We saw your fire,” the man told him.
Clint holstered his pistol, stood and raked his gaze over the newcomers. Judging by their disheveled appearance, he figured they’d been traveling for a few days.
“You got any food?” one child asked.
“Hush, Son, that’s not polite,” the man reprimanded.
The hopeful sound in the boy’s voice forced Clint to direct his attention to the children. He was surprised to see the two boys were exact replicas of each other, with thick red hair and freckled faces. “I think I can find something for you to eat.”
The man lifted the boys from the horse. “That’s not necessary; we’d be happy sharing your fire and company.”
Clint recognized the telltale sound of a tired man . . . tired of worry . . . tired of shouldering burdens alone . . . just plain tired of existing. He’d been there. “I was just thinking about rustling up some grub for myself. No trouble.” He pointed to his horses nearby in his makeshift corral. “Let’s get