Calder Pride (Calder Saga 5)

“A private talk? Here?” Jessy raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

He smiled in agreement, then nodded to a spot across the way. “Some kids are over there snickering outside the stall where they’re keeping the sheep.” He scooped up the last bite of cream-smeared pie. “I figure that’s where she took him.”

Jessy looked across the way and spotted four young girls huddled outside one of the stalls, giggling behind their hands. “I think I’ll let Mom straighten Gabriel out on her own while I get the heavenly choir organized. Have you seen Cat? She promised to help me.”

“She was over at the dessert table, giving Tucker a hand dishing up the pie.”

Catching a telltale glimpse of the bright red sweater Cat had been wearing earlier, Jessy nodded. “I see her.”

“She should have had more sense than to wear that color.”

Jessy whipped her head around, stunned by the unusually caustic comment from her father. “What do you mean? It’s Christmas red.”

“Some might call it scarlet,” he said with dry censure.

“Dad, you are wrong about Cat,” she said, suddenly impatient with him and with the quickness of others to look harshly on her. Jessy knew there had been talk about Cat.

Stumpy turned a cool eye on her. “You mean she ain’t pregnant?”

“Of course she is, but—”

“Then I’m not wrong.”

“It wasn’t the way you think, Dad. I can’t believe you can be so quick to condemn her for what happened.”

He looked off into the middle distance. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but it boils down to this—she’s a Calder.” He held up a hand to stave off her protest. “I know you’re going to say that it isn’t right or fair—that it isn’t modern thinking. But that’s the way it is here.”

The truth of his words was inescapable. Jessy recognized it and said nothing as he moved away. Perhaps elsewhere in the country, such strict moral conduct was no longer expected. But it was in this remote stretch of country called the Triple C.

“Miz Jessy.” A small hand tugged at the hem of her sweater. Jessy glanced down into the earnestly serious face of six-year-old Beth Ramsey. “Miz Niles says she needs you to get the heavenly choir together.”

“Tell her Cat and I will be right there.”

“Okay.” The girl started to leave, then turned back with a swing of her long, beribboned braids. “Miz Jessy, how come nobody’s got the part of Round John?”

“Round John?” Jessy repeated with a puzzled frown. “Who is Round John?”

Beth rolled her eyes and sighed with weighty exasperation. “You know—the guy in the song—Round John Virgin.”

Laughter bubbled up. Jessy swallowed it back and struggled to keep a straight face. “Beth, I think you should go ask Mrs. Niles that question,” she said and watched the girl head off across the way. Then,

grinning to herself, Jessy went to get Cat.

The Christmas program came off with the usual cases of stage fright, flubbed lines, and missed cues. Santa Ty arrived and led everyone in the singing of “Silent Night,” then supervised the breaking of the piñata. While the children scrambled after the candy and trinkets, Cat hurried Santa out a side door into the sharp cold of a biting north wind.

“You were a terrific Santa. The kids loved you,” Cat told him as she ducked around a corner to the sheltered side of the barn.

“They would have loved anybody in a red suit,” he muttered, then swore, “Damn, this beard itches.” He pulled it off and scratched at his cheeks, never checking the long strides that carried him swiftly along the length of the barn to the opposite end. His pace forced Cat into a running walk, which she welcomed, as cold as it was outside.

“Where did you leave your things?” she asked through numbing lips, her breath billowing in a cloud about her face.

“In the feed room.” Ty had the hat and wig off by the time they reached its outside door. He tossed them to Cat when she followed him inside. She closed the door behind her, breathing in the room’s enveloping warmth and the sweet smell of oats and corn. “I still think Dad makes a better Santa,” Ty said.

“Only because he has had more practice.” She laid the hat, beard, and wig in the suit’s storage box, which had been left atop a grain barrel. “You need to work on your ho-ho-hos, develop a lower register in your voice before next year.”

A wide smile split his face. “Everybody’s an expert.”

“Naturally.” Cat grinned back, then cast an assessing glance over him. “Do you need any help getting out of that?”