Kim grinned with happiness as she grabbed him, pulling him in closer. "It's no miracle," she said. "It's magic. Christmas magic."
And then, just as the distant church bells began to chime midnight, he kissed her.
Jolly Holly by Stef Ann Holm
Chapter One
1900, Limonero, California
John Wolcott lounged in the doorway of the California Republic Saloon with a cold beer in his hand. Sticky black petroleum gummed the bottom of his boots and the denim of his Levi's. A cotton shirt with the armholes frayed stuck to his sweaty back. Caught by wind, the light hem at his lean hips rippled.
Gazing at Main Street, he watched the goings-on. The temperature on the wall thermometer behind him registered near one hundred. It sure as hell didn't feel like Christmas was just over a week off.
With the beer bottle poised at his mouth, John's attention landed on a woman walking down Sespe Avenue. She'd come from the tall stands of dried-up mustard and wild grass, and carried a bucket in each hand. With every step, water sloshed over the rims, spattering the thirsty earth and spotting her sage green skirt. To keep the scalding sun from beating on her face, she'd tied the ribbons of a straw hat beneath her chin; the crown was adorned with a clump of matilija poppies.
Crazy Isabel Burche.
He knew who she was, but he'd never talked with her. She was as nutty as a walnut orchard. She'd actually forked over twenty-five bucks for the five acres of land she lived on--which wasn't worth a plug nickel to anyone who had a lick of common sense--to grow lemon trees. The parcel boasted more rocks than a river bed, making it useful only for grazing, if that. And Isabel didn't have a horse or a cow.
Taking a sip of beer, he watched as she turned onto a barely visible lane. She momentarily disappeared from his view. Then that hat stuck out from the wavy sea of field as she gained higher ground and headed toward the broken-down cabin that had been abandoned back in ninety-one. Isabel had surrounded the decrepit place with a variety of plants she'd dug up from the hills. Damned if the poppies hadn't taken root and grown taller than the sagging veranda porch; dusky greenery waited for early summer to bloom.
He could see her set the buckets down, wipe the sweat from her brow with a back-swipe of her wrist, then proceed to water two lemon trees. It was a hell of a thing. Because as soon as she finished--one bucketful for each tree, she retraced her steps to Sespe Avenue once more. Since she had six trees, she did this a dozen or more times a day. Her land had no tap access to the town pipeline, so she had to bring water in from Santa Paula Creek. The hike was a mile each way.
John drank his beer as she faded from his line of vision. Isabel Burche had been in Limonero nearly a year. She'd held and left more jobs than him--which in itself was no small feat.
For a day, she'd taken up residence at the Blossom as one of the girls. He'd been over in Ventura at the time, but Newt Slocum said she'd been a real merry bit in bed. The following morning, she'd strode out the doors without a backward glance and had gotten work at the mill stitching flour sacks.
From there, she'd packed lemons, then clerked for the mercantile, served as a waitress at the Calco Oil Cafe, and a score of other things he'd lost track of-- not that he was keeping track of Isabel. In a town this size, a man noticed a person's business just by turning around.
A gust of hot air breathed beneath the saloon's awning, sending a multitude of green paper flyers across the boardwalk. They tumbled and somersaulted down the street, seemingly coming from nowhere. Bending down, John snagged one as it stuck to his tacky boot heel. He didn't take the time to read it just yet.
As he stepped away from the railing, a clattering noise struck overhead on the awning, then came a ping as something rolled down the roof. A tiny white ball ricocheted off the hitching post and sailed straight for him. The damn thing belted him on the shoulder, then dribbled to his feet. He stared at it
Perfect Flight golf ball.
Looking up and down the street and seeing no one searching out a ball, John shrugged and left it there. Shank shot. Some idiot.
His thirst sated from the beer, he went back into the Republic to order a tequila. The cash from today's pay burned a hole in his wallet, and he doubted he'd have a cent left over by tomorrow.
Never having the patience to settle into one trade and stick with it until the effort paid off, John Wolcott lived each moment as it came. Part-time oil driller, part-time dowser; part-time big talker, part-time drunk. Put them all together and one could say he was a professional good-for-nothing.
John liked to think of himself as holding out for the right opportunity to come along. Isabel Burche sat on her porch in a rocker made from peeled willow boughs. A fiery sunset bathed the undulating grasses before her in deep brass and copper shadows. The Santa Ana winds still blew, but not with as much force as they had earlier. She'd opened the windows in the cabin, hoping a distant ocean breeze would be able to wend its way to the valley, but the small interior remained uncomfortable.
Her muscles ached, and her palms hadn't toughened enough to form calluses. Blisters made the skin tender and painful. Even though she wore gloves to carry the buckets, the wire handles were merciless; the constant care her plants and the lemon trees required in this heat was wearing her down.
But she wouldn't give up. Those trees represented the first real hope she had of making her own way. She'd never solely relied on herself. At twenty-eight, the time had come for her to be self-sufficient.
Once her trees began bearing enough fruit to turn a profit, she intended on using the harvest as the foundation for her business. The lemon sauce and syrup she made could be sold. With as slow as the lemons were growing, so far all she'd canned was a case. There was a market for such a thing. In the last six months, she'd had Duster ask the roughnecks if any of them would be interested in buying sweets. Every one of the oil drillers said they most surely would.