The Christmas Knife Read online

  The Christmas Knife

  Jackie North

  For all those who know that love is love…

  And to Dear Old Dad, who taught me the true meaning of Christmas.

  I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!

  ~~ Charles Dickens

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Letter From Jackie

  Jackie's Newsletter

  Also by Jackie North

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  It all began with the two-part gift, out of the blue, from Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill, who ran a dude ranch in Farthing, Wyoming, was always coming up with something he'd dug up in the barn, which had been used as a repository of detritus for years. Sometimes what he'd found was just old junk, good for a curious look, but other times, he'd come up with pure gold. And, as he had a generous heart, he'd give it away without a thought to the monetary value of it.

  Hence, the antique, bone-handled Bowie knife belonging to Uncle Bill's Great Grandad Pete had come into Clayton's possession, he being one of Uncle Bill's many, many favorite nephews. They were all his favorites, and all of them knew it, but perhaps Clayton held a special place in his heart. Which was why there'd been such a fond look on Uncle Bill's face when he'd gifted the Bowie knife to Clayton.

  "You might give it to that nephew of yours," Uncle Bill had said. "He's old enough, ain't he?"

  He might be, but as Clayton clutched the knife in his hand, he looked down at the floor of the old barn at the dude ranch, inhaled the smell of horses and hay, and nodded even as he frowned.

  "No time for hesitation," said Uncle Bill in that firm, commanding way of his. "Your sister's newly married, and from the sounds of it this new husband isn't like the old one. He won't keep her from her own family because he ain't like that. Didn't he just invite you for Christmas?"

  Having not seen his sister Sarah for over two years, Clayton's heart jumped with hope that the visit would be a good one and a start to their relationship beginning anew.

  "That first husband kept her away, but she let him," said Clayton. He didn't mumble this, as Uncle Bill did not like mumblers. "She let him."

  "She did at that," said Uncle Bill, in that prosaic way of his. "But she saw the sense of it and divorced that shitty guy and married this better one. She wants you in her life, she wants you in little Shawn's life. I've talked to Luke, that husband of hers, on the phone. He don't care about your nature, from what I can tell. He just wants a table full of family at holiday time with a big, golden turkey in the middle."

  Nature was how Uncle Bill referred to Clayton's being gay, but he said it with affection, with nary an ounce of reproach. That's just how Uncle Bill was; he used words as he saw fit and you couldn't contradict him, or he'd get riled, and you didn't want Uncle Bill riled because he would go on and on.

  "Here's the other part," said Uncle Bill. With two hands he held out a newspaper wrapped article. "Go on now, take it."

  As Clayton took it, Uncle Bill told the story of it, as he liked to do.

  "This is a bone-handled Bowie knife in a beaded leather sheath, which was hand done by a half-Native American woman of the Arapahoe tribe. Her name was Adeline, and she was a good friend of your Great Grandad Pete's."

  Clayton unwrapped the faded yellow newspaper until the shimmer of beads was laid bare. The sheath was made of thin leather that crackled with age, the fringes of it broken and worn at the ends. The beads shone as though they were newly made, though the line of the pattern was ragged where the thread that held the design was breaking. When he drew out the Bowie knife, the blade glinted, worn thin, and he could easily see the stories it could tell.

  "Now, you take that—" Uncle Bill shook his finger as he pointed at the knife and sheath in Clayton's hands. "There's a very skilled fellow in Dickinson, South Dakota, by the name of Ricky Patterson. His family has lived in those parts since the town was born. You take that up to him, and he'll remake it—"

  "Take it up?" asked Clayton.

  "You don't send something that valuable through the mail, boy, you babysit it every step of the way," said Uncle Bill, scolding. "It's too fragile for the mail, and I wouldn't trust anybody with it but you. And Ricky, of course. He can make a new pouch, and re-bead it exactly like it is right now, with good, new thread, and sturdy, thick deerskin leather."

  Clayton took a breath and thought this through. He was off from his long-distance truck driving job for the holidays, so the thought of doing exactly that, driving across the empty plains, made him feel tired.

  On the other hand, he could drive his own car, and wouldn't have to pull off every time there was a weigh station or a state line with a port of entry where he'd have to register. He could just sail on by, drinking fountain soda and munching on whatever salty snack he'd gotten from the gas station. He could listen to his music at full volume without having to also listen for a phone call from the trucking depot.

  "Okay," said Clayton. He looked at Uncle Bill and smiled. "It's a good idea. Thank you, and for these." He gestured with both his hands full of the two-part gift. "Shawn will love them."

  "And he'll love you for giving them to him," said Uncle Bill. "Which is the point, of course." Uncle Bill smiled with his teeth, his head tilted back, pleased with himself. "I'll call Ricky to tell him you're on your way."

  "Now?" asked Clayton, though he realized it was already too late to object; Uncle Bill had made his mind up and that was that. "Today?"

  "You can plow on up to Dickinson and meet him at the bowling alley by nighttime—"

  "The bowling alley?" asked Clayton.

  "There's only one," said Uncle Bill, calm in the face of Clayton's concern. "Everyone hangs out there, and Ricky likes to bowl."

  "How long will it take him once I get up there?" asked Clayton, already arranging in his mind how long it would take him to gas up the car and get up there.

  "A few days, if he's got nothing else going on," said Uncle Bill. "You'll have enough time to drive down to south Denver and join your sister on Christmas Eve."

  It might sound farfetched, and though Clayton had some reservations, Uncle Bill's ideas were usually good ones. Besides, he could already imagine the look on his nephew Shawn's face when he got the Bowie knife and beaded sheath on Christmas morning.

  He and his sister had not seen each other in over two years. He'd gone to visit Sarah right before the holidays, and Sarah's now ex-husband had found out that Clayton was gay. The ex had stormed and raged and thrown Clayton out, denouncing him as an unnatural sinner and what's more, a pedophile.

  Clayton had been horrified at the idea, and brokenhearted that Sarah had not stood up to the ex. And it wasn't only that he'd been thrown out of the house; any future contact had been forbidden. It had been positively medieval, the whole thing, and the emptiness in Clayton's heart had yet to heal. But this was a start, and it was all due to his favorite uncle.

  "Thank you, Uncle Bill," said Clayton. "I really mean it, thi
s is something special."

  "And you can clear your head of all that hate for her ex, and let the high prairie soothe your heart while you drive, you hear me?" asked Uncle Bill.

  "Yes, Uncle Bill," said Clayton obediently, but it was with a smile. He was Uncle Bill's favorite nephew, after all.

  This idea of his uncle's would work. It would break the ice with Sarah and allow them to rebuild their relationship. He missed her something fierce, and he missed the way Shawn would look up at him with wide eyes when Clayton told of his drives across the country. And then he'd call him Uncle Clayton, and Clayton's heart would melt like butter on a hot griddle. He missed all of that, and more, and he wanted it back. Uncle Bill had just given him a shove in the right direction.

  Chapter 2

  Ricky Patterson was an older man, with thin, silvery-grey hair, wire spectacles, and an expression in his eyes of curiosity and wonder, like he was seeing everything for the first time, every time. He wore suspenders to hold up his jeans from slipping off his slender waist, and in every way he was articulate and thoughtful.

  His skill at reassembling the leather sheath was amazing, with every bead in the exact place it had originally been, but now snugly arranged against new, thick deerskin. After they'd met at the bowling alley, Clayton had paid Ricky with an old-fashioned check, which was how Ricky preferred it, waved Ricky off as he drove away in his car, then went back into the bowling alley, which was a warm hub of pre-Christmas activity.

  The only problem was, as Clayton had ordered a drink, and turned for a moment to grab his wallet, someone had taken the Bowie knife and beaded sheath from the bar. In the noise and light and holiday hubbub, Clayton imagined that the smoothness of the leather had caused the sheath to slide from the counter to the floor, so for five full minutes, he searched, hunkered down and squinting. It didn't take him much longer than that to realize that the beautiful gift intended for his nephew had been stolen. Someone had seen it and wanted it, and had taken it.

  The police arrived soon after Clayton's hasty phone call, where he felt foolish, thinking all along he'd find the knife and sheath right where he'd been looking, or that some kindly waitress would, smiling, hands held out, bring it back to him. But no such thing happened, and Clayton's heart pounded as he explained the situation to the cops while the bubble lights on the top of their cop car in the gravel parking lot burbled blue and red.

  They knew Ricky, he was a well-known tradesman in town, skilled with leather, and he knew about Native American art and craftsmanship, so they didn't suspect Ricky. They shook their heads when Clayton couldn't identify the person, or persons, who had taken the sheath. In his mind, the beads twinkled and the leather was soft beneath his hands, only now, that was just a brief memory.

  "This is a good town," said one of the cops. "People don't steal from each other here."

  "Well, someone stole that sheath," said Clayton, doing his best not to snarl at their lackadaisical attitudes. Either they didn't believe him, or they thought he was lying, both of which were based on the fact that he was not one of them.

  They could certainly check with Ricky that there had been a knife and sheath to begin with, or even the bartender behind the counter, who had seen it and nodded his appreciation of it when Clayton had placed down to grab his wallet. But even their verification that Clayton wasn't lying wouldn't be enough to bring the knife and sheath back.

  "You want to stick around for a few days while we look for it, Mr. Nash?" asked the other cop.

  Clayton scrubbed his hands through his hair. He'd already hung around Dickinson for three days while Ricky had carefully cut through supple sheets of deerskin leather, taken close up photographs of the beadwork from every angle, and taken up needle and sturdy, thin thread to recreate the design laid down by Adeline so long ago.

  Clayton had come into Ricky's house to watch him in his craft room from time to time, silent and admiring, and then spent the rest of his time watching sunsets over the frosty fields, whiling away a few hours improving his game at the bowling alley, and eating biscuits and gravy, his favorite, every morning at the local diner. He'd spent enough time in Dickinson and he needed to get a move on if he was going to make it to his sister Sarah's house in south Denver by Christmas Eve.

  It'd been Luke that Clayton had called first, when he'd arrived in Dickinson. Luke had a low, masculine voice on the other end of the phone as he assured Clayton, that yes, he was more than welcome, that the guest room was already ready for him, and that Shawn, his ten-year-old nephew, was wild with excitement that Uncle Clayton was coming for Christmas.

  "And Sarah?" had asked Clayton, quite softly.

  "I think she feels bad about all of it," said Luke. "Not about him, but about you and how she let him treat you the way he did."

  "And you don't care that I'm gay?" asked Clayton. He needed to make sure about this, as he didn't want another scene like last time.

  "You could be a purple people eater for all I care," said Luke. "I heard about how you were there for Sarah when your folks passed away, real quick it was, within a month of each other. You helped her with the house, and all their possessions. You were there for her. You've always been there for her. She knows that. As for Shawn, he's losing his little mind that you're going to be here. I don't think he even cares about any presents from you, it's you he wants to see."

  Now, only days before Christmas, Clayton couldn't bear the thought of letting the little family down. He didn't want to disappoint young Shawn, or his sister Sarah, or Luke, even though the two had never before met. There was a Christmas waiting for him, and the chance of acceptance and family, only it was all ruined because a thief had decided that his needs were more important than a ten-year-old boy's.

  He needed to call and let them know. To do anything else would be the coward's way out.

  "Can we contact you at the motel, Mr. Nash?" asked the first cop, and it was easy to see that he felt that was the best way. That Clayton should hang around just in case the knife and the sheath were found.

  "No," said Clayton, his voice flat. "I'm going to go home for Christmas."

  He left out what he really wanted to say, which was that he'd be damned if he was going to stay in Dickinson waiting for something, the miracle of the gift being found, because not only would that drive him crazy, the thief was probably long gone. Dickinson was miles from anywhere, but the roads, which were open, led to all points south. There'd be plenty who'd be interested in buying stolen property without any concerns about the provenance of it, nor the idea of a sad little boy whose Uncle Clayton would arrive empty handed at Christmas.

  As the cop car pulled away, the bubble lights turned off, Clayton looked out over the gravel parking lot at the grey-tinged sunset. Clouds were moving in, a low eggshell-smooth sheet that promised snow and lots of it. Behind those clouds was a boiling fury of a blizzard waiting to be unleashed.

  Clayton had driven across the plains too many seasons not to recognize the signs. He should get going before the storm moved in, but first he needed to call Luke, Sarah's new husband, and explained why Shawn's face would not be so bright when Uncle Clayton arrived.

  The bowling alley, once a cheery haven in a quiet town, was too loud, so Clayton got into his car and drove the short distance to the slightly shabby ten-room motel in the center of town. It was one of those that had been built in the 50's when driving across the country was a newly grown rage after the war, and little spots along the highways led to tiny towns, each with a small motel of their own. This one was called the Dewdrop Inn, which finally made sense after Clayton had been in residence a few days: Do drop in.

  Now the old neon seemed faded and a little sad in the thin sliver of sunset as Clayton pulled his car to a stop in front of his room and parked. He went inside, flicked on the lights and sat on the bed with his cell phone in his hands.

  He only knew Luke from the phone, and while it wasn't very likely that Luke would turn him away for screwing up and letting the promised Chri
stmas knife and beaded sheath be lost, it was still a little likely.

  Ever since he'd talked to his Uncle Bill and accepted the idea of this gift for Shawn, Clayton's heart had been expanding with hope. Now, with one phone call, that hope might be lost, or it might be gained. Uncle Bill had said that Luke seemed like a decent guy, and Uncle Bill was seldom, make that never, wrong, so Clayton hung on to that hope while he dialed Luke's number.

  After two short rings, the line clicked open.

  "This is Luke."

  "Luke," said Clayton. "This is Clayton. Hello."

  "Hey, Clayton," said Luke, his voice warming right away. "How'd it go in Dickinson?"

  "How did you know about that?" asked Clayton, surprised and grateful at the same time that he didn't have to explain what was going on.

  "Sarah's Uncle Bill called me," said Luke, and by the sound of his words, Clayton thought the man might be smiling. "He told me about the Bowie knife and the sheath for Shawn."

  "I guess I should have checked with you first," said Clayton, allowing himself a minute to dance beneath the pretense that the gift was still on offer. "Is he too young, do you think?"

  "Maybe a little," said Luke with some honesty. "But he's a sensible boy, so I'm thinking his Uncle Clayton would teach him how to handle a knife so nobody gets hurt. And I'll keep an eye on him, too. Besides, that kid loves history, so these old, old things are going to make his Christmas."

  "I see," said Clayton, as the spit dried in his mouth. "Well, I've got bad news. The whole thing got stolen."