The Outlaw's Christmas Rescue

A/N: Take a look at the great picture MoonHowl found for this story. Thanks so much!

He was cold, colder than he'd ever been in his life. Snow was falling all around him, making it hard to distinguish one direction from another. The wind whipped at his face, tore at his hair; the hat he'd been wearing was long gone, nothing but a distant memory. Or had he been wearing one at all? He couldn't be sure. It was all a blur…

The calf he'd gone out to rescue bawled plaintively, balking on the rope tied around his neck. Too heavy and gangly to rest across the horse's withers, it faltered unwillingly behind Sonny and his horse as they plodded through the whiteout. All three of them were miserable in this unexpected snow storm. When did south Texas ever entertain this cold, wet substance? Yet here it was, wreaking havoc on Christmas Eve, the first Christmas Eve Sonny McQuade had celebrated in years. Some celebration! Freezing his ass off in a roaring blizzard chasing a damn stupid calf that didn't have the good sense God gave a mustard seed to stay out of a storm!

At that moment, amongst the swirling flakes of snow, a pair of pleading, deep blue eyes rose in Sonny's mind, and the gunfighter recognized he was right where he needed to be. No matter the cold, no matter the sense of helplessness he harbored; nothing compared to the desire he carried deep in his heart to please the young widow Callie West. The desire he'd been concealing for months. Not that she knew how he felt. Sonny was good at hiding his feelings. But when she'd discovered the animal missing late that afternoon and feigned unconcern, Sonny knew better. He'd offered to rescue the stupid calf, and now here he sat.

Sonny's horse stumbled, nearly unseating the gunslinger, startling an oath from his chapped lips. Steadying his mount with a firm hand on the reins and a reassuring touch to its neck, Sonny peered through the whirling flecks of white, admitting to himself he couldn't see a damn thing; no landmarks to tell him if he'd been heading the right direction or merely travelling in circles. They were good and truly lost. As if that wasn't enough, the falling snow began to flurry, blowing straight into Sonny's face and stinging his cheeks and eyelids. With the wind picking up on a howl of discontent, the trio of animals and human staggered to a halt, bending their heads against the onslaught.

Hunching deep into his coat and lamenting once more the loss of his hat, Sonny clucked to his mount, hoping it maintained some sixth sense to find its way home. The calf was no help, bawling and shaking its head against the cutting flakes of snow. Apparently the horse had a sudden brainstorm, for it abruptly lurched forward, twisting when Sonny thought it would turn, lunging forward without warning on unsteady legs and nearly dropping to its knees. For the first time in too many years to count, Sonny McQuade fell off his horse, right into the rising layer of snow and landing on the only rock in the vicinity to crack his head against.

The blizzard picked up in earnest now, whiting out the sky above so that Sonny could barely tell if he was indeed looking up as his consciousness swam against the pain. Only the knowledge that he really was flat on his back reassured the gunfighter that he would not smother. Yet. But the falling snowflakes came faster now, pelting his cheeks and eyes like tiny pellets, stinging his already chafed skin and deadening the ache in his head. Beneath him the ice pack seeped into his collar, down his cuffs, soaking through his clothes until the gunfighter began to feel numb. And still the snow continued its downpour, twirling and spiraling faster and faster, down into his face in a hypnotic pattern.

Miraculously, the freezing coldness of moments before began fading, as did the pain from hitting the rock, leaving behind peacefulness, a calm Sonny had rarely felt, but instinctively welcomed. Staring up at the falling flakes, the gunslinger smiled blearily, no longer uncomfortable, no longer restless. He was in a cocoon of white; not even the complaining calf or snorting horse could break into Sonny's nest of ice. Only the brightening light above him, and the sound of distant angels' voices interrupted his sojourn of deadly tranquility…