Page 4 of The Sound of Sleighbells

In prison, Judd had hoped that Ruth would wait for him. Even after his letters were returned unopened, he hadn’t stopped wanting her. But she’d wasted no time moving on. When she and her husband had moved back to Branding Iron a few years later, he’d resolved to stay out of her life. Even with Ed McCoy in prison now, that hadn’t changed.

“Come on in, boys,” he said. “I’ll take you back to my workshop and get you started.”

* * *

Skip followed Judd Rankin through the house. He liked what he saw. Polished wood on the walls and floor—real, not cheap imitation; a big, stone fireplace, copper lamps and fixtures, cushiony, well-worn leather furniture. Books and magazines were stacked on the coffee table. The framed western scene on one wall was a real painting, not a print. And the big-screen TV was enclosed in a wooden cabinet. If he ever had the money to build his own place, Skip thought, this was how it would look inside.

But one thing struck him as strange. There were no photographs of people anywhere—no parents, no friends or family, not even a picture of Judd Rankin himself—a lean, rugged, Clint Eastwood type who looked as if he’d stepped out of a cowboy movie.

“Hurry up, Skip,” Trevor called over his shoulder. “You’re falling behind.”

“Sorry, I was just looking around.” Skip caught up. “I really like your house, Mr. Rankin.”

“Thanks. It’s taken me years of work to get the place the way I want it. You’ll see some of that work today.”

“Are you going to have a Christmas tree?” Trevor asked.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas. When you’re alone, it’s just another cold December day.”

“You could come to our house,” Trevor said. “My folks would be happy to have you.”

“Thanks, Trevor, but not this year. I’ve got too much work stacked up. After the holidays, I may take a trip somewhere. The fishing’s supposed to be good in Costa Rica. But we’ll see about that.” He led them through a short breezeway and unlocked a metal door. “Here we are. Come on in.”

The interior of the barnlike wooden building was almost as large as the basketball court at the high school. Counters, tables, machines, and tools were organized for making saddles. A selection of beautifully tanned half hides hung from a sliding overhead rack. Their leathery aroma teased Skip’s senses as he walked past them. Several unfinished saddles sat on wooden stands that looked like tall sawhorses.

A corner of the building was walled off with a closed door on one side. That would probably be the storeroom Mr. Rankin had mentioned.

“This is where I need your help, boys,” he said. “Early on, when I started selling my saddles, I wanted to get them noticed. Some of the people who were interested—rodeo cowboys, barrel racers, small ranchers, and working cowhands—didn’t have the cash, so I took items in trade, along with the buyer’s promise to tell folks about my work. I’ve had these things so long that I can’t remember where half of them came from.

“I need everything moved out into the open. Then I can go through the items and decide which I should keep, which I should haul off for junk, and which ones to donate for a big charity auction that’s coming up in Fort Worth. I’ll be here, working with you, in case you have questions or need help with something heavy. Got it?”

“Got it!” Trevor grinned. “This sounds like fun.”

Judd Rankin laughed. “You might not think so by the time you’ve carried everything out. If you need a break, there are sodas in that little fridge over there. You can help yourselves. Ready?”

The boys nodded, eager to start. The door swung open, and they stepped inside.

“Wow!” Skip gasped as he came face-to-face with a mounted buffalo head.

“You’ll need help with that. Here, I’ll give you a hand. You can call me Judd, by the way. I’m not much for formalities. Here, I’ll take one side and you boys take the other. Careful. I think this one is going to the auction.”

They lugged the heavy head out onto the floor and laid it faceup on its mounting board. The animal must’ve been magnificent in life, Skip thought. Now it just looked sad.

They found several rawhide whips and lariats, a handmade bull riding rope, and a framed collection of gold-plated belt buckles. There were some paintings, a bronze statuette of a bucking horse, and a mounted pair of immense cattle horns. They carried out each item as they found it and laid them all on the cement floor. Suddenly, from the back of the storeroom, Trevor gave a shout.

“Oh, no! You can’t give this away!”

He came out dragging a tangle of straps, buckles, and jingling bells. Skip recognized it at once. It was the double harness that the horses had worn to pull Santa’s sleigh in last year’s Christmas parade. In the weeks before, the boys and an elderly neighbor, Abner Jenkins, had finished building the sleigh. Judd had lent the harness for the parade and driven the horses, with Abner playing Santa.

“We’re going to need that harness again,” Skip said. “We’ll need it every time we use the sleigh. Maybe the city can buy it from you, Judd.”

“Good suggestion, but I wouldn’t accept any money.” Judd took the harness from Trevor and laid it out along one side of the floor. “Take a look. We made do with this harness last year, but it was so worn-out that it barely held together for the parade. When I unbuckled it and lifted it off the horses, it almost fell apart. See all the places where it’s worn through?”

Skip gazed down at the harness. Judd was right. There were spots where the brass buckles had worn through the leather and were hanging loose, and others where the straps had rubbed and come apart. The bells, mounted on narrow leather strips, were tarnished and coming loose, their fasteners barely holding.

“When I took this harness in trade, I never planned to use it,” Judd said. “It was just a way to get one more saddle out there for people to notice. I didn’t realize what bad shape the harness was in until I hitched up the horses for the parade last year. I had to stick some places together with duct tape and hope it wouldn’t show.”

“Can’t we mend it?” Trevor asked.

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