The Cowboy Who Saved Christmas

her out of her bed before dawn and said it was time she earned her keep. Two of her sisters had married the year before and the third had run off.
Em was the only one of his worthless daughters left, and her father planned to take advantage of her shy ways. He knew she wouldn’t fight him; he’d beat that out her when she was little. She’d do as she was told. Em, the baby, would never run away. She wouldn’t have the energy after she learned to work. He’d make sure of that.
Em had to play the role or her father swore he’d turn her out to starve. She was small, but beneath her baggy clothes her body was definitely a woman’s. Her mother cut her honey-brown hair blunt to her shoulders with bangs that hung in her eyes. As time passed, she braided it so her mother wouldn’t cut it again.
At first she just washed dishes at the saloon where her father tended bar. She hauled supplies for the tiny kitchen, kept the fire going, and helped the old cook. When the cook died two years later, Em did both jobs.
Her father made sure she never saw her pay.
Though she had three sisters, her father swore Em would never leave him. Her hair was usually dull brown from the cook stove’s smoke. As it grew longer, she stuffed it in an old hat she’d found left in the bar. Her skin was dull from never seeing the sun, and her body thin. Em’s arms were scarred from burns. It had taken her a year to grow strong enough to lift the heavy pots without occasionally bumping her skin.
Her father reminded her now and then that she was worthless. She’d questioned him once about her pay, and he’d bruised the entire left side of her face with one blow. Em stayed, never owning a new dress or even a ribbon for her hair. Six nights a week she cooked, then cleaned at the saloon after midnight.
On the seventh day the saloon was closed. While her parents went to church, Em went in early to clean the upstairs. Half of the rooms were for the doves and their hourly guests. The other half were rented out to travelers. Once a week the sheets were changed and the rooms swept out, no matter how many times the rooms were rented.
The barmaids were nice and often left a quarter on their beds. A traveler once left a dollar. Em kept whatever money was left in the rented rooms hidden away in a rusty tin in the kitchen. It was mostly only change, but someday she might need it.
Long after Trapper’s poker game was over and the saloon closed, she cleaned. In the silence she wished she could go on his journey. Even a dangerous adventure would be better than this. She’d grow old here, her days all the same.
When she finished cleaning, she heated one more pot of water and carried it upstairs to a back storage closet. At one time it had been a tiny room, but now the bed was broken, the windows boarded over to prevent a draft.
An old hip tub sat in one corner. Once a week, in the stillness before dawn, Em took a bath and pretended to be a lady. The drab, scratchy dress came off, as did the wrappings to make her look flat-chested. By candlelight she dreamed of more to her life than cooking and cleaning. If she just had a chance, she’d be brave, she told herself as she used the bits of lavender soap the girls tossed out.
In the silence, with warm water surrounding her, she relaxed and fell asleep. The tiny room’s door was locked. No one would look for her.
When a noise downstairs jerked her awake, sunlight was coming through the cracks in the boards.
Em jumped out of the tub so fast she splashed water on her wool dress. Panic gripped her. She’d freeze walking the mile home in wet clothes.
She wrapped herself in a towel one of the barmaids had given her when she left, headed back to New Orleans on one of the paddleboats.
The barmaid had whispered, “Get out of this place, honey. It will rot your soul.”
Em knew her parents wouldn’t worry about her being late today. She often slept in the corner of the kitchen on the bench where deliveries were dumped. Her father never wanted to wait on her to finish her cleaning, and it never occurred to her that he might come back for her. She’d stayed in the kitchen a few times on Sunday so she could catch up.
As long as she did her work, he didn’t care where she slept.
Em paced the tiny room. Over the years it had become a storage room for broken things no one had time to fix and lost luggage no one ever came back to claim.
A dusty black bag in the corner caught her eye. It was worn. The leather had been patched on one side. It had been in the corner for years.
She remembered the day she’d turned twelve and her father said she had to work. He’d almost dragged her into the back of the saloon. He’d showed her around the place and told her she’d have no more birthdays. She couldn’t remember how long after that she’d found the forgotten little room. It became her one secret place where she could think and dream.
Now, feeling much like a thief, she loosened the straps on the old bag. Maybe she’d find a shawl or coat she could wear home. Em promised herself she’d return it tomorrow.
One by one she pulled the things from the bag. A black dress, undergarments, a shawl someone had crocheted with great care, and a pair of ladies’ boots with heels too high to be practical.
It seemed to be everything she needed. She’d dress like a lady in the fancy clothes if only for a day. She’d walk through town