Disclaimer: All characters in this story are property of Pet Fly, I just played with them a bit. This is for fun, not profit.

This is yet another fill-in-the-blank story. You can thank Sylvia for it, she asked so nicely.

Also, I have a revised timeline for those who are interested. Just drop me a line and I'll send it to you. It's more simplified, just all the stories listed in order of events.

Muchas gracias to my beta readers, Melanie and BCW. They clean me up good.

Comments accepted at: Klair@postmark.net

If It Doesn't Snow In Heaven, How Do they Make Snow Angels?

by Klair



Wyoming Territory, Prospect Creek Ranch, November 1873

**

Throwing the last of the grain to the chickens pecking at the dirt and straw, Blair hung the empty pail back on its hook, closed the barn door, and began the trek through the snow back to the cabin. He drew his muffler up tighter around his face, the brisk chill of the November day turning the tip of his nose red. Only the promise of Jim's special beef stew awaiting him in their snug home kept a pout from his face. Dark clouds filled the sky most of the day, making the snow piled waist high to the sides of his cleared path feel even colder. Reaching the porch, Blair turned back towards the road leading to their home when a horse's snorting and clomping caught his attention.

"Jim!" he yelled back at the house, even as his guardian came out of the door, rifle held casually in his right hand, "there's a rider coming!"

Placing his left hand on the boy's shoulder, Jim squeezed it gently before setting the rifle back inside the doorway. "It's Sheriff Banks, Little Bit."

Blair squinted into the distance, barely making out more than a tall man leading a pack-mule. He looked up at his guardian with big, innocence-exuding blue eyes. "I didn't do anything. Honest."

Chuckling, Jim smiled down at his wide-eyed ward, and tweaked his nose. "Didn't say you did. . .is there anything you want to tell me?"

The boy looked from the rider to his guardian. "Ah, Jim? It wasn't a mouse who was into the sugar. . . I guess I had a little." He looked back as the sheriff came up to the cabin. "Am I going to jail?"

"No," Jim replied before Simon reached the porch, "but you lost your sweets privileges for the next two weeks."

"Yes, sir," Blair replied, not sure whether to be relieved, or pout.

"Jim," Simon said, touching the brim of his hat. "It's going to be a cold one this year."

"Simon, what brings you out this way then? Come on in and sit awhile. Supper's ready."

"Thank you, Jim, I will. Your order came in at Taggert's store and I thought you'd want it before you got snowed in." Simon nodded to the pack-mule.

"Thank you, Simon, but it could have waited until spring."

The sheriff cleared his throat and patted his coat over the breast pocket. "Also, Judge Pendergrast sends his regards."

"What'd you bring us, Sheriff?" Blair asked, gazing curiously at the burlap-covered crates on the mule.

"Help me get the sheriff's animals tended to, Little Bit, and then we'll see," Jim said, taking the mule's rope from Simon in one hand, and Blair's mittened-hand in the other, walking them both towards the barn. Simon followed on his horse, a warm smile on his face.

Animals stabled, the packages stacked in the far corner of the little cabin, the three sat down to supper.

"I think you're right, Simon. This year's going to be a cold one," Jim said, filling his bowl with stew after serving his guest. He filled Blair's and set it in front of the distracted child who sat twisted around in his seat, eyes glued to the mysterious parcels. Sharing an amused grin with Simon, Jim gently ordered, "Turn around, Little Bit, and eat your supper. We'll open those later."

With great reluctance, Blair swiveled back to a proper sitting position, keeping his eyes pinned on the new arrivals as long as possible.

"Just one now?" he asked his guardian hopefully.

"Eat."

Sighing, the boy picked up his spoon and unenthusiastically began eating his stew.

"So, Simon, how's everything in town?"

"Pretty calm. Just the usual drunks on Saturday nights," the sheriff replied, eyeing the baskets of biscuits sitting next to Blair.

Jim followed his gaze to find the boy with his head twisted around looking at the boxes again. "Blair, pass the sheriff the biscuits."

"Huh?" Blair started, the full spoon he held in midair above his bowl shaking, spilling its contents back into the dish.

"The biscuits, Little Bit," Jim said, trying not to chuckle along with Simon. "Pass them to Mr. Banks."

"Oh, sorry." A faint blush crept into the boy's cheeks as he handed the basket to the sheriff.

"Quite all right, boy. I'm curious to what's in those boxes myself."

The rest of the meal passed quickly for the two men, sharing news from town and the surrounding ranches. For the eight-year-old it lasted an eternity.

Helping to clear the dishes from the table, Blair kept eyeing the packages and throwing his guardian pitiful, begging glances. Putting the last plate in the bucket to soak, Jim relented.

"All right, Little Bit." He shooed the boy towards the boxes. "Let's see what these are."

Using a hammer, Jim pried open the crates and Blair made quick work of tossing the packing material on the once clean floor.

"Oh, wow," Blair exclaimed in a reverent whisper as he carefully lifted book after book out of the box. There were books on animals, different countries all over the world, story books, school texts and . . . a multi-volume set of encyclopedias that had the delighted child dancing happily around the room, a slim volume held tightly to his chest. "This is great! I can read 'bout everything."

The two men just sat back on their heels, gathering packing material and shaking their heads in amusement at Blair's antics.

"You'd swear these boxes were full of candy the way he's carrying on," Simon chuckled.

The boy stopped his prancing and eyed the men with wide eyes. "There's candy, too?" He scowled in disappointment when his guardian and the sheriff busted out in uncontrollable laughter.



When Jim tucked the overly tired boy into his makeshift bedroll on the floor, two hours later, the sleepy child said, "Where we gonna put 'em all, Jim?"

"Put what, Little Bit?" Jim asked quietly before bestowing a goodnight kiss on his ward's forehead.

"The books," Blair said around a yawn. He nestled down into the blankets and closed his eyes.

"I can move some of mine from the bookcase. . . I might even make a few shelves that'll hang on the wall."

Blair opened one eye, fixing his guardian with a skeptical look. The rancher smiled and shook the boy gently, tickling his sides. "Well, I could! They wouldn't be pretty, but they'd hold . . . I think." Jim ruffled the curly hair of the now-giggling body under the blankets. "Sweet dreams, Little Bit. See you in the morning."

"Night, Jim. Night, Sheriff Banks," Blair called drowsily as he drifted off to sleep. Jim hadn't made it back to his armchair by the fireplace before the boy fell fast asleep.

Sheriff Banks rocked slowly in the rocking chair, looking over at the sleeping boy in the corner next to the bookcase. He took the documents he'd kept hidden in the breast pocket of his jacket and handed them to Jim. With slightly trembling fingers, Jim took the packet and slowly opened it, holding the papers within like they were made of fine china.

After long minutes, the only sound in the room the crackling fire and soft snoring coming from the corner, Jim looked up at Simon with shining eyes. "I got him, Simon," he said, his grin so wide, the corners of his eyes crinkled into deep crow's feet. "Blair's mine."

"Well I should hope so," Simon snorted. "Jack was practically crowing when he handed me those, and when Joel told me your shipment came in, I had to come bring these out."

"Thank you, Simon. It means a lot to me." Jim carefully folded the adoption papers and put them back in the packet.

Simon slapped the stunned rancher on the back and passed him a cigar from his breast pocket. "Congratulations, Ellison. It's a boy!"

The sheriff did his best to squelch his laughter — so as not to wake Blair — when a dark blush rose from Jim's neck to his forehead. Exhausted from laughing so hard at his jaw-clenching friend, Simon wiped a tear from his eye and said, "So, when you going to tell him?"

Stirring the fire's embers, Jim starred into the dying flames. He'd thought about the answer to that question since he'd ordered Judge Pendergrast to draw up the paperwork. This was important, but it didn't change anything, either. A piece of paper wouldn't change how he felt about the boy. . .and he didn't think it would change how Blair felt about him.

"Christmas," Jim said, rising from his chair and taking the papers to his trunk. "I'll tell him at Christmas." He moved a few items aside to hide the papers near the bottom, and hopefully out of the way of a very curious child. Simon nodded in agreement, and the two men readied themselves for sleep.

Listening to Simon snore in his bed, Jim got comfortable in a bedroll next to Blair's. Thinking about the chance encounter five months ago that began transforming his life, and the changes yet to come, he smiled contentedly as sleep claimed him . . . and dreamed of a bright-eyed wolf pup and a large black cat.

The end