Christina, A Bride for Christmas
Brides for all Seasons
Hildie McQueen
Pink Door Publishing
Contents
Copyright
Also by Hildie McQueen
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
Excerpt of Colter Vally by Hildie McQueen
About the Author
Excerpt of Big Sky Blue by Hildie McQueen
Excerpt of The Reluctant Bride by Maxine Douglas
Pink Door Publishing
Cover Artist: Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Editor: Scott Moreland
Copyright Hildie McQueen 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Also by Hildie McQueen
Brides for All Seasons
Wilhelmina, A Winter Bride
Aurora, A Romantic Bride
Lucille, A Lucky Bride
Esther, A Bride by Easter
Sarah, A Festive Bride
Shades of Blue, Western Historical
Big Sky Blue
A Different Shade of Blue
The Darkest Blue
Every Blue Moon
Montana Blue
Blue Horizon
Midnight Blue
Shade of Blue, Western Contemporary
Montana Born
Montana Bred
Gentrys of Montana, Western Historical
The Rancher
The Marshal
The Outlaw
Stand Alone, Western Historical
Beneath a Silver Sky
Under a Silver Moon
Colter Valley
Chapter 1
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1871
One never planned a life of bleakness and monotony, nor did a young lady of society ever aspire to forget what it was like to dream, because dreaming made the reality of each day harder to endure.
Christina Mills no longer dreamed.
The corridor to her father’s study stretched even longer that bleak morning as Christina carried a tray laden with a teapot, two cups and honey. With each step, the clink of the items bumping against one another made her flinch.
Throbs pulsated up her right arm and her injured wrist protested the load. Any moment now, the crash of breakable items onto the barren floor would insure a new set of bruises.
Thankfully, the door was ajar, so she was able to push in with her hip and enter the space.
“Whatever took so long?” Her father’s sharp eyes went from her face to the tray and narrowed. “That is not the pot I like my tea prepared in.”
“I’m sorry, Father, I thought you’d enjoy the brightness of this one on such a gloomy morning.” Christina held her breath in anticipation of his rebuke. The one he preferred was shattered in pieces. It had slipped from her unsteady hands when she’d washed it earlier that morning.
The heavy curtains covering the large windows didn’t allow a view of the outdoors. Whether the day was gloomy or sunny, he kept them firmly drawn. “I don’t expect you to think.” He cocked his head to the side at the sound of the items clinking as the tray grew heavier the longer she held it.
“Keep that up and you’ll chip all our china.” Finally, he motioned her over and Christina set the tray down on a small table.
The scratching of his pen on the paper was not enough to keep Christina from wishing for more noise. That way, he’d not hear the rattling of the spoon as she tried to stir the honey into the tea or the clattering of the cup on the saucer as she approached him with it.
Just as she placed the cup at his elbow, he snatched her injured right wrist and Christina crumpled to the ground. There was an evil twist to his lips as he stared down at her. “Stupid little fool, you will spill tea all over my work.” Spittle splashed across her face, not that it bothered her so much at the moment. The agony of his hold was unbearable and tears trailed down her cheeks.
Finally, he let go and she fell back cradling the throbbing arm against her chest. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
There was silence. Although she knew what he expected, she waited in hopes that, for once, he’d allow her to leave. “May I go?”
“Pour your tea and sit down. I must speak to you.”
Christina bit her bottom lip. With a throbbing wrist, it would be impossible to pour tea properly.
The scratching commenced again as she rose and went back to the tray. Using her left hand, with slow progress, tea was finally poured. She forewent the honey and sat at the chair in front of her father’s desk. The amber liquid was bitter but she sipped it obediently.
“I require you to speak to your mother today and discuss your upcoming nuptials.” Her father hesitated for effect. A cold chill traveled down her spine at picturing the man she was being forced to marry. That man was about the same age as her father with a similar unpleasant cold demeanor.
Just two evenings earlier, her intended, Oliver Winston, arrived and was greeted by her father with broad smiles and a welcome like one not seen in the household in years.
Earlier that day, Christina and her mother had been discharged to the hairdresser and instructed to wear their finest dresses for the occasion.
All throughout dinner, Oliver Winston watched her with the interest of a predator over a potential meal. It had been all she could do to remain civil and swallow her food.
As soon as dinner was over, the men had gone into her father’s study where they talked for several hours. That evening her father announced Christina would marry Oliver Winston.
Upon her immediate protest, he’d grabbed her by the arms and thrown her against the wall so hard her teeth had rattled. Several times, he’d grabbed her by the wrist to pull her to stand only to shove her away again as he went over how, exactly, she’d act for the next month. Finally, a long time later, bruised and sobbing, she’d been banished to her bedroom.
If only that had been her only punishment, but alas, not much later, her enraged father entered with a whip in hand. He’d dragged her from her bed and beaten her. When she lifted her hands to protect herself, he’d grabbed her injured wrist with so much force it almost made her faint.
Now, two days later, Christina had yet to see her mother, who’d not left her own chambers. Surely, she’d heard the beating, but Norma Mills had remained absent, never coming to her rescue.
Now he ordered her to speak to her mother about a wedding? Whatever could her mother have to say about anything, the woman rarely left her bedroom?
Christina refused to show any emotion as she lifted her
gaze to her father’s. “Yes, Father.”
Somehow, she managed to remain sitting in the hard chair for another half-hour as he ignored her and continued writing. She imagined a beautiful garden beyond the drapes. Brightly colored blooms, where butterflies fluttered from one to another. Sunrays and brightly colored birds joined in to decorate her imaginary sanctuary where she’d sit on a bench for hours reading or just being, in peace.
In her surreal fantasy, she lived a life of no worries, an existence that did not include involuntary flinching when someone reached toward her. Nor the constant feeling of heaviness over her head.
Her father’s throat clearing brought her out of her musing. “You are dismissed. Before you go, pour me another cup of this dismal excuse for tea.”
Her life was a constant no-win situation. Since her father’s frugality prohibited her from purchasing anything more than the absolute lowest quality of anything, the tea was horrible. Nonetheless, she was expected to perform miracles on a daily basis.
The expectation of leaving the dank room helped her ignore the pain in her wrist as she carefully refilled his cup and added the half-teaspoon of honey he preferred.
Moments later, the tray clattered onto the kitchen counter and Christina allowed herself a few moments to lean against it. Most days were a routine of suffering through whatever mood her father was in that particular morning, followed by chores and cooking.
There were only two meals served in the Mills’ household, breakfast and supper. Although a light repast in the middle of the day was allowed, there was rarely enough left after a meal for it.
It was only when her father attended his bi-weekly meetings with his council at a local hotel that she and her mother were at liberty to let down their guards and relax.
Christina pulled her right sleeve up and, after applying liniment, wrapped it as tightly as she could with her left hand. Once that was completed, her wrist immediately stabilized enough that she could wash her cup.
Her morning duties were not complete until serving her mother. Carrying a smaller tray to Normal Mill’s bedroom was easier. Upon it, Christina set toast and a cup of the leftover tea.
Her raps on the door were answered by a soft reply to enter. Christina walked in to find her mother abed, pale face drawn and hair completely askew. Usually claiming one illness or another, Norma often hid for days in the sanctuary of the bedroom as her husband slept down the hall in a larger one. Christina didn’t blame her. On the contrary, she applauded the ingenuity.
“Good morning, Mother.” Christina set the small tray on a table next to her mother’s bed. “Are you able to eat a bit?”
“Never mind that.” Her mother became surprisingly animated. Norma patted the bed surface, motioning Christina to sit. “It is of utmost importance that you listen to what I have to tell you.”
Christina attempted to place an additional pillow behind her mother’s back only to be waved off. “We have no time to waste.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Ensure it is locked.”
Without questioning her, Christina obeyed and locked the door and then sat on the bed.
Her mother leaned forward her wide gaze locked to hers. “Listen well. You have to secretly steal away tomorrow afternoon. Meet Lady Price at this address.” She pulled a slip of paper from the pillow and held it out with a shaky hand.
“Why ever would I go to Lady Price?” Christina slid a look to the door. “Father will not stand for it.”
Seeming exhausted again, her mother closed her eyes and sunk back into the pillows. “You won’t be returning, dear. Once you meet her, she will help you with safe transport to Wyoming.”
Much like being shocked at the sudden appearance of an out of control carriage, her heart banged against her breastbone and breath left Christina’s lungs. “Mother, what are you talking about? Have you been dreaming, perhaps?”
With a sudden burst of strength, Norma took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Bide my word, if you don’t leave immediately life will grow horrible for you. I have stood idly by allowing your father’s abuse. But I will do everything in my power to keep my only child, from a life like my own. It is dreadful enough that I must suffer my husband’s treatment year after year and that you have as well. However, it would be worse if you marry that man. Oliver Winston is even more cruel than your father, he is capable of horrible things.”
Christina soothed her mother. “I will listen to what you have to say, but I am not sure how I can get to Lady Price’s house without being seen. She lives along the town square.”
“You won’t be going to her home, but to the address written on the paper. A coach will meet you there to take you away to a train station in another town. Lady Price assures me she will be there and explain everything.”
“Where am I going? I am so confused, Mother. When did you meet with Lady Price?”
Her mother motioned to the French doors that allowed exit out into the back gardens without impediment, not that either of them had in recent months. “Beyond the overgrown ivy in the far corner, there is a gate. Your father does not know about it. I never showed it to you for fear you’d run away without any sort of plan in place.”
Her gaze traveled from the doors to her mother’s face and to the bedroom door. Any moment, her father could burst in and demand to know why she was there for so long and not attending to whatever chore he deemed was most important at the moment.
“I should return to my duties.”
Her mother leaned closer and whispered, “Tomorrow, come here as soon as your father leaves for his meeting. Bring a coat and wear an extra chemise, petticoat and shawl. Make sure to wear your most serviceable pair of shoes and put extra stockings in the coat pockets.”
Too numb to form a verbal reply, Christina rose and dashed to the bedroom door. Before closing it behind her, she looked to her mother who’d picked up a rosary. Eyes closed, Norma mouthed prayers, her finger rubbing over the well-worn beads.
“Christina!” her father summoned from his parlor as she made her way toward the kitchen.
What was happening? Surely, he’d notice her paleness and inability to breathe. Perhaps he would take it as her being nervous over her upcoming nuptials. Releasing a long breath, Christina walked in.
Her father stood in the front room, his attention on the fireplace. Since it wasn’t freezing as yet, there was no fire burning. “Did your mother explain about your upcoming nuptials?”
Christina swallowed, unsure how to answer. Her mother had not said anything about what she was expected to know. “No, Father, she is quite poor this day. She fell asleep without drinking her tea.”
He accepted her explanation with a nod. “Very well, ensure you return to speak to her before day’s end.”
With slow steps, more out of measurement than because he was ill in any way, her father paced. “I do believe your mother may require medical assistance. Perhaps, I will forego my meeting tomorrow and see about it.”
Her heart sank. If he went to fetch a doctor, he’d return earlier. The time he’d be gone would not be long enough for her to reach the address on the slip of paper in her dress pocket.
“I believe a proper bowl of hot broth will be enough for now, Father,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “If you would allow me to use the entire ration of meat, I can make it now.”
For a moment, he looked up to the ceiling. “Very well.”
Christina escaped to the kitchen and began sorting out ingredients for the stew. Her hands shook and, several times, she dropped things. She prayed to be able to make it through the rest of the day without nerves overtaking her. Escape anywhere, much less to the west, was not something she’d ever considered. Even at the moment, she wondered if her mother had fabricated the entire thing from fantasy.
Shivers raced through Christina’s entire body until her teeth chattered. If ever she needed a friend, this was the day. Arms to sooth combined with soft words to provide a salve to her nerves would do wonders at a tim
e like this. However, it was not to be. It had been over a year since she’d visited anyone. And the young women she’d been friends with had finally stopped visiting her, as well.
Christina staggered to a stool and sat. “It’s can’t be true.” Her hollow voice, barely above a whisper, seemed to linger in the air. What if she went to the address and no one was there?
Lord, what if someone was? No matter how dreadful her life in Philadelphia, it was familiar.
Going west could prove to be a horrible mistake. There, she’d be alone with no one to care whether she lived or died.
She studied her short fingernails. Of course, if she died in Philadelphia, it would be more of an inconvenience than a sad event where her parents were concerned.
Although there was a possibility that Norma Mills had emotions, they’d been suppressed for so long that Christina barely remembered a smile or any sign of caring to cross her mother’s face.
As the stew simmered, Christina decided whether it a mistake or not, anything was better than a future tied to a cruel man who had access to not just her mind, but her body, as well.
Her gaze traveled over the familiar space. This could be the last time she cooked there.
Tomorrow, she would leave. If what her mother said was true, she’d head west to Wyoming where a future full of promise awaited.
“Lord, help me.”
Chapter 2
Ranchester, near Casper, Wyoming
Alexander Barrett Patterson hummed. The steady movement as he worked soothed his tattered body.
Wood shavings floated to the floor of the shop, a never-ending pattern of curls and specks, as he ran the plane steadily across the large plank of pine. Although the door was flung open, the work and fire in the small cast iron stove kept him plenty warm.
Christina, A Bride for Christmas (Brides for All Seasons Book 6) Page 1
