His Christmas Carole (Rescued Hearts Series Book 1)

by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  But first things first, determine priorities.

  He ticked off a list. Seal the cabin against drafts. Pull in as much dry wood from the pile on the porch as possible. Melt as much snow ahead as they had vessels to hold water in case the inside pump’s pipes froze.

  Carole sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with an expectant look on her face. She was so beautiful he could barely think straight. Her summer-green eyes were bright with intelligence and curiosity. He could willingly drown in their depths and count himself lucky. What he needed was a distraction.

  His eye caught on the tiny harp now sitting on the table. She’d rescued her undergarments and placed them back in her carpetbag, but left out the harp.

  He reached for the instrument, careful not to damage the delicate strings. “Do you play this?”

  “You don’t really play the Irish blessing harp. My grandmother said each time you stroke the strings, the sound releases a blessing. I love the music it makes, especially at Christmas time.”

  Hap set the harp back on the table. He didn’t need any more reminders of the holiday. Her Christmas tree was enough.

  “I’ll mix up the daubing,” he said, standing and reaching for another old bowl from the shelf over the dry sink. “See if you can feel for any little drafts between the logs. Concentrate down around the base, where the wall meets the floor. Hot air rises, so let’s plug any floor drafts first.”

  She threw back the blanket.

  Before her feet could hit the floor, he grabbed an extra pair of socks from his saddlebag and tossed them to her. “Here. Put these on.” He nodded toward where he’d set her boots near the potbelly stove to dry. “Your boots are still wet. We don’t want your feet getting cold, and you takin’ a chill.”

  A pink tinge rose up her neck, all the way to her hairline. She ducked her head, reaching for the thick knitted socks.

  Hap knew he should look away. Watching a lady getting dressed, even though he’d seen her practically in her altogether, wasn’t proper. He glanced out the window for a moment. But then his gaze flicked right back, like a magnet straining north, if only to see the delicate shade of silken skin between stocking and pant leg when she extended her leg to tug on the sock.

  Good God, she was a pretty thing. Bright and shiny, like a woman made out of sunshine itself. Hard to imagine she was real. Harder to imagine she’d asked him to marry her.

  What if he hadn’t decided to avoid the holiday season this year?

  What if he hadn’t come out to his family’s original homestead?

  This cabin wasn’t the only outlying one they’d built. The James ranch covered thousands of acres, but this was the one where his parents homesteaded their fledgling ranch. This was the first cabin his family built and where he’d actually been born. His pa delivered him.

  A shiver raced down his spine. He might never have met Carole. Could have lost her before he even knew she’d be his. Now that he knew, heaven and earth could go to hell in a hand-basket before he let this amazing woman slip through his grasp. He’d made his decision, and now he’d do whatever he had to in order to protect their future. He looked down.

  Carole glanced up from where she’d crouched near the corner.

  “I’ve found one,” she announced with an exultant grin. “Do you want me to stick some straw in the crack so you can see where to patch?”

  Hap stirred the daubing mixture in an old ceramic bowl with a wooden spoon from the utensils stored for periodic use. He’d brought a bag of dirt and a bag of lime to mix with the straw, which would create a paste using a small amount of snow water. The lime made the paste waterproof when dried. Turning to see where she indicated, he smiled at her enthusiasm.

  “Here’s another spot.”

  She squatted on her haunches like he’d seen the Indian women do when they were grinding corn, or like his ma when she worked in her garden. Not lady-like proper, as his ma would say, but her posture proved she wasn’t a stranger to hard work. And that was a big plus in his book.

  He moved to her side.

  “Show me how to daub,” she insisted, reaching for the bowl.

  He knelt next to her, settled the bowl in her hands, and pulled the daubing tool from his saddlebag. He’d made the flat, elongated oval piece of metal from an old hoe for just this purpose.

  “Like this.” He scooped a glob of the mixture onto the oval and slapped it into the space she’d indicated. “Then smash in the paste and smooth over the area.” He finished the procedure and handed her the dauber.

  She scooted to the next spot and repeated the process.

  “There. Like that?” She finished daubing and smoothing the new area and flashed him a smile.

  His breath caught in his chest.

  “Perfect,” he managed to say, in a voice deeper than his normal tone. He cleared his throat and smiled in return. You are perfect.

  Oh, Lordy. He needed to keep his imagination under control and his expectations reined in. She’d been the one to make the offer of marriage—one of convenience, that is. But the more he considered the situation, the more he thought a real marriage might work, with all the benefits such a relationship could provide. He just had to figure out a way to make his Christmas girl see reason.

  Lost in his thoughts, Hap mixed up another bowl of daubing and proceeded to fill chinks higher along the walls with the folding knife he always carried in his pocket. The better insulated this cabin was, the better chance they had of surviving this storm.

  “Can you hand me my bowl?”

  Hap shifted around to see what she needed him to do. Holy Hannah!

  Carole balanced tippy-toed on the table, reaching for the space where the wall met the roof.

  He slammed the bowl he held down on the table and grabbed for her, his hands spanning her waist from behind in a hard grip.

  She gasped at his touch and glanced back with a surprised expression.

  “What are you doing up there, Christmas?” He stared at her face, avoiding the reality of gazing directly at her shapely bottom in those dungarees. He should avert his eyes, study the floor for more drafts. Gaze anyplace but straight ahead. At her beautiful bottom.

  “There’s a strong draft right here. If you give me my bowl, I can fix the crack.”

  “You can also fall and break something. Then what? How would we fix that?”

  “I’m fine up here. Please, hand me the bowl and my dauber.” She tried to twist toward him.

  Hap held tighter, in case the old table wobbled even under her slight weight. He could almost span her waist with his fingers extended just under her ribcage.

  “You are not fine up there. You could fall.” He was not being stubborn, just cautious.

  “Not if you hold on to me.”

  With that, he hung his head in defeat. His gaze slid down her backside, past shapely thighs, all the way to her small feet smothered in two pair of his heavy winter socks bunched around her delicate ankles. None of those views helped. Every single one sparked desire.

  “Besides, this table would never hold your weight.”

  This fact, stated with a ‘so there’ impish grin, indicated she’d won this particular skirmish.

  He couldn’t help but smile at her audacity.

  “All right. But don’t you move except to fill that hole. You hear me, Christmas?” He maintained his grip on her hip and reached for the bowl he’d set next to her feet. He handed up the container with the dauber stuck in the mixture.

  As soon as she’d taken the bowl, he grasped her waist again. She was so light, like a bag of down feathers, he could have just perched her on his shoulder and carried her around, letting her daub to her heart’s content. Instead, he kept his hold steady in case she decided to try flying. Angels are prone to that behavior.

  She continued her daubing at the roofline, insisting he move the table around the perimeter so she could stretch to reach each tiny draft. His only reward was the fact he continued to keep a hand on her waist while she stoo
d on the table and then assisted her up and down off the chair while she inspected the entire ceiling.

  He really did try not to focus on her heart-shaped rear, but the reverse was even more distracting. And the hot flush he felt looking up at her small, plump breasts moving under the soft, worn woolen shirt fabric was more than he could bear, so he rotated around her in hopes she wouldn’t notice the bulge in his jeans.

  “I think that’s all.”

  She finally handed him the empty bowl and the daubing tool. He set both on the table and lifted her down, reluctantly releasing her waist.

  Feet on the floor, she looked up, studying her handiwork. “I believe it’s warmer in here already, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” My temperature will never be normal as long as she’s near.

  “Now what do we do?” She hadn’t stepped back, but remained standing near him. Right in front of him.

  Hap knew what he wanted to do.

  Kiss her.

  Not appropriate.

  Think of something that won’t make her question your motives.

  “Two things. Bring in as much wood off the porch as we can before the snow arrives, and fill as many containers with snow to reach room temperature in case the pipes freeze.”

  “I’m afraid I used a lot of the wood that was on the porch when I got here. Will we have enough?”

  “There’s another pile sheltered on the back porch. I’ll brush off the snow and see what we’ve got. We’ll manage. Meanwhile, see what containers you can pull together.”

  She nodded, looking relieved.

  Hap went out the rear door. Cabins didn’t normally have two doors, but this place had been his family’s first dwelling, and his ma insisted they have two exits, not counting the window, in case of emergency. She’d gotten her way, as usual. There was very little his pa would have denied her.

  She’d been the schoolteacher in a town his pa, second son to a wealthy gentry family and fresh off the boat from Ireland, passed through on his way west. The brash, handsome Irishman convinced her to join him in his search for lands of his own. He often said a smart woman was better than a pretty woman any day, and he was the luckiest man alive, ’cause he’d gotten both. His ma always laughed at his declaration, but her eyes had sparkled with love that never faded.

  As he stepped out and slammed the door behind him, Hap hoped he was half as lucky as his pa.

  Chapter 11

  The wind coming from the opposite direction hadn’t covered the stacked wood on the back porch in a thick blanket of snow but soon would.

  He grabbed the broom that hung on a peg near the back door and brushed the logs carefully so the pile wouldn’t roll out of position. Then he placed as many pieces as he could hold on his forearm, shaking each one as he picked them up. He slipped back through the door and laid the stack near the stove.

  Carole gathered two large bowls and three quart jars from the shelves above the dry sink. She wore her coat and her red scarf wrapped her head. She was trying to pull on her boot, but the oversized sock was making the task impossible.

  “Whoa, Christmas. Never mind the boots. They’re not dry yet,” he said. “I’ll get the snow. No point in both of us getting wet.” He was taking no chances—a serious chill could kill a body her size. A shiver iced his spine. No chance at all.

  “But you can’t do everything.” She continued struggling with her boot. “That’s not fair. I can do my share.”

  “You just did half the chinking.”

  “Now, I’ll do half the snow gathering.”

  Stubborn woman.

  “Can you cook?”

  She scowled, evidently insulted at his inquiry.

  “I mean, other than stewed apples?”

  “Of course, I can cook. I wasn’t raised by wolves. My mama is a proper Southern lady, and she raised me to be the same. My nanny Maebelle made sure I could cook, even though cooking is not considered fitting knowledge for a lady. She said people wouldn’t always have black folks like her to care for them, especially since the end of the Great Unpleasantness, as she called the war. Nana wanted to know in her heart that I wouldn’t be helpless if she weren’t there to look after me. So yes, I can cook.” She kicked aside the boot and stood, hands on her shapely waist. “I can prepare a very respectable coq au vin, and I’ve even been admired for my peach cobbler.”

  Cock oh van?

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Beans.”

  “Beans?”

  She looked as though the word was in a foreign language.

  “Can you cook beans?”

  “I can’t say as I’ve ever actually prepared beans. What kind of beans?”

  “Pinto beans.”

  “Don’t you simply boil them until they soften? How did your mama prepare them? A special way that you remember?”

  “Well, you’re right about the boiling, at any rate. Better be a serious bubbling if you don’t plan to take sick, but beans need more than that to make them worth eating. I brought a ham hock and some salt pork to flavor them up. My ma did better, but that’s what I’ve got.”

  “How long?”

  “A couple hours or more, but first, they have to soak.”

  “Oh, dear. How much longer will that take?”

  “I put them to soaking last night after you were asleep. We just need to boil them with the ham hock. My ma used to add wild onions and other vegetables from her garden, and they were really good that way.”

  “Are you hungry now? I have a loaf of bread. I could fry up some of your salt pork for sandwiches.”

  “Sounds good. You take care of that chore, and I’ll handle the water situation. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Hap watched her take off her scarf and coat before he picked up a big pot and headed for the door again. Disaster averted. Good to know she could be reasonable, if only things were presented in a way that didn’t raise her hackles. She had grit, a goodly amount of pride, and a sense of what was right. He could deal with those qualities, since he suffered them in abundance, too.

  Hap put the soaked beans on to boil, appreciating the time his housekeeper spent sorting bean portions into cloth bags, making sure tiny rocks and other debris were removed so he didn’t bite down and chip a tooth. Addy was a hard worker, and he admired her attention to the details that made living out on the ranch more comfortable. If only he could cure her Christmas tree fixation, she’d be perfect.

  He shuddered. The thought of Addy joining forces with Carole didn’t bear thinking about.

  Minutes later, Carole served toasted buttered bread with bacon sandwiched between the slices.

  He could have eaten another, but contented himself with the fresh coffee she’d brewed. They needed to conserve their supplies until the weather settled down, and they could escape this valley.

  Carole washed their dishes and utensils and put them back on the dry sink counter. She turned, looking at him expectantly.

  “Mighty good sandwiches. Thanks. That should hold us until the beans are done.”

  Her smile bloomed.

  Hap wished he could do magic tricks or juggle or anything that would keep that smile on her face. He knew only one way to keep a female entertained, and he didn’t have much experience at that, truth be told. He didn’t figure that would get him any farther than pitching his ma’s piano across the front parlor.

  Scanning the room, Hap searched for any other small projects they could undertake.

  The homestead his pa built stood in good repair. He made sure the spacious structure was maintained. The kitchen area with the wood-block counter and indoor water pump that emptied into a bucket took up one corner. The table and chair sat closer to the potbelly stove in another corner, and the rough-hewn bedstead took up the far end of the room.

  Hap couldn’t pull his gaze away from the cozy fire in the hearth, throwing such a warm glow over the bed where Carole spread her appliqued quilt. He could picture her there, and heat suffused his che
st.

  Snuggling together on the bed to conserve heat came immediately to mind, and his whole body tightened in response to that image. Oh, Lordy.

  His gaze settled on the old leather satchel he’d slung into the corner when he’d first arrived. Saved! And by the Cobbs, no less!

  “Do you read?”

  “A lot better than I boil beans,” she said, looking affronted.

  He laughed. “I should have asked if you like to read.”

  “Very much. Nana Maebelle might have taught me to cook, but I taught her to read. I spent many hours in the kitchen, avoiding my mother’s deportment lectures by reading to Nana.”

  “What else did you like to do?”

  “I spent time in the barns. Exercised the horses when my papa wasn’t around to forbid me. Tended to them when Doc came to treat one. He taught me what to do and trusted me to take care of what was necessary. Doc is a great man and doesn’t have any antiquated prejudices about women not being strong enough or smart enough to handle what needs doing.”

  “Your Doc and my ma would have gotten along just fine, in that case.” He walked over and picked up the satchel, spreading the mouth wide. He pulled out an oilcloth-wrapped package tied with twine. Setting the bag back on the floor, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a folding knife, flipped out the blade, and cut the twine. The cloth sprang free, exposing the contents.

  Carole gasped. “Oh, Hap, you brought books!”

  “Help yourself, Christmas.” He returned the knife to his pocket and laid out the books he’d brought on the table so she could see the titles.

  He’d ordered this bunch from the mercantile, knowing he’d have time to catch up on his reading when the weather turned bad. His ma instilled a love of reading in him, and he tried to keep current with new books being published.

  “Oh, I love Mark Twain!” Carole stepped forward to snatch up the new copy of Huckleberry Finn. “Have you read this one?” she asked, shuffling the pages.

  “Not yet.”

  “Or this one?” She set down the Twain book and hefted Robert Lewis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.

  “No. I planned to spend my time here reading and repairing some horse tack I brought along.”