Holly: The Christmas Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch (Sweet Version) Book 9)

by Merry Farmer

  “You see,” Holly heard Robbins say in a quiet voice as she reached to shut the doors after Vivian and Melinda left them open. “They follow like sheep where they are led.”

  Holly’s ears pricked, and her senses went into high alert. She pretended to have trouble shutting the door, keeping her back to Robbins and Rance.

  “I gotta admit,” Rance said. “I’ve been watching these last few days, and you make it look like shooting fish in a barrel. Makes me wonder why I didn’t try some of the stuff you’ve been doing ages ago. Indian relief?” He snorted.

  “Fools and their money are quickly parted,” Robbins replied.

  The hairs on the back of Holly’s neck stood up, but when she turned around, Robbins wore a look that made her wonder if his words were intended to be a lecture for Rance instead of an admission of his own guilt. Then again, he looked at her as if he had been well aware she was listening the whole time. It was infuriating. Just when she thought she had caught Robbins out, he found a way so slip back into his own righteousness.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said her goodbyes to them with a smile, as if nothing was wrong at all, clasped her hands in front of her, and headed up the aisle.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pickering,” Rance called after her. There was a hint of an unsavoriness in his tone, enough so that Holly was loathe to turn around in case she found him wearing some sort of lewd expression.

  She let out a breath of relief as she reached the front of the chancel and George’s side.

  “What was that all about?” George muttered, not taking his eyes off of Robbins.

  “No good,” Holly replied. “No good at all.”

  Chapter 10

  Two weeks, five days, and about fifteen hours. That’s how long George had been married to Holly. And he still felt as though he was living and sharing his life with a virtual stranger.

  “Would you like the last piece of bacon or should I keep it for lunch?” Holly asked as she stood from the breakfast table.

  “What are you making for lunch?” he wondered aloud, watching as she crossed to the counter beside the stove.

  “I don’t know,” she laughed. “It depends on whether I need to incorporate bacon or not.” She sent him a teasing glance over her shoulder.

  George’s heart sped up, and his gut felt as though it was dancing a jig. Strangers? No, on second thought, Holly didn’t feel like a stranger at all. More and more, she felt like a beautiful but complicated locked box that he desperately wanted to open. Only, he had no idea where the key was. Probably buried under the mountain of mistakes he’d made, both in the distant past and in the last two weeks.

  He stood and carried his empty plate and the plate with the remaining bacon to the counter. “I hereby turn this bacon over to your care and creativity,” he announced. “I can’t wait to see what marvelous culinary creation you make with it.”

  Holly giggled and took the plate from him. Her porcelain-smooth complexion pinked, and his heart beat faster. There was a sparkle in her hazel eyes that hadn’t been there the day she’d stepped off the train. The lines of her body seemed softer, more at ease, as well. She wore her hair in a simple, long braid down her back. The strand of white wove its way through the dark braid, almost as though it was deliberate.

  “When did this part of your hair turn white?” he asked before he could think better of it, stroking his fingers along the side of her head where it started.

  Holly’s smile vanished, but her cheeks glowed a deeper red. “It happened overnight,” she confessed, gaze locked on the breakfast dishes she was scrubbing in the sink. “The first time Bruce struck me. I…I was so shocked that he would…would do such a thing.”

  Rage and regret spiked in George’s gut. “Did he strike you often?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  She took a long, long time to answer, which was as good enough as a confession. At last, she let out a breath, stood a little straighter, and turned to him with an attempt at a smile. “That’s all behind me now. I’m here with you.” Her eyes added that she knew he would never raise a hand to her.

  He brushed his fingers over her white streak with a new kind of reverence. Instinct told him she’d had bruises in the past, and even though they had faded, this oddity would always remain, as a reminder. But at the same time, he wanted to change her bad memories to good, claim every part of her as his own.

  “I like it,” he said, knowing it was a gamble.

  “You do?” Her surprise was exactly what he expected.

  He nodded, sliding closer, his backside leaning against the counter. “It’s exotic.”

  “I never would have thought of it like that,” she said, eyes downcast again.

  George cradled the side of her head that bore the white streak. Then he reached up and caressed the other side of her head with his other hand. He nudged her to look up and meet his eyes.

  “I like you,” he said gently. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  She let the plate she’d been washing slide into the sudsy water in the washbasin. “I like you too,” she whispered.

  “And I’m glad I married you.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he lowered his head to her, covering her lips with a gentle kiss.

  And it was perfect. Soft, tremulous. Holly closed her eyes and swayed into him. He took things as slow as he could, just kissing her, not claiming or devouring or seeking selfish pleasure, as he had so many times before. One whisper of a kiss and—

  “Rev. Pickering?” There was a loud, eager knock at the door. “Rev. Pickering, I have something for you.”

  The moment shattered as though it had been an icicle dropping off of the roof. Holly jumped away, thrusting her hands back into the dishwater, her cheeks as red as apples. George clenched his teeth in frustration over the loss of the moment, but seeds of hope had been planted. He stepped sideways toward the door, watching Holly for as long as possible as his heart swelled.

  When he reached the door, he looked away. A cold blast of air swirled into the room as he opened the door, letting Hubert Strong in.

  “Morning, Rev. Pickering.” Hubert greeted him with a smile, a folded piece of paper in his hand. “This telegraph just came in for you. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”

  “Thanks, Hubert.” George took the telegraph from him, working hard to pretend the young man hadn’t walked in on the first moment of his marriage that had felt right. “Do I owe you anything for the delivery?”

  Hubert shook his head, rubbing his mittened hands together now that they were both free. “Nope. Pop put the charge on your tab, so you can pay it whenever you have time.” He turned to acknowledge Holly. “Morning, Mrs. Pickering. I really enjoyed choir practice the other night.”

  “Oh? I’m so pleased to hear it.” Holly smiled at him, wiping her hands on a towel, evidently finished with the dishes. “You and Bebe Bonneville looked like you were enjoying each other’s company as well.”

  Hubert blushed and glanced down, kicking his toe against the floorboards. “Aw, we’re just friends.” His expression told an entirely different story. “Her pop don’t like me much.”

  “An industrious young man with a job and a bright future ahead of him? What’s not to like?” Holly said.

  A strange grin—half humorous, half wry—pulled at Hubert’s lips. “You haven’t been here long enough to know Rex Bonneville.”

  Holly arched a brow. “Oh, I think I have. Thank you, Hubert.”

  “Ma’am.” Hubert grinned, nodded to George, then turned to slip out the door again.

  As soon as George had shut the door behind him, he opened the telegram.

  “Poor boy,” he half heard Holly say as he read. “I think that romance is destined for difficulty.”

  George only hummed. The telegram suddenly had all of his interest.

  “What is it?” Holly asked, moving to stand by him so she could look over his shoulder.

  “It’s from Rupert Cole
.” George frowned. “He’s asking about Robbins. Apparently he was in Everland yesterday, preaching on the street and coercing folks to donate to his charity.”

  “Oh?” She frowned.

  George lowered the telegram, turning to Holly. “What is that man up to?”

  “I’d like to know the same thing,” she answered with as much frustration in her voice as he felt.

  A funny sort of warmth began to spread through George’s chest. Holly had the same suspicions he had. It was hardly a romantic, moonlit walk or any sort of grand seduction, but there was something cozy about agreeing on something so important.

  “I know I should trust the man at his word, believe that he really is helping out the Indians or orphans back East or whatever he’s claiming to be collecting for this week,” he said, “but I just can’t.”

  “Neither can I,” Holly agreed, crossing her arms. “But you’re right, I feel like I should. He’s a man of God.”

  “As he keeps reminding us every chance he gets,” George added.

  “You’re not like that,” Holly said, meeting his eyes directly. “You’re clearly devoted to your calling, but not once have I seen you beating anyone over the head with it or using your position to gain something.”

  “I don’t believe in serving God by serving yourself first.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s what has me so twisted up about Robbins.”

  “He seems to be more interested in himself than he is in God.” She finished his thought.

  It was a strangely delightful thing. It was far from a kiss or a passionate embrace—which he was certain would have come next if Hubert hadn’t interrupted—but there was something about working on a common problem together that made him feel closer to Holly than he ever had.

  “We have to do something about this.” He took that feeling and ran with it, hoping to turn it into something more.

  “We do,” she agreed with a firm nod. “But what?”

  George paused, rubbing his chin. “We can’t go throwing our suspicions around like we’re spreading rumors, that much is certain. People in Haskell trust me as a spiritual leader. The last thing they want to see is me engaging in idle gossip.”

  “Or your wife engaging in gossip,” Holly added.

  A burst of happiness filled him at the thought of her as his wife. She was, of course, but that truth took on new and deeper meanings every day.

  “We have to find irrefutable proof that Robbins is up to no good before we can say anything to the congregation,” he went on.

  “Absolutely.”

  An idea struck him. “And the best way I know to find information is to ask Theophilus Gunn.”

  Holly blinked. “I’ve met Mr. Gunn a few times now. Folks around here seem to put a lot of stock in his opinion.”

  “With good reason,” George said.

  Holly paused, then asked, “What reason?”

  A wide smile split George’s face. “You know, I’m not entirely sure. We all just take for granted that Gunn knows what he’s doing.” He headed for the pegs near the door that held their coats and winter things.

  Holly followed, and the two of them bundled up. “Eden and the others seem to think that he served both in the Civil War and the Crimean War.”

  George had heard similar rumors, but as far as he knew, that’s all they were. Still, he answered, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.”

  They headed out, walking with purpose around the side of the church and up the curving street, past the snowy baseball field and on to where the road turned into Elizabeth Street, then on past the city hall and to The Cattleman Hotel. Haskell was decorated for Christmas with boughs of pine and holly, red ribbons, and silver bells and baubles. Howard ordered the same decorations to be put up every year, but for some reason, George thought this year everything looked more beautiful than usual.

  The Cattleman Hotel was as festive as the rest of town, with decorations from all parts of the world hanging along with fragrant pine boughs. The hotel’s restaurant was buzzing with conversation as guests ate breakfast. George and Holly were in luck to find Gunn standing near the doorway, looking on at everything with a smile. He was the picture of Christmas cheer himself with his white hair and a sprig of holly and berries pinned to the lapel of his uniform jacket.

  “Gunn, do you have a moment?” George jumped right in as he approached the man.

  “Of course,” Gunn answered right away with a smile. “How can I help you?”

  The man was the picture of contentment, but when George said, “We need to know how we might find out information about someone,” his cheery look hardened to something businesslike.

  “Come into my office.”

  George and Holly followed him around the corner and down one of the halls to a plain door. From the outside, it was easy to think there was nothing special about Gunn’s office, but as soon as they stepped inside, Holly gasped. George had had the same reaction the first time he’d stepped in. The large space was decorated with beautiful artwork, much of it from the orient. A large, mahogany desk sat at one end of the room, a wall of Japanese paper screens that could be opened or closed to make the room bigger or smaller stood behind it. Gunn gestured for George and Holly to sit in elegantly upholstered chairs that looked French and yet fit in with the oriental décor.

  Gunn took a seat himself, resting his folded hands on the top of his desk. “Now, what seems to be the problem, and how might I be of service?”

  George shifted forward in his chair. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the same things we have,” he began, “but Holly and I have developed some serious suspicions about Rev. Robbins.”

  “Hmm.” George knew in an instant from Gunn’s frown and hum that he shared their opinion about the man. “I can’t say that all of my thoughts about Howard’s new friend are friendly ones.”

  “Howard says Rev. Robbins came highly recommended by the Wyoming Stock Growers Association?” Holly put in.

  Gunn raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t necessarily consider that a virtue.”

  George shared Gunn’s wry grin. The WSGA was getting too big for their britches, in his opinion. “Is there anything we could do to come up with proof that Robbins isn’t who he claims to be?”

  “Are you certain that he isn’t?” Gunn asked.

  George exchanged a glance with Holly. She looked as unsure as he felt. “No,” he confessed to Gunn. “But there’s something about his efforts to collect money for charities that isn’t sitting right.”

  “And you think he’s a confidence man,” Gunn continued.

  George checked in with Holly again. She nodded. He let out a breath and turned to Gunn. “Yes.”

  A dangerous smile pulled at the corner of Gunn’s mouth. “Then we’ll deal with him as such for now.” He reached down to open one of the drawers of his desk and took out a piece of paper. With a fountain pen resting next to a small pile of letters, he began to jot down notes. “This is the name of an investigator in Chicago who is a dear friend of mine. He can help you track down information on Robbins.” Gunn glanced up. “Do you know anything about him at all? Where he’s from, previous associates, where he went to school?”

  “No,” George sighed. An instant later, he sucked in a breath and sat straighter “Actually, yes.” He smiled. “Robbins mentioned something about attending The Theological Institute of Hartford and the Chicago Wesleyan Seminary.”

  “Perfect.” Gunn wrote down the names, along with a few other things.

  George craned his neck to get a look. He glanced across what looked like a hand-painted Christmas card. It was closed, but sat on an envelope. The return address showed that it was from Miles Kopanari, and listed an address in Hungary.

  “You’ve heard from Miles?” George brightened up even more.

  “Yes.” Gunn smiled. “He’s successfully taken his mother back to her homeland and her family.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He turned to Holly. “We had an interesting group of traveling sh
owmen come through town last winter. Miles Kopanari was the leader of the group.”

  “Yes, Eden wrote all about them,” Holly replied, brightening. “Miriam Montrose was traveling with them, wasn’t she?”

  “She was.” George laughed. “So I guess you’ve heard the whole story.”

  “Parts of it.”

  “I can tell you the rest later.” Again, that warm, cozy feeling of having something to talk about, something to share with his wife, flooded him. It was ordinary, possibly even boring, but the more George wracked his brain for ways to get closer to Holly, the more he was realizing it was the average, everyday things that got the job done.

  He turned back to Gunn. “Is Miles planning to stay in Hungary?”

  Gunn shook his head and passed the paper he’d been writing on to George. “He’s still interested in learning the hotel business. He’ll be back at some point. Now, head down to Athos and send this telegram off to my friend, Allan Pinkerton,” he pushed on. “Allan will be able to do some preliminary investigating for you. He can at least check the records of those schools.”

  “Is he good at this sort of thing?” George asked.

  Gunn’s reply was a smile that George could only describe as cocky.

  He took the paper and stood. Holly stood with him. “Thank you so much for this, Mr. Gunn,” she said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Gunn replied, standing and coming around his desk to shake both of their hands. “Oh, but a word of advice? Don’t approach Rev. Robbins with your suspicions. Not until you have proof. Don’t even let him know you’ve got a glimmer of doubt about him.”

  “Right.” George nodded.

  It was a relief to have someone of Gunn’s competence on their side. It was even more of a relief to leave the hotel and offer Holly his arm. She took it with a giddy grin, and together the two of them headed down Main Street toward the station.