A Mail-Order Christmas Bride

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Ain’t a man alive wouldn’t let somethin’ this pretty hold him up.” The elderly cowboy limped to her side. He smiled, revealing a gap in his teeth. “Let me help you down, ma’am.”

  Before she could protest, he clasped her waist and set her on the ground. Then he turned a scowl on her husband. “Ain’t you gonna introduce us?”

  Brendan dropped the wagon’s tailgate and dragged a trunk toward the end of the bed. He tossed a nod at the chivalrous codger, but didn’t even glance at her. “Elizabeth, meet Boss. He ramrods everything and everyone on this place—including me.”

  “Leave them trav’lin’—” A hacking cough rattled from Boss’s chest, shaking the old gentleman from top to bottom. Knifing at the waist, he clamped the rim of the wagon’s wheel, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed the worn cloth over his mouth.

  “Boss?” The second trunk thunked to the ground, and hurried strides carried Brendan to the foreman’s side. He wrapped an arm about Boss’s shoulders as the old man’s knees buckled.

  The croup wound down to a rasp. “Git your hands off’n me, boy.” Boss shrugged from Brendan’s support and dragged himself upright. “Ain’t some decrepit geezer.”

  Brendan’s brows bunched. “You need to—”

  “I got work to do.” The snap suffered somewhat from the foreman’s panting breath. “Gonna head on back to ranch headquarters; get them boys off’n their asses.” He wheezed a command. “You get the lady inside afore she catches her death.”

  ****

  “A house without woman is empty and cold.” The brogue of the backstreets came and went like puffs of smoke. The lilt teased Elizabeth’s heart, lost in confusion and a peculiar kind of despair since the day Brendan met her at the train. “This one’s not empty anymore.” He knelt at the fireplace. “Let’s see what we can do about the cold.”

  While he fanned smoldering wood chips, she turned in a slow circle. With each step, the aroma of Christmas rose from beneath her feet. Pine boughs. The entire floor of the cavernous room lay beneath a layer of evergreen.

  A mere whiff of the fragrance awoke magical memories. Cedar, spiced cider, peppermint…and an arrogant young man with nothing to offer but trouble.

  Inside as out, the house spoke of elegance, tempered with rustic charm. Polished oak trimmed each window, the only decoration on bare walls. A mantel of the same burnished wood gleamed above the hearth.

  Brendan coaxed the fire to life, releasing balsam-scented curls up the chimney. Then he rose and turned to face her, extending a hand. “May I show you around?”

  Slipping her palm into his, she matched his tentative smile.

  Echoing footsteps followed them from room to room. An embellished fireplace dominated a parlor in which plush carpet covered most of the floor. Beyond that, dark wainscot wrapped the dining room.

  The kitchen ran the length of the dwelling’s back side. She dusted fingertips along the top of a Shaker chair; across the surface of a matching table. The door at one end of the enormous space opened into an attached washing room with its own small hearth and a copper bathing tub.

  Other than those few furnishings, the first floor sat empty.

  Upstairs, two bedrooms displayed the same devotion to craftsmanship…and the same nearly vacant space. In the larger, her trunks sat beside an armoire. Across an expanse of braided rug, four ornate cedar posters anchored a huge bed.

  She wandered to the window overlooking the front-porch roof. Evening gathered outside, rolling across a landscape as untamed as the rash boy she couldn’t seem to leave behind.

  Hesitant footsteps neared her back. “I…thought…you might like to decorate your home yourself.”

  She pivoted to face the scoundrel she’d not intended to marry. Like a condemned man, his gaze held an appeal for clemency. He looked away, but the plea lingered.

  Someday I’ll be the man ye deserve. “You’ve come a long way from St. Louis.”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Tipping back his head, he studied the walls. “When I was a wee lad, maybe nine or ten, one of the families my mother washed for gave her a ham for Christmas. A whole ham, with a bone and everythin’.” He flashed a weak smile, then examined the rug. “I’d never tasted anythin’ so grand. Once ye get a bite of somethin’ like that…”

  A stubble-shadowed cheek pricked the palm she laid against his face. How could she have forgotten the powerful love that fueled a rounder’s vow?

  Fixing her with a hint of desire, he wrapped her hand in chilled fingers. “Bets, I—” With nothing but his gaze, he kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. “I’d best be going.”

  “Going?” Just when she thought she’d untied all the knots, he tangled everything up again. “Going where? This is your home.”

  On a shake of his head, he glanced away, then back. “I need to see to Boss. I won’t be far.”

  An unexpected burn rose behind her eyes.

  He stepped to her side and nodded out the window. “See those buildings?” Two tattered structures squatted miles and miles in the distance. “That’s ranch headquarters. I’ll be right there…and I’ll be here quicker than a heartbeat if you need me.” A trace of peppermint swirled around her, and then faded. “One of the boys’ll stay on the porch until morning. You’ll be safe.”

  Bending his head, he brought darkening blue nearer. If ye were aulder, little girl…

  His expression pinched. On a sharp exhale, he took a step back. “’Night, Bets.”

  A strange numbness crept through her blood as footsteps retreated down the stairs. …if you need me.

  Before the door to the warm house closed, her heart beat empty and cold.

  Chapter Eight

  After three days in a line shack on the far side of the range, the suggestion of forgiveness in a too-brief touch still tortured Brend. In life, there is only wind and smoke. An illusion, nothing more.

  He swiped the back of a wrist across his numb nose. Lack of sleep could play tricks on a man’s mind. If he didn’t set Bets out of his thoughts damn quick, he’d go stone mad.

  Both of them had come a long way from St. Louis. He shouldn’t have tried to recapture that dream. Wrong place. Wrong reasons. Wrong method.

  Two days until Christmas, and he couldn’t dredge up a speck of joy.

  A gray afternoon sky weighted his shoulders as he slid from Finn’s saddle. When Brend set his steps toward the barn door, the gelding balked, stamping. Brend released a hard breath and threw his weight against the reins. Finn jerked up his head.

  Damnú creature. “Serve ye right if I left ye out here.”

  The sorrel grumbled. With a dismissive snort, he shambled inside.

  Somebody hadn’t changed.

  A fight over currying and a wrestling match with hay left Finn happy and Brend ready to collapse.

  Muscles aching, he hunched against a bitter wind and ambled past the bunkhouse. No smoke wound from the chimney. Boss must’ve chased the boys out into the weather. The foreman didn’t let anyone sit for long.

  He huffed wry amusement on a shake of his head. The ranch hands might freeze to death following orders, but not a one of them had the nerve to defy the crusty cuss.

  For that matter, neither did he. The ranch wouldn’t exist without—

  He stopped in mid-stride. No smoke rose from the shack, either.

  He took off at a dead run.

  The rickety structure wobbled when he slammed open the door. Frigid air slapped him in the face. “Boss!”

  No sign of the old man. The fireplace held only ashes. Stay in the cabin. Stay warm. Stubborn old coot. Where could he be?

  Brend sprinted outside, yelling Boss’s name. The wind hurled the shout back.

  He darted around the cabin, toward the woodpile at the rear.

  An icy spike pinned him to the ground. Lord in heaven.

  In two strides, he landed on his knees beside a crumpled heap of sheepskin and denim. He raised the limp form and pressed fingert
ips against Boss’s neck. A pulse barely trickled through the old man’s veins.

  Hiking the weight of a feather into his arms, he hurried for the house on the hill.

  Bets came running when he kicked open the door. He barreled past her and bounded up the stairs. Rapid heel-clicks followed.

  Ripping back the down quilt, he laid Boss on Bets’s bed and tucked the thick cover around him. Too still. Too cold. Too pale. “We’ve got to get him warm.”

  The armoire shut with a bang. Bets tossed a pile of blankets on the mattress and shoved him toward the hearth. “Fire.”

  He scrambled to the grate and fell to a knee, shaking so hard he dropped three matches before one lit. The kindling ignited. He tossed in more chips. Flames licked the logs. Smoke billowed into the room.

  Hacking, he shot to his feet. “I’ll fetch the doc.”

  Sleet lashed his coat as he ran for the barn. Every breath burned his lungs.

  He’d fought hard to escape the streets of St. Louis…but he’d battle the Divil himself for the aul man’s life.

  ****

  His shoulders burned like fire. Blood streamed from his nose. Flat on his back, he could see all three men through one blurry eye—until a sharp kick snapped a rib. His senses reeled toward blackness.

  No. Until life left him, he wouldn’t leave Bets.

  A hazy shape bent close. “Don’t ever come back, boyo. It’ll be the death of ye.”

  “Do yer damnedest.” He lunged upward, grabbed a fistful—

  A gasp and a soft bundle tumbled into Brend’s lap. Hot liquid bit through his shirt.

  With a sharp snap of his head, he shook off the fog. Hard, rapid blinks focused his vision on wide, dark-honey pools. Bets?

  Clutching an empty coffee mug, she shoved his chest and scrambled to her feet.

  He stretched his jaw and rubbed a phantom ache. Damnú. No reflexes anymore. If he’d been just a little quicker, he could’ve kept her in his arms.

  He flopped backward and let his head bang the wall. The collision jarred a reminder from the muddle between his ears. Boss.

  He bolted forward and shot his gaze to the acres-wide bed. Tucked to his chin beneath a fluffy down quilt, the old man slumbered in peace. Color had returned to his face. Thank God.

  Brend swung his attention to Bets. The genesis of an apology for the rough yank scraped his throat. “I’m—”

  She slapped an index finger to her lips, then tossed a glance toward the door.

  Stiff muscles protesting, he yawned, pushed to his feet, and tiptoed in her wake. Rolling his neck against his palm only aggravated the kinks.

  By the time the door eased shut, he’d found something resembling his voice. “How’s—”

  “The doctor just left.” Her whisper delivered a reprimand for his volume. “Boss will recover. He needs medicine and rest.”

  A gust of relief rushed from Brend’s lungs. He slumped against the wallboard, fingertips massaging his forehead while the knot in his gut unwound. He never should have left the stubborn cuss alone.

  Shadows crept down the hallway. Waning light eked through the windows at both ends. Shite. How long had he slept? “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

  “You were exhausted. You needed the sleep.”

  She must need sleep, too. How could she look so chipper? He cupped her cheek. As ever, a mere touch of her softness sent blood racing through his veins. “You’ve got to be worn—”

  “I’m fine. Boss is fine.” Her pretty nose wrinkled beneath a frown. “You’re filthy.”

  He passed a gaze from his waist down his jeans to his boots. Mud and Lord only knew what else flaked from every inch.

  Filthy didn’t come close. He grimaced. “I’d best go scrub.”

  “Yes, you should. I’ve filled the copper tub with hot water.”

  “Why don’t you hop in it. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  “The yard is knee-deep in mud. By the time you’ve traipsed from ranch headquarters, you’ll be dirty again.” She stabbed a finger at the floor. “Disrobe right here.”

  Uh…no. He held his breath to subdue a rush southward. No, no, no, no, no. Bad idea. Backing toward the stairs, he jerked a thumb across his shoulder. “I’ll—”

  “You can cover yourself with a blanket. I’ll bring one.” She turned on her heel.

  One quick step, and he snagged her elbow. She whirled to face him, snapping her arms akimbo. Stiffening her spine, she hiked her chin.

  He ground his teeth and reached for the buttons on his jeans. Surrendering wounded his pride, but he wouldn’t win this fight.

  Chapter Nine

  Elizabeth trudged up the stairs, coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the other. For someone so ill, Boss sure could be…well, bossy. That he had awakened while she shooed Brendan to the bath came as a surprise, but that he could gripe and cough at once was no less than shocking.

  He practically ripped the cup from her hands. Without so much as a puff at rising steam, he downed a gulp, then scowled. “Ain’t mine, but it’ll do in a pinch. Man needs java he can chew to fortify his bones.” After another big slurp, he pushed the cup toward her.

  She wove her arms beneath her bosom. “You need to lie back and rest.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” He glanced at the cup, then delivered a frowning demand. “You gonna pour or argue?”

  Crotchety was too mild a term. She’d attribute the poor manners to poor health.

  After several more slurps, grimacing the while, he shoved the mug into her hands. “Got work to do.” He pulled back the duvet.

  She slammed the cup on the night table and re-tucked the quilt.

  He jerked the cover from her fingers. She yanked it back.

  Reaching for the down again, he growled a warning. “Don’t need no slip of a gal—”

  A violent coughing fit shook unfortified bones. He slumped toward his knees. Wrapping an arm behind thin shoulders, she eased him onto the pillow.

  Shaky breaths wheezed through frail lungs. “Guess this ol’ cowhand…does need some rest.” Struggling for each gasp, he closed his eyes.

  A palm to a damp forehead, then a too-warm cheek, sent pique rising to her lips. She could be just as grumpy as he. “I’ll have no more argument, Mr. Boss.”

  She retrieved the mug and pot and turned for the door.

  A gravelly harrumph stopped her first step. “Won’t find a better man nowhere than that there Mick.”

  A slow pivot brought her around to find deepening creases in the old crank’s features. “I’ll not discuss—”

  “That boy’s et up with you.”

  And she with him…but she’d dug a trench between them and neglected to build a bridge. “That boy lied to me.” The too-familiar words no longer served as reason, but excuse.

  “Mebbe so.” Boss’s brows rose above a gentle rebuke. “You ain’t never done somethin’ you regret?”

  Chastised by the grumbler’s unapologetic stare, she lowered her gaze to the floor. Of course she harbored regrets. She’d married George Adair, hadn’t she? She’d let propriety subjugate happiness. She’d not told her father the truth.

  But her biggest regret was the lie she told herself after stepping from a train in Fort Worth.

  Boss took the cup, then wrapped her hand with work-worn fingers. “I done lived a long time, young lady, and I ain’t never run acrost a mistake what can’t be fixed.”

  How could an old bachelor be so wise? After too many years without a reason to smile, a near-forgotten warmth fanned her face. She set the coffee pot and the mug within Boss’s reach. Even if he found the beverage wanting, he deserved whatever enjoyment the slurping might bring.

  Brendan deserves so much more.

  Boss observed her for a moment longer, then married a sly grin with a wink. “I ’magine that bathwater’s gettin’ a mite cold.”

  Nibbling her lip barely suppressed an urge to kiss the old grouch. No wonder Brendan loved the irritable coot. “I imagine that boy
could use another towel.” She fixed the codger with a firm look and a pointed finger. “You stay in bed.”

  ****

  Flames crackled in the small fireplace, releasing the scent of pine into humid air. Brend bent his knees and slipped farther below the water. On a deep sigh, he laid his neck across the tub’s higher end and closed his eyes. One by one, cramped muscles relaxed.

  He might never leave this room.

  The scent of roses swirled around him, and he slipped into a Christmas Eve memory. Strawberry curls, a fancy ball gown, and a honey-eyed will-o’-the-wisp. He should have dreams like this one more often.

  The aroma of roses grew stronger…

  Too strong for a dream. His eyes shot open.

  He bolted upright. Water sloshed onto the floor. Snatching a flour sack soaked by the flood, he plunged the cloth into his lap.

  At the foot of the tub, Bets balanced a pile of folded, fluffed cotton in outstretched arms. “I brought towels.”

  “I have a towel.” He trapped her gaze…he hoped.

  Nope. She nodded at the shrinking scrap in his lap. “That one’s wet. These are dry. I’ll lay them on the hearth so they’ll be toasty.” She whisked out.

  Both hands gripped the tub’s copper edges. He’d vowed he wouldn’t touch her; wouldn’t do anything that might push her farther away.

  Maybe he would leave this room. And quickly.

  Except… Dashing to ranch headquarters wrapped in a blanket would give the boys a good laugh. Where the hell were his clothes?

  Before he could round up an answer, the door whispered open again.

  The flour sack dove back into his lap.

  Without a glance, Bets skirted the tub and draped sopping denim by the fire. “Your clothing will be nice and toasty, too. I can’t have you and Boss ill at the same time. There’s only one bed.”

  He’d run through driving sleet in waterlogged duds if that were his only escape.

  “The towels should be warm by now.” She bent at the waist and laid a palm on the stack. Her lovely backside played hell with his pulse.

  Damnú. He clawed limp hair from his forehead. He needed a bigger flour sack.