The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Susan Page Davis, Melanie Dobson, Cathy Liggett, Vickie McDonough, Olivia Newport, Janet Spaeth, Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “Why?”

  “Because my name is Rose.” Mrs. Stromberg pushed herself up at the elbows.

  “That’s a pretty name.” Eloise climbed up onto the berth. “I wish I had a present for you.”

  “My grandchildren call me Granny Rose. If you would call me Granny Rose, that would make me happier than any present.”

  Eloise beamed.

  Hayden took Belinda’s hand. “That was very sweet.”

  “Your gift is on the dresser in my bedroom at home,” she said. “I would have given it to you tonight.”

  “I have one for you, too.”

  “Would you like to know what yours is?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s wait.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He glanced out the window. “The moon is out. It’s nearly full. Let’s go look at it.”

  She nodded and reached for her wrap.

  They stood close together on the platform, brisk air rushing toward them.

  “The sky is so clear,” Belinda said. “I haven’t seen the sky since Cheyenne.”

  The moon hung like a giant imperfect sugar cookie, not quite round but tantalizing nevertheless.

  Hayden gripped the edge of the car with one hand and leaned out over the steps. “The tracks ahead are clear. I can see the lights of the work train. They’ll be here soon now.”

  Belinda was quiet and only stared at the moon.

  “Doesn’t that make you happy?” Hayden pulled himself in again.

  “It should,” she said. “But this has been such a beautiful day. Such a wondrous time.”

  “It’s like we’ve been in a cocoon, and we’ve only just found how we fit in it. And now that it is about to end, it’s hard to imagine letting it all go.”

  She turned to him, her eyes brimming. “We must though. The train is going to start up again, and we’ll be on our way to San Francisco.”

  “Your cousin will be there, and Eloise’s aunt. And I hope Gerald.”

  Belinda chuckled under her breath. “I don’t know whether to throttle Gerald for spoiling our engagement or embrace him with gratitude for the chance to know his enchanting daughter.”

  Hayden raised his eyes to the moon again. “Denver. San Francisco. It all feels as far away as the moon.”

  Belinda sighed and leaned against him. They stood, unspeaking, absorbing this moment they knew would never come again. Hayden kissed her cheek.

  Belinda pointed at a shadow moving down the tracks.

  “A hand truck, in advance of the work train,” Hayden said. “It’s probably food.”

  “We’re rescued,” she whispered. “We’re rescued.”

  Chapter 7

  Belinda woke first. She lifted her head off of Hayden’s shoulder.

  Christmas morning. At her feet was the crumbly evidence of last night’s feast of potted meats, dried fruit, and crackers. No one in the sleeper coach had complained about the menu as they passed food from one compartment to another.

  Belinda rubbed her eyes and ran a hand over her haphazard hair, feeling the floppy bun at her neck. Hayden still dozed with his head against the window. Eloise’s bench was abandoned. Belinda glanced to the berth across the aisle, expecting to see the girl sitting cross-legged and watching Mrs. Stromberg sleep.

  Neither of them was there. The berth’s curtains were wide open, and the bed was empty.

  She jiggled Hayden’s shoulder. “Wake up!”

  He startled. “What is it?”

  She pointed to the empty bench and then the empty berth. “They’re both gone.”

  Hayden jolted alert. “Together?”

  “I hope so.” Belinda calmed herself with the thought. A small child and an elderly woman recovering from an illness—she hoped they were together. She stood up, straightened her skirt, and tried to think where to look.

  “Good morning.”

  The voice came from behind her, and Belinda spun to meet it. “Mrs. Stromberg!”

  For two days Mrs. Stromberg had not been out of bed to do more than hobble with great assistance in her nightdress to the washroom. Though still stooped, and with Eloise supporting her under one arm, she was dressed with her hair thoroughly combed and pinned up.

  “Granny Rose is well.” Eloise grinned up at Mrs. Stromberg.

  “We may want Dr. Truman to tell us what he thinks.” Belinda looked closely to discern whether the color she saw in Mrs. Stromberg’s cheeks was artificial.

  “You look wonderful.” Hayden stepped into the aisle to take Mrs. Stromberg by the elbow. “But perhaps you should sit down. Take my seat.”

  “Get the porter,” Mrs. Stromberg said. “Ask him to convert the berth immediately. I am not spending another day playing the invalid.”

  Eloise gasped. “I hear the engine. I hear the engine!”

  Around them the shuffling and morning resituating paused briefly. Passengers froze their steps down the aisle. Women quieted the rustling of skirts. Feet stilled beneath the benches. Belinda held her breath, listened, and looked at Hayden. He nodded slowly and turned up one half of his mouth.

  The train lurched and then began a steady chug. A cheer went up. Already the train was picking up speed.

  Hayden settled Mrs. Stromberg into his seat and cautioned Eloise not to crowd Granny Rose. Virginia, who had wakened with the start of the train’s motion, dashed to the washroom and came back in a presentable state. Eloise held Mrs. Stromberg’s hand and with her other hand pointed out the window at the expanse of glistening white.

  “It looks like mountains,” Eloise said. “They just keep going and going.”

  She was right, Hayden thought. Along the tracks mounds of snow shoveled and pushed aside rose in rugged peaks and fell in craggy valleys. Every slope was different. Beyond the piles were wide, untrampled fields of pristine snow.

  “The sunlight is dancing,” Eloise said.

  She was right again. Light reflected with such brilliance that Hayden had to squint.

  He reached for Belinda’s hand, lying on the seat between them and half hidden under her skirt. They would have children of their own someday, he hoped, but none of them would be Eloise.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said softly. “Can we go for a walk?”

  She nodded.

  Hayden leaned across the opening between the benches and tapped Eloise’s knee. “Miss Michaels and I will be back soon. Can you sit quietly with Granny Rose?”

  He stood up and stepped aside to allow Belinda to lead the way up the aisle. When they got to the platform between cars, she turned to him smiling.

  “Are we going to sneak another kiss?”

  He shook his head. “This time I really did want to talk.”

  She sobered. “You sound serious.”

  “I feel serious. I feel full and satisfied and grateful. But I’m also starting to feel lonely for Eloise.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said.

  “It’s ridiculous for a grown man to feel this way about another man’s daughter, but I hate the thought of leaving her.”

  “Do you?”

  He nodded. “I wondered what you might think of living in San Francisco.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “You don’t even know for certain that Gerald intends to settle in San Francisco.”

  “In my head, I know you make a perfectly logical point. In my heart, I feel this is what he has in mind.”

  “But we don’t have any idea why Gerald left you that note. He did something outrageous, leaving his daughter with you with no explanation.”

  “Very true. Do you know what? I don’t care anymore what his reasons were. Eloise is a secure little girl who trusts her father without a shred of doubt. I knew him well enough when we worked together to know he only has her best interests at heart.”

  “Mmm. San Francisco.”

  “Mrs. Stromberg will be there, too,” Hayden pointed out.

  “My parents will take some convincing. San Francisco is a long way from
Denver.”

  “Granted,” Hayden said, “this trip turned out to be full of unplanned adventure, but most of the time the trains run on schedule. George Pullman will bring his luxury sleepers to the line, and traveling will only get more comfortable. Visiting won’t be so hard.”

  Belinda moistened her lips and nodded. “You’re right. We should consider San Francisco.”

  The door opened behind them and a porter stepped out. “Mr. Fairbanks?”

  “Yes?”

  “A telegram has come for you. Your friends said you had walked this way.” The porter handed an envelope to Hayden.

  “Thank you.” Hayden ripped open the envelope. “It’s from Gerald.”

  “What does he say?” Belinda tried to read over his shoulder.

  “Stranded train in news reports. Are you aboard? Please confirm E is safe. Awaiting you in SF.” There was another line, but it was for Eloise.

  “Shall I send a reply, sir?” the porter asked.

  “Yes, please. Tell him ‘All safe. Train moving. E sends love.’ ”

  They scrambled back up the aisle. Belinda’s mind churned. She was surprised at Hayden’s suggestion of moving to San Francisco but relieved at the same time. How could one little girl cause them to make such a drastic change? Belinda took a deep breath. New track was laid every day in dozens of lines. Once two major lines had connected in Promontory Point, Utah, two years ago, railroads were building with frenzy, every line looking for the fastest way to connect to the transcontinental route. Sleeper cars got more luxurious every year.

  And every city had newspapers, Belinda told herself. Hayden was a dedicated reporter and a talented writer. He would find work easily enough.

  Hayden and Belinda slid back into their seats across from Virginia, Eloise, and Mrs. Stromberg.

  “We got a telegram from your father,” Hayden said.

  “Papa?” Eloise sat up straight.

  “He’s in San Francisco,” Belinda said. “He’s just waiting for you to get there.”

  “He has a special message for you.” Hayden held up the telegram. “Come over here and see.”

  “I don’t know how to read very many words.”

  “We’ll help you,” Belinda said.

  Eloise nestled between Hayden and Belinda. Hayden unfolded the telegram, and Belinda glanced at the final line, the one Hayden hadn’t read aloud earlier.

  She put her finger under the first word. “Do you know what sound T makes?”

  “Tuh.”

  “Tell.“ Belinda moved her finger.

  “I know this word. My.”

  “The next word is a big one. It says sweetie.”

  “That’s me!” Eloise strung the words together. “ ‘Tell my sweetie.’ ”

  “Do you know this word?” Belinda moved her finger.

  “Her! And that word is papa. ‘Tell my sweetie her papa.’ ”

  Belinda couldn’t wait any longer. “ ‘Tell my sweetie her papa loves her’! That’s what it says.”

  Eloise sighed dramatically in satisfaction. “I can’t wait to see Papa.”

  “I hope I shall get to meet him,” Mrs. Stromberg said.

  “Of course you will,” Eloise answered. “You’re my Granny Rose now.”

  Belinda swallowed the knot of joy in her throat.

  “My papa taught me another song,” Eloise said. “Let’s sing it.”

  “All right,” Hayden said. “You start us out.”

  Eloise took a deep breath. “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”

  Christmas, Maybe

  by Janet Spaeth

  Thy mercy, O LORD, is in the heavens; and thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds.

  PSALM 36:5 KJV

  Chapter 1

  Put the lily in the center, Suzette. Remember, the tallest goes in the middle, or else the arrangement will be out of balance. Keep the direction of the eyes in mind. Draw them upward, to God.”

  Suzette Longmont sighed and tried again, but the lily drooped to the right. The poor thing had been repositioned so many times that the stem was nearly broken.

  Why couldn’t people just let the flowers live in the garden, enjoying the sunlit days of summer until winter claimed them? The lily had done nothing to warrant the torture that she’d put it through.

  “Watch me,” Mother said. “We’ll make this a suitable arrangement for tonight’s dinner. Remember that we have guests. The planner for the new public garden will be here, and he will appreciate the glory of the blossoms.”

  Her mother’s elegant fingers took the nearly wilted white flower from Suzette and, with an easy movement, righted it so it stood in the vase. “See?” she said.

  She picked up three of the cut blossoms from the table beside her.

  “Now we’ll add other flowers and greenery to give it some strength so it will stand. Flowers are like people. The lily has suffered, but the other blooms will hold it up.”

  She added delicate pink roses and a cluster of fluffy blue hydrangeas, and tucked baby’s breath and ferns throughout. A dramatic drape of bleeding hearts finished the arrangement.

  It took only moments, but it was stunning. And, for Suzette, impossible.

  “I couldn’t even get the first flower to go in straight,” she said.

  Mother smiled. “It helps to really want to be able to do it.”

  “I don’t have any talent for it.” Suzette leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder.

  Mother’s hand smoothed Suzette’s hair. “Honey, you have to decide what it is you want to do. Flower arranging isn’t, in the Lord’s eyes, the most important activity. He already arranges flowers according to His will.”

  Suzette frowned. That was it exactly. Even her mother’s beloved gardens, even her newly designed solarium where plants could be fooled into blooming year round, even the discussions of landscaped parks in the midst of the city’s bustle—none of them could compare to the glory of wildflowers blooming as they were planted by the Maker’s hand.

  “Look at what you have to work with,” Mother said, reaching out to the arrangement, her slender forefinger lifting one of the bleeding hearts and repositioning it. “Think of what’s in front of you, and, using the gifts of each flower, put them together. They’re not that different from people. We all have our strengths, our talents, which the Lord has given us. We need to gather together in beauty.”

  Suzette sighed. “And that’s why you do the flowers, and I don’t.”

  Her mother laughed. “You’ll learn, my darling. You’ll learn. Now, let’s go into the kitchen and see how the evening’s bread is going.”

  Suzette trailed after her. It seemed as if her mother was on a mission lately to make sure Suzette had all the housewifely duties well in hand. And she knew why.

  Sure enough, as they entered the kitchen, Mama said, “You should wear your navy silk tonight.”

  “My navy silk?” Suzette took a deep breath. “It’s heavy and hot.”

  “I know, but it makes your eyes even brighter. It’s a good color on you, and the gloss of the silk adds a nice color to your cheeks.”

  “That’s because I perspire so much in it.”

  Mama laughed lightly. “It’s the price we pay for being ladies. At least we’re not dressed like the men, in starched shirts, and vests and jackets and ties.”

  “I’d really rather wear one of the calicos. They’re light and much more comfortable.”

  “Tonight, though, I’d rather you wore your navy silk. It goes so well with your dark brown eyes and dark hair, and you want to look good. Harrison is going to be there, after all.”

  Suzette resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Harrison Farrington.

  Their parents had, since Suzette and Harrison were children, plotted the young people’s destiny. One day—one day soon, they clearly hoped—the two would be married.

  Suzette couldn’t imagine a worse fate. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Harrison. He was kind and attentive
, well-mannered, polite, with a solid future as an accountant in his father’s department store—all in all, everything a woman should desire in a man.

  If only he weren’t so … boring.

  That was it. He was boring. After eleven years of knowing him, she still only knew him by the adjectives that described him. She didn’t know him.

  He seemed to have no interests. Did he enjoy novels? She had no idea. Poetry? Possibly. Art? How would she know? Whenever she’d broached any of these topics, he had tossed it back to her and asked for her opinion.

  He was nice. But he was boring.

  Her musings were cut short when her mother stopped suddenly at the table in the kitchen.

  “Suzette, did you remember to put yeast in the bread dough?”

  There were two bowls on the table, both covered with red-and-white checked cloths. One bowl was mounded on the top, obviously with risen dough under it. Obviously, too, the one her mother had made.

  The second bowl had no such mound. In fact, the cloth had collapsed into the bowl.

  Next to it, in mute and guilty testimony, was the packet of yeast.

  Mama’s silence spoke volumes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Suzette cried, rushing to take the cloth off the bowl. The dough sat at the bottom, crusting a bit on the top, exactly the same as she’d left it earlier in the afternoon. She picked up the yeast package. “It’s too late to put this in, isn’t it?”

  Her mother nodded. “We can rescue this. Waste not, want not.”

  In a quick series of steps, the bread board was floured, the wayward dough was plunked onto it, and Mama’s hands patted the dough into a flat rectangle. She carefully draped the cloth back over it and turned to her daughter with a smile.

  “Before our guests arrive, we’ll butter the top, sprinkle on rosemary and salt, and bake it. We can serve it with the soup. The men will like that. They can dip it into the broth. The two savories—the herb on the bread and those in the chicken soup—will complement each other nicely. Actually, dear Suzette, you may have invented something brilliant here.”