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

  Good heavens. She must have been daft to sign up to work in a place like the military hospital, where grown men snorted opium just to blot out the horrible images.

  And she, barely twenty, with hair hanging in perfect curls, had marched in with such naive high hopes. Juliet shook her head in wonder at her bravery—or rather, her youthful ignorance. Maybe a little of both.

  But that’s what Daddy would have done if he were alive—dear Dr. James, Daddy, who taught Juliet everything she knew until well in her teens.

  After they buried Daddy, Juliet and her younger brother, Silas, only had Mama. Until Mama met her gentle new husband, Walter—a graying widower with a bigger love than Juliet had imagined in his trembling, palpitating heart. Within a few months, Walter became dear “Papa,” and Juliet couldn’t imagine her life without him. Then Mama died of pneumonia, and there was only Papa.

  In fact, it was Papa who’d brought Juliet and Silas to the West at his own expense—for the hope of new life with their relatives in Montana. Nobody could replace Daddy, but Papa was now the only close family she and Silas had left.

  “Juliet?” Posy nibbled a nail, her brow wrinkled. She looked fresh and innocent at eighteen like Juliet had back then, before she knew. Before she’d seen.

  “I’m fine, Posy.” Juliet managed a smile. “As long as Carrie Ann and Elizabeth are okay, then my job is done.”

  “I’m not talking about your job. I’m talking about you.”

  “I’m all right.” The dizziness came; everything spun and began to settle. Lines became trees and glistening stones, dazzling in brilliant Wyoming sunlight, and aspen leaves shook like sparkling golden-green hearts. “I just need a minute to catch my breath.” Juliet closed her eyes and loosened her bonnet, letting it fall down her back. At least there in the dappled shade her scalp and ears wouldn’t burn.

  “Christmas, Posy—let’s think about Christmas,” she said. “My favorite time of year. When we get settled in with my uncle, I’m going to find the biggest spruce tree I can find and hang all my best ornaments. I brought as many as I could, you know—the glass and crystal ones. I packed my trunk full. I might not have anything to wear, but my tree will be beautiful.”

  “Ah.” Posy giggled. “Clothes are overrated. I bet your uncle has something you can borrow.”

  “Probably one of those hats with a candle on the front. He’s a miner, you know.”

  Posy held up a finger on the front of her bonnet like a light, and Juliet chuckled. “Whatever he has, it’ll be better than these sweaty old dresses. I’m going to burn mine when we get to Helena. How about you?”

  “Mine are so smelly they could probably light up on their own. And hey, at least that would kill the fleas!”

  “Well, I packed a beautiful green velvet dress for Christmas. It’s brand-new. No fleas.” Juliet’s eyes sparkled. “And then, Posy, I’ll make Christmas bread.”

  “Christmas bread?”

  “My Italian relatives call it panettone. It’s a yeast bread made with butter and dried fruit.” Her mouth watered as she imagined the buttery smell of the dough as servants kneaded and mixed, and the softness of warm bread on her tongue after so many hard beans and dry biscuits. “Raisins and orange peel and nuts. It’s heavenly—you must have some Christmas bread when you come visit me in Billings. It’s just not Christmas without panettone.”

  Billings. Juliet kept her voice cheerful, but the word stung, reminding her that she and Posy would eventually part ways at the end of the trail. Almost certainly never to meet again. Not with the vast expanses of prairie and jagged mountains with nothing but bumpy ruts between them.

  Such was the pain of the trail, a pain that always ached, even after the end.

  “Sure, I’ll come visit,” said Posy lightly, as if trying to keep her own spirits up. “As long as I can get one of those miner’s hats.”

  “So you can work at a mining camp?”

  “So I can see my way to the outhouse at night.”

  Juliet laughed.

  “Well, I’m going to bake gingerbread and make molasses candy for Christmas—just piles of it.” Posy dabbled the toe of her leather boot in the water, making sparkling rings. “And after that, I’ll play in the snow.”

  “Snow.” Juliet breathed in with a longing sound. “Can you imagine? A whole field full of snow after all this dust and heat?”

  “People here on the trail would hock everything they have for a single snowball.” Posy licked her lips. “Gracious, all this snow talk is making me thirsty.”

  She bent and cupped her hands to drink some water, and Juliet grabbed her wrist. “Don’t do it! There might be cholera here.”

  “You think cholera comes from the water?” Posy wrinkled her nose. “That’s crazy.”

  “I know, but I’ve ruled out so many other things. None of it makes sense. It can wipe out a whole camp, you know that?”

  “But everybody drinks water from this creek—and it looks fine. Clearest water we’ve seen yet. What else are we supposed to drink?”

  “I’m not sure.” Juliet massaged her temples. “Maybe we need to try it farther upstream? Or maybe I’m just plain wrong. All I know is that cholera shows up out of the blue and spreads to everybody, and the one place everybody visits is the creek—for drinking, laundry, washing dishes, everything. Cleaning their gun parts and boots. Even soaking the wagon wheels so they’ll stay on the axels in the heat. That can’t be good.”

  She lifted her skirts and stepped over a couple of stones. “I heard some of the folks talking about diarrhea yesterday, and the party that came through last time got cholera here, too, and maybe typhus. It worries me, Posy. Cholera always starts with diarrhea.”

  “I’m worried about it, too, but I ain’t gonna thirst to death trying to figure out where it comes from.”

  “Well, don’t drink the water out of your hands like that, for goodness’ sake—not here,” Juliet scolded.

  “Well, you’re the nurse. You oughtta know.” Posy shrugged. “I thought you got cholera from the air. Or maybe some kind of bedbug. Mrs. Henderson says you get it from eating overripe watermelon at the wrong phase of the moon.”

  “Mrs. Henderson says a woman can get with child by eating too many pickles. And I know from all my medical books that’s completely impossible.”

  Posy blushed. “Heavens, Juliet—don’t talk about such things! Shame on you.”

  “Well, you can’t believe a word Mrs. Henderson says. She might make good corn cake, but she’s been out here on the plains too long, if you get my drift.” Juliet peeled off her apron, which was spattered with brownish drops of blood. And before she could dip it in the creek water, she saw him.

  “Sakes alive,” she whispered. “It’s that Pike boy again.” She stepped quickly behind a cluster of aspen trees and steadied herself on the sloped bank, hoping he hadn’t seen her.

  Posy ducked the long bonnet that hid her sunflower-orange hair to see better. “Yep, that’s him heading this way. Looking for you, I reckon.”

  “Why? I’ve already told him I’m not interested in him, or anybody else. He’s wasting his time.”

  “Seems like he doesn’t think so.” Posy snickered. “He’s got flowers again, too.”

  Juliet peeked through the leaves, and sure enough, a bony figure with his arm in a sling was working his way through the field at the edge of camp toward her—carrying a pretty bouquet of lavender-purple blooms.

  “Miss James?” he called out with that that wide, cheerful smile he always wore.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet saw Jacob shift the flowers to his wounded hand and tip his hat with his good one. An impressive feat—but she pretended not to notice him.

  Jacob stepped through the thicket anyway. “How do you do, Miss Preston?” He nodded at Posy politely then turned to Juliet. “I know you’re busy, Miss James, but could I give you something? It’ll only take a minute.”

  That smile and that accent. That devilishly slow roll of words, the
syllables pulled long and warm like Southern taffy. Poisoned taffy was more like it. The South that had torn their Union apart, that had fired on their valiant Maryland boys in blue. Juliet felt her cheeks heat with irritation, and she could hardly look into Jacob’s thin, square face. She walked back to the water and knelt down, her back to him.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m kind of busy right now.” Juliet didn’t look up as she scrubbed her dirty apron, dabbling it in a current of cold creek water. “And no offense, but you can save your flowers, Mr. Pike. We’ve been over this before.”

  “They’re not flowers, exactly.”

  “What do you mean ‘they’re not flowers’?” She twisted around to peer up at him. “Are you ill, Mr. Pike?”

  “I mean, they’re more than just flowers.” Jacob held them out again stubbornly. “They’re prairie coneflowers. The locals chew the roots and leaves or boil ’em to make a tea that they swear cures just about everything—from snake and spider bites to just about every disease you can think of. You being so knowledgeable about medicine and all, I thought you might like some.”

  That drawl again. Slow and fluid, like the draining away of hope. Hope that died the day a messenger came to her front door, the letter in his gloved hands cinched with hateful black silk.

  “If you wanted to give me roots for medicinal purposes, you could have just brought me the roots,” said Juliet as she dropped her wet apron on a rock and rose to her feet. “Those are definitely flowers, Mr. Pike, and formed very nicely in the shape of a bouquet. With a bit of ribbon around them, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re correct, ma’am. But how else do you expect me to keep them together?”

  “Twine?”

  “Well”—Jacob shrugged and flashed a guilty smile—“you can’t blame me for trying.”

  Juliet wiped her wet hands on her skirt and reluctantly took the bouquet then stepped awkwardly across a bumpy slope. “I’ve told you I’m not interested, Mr. Pike, but thank you just the same,” she said coolly. “I must say I’ve never been given … um … specimens before in this form.” She sniffed the daisy-like blooms. “You say it cures snake bites?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Allergies, blood infections, everything.”

  “Allergies. I’ll say.” Juliet shook her head. “With all of the dust and grasses out here that we’re not used to, it’s a wonder any of us are alive.”

  The land flowed in a rippling wash of green, parted only by a few scrub plants and the furrow of wagon ruts leading into the distant hills along the lonely Bozeman Trail—all the way into Montana. A dismal ocean that stretched to a land Juliet had never seen. Didn’t care to see. Nothing mattered anymore, really, anyway, after losing Robert first and then her home.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Pike, for the roots.”

  “The flowers,” Jacob corrected. “You said so yourself. And you’re sure welcome.” The sunlight gleamed gold down Jacob’s face, along the curves of his cheek. Glistening like his teeth when he smiled.

  Juliet shook her head at Jacob’s cocky rejoinder then held up the roots and studied them. Bits of dry soil still clung to the tiny taproots, and it crumbled in her fingers. “What are you, some kind of local herbalist?”

  “No, ma’am. Just a boy who spent his youth sneezing his eyes out. And this works—I promise you that.”

  Juliet almost laughed. Just a bit. “Thank you, again.” She studied him as he stood there, the late afternoon sun at his back illuminating the bits of wild red-brown hair under his hat. “And what happened to your arm? Did a horse throw you?”

  Juliet had meant to be friendly—just for a moment—but all at once the colors of the sky and landscape seemed to change, to shift, to an awful tone. She shouldn’t have asked. She knew she shouldn’t have.

  Everything, in one moment, slipped into sharp focus. The broken arm. The Southern lisp. She could almost see him in his gray-and-brown Confederate suit, shivering over a campfire.

  “Got it nearly shot off in the war,” said Jacob. Or something to that effect. Juliet didn’t hear his exact words, because everything swirled into black—into screams. She sensed Posy pulling her away, shouting at her to remember her manners, for goodness’ sake, and leave the poor fellow alone.

  She swung again, trying with all her might to dislocate Jacob Pike’s arm from its socket.

  Chapter 2

  Juliet was on her knees pounding him when Posy pulled her off. Her mousy light brown hair had spilled out from its braid, her bonnet on the ground. Across the field the Diamond twins peeked around the edge of their wagon, mouths open, darting their heads back only to whisper.

  “For gracious’ sake. What on earth got into you?” Posy snapped as she slapped Juliet on the shoulder. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Yes,” whispered Juliet, feeling her face burn with shame. “I’m so sorry.” Her hands shook, and she took a stumbling step backward. Reaching by instinct for the engagement ring that used to circle her finger. Instead, she touched the smooth, bare skin of her knuckle, slashed by blades of grass and the raw wood of the wagon, parched by prairie sun. Endless prairie, taking her farther and farther each day from the small white stone carved with Robert’s name.

  She could still see the messenger on her front step and the black-ribboned letter in his hand, with the words in fresh ink: We regret to inform you …

  Juliet had thrown the letter down, unable to bear the words in that hateful script: Robert McQuillin died May 23, 1864, of infection caused by gunshot wounds.

  Her Robert. The gentle jeweler’s son from Baltimore, who had crafted an exquisite engagement set for her: a blue topaz brooch to match her eyes, woven with gold filigree in the delicate shape of a cross. An engagement ring with the same blue stone, the color of the Maryland seaside at dusk, the shell of a crab, the autumn sky through shivering white oak trees.

  There she was, home on leave from the bloody medics’ tents, and she’d still stumbled on death. The most painful one she’d encountered yet.

  She’d worn the ring for a year after Robert’s death and had watched their wedding date come and go in silence. The war ground on to a bitter halt, and when Papa’s business faltered and word came of gold in Montana, Juliet followed numbly, right along with Silas. She had watched her polished cherry wood bedroom furniture sold at auction, her trunks and trinkets parceled up, and the slim remainder packed into a narrow little Conestoga wagon.

  “Don’t you worry, my dear,” Papa had said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Your uncle says there’s a fortune in Montana just ripe for the taking. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  But all Juliet wanted was Robert.

  And now he was gone.

  “That Pike fellow could have killed Robert,” Juliet whispered hoarsely to Posy. “Maybe he’s the one who shot him.”

  So now she knew—Jacob Pike, the Confederate war hero. She’d heard it murmured through the wagon train a week ago that a former Confederate soldier had joined them as they passed through Big Horn. A wounded man, they said, but Juliet had pictured someone quite different. Jacob seemed too young, too cheerful, to have sold his soul to Jefferson Davis and his horrible ranks of rebs.

  Jacob groaned and lifted himself up on his good elbow.

  “Hush, Juliet,” scolded Posy. “You’ve no call to act like that. The man was just being friendly, is all.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mr. Pike. Please forgive me. I was terribly out of line.” Tears stung Juliet’s eyes as she recalled patches of light and memory: the stiff leather of new high-buttoned boots, the smell of crabapple blossoms in spring. The tick of the walnut mantel clock echoing against the great, high walls of the James’s house—if only it could have frozen that way, in time, leaving everything happy as it was. I want my fiancé back. My house back. My life back, just as it was.

  Even Carrie Ann’s soft cheeks and tiny hands only served as a reminder of the things she and Robert would never have. And
Juliet hated herself for being so slow to forget.

  She plodded to the creek and snatched up her dripping apron. “Excuse me. I’ve got to check on Elizabeth and Carrie Ann anyway.”

  Jacob was on his feet, dusting himself off. And instead of stalking off into the smoke-filled haze of the wagon camp, he took a step toward her. So close that his breath stirred the messy strands of fine hair that hung around her ear, and the rough homespun cotton of his jacket sleeve brushed her arm.

  “Miss James,” he said softly, looking down at her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He said it so softly that Juliet almost didn’t hear it. But she did. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he’d said.

  She turned to look over her shoulder and exchanged a glance with him, just for a moment, before turning away. Blue meeting brown in a dimming ray of sun. Robert had brown eyes, too, that sparkled when they looked at her, just like Jacob’s did.

  “Please go away, Mr. Pike,” Juliet whispered. “Please.”

  And she followed Posy through the milling crowds toward the wagon, leaving Jacob in the thin shadows of spindly aspens.

  Posy pulled Juliet, red-cheeked, through a tangle of women shaking out wet laundry. “My word,” Posy snapped after she smoothed a curl of thick, red-gold hair back under her bonnet. “You look like you’ve gone and lost your senses, like that woman who tried to burn down her own wagon!”

  Posy looked like a furious angel, so ruddy and disheveled. Her quiet vanity—her heavy waves of shiny hair, the exquisite shade of a ripe apricot—would be worth a fortune if she sold it, pound per pound. Juliet’s skimpy braid, on the other hand, looked like she’d pulled a few thin strands together from the chin of the family billy goat—a fact that her late mother used to cluck about in distress.

  “I just can’t bear a Southerner like Jacob Pike—a man who fought against us and people we love. You’re from Pennsylvania, Posy. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Something about Robert must have registered with Posy, because her expression changed from irritation to one of pity. Her creased brow relaxed.