A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  “Mrs. Madison thinks she escaped while looking for me.”

  “Knowing how Josie feels about you, I’m not surprised.” She rose. “We must find her.”

  “It’s getting ready to snow.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.”

  He looked about to argue but instead picked the coat off the floor and wrapped it around her, his hands lingering on her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

  “I’m sure.”

  Outside, the sky was gunmetal gray. A slight north wind blew, and a few white flakes drifted through the air like tiny feathers.

  Corbett cupped his hands around his mouth. “Josie.”

  Ellie-May’s breath caught at sight of the four headstones, and she quickly looked away. “Maybe she went to the river.”

  He shook his head and pointed to indentations in the snow. “She went that way.”

  Hand in hand, they walked. The white powder swallowed their legs as they followed the mule’s hoofprints toward Chimney Rock.

  The looming landmark was quite impressive from a distance, but even more so close up. The tall spire was about fifty feet square and rose from a conical base to more than two hundred feet in the air. The top sloped like a pointed finger and looked identical to the drawing Andy had sent. The thought made her gasp for air. Seen through her brother’s eyes, it really did look like the hand of God.

  “Hee-haaaw.”

  “Over there!” she said, pointing. “By the side of the rock.” In her anxiety to reach the animal, she nearly tripped. Had it not been for Corbett’s steady hold, she would have fallen into a snowdrift.

  Josie let out another loud bray. Ears pinned back, the mule scampered toward Corbett, practically knocking him over. “Whoa, girl,” Corbett said, laughing.

  While the two greeted each other, Ellie-May moved closer to the rock. Travelers had left names, dates, and comments on the sandstone base all the way up to the funnel. Some messages were written in paint; a few had been penned with wagon tar or gunpowder mixed with grease. Others were carefully etched into the sandstone with knives. Loved ones sadly left on the trail were memorialized, but most travelers expressed desire for a better future.

  Her gaze jumped from one inscription to the next, and she felt a kinship with the strangers who had passed this way before her.

  The remains of hundreds of burnt candles on the ground puzzled her. Was this some sort of altar? She lifted her gaze and gasped. For above the makeshift altar was a magnificent drawing of a weary traveler on his knees praying. A hand reached out of the heavens and touched his shoulder. Written in big bold print were these words: Put your trust in God. He is the Rock.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. She recognized Andy’s work even before she saw his initials. Carved deep into the sandstone, the art stood out just as she’d imagined his work standing out among masters. The empty canvas of her dreams now had a vision.

  Her brother had died far too young. His work would never be seen in fancy art galleries; nor would it ever grace a palace’s ivory walls. Instead, his art was displayed on God’s masterpiece in all its glory, greeting thousands of weary travelers with its message of faith, hope, and love.

  Turning away with tear-filled eyes, she rushed into Corbett’s waiting arms.

  It started snowing hard, and Corbett led her back to the relay station with Josie close behind. The mule followed them inside the small building with the look Ellie-May had come to dread. Nothing or no one was going to convince that mule to go back outside.

  Corbett laughed. “All we need is a babe in a manger.”

  “And maybe a wise man or two,” Ellie-May said.

  He reached for the picnic basket and began arranging silverware and plates on the table. He raised a quizzical brow. “You okay?”

  She nodded and took a seat. “If it wasn’t for Josie, I might never have found my brother’s artwork.”

  “See? I told you to be nice to her.” He finished emptying the basket and quickly filled two plates.

  At first she didn’t think she could eat, but when Corbett set a plate in front of her, her stomach growled. She tasted the potatoes first and then started on the roast beef.

  Corbett cleared his throat, and she looked up. “What?”

  “Would you care to join me in grace?” he asked.

  Blushing, she put down her fork. “I do believe I’ve been hanging around you too long.”

  He chuckled and tossed a handful of cooked carrots on the floor for Josie. “Not long enough,” he said, lowering his head in prayer.

  Later they sat on the bear-skin rug, and Corbett threw another log on the fire.

  “Now that your journey has ended, what are your plans?” he asked.

  She hugged her knees to her chest. “I…I don’t know.” She didn’t want to think about a future without her beloved brother. “What are yours?”

  He scooted to her side. “While Mrs. Madison packed our Christmas dinner, her husband mentioned that Shorter County is looking for lawmen. He knows the sheriff and agreed to put in a good word for me.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Does…he know you were incarcerated?”

  “He knows.” He grimaced as if pained to say it, even now.

  Her heart ached, and she covered his hand with her own. “You didn’t deserve to be in prison. Not for what you did.”

  A shadow hovered at his brow as he stared at the fire. “Nebraska will grow by leaps and bounds once the railroad is built.”

  “Why, Mr. Corbett, is that optimism I hear?”

  He slanted a glance at her. “There’s got to be a reason God brought me all the way out here.”

  The thought took her breath away. Or maybe it was the way he said it with none of his usual skepticism. “Next you’ll be telling me you believe in miracles.”

  “When I think about how we met, it’s hard not to.”

  Heart pounding, she gazed at him and realized, suddenly, how much he meant to her.

  They both started speaking at once. “What do you—”

  “Do you think we can—”

  They laughed. “You go,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Ladies first.” His brows rose. “Don’t look so surprised. I do have some manners.”

  She smiled, and her heart swelled with tenderness as she gazed at him. Today was one of the worst days of her life. It made no sense to think that it was also one of the best, but there it was. For today she found something she didn’t even know she was looking for, and it was something that would last a whole lot longer than the terrible grief she felt. For today she found love.

  “You go first,” she said. “I insist.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not the right time. You just learned about your brother. What I want to say can wait.”

  He was wrong about that. Nothing that needed saying should ever wait. That was the one thing she had learned on this trip as she passed the many graves along the way. Life was short and often unpredictable. Had she had it to do over, she would have told her brother how much she loved him. No doubt her father would have done the same. Sadly, she couldn’t change the past, only the future.

  “What I want to say can’t wait,” she said. It had to be said now, and it had to be said in language this handsome, wonderful man of few words would understand.

  “Merry Christmas, Michael.”

  He stared at her as if to make sure he’d heard right. “I told you what would happen if things got too personal between us.”

  She nodded. “I know, and I intend to hold you to your word.”

  A smile inched across his face. Then with a whoop of joy, he pulled her in his arms and kissed her like she’d never before been kissed. “Merry Christmas, Ellie-May.”

  Just as he moved to kiss her again, Josie stuck her nose between them with an approving nod and an ear-splitting hee-haaaw!

  Epilogue

  We’re here with our adorabl
e twins, Ellie and Andy,

  and our youngest daughter, Josie. God is our Rock.

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1866 by

  Sheriff and Mrs. Michael Corbett

  Author’s Note

  The quotations from Chimney Rock are fictional, however, they are based on writings in old diaries and on tombstones. Those attributed to Mark Twain and Wild Bill Hickok come from their writings.

  A Christmas Castle

  Cynthia Hickey

  Chapter 1

  Prescott, Arizona

  December 1867

  Annie Morgan looped her horse’s reins over the hitching post, slung her rifle over her shoulder, and marched into one of the many saloons in Prescott, Arizona. Every head turned in her direction. Every conversation ceased. Every glance increased her heart rate.

  “I’m looking for Bill Morgan.” She lifted her chin, causing her floppy hat to slide to one side. She righted it and glared at the bearded faces turned toward her. “Well, is he here or not?” Her insides quaked. Please, somebody answer before my last nerve flies out the window. Her new husband should have been at the livery to meet her. Instead, the grizzled old man who worked there had sent her here.

  “He ain’t here.” The bartender swiped the inside of a glass with a towel. “Maybe you ought to check his land. Heard tell he ain’t left it in a couple of days.” He grinned at a group of men playing cards. “If you’re his new bride, I’m betting he’s got a surprise for you.”

  Well, Annie had one for him, too. The man didn’t make a good impression by not meeting her. So far, he wasn’t anything like his letters. “Can you direct me to his land?”

  The man snickered. “Head straight west about half-a-day’s ride. There’s a big pile of junk with a sign that says, ‘Morgan’s Ranch.’ If you veer to the northeast a bit, you’ll find your nearest neighbor, a man named Carter. He has another surprise for you.” He winked at the card players.

  This town seemed full of surprises, and Annie had a feeling they weren’t pleasant ones. “Thank you kindly.” She straightened her hat and shoved through the swinging doors. Something strange was going on, and she aimed to find out what.

  Sure enough, four hours later she stopped in front of a sagging fence with a weathered sign stating MORGAN’S RANCH. In the distance, brown cattle grazed, walking over and around a mound of dirt covered on one side by more weathered boards. A few mustangs stood, heads down, in a nearby corral. Chickens squawked, running free.

  Annie dismounted and led her horse through a gate ready to fall off its hinges. Already her head spun with a list of things that needed improvement. She’d mention them to Bill at the first opportunity.

  She lifted her face to the sun. Although a chill filled the air, the day’s moderate weather amazed her. Back home, snow covered the ground and cold bit at your cheeks. She’d heard tell, though, that the area could have snow after the first of the year, if not sooner. It’d be nice not to have to worry about freezing when a body rolled out of bed in the mornings.

  Had her new husband lost cattle because of a shoddy fence? Could he possibly be out looking for them? What had she gotten herself into? The letters she’d received from Bill proclaimed him an ambitious man. Annie’s first impression showed otherwise.

  Certain that God had led her to wed Bill Morgan, sight unseen, she’d had no qualms about leaving Missouri and traveling to Arizona. Now she hovered beside her gelding, filled with indecision. Where was the man?

  Seeing no house, Annie let her horse graze on dried grass and wandered the strange land. A small stand of trees—oak, pine, and another she thought might be the Arizona ash she’d heard about—bordered what she hoped was a creek. Bill had written her about one. She headed in that direction, letting her hat hang down her back by its drawstring.

  Sure enough, a clear stream ran over rocks. Annie dropped to her knees and splashed her face with the frigid water before cupping her hand for a drink.

  Crashing sounds in the nearby brush had her spinning and grabbing for her gun. A wiry-haired mongrel appeared, tail wagging. She grinned. “Well, hello there, boy. Do you live here?” She scratched behind his ears. “Could you possibly be Scout?”

  The dog answered with a slobbery kiss.

  “Where’s your master, boy?” Annie straightened and glanced around. The land showed promise. Not as fertile as Missouri, perhaps, but promising all the same.

  The sun sat low in the sky, and the temperature dropped. Forgetting her irritation at Bill’s nonappearance, now she was worried. She snapped her fingers for the dog to follow and headed for the mound of junk.

  Wait. A board cross next to the creek caught her attention. She rushed over and read the crude letters burned into the wood. Bill Morgan. Rest in PEACE.

  She fell to her knees. This must be the surprise the townsmen thought so humorous.

  A widow before ever meeting her husband. Tears pricked her eyes. What would she do now? There was nothing left for her in Missouri. No parents, no family. Why would God bring her this far only to leave her alone again?

  Planting her hands on her thighs, she pushed to her feet. First order of business: she needed to find the house, then the neighbor who supposedly had another surprise for her.

  Slapping her hat back over her braids, she headed for the pile of wood around the mound, leaving Scout to continue investigating whatever he felt the desire to stick his nose in.

  If she had to sleep outside, it wouldn’t be the first time, but she needed to start a fire. Once the sun slipped below the horizon, the temperature would drop fast.

  She stopped by the mound. Her heart sank. Why was there a door propped against the dirt?

  “Hold it right there, mister.” Drake held his shotgun on the trespasser and tried to ignore the tight hold of the child sitting on the horse behind him. He prayed there wouldn’t be gunfire, not with the little one so close. She’s already seen enough violence in her life.

  The stranger put his hands up and turned to face Drake. When he tilted his head, his hat fell, releasing mahogany braids that reached to his—no—her waist.

  “You’re a woman.” Sparks flew from hazel eyes. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a prettier woman, leather pants or not. She must be Bill’s bride. He’d told him she was scheduled to arrive that day.

  “Last time I looked in the mirror, I was.”

  “But you’re wearing britches.” Drake shook his head and lowered his gun. “Who are you?”

  “Annie Templeton. No, it’s Morgan now, and you’re on my land.”

  She sure wasn’t what Drake expected. Bill had filled him with tales of a lady. A woman excited about helping him run his ranch. Drake needed to get to town more, or at least make the rounds of neighbors. “When did you get in?”

  “I arrived a little bit ago, expecting to meet my new husband, but instead…” She waved a hand toward the creek bed. “We were married by proxy not more than a week ago. Who are you?”

  “Drake Carter. I’m your closest neighbor. My place is an hour’s ride from here, right across the boundary line.” He reached behind him and lowered May to the ground then tossed her pack next to her. “Since you’re Bill’s widow, seems like this is your new daughter, May.”

  Annie’s eyes widened, and her skin paled, making her freckles look like drops of watered-down coffee. “Daughter? Bill didn’t say anything about a child.”

  “Well, he had one.” Drake dismounted. “Guess you found the grave.”

  “Did you bury him?”

  “Yep, two days ago.” He nudged May forward. “Found the little one and the dog sitting all alone in the house.” The child shrank back against him and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  “I’m obliged.” Annie took her lower lip between her teeth. “How’d he die?”

  “Scoundrels after his land.” Drake shrugged. “I was checking the boundary fence and heard gunfire. By the time I got here, it was too late.” Seemed like most folks died that way out here, or by disease. He studied the p
retty woman in front of him. How would she manage several hundred acres of land and cattle all on her own? What if Hayward returned with his hired hands? The poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Where’s the house?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  She frowned. “Where?”

  “That door leads to a dugout. A good-sized one, too. I reckon Bill dug out a good ten-by-fifteen foot of space.”

  “A hole in the ground?”

  Drake didn’t think it possible, but she paled further. He took a step forward in case she fainted. Instead, she whipped her rifle around and had it pointed at him before he took the second step. “Whoa.” He held up his hands. “I mean you no harm. I thought you might faint.”

  “I’ve never fainted in my life.” She narrowed her eyes. “Child, come over here behind me.”

  May shook her head and ducked behind Drake.

  “Go on, sweetheart. This is your new mama.” He lifted her and set her down by Annie. “She ain’t never had a mom. Hers died in childbirth. It’s always been her and Bill.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Four.” Drake didn’t feel right leaving the two alone, but there wasn’t much help for it. The sun was setting fast, and he needed to get home. “I’ll show you around the place, then I’ve get to git.” He pulled on the flimsy dugout door. “Come see your place. Bill installed a new cookstove a short while ago, most likely in preparation for your coming. He hadn’t gotten around to putting in a stovepipe yet. I’ll light a lantern, but take care on the steps leading down. A couple of them need repairing.” He rushed down the stairs and lit a lamp on the table before watching Annie, who now clutched May’s hand like a lifeline, enter.

  “It isn’t much, but it’ll do until you get a proper cabin built. There’s two bunks, a dry sink, a table, two chairs, and that’s pretty much it.” He’d lived in a dugout while building his own cabin and hadn’t thought much of what a woman would think until now. The place sure looked sparse. And dirty. “That crack over there is big enough to point a rifle barrel through if the need arises. It’s also all you’ve got in the way of a window.”