by Karen Kirst
“I think a man could go far with a woman like you at his side. No one’s ever believed in me or my dreams the way you do.”
“And no one’s ever loved me the way you do. You’ve made me happier than I thought possible. Now, if you don’t mind—” she splayed her hands on his chest and gazed at the incredible man God had given her “—I’d like that kiss you promised me.”
He grinned. “And you shall have it.” He pulled her into his arms, tilted his head and leaned toward her. Her eyes slid shut.
This kiss was nothing like the others he’d given her, which had been sweet but tentative. He claimed her lips with the assurance of a man in love, firm but tender. She’d never felt as cherished, as appreciated for who she was as she did then.
He pulled away slightly, whispered her name against her lips and kissed her again. She didn’t think things could get any better, but they did. Time seemed to stand still. She wasn’t aware of anything but Henry and the delight of being in his arms.
Until a distant knocking began. It continued, growing louder and more insistent.
He brought the kiss to an end, and they turned toward the sound.
A lantern illuminated Marcie, Dot and Alex, who stood at the girls’ second-story bedroom window. Their nieces and nephew waved and smiled. Lavinia and Henry waved back.
He chuckled. “It appears we’ve finally satisfied our mistletoe matchmakers.”
“So it does. I didn’t realize we had an audience, though.”
Gladys appeared at the window, shooed the children away and closed the curtains.
“No one’s watching now, my love, so I can show you how just much you mean to me.”
His endearment was as sweet as the kiss that followed.
* * * * *
Dear Reader,
I’m a December bride, so when my editor asked if I’d like to write a Christmas story, I responded with an enthusiastic yes. This time of year thoughts turn to love—of our families, our friends and, most important, our Lord, who came to earth as a baby. Creating a love story set during this wonderful season was special.
I enjoyed writing Henry and Lavinia’s story and hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. This couple has experienced heartache, but they find solace in caring for their nephew and nieces. They also find a love of their own as they work together to make Christmas special for the children.
I strive to make my stories as historically accurate as possible. As I did my research, I learned a lot about Sutter Creek, a Gold Rush-era town not too far from where I live that has a rich history. I did take a bit of fictional license. The first church wasn’t built until two years after the story takes place. There was a congregation in the late 1850s, but I don’t know where they met. I chose to use the schoolhouse.
I love hearing from readers. You can contact me through my website at www.keligwyn.com or write to me at PO Box 1404, Placerville CA 95667.
Warmly,
Keli Gwyn
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Historical title.
You find illumination in days gone by. Love Inspired Historical stories lift the spirit as heroines tackle the challenges of life in another era with hope, faith and a focus on family.
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ISBN-13: 9781488017933
Their Mistletoe Matchmakers
Copyright © 2017 by Keli Gwyn
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
A Baby for Christmas
The only Christmas gift Oscar Rabb’s four-year-old daughter prays for is one the widower can’t provide: a baby sibling. And when his neighbor’s house burns down, he’s willing to open his home to pregnant and widowed Kate Amaker and her in-laws—but not his heart. Even if his little girl’s convinced Kate’s unborn child is the answer to her wish.
Kate quickly sees the generous but aloof Oscar has little interest in growing closer to his houseguests. Still, she intends to make the coming Christmas a season to remember for his daughter. And as Oscar starts to open up to her, Kate can’t help picturing just how wonderful the holidays—and a future together—might be.
Oscar found himself wanting to put his arm around Kate, to shield her from the life blows she’d been taking.
Which brought him up short. What was he doing thinking about a woman that way? He had no business having tender feelings for anyone. What was wrong with him?
“I’ve got chores to do and then I need to get into the workroom. Orders are backing up with all the time I’ve been spending on other things.” He let his daughter Liesl slide to the ground, but in spite of cautioning himself, his thoughts were still on Kate and his reaction to her.
He’d done more than he’d intended already, housing her, feeding her, even clothing her. That was neighborly, and that was also where he drew the line. He’d share his material possessions up to a point, but he would not share his heart. That belonged entirely to his dead wife.
He needed to be by himself to get his head on straight. Too much time spent with the widow Amaker was making him forget himself.
Erica Vetsch is a transplanted Kansan now residing in Minnesota. She loves history and romance and is blessed to be able to combine the two by writing historical romances. Whenever she’s not immersed in fictional worlds, she’s the company bookkeeper for the family lumber business, mother of two, wife to a man who is her total opposite and soul mate, and an avid museum patron.
Books by Erica Vetsch
Love Inspired Historical
His Prairie Sweetheart
The Bounty Hunter’s Baby
A Child’s Christmas Wish
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EBOOBPBPA201602010002
A Child’s Christmas Wish
ERICA VETSCH
Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace, good will toward men.
—Luke 2:14
For Heather Vetsch, whose love language is gift giving, and who anticipates Christmas better than anyone I know. Love you, dolly!—Mom
Acknowledgments:
My thanks to Adriana Gwyn for her help with the German translations, and to the Dodge County Historical Society for help with the history of Berne and Mantorville, Minnesota.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Dear Reader
CHAPTER ONE
Berne, Minnesota
November 1, 1875
“Lord, haven’t we suffered enough?” Kate Amaker didn’t say the words aloud, but they echoed in her head as Grossvater Martin urged the horses to hurry over the wooden bridge and up the slight rise to their farm drive. “How much more can we take?”
Ahead, a dull orange colored the night sky, illuminating the undersides of billowing gray clouds of smoke. Something on their farm was burning. Something big. What building was it? The barn? Thankfully, all the cows were out in the pasture tonight. The cheese house? An entire summer’s worth of cheeses gone up in smoke? All their equipment…their livelihood?
Rattling over the bridge, they drew near, and Kate’s heart sank. It was neither the barn nor the cheese house.
It was their home.
Kate put her arm around Grossmutter Inge and gripped the edge of the wagon seat with her other hand. The horses responded to Grossvater’s shouts by galloping up the hill, the wagon jouncing and slewing.
Johann and Grossvater had built the farmhouse together, replacing the three-roomed log cabin the family had lived in when they first arrived from Switzerland more than twenty years before. It was the house Johann had been so proud to bring his bride home to after their wedding almost two years before. The farmhouse was to shelter them through the coming Minnesota winter and welcome her baby in a few weeks. An ache started behind Kate’s ribs, so heavy she couldn’t take a deep breath.
Flames shot from every window and licked out under the eaves. Smoke bellied out in puffs and twists and tendrils, drawn up against the stars.
Grossvater brought the wagon to a halt well back from the fire. The horses snorted and stamped, and Kate sat in frozen horror on the wagon seat as the merciless flames engulfed the house.
Grossmutter clutched Kate’s arm, her mouth open but not making a sound. Tears tracked down her cheeks, catching the light of the fire and glittering as they followed the wrinkles and seams of her lined face.
Kate turned back to the fire, knowing it was far too advanced to stop. Already the shingles were beginning to smoke. Soon, the flames would engulf the roof. Nothing could be saved. She huddled in her late husband’s woolen coat, too shocked to grieve.
Shouts caught her attention, and the sounds of horses and wagon wheels on the road. Neighbors, coming home from the same church service where the Amakers had been worshipping and giving thanks to God for this year’s harvest, drawn by the flames.
They drove into the farmyard in their wagons and buggies, but once they spied the three Amakers, no one dashed about trying to rescue anyone or save anything. No one tried to put out the fire. It was too late, and everyone knew it. Instead, they sat, faces illuminated by the angry blaze, silent, like Kate and Grossmutter and Grossvater.
What was there to say?
After a time, someone reached up to assist Grossmutter to the ground, and then reached up again for Kate, putting his hands under her arms. Numbly, she braced herself on the man’s shoulders and found herself looking into the eyes of their closest neighbor, Oscar Rabb.
He took great care swinging her to the ground, and she felt the solidness of his muscles under his thick, black coat, steady and strong. The moment she was on her feet, he let go, stepping back. His broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, but the glow from the fire touched his cheeks and beard. He watched her, as if he thought he might need to catch her if she fainted.
She hadn’t realized how big he was. Not just tall, but solid. She’d only seen him before from a distance as he worked in his fields, never this near. He had been an acquaintance of Johann’s, but not a close friend. He was something of a recluse, a widower with a little girl, she believed.
The glass broke in the upstairs windows and fire shot out, voracious, consuming everything in its path. A hard lump formed in Kate’s throat. All their things, all their memories.
“There was no one in the house?” Oscar asked. He stood facing the fire, his hands in his coat pockets, his breath making frosty puffs in the night air.
Kate shook her head. “No. We were in town. At church.”
She turned away and put her arm around Grossmutter, who wept softly. When the fire began to encroach on the grass, neighbors brought buckets from the trough, dousing the flames lest they race toward the barn.
The heat was intense, smoke billowed toward them, stinging eyes and lungs. Grossvater led the team farther from the fire, and Kate guided Grossmutter back to stand beside the wagon.
“Oh, Katie, dear.” Mrs. Hale bustled over. The proprietress of the only mercantile in town, along with her soft-spoken husband, Mrs. Hale had her finger in every possible piece of gossip pie. “So terrible.” She fluttered and patted Kate’s arm, an “isn’t it awful” delight in her eyes. No doubt she’d be giving firsthand accounts to everyone who came into the store for the next week.
Kate nodded, unable to speak.
“We saw the flames clear from town and just had to come to see if we could help. Your poor house. God’s blessing no one was inside.” Mrs. Hale’s hat, festooned with flowers and feathers, bobbed in the orange glow. “Did you leave a candle lit? Or a fire in the fireplace? That’s how these things start, you know. I’m always so careful. I never leave the house without checking that I’ve put out all the lamps. Imagine how difficult it would be for us, and for the whole town, really, if we lost our house and the store. Hale’s Mercantile is so vital to the town, after all. Why, folks would have to go clear to Mantorville for their purchases.” She leaned in. “Are you sure you put out all the lamps?” Casting a glance Grossmutter’s way, she whispered, “Old folks can be so forgetful, can’t they?”
Anger burned in Kate’s chest, hot as the house fire. Mrs. Hale was such a busybody that by tomorrow she would have it spread around that the Amakers had no one to blame but themselves for the fire, since they were so careless. “How it started isn’t important, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with my family’s age. Accidents happen, fires happen, and assigning blame or starting rumors won’t help.”
Mrs. Hale’s brows, carefully plucked and arched, rose. Her lips puckered, and she put on her most long-suffering look. “You’re distraught, Katie, dear. No doubt that’s the reason for your harsh tone.”
“Kate.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Kate, not Katie. Kate or Mrs. Amaker.” She eased Mrs. Hale’s hand off her arm.
“Well.” Mrs. Hale straightened, her chin going up. “I see Mrs. Quilling over there. I’ll just go ask about her lumbago. She appreciates my concern.” She lifted her hem and strode away, and Kate’s heart fell. Why had she risen to Mrs. Hale’s bait when she knew from experience that
it did no good?
She tucked her hands into her coat pockets, pressing her palms against her stomach, feeling the hard roundness and the reassuring kick of her unborn baby.
The baby that now had no place to lay its head when it arrived.
It was all gone. Their clothes and food stores, books, blankets, furniture. All gone.
What were they going to do now?
* * *
The Amaker place was a total loss.
Oscar Rabb turned away from the blaze and went to his wagon to check on his daughter, Liesl. The four-year-old lay wrapped in a quilt, sleeping in the wagon box on a mound of straw. Rolf, his Bernese mountain dog, lay beside her. When Oscar drew near the wagon, the big animal raised his black-and-white head, his tail swishing the straw. Seeing that his daughter was safe, Oscar leaned against the wagon box to watch the fire. Rolf rose, shook himself and sidled over to put his head on Oscar’s arm, begging to be petted.
The poor Amakers. The old couple and the young woman. He hadn’t had much to do with them for a while. Then again, he hadn’t had much to do with anyone but Liesl for the past two years. To his knowledge, he’d never met the younger woman, though he’d seen her from time to time. Pretty enough, he supposed, in a wholesome way. He remembered hearing that Johann Amaker had gotten hitched, but at the time Oscar had been too deep in his own grief to want to celebrate someone else’s marriage.
But tonight, when he’d looked out his front window and seen the orange glow, he had scooped Liesl out of her bed, wrapped her in a blanket and raced out to hitch up his team. All the way to the neighboring farm, he’d feared that the Amakers were trapped by the fire. When he’d arrived at the blazing house at almost the same time as Martin’s wagon had raced into the farmyard, he’d been weakened with relief. A house could be rebuilt, but a life lost was gone forever. Seeing them safe, he’d almost turned around and gone home, but something had made him stay.
