Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  He thought again how she cried prettier than any woman he’d ever encountered. “I figured since I’m stayin’, Colleen, we might as well make our union official. That is, if ye’ll have me, Angela Clemens Brunner Rivers O’Donnell.”

  Angel handed him the gold band and held out her left hand. “Yes, I’ll have you, Jamey O’Donnell.”

  He slipped the ring onto her third finger and stood, pulling her with him into his arms. Holding her tight he angled his mouth over hers and kissed her in a way that gave her a hint of what to expect later that evening when they were alone.

  Holding her close to his side, he thanked the saints for bringing him to his destiny, his family.

  Epilogue

  Christmas Day, One year later

  “Sleep now, John Darby O’Donnell,” Angel crooned softly as she covered the baby with his blanket and caressed his cheek. “You have much celebrating to do later. You’re two months old today.”

  Jamey came in the front door and called out, “Cissie, Brandt and the little ones are drivin’ up the road.”

  She emerged from the bedroom with her finger to her lips. “Shhhh, John Darby is finally asleep. Don’t wake him.”

  “I thought he tapped out a while ago.”

  “He’s too excited to sleep what with it being Christmas day and all. After getting his tummy full and a thorough rocking, he closed his eyes.”

  Jamey laughed as he gathered his wife into his arms. “I don’t think he knows it’s Christmas, but I am goin’ to have to give him a talkin’ to. He demands too much of yer time.” He kissed her and allowed his hands to roam. “I need yer attention, too.”

  Pushing him away, she grinned. “You’re a scoundrel, James Sheridan O’Donnell. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Aye, no empty promises now, Colleen.”

  He reached for her again, but she ran to the door to help Cissie in with her brood. The three girls were all toddling now and the baby, Brandt Jr., was five months old and trying to crawl. Angel was indeed in awe of her friend’s stamina.

  “Here,” she said, pulling the rocker over by the fire. “Sit and relax. Will he nap for you?”

  Cissie handed her son over to Angel. “You have better luck getting him to sleep than I do when we’re here. Besides, I’ve been riding that hard wagon seat for the last half hour. I’ll keep an eye on the girls and help get dinner on the table.”

  “Calliope and Jase will be here soon. She’ll help corral the girls. She’s been looking forward to playing with them.”

  “Have you heard the rumors around town about her latest venture?”

  “Yes, Jamey said Mrs. Krutchmeyer is up to her usual tricks telling tales.” She adjusted the baby in her arms, who was almost asleep. “It seems she may not be too far off this time.”

  Jamey and Brandt came inside, one with an armload of firewood, the other carried a bucket of water.

  “Brandt,” Cissie said. “Take the baby from Angel and put him on the bed, would you?”

  “Just be sure to surround him with pillows.” Angel stood and handed over his son. “Thank you.”

  She peeked in on John Darby, saw he was napping soundly and went in to set the table. Cissie had started mashing the potatoes and Jamey had brought the turkey from the oven.

  A knock sounded with Jase and Calliope entering quickly. He carried a large bowl of the green beans she’d promised and she brought in a pie.

  Jamey took the pie from her and placed it on the extra table he’d set up for the food. “Is this pumpkin like I asked for?”

  “Yes, as promised.” She grinned, gave Jamey a hug and asked, “Where’re my girls?”

  “Look in the corner beside the tree.” Cissie nodded toward Lucie and Patti.

  “They’re so quiet, I didn’t see them.”

  Looking up from her table setting, Angel said, “Do you have any news you can share about your new venture?”

  Calliope picked up one of the twins, squeezed her, returned her to her playing and picked up her identical sister. She put down the second little girl and then turned to answer Angel grinning widely. “We signed the papers at the bank yesterday. The hotel now has a new owner!”

  Angel hugged her. “I’m so happy for you. I can’t think of anyone who deserves this more.”

  Cissie sat her oldest, Carty, at the table with a small bowl of mashed potatoes and green beans. “Brandt, will you share our news?”

  “As you know we’ve been renting Ollie Henderson’s place since he went home.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Ollie’s decided to stay in Missouri and sell his ranch to us.”

  “And,” Jamey added quickly. “We’ll bring the Henderson, excuse me, the Howard place into the Moran, O’Donnell group to combine our efforts in cotton, wheat, and cattle.”

  “Oh my goodness, so much good to share this Christmas.” Angel reached Cissie and held her tightly, so happy for her friend. Swiping at a tear, she said, “Come on, let’s sit down and eat before everything gets cold.”

  Angel and Calliope each grabbed a twin and joined the others at the table. Jase offered the blessing and after the Amen, he handed Angel an envelope.

  “What’s this?” She removed the letter from the wrapper and began reading aloud. “Mrs. O’Donnell, A final note on the conviction of Curly Radley for the murder of Willman Rivers. Mr. Radley has reached Huntsville Prison, Huntsville, Texas, where he will serve out his life sentence.”

  Angel started to cry in earnest. Was their nightmare finally over?

  Sitting next to her, Jamey put his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Colleen, don’t cry. This is good news.”

  “I know,” she sobbed. “We are all so blessed. We have our health, our babies, each other. We have a good life.” Reaching over, she kissed her husband and said, “Let’s eat. Merry Christmas!”

  ~ The End ~

  Author’s Note

  On December 25-26, 1879 a severe cold wave struck Texas. The temperatures dropped to 9 degrees at Pilot Point and Graham, 10 degrees at Denison, 24 degrees at Galveston, and 27 degrees at Brownsville. At Melissa, the weather at mid-day Christmas Eve was described as “heavy north wind, with snow and sleet, freezing as it fell. Chickens were frozen fast to limbs of trees, ice formed on stock tanks to the depth of three inches, and the snow formed a crust so firm and hard that a horse’s hoof left no impression”.

  Thanks for reading my book.

  If you enjoyed ANGEL AND THE TEXAN FROM COUNTY CORK, A Brides of Texas Code Series, Book Three, please leave a review wherever you purchased the book. Reviews are important ways to say thanks to an author. They also let future readers know whether or not to buy the book.

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  Also by Carra Copelin

  Texas Code Series

  CODE OF HONOR, Book One

  Brides of Texas Code Series Novellas

  KATIE AND THE IRISH TEXAN, Book One

  MATELYN AND THE TEXAS RANGER, Book Two

  ANGEL AND THE TEXAN FROM COUNTY CORK, Book Three

  Texas Holidays Series

  LILAH BY MIDNIGHT

  A Novella

  A SANTA FOR CHRISTMAS

  A Short Story

  Anthologies

  PROTECT AND SERVE

  SILVER BELLES AND STETSONS

  About The Author

  I write contemporary and historical romances but, unlike so many other authors, I didn't write from childhood or read long into the night beneath the covers with a flashlight. I found romance novels as an adult. After reading about a million, I discovered numerous people residing in my head, all looking for a way onto the printed page.


  I'm a member of Romance Writers of America and serve as President of Yellow Rose Romance Writers, plus I'm a regular contributor to the blogs, Smart Girls Read Romance and Sweethearts of the West.

  My husband and I live in North Central Texas, in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex where we enjoy our family and grandchildren. In addition to writing and researching, I enjoy my Bridge group, crochet, and tracking down our relatives through genealogy.

  The Drifter’s Proposal

  A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella

  By

  Kristin Holt

  The Drifter’s Proposal

  A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella

  By

  Kristin Holt

  Copyright © 2015 Kristin Holt

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  About The Drifter’s Proposal

  A Holidays in Mountain Home Novella, Book #4. The Drifter’s Proposal is a sweet historical western holiday romance novella (Rated PG). The books in this series are loosely connected and may be read in any order.

  A spinster is startled by an overdue mortgage and imminent eviction, mere days before Christmas. Dare she trust a drifter to fight at her side, and invite certain heartbreak when he moves on?

  “Compelling. Heartwarming. Tender.”

  ~Diane Darcy, USA Today Bestselling Author

  Dedication

  To my grandmother, Lucille, whose memory for the olden days makes all the difference.

  Thank you for a family heritage I’m most proud of. When I think of home and Christmas, I always think of your house. My childhood Christmases are one happy amalgamation of memories, and all bring joyous thoughts of you.

  Happy 95th Birthday on September 28th, 2015.

  Chapter One

  Mountain Home, Colorado

  December, 1900

  Christmas might be only ten days away, but Adaline Whipple felt no Christmas spirit, no interest in celebrating, and very little reason to rejoice. In fact, this year, she had uncommonly low expectations. Christmas would come and go, and that would be that.

  Adaline accepted Mr. Malloy’s payment for a thick slice of raisin bread, spread with whipped cinnamon butter. His fingertips brushed her palm as he dropped his coin. Warmth gathered in her belly.

  She forced her attention away from startling blue eyes. A woman could drown in those pools, bluer than a deep lake reflecting a cloudless, summer sky.

  “Obliged, ma’am.” Deep, rich, and on the border of raspy.

  She doubted he knew her name, but that didn’t stop her insides from fluttering.

  Like a silly girl half her age, she tracked him to the last remaining empty table. He tossed his coat and Stetson onto a vacant chair and eased into the seat facing the door.

  Bright sunlight streamed through the bay window, bronzing his freshly shaved jaw.

  Other men ate. This man savored… relished… tasted.

  He closed his eyes, obviously savoring the mixture of buttery bread and cinnamon-sugar. He licked a dripping finger.

  Over the past three months, he’d found a curious amount of time to dally in the bakery, when she’d heard he worked on the Erickson spread outside town.

  She’d watched him take unhurried pleasure in five varieties of pie. Every flavor of cake. Various breads. And seven cookie recipes. He seemed to never gain a pound, even with all the sweets and bread he ate. She’d never understand it.

  In every daydream, while autumn gave way to winter, Mr. Malloy looked at her like that.

  Appetite. Hunger. Adoration. Love.

  If only.

  If he hadn’t noticed her in three long months, he certainly wouldn’t. In sad fact, no one— okay, no eligible men— took note of her.

  Dowdy.

  Plump.

  Years past her prime.

  Plain.

  Shameful, this fixation on Malloy.

  Shoving the stupid yearnings away, she picked up a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where crumbs and drops of melted butter inevitably fell.

  She’d barely begun when the bells hung on the doorknob tinkled. A wash of frigid air entered with a customer. A gentleman, outfitted in a finely tailored overcoat and stylish silk top hat. He swept the hat from his head and approached the counter.

  Usually, customers scanned the blackboard for listed offerings or perused the display case to make a selection. But this citified dandy searched the nearly full dining area then peered past her into the back, obviously looking for someone. Sandy brows lowered over dark eyes. His heavy mustache, well-trimmed and curled at the ends with pomade, twitched. Fashionably styled hair shot through with a touch of gray at the temples put him at roughly her parents’ age.

  Adaline smiled in greeting. “Might I help you, sir?”

  “Thaddeus Whipple, please.”

  Grief, a constant companion, perked up its ears. She swallowed, fighting down the too-familiar sensation. “I’m sorry. He recently passed on.”

  Three months and nine days.

  The gentleman spun his hat in his hands. “Would you be Mrs. Whipple?”

  No condolences. No change of expression. Not a businessman Father had ordered specialty supplies from, then. Notably, the dandy hadn’t introduced himself.

  She disliked him already.

  “No. I’m his daughter.”

  “Might I speak with your mother?”

  Mama’s health and constitution had been… fragile since that fateful September day. Whatever this was about, he’d deal with her, and her alone.

  “I must ask that you discuss this with me. Mother isn’t well.”

  As if hesitant, he withdrew a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket, tapped it against the polished oak counter top, and finally met her gaze. “As I said, this is a matter of business. I believe we ought to sit down with your mother.” Another tap-tap of folded papers. “Somewhere private?”

  Adaline glanced at the crowded lobby and filled dining tables. She had a fresh batch of rolls rising in the back. In less than five minutes, crusty loaves of wheat bread would need pulling from the oven. At the moment, no customers waited in line behind this fellow, but that could easily change on a Saturday morning. He’d come on the busiest day of the week.

  “That’s not possible, not in the middle of business hours.” And not with Mama in bed. “Suppose you tell me what this is about?”

  For a moment, she thought he’d refuse.

  His expression hardened. “If you insist.”

  He spread the folded documents between them with well-manicured hands. He spun the pages about to face her right-side up.

  The familiar signature at the bottom caught her attention.

  Papa’s penmanship.

  Sometimes, she could still hear his cheerful whistle. During long quiet hours it seemed he’d just stepped outside and would burst through the kitchen door at any moment, a wide grin on his dear face.

  Apparently, a mature woman of twenty-five still needed her papa.

  “Do you know what this is?” The man’s carefully styled mustache lifted in a most ungentlemanly smirk.

  Adaline cleared heartache, thick as cold butter, from her throat. She scanned the document from the top. M-O-R-T-G-A-G-E, with flourishes and fancy typeset, printed on quality letterhead stock.

  Bearing Father’s signature.

  No, no, no!

  Too aware a dozen regular patrons could easily overhear the conversation, Adaline set her jaw. She h
eld the stranger’s gaze and feared she’d be sick. “Suppose you tell me why you’re here, Mr…?”

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, offering his hand.

  She refused.

  “Why, I’m Mr. Sheridan Lockhart with First National Bank in Denver City.” He waited, still expecting her to shake hands. The moment eventually passed and he withdrew.

  “Do you know,” he repeated, “what this is?”

  Lockhart had a way about him she most certainly did not like. She’d love to punch him down to size like an over-risen batch of bread dough.

  “I can read, Mr. Lockhart.” She lowered her voice, hoping he’d follow suit and lower his. “This is a private matter. Can’t we discuss this later on, this evening?”

  If Papa had mortgaged the bakery— everything their family relied upon, all they had— she’d have known. Wouldn’t she?

  Her heart pounded. Thank goodness the ten-year-old twins were in the back washing plates, forks, coffee cups, and saucers. Please, let them stay away, just long enough…

  He shook his head, denying her request for reprieve. “I regret to inform you, Miss Whipple, I’ve come on behalf of First National Bank to collect. The mortgage payment is sixty days past-due, and per the contractual agreement, the debt must be paid in full.”

  Embarrassment flushed, surely coloring her cheeks. Winter wind battered the side of the building but the cozy bakery suddenly felt far too warm. Somewhere amongst her guests, a fork clattered to a plate. Had all present heard the banker’s condemning words?

  Due in full.

  I’ve come to collect.

  Mortgage.

  Past due.

  Did Mama know about this?