The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection
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The Festive Bride © 2014 by Diana Lesire Brandmeyer
The Nutcracker Bride © 2014 by Margaret Brownley
The Christmas Star Bride © 2014 by Amanda Cabot
The Advent Bride © 2014 by Mary Connealy
The Christmas Tree Bride © 2014 by Susan Page Davis
The Nativity Bride © 2014 by Miralee Ferrell
The Evergreen Bride © 2014 by Pam Hillman
The Gift-Wrapped Bride © 2014 by Maureen Lang
The Gingerbread Bride © 2014 by Amy Lillard
The Fruitcake Bride © 2014 by Vickie McDonough
The Snowbound Bride © 2014 by Davalynn Spencer
The Yuletide Bride © 2014 by Michelle Ule
Print ISBN 978-1-63058-489-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-194-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-195-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
The Festive Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Nutcracker Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
The Christmas Star Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Advent Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Christmas Tree Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Nativity Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Evergreen Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
The Gift-Wrapped Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Gingerbread Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
The Fruitcake Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Snowbound Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
The Yuletide Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Festive Bride
by Diana Lesire Brandmeyer
Chapter 1
Southern Illinois, 1886
Roy Gibbons stirred the pot of oatmeal while doing his best to ignore the state of his kitchen.
“Papa, it shouldn’t look like that.” Eight-year-old Elisbet glared at him. “I can’t wait until our Christmas mama gets here.”
If Janie were here, everything would be in the cupboards where it belonged, not shoved into nooks and crannies. He never thought he’d be making breakfast for his daughters, much less trying to keep their frocks clean and pressed. He missed his wife more and more every day. Roy didn’t know how she’d made his home run so smoothly. Not once had he needed to worry about how to get tomato stains off his shirt or when to cut his hair. She’d say in her musical voice, “It’s time, sit down and let me trim that head, Roy.”
When Elisbet asked him for a mother for Christmas, he’d said yes, thinking it couldn’t be that hard to find one.
“Papa, do you think Becky will have sugar cookies at her party?” Frances, his youngest and his shadow, tugged his pant leg.
“Franny, she’s going to have cake. That’s what you have at a birthday party, right, Papa?” Elisbet never had trouble correcting her younger sister.
“But I like sugar cookies.” Frances tugged again. “Can we make cookies when we come home? Mama makes the best kind.”
“Mama made not makes. She’s in heaven. Remember?” Elisbet patted her sister’s shoulder. “When our Christmas mama comes, she’ll make cookies with us.”
“Stop telling her that, Elisbet. It’s not that easy to get a mother. I can’t order one from the catalog.” He slid the pot from the burner, his little shadow still clinging to his leg as he moved. “Sit down, girls, and I’ll fill your bowls.” Roy was still stinging from Widow Percy’s rejection. She’d have been a perfect fill-in for his deceased wife. Seemed logical—she didn’t have a father for her boys, and his girls didn’t have a mother. When he suggested they marry for the common good of their families, she’d done all but slap his face.
Trouble was, he hadn’t lived here long enough to know people. Maybe he’d made a mistake moving here after Janie died. If he’d stayed in Collinsville, he’d have a mother for the girls by now. The whole reason he’d left was because too many young hopefuls were knocking on the door with some treat and mooning over him and the girls. At the time he didn’t want another wife. No one could fill Janie’s shoes, and these women would be expecting to have children of their own. He couldn’t face that, not after losing Janie and the baby. No, he didn�
��t need a companion. Just someone to take care of his house and his family.
He scooped up the oatmeal and plopped a lump in each girl’s bowl.
He sat at the head of the table, a daughter on either side of him, and pushed back the hurt that came from seeing Janie’s chair at the other end. The house was different, but the spot across the table was as empty as if he hadn’t left Collinsville. “Grace, then food.” He watched until little hands were folded and heads bowed, then said the prayer followed by an “Amen.”
Frances stuck her fingers on the inside of her bowl to pull it closer. “Hot!” The bowl went spinning from the table to her lap and then crashed to the floor. She wailed.
“Are you all right? Are your fingers burned?” Roy sprung from his chair and pulled his daughter from hers. He grabbed her hands and flipped them palm up. They weren’t red. Relieved to avoid a crisis, he planted a kiss on her fingertips the way he’d seen Janie do so many times.
“My dress,” Frances whimpered. “It’s dirty. I don’t have another one for the party.”
“Shh, Frances, stop crying. Your fingers look fine, and no one will notice your dress.” Kneeling, he reached under the table for the offending bowl and spoon that had spoiled Frances’s morning.
“If we had a mama, this wouldn’t have happened, Papa.” Elisbet already held a wet rag in her hand. She dabbed at her sister’s dress. “It’s only a little bit of oatmeal. Look, Franny. See? I got it off.”
It bothered him that Elisbet tried to be like Janie, and he had no idea how to prevent it.
“But it’s my favorite and it’s …” Frances hiccupped. “Wet!”
Roy wondered how he would ever raise these girls without help.
Alma Pickens tugged her cape closer to guard against the sharp fangs of the November wind and leaned across the buggy seat. Her father had returned to the very subject she’d asked him not to speak about at breakfast. “Papa, you’re a dreamer. Maybe I’m not the only one God will send a spouse for. I do believe I’ll pray as hard as you do for me, that you’ll marry again. A doctor should have a wife.”
And she would take it to God in her prayers. She’d grown weary of her father’s constant efforts to see her married. It wasn’t that she was against the idea, but she’d made a promise to her mother to take care of him. And it would be a rare man who would marry her and take in her father as well.
Besides, she had her painting and taking care of her father’s home. That gave her plenty to do. Why, just this morning she’d risen earlier than normal and put in a full day’s work so she could come to town with him despite the cold to make a deposit at the bank and to visit her friend Jewel.
“Little Bit, it’s not right for you to devote your life to me.”
“Papa, I told you not to worry about me. I have you, and I don’t need anyone else. Besides, there isn’t anyone left in Trenton that I’d care to marry.”
“Alma my girl, you’ll make a good wife and mother. I can’t sit back and watch you miss out. God will bring someone.” He stopped the horse in front of Bossman’s Bank and stepped out of the wagon. He tied the horse to the hitching post and helped Alma dismount. “I’m too old to get married again. It’s you I worry about. I’ll pick you up at Jewel’s when I’m through at the Detterman’s. And don’t start making lists of promising wives for me. Go on, get in the bank and put your pennies away.”
“I’m going.” Who would be a good match for him? And who could she find that wouldn’t mind her presence in the house as well?
Maybe she should hold off ordering from the Montgomery Ward catalog. She had her heart set on the Oil Painting Outfit Complete. It was outrageously expensive, but it came with twenty-five colors of paint. If she weren’t able to sell her paintings right away, and her father married a woman who valued their privacy, she would need that money to rent a room somewhere. And without the paints and lessons that came with the painting outfit, how would she have anything to sell? Well, she wouldn’t worry about that today, seeing as how there weren’t any women who interested Papa. The irony that this town held no one for either of them struck her. Maybe Papa would consider moving to St. Louis, where her paintings would be discovered, and she’d be famous and wealthy. He could be a doctor there, and the number of people in that city would increase his chance of finding another wife.
She needed to talk this new idea of St. Louis over with Jewel. Together they’d find a solution.
Inside the bank, Alma waited her turn. Two little blond girls in front of her clung to their father. She knew who they were—the Gibbons family minus the mother who had died last spring giving birth. Mrs. Remik at the store said everyone was speculating on when Mr. Gibbons would take another wife to help with Elisbet and Frances.
The oldest, Elisbet, played peekaboo with her sister. Their giggles captured one hiding in Alma. She clenched her lips to contain it, but it escaped.
Mr. Gibbons turned and smiled. Alma had an unusual urge to slide her finger into the indentation on his cheek. Dimples. Then she noticed what looked like oatmeal in his hair. She shuddered. The man needed help.
“I apologize if my girls disturbed you, miss.”
“They didn’t. Their giggles captivated me along with those dark blue eyes.” If she were painting them, she’d use cobalt blue to capture their intensity.
“We’re going to a birthday party,” Elisbet said.
Alma leaned down. “I love birthday parties, lots of games and cake to eat.”
“I have oatmeal on my dress.” Frances looked so sorrowful that Alma wanted to take her down to the store and buy her a new frock.
“Franny, it’s okay. Remember I got it off and your dress dried on the way here. Papa, we have to get Becky a gift, don’t forget. I want to get her red hair ribbons.”
Had that man brought his daughter out in this cold weather with a wet dress? Was he touched in the head? No doubt her own father would end up at their place tending to the little girl for pneumonia.
“I don’t. I think we should get her a knife.” Frances held up her hands and pretended to open one. “It would be grand to have one. Papa, can I have one for my birthday?”
“We’ll see. We best get moving if there’s shopping and lunch to do yet.” He turned to Alma. “Nice to meet you.”
“Papa, can she be the mama you’re getting us for Christmas? She doesn’t have a wedding ring. I looked like you showed me.” Elisbet smiled a got-you-now smile at her father.
Mr. Gibbons’s green eyes flashed to Alma’s, and his face flushed. “Let’s go, girls.” He ushered them out without another word to Alma.
Alma watched them leave, noticing the hem on Elisbet’s coat was torn. She understood the child’s desire for a mother but sincerely hoped her father didn’t run into Mr. Gibbons before Christmas.
Chapter 2
Roy covered Frances’s shivering body with the blanket from his bedroom and tucked it around her. Her teeth chattered, and he brushed his hand against her forehead. Hot. Nothing good ever came from fevers. He couldn’t let his daughters see his worry, especially Elisbet. “You’ll be right as rain soon. I sent Pete to fetch the doctor. He’ll be here before long.”
“Not the doctor!” Frances sobbed. “I want Mama.”
Her words cut him, opening a scar he’d thought healed. “We all do. The doctor will help you feel better, sweetheart.” He’d taken to calling his daughters by the terms of endearment he’d heard Janie use. It seemed to settle them down when they were in a state he didn’t understand. He should never have left Collinsville. Right now his mother could be helping him with this sick child.
Frances coughed again and again. Her body shook, and her chest had a rattle Roy didn’t like. “Elisbet, sit and read to your sister until the doctor and Pete get here or I get done milking the cows.”
Elisbet, eyes wide and face pale, didn’t object but grabbed the picture book Frances loved. “Can I get under the covers with Franny?”
“I want Elisbet!” Frances threw o
ff the covers.
Frances didn’t know what she wanted, but he would give her what he could. “Didn’t I just tuck you in, little girl?”
“Please, Papa?” Frances coughed again.
Roy slid back the covers. “Climb in.” He waited for Elisbet to snuggle in next to her sister. Please God, don’t let her get sick, too. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Roy knew Elisbet was terrified. He wished he didn’t understand her fear, but he did—all too well. The last time they’d seen a doctor, Janie died. He left his heart with his daughters as he headed outside. You couldn’t let a cow go unmilked, even if you had somewhere better to be.
He shivered. He should have grabbed his coat. No matter, the barn would hold back the chill. He’d have to keep Elisbet home from school tomorrow to help him with Frances. He couldn’t take care of a sick child, do barn chores, and work at the mill. This illness pushed him to fulfill his daughters’ Christmas wish. He’d write to his mother, asking her who back home was still looking to get married. He wanted a widow, someone who’d already known love and didn’t expect it to happen again. Someone who’d understand she couldn’t replace his wife any more than he could replace her husband.
Alma convinced her father to take her for an afternoon drive before the winter snows came and forced them to stay close to town. Outside of town, the roads suffered from last week’s gully washer, making the smooth rides of summer a memory to be cherished. The buggy springs bounced, squeaking as the wheels dipped in and out of holes in the dirt road. Alma held on to the edge of her seat. “Thanksgiving makes me sad. It makes me think of Mama.”
“I think about her every day. Holidays are the hardest for me. But you’ve your mother’s happy attitude about life, and that helps me.” Her father winked at her. “Yes, you do many things that remind me of her.”
“Tell me how, Papa.” Alma drew the buggy blanket up higher on her lap. The warmth of fall had been shoved aside as winter gained a foothold. The trees held tight to a few weather-beaten leaves. Another strong wind and they’d be bare.
“The way you want to make small things into a celebration. Like Thursday, you invited friends to eat with us, but it wasn’t enough to have all those platters of food. You decorated the table with red and gold leaves. That’s not something I would do.”
“Too many germs, Dr. Pickens? Those tiny little things no one can see?” Alma tried to raise an eyebrow the way her father did when making a point. It wouldn’t go.