The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  Trapped by the counter behind her, Lucy felt for the wooden nutcracker. But before she could reach it, Mr. Prescott grabbed her arm. Yanking her toward him, his bare chest pressed against her.

  “I’ll ask you one more time. What did you do with the bag?”

  She glared up at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Suddenly, he released her, and a pensive look crossed his face. “What’s your favorite Bible verse?” he asked.

  So now he was playing her game. “Thou shalt not steal!”

  He laughed. “So you think I’m a thief, do you?”

  “Are you?”

  Just as he started to reply, her grandfather shuffled into the room. Mr. Prescott hesitated a moment before turning and leaving the kitchen.

  Lucy was so shaken by the encounter with Mr. Prescott, she almost didn’t hear her grandfather at the front door later that morning. Rushing into the parlor, she grabbed him firmly but gently by the arm.

  “Eva,” he murmured. “Eva.”

  “Eva’s not out there, Opa,” she said. How could she make her grandfather understand that his wife was not coming back? She opened the door, and wind-driven snow blew inside. “Brrr.” She closed the door. “You don’t want to go out there.”

  Never had she known her grandfather to be so restless. His determination to escape these last couple of days had exhausted her. Was Mr. Prescott’s presence causing Opa’s distress? Or was his condition growing worse?

  “Come along.” She drew him away from the door and helped him into his chair. Tossing another log onto the fire, she then wrapped a knitted shawl around his thin shoulders.

  Intent on making him as comfortable as possible, she failed to notice Mr. Prescott’s presence until he spoke.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.

  She looked up to where he stood in the kitchen doorway, his long, lean form propped against the wooden frame. He had shaved with the razor she set out for him, and his smooth jaw emphasized his good looks, as did his neatly combed hair. Despite his uncommon dress, he exuded a powerful presence, but it was the sudden change in demeanor that disarmed her. He looked genuinely concerned, with none of his earlier rancor.

  “The doctor says he’s lost his mind.”

  He studied her. “What do you think?”

  “I think his mind is still there. It’s just locked inside.”

  He broke away from the doorway. “And you take care of him all by yourself?”

  She nodded. “I’m the only family he has left.” Her father had died in 1858 during the Kansas Border War when Lucy was only three. The news of his death sent her expectant mother into labor, which neither she nor her unborn baby survived. Had her grandparents not taken Lucy into their hearts and home, she would have ended up in an orphanage. Now she returned the favor by caring for her dear, sweet grandfather.

  Mr. Prescott sat on an upholstered chair. “It must be hard on you.”

  Heaving a sigh, Lucy dropped to her knees to check the clothes drying next to the fire. “It’s getting harder. My grandmother died this past summer. I don’t know why, but lately Grandfather keeps trying to leave the house to search for her. He thinks she’s outside.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “The last time he saw her alive was when she walked out that door.” Her grandmother had driven into town on that fatal day and never returned. “The doctor said it was her heart.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Observing him through lowered lashes, she moistened her lips. “Your shirt is dry, but I’m afraid your trousers and coat are still damp.” The heavy wool fabric took forever to dry.

  Her fingers touched his as she handed him the shirt, and she quickly pulled her hand away. He yanked off her grandfather’s shirt and tossed it aside. Next to the white bandage at his shoulder, his bare chest looked as golden brown as tanned leather.

  Confused by the way he affected her, Lucy quickly turned to the hearth and reached for the poker. As if to free herself of his mesmerizing hold, she stabbed at the burning log until sparks flew up the chimney.

  “You can look now,” he said, and she detected a note of amusement in his voice.

  Replacing the poker, she transferred her gaze to him. His shirt was securely buttoned, and relief flooded through her.

  He sat forward on the chair, hands clasped between his knees. “I’m afraid we got off to a bad start.”

  She tried to maintain the impersonal and professional demeanor she’d learned from the doctor. “You have been rather difficult,” she said, her voice cool and precise.

  “Actually, I was referring to the bullet you pumped into me.”

  She faltered in her efforts to remain aloof. “I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me.” As it was, she was having a hard time forgiving herself. She was lucky her carelessness hadn’t done more damage.

  “Yes, well …” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. That is, providing you come clean and tell me what happened to the gunnysack I tossed in your wagon.”

  She sat back on her heels. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do, but we’ll get to that in a minute. First, I think you should know that I’m a Texas Ranger and I’ve been trailing a gang of outlaws for weeks. Followed them clear up here from the Panhandle.”

  Lucy frowned. Could he be telling the truth? “That’s a long way to travel.”

  “I reckon I’ll wear out another saddle or two before I’m done.” His face hardened, but his eyes filled with pain. Not physical pain, but something deeper and more private. “There are three of them, and they killed my best friend. Shot him in the back.”

  “How awful for you,” she whispered, speaking from the heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He blew out his breath. “I’m out for justice, and until I get it …” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I have a one-track mind.”

  He looked and sounded sincere, but she was still hesitant to believe him. “Don’t you rangers have to wear a badge or something?”

  “What?”

  “A badge. Nothing on your person led me to believe you were a lawman.”

  “The Texas Rangers don’t wear badges. Not unless we make them ourselves. A few made badges out of Mexican coins, but I never did. Never saw a need. I figured my warrant of authority was enough.”

  “And where is your warrant of authority now, Mr. Prescott?”

  “At the boardinghouse where I’ve been staying,” he said.

  A likely story … Or was it? “And the bag you claim you tossed in my wagon?”

  “I surprised the gang while they were robbing a stage. They dropped it and I grabbed it.”

  His story sounded plausible, but what if he was a crook? What if he was only trying to trick her into revealing the whereabouts of the stolen money?

  “There’s really no way for me to know that you’re telling the truth,” she said.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess not, ma’am. That kind of puts us in the same boat, doesn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  He locked her gaze in his. “You told me you know nothing about the bag I left in your wagon. Now, either you’re lying or you’re not. No way for me to know, is there?”

  She hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. She wanted to believe him, she did. But something held her back. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps those three bandits might have found it?”

  He stared her square in the eye. “No, ma’am. That never occurred to me.”

  She smiled. “Well then.” She rose to signal that their discussion was over. “Mystery solved.”

  Chapter 6

  Chad spent the rest of the morning conducting a thorough search of the premises.

  For the most part, Miss Langdon ignored him. Though he noticed her mouth grew tighter as he pawed his way through the kitchen cupboards. Wire whisk in hand, she never said a word wh
en he started on the pantry, but whatever was in that bowl of hers took a terrible beating.

  “Aha!” he crowed upon finding his holstered gun on a shelf next to a sack of flour.

  He found his boots stashed behind the butter churn.

  He worked his way meticulously through the house, room by room and inch by inch. Not till he reached the lady’s chamber did she react.

  “Mr. Prescott!” She came charging into the room after him, looking as indignant as a newly shorn sheep. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

  “Now don’t go off half-cocked,” he said.

  For some reason, this only seemed to incense her more. Eyes flashing, she tossed her head, and her chest rose and fell like angry waves.

  “I have never gone off half-cocked in my life. But you have no right going through my personal belongings.”

  He bent over her until his nose practically touched hers. “And you have no right keeping that money from me.”

  Glowering, she tightened her hands into fists. “You won’t find any money here.”

  “I guess you won’t mind my looking, then.” He straightened. “Unless you have something to hide.”

  She clenched her teeth and seethed with rage. “I have to say, Mr. Prescott, you are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.”

  “And you, Miss Langdon, are the most annoying woman.” Though he had to admit, she sure did make outrage look enticing. “Now that we’ve found something we can agree on, you’ll have to excuse me while I continue my search.”

  “Don’t let me stop you!” She left the room, slamming the door so hard a picture fell off the wall.

  Grinning, he picked up the picture. The lady was a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure. Better watch his step. The last thing he needed was another bullet wound.

  He glanced around the tidy room and decided to start the search with the large wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

  He lifted the lid and got the shock of his life. A stack of satin and lace under-riggins—the likes of which he had never seen—greeted his startled eyes. Hers? Were they really hers? And if so, what was an unmarried woman doing with a chest full of apparel more likely to be found in a bordello than a farmhouse?

  He hesitated before plunging his hands into the provocative depths. It felt wrong pawing through such personal attire, but a lot of money was at stake—money for which he was responsible.

  The sheer femininity of the corsets, petticoats, and camisoles was enough to make even the most jaded man blush. As it was, he had trouble breathing as he rummaged through the feminine finery.

  Finding no gunnysack, he pulled back and lowered the lid, but that did nothing to quell his wayward thoughts.

  Well now. What do you know? The lady wasn’t quite as straitlaced as she’d led him to believe. What else didn’t he know about her?

  It was 11:00 p.m., and Lucy was exhausted. Not only had her grandfather worn her to a frazzle by constantly trying to escape, but Mr. Prescott’s disturbing presence also made her feel—what? Anxious? Nervous? Confused?

  Whatever it was, he had somehow aroused a womanly response that was all at once frightening and exciting. Never had a man affected her more.

  Banishing such thoughts, she stifled a yawn and glanced around the kitchen. Dirty dishes were still stacked on the counter, but that was the least of it. She still had nuts to crack and flour to sift and butter to melt and …

  Feeling overwhelmed, she sank onto a chair. She folded her arms on the kitchen table and laid her head down. If only Grandmother hadn’t died. If only Opa could somehow miraculously return to his former fun-loving self. If only …

  She groaned. How she hated feeling sorry for herself, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Her grandmother had taken care of Opa when she was alive, and not once had she complained.

  Lucy could still hear her grandmother’s voice admonishing her not to act sad around her grandfather. “The Bible says a cheerful heart is good medicine.”

  It wasn’t until after Grandmother’s death that Lucy found out the amount of work involved in Opa’s care. Poor Oma. Is that why her heart had given out? From the strain of taking care of her husband? It was possible. And now the job had fallen squarely on Lucy’s shoulders.

  No matter how hard she tried to shoulder the responsibility of her grandfather’s care with a loving spirit, she couldn’t help but feel resentful. While her friends enjoyed barn dances, sewing bees, and socials, she was stuck at home with her silent and helpless grandfather.

  To make matters worse, she was always behind schedule and barely had a moment to herself. Except for her daily Bible reading, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a book or chatted with friends her own age.

  To save time, she’d stopped shaving her grandfather, and he now sported a white beard. He would probably benefit from a bath, but he was unsteady on his feet, and she didn’t want to take a chance on him falling. Sponging him off daily with hot water and soap was the most she could manage.

  She wiped a damp strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand.

  Had God deserted her? It certainly felt like it, but He wasn’t the only one. That awful Jason Mills sure did desert her last spring when she told him she wouldn’t marry him unless he promised to care for her aging grandparents. Well, good riddance! All she had to show for a year-long courtship was the carefully sewn trousseau in her hope chest.

  She sighed. What a mess. Not only had she nearly killed Mr. Prescott, but she now also had seventy thousand dollars of stolen money hidden away. With a blizzard raging outside, there was little chance of riding into town anytime soon. If the weather didn’t clear, she wasn’t even certain she could deliver her orders in time for Christmas.

  Where are You, God? And how much longer do You think I can hold on?

  It was late, and still Chad couldn’t sleep. Outside a blizzard raged as he applied a new bandage to his wound. The windows rattled and the shutters banged. By the sound of it, he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  Had the Dobson gang found the money in the wagon as Miss Langdon suggested? It was possible but highly unlikely. Still, he’d searched the house high and low and had come up empty-handed.

  He’d also searched the barn. Maybe she’d buried it. If so, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not with the storm raging outside and the snow piled high.

  Maybe he’d handled the lady all wrong. Perhaps he should try appealing to her softer side. Now that he knew she had a softer side …

  No sooner had the thought occurred to him than a vision of silk corsets and lace petticoats came to mind. God forgive him, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Miss Langdon and all that silken frippery since finding it stashed in that wooden chest. It was almost as if he’d been given a peek into the deepest regions of the lady’s heart.

  Surprised by his fanciful thoughts, he shook his head. He’d been cooped up too long. It was the only explanation he could think of to explain this sudden obsession with his hostess. What had it been? Five or six days? Yep, that explained it. He had cabin fever.

  He was just about ready to undress for bed when something caught his ear. Crossing the room, he cracked open the door.

  Was that Miss Langdon crying?

  Chapter 7

  At the sound of Mr. Prescott’s footsteps, Lucy quickly wiped away her tears. What was he doing up at this hour of night? Couldn’t a woman succumb to a moment of self-pity in privacy?

  He stepped into the kitchen, fully dressed. “You all right, ma’am?” he asked, his voice edged in concern.

  Lifting her chin, Lucy cleared her throat. She was certain her eyes were red and her face splotchy, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I’m perfectly fine. Thank you.”

  “I thought I heard—” A look of bewilderment replaced his usual swagger. Outlaws didn’t seem to faze him, but a woman in distress apparently put him in a state of confusion.

  “Uh …” He raked his hair w
ith his fingers. “Something smells good,” he said at last.

  “I’m making zimt makronen,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. “Hazelnut cookies.”

  An awkward silence followed. She tried to act like she hadn’t been crying, and he pretended not to notice her tearstained cheeks.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “Like I said. The tears … uh … cookies sure do smell good.”

  “Would you care to sample one?”

  “If it’s not too much bother.”

  Grateful for an excuse to escape his scrutiny, she left her seat. “Not at all.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat while she fixed two cups of tea and arranged the freshly baked cookies on a plate.

  He picked up a carved wooden king and moved the handle on its back up and down. “What’s with all the puppets?” he asked.

  “They’re not puppets. They’re nutcrackers.” She set the plate of cookies on the table and sat down. “My grandfather made them and my grandmother painted them.”

  He set the colorful monarch upright and helped himself to a cookie. “Never saw nutcrackers like that,” he said.

  “My grandfather learned the trade as a young man in Germany. Poor villagers enjoyed giving kings and other figures of authority the menial task of cracking nuts.”

  He chuckled. “I can see where they might.”

  “Unfortunately, Americans didn’t have the same regard for his craft. After coming to this country, his business failed, leaving dozens of nutcrackers unsold.” With a family to support, Opa had turned to farming.

  “Only dozens?” he asked.

  She smiled. “It does seem like more, doesn’t it?” She pointed to the windowsill where several nutcrackers faced outward, including her grandmother’s treasured nutcracker bride.

  “It’s a German tradition to keep a nutcracker in the window to protect the house from danger.”

  He rubbed his injured shoulder. “But not visitors?”

  Her cheeks grew warm under the heat of his gaze. “Only certain ones,” she said.