The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  He bit into the cookie. “Hmm. Can’t remember tasting anything this good.”

  She sighed and tossed a nod at the stack of tins waiting to be delivered. “I just hope I’ll be able to deliver all these before Christmas. But if this storm continues—”

  He dumped a spoonful of sugar in his tea and stirred. “It must be hard taking care of your grandfather and running a business.”

  Maybe it was his kind words or sympathetic look. Or perhaps she was just tired, but much to Lucy’s dismay she burst into tears.

  A look of sheer horror crossed his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Never meant to upset you.” He dug into his pocket and handed her a clean handkerchief.

  “You didn’t upset me. It’s just …” She dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I’m not complaining, mind you. The orders are a blessing. But running a bakery and taking care of the farm and animals, I’m afraid poor Grandfather”—she was practically sobbing—“hasn’t had a bath in weeks.”

  A combination of relief and puzzlement crossed his face. “Is that all that’s got you riled?”

  She blinked. “All?”

  “Don’t mean to make light of your troubles, ma’am, but it’s been my experience that women put more stock in baths than do men. As for the other problem … I’ll be happy to help you with deliveries. My shoulder isn’t fully healed, but I’m getting stronger every day.”

  “That’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. Prescott, but I couldn’t let you go out in this weather.”

  “Chad,” he said. “Call me Chad.”

  She stared at him. He really did have nice eyes, and now that she thought about it, a nice honest face as well. “I’m afraid that under the circumstances that wouldn’t be proper.”

  He looked at her askance. “What circumstances are those?”

  “Grandfather is rather old-fashioned, and since you’re staying under our roof—”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but I don’t think your grandfather cares one way or the other what you call me.”

  “Perhaps not. But on the outside chance that he does, I would prefer it if we kept things proper between us.”

  He thought about that for a long moment. He took a sip of his tea and thought about it some more. “By proper, does that mean I can’t kiss you?”

  “Mr. Prescott!”

  He rose from the chair. “Just thought I’d ask. Don’t want to do anything to offend your grandfather.” Grabbing a handful of cookies, he left the room, whistling.

  She stared after him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and fire seemed to race though her veins. Of all the nerve—

  The very thought of kissing Mr. Prescott was … what? Alarming? Shocking? Intriguing? Surprised by the last thought, her fingers flew to her mouth just in time to cover a most unladylike titter.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Lucy woke to the sound of a dying bull. It was only after she slipped out of bed and put her ear to the door that she was able to identify the ungodly howl as Mr. Prescott singing. Glancing at the mechanical clock, she was surprised—shocked, really—to discover she had overslept.

  It was still snowing hard, and no visitors were expected in such weather. Still, she took special pains with her morning ablutions. After brushing her hair until it shone, she pinned it into a neat bun and finger-fluffed her bangs.

  It took forever to decide between the blue woolen dress that matched her eyes or the pretty pink one that showed off her tiny waist. Finally, she settled on the blue.

  Pinching her cheeks and moistening her lips, she left her room and entered the parlor voice first. “Must you make such a dreadful—?”

  She stopped midstep. A chair had been removed from in front of the blazing fire and the metal bathtub put in its place. Her grandfather sat in the tub, with water up to his armpits and looking perfectly content.

  Speechless, Lucy lifted her gaze to Mr. Prescott, who was singing a most improper ditty about drunken sailors. Stripped from the waist up except for the bandage, he poured water into the tub from a kettle. He was soaked, and damp hair fell over his brow. His gaze suddenly fell on her, and he stopped singing.

  “You’re giving him a bath?” She felt something tug at her heart. “I—I don’t know what to say. Except … it’s hard to know which of you is wetter.”

  He set the empty kettle on the hearth. “Bathing your grandfather is harder than bathing a cow.”

  “You bathe cows, Mr. Prescott?”

  He grinned, and her heart did a flip-flop. “Only when necessary.”

  Recalling his last words to her the night before, she felt her face redden. She backed out of the room. “I—I guess he’s in good hands.”

  “At least one good hand,” Mr. Prescott said, gesturing to his shoulder.

  Lucy escaped to the kitchen and got another shock. Mr. Prescott had done the dishes she’d been too tired to tackle the night before. For the second time in two days, she broke down and cried.

  By the time Mr. Prescott joined her in the kitchen fully dressed, Lucy was busy decorating a batch of gingerbread men.

  She felt oddly shy in his presence and not at all like herself. No matter how much she tried to maintain her composure, he managed to weaken her defenses.

  “It was a kind thing you did,” she said.

  “Gotta do something to earn my keep,” he replied, helping himself to one of the newly baked cookies.

  His gaze clung to hers for a moment before they both looked away. She bent over to pipe eyes and mouth onto a gingerbread face, and he examined the nutcrackers guarding the window.

  “This one is different.” He lifted the white one off the sill and turned it over in his hands. “It looks like a bride.”

  She straightened, pastry bag in hand. “It is a bride,” she said. “My grandfather gave it to my grandmother on the day he proposed marriage.”

  “And she still married him?” he asked with a smile.

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Most women would expect a ring,” he said.

  “It’s a family tradition. A man places a nutcracker bride in front of his lady love. If she picks it up, it means yes, she will marry him. If she doesn’t, the answer is no.”

  He set the bride back on the windowsill and reached for another nutcracker. “What does it mean when I pick up a king?” he asked.

  “It means you’re about to crack nuts.” She slanted her head toward a bowl full of walnuts harvested the year before. “All you have to do is put the nut in the mouth and pull down on the lever.”

  “Sounds easier than giving your grandfather a bath,” he said amicably.

  After the midday meal, Lucy put her grandfather down for his afternoon nap and walked into the kitchen. She immediately noticed the tins of baked goods missing.

  Puzzled, she went in search of Mr. Prescott, but he wasn’t in the house. Grabbing a wrap, she let herself out the back door. It was still snowing but not as hard as it had been. Traipsing through the knee-deep snow, she followed his footprints to the barn. She found him attaching a canvas bag to his saddled horse.

  Her heart turned over in dismay. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t look so worried.” He rested a hand on the saddle. “I’m not leaving. I’m just getting ready to deliver your baked goods.”

  “I wasn’t wor—” She cleared her throat. “You shouldn’t be out in this cold. Your shoulder—”

  “It’s not my shoulder I’m worried about. It’s my fingers and toes.”

  She bit her lip. “This is ridiculous. You don’t even know where to make the deliveries.”

  He reached into his coat pocket with his left hand and pulled out the notebook containing her customer orders.

  “I think I passed most of these houses looking for you.”

  She studied him. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  He mounted his horse and gazed down at her. “I have my reasons.”

  A sudden and
disturbing thought occurred to her. “And would those reasons happen to have anything to do with seventy thousand dollars?”

  “Seventy thousand, Miss Langdon?” His eyes gleamed. “Is that how much is in the bag you know nothing about?”

  Chiding herself for her carelessness, Lucy flushed furiously. “How am I supposed to know what was in that bag?”

  “Well now, I’d say that was a mighty good question.” He gave her a knowing look before touching a finger to the brim of his hat. With a click of his tongue, he rode out of the barn.

  Chapter 9

  Lucy couldn’t stay away from the parlor window for long. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed the man. She even missed his sardonic smile. But that was the least of it—she was also worried. It was snowing even harder now, and a gale force wind had started to blow.

  What if he didn’t come back? She discounted the possibility at once. Thanks to the slip of her tongue, he now knew for certain she had the gunnysack in her possession. Oh yes, he’d be back—of that she had no doubt.

  His only concern was the money and catching those outlaws. Even he had admitted to having a one-track mind. Still, she couldn’t help but wish he’d return for another reason. A more personal reason.

  The thought made her grimace. Of all the dumb things that had ever crossed her mind, that had to be the dumbest. Why would a man like Mr. Prescott be interested in her? Next to his exciting life as a Texas Ranger, he must think her dull and uninteresting.

  Nor was she much to look at. She didn’t have time to do herself up like some of the other single women in town. She always had flour in her hair, and oftentimes her hands were chapped, and …

  She sighed. There she went again. Feeling sorry for herself. God forgive me. Her duty was to take care of her grandfather and not have silly schoolgirl fantasies about a man she could never have.

  The next day was Christmas Eve.

  Rising early, Lucy sat at the kitchen table counting the money Mr. Prescott had collected from her customers. It was enough to get the roof repaired and maybe a new pair of shoes for Opa. Her prayers had been answered.

  After hiding the money in a cookie jar, she straightened the nutcracker bride on the windowsill so that it faced outward. She also said a prayer. As long as those outlaws were still on the loose, the house needed as much protection as possible.

  It had stopped snowing, and a patch of blue sky stretched between the divided clouds. Pristine snow spread as far as the eye could see. The white landscape looked as stark and barren as her future.

  Shaking away the depressing thought, she was just about to move from the window when a movement caught her eye. She leaned over the sink for a closer look. That’s when she noticed the barn door open. Funny. She could have sworn …

  Had Opa escaped the house?

  Barely had she thought it than she spotted a man she didn’t recognize walking out of the barn. Gasping, she ducked out of sight. Was that a gun in his hand?

  Heart pounding, she ran to Mr. Prescott’s room and, without knocking, rushed inside. “Mr. Prescott.” She shook him. “Wake up!”

  He turned over and stared up at her. “What the—”

  “Shh. There’s someone outside. A stranger. He was in the barn. I think he has a gun.”

  Throwing the covers aside, Mr. Prescott jumped out of bed and reached for his trousers, pulling them on over his long johns. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse.”

  He quickly finished dressing, grabbed his holster on the bedpost, and raced out of the room.

  Moments later the two of them were crouched in front of the parlor window. Three horses were tethered to the front fence.

  “It’s them,” he said grimly. “The Dobson gang. Guess we were wrong.”

  “Wrong about what, Mr. Prescott?”

  He gave her a meaningful look. “About them taking the money out of your wagon. If the money was in their hands, they’d have no reason to come back.”

  He had her there. “How … how did they know where to find you?”

  “Good question. Maybe they spotted me yesterday delivering baked goods. I should have taken your horse instead of mine. Spirit tends to stand out.”

  Grabbing him by the arm, Lucy dug her fingers into his flesh. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  “Letting go of my arm would be a good start,” he whispered back.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Something banged against the kitchen door, and Lucy jumped. A rough voice called out. “We know you’re in there, Ranger.”

  Mr. Prescott transferred his weapon to his right hand, but he had trouble lifting his arm above his waist, so he switched back to his left.

  “What kind of shot are you?” he asked.

  “Accidentally or on purpose?”

  “Right now I’ll take it any way you can dish it out.”

  “In that case, I’m an excellent shot.”

  He nodded. “You hold down the fort while I sneak up behind them.”

  Cold fear knotted inside her. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

  “The way I see it, a bad idea is better than none.” He opened a side window and checked outside. Seeing no one, he climbed over the sill. “Close it behind me,” he whispered.

  She slid the window shut and rushed to the kitchen for her shotgun. A sound made her whirl around. “Opa!”

  Lowering her weapon, she grabbed him by the arm and led him back to the parlor.

  “Eva,” he muttered.

  “Sit, Opa! Sit,” she said in a stern voice. After settling him in his chair, she waited. The silence that followed was almost worse than the banging. She glanced out the front window. The three horses were still tethered to her fence. One by one, she checked all the windows in the house.

  Just as she reached the kitchen, a gunshot rent the air. Fearful visions filled her head, and she imaged Mr. Prescott lying in the snow bleeding. Oh God, no! Don’t let anything happen to him. Please, don’t!

  Holding her shotgun rigid, she moved through the kitchen, muzzle first.

  Another shot, this time from a distance away. A barrage of gunfire followed. Glass shattered and sprayed over her sink.

  Rising on tiptoe, Lucy chanced a quick glance outside then ducked. The three men were on her porch, backs toward her. One man was loading his gun, and the others had their weapons aimed in the direction of the barn.

  The men were talking among themselves, their low voices drifting through the broken windowpane. They were planning something. No time to lose …

  Careful not to step on the broken glass, she aimed the tip of her muzzle through the shattered window. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She just wanted to chase them away.

  Counting to three, she pulled back on the trigger and fired just as one of the men stood. He fell back, grabbing his arm.

  “Ow, I’ve been hit!”

  “We’re surrounded,” cried another.

  “Let’s get outta here,” yelled the third, and all three fled her porch.

  Moments later Lucy peered through the draperies of her parlor window and watched two of the outlaws struggle to help the injured man on his horse. She waited until they had ridden out of sight before racing through the house and out the back door.

  Stumbling through the snow, she called his name. “Mr. Prescott!” She was breathing hard, and her breath came out in misty white plumes. Please God, don’t let him be hurt.

  Stomach clenched, she trudged forward, her feet sinking deep into the snow.

  “Mr. Prescott!” And then, “Chad!”

  He stepped out from behind the barn, grinning, and her heart leaped with joy. Another prayer answered.

  “Oops! You called me by my Christian name,” he said. “What will your grandfather say?”

  At that moment she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was alive. Closing the distance between them, she flung her arms around his neck.

  “I thought you were dead,”
she cried.

  His one good arm circled her waist, and he held her close. “Thought or hoped?”

  “Don’t tease,” she whispered.

  He gazed deep into her eyes. “If I’m dead, then this has got to be heaven,” he said, his voice husky. And with that, he lowered his head and captured her lips with his own.

  Chad watched Lucy traipse back to the house to check on her grandfather. He had stayed behind to calm the animals and secure the barn. He also needed to look for a board to cover the broken window.

  Lucy. Just her name made the blood pound through his veins. She was a complication he hadn’t counted on. Somehow she had worked her way into his heart, and that was a problem. His job was to track down the Dobson gang, and now that he knew they were still in the area, his job got a whole lot easier.

  Had his firing arm not been injured, he would have caught the scoundrels while he had the chance. No matter. He’d trailed them this far; he’d trail them to the end of the earth if necessary.

  He quickly finished his tasks and headed for the house. Brrr, it was cold, and it had started snowing again. That was a blessing. He doubted the Dobson gang would make another move in this weather. Not with one being injured. That gave him a distinct advantage, but only if he acted quickly. That meant leaving the comfort of Lucy’s house and getting back to work.

  He paused on the porch and blew out his breath. His mouth still throbbed with the memory of her sweet lips. No matter. He had to leave, and the sooner the better, for both their sakes.

  Weighed down by his thoughts, he stomped the snow off his boots and walked inside.

  “Lu—”

  He paused upon seeing her on the kitchen floor. She held broken pieces of wood in her hands. The bullet that shot out the windowpane had shattered the nutcracker bride.

  Knowing how much that particular nutcracker meant to her, he grimaced. All of this was his fault. Tossing that money into her wagon had involved her in a way he never would have imagined.

  He stood the board next to the counter and dropped to the floor by her side.