The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

For the second time that day, he pulled her close and buried his face in her sweet-scented hair.

  “What … what if they come back?” she whispered.

  “That’s why I must leave,” he said. “I need to find them before they cause any more trouble.”

  She pulled away and looked at him. “But there’re three of them, and your arm …”

  “I won’t do anything without the sheriff’s help. He knows the area.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He didn’t want to go either, and that made no sense. He wasn’t one to hang around in one place for long. A week or two at the most …

  “Staying here was a mistake. It put you and your grandfather in danger.”

  “You had no choice,” she said. “I’m the one to blame, and—”

  He pressed a finger to her pretty pink lips. “It’s time, Lucy.”

  She took his hand in hers and held it to her chest. “Today’s Christmas Eve.” She gave him a beseeching look. “Can’t you at least stay till tomorrow?”

  Common sense told him to say no, but his heart spoke louder and with more persistence.

  “All right,” he said. “Till tomorrow.”

  Chapter 10

  It was snowing outside when Lucy lit the candles in the parlor that night. Her grandfather sat motionless and stared at the fire.

  Chad sat whittling on a piece of wood, his trousers covered with white chips.

  He’d assured her that the outlaws weren’t likely to return that night, but she noticed he never strayed far from the window and was alert to every sound.

  She blew out the match and tossed it into the fire. She then reached for the wooden box she’d dug out of a cupboard earlier.

  “My grandfather made this crèche, and each year my grandmother set it out on the mantel,” she said.

  She pulled a wooden figure from its wrappings and held it up for Chad to see. It was a gray-haired shepherd in a blue robe.

  Chad paused from his whittling. “Your grandfather sure did know how to dig out the best from a piece of wood.”

  “That he did,” she said. “Each year Opa carved a new figure for the crèche and kept it secret until Christmas Eve.” She smiled at the memory. “Oma and I always tried to guess in advance what he’d made, but we always got it wrong.”

  Altogether there were forty-six pieces. The last piece—a camel—had been made three years earlier. Never would she have guessed that it would be the last piece Opa would carve. But shortly after that Christmas, her grandfather started showing signs of forgetfulness. Soon he couldn’t even remember the names of simple household items and once was unable to find his way back from the barn.

  She spread a white cloth on the mantel and ran a finger across the gold stars embroidered by her grandmother. Opa’d had a fit once upon finding his initials embroidered on his long johns. “Confound it,” he’d railed, “if your grandmother can’t bake it, she’ll embroidery it.” The memory made her smile.

  One by one she set each artfully crafted figure on the cloth. There were shepherds, angels, animals, and, of course, the Christ child.

  She normally loved celebrating the birth of Jesus, but this year—God forgive her—sadness filled her heart. Not only would it be the first Christmas without her beloved grandmother, but tonight would also be the last night spent with Chad.

  She drew her strength from the Lord, but she now knew the joy of having a strong shoulder to cry on. It had only been a short while, but already she had grown accustomed to Chad’s presence. She would dearly miss him.

  No sooner had she put the last piece in place and stepped back to admire the holy scene than her grandfather made a funny grunting sound. He rose from his seat and headed for the door.

  “Eva.”

  “Opa, no.”

  Hurrying to his side, she took hold of his arm. “It’s dark and cold outside,” she said gently.

  “Eva!” he said again. He pulled his arm away so hard, Lucy fell back. The look on his face frightened her. Something wasn’t right.

  “I think the crèche upset him,” Chad said.

  “The crè—” Suddenly, understanding dawned. Of course. All the signs of Christmas—the crèche, the baking, the snow—reminded Opa of his wife, who loved this time of year. That’s why he had been so restless of late.

  Lucy reached for her grandfather’s arm. This time his expression softened, and he turned away from the door of his own accord.

  Only then was she aware of a soft warbling sound. Her gaze settled on Chad, who was playing what looked like a musical instrument.

  Much to her surprise, her grandfather walked back to his chair unassisted.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Chad pulled the wooden tube away from his mouth. “An Indian flute.” He blew into the instrument again, working his fingers across the holes. “I hope you don’t mind. This is the wood from the nutcracker bride.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been working on.” Delighted that he was able to put the broken pieces to good use, she smiled. “My grandmother loved music. It would have made her very happy to see her treasured bride turned into a musical instrument.”

  “Legend has it that Indians came up with the idea of making a flute after hearing the wind blow through woodpecker holes,” he explained.

  It was the first Lucy had ever heard of woodpeckers causing anything but problems, and she was intrigued. Mr. Holbrook often complained about the damage the birds did to his walnut trees. Just wait till she told him about the Indian flute.

  She glanced at her grandfather, who looked perfectly at peace. “The music seems to calm him.”

  “I noticed how much he likes music,” Chad said. “Thought he might enjoy some Christmas carols.”

  “He was fond of music, but that was a long time ago.” She sighed away the memories of the past.

  “He still likes music,” Chad said.

  Her gaze sharpened. “What makes you say that?”

  “I sang while giving him a bath, and that’s how I was able to get him into the water.”

  “You mean that awful sound—” She stopped, and he laughed.

  “Yep, that awful sound.” The warm humor in his eyes told her he hadn’t taken offense.

  Chad lifted the flute to his mouth, and she recognized the tune at once as “Silent Night”—her grandmother’s favorite carol—and one she called “Stille Nacht.”

  Lucy’s gaze settled on her grandfather. Something like recognition flickered in his eyes, and her heart practically burst with joy. She had almost given up hope of ever reaching him. But Chad had found a way.

  She lifted her voice in song, singing first in German as Oma had often done, and then in English. She’d almost forgotten how much she enjoyed singing. Her grandmother never failed to sing while doing her chores, but Lucy had felt so overwhelmed these last few months, singing had been the last thing on her mind.

  Her grandfather stayed perfectly still while she sang and Chad played. But at the song’s end, a silver tear rolled down his cheek.

  A cry of joy fell from Lucy’s lips as she rushed to his side. It was the first real emotion he had shown in a very long time. “Don’t cry, Opa.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, and for one glorious moment, he hugged her back.

  After putting Opa to bed, Lucy returned to the parlor to find Chad sitting on the floor in front of the fire, stirring the flames with the poker. She dropped to her knees by his side.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He turned his head to look at her, the flames from the fire reflected in his eyes. “For what?”

  “For bringing Opa back to me.” His hug had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was something she would never forget. “You’re right. Music does have a calming effect on him.” For the first time in more than a month, he’d stopped trying to escape.

  “Maybe music helps him feel close to his wife, and he has no need to go searching for her,”
Chad said.

  She smiled at the thought. “Maybe you’re right.” She watched the dimple on his cheek fade away. “I have a present for you,” she said.

  “For me?”

  Instead of answering him, she stood and ordered him to do the same. He replaced the poker before rising.

  She turned the corner of the rug over and lifted a floorboard.

  He peered down the hole. “That’s not—”

  “Don’t look so surprised. You knew the money was here all along.”

  “I had my doubts,” he said. “At least at first.” He slanted his head and studied her. “Why now?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  She gazed up at him and thought her heart would break. “Because I knew that the day I gave you the money was the day you would—”

  Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Leave?”

  “I didn’t want you to go.” She wasn’t proud of what she had done, but neither could she keep lying to him.

  “And now? Do you want me to go now?”

  “No, but I know you must.” He would not rest until he tracked down the men who killed his friend. Nor would he forgive himself for failing to do so.

  “Lucy—” His hands at her waist, he gazed down at her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You don’t have to explain,” she whispered. “But after you wear out your saddles, I hope—I pray—you’ll come back.”

  He didn’t answer her, didn’t make any promises, and her heart broke into a million pieces. But even as she gazed up at him, she heard her grandmother’s voice. “They call the here and now the present, Lucy, for it is a gift.”

  And since the present was all that was left to them, she pushed all other thoughts aside and concentrated on memorizing every inch of his face as they talked.

  And talk they did.

  He told her about his sheriff father and Irish mother. About working on a Texas cattle ranch. About his friend Paul, killed in the line of duty while chasing the Dobson gang.

  “He’s the one who talked me into become a ranger,” he said. “Between the two of us, we captured some of the worst outlaws that ever set foot in the Panhandle.”

  With his prompting, Lucy told him about her parents. How her grandmother instilled in her a love of literature and taught her everything she knew about cooking.

  “My grandfather taught me to ride and plant crops,” she said, smiling at the memory. “He also taught me how to care for animals and even showed me how to deliver a calf.” It was during that time that she first became interested in anatomy. “When I told him I wanted to be a doctor, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he encouraged me to work for Doc Hathaway.”

  Chad stared at her. “You wanted to be a doctor?”

  “In the worst possible way.” She smiled. “Can you imagine? A woman physician? Even the doctor was dubious, and I had to prove I was sincere. Before he would hire me, he made me stare at pictures of nudes.”

  Chad studied her. “Why?”

  “He said I had to learn to look past the obvious so that I could concentrate on the wondrous body that God had created and learn how it worked.”

  “What happened? Why did you give up medicine?”

  She took a deep breath. “Grandmother needed me. Taking care of Opa and running the farm and bakery was too much for her.” It was too much for anyone.

  “Any regrets?”

  She thought about her grandfather and the tear that rolled down his cheek as he hugged her. Smiling, she shook her head. “None.”

  The tall case clock began to chime. “It’s midnight, Lucy,” Chad whispered between kisses. “Merry Christmas.”

  Startled by how quickly the time had passed, Lucy reached up to smooth a wayward lock from his forehead. “Merry Christmas, Chad.”

  Epilogue

  Spring came late that year. It was almost April, and the wildflowers were just beginning to bloom.

  Lucy had worked all morning on the three-layered cake for Mary Hampton’s wedding. Her grandmother had taught her how to pipe icing borders and mold flowers out of marzipan.

  She forced herself to sing as she worked, though she had little heart to do so. It was only for her grandfather that she sang, as it kept him happy and content.

  It was the third wedding cake she’d done that month, and each served to remind her of all she’d lost. Chad had been gone for three months, and she’d not heard a word. No letter, no telegram—nothing.

  Even the sheriff had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Chad had returned the money to the bank and vanished, presumably on the trail of the Dobson gang. Was he even alive?

  The possibility that he might be dead nearly crushed her, and she refused to dwell on it. She much preferred to think of him riding his black horse and wearing out his saddles.

  If only she could forget his kisses. If only he didn’t haunt her dreams. If only she didn’t imagine seeing him, hearing him, feeling him.

  She stepped back and gave the cake a critical once-over. Satisfied, she tossed the empty icing bowl into the sink and put on the kettle for tea.

  A knock on the back door surprised her. Her customers usually came to the front door to pick up baked goods.

  She opened the door, but no one was there. Now she was hearing things.

  Moments later she heard another knock. Again, no one was there. Puzzled, her gaze traveled to the steps and her eyes widened. Something—she wasn’t sure what—stood at the bottom of the porch. Something with a garish face. She walked out for a closer look and blinked.

  Thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her, she ran down the steps and picked it up. This time there was no question. It was a nutcracker bride—or at least she thought it was.

  The bride’s gown was white and her eyes blue. Thick lashes made her look like she’d been in a fight. She had a crooked red mouth and a strange pointed chin. It was nothing like the wooden bride her grandfather gave her grandmother the day he proposed nearly half a century ago, but …

  Puzzled, she lifted her gaze and her heart lurched. Chad stood a short distance away with a silly grin on his face. He looked even handsomer than she remembered, and much, much taller.

  “Did … did you make this?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

  He gave her a sheepish look and shrugged. “Not only am I a terrible singer; I’m lousy at making nutcracker brides.”

  She held the wooden figure to her chest. “I think it’s … beautiful,” she said, and laughed. It was the ugliest, most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She swallowed the lump that rose to her throat. “What about the Dobson gang?”

  “I’m better at catching criminals. You’ll be glad to know their outlaw days are over.” After a beat, he added, “And so are my ranger days. I’ve been hired by your local county as a cattle detective. It looks like I’m gonna have to wear out my saddles chasing rustlers.”

  Lucy’s heart leaped with joy, but she was still having a hard time believing this was real and not just another dream. “So … so does that mean you’re staying?”

  “It depends,” he said.

  “On w–what?” she stammered.

  “On whether or not my nutcracker bride does its job.”

  As the meaning of his words became clear, ripples of pure happiness rushed through her. With a yelp of delight, she flew into his waiting arms.

  German Zimt

  Makronen Cookies

  (A recipe handed down from Lucy’s grandmother)

  1 cup ground hazelnuts

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1 teaspoon nutmeg

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  4 large eggs, separated (need only the whites)

  1 teaspoon lemon juice Pinch salt

  1 cup sugar

  Whole hazelnuts to top cookies

  Mix together ground nuts, cinnamon, and vanilla. Beat egg whites. When eggs are stiff, add lemon juice and salt. Continue to beat until stiff. Gradually fold sugar into beaten egg whites and fold in nut mix
ture.

  Using two small spoons, place small mounds of cookie dough onto greased baking sheet. Top each cookie with a whole hazelnut and bake in a preheated oven at 350 degrees for about 20 to 25 minutes. Leave to cool. Enjoy with friends and family.

  About the Author

  Margaret Brownley is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. Her story was inspired by Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite and her own collection of nutcrackers. Look for her exciting new Undercover Ladies series beginning with the release of Petticoat Detective, December 2014.

  www.margaret-brownley.com

  The Christmas Star Bride

  by Amanda Cabot

  The LORD redeemeth the soul of his servants: and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate.

  PSALM 34:22

  Chapter 1

  November 27, 1885

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

  There had to be a way. Esther Hathaway punched the dough with more force than normal. A good kneading was just what her trademark pumpernickel needed. She could—and would—provide that. If only she could find what she needed as easily.

  Four weeks from today was Christmas, the day to celebrate the most wonderful gift ever given. It was also the day her niece would become Mrs. Lieutenant Michael Porter. Esther sighed as she gave the dough another punch. Susan’s dress was almost finished. They had chosen the cake Esther would bake. Michael’s parents had their train tickets and hotel reservations. Everything was on schedule with one exception: Esther’s gift.

  With the kneading complete, she slid the ball of dough into the lightly greased bowl and covered it with a towel to let it rise. The sweet white dough that would become cinnamon rolls for her early morning customers had already completed its first rising and was ready to be rolled out and filled with the rich butter and cinnamon filling.

  Esther’s hands moved mechanically, performing the tasks they did each morning, while her mind focused on the problem that had wakened her in the middle of the night. Susan claimed it didn’t matter, but it did. Four generations of Hathaway women had had their Christmas stars, and Susan would, too.