The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  He leaned closer to better hear his father.

  “I’m sorry for my behavior, Deborah. It was unkind of me to take my anger out on you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Curt heaved a sigh and relaxed. He didn’t want to walk in and embarrass his father when he’d humbled himself to this degree. Better to wait till Deborah accepted the apology and the conversation moved to something new.

  Deborah’s soft voice barely reached his ears. “It’s all right, Mr. Warren, truly. I’m so sorry my actions caused you pain, but neither Curt nor I knew the Nativity would do so. It’s a lovely piece, one I’d be proud to call my own. I would never have brought it out if I’d known you didn’t care to see it displayed.”

  The older man harrumphed then cleared his throat. “Speaking of Curt, there’s something I feel I must say, if you’re willing to listen.”

  There was no response, and Curt assumed she must have given silent assent, as he heard his father rush on.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to get your heart broken again. The boy isn’t stable. He has no intention of staying here. He values the new life he’s built and plans to leave again. I hope you’ll guard yourself against getting involved, and focus on your mother.”

  Curt waited several long moments for Deborah to reply, praying she’d spurn his father’s declaration and declare her own feelings for him. Finally, he heard a rustle of her skirts, and he leaned closer to hear her reply.

  “I see. Thank you for sharing your concerns.”

  Another moment passed with nothing further, and Curt’s stomach twisted into a knot. She must no longer trust him. She believed his father’s assessment of his character and chose to listen to him rather than take a chance on loving Curt. Not that he blamed her. He’d brought this on himself by leaving the first time and not keeping in touch. He backed away from the doorway as carefully as he could and left the house, his heart too sore to listen further.

  Chapter 5

  Deborah thought long and hard about what her answer should be to Curt’s father—a man she’d come to respect and care for over the years since her own father had died. She didn’t want to reject his declaration outright, but she didn’t believe he understood his son or had noted how much he’d changed. She gripped her hands in her lap and worked to compose herself then lifted her eyes to his.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Warren. I know Curt disappointed and hurt you when he left the first time, but I believe he’s a changed man. I can’t say for sure he won’t leave again, but if he does, I believe it will be because he’s prayed and thinks it’s the right thing to do. He promised he’ll talk with me before he makes a final decision, and I trust him. I wish you could open your heart and see the man he’s become.”

  “Humph.” Mr. Warren jerked upright from his stance against the wall. “Then he has you fooled, the same way he fooled his mother. She always believed he’d come home one day a changed man, serving the Lord and willing to settle down, but he never did. The boy never had any real faith of his own. He wanted his own way and wasn’t willing to pray about anything. What makes you think he will now?”

  “Because he told me.” Deborah bit her lip, not willing to share that Mr. Colson had been more of a fatherly influence on Curt’s life than the man standing before her. But she must tell him something. “He said that circumstances and people where he lives now had opened his eyes to the truth of the Gospel—that he sees what his immaturity cost others and how he’d lived a selfish life. He’s changed, Mr. Warren. Curt’s made a true commitment, and I believe he’ll walk it out.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I hoped that before and nothing came of it.” His voice was gruff, and he shook his head. “I’ll try to keep an open mind, though, and not be so quick to judge. I thank you for telling me. I just wish he’d done so himself.”

  Deborah rose to her feet and stepped close, placing her hand on his arm. “I think he’s afraid to, sir—afraid that you might reject him again.”

  The man reared back as though he’d been burned. “I love my boy. That’s a foolish thing for him to think or say. Besides, he left, not me. He’s the one who needs to apologize and make things right. I’ll forgive him if he does that, but it’s on his shoulders, not mine.”

  He pivoted and walked away, his body stiff and unyielding.

  Deborah sighed and shook her head. Mr. Warren hadn’t changed as much as she’d hoped. Now she’d better pray his obstinate attitude didn’t discourage Curt to the point he’d fulfill his father’s dire prediction.

  The next day, Curt finished the morning chores in the barn. He’d done the milking before breakfast and returned now to clean out the stalls. The one thing he enjoyed about farmwork was milking—there was something soothing about the repetitive action and the mesmerizing splash of the milk in the pail.

  He was at a total loss as to what to do next. His father had made it clear he didn’t want or need his help in the fields or with the few cows he owned, and there was little else to do in this farming community.

  If only he had his woodworking tools. Even more than that, he wished Deborah would welcome his presence as she finished sorting his mother’s personal items. But he’d determined to give her time—to not press her for a day or two. After the conversation he overheard, he feared she’d lost hope that he’d ever really change.

  He pitched a forkful of dirty straw into a pile and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. He couldn’t blame her, since he’d not contacted her in the last four years. It had been too hard, knowing things could never work out between them and that she’d probably be married to someone else soon. A friend in Goldendale had written him, letting him know that more than one young man was interested in Deborah, and then wrote again, telling him when she’d gotten engaged. That almost killed him—he was sick for a week and had produced the worst work of his life.

  He rested his chin on the handle of the pitchfork. This uncertainty was even worse. When he’d seen her that first day after he’d returned and realized she wasn’t married, hope had returned. Now it came close to withering again, and despair gripped him in talons so tight he could barely breathe. Maybe he’d stay in the barn all day until she was gone.

  The crunch of buggy wheels on the pebbles outside drew him to a large chink in the wood. Deborah climbed down from the seat and walked to the horse’s head. She’d want to unhitch and turn the horse into a stall. Time to quit being a coward. He swung open the door as she reached it, and mustered what he hoped would pass as a pleasant look, but he couldn’t manage a smile. “Good morning. I’ll unhitch for you if you want to get started inside.”

  Her brows drew together, and she stared up at him. “Is your father upset again?”

  He groaned inwardly. She’d always been too good at reading him, but he didn’t see the slightest flicker of personal interest beyond worry about his father. “No, he’s fine.”

  She drew the horse forward into the alley between the stalls but didn’t reply.

  He extended a hand. “There’s no need for you to get your skirts dirty.”

  She hesitated then sniffed. “Fine. If you don’t care to talk about it, I’ll get to work.” The barn door creaked again as she let herself out, but Curt didn’t stir. It hurt too much to see the woman he loved walking away from him. Now he understood a tiny bit what she must have felt all those years ago, when he left Goldendale and didn’t return.

  Deborah flounced out of the barn but slowed her pace halfway to the house, her steps beginning to drag. It was obvious something was bothering Curt, but he didn’t appear interested in telling her what it might be. That irritated her even more than his cool reply. When they were young and in love, he’d told her everything—except for how much he must have hated farming. She’d known he chafed at the chores and longed to work with wood for a living, but she’d never truly believed he’d strike off on his own and leave the farm and his father—and her—behind.

  She hadn’t believed it even when he’d come to the h
ouse that horrible day and said he was leaving to apprentice in The Dalles, Oregon. Deep inside, she’d known he’d last a few weeks or months at most and come home to her. But his letters had stopped completely that first year, and her hope had begun to fade.

  Her chin lifted then she marched the rest of the way to the house. Maybe she should have married when she’d had the chance.

  Her pace slowed—was that fair? Curt could have had a bad morning with his father again and didn’t want her to worry. Surely that was the case. Once he finished stabling the mare, he’d come in and help her, as he had the past few days.

  She wished she could decorate the house for Christmas. It seemed such a shame that Mr. Warren wouldn’t allow her to display the lovely Nativity set. Fir and pine abounded in the region. Her lips curved at a new thought. Maybe Curt would take her in the sleigh to gather some if the snow arrived soon. They’d had several flurries, but it hadn’t stayed long, which was certainly not typical for this time of year.

  She slipped into the house, wondering if Mr. Warren was around or out in the fields. Drawing off her heavy coat, she headed for Sarah Warren’s private room, wanting to finish the last few drawers and a trunk that she had yet to open. Sometimes she felt funny about going through another woman’s personal things, but it seemed neither Mr. Warren nor Curt cared to tackle the tasks.

  The flat-topped trunk sat under the window. A cream-colored cloth with delicate, hand-stitched embroidery in each corner covered most of the top, with a piece of cut glass perched in the center. Sarah fingered the lovely bowl then set it aside and removed the cloth cover.

  She lifted her head and listened, wondering when Curt would come in, then she shoved the thought aside. If he didn’t care to spend time with her, she certainly didn’t plan to pursue him.

  The lid opened with a slight squeak, as though the hinges hadn’t been worked in years. She lifted out a tray with shallow, open compartments after giving it a quick glance. It appeared to be mostly sewing supplies that she could sort later. More sewing goods lay beneath, along with a stack of books.

  Deborah plucked out the top three and set them aside. The next book caught her attention, as did three more identical ones beneath—all clothbound volumes that showed little sign of wear, the corners still crisp, and the dark brown color not dimmed by exposure to light.

  She looked at the spine of the one on top and drew in a breath. It appeared to be a journal or diary of some sort, as did the rest. Was she trespassing on Mr. Warren’s property again? Her hands trembled as she considered whether to ask him first or place it back inside and shut the lid. But he’d told her only to avoid his room and the desk in the living area—he’d been very explicit that all the items in his wife’s rooms were to be thoroughly examined, as he didn’t feel up to doing so.

  The first page was dated December 26, but there was no indication of ownership. Perhaps if she read a page or two, she might get a sense of whom it belonged to. She supposed it must be Sarah Warren’s, although without an identifying year, it could belong to a parent or grandparent. She read the first page with interest, intrigued by the sweeping script and conversational style.

  I’m so worried about Jarrod—I wish he would talk to me. Something is wrong, but he won’t say what it is. He gave me a lovely gift yesterday, a cut-glass bowl that I plan to keep in my room where I can see it as soon as I awaken. But he’s been glum and unresponsive. Not that he didn’t show enthusiasm over the shirt I made for him, but he turned aside with very little comment over the whittling knife that I was certain he’d love. I must try to find out what the matter is when he visits again tomorrow.

  Deborah turned the page, wondering if it was right to read more but unable to resist the story for long. The second page was dated December 28. Had Sarah had a busy day and been unable to write the day before?

  Jarrod came to visit last night so we could talk about wedding plans, but I had a hard time breaking through his silence. Finally, before he left, he went out to his buggy and returned with a crate, which he shoved into my arms. I asked if it was another Christmas gift and assured him he’d already given me enough. He gave a harsh laugh and shook his head. “Not a gift that was meant for you in the beginning, but if you don’t take it, I’ll destroy it.”

  I peeked inside the cloth wrappings and was amazed at what met my gaze. A beautiful carved Nativity, each piece intricate. I had withdrawn three when he grabbed one, the figure of a shepherd, and drew back his arm as though he planned to throw it. I stopped him in time and demanded he explain.

  “I made it for my father for Christmas,” he said. “When he saw it, all he could do was criticize. It was no good. I would never be able to make a living from this type of work. He said he had struggled to provide for our family all these years and I’d do the same, only worse, since I had no talent to speak of. I never want to see them again. Take them and put them away where I can’t find them, or I’ll burn them.”

  I saw that he meant it, and I wrapped up the wonderful creations and took the crate to my room. There was no use trying to dissuade him. I will try to broach the subject again in a few days.

  Deborah’s hand shook as she turned the page, knowing that she was unlocking the key to Mr. Warren’s anger at her discovery of the Nativity set in the attic. Would Sarah say any more about it, or was this where the matter was left? The following page shed very little light on the subject.

  December 31. I tried talking to Jarrod again tonight about his gift to his father, hoping he might attempt once more to give it to Mr. Warren, but he turned away in obvious pain. I assured him the pieces were magnificent, but he only scoffed. His father is considered one of the best woodworkers in the valley, and he should know whether Jarrod has talent or not. His father had only been able to eke out a living with his woodworking and must farm on the side to get by, so Jarrod believes that farming is the more sensible career.

  I told him not to give up on his carving, but he said he’d stored his tools and will never touch them again. His father’s words cut deep. The man might have meant well, trying to save his son the pain of being a poor provider, but I fear he’s wounded my love’s spirit to the point where he might never recover.

  More than anything, I want Jarrod to reconcile with his father. I fear that if he doesn’t, he’ll carry his hurt and bitterness into our marriage and pass it along to any children we might have. I pray that somehow God heals his heart and brings him to a place of peace, before it’s too late.

  Deborah picked up another journal from the bottom of the pile and glanced at the first page, noting it was penned only a few months before Sarah’s death. She turned to the last page and sucked in a quick breath as her eyes caught Curt’s name. She read the final paragraph then closed the book, suddenly ashamed of reading such a personal entry. Should she give the diaries to Curt, so he could see his father through his mother’s eyes? Or would he be angry at her because she’d read his mother’s private thoughts and turn away from her in disgust? She’d put this back where she found it for now and spend a day or two praying before she decided. Maybe God would help her find a way to reconcile the two men before Curt’s week was up.

  Chapter 6

  Curt wished he’d driven over to get Deborah in his buggy so he could offer to drive her home later. The snow was falling and the wind had picked up, but that wasn’t what had stopped him. He’d do it if he thought she’d care to have his company, but after what his father had said to her, he doubted that was the case.

  He finished harnessing Deborah’s horse, knowing she’d be leaving soon. It had taken all his willpower to stay away from the part of the house where she was working today.

  He sucked in a breath and patted the mare’s neck then strode to the house. He’d see what her attitude toward him might be then take it from there. Swinging open the door, he almost collided with Deborah. Her words were stiff as he glimpsed her solemn expression. “I apologize. I’ll slow down and watch where I’m going next time.” No smile warmed
her features; no light shone in her eyes.

  “I’ll drive you home, if you’d like. I can keep the buggy and drive over to get you in the morning.”

  She shook her head, her dark curls dancing under her bonnet. She buttoned the neck of her heavy coat as she moved past him, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve driven that short section of road hundreds of times without you, Curt. There’s no reason for you to come out in the cold.”

  “I don’t mind.” He bit his tongue before he blurted out how much he longed to spend time with her—how much he’d missed her company today and regretted not offering to help. If only she’d say something to let him know how she felt.

  “Thank you, but no. I don’t care to be without a conveyance, in case Ma needs a doctor. Besides, if the snow moves in and gets deep, I’ll probably stay home tomorrow.” Sadness flickered over her face as she glanced at him.

  He scrambled to think of something to say but couldn’t come up with a thing. Had she believed Pa that he planned to leave? Didn’t she trust him after he’d told her he’d discuss his plans with her, if he made the decision to return to The Dalles?

  Curt stepped aside. “As you wish. But if you’d like to come tomorrow, I’ll hitch the sleigh and pick you up—if there’s enough snow.”

  Her eyes lit with something akin to expectation, then after several seconds she looked away. “I do have a few things to finish, so that would be nice. I’d better hurry on home now and fix supper before Ma starts to worry.”