The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  “How is she?” Curt walked beside her to the barn and tugged open the door, anxious to get them both out of the wind.

  “A little better. I’m not so worried about leaving her now. I’m being cautious about wanting a buggy close-by, but I don’t think she’ll take a turn for the worse.”

  They continued in silence, and Curt shoved down the hope trying to bubble to the surface. Just because Mrs. Summers was better now didn’t mean it would last. The poor woman had struggled with health issues for years, and Curt well remembered Deborah’s fear when they were young that she’d lose her mother soon.

  He helped her into the buggy and held her hand a few moments longer than necessary. “Deborah?”

  She settled onto the seat and released his hand to pick up the reins. “Yes?” The word had a breathless aspect.

  “Is everything … all right? Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “That I’d like to tell you?” She shook her head. “No. Should there be?”

  “I suppose not.” He hesitated a moment then rushed on, still praying she’d show some indication of her feelings. “Well, I won’t keep you. The wind will cut through your warm clothing, so you’d better hurry.” He kept his voice neutral, not wanting to press her but wishing she’d feel safe to confide her fears.

  She averted her head and stared between the horse’s ears. “Yes, you’re right.” She shook the reins and clucked to the mare. “Get along there. It’s time we got home.”

  Curt stared after the departing buggy, praying he could find a way to make things right.

  Deborah looked out the window at dawn, hoping for enough snow that Curt would come for her in the sleigh. Unfortunately, the wind had blown the storm somewhere else before it had a chance to drop more than an inch or two. Her horse would have no problem drawing the buggy, and the runners on the sleigh would scrape and bump over the ruts and rocks in the road.

  Two hours later, with her mother fed, the kitchen clean, and a pot of stew simmering on the stove for dinner, Deborah pulled her horse to a stop in front of the Warren home. She waited for Curt’s cheerful whistle but didn’t hear it, so she climbed down and tied the mare to the hitching rail. The wind had calmed, and the horse would be fine while she saw if anyone was home.

  She knocked on the door, not expecting anyone to answer, and was startled when it swung open and Mr. Warren stood inside.

  His face crinkled in a welcoming smile. “Deborah. Come in out of the cold. I didn’t expect you today. You’ve done so much already. I assumed you’d take a day or two to get caught up at home.”

  “Is Curt here?” She wished she could retract her words as the smile on the older man’s face dimmed.

  “I sent him to town to get a few supplies. He should be back in an hour or two, although I don’t expect he’ll be around much longer. He’s getting itchy feet, I can tell. Just you wait and see, he’ll disappear soon.” He wagged his head then took her coat as she slipped out of it.

  Deborah drew in a quick breath. “Mr. Warren? Would you have a minute to talk?”

  He wrinkled his forehead but nodded. “It’s always a pleasure to visit with you, Deborah. I have a pot of coffee on. Come into the kitchen and sit.”

  They settled down at the table with their mugs. Fragrant steam rose, making Deborah’s mouth water. She almost decided not to broach the subject of his wife’s journal, in the hope of continuing this genial atmosphere, but forced herself to press on. “I found some things while sorting items in Mrs. Warren’s trunk that I wanted to ask you about.”

  Pain washed Mr. Warren’s features, and then he nodded. “Go ahead.”

  She bit her lip then plunged forward. “It’s a set of journals.”

  He brightened, and a smile curved his mouth. “Ah, yes. Sarah was always one to write down her thoughts. Someday I’ll read her journals. But I thought she’d given me all of them for safekeeping. You say you found more?”

  “Yes. In the trunk in her room. They didn’t have her name on them, and I wasn’t sure who they belonged to or what I should do with them.” Sudden panic assailed her as she realized she’d have to admit she’d read a few pages. “I’m so sorry. I fear I’ve overstepped again. I read parts of them, as I thought it might be from an older relative. I got so caught up in her wonderful narrative that I’d read more than I planned before I realized. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  He grinned. “My girl could tell a story, that’s for sure. I don’t mind you reading it, as long as it wasn’t too personal.”

  “Well …” She winced and averted her gaze. “It was personal. She shared how proud she was of your talent. Then, on the last page, years later, she talked about Curt and his love for the same craft—carving and working with wood. She was so sad—she longed for the two of you to reconcile …” She sucked in a deep breath then rushed on. “She talked about the Nativity you made for your father.”

  Mr. Warren’s expression turned to granite, his hands so tight around his mug it looked like he might crush it. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Deborah couldn’t help herself. “But I care for you and Curt, Mr. Warren. I understand your wife’s pain and longing for the two of you to reconcile. He’s following in his grandfather’s footsteps, but they’re your footsteps as well. Curt longs for your approval and acceptance. Please think about it, for his mother’s sake, if not for mine.” She pushed up from her chair. “I think I’ll go home now. I’ve imposed enough. If you still want me to come tomorrow, I’ll finish up then.”

  He gave a bare nod, his lips pressed in a tight line. “Tomorrow is fine.”

  “I’ll see myself out.” She moved with heavy tread to the door, wondering yet again if she’d done the right thing. Mr. Warren had only recently lost his wife, but if something didn’t change soon, he’d lose his son, as well.

  Curt dragged himself out of bed the next morning. Deborah had seemed so preoccupied and distant of late. Pa hadn’t come in the house the entire evening last night but stayed in the barn until long after bedtime. Could his father be so disgruntled with him that he didn’t care to even be in the same house?

  It was time to return to The Dalles, even though his heart longed to remain here. Swiftly, he packed his saddlebags with his few clothes and personal items and headed to the kitchen. He found a paper and pencil and scribbled a note for his father, on the chance he might not see him before he left. This time he wouldn’t disappear and not return—but he had to talk to Mr. Colson and explain that he needed more time to decide a course of action. He wanted to marry Deborah, but it might take weeks, if not months, to regain her trust.

  He’d ride to her farm and say good-bye—he’d given his word not to leave again without telling her. Slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder, he headed outside. There was no point in delaying this. Hopefully Pa would come in from feeding the cows in the pasture, but if he didn’t, he’d find the note and know his son would return. It should only take him a few days to ride to The Dalles and back, as long as a snowstorm didn’t dump too much snow to make the return trip.

  His stomach churned, and he swallowed hard, not wanting to give way to grief. What if Deborah would never accept his suit or learn to trust him? It didn’t matter. He’d wait the rest of his life, if that’s what it took, and put up with whatever his father saw fit to dish out, for as long as the man continued to live. If only he and Pa could repair their relationship. He grunted. Not that there was much to repair. They’d been close years ago, before he’d decided he didn’t want to farm and turned to woodworking instead.

  He saddled his horse and slung the bags over its rump then secured them with leather straps. The air had a harsh bite to it, and he buttoned up his coat and tucked the woolen scarf that Deborah had given him so many years ago around his neck.

  The front door of the house banged, and Curt’s head whipped up. Pa must be back. But why hadn’t he come to the barn first? He waited, wondering if he should go inside or wait for Pa to read the note a
nd come see if he’d gone. He swung into the saddle, his decision made. If Pa wanted to talk, he’d come out. If he didn’t show up in the next minute or two, he’d ride for Deborah’s farm.

  The barn door crashed open and Pa stood silhouetted in the dim light of the winter morning. He strode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. “What do you think you’re doing? What’s wrong with you, boy? Get off that horse. I’ve got something to say.”

  Chapter 7

  Deborah drew her buggy to a stop in front of Mr. Warren’s house and swiveled toward her mother, happy Ma felt strong enough to come. She turned toward the barn. Was that Mr. Warren she heard bellowing at the top of his voice? What in the world could be the matter? She prayed he wasn’t injured or sick and calling for help. She plucked up her skirts to keep them from dragging in the mud and rushed toward the open door.

  “Deborah! That you?” Mr. Warren’s voice boomed from the interior. “Come in here.”

  Hands shaking, Deborah turned to her mother. “Will you be all right if I run in for a minute, or would you like to come?”

  Ma smiled. “From the sound of things, you might need some support. I’ll stay inside the door in case I’m not wanted, but I’d like to come.”

  Deborah tied the horse to the rail and helped her mother down, then hurried inside. She waited for her eyes to adjust then spotted Curt standing beside his saddled horse, and Mr. Warren all aquiver beside him. She left her mother by the door and walked forward. “I’m here. Is something wrong?”

  Mr. Warren beckoned to her, and as she drew near, he took her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Do you love this son of mine?”

  She gasped and felt the blood drain from her face. “Mr. Warren! What kind of question is that?”

  He swiveled to Curt. “You’ve been mooning over Deborah every day since you got home, but now you’re going to ride off and leave again. What’s wrong with you, boy?”

  Curt stared at his father, seemingly unable to find a reply. His gaze shifted to Deborah and stark longing blazed from his eyes.

  Mr. Warren drew Deborah close by his side and wrapped an arm around her. “Deborah Summers is the best thing God’s brought to our lives since your mother, but you don’t seem to have the good sense to figure that out. Why aren’t you staying here and trying to win her, instead of acting like a man who doesn’t have a lick of sense?”

  Curt shook himself and straightened. “Didn’t you read my note? I told you I was going to stop to see Deborah on my way out of town and that I’d be back soon. I do love her, but from what I can tell the past few days, she doesn’t feel the same.” He grasped his horse’s reins and patted his neck. “I heard what you told her a few days ago, that I’d leave her and not return this time. Apparently, she believed you.”

  Relief hit Deborah so hard she thought she might swoon. “So that’s why you’ve been acting as though I don’t exist?” She moved away from Mr. Warren and touched Curt’s sleeve. “If you’d listened a minute or two longer, you’d have heard me tell your father I don’t believe that, and that I care for you.”

  Curt’s lips parted, but nothing came out. “I’m so sorry. I’m ashamed I didn’t give you a chance to explain.” The words were mere whispers.

  Mr. Warren shook his head. “Then you’d better ask her to marry you, boy. Women like Deborah and your ma only come along once in a lifetime. You let her go, you’ll live to regret it.” He scrubbed at his chin with his fingers. “I don’t regret a day I spent with Sarah, but I do regret plenty of other days. I’ve not been the father I should have been to you.”

  He glanced at Deborah. “I stayed up half the night reading Sarah’s journals. I’m ashamed of the pain I caused her all these years.”

  He turned his attention back to Curt. “And I’m ashamed of the way I’ve treated you, and all because of the anger I harbored against my own father. I made the Nativity set for him for Christmas a year before I married your mother. He cut me deeply when he rejected my gift, and all these years I’ve taken it out on you, because you wanted to follow his chosen path rather than mine.”

  His gaze dropped for a moment, and then he raised his eyes and met Curt’s. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive this old man his foolish ways and accept something I’d like to give you both.” He tapped Curt on the chest with his finger. “But first, do you plan on marrying this gal?”

  Curt smiled. “If she’ll have me.” He took a step toward Deborah then hesitated and glanced toward the door. “Mrs. Summers? I need to ask your permission first. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to ask for your daughter’s hand?”

  Deborah pivoted, her heart swelling with delight as she spotted her mother’s beaming face.

  Ma walked toward them and stopped beside Mr. Warren. “I agree with your father, Curt. It’s better late than never, and I hope she has the good sense to say yes.”

  Curt bowed his head then turned his attention back to Deborah. “I’m sorry I misjudged you. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. Like Pa said, I’ve made some foolish choices, but all that’s behind me now. Would you make me the happiest man on earth and marry me?”

  Joy spiraled through Deborah like a spring wind kicking up its heels in a grove of trees, setting the leaves to dancing. “I will, Curt. I love you, too. I always have.”

  He took her hands in his. “We’ll make it work. I’ll help take care of your mother and work your farm, if that’s what you want. I’ll even give up my woodworking. I plan to be a good provider, and I don’t want to ever let you down.”

  Mr. Warren strode across the barn to a workbench covered by tack and other supplies. “You keep doing what God designed you to do, Son, and you’ll never let her down. Now, I hope both of you will accept this as a wedding gift—if you see fit to have it in your home, that is.” He removed a large cloth to reveal the beautiful Nativity set then stepped aside as she and Curt drew close.

  A small gasp left her mother’s lips, and Deborah glanced at her, noting a tear trickling down her cheek. Had Sarah shared her husband’s pain with her mother and Ma had kept it a secret all these years?

  Awe filled Deborah as she saw the pieces in the light filtering through the window above the workbench. Each one had been cleaned and polished until they shone with a burnished light. They were even more beautiful than she remembered.

  Curt breathed out an exclamation of wonder. “You made these, Pa? They’re exquisite. I’ve never seen such fine craftsmanship.” He gazed at his father as he cradled a figure in his hands. “This is the finest wedding gift I could imagine.”

  Tears welled in Mr. Warren’s eyes. “You truly think so? My pa told me they were no good, and I believed him. I was younger than you were when you went away, and I decided never to touch wood again, other than hammering a board across a stall or building a crate for storage.”

  As the four stood in reverent silence gazing at the Nativity, Deborah looped her arm through her mother’s, and Curt put his arm around her shoulder and his other hand on his father’s shoulder. “I agree with Curt. This is a precious gift, and one we’ll treasure forever. And it will look perfect at our wedding, if Curt wants to marry me on Christmas Day.”

  Curt turned adoring eyes on her and whooped. “You’d marry me next week? That soon? Don’t you need to make a dress?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to wear Ma’s dress. It fits me perfectly, and I love it. This Nativity will be the centerpiece on a table at the front of the church, and that’s all the beauty we need, besides our love and that of our families.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Curt square on the lips then blushed and peeked at Mr. Warren. “That is, if you don’t object to us marrying so soon.”

  Curt stiffened beside her, but Mr. Warren chuckled and threw his arms around them both, drawing them into a hug. “I feel as though my soul has gained peace at last, and a Christmas wedding sounds perfect to me. Don’t just stand there, boy. I’ll unsaddle your horse while you kiss your bride-to-be.”

 
About the Author

  Miralee Ferrell and her husband, Allen, live on eleven acres in Washington State. Miralee loves interacting with people, ministering at her church (she is a certified lay counselor with the AACC), riding her horse, and playing with her dogs. An award-winning and bestselling author, she speaks at various women’s functions and has taught at writers’ conferences. Since 2007, she’s had ten books released, both in women’s contemporary fiction and historical romance. Miralee recently started a newsletter, and you can sign up for it on her website/blog. www.miraleeferrell.com

  The Evergreen Bride

  by Pam Hillman

  Chapter 1

  The piney woods along Sipsey Creek, Mississippi, December 1887

  Samuel Frazier’s heart skittered into double time when Annabelle Denson rushed into the sawmill. She grabbed his arm, her touch sending a jolt of awareness coursing through him.

  “Papa said I could go!” Annabelle’s evergreen eyes danced beneath the woolen scarf draped over her hair.

  Had Pastor Denson given in, then? Samuel looked away, dread filling his chest. “Where?”

  Annabelle swatted his arm and moved away to sit on the low stool he’d made just for her. Every day, after she rang the school bell and the Sipsey Creek schoolchildren swarmed out of the schoolhouse and raced toward home, Samuel dusted the sawdust from the stool, hoping she’d stop by on her way home. Most days she did.

  “To Illinois, of course. As if you didn’t know.”

  Of course.

  It was all she’d talked about for weeks, for months, actually. A trip to Chicago, Illinois, to visit her cousin Lucy. So she could have a white Christmas. He turned away from the excitement on her face, back to the board he’d been working to smooth. He made another swipe at the piece, the scrape of the plane filling the void left by his silence. It wasn’t his place to derail Annabelle’s dream of a little snow-filled adventure. But maybe when she returned, when he and Jack got the old sawmill fully operational again, he’d get up the nerve …