The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  Half a grated nutmeg

  1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

  1 teaspoon ground cloves

  1 teaspoon mace

  ½ cupful molasses

  ½ cupful sour milk

  6 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately

  1 cupful lemon and/or orange juice

  4 cupfuls sifted flour

  1 level teaspoon baking soda

  1 pound raisins, seeded

  Currants, washed and dried

  ½ pound citron, cut in thin strips

  Cream butter and sugar; add nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and mace; add molasses and sour milk. Stir well; then add egg yolks and juice; stir again thoroughly. Add flour alternately with egg whites. Dissolve baking soda and stir in thoroughly. Mix fruit together, and stir into it 2 heaping tablespoons flour; then stir it in cake batter. Butter two baking pans carefully, line them with parchment, well buttered, and bake at 350 degrees for 2 hours. After it is baked, let cake cool in pans. Afterward, put in an airtight container, or cover tightly in pans.

  Mrs. S. A. Camp, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  About the Author

  Bestselling author Vickie McDonough grew up wanting to marry a rancher, but instead she married a computer geek who is scared of horses. She now lives out her dreams in her fictional stories about ranchers, cowboys, lawmen, and others living in the West during the 1800s. Vickie is the award-winning author of more than thirty published books and novellas. Her books include the fun and feisty Texas Boardinghouse Brides series and End of the Trail, which was the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, Inc., 2013 Best Fiction Novel winner. Her Whispers on the Prairie was a Romantic Times Recommended Inspirational Book for July 2013. Vickie has been married for thirty-nine years. She has four grown sons and one daughter-in-law and is grandma to a feisty eight-year-old girl. When she’s not writing, Vickie enjoys reading, antiquing, watching movies, and traveling. To learn more about Vickie’s books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit her website: www.vickiemcdonough.com.

  The Snowbound Bride

  by Davalynn Spencer

  I have set the LORD always before me: because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.

  PSALM 16:8

  Chapter 1

  Spruce City, Colorado 1885

  Arabella Taube clutched her small carpetbag as tightly as her breath and turned her back to the coach car. The man in the brown bowler had watched her all the way from Denver. He was watching her now through the window. She was certain of it.

  Blowing snow swirled around her skirts, and the cold nipped at her ears. Oh, to have her trunk and be off to the hotel with the other passengers. She rubbed her jacketed arms as couples claimed their baggage and trudged through the snow toward waiting hacks and buggies. With this delay, there might be no rooms left when she got there.

  Stomping her freezing feet against the platform boards, she looked again for a porter. She had assumed the train would press on to Leadville without stopping for the night. “Assumption is the devil’s joke on the unwitting.” Her grandmother’s brittle warning chafed, and the woman’s disapproving tsks rang in Ara’s ears. Or was that the pop and snap of the engine as it cooled?

  Horses whinnied and tossed their heads as they pulled from the station. She stiffened against the bluster of wind and panic. She would make her own way without her uncle’s ordering of her every step and Grandmother’s resentful regard—as if Ara could go back and change her parentage. The train heaved a dying breath, and the engineer stepped from his cab. The conductor followed. Where were the porters with her trunk?

  The brown-bowlered man exited the car, looked both ways, and skimmed over her as if she didn’t exist. She was not fooled and turned quickly for the depot. An inside bench would serve if need be, but she’d not be ogled by that man any longer.

  The fine hairs on her neck sprang like porcupine quills. He was following her. “Ladies do not run.” She lifted her skirt and quickened her pace. As she neared the depot door, the clerk reached for the shade. Casting off Grandmother’s drill, she ran and grabbed the brass doorknob. “Please,” she mouthed.

  He shook his head, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and dropped the shade. The light dimmed within, and she turned to see the bowlered man a few paces away, lighting a pipe. The flare of his match lit pale eyes that watched her askance. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t know his name, but she knew he was one of her uncle’s lackeys, one willing to do for a price what her uncle would not.

  Well, she’d not be bullied back to Chicago to be sold as a bride to the highest bidder. Uncle Victor could solidify his latest business alliance some other way. With tight resolve, she raised her chin and walked calmly toward the end of the building. At the corner, she turned and ran, skirts a-flying, to the nearest wagon. Tossing in her bag, she grasped the side but stopped short at the bared and snarling teeth in her face.

  A scream lodged in her throat, but she scuttled to the harnessed horse where she dared draw in a desperate breath. A dinner biscuit from her skirt pocket abated the nag’s nervous whinny. “There now, old girl,” she whispered, her voice betraying her racing heart. A velvety nose rippled over her shaking hand, lipping up the broken bread. “You wouldn’t give me away, would you?”

  Pulling in great gulps of cold air, she spied the dog watching her from the wagon bed, head cocked and sharp ears pointing.

  She dug in her pockets for another bribe but found only a hanky and a paper with the name of the Leadville banker she was to contact upon her arrival. She had to get her belongings, guard dog or no.

  Easing closer to the board, she sent up a silent prayer and cooed at the beast. It seemed to warm to her voice and laid its ears down. The tail wagged. “Good boy you are, guarding your master’s wagon. Might I retrieve my bag, please?”

  Suddenly the dog crouched and turned from her with a chilling growl as the brown bowler came round the depot. Ara dropped to her knees and crawled under the wagon. Pipe smoke pinched her nostrils, and her chest seized.

  The mongrel lunged against the side boards, drawing uncivilized expletives from the man’s throat and distance from his feet. In his fright he dropped his pipe and stooped quickly to retrieve it. Ara feared she’d been found out, but he showed no sign of spotting her and fled the area, leaving a trail of curses behind.

  Returning to its previous position, the dog waited quietly for a moment then rumbled a low beckoning. Ara crawled out, peered into the shadows hugging the depot, and slowly straightened. Brushing off her skirts, she spoke again in soft tones.

  “You old love. If I had another biscuit, I’d let you have it for sure.” Afraid to pet the animal, she eyed her bag so foolishly thrown into the wagon before she knew what else was there. “Will you let me get my things?”

  The ears flattened again and the cur smiled, if that was possible. But in Ara’s unsettled condition, she believed—and hoped—anything was possible and made for the back of the wagon.

  Black-and-white paws matched her steps and stopped by the carpetbag.

  “There’s a good boy. I’ll just be taking my—”

  The dog clamped upon the handle, dragged the bag to the center of the wagon bed, and sat protectively beside it.

  “Well, I never!” Narrowing her eyes, she drew herself up. “I’ll not be had by a dog.”

  A slight woof puffed from the pointed snout.

  “We’ll just see about that.” She marched around to the wheel, yanked her skirts above her knees, and climbed the spokes. The dog looked away as if scandalized.

  Ara stepped into the bed and froze as mangled strains of a Christmas carol rose from the alley, coming her way. She glared at the dog, who again seized the handle in its jaws. With no other recourse but to leave her belongings and risk running into her uncle’s shady minion, she dove to the rough boards, flattened against the outer edge, and jerked a loose tarp over her feet and head.

  “God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay—”

  She clapped her ha
nds over her ears. Dismay, indeed. Have mercy!

  The dog howled then shook the wagon as it bounded to the edge.

  “That bad, ol’ boy? I don’t sing any worse than you.”

  A muffled woof and exuberant wiggling indicated its master had returned. A decided tilt as the man climbed to the seat threatened to roll Ara like a Yule log from her hiding place. Whoever he was, he was either rotund or robust. At least he wasn’t the brown bowler.

  With a light slap and a hearty “giddyap, ol’ girl,” the mare took to the road. Ara sucked in a dusty breath. Should she rise and call out? Demand the driver take her to the hotel—where there may be no rooms? What if her uncle’s hireling was watching? With a drawn-out groan, the dog settled its warm body against her. O Lord, what had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter 2

  Nate Horne bunched his shoulders and pulled his hat down. A ground blizzard would drift what snow they already had at the ranch and close the road he traveled. He called Beetle, but the dog didn’t respond. A quick glance found it curled against a tarp, tail wrapped round its nose like a squirrel in a knothole. Nate reached back and rubbed the speckled ears and re-counted the crates and barrels he’d taken on at the mercantile before going to supper. He roughed the dog’s side with hearty approval. It’d sooner take a man’s hand off than let a thief steal their stores.

  He didn’t recall, but whatever lay in the tarp would be frozen before he got home. Just like him. Thanks to all the train passengers, he wouldn’t be staying at the hotel as planned. Rooms had disappeared like cabbage in the chicken yard.

  “Get on, girl. No sense dragging it out.” The wind cut cold against his face, freezing his lashes. He pulled his neckerchief over his nose and ducked his head.

  Atop the first of many hills into the backcountry, a hearty gust cleared the air for a spell and a black vault opened above him, sparkling like a diamond-littered canopy. The spectacle took his breath away—that and the muffled sneeze from the wagon bed.

  Beetle didn’t sneeze like that.

  Nate eased off the road and set the brake. He tucked his coat flap behind his holster, settled a hand on his gun, and stepped over the seat. Beetle flattened his ears and looked away as if caught chewing the tablecloth from the clothesline again. Nate waved him off, and he slunk to a corner, guilt painted all over his mottled face.

  The gun slid smooth, and the cold hammer click spurred movement beneath the tarp. “Out.” He raked his eyes the length of the roll, searching for the business end of a gun. Something squirmed then stilled. At the top, the canvas tucked down, and a woman’s green hat peeked out, followed by two enormous dark eyes. “Stand up.”

  Gloved fingers tugged the tarp under a pointed chin. “But it’s s–s–so cold.”

  “Now.” Relieved to see the rest of her clothes matched her hat and not some saloon gal’s get-up, he eased the trigger back but kept the gun trained. He’d heard about women with derringers in their skirts or handbag or wherever. His neck warmed as a few wherevers piled up at the back of his mind. “Drop the tarp and show me your hands.”

  She complied and shivered against a hard-hitting gust. He waved the gun toward the seat. Looking away while she maneuvered over the bench, he met the dog’s reproachful glare. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said under his breath. It dropped its head and grunted down on its front paws.

  Nate holstered his gun. “Scoot over.”

  She scooted. He sat on her right, keeping his gun from her reach. As tall as she was, if she’d a mind to wrestle him for it, she might put up a good fight. He had never hit a woman—or knocked one out of a wagon—and he didn’t want to start tonight. He pulled the tarp over the seat and handed it to her. “It’ll be a couple hours before we get to the ranch, and you’ll freeze to death in those fancy riggin’s.”

  Her eyes grew even bigger. “Two hours? Ranch? But I must stay in Spruce City!” Her teeth chattered as she stood and wrapped the tarp around her like a squaw then hunched on the seat next to him.

  “Closer to three, and we’re not turning back.”

  She blinked, and tears bunched up in her eyes.

  “Quit that, or your eyes’ll freeze shut.”

  She stared at him, rubbed her face with gloved fingers, and jabbed out her chin. “They will not.”

  “Suit yourself.” He gathered the reins, released the brake, and clucked Rose on. They’d be even later now.

  Ara had read about ranchers out West. They all wore spurs and chewed tobacco and slurred their speech. Of course, she’d kept her dime novels well hidden from Grandmother and Uncle Victor—beneath her unmentionables. And when she left, she’d tucked them into her trunk.

  Her trunk. Would she ever see it again? Would she ever make it back to Spruce City and on to Leadville? She’d given her word to arrive mid-November. She turned to the stranger whose face was swathed in a knotted neckerchief and nearly hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “We have to go back.”

  He grunted and kept driving. It was like talking to the dog.

  “Please, I have to be on the train tomorrow morning. I’m meeting someone in Leadville.”

  He slanted her an eyes-only look she’d expect from a bandit. What kind of person had she attached herself to? She snugged the tarp tighter and squeezed her eyes shut against the wind. How foolish she’d been to toss her bag willy-nilly into an unknown wagon, and then herself. She’d been so desperate to elude the bowlered man that she’d let go of her wits and now bounced along next to a horrific singer who draped himself like a bedouin. A sudden jolt shot her eyes open. Snow danced in swirling eddies against the wagon and across their path.

  “Badger hole.”

  Another jolt knocked her against the man’s shoulder, and she jerked back. His eyes slid her way. “I won’t bite.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she envied the dog snug and content in its thick coat.

  “But he might.”

  The stranger did not laugh outright, but she heard it in his tone. How dare he.

  “What were you doin’ in my buckboard?”

  She gritted her teeth. Could she trust him? She peeked his way, allowing that he hadn’t put her out along the road to die from the cold or Indian attack or some other unthinkable fate. “I was trying to get my bag.”

  He turned in the seat, searching the wagon’s contents. “What’s it doing back there?”

  “Your dog dragged it to the center where I couldn’t reach it.”

  Another shaded look. “And how did Beetle get it?”

  Beetle? What an odd name for a dog. “He dragged it there.”

  The man pulled his neckerchief over his nose and mumbled something behind his hand. She was certain he’d sworn.

  “You put it in the wagon?”

  She pressed her lips together and tugged the tarp higher. “Yes.”

  He leaned closer. “What?”

  She leaned away. “Yes. I put it there.”

  “Look, ma’am, you’d best tell me what’s going on ‘fore we get to the ranch. It’ll make a difference in what happens once we get there.”

  In spite of the ma’am, fear shot straight from her frozen backside to the roots of her elegantly pinned hair.

  Chapter 3

  Nate looked at the woman hunched beside him. “What’s your name?”

  She turned her big doe eyes on him. “Ara.”

  It sounded like air-uh, like a breath. “Ara what?”

  She hesitated. If she said Smith, he’d know she was lying.

  “Taube. Arabella Taube.” The panic had dimmed.

  He slid her another look. She started battin’ her eyes again. No wailing, just a small jerk with every silent sob. Finally, she pulled the tarp over her green hat and buried her face in her hands. Hang fire, he could sober a bawlin’ calf but not a crying woman, not even his own ma. What was he supposed to do with this one?

  Something deep inside him wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her close. He gripped the reins tighter. Not happening. He�
�d as soon rope a rattler than tangle with a female who misunderstood his intentions.

  A fat flake dropped on his knee and quivered into a wet spot. He raised his head and another fell on his face. The clouds had dipped low and thrown open their shutters, about to empty their load.

  Numb all over except where she slept against him the last hour, Nate pulled up in front of the ranch-house steps. He’d tucked the gal under his arm to keep her from sliding off the seat, and she’d murmured but didn’t rouse. She fit against him as if she were made special order for his long, lanky frame. Leadville, she’d said. Maybe she was some rich man’s bride-to-be, but tonight he’d make sure she was warm and safe.

  A shadow crossed one of the two front windows, and the wide door swung open. His ma hurried out, wrapped in a quilt and holding a lamp. “You’re home.” The wind snatched at her words.

  He ducked his hat against the snow and tied off the reins. “Out,” he told Beetle, and the dog flew over the wagon boards and into the house. His ma leaned from the top step and held up the lamp. As gently as lifting a newborn foal, Nate scooped Ara into his arms, stepped down with a slight jostle, and carried her inside, tarp and all. His ma followed and shouldered the door closed.

  A glowing fire warmed the parlor, and he laid his bundle on the settee.

  “Is she hurt?”

  The cold knots in his back and legs kinked tighter as he straightened. Moving to the fire, he rubbed his hands together and turned to warm his back. “Not far as I can tell.”

  “Where’d she come from, and why did you bring her out here in a blizzard?”

  “I didn’t know she was in the back of the wagon till she sneezed.”

  His ma raised an eyebrow.

  “She rolled herself in the tarp. By the time I heard her, we were too far out to turn around.” He backed closer to the fire and flexed his shoulders in the warmth. “The hotel filled up with train passengers, or I’d be in town, too.”