His little girl. About to be married.
Married.
She’d been twelve when she’d come to live with him—before that, he hadn’t even known she existed. For a brief, poignant moment, he yearned for those lost years—Lizzie, learning to walk and talk. Wearing bows in her hair. Coming to him with skinned knees, disappointments and little-girl secrets.
But if there was one thing he’d learned in his life, it was that there was no sense in regretting the past. The present, that was what was important. It was all any of them really had.
The children in the congregation were restless, having sat through the service—it was Christmas Eve, after all—and the adults were eager. A low murmur rose from the crowd, and then a small voice rang out like a bell.
“Is it over yet?”
Doss, his and Lorelei’s youngest.
The wedding guests laughed, and Holt joined in. Relaxed a little when his gaze connected with Lorelei’s. She favored him with a smile and nodded slightly.
Holt nodded back. I love you, he told her silently.
And she nodded again.
Holt shifted his attention to the bridegroom.
The man standing up there at the altar, straight-backed and bright-eyed, was the right man for Lizzie, Holt was convinced of that. He suspected they’d jumped the gun a little, Lizzie and Morgan, and if Morgan hadn’t been exactly who he was, Holt would have horsewhipped him for it.
They were young, as Lorelei had reminded him, when he’d told her he thought the bride and groom had been practicing up for the wedding night ahead of time, and they were in love.
He warmed at the memory of Lorelei’s smile. “Remember how it was with us?” she’d asked. In truth, that part of their relationship hadn’t changed. They had children and a home together now, so they couldn’t be quite as spontaneous as they’d once been, but the passion between them was as fiery as ever.
The organist struck the first note of the wedding march.
“Ready?” Holt asked his daughter, his voice coming out gruff since there was a lump the size of Texas in his throat.
“Ready,” Lizzie assured him gently, squeezing his arm. “I love you, Papa.”
Tears scalded Holt’s eyes. “I love you right back, Lizzie-bet,” he replied.
And they started toward the front of the church, where Morgan and Preacher Reynolds waited. The crowd blurred around Holt, and he wondered if Lizzie sensed that they were stepping out of an old world and into a brand-new one. Things would be different after tonight.
SHE WAS SO BEAUTIFUL, Morgan thought, as he watched Lizzie gliding toward him on her father’s arm, a vision in her spectacular home-sewn dress. There was love in every stitch and fold of that gown and in every tiny crystal bead glittering on the bodice. Though he wasn’t a fanciful man, Morgan knew in that moment that one day he and Lizzie would have a daughter, and she, too, would wear this dress. He’d know how Holt felt, when that day came. At the moment, he could only guess.
Finally Lizzie stood beside him.
His head felt light, and he braced his knees. Damn, but he was lucky. Luckier than he’d ever dreamed he could be.
“Who giveth this woman in marriage?” the preacher asked, raising his voice to be heard over the blizzard raging outside.
“Lorelei and I do,” Holt answered gravely. He kissed the top of Lizzie’s head and went to sit beside Lorelei in the front pew, along with Angus and Concepcion.
Morgan smiled to himself. Earlier in the evening, Angus had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever did anything to hurt Lizzie, he’d get a hiding for it.
The holy words were said, the vows exchanged.
And then the preacher pronounced Lizzie and Morgan man and wife.
“You may kiss the bride,” Reynolds said.
His hands shaking a little—the hands that were so steady holding a scalpel or binding a wound—Morgan raised Lizzie’s veil and gazed down into her upturned face, wonderstruck. She glowed, as though a light were burning inside her.
He kissed her, not hungrily, as he would later that night, when they were alone in the cottage, but reverently. A sacred charge passed between them, as though they had not only been joined on earth, but in heaven, too, and for all of time and eternity.
The organ thundered again, a joyous, triumphant sound, bouncing off the walls of that frontier church, and again a child’s voice piped above the joyous chaos.
“It’s over!”
Morgan laughed along with everybody else, but he was thinking, It isn’t over. Oh, no. This is only the start.
THE RECEPTION WAS HELD IN the lobby of the Arizona Hotel, where a giant Christmas tree loomed over the proceedings, glittering with tinsel and blown-glass balls, presents piled high beneath it. Knowing the family wouldn’t be able to get back to the ranch after the wedding, because of the storm, Lizzie’s grandfather had had everything loaded onto hay sleds and brought to town. Most of the McKettricks would be staying at the hotel, while the overflow spent the night with the Thaddingses.
Lizzie, dazed with happiness, ate cake and posed for the photographer, with Morgan beside her. There were piles of wedding gifts: homemade quilts, preserves, embroidered dish towels and pillowcases. She was hugged, kissed, congratulated and teased.
A band played, and she danced with her father first, then her grandfather, then each of her uncles in turn. By the time Morgan claimed his dance, Lizzie was winded.
When the time finally came for her and Morgan to take their leave, Lizzie was both relieved and quivery with nervous anticipation. She was Morgan’s wife, now. And she had a gift for him that couldn’t be wrapped in pretty paper and tied with a shimmery ribbon.
How would he respond when she told him?
A horse-drawn sleigh awaited the bride and groom in the snowy street outside. Lizzie left her veil in Lorelei’s care, and they hastened toward the sleigh, Morgan bundling Lizzie quickly in thick blankets before huddling in beside her. Looking through the blinding flurries of white, she saw a figure hunched at the reins and wondered which of her uncles was driving.
The sleigh carried them swiftly through the night.
Lamps burned in the cottage windows when they arrived, glowing golden through the storm.
Morgan helped Lizzie down from the sleigh, swept her up into his arms, and carried her up the path to the front door. Looking back over her new husband’s shoulder, Lizzie caught the briefest glimpse of the driver as he lifted his hat, and recognized Mr. Christmas. She started to call out to him, but the blizzard intensified and horse, sleigh and driver disappeared in a great, glittering swirl of snow.
And then they were inside, over the threshold.
Someone had decorated a small Christmas tree, and placed it on a table in front of the window. Lizzie nearly knocked it over, rushing to look outside, hoping to see her unlikely angel again.
The wind had stopped, and the snow fell softly now, slowly, big, fluffy flakes of it, blanketing the street in peace.
“Lizzie, what is it?” Morgan asked, standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her back against him.
“I thought I saw—”
“What?”
She sighed, turned to Morgan, smiled up at him. “I thought I saw an angel,” she said.
Morgan smiled, kissed her forehead. “It’s Christmas Eve. There might be an angel or two around.”
Lizzie swallowed, thinking that if she loved this man even a little bit more, she’d burst with the pure, elemental force of it. She paused, smiled. “I have a Christmas gift for you, Morgan,” she told him, very quietly.
He glanced down at the packages under the little tree, raised an eyebrow in question.
She took his hand, pressed it lightly to her lower abdomen. “A baby,” she said. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Morgan’s face was a study in startled delight. “When, Lizzie?”
“July, I think,” she replied, feeling shy. And much relieved. A part of her hadn�
��t been sure Morgan would be pleased, since they were so newly married and had yet to establish a home together.
Gently, Morgan untied the laces of her cloak, slid it off her shoulders, laid it aside. “July,” he repeated.
“There’ll be some gossip,” she warned. “I’m the schoolmarm, after all.”
Morgan chuckled, his eyes alight with love. “You know what they say. The first baby can come anytime, the rest take nine months.”
Lizzie was too happy to worry about gossip. She wasn’t the first pregnant bride in Indian Rock, or in the McKettrick family, and she wouldn’t be the last. “You’re really glad, then?” She had to ask. “You don’t wish we’d had more time?”
“I wouldn’t change anything, Lizzie. Not anything at all.”
She sniffled. “I love you so much it scares me, Dr. Morgan Shane.”
He kissed her, lightly, the way he’d done in front of the altar earlier that night, when the preacher pronounced them man and wife. “And I love you, Mrs. Shane.”
She laughed, and they drew apart, and Lizzie glanced at the little tree and the packages beneath it. “Did you do this?” she asked.
Morgan shook his head. “I thought you did,” he replied.
“It must have been Lorelei, or the aunts,” Lizzie said, pleasantly puzzled. She picked up one of the packages and recognized her stepmother’s handwriting. “To Morgan,” the tag read. “Open it,” she urged.
Morgan’s expression showed clearly that he had other things in mind than opening Christmas presents, but he took the parcel and unwrapped it just the same. Inside was an exquisitely made toy locomotive, of shining black metal—a reminder of how he and Lizzie had met.
He smiled, admiring it. “Open yours,” he said.
Lizzie reached for the second parcel, gently tore away the ribbon and brightly colored paper. Lorelei had given her a baby’s christening gown, frothy with lace, and a tiny bonnet to match.
“They knew,” she marveled.
Morgan’s grin was mischievous. “Maybe we were too obvious,” he said.
Lizzie’s cheeks warmed.
Morgan laughed and curved a finger under her chin. “Lizzie,” he said, “Holt and Lorelei aren’t exactly doddering old folks. They’re in love, too, remember?”
She smiled. Nodded. “I’d like to change out of this dress,” she said.
Morgan’s eyes smoldered. “You do that,” he replied gruffly. “I’ll build up the fire a little.”
Lizzie nodded and headed for the bedroom, stopping on the threshold to gasp. “Morgan!” she called.
He joined her.
A beautiful bed stood in the place that had been so noticeably vacant before, the headboard intricately carved with the image of a great, leafy oak, spreading its branches alongside a flowing creek. Birds soared against a cloud-strewn sky, and both their names had been carved into the trunk of the tree, inside a heart. Lizzie + Morgan.
Lizzie drew in her breath. This was her father’s wedding gift, to her and to Morgan. It was more than a piece of furniture, more than an heirloom that would be passed down for generations. It was his blessing, on them and on their marriage.
“Lizzie McKettrick Shane,” Morgan said, leaning to kiss the side of her neck, “you come from quite a family.”
She nodded, moved closer to the bed, stroked the fine woodwork with the tips of her fingers, marveling at the time, thought and love that had gone into such a creation. “And now you’re part of it,” she told Morgan. “You and our baby and all the other babies that will come along later.”
Morgan lingered in the doorway, framed there, looking so handsome in his new suit, specially bought for the wedding, that Lizzie etched the moment into her memory, to keep forever. Her husband. Even when she was an old, old lady, creaky-boned and wrinkled, she knew she would recall every detail of the way he looked that night.
“I’ll see to the fire,” he said, after a long, long time.
Lizzie nodded, shyly now. Waited until Morgan had stepped away from the door before taking a lacy nightgown from the trunk containing her trousseau and changing into it. She folded her wedding gown carefully, placed it in a box set aside for the purpose. She took down her hair and brushed it in front of the vanity mirror until it shone.
Morgan had never seen her with her hair down.
Warmth filled the cottage and, one by one, the lamps in the parlor went out. Lizzie waited, her heart racing a little.
Morgan filled the bedroom doorway again, a man-shaped shadow, rimmed in faint, wintry light. The sweet silence of the snow outside seemed to muffle all sound. They might have been alone in the world that Christmas Eve, she and Morgan, two wanderers who’d somehow found their way to each other after long and difficult journeys.
Morgan whispered her name, came toward her.
She slipped into his arms.
They’d looked forward to making love on their wedding night, both of them. Now, by tacit agreement, they waited, savoring every nuance of being together.
Morgan threaded his hands through Lizzie’s hair.
She felt beautiful.
“To think,” Morgan said quietly, “that I almost didn’t get on that train last Christmas.”
“Don’t think,” Lizzie teased. He’d said the same thing to her, once, while they were stranded on the mountainside.
He chuckled, and kissed her with restrained passion. Eagerness and wanting sang through Lizzie, but she was willing to wait. There was no hurry: she and Morgan were married now, after all. They would make love countless times in the days, weeks, months and years ahead.
They’d already conceived a child, and Lizzie knew something of the pleasures awaiting her, but tonight was special. It was their first time as husband and wife.
Her breath caught, and her heartbeat quickened as Morgan caressed her, touching her lightly in all the places she loved to be touched, all the places she needed to be touched.
She gave herself up to him, completely, joyously, with little gasps and sighs as he pleasured her, slowly. Ever so slowly, and with such expertise that Lizzie wished that night would never end.
She was transported, in the bed with the tree carved into the headboard. She died there, and was reborn, a new woman, even stronger than before. She gasped and whimpered and sobbed out Morgan’s name, clinging to him with everything she had, riding wave after wave of sacred satisfaction.
Hours passed before they slept, sated and spent, arms and legs entwined.
Lizzie awakened first, to the cold, snowy light of a clear Christmas morning. The fire had gone out during the night, but she was warm, through and through, snuggled close to Morgan under a heavy layer of quilts.
He stirred beside her, opened his eyes. “I’d better get the fire going,” he said, his voice sleepy.
“Not yet,” Lizzie whispered, burrowing closer to him.
“We’ll freeze,” he said.
Lizzie laughed and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she answered, nibbling mischievously at his neck.
He rolled on top of her, his elbows pressed into the mattress on either side. “Have I married a hussy?” he asked.
“Most definitely,” Lizzie answered, beaming. “And you thought I was only a schoolmarm.”
Morgan laughed, and the sound was beautiful to Lizzie, and in the distance the church bells pealed, ringing in Christmas.
A CREED COUNTRY CHRISTMAS
For Jean Woofter
With love and gratitude
CHAPTER ONE
Stillwater Springs, Montana
December 20, 1910
THE INTERIOR OF WILLAND’S Mercantile, redolent of saddle leather and wood smoke, seemed to recede as Juliana Mitchell stood at the counter, holding her breath.
The letter had finally arrived.
The letter Juliana had waited for, prayed for, repeatedly inquired after—at considerable cost to her pride—and, paradoxically, dreaded.
Her heart hitched pain fully as she accepted the envelope from the
storekeeper’s out stretched hand; the handwriting, a slanted scrawl penned in black ink, was definitely her brother Clay’s. The postmark read Denver.
In the distance, the snow-muffled shrill of a train whistle announced the imminent arrival of the four o’clock from Missoula, which passed through town only once a week, bound for points south.
Juliana was keenly aware of the four children still in her charge, waiting just inside the door of a place where they knew they were patently unwelcome. She turned away from the counter—and the storekeeper’s disapproving gaze—to fumble with the circle of red wax bearing Clay’s imposing seal.
Please, God, she prayed silently. Please.
After drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, Juliana bit her lower lip, took out the single sheet folded inside.
Her heart, here to fore wedged into her throat, plummeted to the soles of her practical shoes. Her vision blurred.
Her brother hadn’t enclosed the desperately needed funds she’d asked for—money that was right fully her own, a part of the legacy her grand mother had left her. She could not purchase train tickets for herself and her charges, and the Indian School, their home and hers for the past two years, was no longer government property. The small but sturdy building had been sold to a neighboring farmer, and he planned to stable cows inside it.
Now the plank floor seemed to buckle slightly under Juliana’s feet. The heat from the potbellied stove in the center of the store, so welcome only a few minutes before when she and the children had come in out of the blustery cold, all of them dappled with fat flakes of snow, threatened to smother Juliana now.
The little bell over the door jingled, indicating the arrival of another customer, but Juliana did not look up from the page in her hand. The words swam before her, making no more sense to her fitful mind than ancient Hebrew would have done.
A brief, frenzied hope stirred within Juliana. Perhaps all was not lost, perhaps Clay, not trusting the postal service, had wired the money she needed. It might be waiting for her, at that very moment, just down the street at the telegraph office.
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