Her eyes stung with the swift and sobering realization that she was grasping at straws. She blinked and forced herself to read what her older brother and legal guardian had written.
My Dear Sister,
I trust this letter will find you well.
Nora, the children and I are all in robust health. Your niece and nephew constantly in quire as to your whereabouts, as do certain other parties.
I regret that I cannot in good con science remit the funds you have re quested, for reasons that should be obvious to you….
Juliana crumpled the sheet of expensive vellum, nearly ill with disappointment and the helpless frustration that generally resulted from any dealings with her brother, direct or indirect.
“Are you all right, miss?” a male voice asked, strong and quiet.
Startled, Juliana looked up, saw a tall man standing directly in front of her. His eyes and hair were dark, the round brim of his hat and the shoulders of his long coat dusted with snow.
Waiting politely for her answer, he took off his hat. Hung it from the post of a wooden chair, smiled.
“I’m Lincoln Creed,” he said, gruffly kind, pulling off a leather glove before extending his hand.
Juliana hesitated, offered her own hand in return. She knew the name, of course—the Creeds owned the largest cattle ranch in that part of the state, and the Stillwater Springs Courier, too. Although Juliana had had encounters with Weston, the brother who ran the newspaper, and briefly met the Widow Creed, the matriarch of the family, she’d never crossed paths with Lincoln.
“Juliana Mitchell,” she said, with the proper balance of reticence and politeness. She’d been gently raised, after all. A hundred years ago—a thousand—she’d called one of the finest mansions in Denver home. She’d worn imported silks and velvets and fashionable hats, ridden in carriages with liveried drivers and even footmen.
Remembering made her faintly ashamed.
All that, of course, had been before her fall from social grace.
Before Clay, as administrator of their grandmother’s estate, had all but disinherited her.
Mr. Creed dropped his gaze to the letter. “Bad news?” he asked, with an unsettling note of discernment. He might have had Indian blood himself, with his high cheek bones and raven-black hair.
The train whistle gave another triumphant squeal. It had pulled into the rickety little depot at the edge of town, right on schedule. Passengers would alight, others would board. Mail and freight would be loaded and unloaded. And then the engine would chug out of the station, the line of cars rattling behind it.
A full week would pass before another train came through.
In the meantime, Juliana and the children would have no choice but to throw them selves upon the uncertain mercies of the townspeople. In a larger community, she might have turned to a church for assistance, but there weren’t any in Stillwater Springs. The faithful met sporadically, in the one-room school house where only white students were allowed when the circuit preacher came through.
Juliana swallowed, wanting to cry, and determined that she wouldn’t. “I’m afraid it is bad news,” she admitted in belated answer to Mr. Creed’s question.
He took a gentle hold on her elbow, escorted her to one of the empty wooden chairs over by the potbellied stove. Sat her down. “Did somebody die?” he asked.
Numb with distraction, Juliana shook her head.
What in the world was she going to do now? Without money, she could not purchase train tickets for herself and the children, or even arrange for temporary lodgings of some sort.
Mr. Creed inclined his head toward the children lined up in front of the display window, with its spindly but glittering Christmas tree. They’d turned their backs now, to look at the decorations and the elaborate toys tucked into the branches and arranged attractively underneath.
“I guess you must be the teacher from out at the Indian School,” he said.
Mr. Willand, the mercantile’s proprietor, interrupted with a harrumph sound.
Juliana ached as she watched the children. The storekeeper was keeping a close eye on them, too. Like so many people, he reasoned that simply because they were Indians, they were sure to steal, afforded the slightest opportunity. “Yes,” she replied, practiced at ignoring such attitudes, if not resigned to them. “Or, at least, I was. The school is closed now.”
Lincoln Creed nodded after skewering Mr. Willand with a glare. “I was sorry to hear it,” he told her.
“No letters came since you were in here last week, Lincoln,” Willand broke in, with some satisfaction. The very atmosphere of that store, over heated and close, seemed to bristle with mutual dislike. “Reckon you can wait around and see if there were any on today’s train, but my guess is you wasted your money, putting all those advertisements in all them newspapers.”
“Everyone is sorry, Mr. Creed,” Juliana said quietly. “But no one seems inclined to help.”
Momentarily distracted by Mr. Willand’s remark, Lincoln didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was nearly drowned out by the scream of the train whistle.
Juliana stood up, remembered anew that her situation was hopeless, and sat down again, hard, all the strength gone from her knees. Perhaps she’d used it up, walking the two miles into town from the school, with every one of her worldly possessions tucked into a single worn-out satchel. Each of the children had carried a small bundle, too, leaving them on the sidewalk outside the door of the mercantile with Juliana’s bag.
“There’s a storm coming, Miss—er—Mitchell,” Lincoln Creed said. “It’s cold and getting colder, and it’ll be dark soon. I didn’t see a rig outside, so I figure you must have walked to town. I’ve got my team and buck board outside, and I’d be glad to give you and those kids a ride to wherever you’re headed.”
Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes, shaming her, and her throat tightened pain fully. Wherever she was headed? Nowhere was where she was headed.
Stillwater Springs had a hotel and several boarding houses, but even if she’d had the where withal to pay for a room and meals, most likely none of them would have accepted the children, anyway.
They’d hurried so, trying to get to Stillwater Springs before the train left, Juliana desperately counting on the funds from Clay even against her better judgment, but there had been delays. Little Daisy falling and skinning one knee, a huge band of sheep crossing the road and blocking their way, the limp that plagued twelve-year-old Theresa, with her twisted foot.
Lincoln broke into her thoughts. “Miss Mitchell?” he prompted.
Mr. Willand slammed something down hard on the counter, causing Juliana to start. “Don’t you touch none of that merchandise!” he shouted, and Joseph, the eldest of Juliana’s pupils at fourteen, pulled his hand back from the display window. “Damn thievin’ Injuns—”
Poor Joseph looked crestfallen. Theresa, his sister, trembled, while the two littlest children, Billy-Moses, who was four, and Daisy, three, rushed to Juliana and clung to her skirts in fear.
“The boy wasn’t doing any harm, Fred,” Lincoln told the store keeper evenly, rising slowly out of his chair. “No need to raise your voice, or accuse him, either.”
Mr. Willand reddened. “You have a grocery order?” he asked, glowering at Lincoln Creed.
“Just came by to see if I had mail,” Lincoln said, with a shake of his head. “Couldn’t get here before now, what with the hard weather coming on.” He paused, turned to Juliana. “Best we get you to wherever it is you’re going,” he said.
“We don’t have anyplace to go, mister,” Joseph said, still standing near the display window, but careful to keep his hands visible at his sides. Since he rarely spoke, especially to strangers, Juliana was startled.
And as des per ate as she was, the words chafed her pride.
Lincoln frowned, obviously confused. “What?”
“They might take us in over at the Diamond Buckle Saloon,” Theresa said, lifting her chin. “If we work for
our keep.”
Lincoln stared at the girl, con founded. “The Diamond Buckle…?”
Juliana didn’t trust herself to speak without breaking down completely. If she did not remain strong, the children would have no hope at all.
“Mr. Weston Creed said he’d teach me to set type,” Joseph reminded Juliana. “Bet I could sleep in the back room at the news pa per, and I don’t need much to eat. You wouldn’t have to fret about me, Miss Mitchell.” He glanced worriedly at his sister, swallowed hard. He was old enough to under stand the dangers a place like the Diamond Buckle might harbor for a young girl, even if Theresa wasn’t.
Lincoln raised both hands, palms out, in a bid for silence.
Everyone stared at him, including Juliana, who had pulled little Daisy onto her lap.
“All of you,” Lincoln said, addressing the children, “gather up whatever things you’ve got and get into the back of my buck board. You’ll find some blankets there—wrap up warm, because it’s three miles to the ranch house and there’s an icy wind blowing in from the north west.”
Juliana stood, gently displacing Daisy, careful to keep the child close against her side. “Mr. Creed, we couldn’t accept…” Her voice fell away, and mortification burned in her cheeks.
“Seems to me,” Lincoln said, “you don’t have much of a choice. I’m offering you and these children a place to stay, Miss Mitchell. Just till you can figure out what to do next.”
“You’d let these savages set foot under the same roof with your little Gracie?” Mr. Willand blustered, incensed. He’d crossed the otherwise-empty store, shouldered Joseph aside to peer into the display window and make sure nothing was missing.
The air pulsed again.
Lincoln took a step toward the store keeper.
By instinct, Juliana grasped Mr. Creed’s arm to stop him. Even through the heavy fabric of his coat, she could feel that his muscles were steely with tension—he was barely containing his temper. “The children are used to remarks like that,” she said quietly, anxious to keep the peace. “They know they aren’t savages.”
“Get into the wagon,” Lincoln said. He didn’t pull free of Juliana’s touch, nor did he look away from Mr. Willand’s crimson face. “All of you.”
The children looked to Juliana, their dark, luminous eyes liquid with wary question.
She nodded, silently giving her permission.
Almost as one, they scram bled for the door, causing the bell to clamor merrily overhead. Even Daisy, clinging until a moment before, peeled away from Juliana’s side.
After pulling her cloak more closely around her and raising the hood against the cold wind, Juliana followed.
LINCOLN WATCHED THEM GO. He’d hung his hat on one of the spindle-backed wooden chairs next to the stove earlier, and he reached for it. “There’s enough grief and sorrow in this world,” he told the store keeper, “without folks like you adding to it.”
Willand was un daunted, though Lincoln noticed he stayed well behind the counter, within bolting distance of the back door. “We’ll see what Mrs. Creed says, when you turn up on her doorstep with a tribe of Injuns—”
Lincoln shoved his hat down on top of his head with a little more force than the effort required. His wife, Beth, had died two years before, of a fever, so Willand was referring to his mother. Cora Creed would indeed have been surprised to find five extra people seated around her supper table that night—if Lincoln hadn’t left her with enough bags to fill a freight car at the train depot before stopping by the mercantile. She was headed for Phoenix, where she liked to winter with her kinfolks, the Dawsons.
“I’ll be back tomorrow if I get the chance,” he said, starting for the door. With that storm coming and cattle to feed, he couldn’t be sure. “To see if any letters came in on today’s train.”
Willand glanced at the big regulator clock on the wall behind him. “My boy’s gone to the depot, like always, and he’ll be here with the mail bag any minute now,” he said grudgingly. “Might as well wait.”
Lincoln went to the window, looked past his own reflection in the darkening glass—God, he hated the short ness of winter days—to see Miss Mitchell settling her unlikely brood in the bed of his wagon. Some thing warmed inside him, shifted. The slightest smile tilted one corner of his mouth.
He’d been advertising for a governess for his seven-year-old daughter, Gracie, and a house keeper for the both of them for nearly a year; failing either of those, he’d settle for a wife, and because he knew he’d never love another woman the way he’d loved Beth, he wasn’t too choosey in his requirements.
Juliana Mitchell, with her womanly figure, indigo-blue eyes and those tendrils of coppery hair peeking out from under her worn bonnet, was clearly dedicated to her profession, since she’d stayed to look after those children even now that the Indian School had closed down. A lot of schoolmarms wouldn’t have done that.
This spoke well for her character, and when it came to looks, she was a better bargain than anyone all those advertisements might have scared up.
Glancing down at the display, with all the toys Willand was hoping to sell before Christmas, Lincoln’s gaze fell on the corner of a metal box, tucked at an odd angle under the bunting beneath the tree. He reached for the item, drew it out, saw that it was a set of water color paints, similar to one Gracie had at home.
Was this what the boy had been looking at when Willand pitched a fit?
For reasons he couldn’t have explained, Lincoln was sure it was.
He held the long, flat tin up for Willand to see, before tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Put this on my bill,” he said.
Willand grumbled, but a sale was a sale. He finally nodded.
Lincoln raised his collar against the cold and left the mercantile for the wooden sidewalk beyond.
The kids were settled in the back of the wagon, all but the oldest boy snuggled in the rough woolen blankets Lincoln always carried in winter. Juliana Mitchell waited primly on the seat, straight-spined, chin high, trying not to shiver in that thin cloak of hers.
Buttoning his coat as he left the store, Lincoln un buttoned it again before climbing up into the box beside her. Snow flakes drifted slowly from a gray sky as he took up the reins, released the brake lever. The streets of the town were nearly deserted—folks were getting ready for the storm, feeling its approach in their bones, just as Lincoln did.
Knowing her pride would make her balk if he took off his coat and put it around her, he pulled his right arm out of the sleeve and drew her to his side instead, closing the garment around her.
She stiffened, then went still, in what he guessed was resignation.
It bruised something inside Lincoln, realizing how many things Juliana Mitchell had probably had to resign herself to over the course of her life.
He set the team in motion, kept his gaze on the snowy road ahead, winding toward home. By the time they reached the ranch, it would be dark out, but the horses knew their way.
Mean while, Juliana Mitchell felt warm and soft against him. He’d for got ten what it was like to protect a woman, shield her against his side, and the remembrance was painful, like frost bit ten flesh beginning to thaw.
Beth had been gone awhile, and though he wasn’t proud of it, in the last six months or so he’d turned to loose women for comfort a time or two, over in Choteau or in Missoula.
The quickening he felt now was different, of course. Though anybody could see she was down on her luck, it was equally obvious that Juliana Mitchell was a lady. Breeding was a thing even shabby clothes couldn’t hide—especially from a rancher used to raising fine cattle and horses.
Minutes later, as they jostled over the road in the buck board, Juliana relaxed against Lincoln, and it came to him, with a flash of amusement, that she was asleep. Plainly, she was exhausted. From the way her face had fallen as she’d read that letter, which she’d finally wadded up and stuffed into the pocket of her cloak with an expression of heart broken disgust
in her eyes, she’d suffered some bitter disappointment.
All he knew for sure was that nobody had died, since he’d asked her that right off.
Lincoln tried to imagine what kind of news might have thrown her like that, even though he knew it was none of his business.
Maybe she’d planned to marry the man who’d written that letter, and he’d spurned her for another.
Lincoln frowned, aware of the woman’s softness and warmth in every part of his lonesome body. What kind of damned fool would do that?
His shoulder began to ache, since his arm was curved around Juliana at a somewhat awkward angle, but he didn’t care. He’d have driven right past the ranch, just so she could go on resting against him like that for a little while longer, if he hadn’t been a practical man.
The wind picked up, and the snow came down harder and faster, and when he looked back at the kids, they were sitting stoically in their places, bundled in their blankets.
The best part of an hour had passed when the lights of the ranch house finally came into view, glowing dim and golden in the snow-swept darkness.
Lincoln’s heart beat picked up a little, the way it always did when he rounded that last bend in the road and saw home waiting up ahead.
Home.
He’d been born in the rambling, one-story log house, with its stone chimneys, the third son of Josiah and Cora Creed. Micah, the first born, had long since left the ranch, started a place of his own down in Colorado. Weston, the next in line, lived in town, in rooms above the Diamond Buckle Saloon, and published the Courier—when he was sober enough to run the presses.
Two years younger than Wes, Lincoln had left home only to attend college in Boston and apprentice himself to a lawyer—Beth’s father. As soon as he was qualified to practice, Lincoln had married Beth, brought her home to Stillwater Springs Ranch and loved her with all the passion a man could feel for a woman.
The Christmas Brides Page 16
