Mountain Christmas Brides

by Mildred Colvin

  Best E.V. could tell, it was a palm-sized carving of some type of animal. If Willum ever stopped building and repairing houses, he could make a living with his intricate wood carving skill alone.

  Content to let their conversation die, E.V. hummed “Joy to the World” as he watched the occasional jingle-bell-decked wagon or buggy roll past. He hoped to see the mail wagon. Any day now, the sterling Gorham bell he’d ordered for Larkin for Christmas would arrive. This year he planned on making it an engagement gift instead of a gift from an anonymous admirer.

  “Eric, are you ever going to stop asking to marry Larkin?”

  At that moment, E.V. realized Willum was in a more surly mood than usual, because those were the only times Willum ever called him by his given name.

  From the corner of his eye, E.V. glanced at Willum. He looked wounded. Broken. Love never seemed to treat Willum well.

  “No,” he honestly answered. “Is there something else bothering you?”

  Willum’s grip tightened around the carving. “What if Whitworth never agrees?”

  “He will.”

  “Your confidence borders on foolishness. Sometimes you need to cut your losses.” Willum turned to face E.V. “You should sell the mill and start a business where you don’t have to be at Silas Leonard’s beck and call.”

  “Can’t,” E.V. answered. “My investment partner will lose money, and I won’t go back on my word. Besides, with the mammoth amount of wood you’re regularly buying from me, I need another lumber supplier to keep up with the demand.”

  Willum shook his head in obvious disappointment—or maybe disbelief—that E.V. would choose faithfulness over the easy solution. The latter was more likely considering Willum’s past. His gaze turned from E.V. and refocused on the carving he held.

  E.V. breathed in the cool air. He loved Tumwater more than any other place he’d lived. “Willum, stop worrying on my behalf. The contract I’m offering Leonard makes us equals.”

  “He’s doing his best to ensure his daughter is part of the contract.”

  “I realize that.” Now. E.V. shuddered. In all his twenty-five years, he’d never felt as much a fool as he had during the last half of Frederick and Emma’s wedding reception. Silas Leonard never had any intention of discussing the contract that day. No, he’d merely wanted it to look like E.V. was courting his daughter.

  Willum repocketed the carving. “I need to get back to work, and you need to stop being so optimistic about life and intervene.”

  “Intervene in what?”

  “In that.” He motioned to the paved sidewalk on the other side of the street.

  At the intersection of Main and the street leading to the Whitworth Mansion, stood Larkin, wearing a mustard-colored cape and clutching a basket with both hands. Miss Leonard, clad in a reddish-pink cape, stood near the rear of the small buckboard she often drove around town. To say the two were having a conversation would be an overstatement because only Miss Leonard was talking, and whatever she was saying made Larkin’s normally straight posture slump.

  Without another word to Willum, E.V. took off running.

  “The perfect Larkin Whitworth is pickled. I never thought I’d see the day.” Abigail covered her mouth as if to hide her laughter, but Larkin still heard it, felt it, smelled every greasy bit of it. Smelled it?

  Larkin breathed deep and grimaced. Since the linen-covered basket she carried only contained fruit from Mama’s conservatory, the rancid odor had to be emanating from the white wicker picnic basket on the back of the Leonard buckboard.

  “Abigail, stop. I’m not—”

  Hearing footsteps crossing the bricked street, Larkin looked to her left and her vision momentarily blurred. How was it possible she felt worse after eating a soft-boiled egg and a bowl of bouillon? Now that she’d stopped walking, she felt so sleepy. She blinked until her eyesight cleared, although the movement—odd but true—sounded as loud as hammers against wood.

  E.V. ran toward them, wearing denims and a woolen vest over a flannel shirt. How could he not be cold? Just looking at him made her shiver.

  “I think the almanac got this December wrong,” she mused aloud. “It doesn’t feel warm at all.”

  Abigail leaned toward Larkin until their noses almost touched. “I know what a drunkard looks like and how one talks,” she whispered, and her eyes seemed sad. But the familiar spiteful glee took its place so quickly Larkin knew she had imagined any sadness. The corners of Abigail’s mouth indented into a smug grin. “E.V.’s finally going to see you aren’t the good Christian girl you’ve convinced everyone you are. I win. You lose.”

  Larkin blinked at the surprising and eerily cheerful admission. She’d never felt they were enemies, even though Abigail had never been receptive to her overtures of friendship.

  “When did we begin a competi—?”

  “Mornin’, ladies,” E.V. said as he stopped at the back of the buckboard, approximately equal distance between them, Larkin noted. His warm breath showed in the chilly air, the tip of his nose a little red.

  Thrilled to end the confusing conversation with Abigail, Larkin tilted her head, which wasn’t any less heavy since she woke up an hour ago, and studied him. Something was different. His short yellow hair was still sun-bleached to almost white at the tips because he never wore a hat. His eyes were still a lovely shade—medium brown with golden rays in the iris and possibly some orange. Rather similar in color to the vile honey-whiskey cordial she had dumped out despite Mama’s protest.

  He wasn’t as stunningly attractive as Mr. Tate, but Larkin liked E.V.’s square-jawed, dimpled-chinned, less-than-shining handsomeness. Still, what was different about him?

  “Your face is bristly,” she muttered.

  E.V. nodded. “I didn’t shave this morning.”

  “Why not?” she blurted.

  “I hate shaving so I only do it on Sundays, Wednesdays, and special occasions like my friends’ weddings. My skin is sensitive.” He looked at her oddly. “Are you all right?”

  Larkin smiled and nodded and hoped that was enough of an answer—only she nodded too much. The pounding in her head increased, causing the food Cook had claimed would lessen the aftereffects of the cordial to roll in her stomach.

  This was the worst Mama had ever medicated her. She needed to leave before she lost her breakfast, yet propelled by curiosity, she asked, “Then why do you shave at all?”

  “Larkin Whitworth!” Abigail sniped in her irritatingly shrill voice. “I can’t believe you asked Mr. Renier something so personal.” She stepped closer to E.V. and touched his sleeve. “Mr. Renier, let me apologize for my dear friend. I hate to say this, but she’s been imbibing.”

  “I haven’t,” and “She has?” came out in unison.

  E.V. stepped around Abigail to face Larkin. “You don’t look well.”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered then realized that was a lie, because she didn’t feel the least bit fine. Abigail was correct in that she was pickled—or at least suffering the after effects—but it wasn’t intentional, and to clarify everything would mean sharing Mama’s problem. Larkin would never bring shame to her mother. Never. Not even to protect her own reputation. “I’m sorry, I must go.” She pointed to the parsonage. “The Bollens need fruit, and I don’t feel …”

  Leaving her words to hang in the air, Larkin walked away slowly. She kept her pace steady despite the unevenness of the sidewalk, the churning of her stomach, and the perspiration on her forehead.

  For as cold as December was, somehow it had grown as warm as July.

  “Larkin’s so pickled she doesn’t make sense.” Miss Leonard wrapped her red-gloved hand around E.V.’s arm. “It’s a shame, you know, for her to behave like this, but it’s best to know the truth.” She gasped and covered her mouth. “Imagine marrying her and then learning about her preference for strong drink.”

  E.V. stayed focused on Larkin. She’d faintly smelled of whiskey. Because of his past before his salvation, he knew the scent we
ll. Yet something was wrong. His girl wasn’t a drunkard or even an occasional imbiber. During the fish fry Anna and Tuck held to celebrate their one-year anniversary, Larkin had shared with him her frustration and embarrassment over her father’s ownership of the brewery and had asked E.V. to join her in praying he would sell the business.

  E.V. took a breath. He felt ill trying to sort it all out.

  “Mr. Renier, you are looking a bit pale. Would you like something to eat?” The concern on Miss Leonard’s face wasn’t the least bit believable.

  “Something is wrong with Larkin.”

  Miss Leonard’s blue eyes widened, mouth gaped open. She looked practically peeved he’d make such an obvious statement. “Good gracious, she’s a drunkard. What else would explain her absence about town the past four days?” She gave a dispassionate shrug. “I hate to be the one to share this with you, but this isn’t the first time Larkin’s breath has smelled of whiskey. However, it is the first time I’ve seen her inebriated.”

  Still unconvinced, E.V.’s gaze slid back to Larkin. Her stride faltered. Stopping at the lamppost in front of the milliner’s shop, she rested her basket on the ground and wiped her brow.

  Someone stopped by on horseback, but she waved him off. Likely with a no, thank you, I’m fine response.

  When he said nothing, Miss Leonard continued, “Hearing news of this is going to shatter her parents’ hearts. For the sake of Larkin’s reputation, they’ll have to move, which will grieve me greatly because I value”—her voice cracked—“no, treasure, our friendship.”

  E.V. shook his head slowly in hopes of ridding it of his confusion. This wasn’t his Larkin. Through his friendship with Tuck, Frederick, and Willum, E.V. had learned a true friend—a man of God—trusts what he knows of another’s character. That’s what they had done for E.V., even when the gossips at the university claimed the worst about him. While the evidence appeared to paint Larkin disfavorably, E.V. knew the good and right thing to do was trust the character Larkin had demonstrated prior to this moment.

  “Mr. Renier, I see how disturbing this must be. I’m meeting Daddy and Garrick for lunch. Usually I drive alone”—she looked to the sky—“but with this weather, I know Daddy would prefer I have an escort.”

  E.V. blinked. She was always driving the buckboard around town alone.

  She looked hopeful. “I’ve packed enough lunch for four.”

  “Something’s wrong with Larkin,” he repeated, removing Miss Leonard’s grasp of him. “She needs help.” He took one step before she snatched at his arm again.

  “But—I—well, this morning I overheard Daddy telling Garrick he was ready to make a decision on the contract.”

  E.V. glanced from Miss Leonard to Larkin, still leaning against the garland-and-ribbon-decorated lamppost, now using her hat to fan her face. Miss Leonard could be speaking the truth about what she overheard, but after her—and her father’s—performance at the wedding reception, he’d grown more wary of believing anything that came out of their mouths.

  Willing to risk that Miss Leonard was bluffing, E.V. jerked free of her hold. “Pickled or not, Larkin needs help.” My help, he wanted to add, but doing so would mean wasting another moment talking to a woman he had no interest in talking to.

  For the second time that day, E.V. took off running.

  Chapter 5

  I feel poisoned.” The words had barely left her mouth when Larkin felt her feet separate from the ground. She dropped her hat and reached for the lamppost. The tips of her fingers brushed the velvet ribbon encircling the metal post, but she couldn’t grab hold.

  “Relax, Miss Whitworth,” E.V. said as two widow ladies new to town stopped next to them. He settled her in his arms. “I’ve got you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re unwell so I’m taking you home.” As he said it, one widow nudged the other with her elbow and grinned.

  Home? She couldn’t go home yet. She had to fulfill her duty, and she was not about to disappoint the Bollens. “I must deliver the fruit. I always—”

  “Miss Whitworth.”

  At the sound of her name, she stopped squirming and turned to see who’d spoken.

  “I’ll see the good reverend gets the basket,” the milliner, Mr. Dudley, offered as he stood in the opened doorway to his shop. He nodded at E.V. “Y’got her?”

  E.V. adjusted her in his arms. “Yes sir.”

  One of the widows picked up Larkin’s hat. “We’ll take this to your father, dear, since we’re headed that way to get his investment advice.” And they hurried off, oblivious to Larkin’s, “No, that’s all right, I can carry it” response.

  She sighed.

  E.V. started walking. “It’s only a hat.”

  “I know, but I seem to have a habit of losing my hats. No one returns them to me, so my theory is Papa pays a finder’s fee.”

  “Then I ought to turn in the two in my office.”

  “You should, and then let me know how well he pays.”

  Content in the arms of the one who held her, Larkin rested her head against E.V.’s chest as he walked up the shaded alley between the milliner’s shop and the barber’s. She’d often dreamed of being held by him, but, somehow, she’d never imagined this scenario.

  “E.V., how did Mr. Dudley know who I was taking the fruit to?”

  “Sweetheart, you always deliver food to the Bollens on Wednesday.”

  “But this is Thursday.”

  “So it is.”

  “I also take food to Mrs. Ellis and to, umm, to other people in town,” she finished. Really, her head hurt too much for her to think straight. Only—she felt like she was thinking straighter than she ever had before. And hearing better, too. To hear his calm, gentle, well-educated voice say sweetheart again, she asked, “What did you call me?”

  Thunder rolled overhead, yet Larkin could have sworn this time he said mine.

  And the pounding of her pulse seemed to beat all too perfectly. For a moment everything became nothing but them.

  “E.V., I—”

  “Shhh, rest,” he said softly. His brown eyes held such kindness and love that she’d be a fool to doubt his devotion.

  Larkin, again resting her head against his rough work vest, closed her eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat. Someday she’d tell him exactly how she felt. When the time was right. Magical. Lovely. When he didn’t so much smell like sawdust. When she wasn’t medicated. And then he would say he loved her, too, and would kiss her for the first time, and it would be spectacular. It would be the kiss to end all kisses. No! Even better.

  Imagining the moment, Larkin felt her lips curve.

  It would be the kiss to begin all kisses. Which was completely absurd of her to think as the kiss to end all kisses, but she was too deliriously happy to care about being logical.

  E.V.’s pace increased, and Larkin opened her eyes in time to see him turn the corner to the back alley that led to the tree-lined street leading to her parents’ house.

  “I’ll get you home as quickly as I can,” he said between breaths. He glanced around as if he were looking for someone. “Not many people out right now, I’m guessing, because it’s about to rain. Smell the breeze.”

  She breathed deep. “Sawdust.”

  “Interesting. I smell whiskey.” His intense gaze met hers. “Larkin, what’s going on?”

  “I want to explain, I truly do, but I need you to trust me.”

  “I do,” he said without hesitation.

  And she believed him. Feeling warm and cozy and content despite the queasiness of her stomach, Larkin focused on his bristled jaw. It’d probably scratch when she kissed him.

  “Why do you shave on Sundays and Wednesdays since it bothers your skin?” she asked as casually as she could. The pounding of her pulse was nothing like she’d ever felt before. While the beautiful overcast sky was brimming with the promise of rain, the world around them was bright. Magical.

  Lovely.

  His grin was small but
there, and his eyes glinted as when one had a secret too amazing to keep hidden. “I have important meetings those days with two very important people in my life.”

  “You see me on Sundays.”

  “And Wednesdays.”

  “Who else do you meet with on Sunday?”

  “The Body of Christ.”

  “Oh.” Dreading he would say Abigail, yet ready to hear the worst, she asked, “Who else do you meet with every Wednesday?”

  “I—” He paused and his grin and amusement ended. “I can’t share. I want to, but I need you to trust me, too.”

  Larkin nipped on her bottom lip. Did she trust him? She wanted to. She had for two years, but if he loved her, why hadn’t he asked to court her?

  I’m impatient, Lord. That’s what it comes down to.

  “I do trust you.” Saying the words sealed them in her heart, chasing away the doubt she’d struggled with. She did trust him.

  He nodded. “Then be patient.”

  As E.V. turned the corner from the back alley to the street, Larkin noticed her house in her peripheral view. They’d be home before she could sing the first stanza of—of—well, of any song that she could remember if she could think of anything besides how sick she still felt from her toes to her eyelashes. Yet she also felt wonderful … and free to be honest with him.

  Time to be a Ruth and motivate her Boaz into action.

  She reached forward and touched—poked, really—his bristly cheek. “I. Love. You.” While she meant it to sound a bit more melodically romantic, she was happy to finally say the words. She wiped the increased perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. “Would you like to know something else?”

  Smiling broadly, E.V. stepped onto the bricked path dividing the front lawn. As he walked, the sound of his boots on the pavement grew in volume. “I’m not sure how you can top that, but I’ll listen.”

  “I think—” she started, but then he stumbled on an uneven brick.

  She bobbled.

  He adjusted his hold of her.