Mountain Christmas Brides

by Mildred Colvin

  For a moment E.V. was struck dumb. But then his mind started processing exactly what Whitworth was suggesting—was granting permission for. No wonder Larkin had such a tender spot for cantankerous ol’ Mrs. Ellis. The woman was a female version of Patrick Whitworth.

  Trying not to smile, E.V. nodded again. “Yes sir.”

  Whitworth inclined his head. “Merry Christmas, son.” Holding his wife close as she blinked away her tears, he stepped toward the parlor, pausing long enough to brush a kiss on Larkin’s cheek.

  Wordless, Larkin walked with E.V. to the mistletoe. A struggle of emotions graced her face as she stared at the suddenly intimidating red berries and green leaves. He knew exactly how she hated to be the center of attention.

  “What are you thinking?” he whispered.

  “If I really want to throw caution to the wind, now that the opportunity is before me.” Her gaze shifted to the guests dancing and lingering about the parlor. She released a ragged breath. “I vowed to Anna that we’d be married before her baby is born. Jeremiah sent word that her labor began a few hours ago.”

  “Far be it for me to let you to break a vow.”

  “We’d have to marry tonight.”

  E.V. nodded in agreement even though she was more focused on her fears than on him. “If we gave proper cause, Reverand Bollen could arrange a wedding. One good kiss should do it.”

  “Everyone will be watching.”

  “I love you.”

  She met his gaze. “What did you say?”

  “I love you?” he repeated. “Are you not certain?”

  He grinned and she grinned, and all E.V. saw was her.

  “I’m quite certain, sweetheart.”

  The dimples in her cheeks deepened as her smile chased away her fears. In a movement that stunned the breath from his lungs, she drew him close, far closer than decorum allowed, and her lips found his. She kissed him. She kissed him until he forgot everyone was watching. She kissed him until he was sure she forgot everyone was watching, because when Reverend Bollen tapped E.V.’s shoulder and E.V. reluctantly drew his lips from Larkin’s, the look on her face was exactly how he felt.

  Content.

  ECPA-bestselling author Gina Welborn worked for a news radio station until she fell in love with writing romances. She serves on the American Christian Fiction Writers Foundation Board. Sharing her husband’s love for the premier American sportscar, she is a founding member of the Southwest Oklahoma Corvette Club and a lifetime member of the National Corvette Museum. Gina lives with her husband, three of their five Okie-Hokie children, two rabbits, two guinea pigs, and a dog that doesn’t realize rabbits and pigs are edible. Find her online at www.ginawelborn.com.

  A Carpenter Christmas

  by Mary Davis

  Dedication

  To my son, Ben, who loves to build and create with his hands.

  Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.

  PROVERBS 14:1

  Chapter 1

  June, 1891

  Natalie Bollen tried to pick out the solid areas of mud, if there were such a thing. But everywhere she stepped, her boots sank in at least an inch, if not three. She balanced herself with an umbrella in one hand and held her skirt up in the other. Rain tapped on the fabric of the umbrella like a soft symphony. She loved how a shower cleaned the air and made everything smell so fresh.

  She stopped in front of the big house under construction. It had been in such a state for a year now. The builder not in a particular hurry to complete it. It wasn’t as big and fancy as the Whitworths’ mansion, but clearly it would be one of the larger houses in Tumwater. The owners must be people of importance to need such a fine home.

  The hammering told her the carpenter was present, and a giddiness rippled through her. The noise came from above. He wasn’t foolish enough to be up on the roof in this downpour?

  As she tipped her head back to look up, her hat loosened. She dropped her skirt and slapped her hand on her hat. “Mr. Tate?” She would prefer to call him Willum, but Papa forbade it. He said it wasn’t proper for a young lady to address a gentleman outside her family by his first name. Most people would think a logging town like Tumwater to be a simple backwoods place where decorum wouldn’t matter. To many, it didn’t. But to Papa, the town’s only religious influence, it did. When decorum went, he said, so did society.

  The pounding stopped, and Mr. Tate peered over the edge of the roof, hanging on to a rope tied around his waist. Sandy brown, shoulder-length waves hung in dark, wet tendrils from beneath his worn hat. He shook his head then proceeded to climb down.

  Rain poured from his hat brim. He narrowed his pine green eyes, dark on the outside and lighter on the inside, like the varying shades of the forest. “Miss Bollen, you shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

  As proper as Papa. “And you shouldn’t be climbing around on the roof like a monkey.”

  He shook his head again. “Come inside where it is drier.”

  She released her hat and collected up her skirt again. Mr. Tate guided her by her elbow up the three steps and in through the front door. He took her umbrella and set it against the inside wall.

  Natalie smoothed her hands down her pink-striped dress. She looked best in pink, and today was a special day. But even after all her best efforts, mud still managed to get past the hem’s mudguard around the bottom of her skirt. Papa would say that this was where vanity got a person. She had just wanted to look her best.

  Mr. Tate took off his hat and shook the water from it. “Does your father know you’re out in this?” He pointed to the window with his still dripping hat.

  She tugged at one finger of her glove then the next and next. “Papa is out visiting members of the flock.”

  Mr. Tate shook his head again. His wet waves swung gently.

  She pulled her hand free of her right glove. Wasn’t he the least bit pleased to see her?

  Across the room, Mr. Tate’s orange-colored dog appeared in the kitchen doorway on her three legs and wagging her feathery tail.

  Natalie smiled at the dog. “Hi, Sassy.”

  Mr. Tate held up a hand to the dog. “Stay, girl.”

  Sassy’s body shook with her obedience, and she whined.

  Natalie crossed the room to her and scratched the dog’s head around her silky ears.

  Sassy sat, and her feathery tail brushed the floor. Mr. Tate had Sassy when he arrived in town three years ago, and said he had found Sassy wandering and hungry. He had no idea how the furry orange canine had lost one of her back legs. But she got around fine on three. She’d taken a shine to him and become his faithful companion.

  Sassy rolled over, and Natalie rubbed her soft tummy.

  “I think she likes you better than me.” Less of a criticism and more of a pleased acknowledgement.

  Natalie looked back at Mr. Tate. “I doubt that. You’re her master.”

  He scratched the whiskers on his chin. “No. She just knows where her next meal is coming from.”

  Natalie held her hand out to him, and he pulled her to her feet.

  “I’ve seen the way she gazes up at you.” Natalie was afraid she might have that same expression just now and looked away.

  She surveyed the room. Water dripped from several places above. She could see right through the trusses of the upper floor to the underside of the roof. With all the rain they’d had lately, it was no wonder he was trying to get the rest of the shingles on. Then the interior could dry out. They were standing in the largest of the dry areas. “You certainly are taking your time with this house. Isn’t your employer anxious to move in? I’m sure his wife is.”

  “He is not yet ready to move in.”

  “Not with rain pouring in.”

  And then he did it. His whisker-framed mouth broke into that smile that melted her heart.

  “The house will be ready when my employer wishes to move in.”

  “You still are not going to tell me who it is?�
�

  He just stared at her, grinning. “You’ll have to wait until they move in, like everyone else.”

  “Oh bother.”

  She wandered into the next room. Bone dry. Not a single leak, and the floor above was finished, too. One wall was lined with bookshelves that had delicate carvings across the tops and down the sides. Mr. Tate had to be a patient man to do such fine work and a master at his craft. She ran her hand over the smooth surface.

  She wished to compliment him on his workmanship so turned around. Mr. Tate stood directly behind her. Well, now in front of her. She sucked in a breath. Her heart raced like a runaway Shay engine with a full load of timber.

  “Why did you come?”

  Why had she come? Because today was a special day, in spite of the rain. And she had wanted him to remember it was special, too. He obviously did not. “Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed. “I thought it a lovely day for a stroll.”

  His mouth twitched up slightly at the corners. “Then let me escort you home.” He moved back to the front door and retrieved her umbrella and waited.

  Truly? He wasn’t going to comment that a downpour did not constitute a lovely day? And one should remain indoors in such weather? Mr. Tate was as stubborn as a cantankerous mule. She shoved her hand back into her glove and marched for the door. She wanted to tell him that she could find her own way home but didn’t want to be disappointed if he honored her request. If she knew he would still insist on walking her home, she would protest. A great and mighty protest. But she would rather hold her tongue and be able to enjoy his company a little longer, than have her heart crushed by his indifference.

  He held the umbrella up just outside the door and extended his work-gloved hand to help her down the steps.

  She took it, scooped up her skirt with the other hand, and descended the three steps into the mud. When she was a little girl and had first come to Tumwater, she had enjoyed walking barefoot in such mud, feeling it squish between her toes. “For the grandeur of the house, the porch seems a bit understated.”

  He laughed and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they began their promenade through the rain.

  She liked his laugh. Full and jovial. Lively.

  “Those steps are temporary. They are only to get me in and out of the house without killing myself. When the rain lets up and I have the roof finished, I plan to build a porch that wraps around the entire house. And a balcony off the master suite.”

  She could picture it. “Oh, that will be lovely.”

  A puddle she had skirted fairly easily earlier now stretched out before them. She looked left and right to determine the most suitable course. The land gently sloped up on the right, and the puddle ceased sooner in that direction. She stopped at the water’s edge.

  Before she could suggest their course, as Mr. Tate had not turned either left or right to survey the hazards, he placed the umbrella in her hand and scooped her up. He then slogged through the muddy waters. She presumed, since he was already soaked from head to toe, that a little more water made no difference to him. She stared at his whiskered face and bright eyes the multihued greens of the forest. Even if he didn’t remember that today was special, being carried by Mr. Tate was well worth a soaking. She would find some way to remind him. Perhaps on Wednesday when he regularly ate supper with her family.

  He set her down on the boardwalk where the stores began. Under the awnings, out of the rain and the mud, at least for the time being.

  At her house just beyond the edge of town, he opened the door for her.

  She stepped inside and turned. “Would you like to come in and warm up with a cup of coffee?”

  He collapsed the umbrella and shook it before handing it to her. “I better not. I’m a bit of a mess.” He motioned with his hands down his muddy, wet attire. “I don’t want to drip all over your floor.” He took off a glove and reached inside his coat pocket. He handed her a small carved animal. “Happy birthday.”

  He had remembered. Her heart soared. So he knew the significance of today. Now that she was eighteen, he would ask Papa to court her. But Papa was out on visitations. “Papa’s not here.”

  He nodded. “You told me he was out visiting.”

  “We’ll see you for Wednesday supper?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He tipped his hat. “Good day.”

  Natalie closed the door, leaned against it, and looked at the wooden kitten. So detailed.

  Mama sighed, her blond hair glowed in the firelight. “You best get that dress off. It’s half ruined with the mud. I have some pink fabric goods that we can use to put a border around the bottom, add a little fabric to the collar and cuffs. No one will know.”

  What she meant was that Papa wouldn’t know.

  Natalie crossed to where Mama sat in a rocking chair by the fire, peeling last year’s potatoes, and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you, too. Now scoot, so you can help me fix supper.”

  Natalie went upstairs to her room and set the carved kitten on her bureau with the dozen other animals Willum had carved for her over the past three years.

  Willum whistled all the way back to the construction site, kicking at clumps of dirt, causing mud to spray up. Natalie had thought he’d forgotten she turned eighteen today. He’d been surprised she had ventured out on such a dreary day. Pleasantly surprised. He’d known from the start exactly why she had come and had tempted her to admit it, but she didn’t. She looked older, more mature, with her dark hair pulled up on top of her head.

  He scrubbed his hand across his bristly chin. He, on the other hand, probably looked like a grizzly bear. It was time to shave off his winter beard.

  Natalie had set her cap for him long ago. From the moment he’d first met her three years ago, she had intrigued him. But being seven years his junior, he’d not thought of her in a romantic way at first. Now he thought of her all the time.

  His intentions were jumbled where Miss Natalie Bollen was concerned, and his heart troubled.

  He knew better than to let a young lady ever manipulate him again. But wasn’t Natalie too sweet for deception and games? Too sweet to play with a man’s heart then casually throw it away and crush it under her pretty little shoe?

  Chapter 2

  Natalie sat straight as a board in the front pew at church Sunday morning. They always sat in the same order—Mama on the aisle then the children next to her from youngest to oldest. Even her oldest brother Isaac’s wife sat with them. As the family of the pastor, they sat in the front pew every Sunday where everyone could see they were present and on time, and that the family wasn’t distracted by the rest of the people in church. But Natalie was distracted because she couldn’t see anyone but Papa. And today more so than other Sundays.

  She could feel someone staring at the back of her head. She didn’t dare turn around but was dying to know who. Willum? Nothing up front had a reflective surface that she might be able to see and scan the congregation. She tilted her head and slightly turned it in one direction then looked out of the corner of her eye at the first window. Shadowy figures, but she couldn’t make anyone out. So she turned and tilted her head the other direction to see if she could see in the windows on the other side any better. Because of the shadows on the outside of the window, it was darker, and she could recognize people. She turned her head a little farther to get a better view.

  Mama nudged Natalie. “Pay attention.”

  She turned her focus back onto Papa.

  After service was over, Natalie stood next to Mama, who stood next to Papa just outside the church doors to shake hands with each member and to send them into their week with the Lord’s blessing. Mr. Tate had come through the line early and now stood with his friends Mr. Tucker, Mr. Corrigan, and Mr. Renier, and their wives. She hoped he didn’t leave. He’d barely stayed long enough on Wednesday to eat and spent no time alone with Papa to discuss courting her. And going through the reception line after service certainly didn’t affor
d him any time.

  John Seymour lingered close as the line drew to an end. He smiled at her. To be polite, she smiled back.

  The line ended, and she could go to Mr. Tate herself, not to talk about courting but about visiting with her papa.

  Mr. Seymour stepped forward and asked to speak to Papa.

  Mama put a hand on Natalie’s arm. “Please go invite Miss Leonard to Wednesday supper.”

  “But Mama?” Nobody liked Abigail. “She’s the meanest girl in town.”

  “And she came to church. Now go.”

  Natalie looked toward Mr. Tate. “But …”

  “Go.”

  Natalie slumped her shoulders and walked off. She heard Mama clear her throat. The meaning of that simple sound was unmistakable. Stand up straight. So she did and fashioned her face into a pleasant expression.

  “Abigail.”

  The stunning blond turned with a start. “Natalie?”

  She needed to make this fast so she could still talk to Mr. Tate. “Mama has invited you to supper on Wednesday night.”

  Abigail pulled up her lip on one side in a very unattractive manner. “I’m sure it rubs you into a rash to have to invite the most hated person in town. I can tell you don’t want to be here with me, and certainly don’t want me in your home.”

  It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to be around Abigail as much as she wanted to be with someone else. “You are not the most hated person in town.”

  “The most hated girl.”

  Why couldn’t Abigail just say yes and let Natalie be on her way? Mama would not be happy until she came back with a yes. Truthfully, Natalie didn’t want Abigail at Wednesday supper, although any other night of the week would be fine. Wednesday supper was time to spend with Mr. Tate. “I believe Mrs. Ellis is more disliked than you.” Mrs. Ellis had left buckshot in the backside of more than one trespasser.

  Abigail’s mouth turned up. “Well, at least more feared.”