The closer she came, the more he felt sure the woman was Peggy. In a low voice he said, “Thank You, Lord.”
When she came within hearing range, he called, “Hello.”
A soft smile touched her lips. “Hello.”
Unsure what else to say, Mark blurted out. “I was just on my way to see you.”
“I wanted to see you, too.” She held out a box to him. “I brought you something for Christmas.”
Mark took the offered package. Her soft eyes studied his face.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy these last few weeks. I’ve been a little confused, too,” she added, looking at the ground.
He wanted to reach out and touch the soft hair that escaped her hat. “I have something for you, too.” To keep his hands away from her, he reached inside the wagon bed and pulled out the pot of honey. He straightened the card on it, said a silent prayer, and handed it to her.
“Can we sit down for a moment?” she asked.
“Of course.” He took her hand and led her to the back of the wagon.
She handed the honey back to him and then climbed into the wagon. He hid a smile behind his hand. Peggy reminded him of a little girl as she found her seating and swung her legs over the edge. Once situated, she extended her hands for the honey. “Would you get your box? I’d like for you to open it, and then we can talk.”
Mark did as she said. The smile on her face and warmth in her eyes gave him hope. He returned a few seconds later and hopped up beside her in the wagon.
“Go ahead and open it.” She held her bottom lip between her teeth as she waited for him to do as she said.
He opened the box to find a fruitcake nestled in red and green paper, a little card resting on the top of the folds of the paper. Mark picked up the card and looked into Peggy’slight-blue eyes. At her nod, he opened the card and read aloud, “I’m nutty for you.”
A rumble built in his chest and tumbled out his lips. “That’s a great play on words. I’m nutty for you, too.” He leaned forward and brushed his nose with hers.
She scooted away from him. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I was scared.” He started to speak, but she laid a gloved finger across his lips. “Please let me finish. I am allergic to bees, and I was afraid of being stung and dying. But now I’m not afraid anymore. I’m trusting in the Lord to take care of me, of us.” She removed her finger.
Mark picked up her hand. “Will you open my card now?”
She nodded. He held his breath as he waited for her to read the card. Mark knew the words by heart; he’d rehearsed them many times in his head. Honey, I’d rather spend every Christmas with you. I can do without the bees. Will you marry me?
Peggy’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked up at him. “Mark, I can’t ask you to give up beekeeping for me.”
“You didn’t. I wanted to. I’ve always wanted to be a farmer, but my father and father-in-law were both bee men. I followed in their footsteps to make them happy. But, thanks to you, I bought a farm and now can live my dream.” He took a deep breath and pressed on. “Please say you’ll marry me.”
Peggy realized that like her sisters before her, she’d found love on the Biltmore estate. “Yes. I’ll marry you.” Her eyes glistened with unshed happy tears as he reached out and kissed her.
PEGGY’S CHRISTMAS FRUITCAKE
Ingredients:
2 cups butter
2½ cups sugar 2½ cups molasses
8 cups flour
2 cups sour milk 8 eggs
2 teaspoons soda
3 pounds raisins
3 pounds currants
1 pound citron
1 pound figs
2 lemons (grate rind and squeeze juice)
2 glasses jelly
Cloves
Mace
Cinnamon
Nutmeg
Nuts
Instructions:
Mix flour, butter, sugar, molasses, sour milk, eggs, and soda together. Then layer flour mixture with fruit alternately. Bake 3½ hours at 250 degrees.
Rhonda Gibson resides in New Mexico with her husband. She writes romance because she is eager to share her love of the Lord. Besides writing, her interests are reading and from her readers! P.O. Box 835, Kirtland, NM 87417, [email protected], www.RhondaGibson.com
AN ACCIDENTAL CHRISTMAS
Diane T. Ashley with Aaron McCarver
Dedication
To my coauthor.
I could not do it without you.
Chapter 1
November 30, 1900
I wish I was a boy.
The familiar phrase ran through Melissa Bradford’s head as her hands gripped the reins of the Vanderbilts’ mare, and her vision centered on a farm wagon in the valley below her. The farmer was loading it with pumpkins, kale, and other winter vegetables in preparation for its end-of-week trip to Biltmore Village.
Weak late-November sunlight washed across the gentle hills of her employer’s acreage, but it failed to warm her shoulders. With an impatient finger, she swiped at the tears dampening her cheeks. She refused to dwell on what could not be changed. She had been born a girl, and no matter how wrong it seemed to her, she would never be miraculously turned into a boy.
A sigh of resignation filled her. Another thing that could not be changed was the disaster in the brown laundry. She couldn’t return there. Miss Bohburg, the Swedish laundress who oversaw the laundry maids, would not allow her to get near any of the Vanderbilts’ clothing ever again, especially not the gowns belonging to the Vanderbilts’ three-month-old daughter.
Melissa leaned forward and pressed her face against the neck of the horse she was supposed to be exercising. “You don’t care whether I have skills, do you?”
The mare tossed its head as if impatient with her rider’s self-pity. Melissa sat up and sighed once more before turning the horse’s head north. Was there time to visit Mama Elsie at the orphanage?
Miss Bohburg had told her not to return to her domain today. And who could blame her? Melissa had destroyed one of the handmade gowns belonging to little Cornelia. But she had managed to make an adjustment to the wringer so it would never happen again to her or anyone else. It was so unfair. As a man, she could have put her mechanical solutions to work, and everyone would applaud her talents. As a female, all anyone saw were her mistakes.
She tightened her knees to encourage her mount into a faster pace. Together they galloped past the formal gardens and into the leafless winter woodland, but Melissa could not outrun the look of horror on the head laundress’s face when she first saw the shredded garment. That moment seemed the culmination of her three months at Biltmore, a low point to haunt the rest of her life. How excited she had been to follow in her older sisters’ footsteps. How thrilled to be chosen to work at the largest house in all of America. But that was before she realized she had no useful skills, or at least no useful feminine skills. If only she had been born—
Melissa’s thoughts ended abruptly as she rounded the bend, coming face-to-face with a roaring, smoking beast. Death hurtled toward her with the speed of a bullet. Herhorse reared, and she fought to keep her seat as her heart clenched in fear. Time seemed to slow as she pulled back on the reins. The huge specter hurtled toward her, turning away at the last possible instant. Tree limbs snapped, and startled birds left their shelter as the screaming monster plunged into the woods.
The front hooves of her frightened mare came down on the roadway, and Melissa pranced away from the snorting, snarling attacker she finally recognized as a horseless carriage. As she thought the words, a mighty crash rang through the woods, followed by a yell. She twisted her head to see the driver catapulted from the seat of his vehicle, following a wide arc before hitting the ground several feet away.
Was he dead? Melissa scrambled down from her saddle and ran toward the stranger, pushing back the accusing voice in her head as she knelt next to him. The accident was all her fault, but she didn’t have time to think about that now.
The
unconscious man was very pale, but his chest was moving up and down. At least he was alive.
Unsure of what to do, she lifted his head into her lap and gently brushed his jet-black hair away from his face. “Please wake up.”
Round rubber goggles hid his eyes. Melissa removed them, hoping his eyelids would flutter. But they remained closed. Her fingers gently probed his head, pushing back the thick hair to encounter a lump the size of a hen’s egg. No wonder he was unconscious.
The stranger had a handsome face—broad forehead, straight nose, and a square chin cleft by a deep dimple. Shewondered where he had come from. And why was he here? Was he a friend of Mr. Vanderbilt’s? Would he awaken?
She closed her eyes. Lord, please send help. This stranger is hurt because I wasn’t paying attention. Please don’t make him suffer for my faults.
A noise from the road behind her brought Melissa’s head up. A pair of horses, pulling the laden farm wagon she had seen earlier, rounded the same curve she had recently traveled.
Carefully sliding from under the stranger’s head, Melissa jumped to her feet and ran to the edge of the road. “Stop! Oh please stop.”
The farmer, a burly man with broad shoulders and thick arms, pulled back on the reins. “Whoa, boys.” The wagon rolled to a halt. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s been an accident.” Melissa pointed to the stranger. “The driver was thrown from his horseless carriage. Can you help me get him to the hospital in the village?”
The older man climbed down and tied the horses’ reins around a tree trunk. “Let’s see what we have here.” He walked to where the stranger lay still as death. “Here we go.” He lifted the man over his shoulder, carried him to the wagon, and settled him onto the front bench. He turned back to Melissa. “Can you hold him here while I go to the other side?”
Melissa nodded and reached upward. He was heavy, but she managed to keep him from falling over for the short time it took the driver to climb into his seat.
The farmer leaned his passenger toward him and grabbedfor the reins before looking down at her with a frown. “I’m sorry there’s no room for you up here. Are you hurt? Do you need me to come back and get you after I deliver this fellow to the hospital?”
With a shake of her head, Melissa looked around. The mare stood a few feet away. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The farmer must have seen the direction of her gaze because he nodded. “That’s good then.” He clucked at his horses, and the wagon trundled forward.
A convenient fallen log served as a mounting block. In a matter of seconds, she climbed into the saddle and headed toward town. The beauty of the woodland scenery was lost on her. Her whole focus centered on the stranger. Would he survive?
Her earlier problems were swallowed up in her concern for his recovery. But the voice of accusation grew louder with each yard she traveled. When would she learn to be more careful? More aware of her surroundings? More in control of her impulses? And how many others would have to bear the burden of her inadequacies?
“It’s not your fault.” Robert Griffith’s concerned gaze checked the tired mare for any sign of injury as he spoke to Melissa.
“How can you say that?” Melissa brushed the mare with long strokes. “If I’d been paying more attention to the road, I would have heard the motorcar coming.”
“And done what?” Robert snorted. “Ridden the mare into a ravine? The river?”
Melissa stopped currying and focused her gaze on him. Blond curls framed his face and teased the tops of his ears. An impish grin turned his mouth upward as his blue gaze challenged her. Although he was a year younger, Robert had begun working at Biltmore almost three years ago. He was a stable hand, one of the young men who cared for the extensive stables kept by George and Edith Vanderbilt. But she had known him more than ten years.
She still remembered the day his widowed papa dropped him off at the orphanage. Robert had been a frightened, grieving little boy. Her heart was touched by his pain, and she took him under her wing. Some of the older children thought he would be an easy target because of his youth and head full of soft curls. But when they found out she was his champion, they left Robert alone. The two of them had become inseparable as they grew, pulling each other out of scrapes almost on a weekly basis. Although it always seemed Robert did most of the pulling, while she did most of the scraping.
The past faded away as her friend pointed a finger in her direction. “You have to stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong.”
“I guess you’re right.” Dropping the currycomb into a bucket at her feet, Melissa sighed. “But bad luck follows me everywhere I go. I appreciate your letting me take the mare out to exercise her. I needed something to do. But instead of enjoying a calming ride, I had to run right into an automobile. How many other people experience two calamitous events in one day?”
“Plenty of other folks.”
His answer made her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Name one.”
“I don’t know, Melissa. But you are not the only one who suffers, you know. You really ought to be counting your blessings. Seems to me the Good Lord was watching out for you today. After all, it could be you lying in a hospital bed, or worse.”
Her conscience pricked her at his words. Robert was right. She should not be whining about her luck when a man lay in the hospital recuperating. And his beautiful machine lay broken in the woods. An idea popped into her head. She could feel a smile stretching her mouth as she glanced toward her friend.
He groaned. “What now?”
“I was thinking we could surprise the stranger by getting his vehicle brought here so I could take a look at it. Who knows? Maybe we could get it running by the time he gets out of the hospital.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you think I should help you retrieve it.”
“Oh, would you?” Melissa clasped her hands together and tried to assume an angelic appearance, but she knew her mud-splattered skirts and flyaway hair marred her attempt.
Throwing his hands in the air, Robert chuckled. “You can drop the act. I know you far too well.”
Melissa couldn’t stop the smile on her face. Robert was a good friend. “Do you think we could use the Percherons?” The huge draft horses were the best animals in the stable for the job ahead of them.
“I’ll go ask Signore Ribet,” he said, naming the Italian stableman. “You put the mare back in her stall.” He walked to the stable door. “And make sure she gets plenty of food.”
Chapter 2
The first thing Ned felt was pain. Pain in his right leg. Pain in his right arm. Pain in his head. He tried to move, groaning with the effort. Bright light made him put his hand in front of his eyes.
“I need to check your pupils.” The accented voice held a note of authority, as though the woman it belonged to was used to giving orders. “That’s right. Don’t fight me.”
Ned allowed the fingers to manipulate his eyelids as they pried open one lid, then the other.
“Where—” He coughed and started over. “Where am I?” His throat was dry. Like he’d swallowed cotton while he slept. He coughed again.
Immediately the woman’s hands moved from his eyes. After a moment a cup touched his lips.
Ned opened his mouth, and sweet, cool water flowed down his throat. The cup moved away after a moment, and he breathed, the air coming easier than before.
“Is that better?” The woman’s outline solidified as she removed the cup from his mouth. A frilly white cap outlined her kind face. His bewildered gaze took in her gray dress covered by a white pinafore.
“Where am I?” His voice was not as raspy as before.
“Biltmore Village.”
The two words brought a flood of memories. Traveling across steep mountains, looking for fuel, tinkering with the complex engine of his brand-new machine. He remembered the jubilation when he caught his first glimpse of Biltmore, the palatial home of George and Edith Vanderbilt. Then … n
othing. He reached a hand toward his head, his aching head. “Who are you?”
She patted his hand. “I’m Sarah, your nurse. You’re lucky your accident occurred so near our hospital. Who knows what might have happened to you if little Melissa Bradford hadn’t brought you to us.”
Little Melissa Bradford? Who was she talking about? A child had brought him to the hospital? The words made no sense.
As Ned was trying to formulate a question, the door to his room opened and a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair stepped inside. “How is your newest patient?”
Sarah straightened and turned her back to Ned. “Good afternoon, Brother Martin. He’s just awakened, but I believe he’ll recover his full health.”
Ned didn’t feel very healthy right now. His head throbbed and even though the ache in his arm had eased somewhat, his leg still hurt.
“The doctor said he shouldn’t have any lasting effects from his concussion, and the rest of his aches and pains are bumps and sprains.” The nurse patted his shoulder and glanced down at him as though she expected him to applaud her optimistic appraisal.
Ned pushed against the bed, trying to raise himself toa sitting position. The nurse’s hand, however, applied some force to keep him pressed against the bed. He should have been able to overcome her gesture, but he was as weak as a newborn pup.
“You don’t have to sit up because the pastor is here.” Her voice was a mixture of sternness and understanding. “He knows you were in an accident.”
“That’s right. I’m Martin Thomas, Brother Martin to most of the folks around here.” The pastor stepped to the end of his bed. “It’s a blessing to see you awake.”
He stopped struggling for now. As soon as Sarah the nurse moved away, he would sit up on his own. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Let’s see.” Sarah glanced toward the window. “It’s Monday, December 3. You’ve been here three days.”
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