by Jillian Hart
He had put her present on the top shelf of the entry into the kitchen, and he carried her out there now, with Maeve following.
Violet went silent when she looked at the doll on the shelf.
“For me?” she finally asked.
“All for you,” Noah assured her.
“You didn’t need to,” Maeve said beside him.
“But I wanted to,” Noah told her.
Even though Violet was too busy to raise up her mistletoe, Noah figured it was a good time for a kiss and leaned over to Maeve.
“I’m glad you finally stopped kissing me on the cheek,” Maeve said after she got her breath back.
“Me, too,” Noah said. “Me, too.”
Epilogue
Near the Dry Creek in Montana Territory
July 1887
The hot heat of summer made Maeve fan herself with a piece of paper. It was a Sunday afternoon and grasshoppers were jumping around. The ranch hands had loaded the benches and chairs from the bunkhouse into a wagon and driven them over to the banks of the Dry Creek so everyone would have a place to sit for the baptism. Maeve was grateful for that as she sat on one of them with her baby son, Charles, on her lap. The church was having a baptism in the creek and, while Charles was too young for that, she and Noah wanted to dedicate him to the Lord this Sunday.
She glanced next to her where her friend Mercy and her husband, Cole Matheson, were sitting. Maeve had asked them to be godparents to Charles, and they had taken the train back here from Angel Falls to do so. She and Mercy wrote to each other almost weekly and had become solid friends.
Noah was sitting next to Maeve in a new suit, and he couldn’t be prouder of Charles.
“Good lungs,” he’d said when the baby was born. “He’ll make a good rancher.”
Mercy leaned over and whispered, “You should have told me you were pregnant on the train.” She’d made the same statement several times before. “I can’t imagine how alone and afraid you felt.”
“It all worked out,” Maeve said as she reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand.
Mercy, too, had found love in her mail-order match. And she was now pregnant and waiting for another child.
“I wish I could go back and thank that conductor,” Mercy said.
With that thought, they both looked over to the grassy area to their left. Violet had found a sprig of some kind of wild grass that she was calling her “misty toe.” She was chasing Mercy’s son, George, around in circles trying to get him to kiss her.
“She’s five now you know,” Maeve said to Mercy. “So she’s a little faster.”
“George can still outrun her for quite a few years more years,” Mercy said with a grin. “Maybe then kissing won’t seem so bad.”
That was all the conversation they had before Reverend Olson came forward with those who wanted to be baptized in the creek.
Bobby was the first one in line and Noah smiled over at Maeve. She hadn’t realized that the boy had been with Noah’s crew since he was fourteen. He was eighteen now. Noah had encouraged him all those years to read his Bible and go to church. He had recently turned to God completely.
Finally, it was time for them to go forward with Charles.
Noah carried the baby down to where Reverend Olson stood by the creek. Maeve was by his side and even Violet was there, looking a little rumpled from her chase.
The Mathesons followed behind them.
“We are here to dedicate this precious boy,” the Reverend Olson said as he began. “Jesus asked the little children to come to him and this boy is doing that.”
After the reverend was finished, Noah carried the baby back to their chairs.
The dedication was the last one and people started bringing out their food for the picnic they were all having.
Maeve noticed that Violet was staying with the adults.
“What’s wrong?” she asked her daughter. “Don’t you want to play anymore?”
“George won’t let me catch him,” she said as she folded her arms in a temper.
“Well, sometimes you have to wait for the good kisses,” Maeve said as she bent down and gave her daughter a big one on her cheek.
Noah chuckled beside her and when Maeve straightened up, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, too.
“Sometimes you don’t have to wait as long as you think, either,” Noah said.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE WIFE CAMPAIGN by Regina Scott.
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to the third holiday mail-order bride book by Jillian Hart and myself.
As many of you know, I love Christmas stories so I am pleased to be able to offer you another story for this year. Mistletoe Kiss in Dry Creek is the story of a recent widow, Maeve Flanagan, who believes God has abandoned her and left her with no choice but to go West to marry a stranger.
I always try to include some mention of loneliness or distance from God in my holiday books because, each year, some of you send me letters that tell me you have felt that way at Christmas and a book of mine has encouraged you.
This year, I hope you enjoy Maeve’s story as she goes to meet the man who placed an ad for a wife even though all he wants is one who can cook for his ranch hands. Fortunately, her young daughter, Violet, is determined her mother will have a Christmas kiss under the mistletoe with him.
Thank you for reading my Mistletoe Kiss in Dry Creek.
I wish you an especially meaningful Christmas this year. May you find time to gather with other Christians to sing carols and remember the Holy Birth.
Questions for Discussion
In the beginning of the novella, Maeve is convinced God has abandoned her. Have you ever felt that so much was wrong with your life that God had turned His face from you? If you could have talked to Maeve then, what would you have told her? Does God allow difficult things to happen to His children?
Noah, on the other hand, seems to be frozen in his feelings. He had hard times, too, but he chose to just work as much as he could, hoping the feelings would go away. What would have been a better way for him to cope with the hard times in his life?
The railroad conductor gives both Maeve and her friend Mercy sprigs of mistletoe in hopes they will have Christmas kisses from their new husbands. He may have sensed their unease and given them these sprigs for encouragement. When was the last time you gave something to a friend as a means to encourage them?
Violet had a traumatic experience and was scared of bearded men. The ranch hands all had beards. How did they solve this problem? Have you ever made a sacrifice to make someone else feel better?
Mail-Order Holiday Brides
Jillian Hart
Janet Tronstad
Home for Christmas
Jillian Hart
And let the peace of God rule in your hearts.
—Colossians 3:15
Chapter One
Montana Territory
December 21, 1885
“I think we’ve been on this train forever.” Christina Eberlee gripped the handrail, breezed down the steps from the passenger car and landed on the icy depot platform. Snowflakes caught on her eyelashes and needled her face as she twirled around in the December wind, waiting for her new friend to descend from the passenger car. “Or at least it feels that way.”
“It certainly does,” Annabelle Hester agreed, holding her beautiful hat in place as the wind tried to snatch it. “It feels nice to get out in the fresh air. I’m afraid train travel isn’t quite as glamorous as I imagined.”
“Me, either. Exciting, but cramped. Who would have guessed?” Christina trudged through the snow, thinking of the blessing of Annabelle’s companionship. Before they’d met, she’d sat alone on her velvet-covered seat, listening to the clickety-clack of the wheels on steel rails and counting the miles passing by. Dread was a hard thing to battle alone, envisioning all the things that could go wrong with this mail-order bride situation she found herself in.
He
r biggest problem would have to be that her imagination would not stop seeing doom. Tom Rutger might be a perfectly fine man—he’d certainly seemed so in the letters they’d exchanged—but her errant mind kept picturing a bald bridegroom with a severe overbite and warts. A man that smelled like cabbage. Or—and this was the worst—one of those men who was nothing but hair, including a gigantic handlebar mustache, bushy beard and hair curling over the backs of his hands like fur.
Then Annabelle Hester had joined her table in the dining car, and Christina was delighted to learn she wasn’t the only mail-order bride on board. Annabelle was one, too! Finally, someone who could share her worries. Annabelle had chuckled over Christina’s greatest fear—abundantly curling hand hair—and they’d become instant friends.
“Montana Territory is such wide-open country,” Annabelle commented as she looked around. She was a dainty, lovely young woman who outshone every other female on the platform. “So different from back East.”
“You will come to like it, I’m sure. I didn’t like Dakota Territory at first, but I came to love the wide-open spaces and the skies that go on forever. Not that you can see either with all this snow,” Christina replied.
“No, as I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. Or you,” Annabelle quipped in a dignified manner.
“Are you starting to get excited?” Christina trudged through the near-blizzard conditions toward the depot, where lemony light offered shelter and the promise of warmth. Her teeth were chattering.
“I’m quite looking forward to meeting Adam Stone, my husband-to-be.” Annabelle tumbled through the open door. “I’m grateful to find such a man.”
“I pray he is a great blessing for your life.” The blast of heat from the potbellied stove in the center of the train station’s waiting room felt delicious as she looked around. A ticket counter and the telegraph window stood at one end and the newsstand at another. A kindly faced matronly woman was pouring cups of coffee and tea for interested passengers. The little sign said two cents.
And that was two cents too much. Christina’s heart sank. Her reticule, dangling from her wrist, didn’t have so much as a penny inside it. She’d spent her last few cents on her breakfast toast and tea. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was almost noon.
“Are you in the mood for something hot to drink?” Christina asked. “I’ll wait in line with you, if you are.”
Something—or more accurately someone—crashed into her shoulder. Knocked off balance, she slammed to the floor. Pain roared through her arm. All she saw was a blur racing away—the boy who’d rammed into her, a reticule swinging from his hand.
My reticule, she realized. He has my reticule! She levered herself up, watching in horror as the kid dashed through the doorway and into the storm.
“Help!” Annabelle called. “Stop that boy!”
But he was gone, just an impression of a dark coat and a faded red hat disappearing into the veil of snow, her most treasured possessions gone with him. A lump wedged into her throat. Vaguely she was aware of footsteps charging the length of the room as a man in a black coat and Stetson raced into the snow.
“Are you all right?” Genuine concern marked Annabelle’s lovely face as she grasped Christina by the elbow and helped her up. “Are you hurt? Oh, you’re bleeding.”
“Am I? It’s nothing.” At least she was trying to pretend so. Pain shot up her arm in swift, knife-sharp spikes and she gritted her teeth against it. Her worst injury was the loss of the contents of her reticule—her dead adoptive mother’s broach and the locket with the image of her sisters, whom she hadn’t seen since she was adopted as a small child. Now all she had of her sisters was the fading image in her head.
“Christina, you can deny it all you want, but it doesn’t change the facts. You are hurt and you need a doctor. Maybe there’s one traveling on the train.”
Tears swam into her eyes, but she blinked them away. She cradled her aching arm, standing on shaky knees. Everyone stared at her. How embarrassing. She wanted to sink through a hole in the floor. If only she’d been paying better attention, she might have seen the boy coming.
“Don’t you worry,” Annabelle soothed. “I don’t have much money, but I’ll split what I have with you. It will be enough for meals until you reach Angel Falls.”
“That’s generous of you, but no, I can’t take your money.” Especially since she’d run out of her own funds anyway. She swallowed hard, pushing the sharp zing of pain to the back of her mind. It was nothing but a bump, she thought, cradling her hurting arm. Maybe a bruise. No need to worry. She swiped blood away from the skinned heel of her hand.
“Poor dear.” A plump older lady gave her a sympathetic look. She patted one of the benches near the stove. “Perhaps you should come sit down here. I sent my daughter to tell the ticket clerk to fetch a doctor.”
“No doctor.” A medical bill was the last thing she needed. “I can’t afford one.”
“Maybe that man was able to catch the boy and bring back your reticule,” Annabelle said hopefully.
“What man?”
“The one who ran after the boy.” Annabelle gestured toward the doorway.
Right. The man had returned, nothing but a blurry shadow cloaked by the thick snowfall on the train platform. The vague shadow took on shape. First a hint of wide shoulders and the crown of a Stetson coming closer until he broke through the storm and everything and everyone surrounding her vanished in comparison. She caught a hint of his face as he strode forcefully into the light—rugged, carved granite, high cheekbones and an iron jaw. At well over six feet, he towered over everyone in the room, a formidable behemoth of a man with a badge glinting on his dark wool coat.
“Sorry, ma’am, he got away from me. He had too big of a head start.” His dark blue gaze gentled, softening with apology. An odd combination—steely man and kind heart.
“I figured as much. Thank you for trying.”
“I just wish I’d been successful. You’ve been hurt.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Or so she was hoping.
“You hit the floor pretty hard.” He knelt before her, closing the distance between them. His closeness unsettled her, as if he’d chased off every speck of air in the station. Concern softened the rugged planes of his masculine face. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”
“Can you wiggle yours?” Christina asked.
“As a matter of fact I can.” Seriousness clung to him like the snow on his shoulders, but a hint of a smile settled into the corners of his hard mouth. He held out his gloved hands, moving his fingers. “Now your turn.”
“See? They wriggle perfectly.” She waved her fingers on her good hand. “Everything is fine. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Marshal—”
“Gable. Elijah Gable, and I want to see you move your injured hand.” He didn’t budge, his big form blocking her from leaving. “Looks to me you have broken your arm, Miss...?”
“Miss Christina Eberlee, and since I have no funds for a doctor, no, nothing is broken. You let the thief get away with my reticule, remember?” she couldn’t help teasing.
“So this is my fault?”
“Somewhat.”
“Then I suspect I owe you an apology.” He looked up at her through spiky black lashes. “I should have run faster.”
“Exactly.” Why were the corners of her mouth trying to smile? She’d lost everything that mattered the most to her—the keepsakes were all she had left of those she loved. And this man made her want to forget everything with one small hint of his grin. There were good men everywhere, she thought, and it was nice to have a pleasant encounter with a lawman for a change instead of fearing them.
“Here comes the ticket agent.” The marshal’s tone rang with reassurance. “You were injured on their property. They should provide a doctor.”
“Really, I’m fine.” And embarrassed by the attention. Heavens! She shook her head at the uniformed man coming toward her. People were still staring, and the waiting train blared
its five-minute warning. “I just need to rest, is all. C’mon, Annabelle.”
“I do think you need medical care, Christina,” Annabelle said.
What she needed was her reticule. She wanted to hold her adoptive mother’s broach in her hand and remember the compassionate woman. She wanted to gaze just once more at the image inside the locket, those small girls’ faces frozen forever in time, a reminder of love and family, things she did not have now.
And hadn’t had in years.
“I’m sure you are right,” she told her friend as she rose from the bench. She ignored her wobbling knees and rubbed at the cut on her hand. Yes, it certainly was bleeding. Fortunately, not too badly. “If it continues to worsen, I’ll have a doctor in Angel Falls look at it. I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” Annabelle looked as if she meant it.
Warmth filled Christina’s lonely heart. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for her. What a good friend Annabelle was. Indeed.
“I’m the one who failed to run fast enough.” The marshal offered her his arm—and what a strong, reliable arm it was. “The least I can do is to see you onto the train and make sure you’re settled comfortably.”
“No need.” She studied him—his rough, mountain-tough looks took her breath away. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“Just doing my duty.” He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, making a powerful image beneath the fall of lamplight.
Snow swirled around her as she stepped into the bite of the storm. She glanced over her shoulder for one last look at the man. “Goodbye, Elijah Gable.”
“Maybe not, Miss Eberlee.” He tipped his hat, the low tones of his voice stolen as the wind howled around her.
She stumbled after Annabelle, trying not to remember her other less-than-kind encounters with lawmen over the past handful of years. The local sheriff arriving at the homestead to tell of her adoptive father’s deadly fall from a horse. A year later his deputy knocking at the door with eviction papers. Local law enforcement hauling her from the back stall of a livery stable, where she’d curled up for a night’s sleep. Being accused of stealing food from a grocer when her stomach audibly rumbled with hunger—which it wouldn’t have done if she’d been the thief in question.
