Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set

by Jillian Hart

  “Gertie—” she leaned close to the girl, taking care that her whisper would not carry “—what is your pa’s favorite meal?”

  “Chicken and dumplings,” she whispered back. Gossamer curls framed her button face. “Are you gonna make it for him?”

  “It happens to be my specialty.”

  * * *

  The rig had seen better days five years ago. On his back beneath the wagon box, Tate gave the wrench a good hard twist. Lantern light cast orange flickers across the wood section of the frame he’d just replaced, but the mountings were solid. He set down the wrench and gave them a test. Everything held and he sighed with relief. That was one thing crossed off his list. He inched his way, checking stress points as he went until he’d cleared the frame and sat up behind the runners.

  “That ought to hold for the rest of the winter,” he told the gelding who eyed him over the top of his stall. “At least we’ll hope so.”

  Patches nickered in agreement, earning a nose rub. The old fellow was a good horse. Tate was grateful for the animal’s gentle and amiable spirit. The work days were long but the gelding never complained.

  “Felicity! Look!” Gertie’s high words rang through the yard like a merry bell. He caught sight of her dashing down the steps bundled up well against the cold. A navy scarf protected her neck from the wind and trailed down her back, fringe waving in the wind. Beige gloves, also far too big, protected her hands as she dashed into the yard’s deep snow. Her giggles lifted in the air, the sound most precious to him.

  He had Felicity to thank for that. His chest cinched tight. How he’d gotten so lucky, he didn’t know. He suspected luck had nothing to do with it. He dropped the wrench into the tool box and leaned against the doorway. He drank in the sight of his daughter throwing out her arms and spinning with the wind.

  “Look, Felicity! I’m twirling like a snowflake.”

  “Not yet, you’re not!” The woman moved like a waltz, one lilting step after another, too graceful to touch the ground for long. She scooped up the little girl and lifted her high in the air. Gertie squealed, coming back down to wrap her arms around Felicity’s neck. They spun together, the woman going faster and faster until they were a flutter of motion, of gold hair and swirling skirts and openhearted laughter.

  He watched until they blurred. Only then did he turn away, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. Dumb snow. Getting in his eyes like that. He swaggered over to the wagon bed and hunkered down, needing to check the boards for wear.

  He knew the exact moment when the laughter stopped. He didn’t look up, although he heard everything. Gertie flopping into the snow and flapping to make an angel, Felicity’s praise, the crunch of one pair of shoes coming closer. He set his jaw, unprepared to see the woman. A man ought to be safe in his own barn.

  “Whew, I’m out of breath.” She tumbled in, bringing the echoes of merriment with her. “I haven’t played in the snow like that since, well, I can’t exactly remember when. Brrr. You must be freezing in this weather.”

  “I’m used to it.” Gratitude clogged in his throat made the words curt and coarser than he meant. He forced his gaze on the boards and only on the boards. Muscles twisted behind his sternum, making it hard to concentrate.

  “You’ve been working out here most of the afternoon.” She padded closer and the muscles in his chest snapped tight, near to breaking. The cutting board came into sight, a makeshift tray. “I thought you might like some hot tea and biscuits. I melted butter and honey on them. Just how you like it.”

  He wasn’t prepared for this. The hammer in his grip wobbled. The knot in his throat expanded. “That is good of you, Felicity. You didn’t need to do this.”

  “I wanted to.” Undaunted by his growly tone, she set the tray on the wagon bed in front of him. Her hands were bare, for she’d given Gertie her gloves. “I can’t have you freezing solid out here like an icicle. Who would I marry then?”

  “I imagine any number of bachelors would line up to have you.”

  “So you are capable of being charming. I suspected it.” She leaned her elbows against the bed’s rail, propping her chin on one hand. Like a storybook princess, melting snowflakes winked in her hair, a tiara of diamonds. “Trust me, there isn’t a single bachelor lined up to marry me. Not counting you, of course.”

  Talk about charming. He found himself leaning in closer, just a bit, taking in the little things about her he’d never let himself notice before. A chip of a dimple on the right side of her smile, the adorable way she tipped her head slightly to the left, the cute furrow above the bridge of her nose. Not that he could be charmed, but anyone would notice her loveliness. He couldn’t believe she’d been on her own for so long. “There was never anyone for you?”

  “Not a single beau.” She dimmed, and he was sorry he’d asked. She gave a little shoulder shrug. “I always feared there was something about me. Maybe some inability to be loved that men could sense left over from being raised without family ties. Maybe loneliness is like a flaw men can spot and so shy away from.”

  “More than likely you scared off every man who looked your way.” He blushed, realizing he hadn’t thought the words, but said them aloud. They hovered in the air, too late to snatch back.

  “Oh, because of my flaw, you mean, being so lonely?” She shook her head, scattering diamonds that fell to become melting snowflakes once again.

  “Yes. No.” He didn’t know what he meant. The woman scattered his thoughts, too. “Because you are lovely in every way.”

  “If I get compliments like that, I should bring you tea more often.” Self-conscious, she handed him the steaming cup. Clearly she didn’t believe him. “Don’t you have any gloves?”

  “Work gloves. I wear them only when I need to. Have to make them last.” He wrapped his hands across the mug, drawing the warmth into his skin. The aroma of strong tea and generous honey curled into the air. He breathed it in, letting it warm him.

  “Where are they?”

  “The gloves? On the shelf above the bridle hook.” He should tell her to leave them alone. He ought to order her out of his barn, but he didn’t have the will to force her away.

  Through the frame of the open door, his daughter hopped up to inspect her work, her back covered in snow. Apparently satisfied, she chose another spot and fell backward, arms outstretched. A much different child from the sad, withdrawn shadow she’d been when he’d come home from prison. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the agony down.

  “Sorry, but I’m confiscating these.” Felicity drew his attention. Her color brought life to the dimness where the lantern refused to reach. Her skirts swirled, a swatch of blue beneath the hem of her coat, the dainty pad of her steps tapped closer. Patches nickered low in his throat, perhaps hoping she would head his way.

  “They are beginning to wear, but I can definitely mend them.” Determined, she leaned against the tailgate, tucking his gloves into her pockets. “Don’t give me that look. I love to fix things. It’s another fault of mine.”

  “Your faults are starting to add up.” Where the quip came from, he couldn’t say. “Maybe I should rethink the proposal.”

  “Sure, go ahead. A woman’s flaws may be numerous, but they are never as many as a man’s.” Demure humor bronzed the gold flecks in her irises. She wanted to make him laugh.

  “That may be.” She nearly succeeded. The strange lurch of a chuckle caught in his windpipe. Surprised, he shook his head. He’d almost laughed. Her humor was gentle, her true meaning hid beneath the words and he wondered exactly what she saw in him. Maybe she had no clue what his flaws were. He lifted the cup and drank, letting the hot sweetness slide across his tongue and wash his throat.

  “Can I ask you something?” She broke the silence sounding somber. Sounding caring. Caring? He could weed out that one untrustworthy emotion, refusing to be hooked by it. When he didn’t answer, she continued on. “How did you hurt your leg?”

  Her question struck like a blow. He heard th
e air rush out of his lungs. Pain streaked to his soul. This discussion was inevitable. She deserved to know the truth about the man she intended to marry. He glanced over her shoulder to the child making angels in the snow.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” Apology polished her words, made them sweet and translucent to show her true concern beneath.

  “You have the right. I’m debating the best way to tell you.” He swallowed hard. Where did he start? How did he find the words? He barricaded his chest so not one emotion could escape. “I was nearly beaten to death on my own property by men who are in prison now.”

  “How horrible.” Sympathy and fondness twined together and he’d never heard emotion so pure. “Tate, I’m sorry that happened to you. That’s awful. Was this at the feed store?”

  “No. My father owned the place at that time, before his illness. It happened at my ranch.” Time spun backward. He could feel the December snow crackle against his cheek as his face slammed into the ground. Although he tried to stop it, he recalled the hammer-like blow of a boot bashing pain through his skull. He swallowed hard, trying to stop the memories of masked men towering high above him. “First they wanted a couple of my horses. With a knife to my throat, I let them take the team. Then they marched me from the barn to my house, wanting what money I had on hand. When they put the knife to my wife Lolly’s throat, I pulled the rock out of the chimney and handed them our entire savings.”

  “Those terrible men. Was the sheriff able to arrest them right away?”

  “The man with the knife was the sheriff. He didn’t bother with a bandanna. Dobbs said if I told anyone I would regret it.” Tension rippled along his jaw and stood out in his neck. “I kept silent for a while. Lolly was afraid of what would happen. Those same masked men visited other farms and other businesses over time. Folks recognized my horses and figured I was one of those men. It was all rumor and assumption, but it was hard to take.”

  “Of course. That was terribly unfair. How could you stomach it?”

  “One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I visited the telegraph office to send word to the governor about what was happening. Turns out one of the operators was working for Dobbs. I received another visit in the middle of the night. I was yanked out of bed, kicked through the house and beaten on my front lawn. Dobbs arrested me for the crimes he and his men committed and demanded the deed to my land for good measure.”

  “You were falsely arrested?”

  “Yes and when the truth came to light, immediately released.” He sat on the back of the wagon bed, as mighty as a warrior, drawing in the shadows like air. “A lot of folks in this town still suspect I was guilty. I broke most of the bones on my left side in that beating, and the territory didn’t spend a lot on a doctor to put me back together when I was in jail.”

  “You should have been treated better.” Rips gathered along the seams of her heart, slowly tearing deeper. No wonder. How had his spirit survived that level of cruelty? “Was that when Gertie was in an orphanage?”

  “You know about that?” He gaze lashed hers, hard and fraught with agony.

  “She told me.”

  “Her mother cut off all connection to me. I can still hear her words when I was being beaten and bleeding so hard I couldn’t see for the blood streaming into my eyes. Lolly’s last words were that I deserved what I got. She was mad at me for standing up against Dobbs. I put her and Gertie in jeopardy. She said that I had done that to myself and she would never forgive me. She took off. She ran off hoping for a new start.”

  “She took Gertie? She never wrote to tell you? She didn’t care what happened to you?”

  “Ingrid spent months looking for her. By the time she did Lolly had died of pneumonia—she always was frail—and Gertie wound up in a bad place. Not like the home you were in.” His face twisted. “If Ingrid hadn’t rescued her…”

  He said nothing more. His pain palpable on the breeze blew into her soul.

  What could she do to comfort him and to soothe away that depth of suffering? She reached across the distance between them. When her hand settled on his forearm, he stiffened. The tension bunched in his jaw and corded in his neck became so tight, it looked able to break bone. He did not move away.

  “You tried to do the right thing. I admire you for that.” She sensed he needed to hear it but it was also the truth. He shrugged, a brief lift of his dependable shoulders, discounting her. But his granite features winced once, a show of emotion. Encouraged, she inched a little closer along the tailgate. “Gertie is all right now. Look at her.”

  Apparently that was the right thing to say. Relieved, she watched as Tate focused on his daughter, who had bounced up to study her work in the snow. The last veil of snowflakes waltzed from sky to earth and danced around her like a ballet and the golden-haired girl clasped her hands together, pleased with the angel impressions in the sugar-pure snow.

  “Yes, she’s better now,” he agreed. Beneath her fingertips, his tensed muscles relaxed through his soft flannel sleeve. “Thanks to you.”

  “I’m not the one who works two jobs to provide for her.”

  “It won’t always be this way.” His throat worked, struggling with emotions she could only guess at. “The economy will turn around and Devin’s store will be running at a profit again. I’ll get back on my feet financially. I promise to buy you and Gertie a nice house, one fit for all that frilly frippery you women like to make.”

  “I can make the frippery less frilly next time. I don’t have to use so much pink.”

  “I don’t mind. I spent a lot of tough nights in a dark, icy jail cell with no comforts. Not one. It’s been a long time since a house has felt like a home.” He said nothing more because his chest felt ready to explode. The vacant spot where his heart used to be hurt as if it had been beaten.

  “I’m glad I could do that for you, give you a home again. I need one, too.” Her fingertips lifted away from his, but distance could not break the connection forged between them. She pushed away from the tailgate, as cheerful as the sunshine peeking between dying clouds. “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to meet the next-door neighbors.”

  “The Tillys aren’t the friendliest sort.”

  “No, but they have a chicken house and I have four doilies to trade.” Her chip of a dimple dug in next to the soft curve of her rosebud mouth. She was grace and goodness sailing away from him. She was everything he’d stopped believing in long ago.

  He shook his head as she disappeared from his sight. The poor neighbors. They didn’t have a chance. Who could say no to her? He took another swallow of tea. It had cooled down enough not to burn his tongue.

  “Pa! Come look.” Gertie spun in place, catching the last of the snowflakes on the palms of her too-big gloves. “I made three snow angels. A pa, a ma and a little girl. A family.”

  As he reached for his cane and pushed to his feet, those words echoed within him. A family. Was that why Gertie had wanted a mother so much? His bad knee wobbled but he kept on going, determined to give his daughter the attention and praise she needed, but inside, he’d turned to stone. He’d given her and Felicity all he could. All he had.

  He had nothing left within him, and for good reason. His heart broke when his wife turned away from him. His faith shattered when he’d stood in front of a judge listening to Dobbs’s men lie to cover their own crimes. Days and nights in the hardest prison in the territory smothered his soul. He had only pieces to offer, and what good was that?

  Snow crunched beneath his boots and the last snowflake fell, brushing his cheek. The bitter cold didn’t touch him as he trudged to a stop beside his daughter. His precious girl.

  “That’s a fine family.” The words scratched against the inside of his tightening throat. Gertie’s hand crept into his and he wished he had some tenderness to show her. He wished he could give her the family she wanted and Felicity the loving husband she’d come looking for. He feared what would happened if he couldn’t.

  Chapter Eight
/>   Dear Eleanor,

  I hope this finds you well and settled in Dry Creek. I would have written sooner, but I hadn’t imagined there would be so much to do. I’ve unpacked all my hope chest items and Tate accepted every change I made. He’s a man wounded by life but I pray God’s love will heal him. Gertie and I are two peas in a pod. She loved the doll, just as you predicted. Whew.

  Felicity lifted her pen from the paper and dipped it into the ink bottle, wondering what more to say. The house echoed around her, lonely with Gertie at school but that would soon be fixed. The clock on the mantel ticked closer to three o’clock, when she would leave for the schoolhouse. She blotted off the excess ink and began to write again.

  What about you? I saw a kindly couple greet you when you disembarked. Are they your new in-laws? What about your husband-to-be? I noticed he wasn’t there to meet your train. Is everything all right? I worry for you, Eleanor, and I’m praying for you. With all your hardships, you deserve a good husband and a loving future. I hope this Christmas finds you happily married. All my love,

  Felicity

  She thought of her friend. God had brought them together on the train, two mail-order brides. Lord, please watch over Eleanor and help us to both find our happily ever afters.

  The tick of the clock was the only answer, reminding her to hurry. She twisted the ink bottle lid tight, folded her letter and slipped it into the envelope. She gave one final glance around the living room, turned down the damper on the potbelly stove and slipped into her coat.

  The house felt cozy as she headed to the door. Last night’s contentment lingered in the room, filling her with hope. She could still see Tate by the fire repairing a harness in the lamplight, while Gertie sat near his feet playing tea party with Merry. Tate might have wanted a convenient marriage, but the contentment in the air when they were all together felt like much more.