Log Cabin Christmas

by Margaret Brownley

  “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

  His lips curved into a sly smile. “It’s a secret. A Christmas secret.”

  “I thought there would be no more secrets between us.”

  “This is a good secret.” He slipped Elizabeth’s shawl over her shoulders and took her hand. “Come with me, and you’ll see what it is.”

  Leaving the warmth of the cabin, David led Elizabeth out the door, where he motioned to the most elegant-looking, mahogany-colored carriage with brass mountings. It was fit for a princess going to a ball.

  “I may not be able to give you a beautiful home just yet,” David said, “but at least you’ll have a handsome carriage to ride in.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I really don’t need a beautiful home or a handsome carriage, but I thank you for such a lovely gift.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed. “I found all I’ll ever need the day I met you, and I’m perfectly happy to live in our little log cabin for as long as necessary.” Just minutes after being pronounced husband and wife, Elizabeth didn’t think her heart could be any fuller.

  David bent down to give her another kiss, this one even sweeter than the last. As they walked hand in hand back inside to their family and friends, a tiny movement caught Elizabeth’s eye. She smiled to herself when she spied a ladybug crawling on the wall above the mantel.

  Elizabeth was sure that God must be looking down from heaven to bless their marriage. “Maybe someday our own son or daughter will begin their life in this log cabin,” she murmured against David’s ear. A feeling of contentment enveloped her, and she knew without any doubt that this night was just the beginning of many dreams to come true.

  Award-winning, bestselling author, Wanda E. Brunstetter enjoys writing historical as well as Amish-themed novels. Wanda lives in Washington State with her husband, Richard, a retired minister. The Brunstetters have two grown children and six grandchildren.

  Christmas Traps and Trimmings

  by Kelly Eileen Hake

  For we walk by faith, not by sight. 2

  CORINTHIANS 5:7

  Chapter 1

  October 12,

  1811 London, England

  Committing fraud, Wilhemina Montrose discovered, consisted of nothing more than the same exaggerated social niceties perpetrated by genteel society daily. One could almost say her entire ladylike life prepared her for this day. Well, her life as a lady, and days of scrupulous scheming. Big plans lurked behind this morning’s small talk, after all.

  “It’s all to be arranged as swiftly as possible.” She leaned forward to cultivate an air of confidentiality with her solicitor, carefully placing her left hand on his blotter as though to impress the urgency of her request. In reality, the ambitious and corrupt man before her shared the floor with two other solicitors, obliterating any hope of privacy.

  The motion, as intended, drew his eyes to the ludicrously gaudy heirloom engagement ring imprisoning her third finger. His greedy gaze weighed the value of the piece in pounds, then prestige, clearly calculating her rise in worth. As Miss Montrose, heiress to the Montrose fortune, her youth and gender tipped the scales against her, allowing Mr. Gorvin’s loyalties to slide toward her cousin. As Miss Montrose, fiancée to that selfsame cousin, bearing the expensive and irrefutable proof of her position, she couldn’t be so easily overlooked. Quite simply, Mr. Gorvin couldn’t afford it.

  He had no way of knowing they’d purloined the ring from the vault earlier that morning, and that it would be returned immediately after this meeting. Just before Mina and Belinda boarded a ship and escaped to the Americas …

  “Good news, good news,” he chortled, all but choking on his glee. “So glad to hear you’ve given up that nonsense of investing your inheritance and have chosen to leave it in the sensible hands of men.”

  “It seems I place my faith in the wrong people, as shown by my guardian’s continued absence.” Mina dropped her hands to her lap and wrung them together while she spoke. This next part was vital to her plans. “Elton didn’t have Mr. Carver’s direction.” She raised her chin in wounded dignity as she continued, “I wish to send a letter informing Mr. Carver that his brief responsibility to me has ended. After his callous shunning I want no possibility the man may someday return to England and claim a connection to me. I’m certain he couldn’t have misunderstood your summons after my father’s death, so you won’t begrudge me the opportunity to write an assessment of what his dereliction has cost him.”

  “Certainly not,” Gorvin blustered, yanking open drawers and rifling through papers and ledgers. He kept up a steady stream of babble as Mina reflected that it would have been very difficult indeed for her guardian to misinterpret a letter that had never been written. She and Belinda—her old nurse, today playing the role of arrogant aunt—held no doubts that Gorvin and Elton conspired to keep Mr. Carver ignorant of her father’s passing, thereby keeping her inheritance tied up.

  “Here you are.” He passed her a scrap of paper bearing the word Kentucky. “Letters aside, when you’re wed you’ll have a family to keep you well occupied.”

  “Two things can be counted on to keep any lady busy. One is family. The other, of course,” Mina widened her eyes guilelessly, “are the shops. After so many months, I’m sadly out of date. I don’t want to be a disgrace to the name of my husband.” She swallowed hard, visibly distressed. Mr. Gorvin need not know it was the thought of having Elton for a husband that caused the distress, rather than any fashion concerns.

  “You’ll be a credit to him, I’m sure.” A beefy paw reached out as though to pat her hand in consolation. Then, as if thinking better of the impropriety, he reached down to open another drawer. “Besides, shopping is a skill at which every young lady excels. That will be the order of the day?” A book of checks appeared atop the blotter like an offering.

  “Her trousseau, of naturally,” Aunt Belinda all but snapped at the man. “A pleasure that should be spread over months—selecting fits and fabrics, choosing the perfect accessories, making Mina the bride she was born to be—must now be rushed. Those dressmakers will demand outrageous sums for such a hurry when they should be thanking us for the privilege!” A thump of her cane majestically ended the performance.

  “It can’t be helped,” Mina soothed. “Elton has to travel for business, and the journey will make a fine honeymoon. Such opportunities aren’t to be missed. You know he’s a head for these things….” She trailed off as Gorvin nodded eagerly.

  “Best strike while the iron’s hot and all that.” His glance appraised the fine fabric and embroidery tracing the ladies’ dresses, their lace shawls. Mina bit back a grin as she supposed him to be trying to compromise on a figure that wouldn’t insult, but wouldn’t be extravagant for their spending spree. “What all will you be purchasing?”

  “The usual morning dresses, day dresses, ball gowns, traveling wear, riding habits, boots, dancing slippers, gloves, rib bands, hats to match, of course.” Mina paused for breath, smiling as though ecstatic at the idea of perusing shops.

  “Shawls, fans, purses, opera glasses—Elton mentioned taking you to the opera,” Belinda sniffed. “A gift for your groom. Gifts for your bridesmaids, so we’ll need to go to the jewelers. Stockings and such forth.” She paused delicately.

  “I see.” Color leeched from Gorvin’s face.

  “I beg your pardon.” A hesitant overture from the lady at the desk to the left caused them all to turn their heads. “But …” Lady Reed, whom Mina had known for over a decade, scowled at her solicitor. A wave of her hand, and the man finally showed enough discretion to leave his desk for a drink of water. She lowered her voice again. “I can’t help but hear you’re planning to go shopping for your trousseau, my dear?”

  “Why, yes.” Mina darted an uncertain glance toward Belinda, whose eyebrows had risen toward her hairline as though scandalized by this stranger’s presumption.

  “You must, absolutely must, take into account what you’ll spend at Madam Farniqu
e’s. She makes the most stunning creations for the boudoir, delicate like air and bits of lace.” The impeccably dressed lady sighed. “Everything she carries is frightfully dear, but worth every shilling. Every married woman knows the men go mad for a woman wearing them. It’s the best investment you can make in your marriage.”

  “Absolutely not. She is to be a proper wife.” Belinda’s lips thinned into nothing. An observer would consider it compressed rage. Mina knew her beloved companion bit back laughter at their friend’s performance.

  “I want to be a good wife,” Mina murmured. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, and knew she’d turned red. She cast a glance at the book of checks and then a swift glance at Mr. Gorvin, whose ruddy cheeks darkened before he began scribbling a figure.

  “Perhaps,” Belinda commented dryly, “you’d best double that amount, Mr. Gorvin. I rather doubt any of us wishes to repeat this interview.”

  December 14, 1811 Appalachian Mountains, Kentucky

  Sam Carver cracked through the thin ice shelling his washbasin, plunged his hands inside, and splashed his face with the frigid contents. Scrubbing the grit of too little sleep—and too much desire for more—from his eyes, he reached for a towel to mop up the water running from his beard in haphazard streams.

  Winter worked a wonder on the world; slowing time’s heartbeat to acreeping crawl. Most sensible animals matched the pace, holing up in their caves and burrows to wait out the slow season. Thing was, man never numbered among sensible creatures, and a trapper couldn’t afford to wait.

  Not through the season when furs and pelts grew their thickest and most luxurious. Not when he’d invested everything he owned, plus Montrose’s generous loan, in John Jacob Astor’s Southwest Fur Company. And especially not when failing meant crawling to his smirking older brother back in England and admitting defeat.

  Sam snorted at the thought, shoved his feet back into his boots, and stomped them into the dirt floor of his log cabin. A stray rock had been rubbing his heel wrong all morning, and he welcomed the chance to cast his shoes aside during the midday meal. It also gave him the chance to drop off the fresh load of meat and furs he’d gathered that morning. Weather permitting and God willing, this winter would be the making of him.

  Grabbing his gun and pack, he opened the door and checked the sky. Just because he’d not been snowed in yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. Nice weather—storm clouds still a good distance off, not much wind. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, keeping warmth in his fingertips.

  Even a split-second fumble could cost a man his shot, so it paid to keep flexible. And Sam Carver needed to get paid. No man could be self-made until he repaid his debts. Old Montrose, his father’s friend and the uncle Sam would have chosen had he been given the choice of relations, staked his share in Astor’s organization when it opened to investors last January.

  If the clear skies hold up, I’ll have that back room filled twice over before summer. Good thing I threw together that loft during the last cold spell. The added space will keep anything extra out of my way.

  The growing beaver and fox population was why he’d chosen this stretch of mountains in Kentucky for the winter. With its range of furs and acceptable availability of supplies—but not convenience, convenience meant too much competition—he was set for a solid season. Next year the area might be too settled, but for here and now, things were the way he liked them. Nice and quiet.

  Except … Sam cocked his head to the side and his rifle to the ready. The disturbance reaching his ears traveled a ways to meet him, but he shook his head. The sound was still too close. No wheels belonged rolling through his neck of the woods, disturbing any animals taking advantage of the fine day.

  There’s nothing this way but me for miles, and only fools travel in winter. Sam crept toward the approaching sounds, unwilling to show himself. People inevitably dropped by the cabin, but Sam felt no compunction to be sociable withuninvited guests. He kept quiet, cultivating a nonthreatening air around the cabin to lure any wildlife into complacency. The louder people were, the farther he had to travel to hunt.

  There. Edging behind a sugar maple, he kept watch as a wagon, drawn by two oxen, lumbered up the road. Heavy load, he surmised. Two oxen for a simple wagon was unusual. Then again, so were the two women perched alongside the driver.

  “Are you quite certain he’s up here?” A faceless crone, hidden beneath a massive bonnet, interrogated the driver.

  “Yes, ma’am.” A cheery grin revealed the driver’s few remaining teeth. “Carver keeps to hisself, but this is the way. None of us ever reckoned he had family to come and visit.”

  “Well, it is Christmas,” came the clipped tones of a young woman who obviously wasn’t inclined to satisfy the driver’s curiosity. She, too, was hidden behind a hat and scarf.

  Sam, despite his trusty double wool-lined leather jacket, froze. These weren’t just any women. They were ladies. Ladies whose accents made it clear they’d come all the way from Britain, and whose conversation left no doubt their situation was dire.

  They’ve come to visit me. For Christmas. Never mind that Sam couldn’t identify the voices. Never mind he’d been thinking mere moments before that only fools traveled in winter. He raced toward the cabin, determined to reach it before they tucked themselves into residence. One thought pounded in time with his steps; they have to go back!

  Chapter 2

  Mina spied the cabin up ahead, only its squared corners and pitched shingle roof delineating it from the trees surrounding it. As God surely intended trees to remain until sawn into respectable lumber for building.

  Everything seemed so much simpler back in England, before the months-long passage had robbed her of far too many meals and an incredible amount of dignity. Mina might have begun the journey full of triumph and hope, but she’d ended the long, perilous path to her guardian in an undesirable mishmash—cold, hungry, dispirited, exhausted, and unsure of her welcome.

  She stifled the thought, envisioning it crammed at the very bottom of their heaviest trunk, with the weight of her past and the demands of their future flattening it beyond recognition. Mina prayed for resolve.

  She would prevail. She hadn’t brought her beloved nurse untold miles over the course of eight harsh weeks only to freeze on an abandoned mountainside. No matter how much patience Mina needed to dredge from her dwindling supply, or honeyed words poured from her sorely chapped lips, she’d use every wile and weapon at her disposal to find Belinda a home before the next storm. Without access to her fortune, goodwill was all she had.

  Mina eyed the cabin anew as they pulled to a stop. I don’t have the luxury of taking any perspective but that the cabin is quaintly cozy, Belinda and I belong here, and—most importantly—I must convince Mr. Carver to see things the same way.

  He’d seen their luggage.

  Wasn’t that always the way of women? To carry the past with them from place to place, passing the accumulation of sorrow, memories, and untold knickknacks through generations; passing on burdens long extinct in defiance of time?

  On the spot, Sam decided this was the reason Lot’s wife had been turned to salt. She’d been warned to leave all behind, but surely she remembered something she would need, and looked back. It could be no mistake God changed her into the essence of the tears her weakness would eventually have caused….

  When I left England, I brought a trunk—one reasonable trunk—to begin a new life. That’s all I needed, all I kept, and I’m not taking on any more now, especially not two women lugging half the continent with them. He shouldered his rifle and rounded the corner as the overloaded wagon shuddered to a stop.

  “No need to dismount.” Sam didn’t yell. No need. Even the birds and squirrels were quiet given all the noise the visitors made. Stearns could hear him just fine. The other man sank back onto his haunches on the crowded wagon seat.

  “That’s kind of you.” The young one, perched so precariously on the end of the bench seat that Sam almost marve
led she hadn’t tumbled off at some point, reached out a gloved hand for his assistance. “But we did engage Mr. Stearns’ services for both driving and assisting with our luggage.” She tentatively stood, waiting in vain for him to draw near and help her down. Obviously, the lady hadn’t realized Sam meant for them to turn back around.

  He took a step forward to tell her so, but an ox shifted, and the girl in dark blue lost her uncertain balance after all. Sam barely caught her before the ground did, quickly registering some pertinent facts as he did so.

  The mystery girl who’d descended upon his doorstep was a woman, and if startled doe eyes and creamy skin meant what they used to, a very attractive woman. More importantly, she bore no resemblance to himself nor any of his far-flung relations.

  The warm surge of relief lasted only so long as it took for him to swoop her right back up onto the plank seat of the wagon. “You misunderstood, miss. I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place and either need to keep going or turn around. Good day.”

  Sam turned on his heel, scooped up the rifle he’d dropped in favor of the lady, and slowed his steps as she spoke.

  “No, Mr. Carver,” the sound of his name sliced through his certainty, making him turn. “We’ve come to the right place, and need to vacate Mr. Stearns’ wagon. I see my hopes were unfounded, and my letter did not make an appearance before we—”

  “Oh, right!” Stearns scrambled over the side of the wagon, tugging a grubby envelope from his jacket. “Brung your mail.”

  Sam accepted the thick missive, biting back a groan and raising a brow at the still-seated ladies. His mother wouldn’t understand nor forgive his lack of manners, but perhaps his surliness would be enough to drive away this strange duo.

  “Would you prefer to read it or converse inside?” The girl’s doe eyes held the glint of a riled grizzly as she vigorously rubbed the older woman’s gloved hands between her own.