Caroline Lee's Christmas Collection: Six sweet historical western romances

by Caroline Lee

  Wasn’t Zosia her friend who’d left for school?

  But then Briar was speaking again, so he stored the question away.

  “Mabel and Sibyl Miller were sitting in the front row. Did you see them? The two blondes? They’ve been sitting there since their daddy moved to town.” Her gaze flicked to Arabella’s. “But do you remember how they used to make their stepmother and poor Ella sit behind them?” She tsked and shook her head. “Since Gaston married Eunice—that’s the middle sister, Reverend—and moved away, they haven’t been quite so high and mighty. But Mabel still treats little Sibyl as horribly as they did Ella.”

  Solemnly, Arabella nodded. “And since their father’s passing, I suspect life on the Miller ranch isn’t quite so pleasant for them, poor things.”

  Hunter’s gaze flicked around the still-crowded church, but he didn’t see the two young women who’d been in the front row. Had they left already? It sounded as if they might need some ministering, especially if they were, more or less, all alone in the world.

  But Briar snorted. “Poor Sibyl, more like. Mabel is a nasty piece of work. I wonder if I should invite Sibyl for tea or something? Oh! There’s Ella!”

  She pointed to a family chatting with another couple. Ella must be the dark-haired, alarmingly pregnant woman, who stood beside a broad-shouldered, one-legged man. He was keeping an eye on a young lad who was trying to out-do the Zapato brood in terms of crazy antics.

  Briar waved, then said to Hunter, “Ella was the Miller girls’ stepsister. Well, I guess she still is. She married Ian Crowne there. Have you been to their mercantile? It’s where I order everything! They’re such nice people.”

  Hunter chuckled, amused at her enthusiasm. “I’ll make sure to meet them today.”

  He was a minister; it was his responsibility to meet as many of his flock as soon as possible, even if all he really wanted to do was rush back to the not-a-boarding-house and, hopefully, find Snow.

  Briar offered him a small curtsy, then grabbed Arabella’s hand. “Happy Christmas, Reverend! I’m going to ask Ella about Sibyl.”

  “Happy Christmas! It was nice to meet you.” As Arabella was being dragged away, Hunter lifted his hand to her. “And thank you.”

  She smiled serenely and nodded, as she offered a small wave.

  As they left, Hunter exhaled gently, feeling as if the delightfully cheerful young lady might turn out to be a good friend. He wondered if she’d met Helga yet.

  The next couple who approached him were striking; the tall man had tawny hair, and when he shook Hunter’s hand, obvious calluses—and was that a tattoo?

  The woman’s hair was a deep red Hunter hadn’t seen often, and her dress was flowing. She wore more bangles and necklaces than was expected, and was very pregnant.

  “Excellent sermon, Reverend. I’m Skipper King—my friends call me Skip—and I’m the architect and builder around here. My partner and I have an on-going project in Haskell, the next town over, but if you need anything, I’ll be happy to draw something up.”

  “Thank you,” Hunter said sincerely, as he shook his hand. “I’m not quite ready to look for a new home, but maybe soon.”

  After all, once he and Snow were married, they’d need—

  No. It was a challenge not to think about a future like that, but he couldn’t afford to plan a future just yet, at least not until he’d asked her.

  But she has to say yes.

  Would she though?

  They’d shared an incredible conversation yesterday, on so many topics, and yes, even an amazing kiss. But had it been enough for her to agree to marry him?

  It was enough for him, obviously—he’d known from the moment he set eyes on her she was special.

  But did she feel the same about him?

  Skip was still talking, only now he was smiling down at the woman whose arm he held. “—my wife, Marina.”

  She grinned as she shook Hunter’s hand. “So pleased to meet you, Reverend Woods. I can’t make any nice offers like Skip’s, because I’m not a house-builder.”

  “No,” Skipper said with a wink. “You’re my mermaid muse. For my boats.”

  Boats? For the lake?

  Before Hunter could ask, Marina blushed prettily, and he assumed it was an inside joke—possibly a naughty inside joke—and he wisely decided not to ask about it.

  “Yes, well,” she murmured, placing her hand on her large stomach, “I’m not doing any dancing lately.”

  Skipper chuckled, and Hunter tried not to feel as if he was intruding on their personal time. He was considering finding a way to sidle out from this conversation, when Skip looked his way again.

  “I want to introduce you to the mayor, if you haven’t already met him?”

  When Hunter shook his head, Skip shifted so they were all facing the gathered crowd.

  “Our mayor is Mr. Smith over there. Our blacksmith is Herr Doktor—he’s the one with all the kids. And our doctor is Doc Carpenter—”

  Remembering the odd conversation last night, Hunter interrupted with, “Yes, I’ve met him. You don’t think this is all a little odd?”

  Marina chuckled, but didn’t quite answer his question, when she finished with, “And our carpenter is a king!”

  When he glanced at her, she winked and nodded to her husband. “Skipper King! I’m sorry, it was a little joke in our family. My grandmother is gypsy, and refers to Skip as ‘my king.’ ”

  Hunter’s eyes widened. “Your grandmother? She’s not here today, is she?”

  He looked around the milling congregation, wondering if he’d be able to pick out a gypsy woman. Marina dressed the way he’d always assumed a gypsy dressed, but weren’t they supposed to have dark hair?

  He found himself eager to meet her grandmother, at least to have her pointed out to him. Snow had said her stepmother had learned magic—or what she thought was magic—from the old gypsy woman, and surely that’s who she’d meant?

  How many old gypsy women could there be around here?

  But Marina was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Reverend. Daj says she prefers to do her worshiping out in nature.”

  Hunter relaxed with an accepting smile. He’d wanted to meet the woman to learn if she really had taught Lucinda White all those hateful things. But perhaps whatever skills she had—magic or not—Snow’s stepmother had been the one to twist them herself. Marina seemed lovely, so her grandmother must not be a horrible human, like Lucinda apparently was.

  Besides, it was hard not to like a woman who shared his joy of nature.

  “I completely understand,” he said with a nod. “I find it easier to connect with the Divine when I’m in the woods.”

  “Or on the lake; the wind in your sails, and the sun at your back!” Skip cut in, and the two men shared a chuckle.

  His words made Hunter think of the moment he’d heard Snow for the first time—praising the Christ child and singing Hark the Herald Angels Sing—in the clearing beside the lake. The magic of that moment will stay with him for the rest of his life.

  A small hand touched his sleeve briefly. “I look forward to introducing you, Reverend,” Marina said softly, her other hand on her stomach.

  “And I want to introduce you to the mayor,” Skip reminded him.

  Hunter’s smile felt a little forced, but he nodded and kept his gaze from drifting to the window, and the distant boardinghouse. Snow could be there, waiting for him, and he wanted to be with her.

  In her arms, more likely.

  Impossible to deny, he thought ruefully.

  But as Skip waved toward a rotund man in spectacles, Hunter mentally sighed as he forced a welcoming smile on his face. He had a job to do here, and meeting the mayor—and everyone else—was important. He’d be with Snow soon.

  But not soon enough.

  Chapter 9

  “Oh, you poor thing, you poor dear!” One of Hunter’s landladies bustled around Snow, who sat at a strange kitchen table, tucking a quilt around her shaking shoulders. “We’
ll get you cleaned up, right as rain!” Then she straightened, giggling. “Or snow! Right as snow!” she sang, as she skipped off down the hall.

  From her spot by the door, the one with the glasses—her name was Doc, wasn’t it?—rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Dorcas is a nincompoop,” she whispered to her companion, who sneezed into a tissue.

  Another of the ladies, Helga, bustled up to Snow with a steaming mug of something fragrant. She peeled Snow’s arms away from where she hugged herself, and wrapped her hands around the mug.

  “There you go, dear. Get some of this into you; it’ll warm you right up.”

  Snow inhaled and had to admit she did feel warmer already. Maybe it was the tea, or maybe it was the quilt. Or maybe it was just being inside—safe—and being fussed over.

  Whatever it was, her heart was beginning to slow from her frantic flight, and she forced herself to breathe deeply.

  Good Lord in Heaven, she didn’t think she’d ever been as scared as those long moments it took her to slog through the snow up the hill toward town. Her shoulders had been hunched, and each heartbeat lasted forever, as she expected a bullet to slam into her from behind at any moment.

  Lucinda had fired at least three times, hadn’t she?

  But the two times Snow had looked back over her shoulder—once when she’d tripped and fallen full-length in a snow bank, which was why she was so wet and frigid now—she hadn’t seen any sign of her stepmother.

  Was that because the mad old witch had decided to permanently stop shooting, or had she simply only stopped chasing? Would Snow ever be able to return to the house she’d always thought of as home? Or would Lucinda be waiting there to kill her at the first sight of her?

  Kill me! Over some stupid lotions!

  It was an utterly preposterous idea, but it seemed impossible to debate with a mad woman.

  Just as she lifted the mug to take a cautious sip, another lady stomped over. This one was tall, with short-cropped red hair and a lovely set of boots. She snatched the mug from Snow’s hand and tipped a flask into it. Everyone watched her pour a healthy measure of...whatever the spirits were, into the mug, then thrust it back at Snow.

  “There,” she snapped grumpily. “That’ll warm you up. And put some hair on your chest to boot.”

  Helga smiled happily at the other woman. “I’m sure she doesn’t want hair on her chest, Grunhilda.”

  When Grunhilda frowned, it somehow made her look even more beautiful. “How does she know? Hairy chests keep you warm!”

  At that, Doc sighed mightily and dropped her hands to her hips. “I swear, Grunhilda! It’s a miracle you were ever accepted into the Guild! Hairy chests? Don’t tell me you grant your girls that as a gift?”

  The grumpy one stuck her chin out mulishly, mirroring Doc’s pose. “I gave Briar Rose that stupid nightgown, at your suggestion.”

  “Yes, but that was because of the rule of threes,” Doc defended. “Narrative causality, don’t you know.”

  From someplace down the hall came a sing-song chant of, “Narrative causality! Narrative causality! Narrative causality!”

  Doc sighed again. “Suzy, take Grunhilda and go wake up Somnolena. I suspect we’ll need the leaves read again. See if you can keep Dorcas from finding out what’s going on—we don’t need her particular brand of ‘help’ right now.”

  The young woman sneezed again, then sniffed as she wiped her nose and tucked her handkerchief into the wrist of her sleeve. “Alright, Aunt. I haven’t seen Bashful lately.”

  “Yes, dear,” Doc said absentmindedly, as she patted her niece’s arm. “That probably means she’s not around. You couldn’t possibly miss her if she was.”

  Grumbling, Grunhilda stomped after Suzy, frowning fiercely. Snow watched them go, bemused. Now her shivers had quieted, she was beginning to understand what a truly odd place this was.

  But at least she was safe here. No one knew the home was here…right?

  Helga slipped two fingers under the mug and lifted it toward Snow’s mouth. “Grunhilda might be grumpy, but she’s probably right. Oh, not about the hair on your chest, goodness no.” She giggled, as she shook her head. “But this will warm you right up. Drink!”

  As Snow sipped—and somehow managed not to choke on the strong spirits the other woman had poured in—Helga turned to wag her finger at Doc.

  “And don’t you think about kicking me out with them! As a senior member of this Guild, I demand—”

  Doc held up her hand, palm out, to silence her plump friend. “I wasn’t going to ask you to leave. Snow’s my responsibility, but I think she’d probably appreciate a friendly face right now.”

  Nodding happily, Helga winked at Snow. “She’s right. I have a very friendly face. People who don’t even know me say that about me. I do, don’t I?”

  Snow blinked. “Ye-yes, ma’am.” Maybe the shivering wasn’t completely gone. “C-can I have an-another quilt, please?”

  “Oh, of course, dear!” Helga snapped and whirled around, reaching for another quilt from one of the kitchen chairs. Snow would’ve sworn there wasn’t an extra blanket there a moment before, but couldn’t deny the woman picked it up and threw it around Snow’s shoulders.

  It was somehow even warmer than the first, and Snow sighed happily as she began to relax.

  The previous hour—previous fifteen minutes—seemed surreal, and were already beginning to fade from her memory.

  Was that normal, or was it simply a result of whatever Grunhilda had poured into her tea?

  Snow peered suspiciously down at the mug, and decided she’d probably had enough of that.

  Because as scary as Lucinda had been, Snow couldn’t afford to forget the woman had waved a gun at her. She needed to tell someone. Sheriff Cutter, perhaps?

  Oh, where is Hunter?

  He was a man of God; he’d know the right thing to do. He’d help her!

  “Well, Snow,” Doc said quietly, “I think you’d better tell us what happened.”

  “We know what happened—” Helga began, but Doc cut her off with a hiss.

  “We know what Somnolena said would happen, but I need to hear it from Snow.”

  Helga rolled her eyes with a huff. “You know, you get all the good ones. The interesting ones.”

  “You got Zelle,” Doc pointed out. “A girl whose hair grows several feet a year wasn’t interesting enough for you?”

  Zelle? Did Zelle Carpenter Volkov have something to do with Helga?

  And just to prove Helga’s sunny personality couldn’t be hidden, she giggled and stuck out her tongue. “Well, alright. She was a doozy, wasn’t she?”

  Just what in the world were these women talking about?

  Snow shifted and cleared her throat, hoping to catch their attention.

  It worked. Doc offered her a smile she probably thought was supposed to be comforting.

  It wasn’t.

  “So, dear, can you tell us what happened? Why you’re here?”

  “Of course. I…” Snow looked down at the mug, words suddenly hard to form. She’d intended to tell them everything, because that was the polite thing to do, when one hurtled into a stranger’s house looking for comfort. But now that she was ready to explain, it was difficult.

  How did one just say their mother had tried to kill her?

  Stepmother, anyway.

  “Go on, dear,” Helga prompted. “Your stepmother…”

  How did they know?

  Snow took a deep breath, but didn’t meet any of their eyes as she explained.

  “My stepmother believes she’s a witch. She’s been creating lotions over the last year and selling them. Some have become quite popular in other areas of the country, and she ships out orders every month. They’re supposed to…” She swallowed. “They’re supposed to make you look younger. And lighten your skin. And other silly beauty remedies.”

  Helga blew a raspberry as she puttered around the kitchen, setting the kettle back on the stove. “Witches can’t do that, de
ar. You need some genuine magic for that sort of thing! And even then, it wears off before long. You can look younger for a bit, but you’re always growing older, aren’t you? Every moment!”

  Snow’s head jerked up, surprised Helga seemed willing to accept magic and witches as real. But a gentle hand on her shoulder pulled her attention to Doc, who was standing beside her with an understanding expression.

  “I imagine it wasn’t the potions to make clients look younger which were so hurtful, was it, Snow?” Without waiting for her to answer, Doc shook her head. “There are lotions to lighten skin, but most involve arsenic or lead, or other horrible chemicals you don’t want to rub all over yourself.”

  That was the reason Snow hadn’t wanted to use the things in the first place, but it was nice to hear someone else agreeing with her.

  Helga cupped her hand around her mouth and stage-whispered, “Trust her, dearie. She’s a doctor.”

  Oh, so “Doc” wasn’t short for something else?

  “What kind of doctor?” Snow asked, twisting to look up at the bespectacled woman. “Meri Carpenter was very close to finishing her degree, you know. She specializes in women’s health and midwifery.”

  “Why does everyone ask me that?” Doc cried in exasperation, as she threw up her hands and turned away from the table and Snow to pace toward the window. “Does it honestly matter? In the full scheme of things?”

  Snow was getting a little warm under all the quilts, and she shrugged them back over the chair. That allowed her the room to place the half-drunk mug of tea—which would make her half-drunk if she finished it, she was sure!—on the table and turn to Doc, confused by her outburst.

  “Well, no, I guess not. I was just—”

  “Herbology!” the older woman yelled, as she whirled back, her hands thrown up in the air. “It’s Herbology! I have a—” Breathing heavily, she lowered her hands and her voice. “I have a doctorate in Herbology. There. Are you happy?”

  “I am!” Helga called, waving a hand.

  Snow, however, wasn’t sure of the problem. “Herbology seems useful,” she offered.