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

by Caroline Lee

  Hunter curled his hands into fists to try to stop the sensation, but that only served to send the itchy, anxious, frantic feeling coursing through his blood. He found himself bouncing on the balls of his feet, while he waited for the mayor to finish his long-winded goodbyes.

  Something was wrong.

  He didn’t know how he knew, but Hunter had the almost over-whelming urge to get home. He swallowed and tried to focus on the portly man’s words.

  But when a tightness settled in his chest—more than just worry—he began to panic. This was the feeling which preceded one of what Nana always called his “spells.” He could breathe fine now, but soon…

  Hunter shook his head, forced a smile for the mayor, and stepped away as the man turned to someone else. He closed his eyes, pressed a palm against his chest, and willed himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  There.

  No problem.

  So why didn’t the band around his chest go away? Why was it squeezing even tighter?

  When he opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the small manger scene Arabella had arranged near the altar. The carved figures were crude, but the baby Jesus’s smile was bright.

  Dear God, is this a sign?

  He needed to be outside. Out in the open air, where he could sense the Divine as close as possible. He stumbled for the door, grabbing his coat off the hook and fumbling to shove his arms through it, as he tripped down the steps to stand among the little garden in front of the church.

  Halting, Hunter pressed both palms to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, as much as hearing it, and lifted his gaze heavenward.

  Lord in Heaven, are you trying to tell me something?

  He closed his eyes and listened.

  The Divine spoke to him in nature far more frequently than in His church building, but Hunter couldn’t hear anything today. Today, he only heard distant greetings, the crunch of horse hooves on packed snow, and the occasional snowfall, as the wind blew accumulation from branches and eaves.

  He hadn’t noticed how snow had a particular sound up until—

  Snow!

  His eyes flew open, the surety he needed to be at the boardinghouse returning, and he took off at a run. From behind him, at the door of the church, someone called out. He lifted his hand—not sure what gesture he was trying to convey—and kept running.

  He was rounding the corner from Andersen to Perrault, when he saw a figure sprinting his way. She was holding her skirts up around her knees, but she skidded to a stop when she saw him.

  “Hunter! Hurry!” Dorcas screamed, waving him onward.

  His stomach clenched in terror, seeing the concern in her expression, and he forced his legs to pump harder.

  “Hurry, Hunter, hurry! Snow needs you!” she called as he raced by, and Hunter wondered if he could get any more scared.

  Snow needed him, and it was bad enough Dorcas had come to look for him.

  What could possibly—

  The moment he saw the gathering of figures on the porch of the boardinghouse, he knew it had to do with Snow. He didn’t slow, but took the steps two at a time. Miraculously, the crowd parted as he barreled toward them.

  “What happened? Snow!”

  Doc whirled to face him, a look of relief flitting across her face, until she gestured to the floor. “We don’t know. But we found this.”

  Hunter dropped to his knees beside the still and silent body of the woman he loved. He glanced up at Doc, to find her holding an apple with one large bite taken from it.

  An apple? Had she been…poisoned or something?

  His mind, the analytical portion at least, dismissed it as ridiculous, even as he rolled her over, his fingers going to her neck to look for a pulse. When he couldn’t find it, he began to pat her cheek.

  And pray. So many prayers, even he couldn’t keep them straight.

  Please God—no—Snow! Snow—please Snow—God, no!—please—open your eyes!

  Would the Almighty understand? Would he understand how desperately Hunter needed this miracle?

  Please God, not Snow!

  His chest was still tight—not from the run, but from fear—and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. Since stepping off the train, he hadn’t had a single issue with his lungs, but now…? Now he felt like a boy again, the soot making it hard to suck in a full breath.

  But he knew it was because of the terror.

  She was still warm, but not breathing.

  Was her heart beating?

  Why wasn’t she breathing?

  Hunter’s pats became more frantic, his mind yelling questions and prayers all at once.

  In desperation, he rolled her off his lap to the porch, and one of her arms fell to the side. Her fingers uncurled, and a white patch of material drifting slowly down.

  He snatched it up, wondering if it was some clue. It was lace, lace with words carefully—

  “I love you,” he croaked, reading the words she’d tatted, and knowing they were for him. “I love you.”

  With a keen of pain, he curled himself around her body, knowing this had been her gift to him.

  Was that why she hadn’t come to town that morning? Because she’d been working on this for him?

  It wasn’t the tatting which was so unbelievably special, but the words she’d written.

  “I love you,” he whispered, over and over again. “Snow, I love you. I can’t lose you.”

  I won’t lose you.

  Something stole over him, warm and certain, and Hunter lifted his head from her chest.

  I won’t lose you.

  Whatever had happened, he’d just make it un-happen. And if that meant giving her some of his own life, he would.

  The apple!

  Had she been eating the apple when this—whatever this was—happened?

  Yes! He recalled the missing bite from the fruit.

  Pulling her jaw open with one hand, he peered into her mouth.

  Empty.

  But what if the apple had somehow caused this?

  Carefully, he swept two fingers into her mouth, the other hand still holding her jaw open.

  Nothing.

  Straining, he slipped them farther toward the back of her throat. Was that…?

  His middle finger brushed against something, and he held his breath as he teased it out, not wanting to shove it farther down her throat.

  There!

  With a wordless cry of triumph, he scooped the bite of apple from her mouth and threw it as far as he could manage. He and the gathered crowd leaned in.

  But Snow just lay there, still and silent.

  Please, dear Lord in Heaven, send her back to me.

  Hunter felt a hand close around his shoulder, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Snow’s unmoving face to see who it was.

  “Hunter,” came Doc’s urgent whisper. “True Love’s Kiss. Give it to her.”

  It was silly. It was fanciful. But Hunter recalled his vow to give of himself, and he surged forward.

  He tilted her head back so her airway was open, and closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered the frantic feeling of being unable to breathe, of feeling as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, and the air he could get wasn’t good enough.

  He hadn’t felt that way since he’d come to Everland, but he’d gladly feel that way for the rest of his life, if it meant she’d be here beside him.

  Taking in a deep breath, he pinched her nose and bent forward, placing his lips on hers.

  And exhaled.

  He felt his breath flow into her, but nothing happened.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  In frustration, he sat up again, only to feel Doc poking him in the back. “More, Hunter, more!”

  So he bent over Snow, pulled her jaw down to open her mouth wider, and fitted his lips around hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was desperation. He needed to make sure no trickle of air escaped, not when it could mean her life.

  He exhaled, breathing life into her.
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  And this time, miracle of miracles, he felt her chest expand under his hand.

  He did it again, and then she was coughing, choking, wheezing.

  Hunter collapsed over her, hunching around her spasming body, holding her weakly as he tried to inhale. The sounds of her breaths were the sweetest things he’d ever heard, but why couldn’t he make his own lungs work?

  He squeezed her to him, thanking God with every heartbeat, knowing He’d brought her back to him. Hunter had sacrificed his own breath for her, and he’d do it again and again.

  “Give her some room to breathe, dear!” Helga was shaking his shoulder now.

  Reluctantly, Hunter laid Snow back down on the porch, his hands finding hers, even as her eyes squeezed closed with angry concentration as she wheezed. When she wrapped her fingers through his, he knew she would be fine.

  This new position allowed him to sit back on his heels, to straighten his shoulders and expand his chest cavity and focus on inhaling, calmly and slowly. It was a technique he’d learned years ago when the asthma attacks caught him, and it worked now.

  Calm. Smooth.

  Inhale, exhale.

  It was working. The band around his chest loosened, even as her hold on his hand tightened. Neither of them were dressed for the weather, and her skin pressed against his, causing warmth to climb his arm and fill his chest with the certain sure knowledge she was his.

  I love you, he whispered to her in his mind.

  “Hunter?” she croaked. “Did you…?”

  He opened his eyes and met hers. Her tignon was askew, her skin still a little pale from her brush with death, and her lovely eyes were full of hesitation.

  Lifting her bare fingers to his lips, he smiled softly. “I love you, Snow. I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell you that.”

  “You…?” Her eyes widened. “My lace!”

  “You mean my gift?” He found himself teasing. “It’s here.” As soon as he could make himself release her, he’d prove her tatting was safe. “But don’t you think you ought to tell me in person?”

  “Oh, Hunter!” She levered herself up and threw her arms around his neck. “I love you! I love you, and I can’t believe you saved me!”

  “I prayed for a miracle, my love, and God provided. It’s the time for miracles, of course.”

  From behind them, Helga giggled. “He gave you True Love’s Kiss, dearie. His love for you saved your life!”

  He heard Doc snort softly. “He gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. There’s a difference, you ninny.”

  Helga blew a raspberry. “Narrative causality!”

  Hunter smiled against Snow’s headscarf, as he heard an out-of-breath Dorcas pick up the chant. “Narrative causality! Narrative causality!”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Doc growled.

  Suddenly, Snow pushed away from him. “My stepmother!”

  Hunter sucked in a breath so fast, he started to wheeze again. “You mean— She— Lucinda?”

  “Yes!” Snow pulled herself upright, her hand on Hunter’s shoulder in support and comfort, her eyes never leaving his face, as he got his asthmatic reaction under control. “She was— She was here. I think.” She frowned in concentration, her free hand going to her head. “It’s all so hazy, but…she tried to kill me this morning, didn’t she?”

  Hunter gripped her tighter, surprised at this horrifying revelation, as Doc sunk to her knees beside them.

  “She did, Snow,” the older woman said gently. “Are you saying she had something to do with this as well? Was this another attempt on your life?”

  Snow’s words tripped over one another, her attention going between him and Doc. “There was a knock. When I opened the door, a woman… I thought maybe she was a godmother too, but she was familiar.” She shook her head. “I think maybe…it was the way Lucinda wanted to be seen. I recognized her gown, but not until after I’d bitten into the apple.” Her eyes widened slightly. “She gave me the apple, and hinted it was from Hunter.”

  Hunter shook his head. “Your own stepmother tried to kill you? I knew she was evil, but this is outrageous.”

  A murmur of voices dragged Hunter’s attention away from her, and he realized their little drama had attracted an audience.

  “What’s that? What’d he say?”

  “I think he said Lucinda White tried to murder Snow!”

  Some of the crowd members had followed him from church, but others had been drawn by the commotion. Now, some whispered back and forth, some yelled in indignation.

  “Get Lucinda! Fetch the sheriff!”

  “Sheriff’s at home with his family. We’ll find her—”

  “Here I am!”

  The voice was regal, but when the crowd parted, and the figure stepped through, Lucinda White looked anything but.

  Hunter had never met her, and now sincerely hoped he never would have to formally do so. She wasn’t dressed for the weather, anymore than he or Snow was, and her hair was a halo of snarls around her shoulders, which had once been red, but now appeared she’d powdered it—or dyed it?—to look lighter.

  Hadn’t Snow told him her stepmother thought pale hair was important?

  The woman’s dress was stained, her sleeves rolled up to reveal bloody spots she scratched desperately at, even while holding her head high.

  But it was her eyes which frightened him. They were wide enough to see white all around the dark center, and they flashed back and forth, more than a little madness within them.

  Snow gripped him tighter. “That’s her,” came her strangled whisper. “That’s the dress she was wearing.”

  Determined to help her face her stepmother on her feet, Hunter slipped his arm around her shoulders and lifted her. As she settled in to stand beside him, his arm around her, Grunhilda wrapped a blanket around Snow’s shoulders.

  It almost stopped her shivers.

  “That’s her,” Snow said again louder, more accusingly. “But she didn’t look like that when she knocked on the door.”

  “Of course I didn’t, you stupid girl.” Lucinda raised one bloody fingernail and pointed at the house. “I was using an illusion. Just like this house is an illusion, one no one else can see!”

  Around her, the citizens of Everland began to shift and murmur, glancing between the house, each other, and the mad woman. Hunter glanced at Doc, to see her roll her eyes in defeat and wave one hand in an ornate pattern. A feeling of openness swept out from the porch.

  Finally, Ian Crowne shrugged. “I don’t know, Mrs. White. I sure can see that house.”

  “Yeah, that’s the boardinghouse!” someone in the back of the crowd called out. “Always been there. Whatdya mean, no one can see it?”

  Skip King chuckled wryly, “I’ve always known it was here.”

  His wife jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

  “Well,” whispered Helga, behind Doc, “our secret’s out now.”

  “I know,” Doc hissed in return. “Try to look sufficiently boardinghousely, would you?”

  In the middle of the crowd, Lucinda was screeching at some of the townspeople, who were leaning away from her gestures. Were they scared of her? She did claim to perform magic, although Hunter didn’t believe in it.

  Mirrors, now…? He could believe in mirrors.

  “Mrs. White?” he called out in a firm voice, drawing her attention. “Are you saying you disguised yourself to give Snow the apple? The poisoned apple?”

  Lucinda’s peal of laughter didn’t sound at all joyful or sane. “Of course it was me! She refused my gift earlier this morning”—Snow’s hold on Hunter tightened at that comment, and he could sense her fear—“so I had to track her down here. And the apple wasn’t poisoned, oh my, no.”

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed as he listened to her defense. She’d admitted to disguising herself somehow to track down Snow.

  And what was that about trying to kill her that morning—was that the “gift” she’d mentioned? Her own stepmother had tried to kill
her, and when that didn’t work, disguised herself to come here and give Snow an apple, which almost did kill her?

  His eyes flicked over the gathered townspeople, who were muttering angrily and pointing at Lucinda. He turned his head to meet Doc’s eyes, and saw her stern frown as she held the apple.

  The apple which had almost killed Snow.

  The apple which Lucinda just claimed wasn’t poisoned.

  His mind made up, he snatched the fruit from Doc’s hand, and held it toward Lucinda.

  “Prove it,” he snarled. “Prove it’s not poisoned!”

  She blinked innocently. “But how?”

  Skip King snorted. “By taking a bite from it, of course.”

  Hunter pulled away from Snow and stalked down the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom, his chest had tightened again. He should’ve just rested after that last spell, but he had to see this through. He couldn’t suck in enough air, couldn’t breathe…but he slammed the apple into Lucinda White’s open palm.

  Then he stumbled back, sinking down on the bottom boardinghouse step.

  Calm. Smooth.

  Inhale, exhale.

  It wasn’t until he felt Snow crouch on the step beside him, her arms and her blanket lending him warmth, that he was able to suck in a full breath. She was his breath.

  “Do it, Stepmother,” Snow called out in a strong voice. “Prove you didn’t just try to poison me.”

  Lucinda scoffed, her eyes still wild. “Poison? A real witch has no need of poison!”

  Ignoring the whispers around her, the crazed woman lifted the apple and took a large, defiant bite. She chewed angrily for a moment, holding Snow’s gaze, but then suddenly stiffened.

  The apple dropped from her fingers, and both of her hands rose to her throat. As Hunter watched, wondering what was happening, Lucinda turned red, then purple.

  Then she fell over backward.

  Instead of rushing to her aid, the people around backed away. It was Doc who squeezed past Hunter on the steps and moseyed toward the evil woman. She nudged the body with her toe, then looked up to meet Hunter’s gaze.

  “Looks like she choked,” she proclaimed simply.

  “True Love’s Kiss,” came Helga’s whispered reminder from behind him, and Hunter shuddered at the thought.

  Besides, he could barely inhale well enough for himself, now that he’d shared his breath with Snow.