Cowboy Creek Christmas

by Cheryl St. John

  A season for love and family

  Mistletoe Reunion by Cheryl St.John

  When Marlys Boyd moves West hoping to find acceptance for her doctoring skills, she’s surprised to find her former fiancé, Sam Mason, running the local newspaper. And with the ladies in town determined to make a match of the doctor and the single father, she’s not sure she can resist building the family they once dreamed of.

  Mistletoe Bride by Sherri Shackelford

  Pregnant by a man who betrayed her trust, a mail-order marriage is Beatrix Haas’s only hope. But when she arrives in Cowboy Creek and learns her intended groom has died, she needs a new daddy for the baby that’s coming right away. Blacksmith Colton Werner offers the mother and child the protection of his name, but can their marriage of convenience ever lead to true love?

  Praise for Cheryl St.John

  “A fascinating look at shipboard life in the 1850s. The characters are delightful and inspire anticipation for the next story.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Wedding Journey

  “This well-written, sweet love story has lots of romance and adventure.”

  —RT Book Reviews on To Be a Mother

  “A charming love story with a plausible storyline and characters who are firm in their beliefs.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Marrying the Preacher’s Daughter

  Praise for Sherri Shackelford

  “Shackelford’s latest features imperfect but likable characters whom readers can connect with. Watching the progression of their slow-building relationship is enjoyable and makes this book a perfect treat for Christmas.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Rancher’s Christmas Proposal

  “With sparkling dialogue and a perfectly matched hero and heroine, along with an intriguing mystery, this Prairie Courtship story makes a highly entertaining read.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Engagement Bargain

  “A lovely marriage-of-convenience story, the interaction between the two main characters is a joy to watch, and the hero’s acceptance of love is well done.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Marshal’s Ready-Made Family

  CHERYL ST.JOHN

  Cheryl St.John’s love for reading started as a child. She wrote her own stories, designed covers and stapled them into books. She credits many hours of creating scenarios for her paper dolls and Barbies as the start of her fascination with fictional characters. Cheryl loves hearing from readers. Visit her website at cherylstjohn.net or email her at SaintJohn@aol.com.

  SHERRI SHACKELFORD

  Sherri Shackelford is an award-winning author of inspirational books featuring ordinary people discovering extraordinary love. A reformed pessimist, Sherri has a passion for storytelling. Her books are fast-paced and heartfelt with a generous dose of humor. She loves to hear from readers at sherri@sherrishackelford.com. Visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

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  Cowboy Creek Christmas

  CHERYL ST.JOHN

  SHERRI SHACKELFORD

  Table of Contents

  MISTLETOE REUNION by Cheryl St.John

  MISTLETOE BRIDE by Sherri Shackelford

  Excerpt from Mail Order Mommy by Christine Johnson

  MISTLETOE REUNION

  Cheryl St.John

  Mistletoe Reunion is lovingly dedicated to my friend and critique partner of over twenty-five years. You may have seen Barb Hunt’s name in book dedications, mine and others. You may have met her. She supported my career in every way possible. We knew each other’s families and shared our faith. She was there when I got the call that I’d sold my first book. We celebrated every victory and supported each other through the rough times. She was a loyal and loving person, and I’m fortunate to have had her as a friend for as long as I did.

  Though I miss her all the time, I’m assured she is seated at the right hand of God and having a really good time—likely even a better time than all the Friday nights with the girls put together...and we have laughed a lot! Donna Kaye, Debra Hines, *lizzie starr, Sherri Shackelford and I continue to celebrate Barb’s life and honor her memory. While it’s difficult to think of this natural world without her, she will always have a place in our hearts. She knew how much she was loved—by her family, her friends and her Heavenly Father, and that gives me peace.

  All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, because the breath of the Lord blows upon it;

  Surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the Word of our God stands forever.

  —Isaiah 40:6–8

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Kansas, late October 1868

  The bell over the door rang, and Marlys Boyd glanced up to see her scheduled patient arrive with a bright smile. “Good morning, Doctor Boyd!”

  Pippa Kendricks removed her coat and hung it on the rack inside the door. After using the mat Marlys provided to wipe her wet boots, she took a pair of bright pink slippers from her bag and changed footwear.

  “Good morning, Pippa. I have the water heated, and I’ll fill the tub.”

  Pippa followed her toward one of the bathing rooms on the north side of the roomy office building. “You know I enjoy this room with the windows near the ceiling. It’s bright and cheerful.”

  “I had those windows added after I purchased this place,” Marlys told her. The frosted glass had been etched with leaf and berry scrolls, and was one of the ever-practical lady doctor’s few splurges.

  Pippa turned her back to Marlys for help with the hooks and buttons on her dress, then stepped behind the painted pine dressing screen. “There are so many exciting things happening of late. I’m actually glad winter came early, so Gideon and I can stay until spring. We would have been gone before all these rousing things happened. Truthfully, I’m going to miss everyone here.”

  “We will miss you, as well. I read in an edition of the Philadelphia paper that President Johnson has declared a national day of thanksgiving, so you will be here for that.”

  “Yes!” Pippa exclaimed. “In fact I was asked to be on the committee to organize a town celebration. I suppose because I know so many people. You should volunteer for the committee and get to know your neighbors.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not very good at things like that.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve done a marvelous job organizing things here for your medical practice. You’d be an excellent addition to the committee.”

  “But I’m still so new to town. Surely the committee is meant for more established townspeople.”

  Pippa laughed. “Established? In Cowboy Creek? Why, the town is practically brand-new. There are always new townspeople. Like the new newspaper owner. Any day he’ll be putting out his very first edition,” Pippa told her as Marlys filled the tub and added oils and minerals. “I’ve already asked for an interview about the upcomi
ng play at the Opera House. We’re doing The Streets of New York.” The petite redhead came from behind the screen, tying the sash of the flannel robe, and eyed Marlys. “Have you done any acting, Dr. Boyd?”

  “No, I haven’t.” At the speculative look on the actress’s face, Marlys added, “And I have no interest in trying. My focus is on building my practice.”

  Getting people to take her seriously as a lady doctor was difficult all on its own, but the situation only worsened when people discovered she did not practice traditional medicine, but instead took a homeopathic approach. She had hoped that establishing her practice out West would give her access to patients with the enterprising, pioneer spirit who might appreciate unconventional treatments. She’d been eager to learn more about the people of different cultures and ethnicities who had settled in this Kansas boom town.

  Nearly two weeks after Marlys had opened her practice, Pippa had been the first resident of Cowboy Creek to inquire about her medical techniques, in reference to a skin rash. When Marlys suggested they try a few different herbs and oils, the flamboyant ginger-gold redhead had been elated. She’d been in a couple of times a week since, so Marlys had adjusted to the young woman’s dramatic speech and manner.

  “So, the newspaper editor will give your play editorial support?”

  “Yes, and he seemed quite pleased to have news for his first edition.”

  In August Pippa had married Gideon Kendricks, the agent who sold stocks for the railroad. They were planning to travel west after the weather cleared in a few months.

  Marlys needed all the advertisement she could get. The townspeople hadn’t exactly flocked to her practice. But if she could convince a few more residents like Pippa to give her a chance, she believed she could win them over, and word of mouth would spread.

  “I’ll go see about an interview myself after we’ve finished here.” Marlys checked the temperature of the water in the porcelain tub and stirred one last time to assure the minerals were well dissolved. “Your bath is ready. Take your time and relax. You have towels on the stand there. I’ll let you know when you’ve soaked long enough, but should you need the water reheated, ring the bell.”

  “Thank you, darling! You’ve saved me from a winter of dry skin and made me look dewy fresh. I will glow at my performance. I am singing your praises to the other ladies—lilting notes on a sweet high C.”

  Marlys smiled and left the bathing room. She’d had two of those deep bathing tubs installed in comfortable private rooms, funded—along with the rest of her practice—by selling the jewelry and townhome she’d inherited from her mother. After working multiple jobs to pay for her degree from an unconventional school of medicine, selling her property had been her only option. Her father had supported her early desires to learn languages and world history, but had never approved of her medical studies. Immediately after she’d made the decision to become a doctor and not marry, he’d cut off all support.

  As soon as Pippa’s session was over, Marlys emptied and cleaned the tub, hung the towels to dry, and dressed in her wool coat and fur-lined boots. She tugged her collar up around her neck and tied a scarf over her hair. Winters in the East had prepared her for cold, but not for the relentless wind that caught the hem of her skirt and whipped the end of her scarf across her face. She held it over her nose and trudged along Second Street.

  She passed Dr. Fletcher’s office on the corner of Second and Eden, crossed the street and passed Sheriff Hanley’s office and jail to reach the newspaper. The previous owner had been sent to prison for crimes against the local business owners. While evading arrest, he had deliberately set fire to his own building. The quick response of the townspeople had saved the jail and the boarding house on either side, but the Herald had been gutted.

  Shortly after her arrival, Marlys had learned that an Eastern journalist had bought the gutted building and renovated it so quickly her head had spun. She imagined a fresh young fellow eager to make a big name for himself in the quickly growing cattle town.

  The exterior had been freshly painted, and the new door didn’t show any wear. On the other side of the enormous pane of glass, a bespectacled man was painting bold gold letters, scrupulously edged with black, spelling out Webster County Daily News. Beneath the name of the paper, the artist’s brush had scripted Owner & Managing Edito...and was midstroke on the r when he spotted her and quickly opened the door to usher her inside. A bell rang above the door as he opened and closed it. “It’s too cold to stand out there for longer than a minute,” he said. “Come inside and warm yourself by the stove.”

  There was a new stove surrounded by wooden chairs in the corner of the front open area, a space obviously designed to welcome visitors and perhaps encourage local gossip. A blue-speckled enamel pot sat atop the stove, and pegs holding half a dozen tin cups lined the wall.

  A four-foot-high wooden room divider with a half-door separated the back portion of the room, where desks had been haphazardly deposited and crates stood against one wall. Two enormous printing presses took up the space in the rear, and there were two doors leading to rooms beyond, one with the door open, the other closed.

  “Coffee’s hot. I just made it.” The painter gestured to the stove and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “Are you the editor or a journalist?” she asked.

  “Forgive my manners. I’m Pete Sackett. Just here to do this lettering. I’m sure the owner heard the bell, so he’ll be out in a moment.”

  Marlys used the predicted moment to survey the impressive array of framed front pages along the interior wall of this area. The Progressive: LINCOLN ELECTED, New York Illustrated News: RICHMOND IS OURS!, Dallas Morning News: LEE SURRENDERS, The Daily Intelligencer: LINCOLN ASSASSINATED were a few headlines she had time to read before a greeting came from behind her.

  “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

  At the instantly recognizable rich voice, her hands stilled on the scarf she’d been about to remove, and she turned.

  * * *

  At the sound of the bell, Sam Mason wiped ink from his fingers and stood, dropping the rag to the floor beside his journeyman. His knees cracked as he straightened, and the lanky young man grinned. They’d been cleaning type block since early that morning, arranging the blocks in orderly sequence in stained wood trays. “Your knees would protest, too, if you’d slept on the cold ground for months at a time while marching through Virginia. You were still on your mama’s knee by the fire, and a good thing for you.”

  “I’m not that young—you’re exaggerating,” the younger man disagreed. “I was running my family farm on sweat and prayer. Where do these uppercase script letters go?” Israel asked.

  “In that tray.” Sam pointed to the tray behind Israel. “Starting third row down and ending row seven in the middle.”

  Israel nodded and loaded the first letter block. Sam’s uncanny memory for details astounded most people, but Israel was used to it. He’d apprenticed under Sam in the city and had been honored that Sam had asked him to accompany him on this new venture.

  The appearance of the outer room gave Sam a jolt of pleasure every time he walked into it. The work area still smelled like new wood and plaster, but soon the combined smells of ink and paper would remind him of the history of years of journalistic endeavors and indicate a job well done.

  A woman in a practical gray coat and red scarf stood facing away from him, perusing his collection of front pages. Pete was still painting letters and had just outlined the S for Samuel’s name. “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

  The woman pushed the scarf from her chestnut brown hair as she turned. The winter sun chose that moment to stream through the freshly cleaned and shined window, silhouetting her form and sparking glistening gold variations of color in her unfashionably short wavy hair, reaching only below her ears in casual disarray.

  Sh
e wore no jewelry and hadn’t rouged her cheeks, but her skin glowed, and her beauty needed no ornamentation. Her gaze riveted on his face, intense, probing, familiar. He experienced a jolt of awareness akin to the nervous anticipation of an impending skirmish. Why he dredged up that feeling puzzled him for only seconds. She narrowed her gold-brown eyes. They recognized each other at the same time.

  “Samuel?” she intoned.

  Her voice was a confirmation. He’d never forgotten the lilting sound of it. Marlys. “Miss Boyd. Or—is it still Miss Boyd?”

  “Yes.” His former fiancée’s astute gaze took in his shirt and trousers, the ink on his hands. “I had no idea it was you who had taken over the newspaper. I thought you’d long been settled in Philadelphia.”

  “The war changed a lot of plans.” He determinedly collected himself. “May I take your coat? You’ll get too warm.”

  She unbuttoned the garment and let it slide from her shoulders. She wore a pale blue blouse without ruffle or lace and a dark blue skirt. She was still as narrow and delicate-looking as the girl he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a lovely woman. He took the coat, sweetly perfumed with the scent of her hair, and hung it on a hook near the stove. His olfactory senses had not forgotten her, either. “Have a seat. There’s coffee.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” But she moved to perch on a chair, and her formal manner drove his discomfort up another notch.

  The air crackled with more than the snap of the kindling in the stove. There were years between them, and he didn’t know her anymore. He had never truly known her.

  She glanced behind him and back to meet his eyes. “Are you the editor?”

  Perfunctory as always. “I am.”

  “A piece on my new practice would help spread the word and let people know I’m ready for business.”

  No small talk or girlish chatter. Her blunt and businesslike manner didn’t surprise him, nor did it offend him. Perhaps he knew her better than he thought. Sam tilted his head and went to gather paper and pencil before settling on a chair across from her. “I guess you’re the lady doctor who built on Second Street?”