Married by Christmas (Sapphire Springs Book 2)

by Angie Campbell

  Married by

  Christmas

  Sapphire Springs

  Book 2

  Angie

  Campbell

  Copyright 2018 by Angela Campbell

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons,

  living or dead, or events is merely coincidence.

  Any unauthorized distribution of this work

  or its characters is not permitted.

  Cover by:

  Erin Dameron-Hill

  Award-Winning Cover Artist

  www.edhgraphics.blogspot.com

  Other Books

  (in reading order)

  Contemporary

  Summer Obsession

  Oh, Baby!

  The Rodeo Star’s Return

  Married in Vegas

  Austin’s Revenge

  Historical

  His Unexpected Mail-Order Bride

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  12:25pm

  Chapter 2

  11:45am

  2:15pm

  5:15pm

  5:38pm

  Chapter 3

  8:00am

  9:09am

  5:37pm

  Chapter 4

  5:48pm

  6:17pm

  Chapter 5

  11:19pm

  Chapter 6

  6:36pm

  6:48pm

  7:05pm

  7:36pm

  8:15pm

  Chapter 7

  9:07am

  9:48am

  10:32am

  11:24pm

  Chapter 8

  9:20am

  11:37am

  Chapter 9

  8:32pm

  Chapter 10

  6:15pm

  6:34pm

  6:49pm

  7:53pm

  8:36pm

  Chapter 11

  10:23am

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Monday, December 8

  8:34am

  Brock paced back and forth in front of the big antique, oak desk that had been passed down to him from his grandfather when he’d taken over the newspaper. It had been passed to him because his father had passed away about a year before his grandfather from bone cancer. His mother had told him later, she believed if it hadn’t been for his father’s death, his grandfather might have lived several more years. The loss of his one remaining son had been more than his heart could take and he’d been gone within a year of his death. Brock’s uncle Mike had been his father’s only sibling and had died a couple of years before his father in a horrible car accident out in California.

  The Silverman’s had owned and operated the Sapphire Springs Daily News newspaper ever since it was started in nineteen oh three by his great-great-grandfather Silverman. He pretty much started the paper right off the boat when he immigrated to the United States. His grandfather had often told him his great-great-grandfather had, had printer’s ink in his veins. From everything Brock had ever seen of his grandfather, he hadn’t been much different. He’d been running around in this place ever since he was old enough to walk.

  Brock sighed and came to a stop beside the antique desk. Rubbing his temples with both hands, he stared down at the old lion statue sitting there, not really seeing it. He was too lost in his own thoughts to see anything really. He was agitated, trying to decide if he should go through with the plan he had just devised or not. A plan devised out of desperation, no less.

  His strongest, if not only desire, was to be married before the year was out. More precisely, by Christmas. He was tired of spending his favorite holiday alone. Especially when he knew exactly who he wanted to spend all of his holidays with. His biggest problem was, he didn’t know how to approach the subject with the only woman he wanted to fill the position of his bride without possibly losing valuable body parts.

  He glanced down at the front of his jeans with a wince. The one and only time he remembered noticing her in high school, he saw her knee a guy for getting too friendly. She had an unerringly good aim. Of course, that guy had been trying to get a handful of boobs. He was wanting to ask her to marry him. He might fair better. Or worse. He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head. He just had no way of knowing which.

  He walked over to the floor to ceiling windows, staring out at the parking lot, wondering if they were ever going to get that snow the forecaster had kept threatening for the last five days. You really didn’t need the snow to know it was cold though. It had been in the single digits this morning when he first arrived. It hadn’t gotten much warmer in the last three hours he’d been in his office. The large digital thermometer on the side of the brick building the paper was printed in just now read fifteen degrees.

  His office was positioned where he could see people coming and going through the front door of the building. He now eyeballed the decorations Mary Ellen had obviously put out in front. He usually loved this time of year, but his Christmas spirit was seriously lacking right now, and he found the decorations irritating. Probably because she apparently wasn’t having the same problem with her Christmas spirit as he was.

  He frowned, watching the lights blinking on and off on the little cedar tree at the end of the side walk leading up to the glass front door. It wasn’t much of a Christmas tree if you asked him. It couldn’t have been more than three feet tall. Of course, his irritation over the tree was probably due more to his frustration at finding a way to ask her to marry him, than the tree its self. Now, if he could find the answer to that question, his mood would be sure to take a much brighter turn.

  He sighed, finally, coming to the conclusion he was going to have to do something drastic, or he was never going to get what he wanted. He pulled himself up straighter, turning toward the door and grabbed the doorknob. He stuck his head out the door, and with a gruff voice, snapped, “Mary Ellen, I need you in here, please.”

  The pretty blonde with the startling blue eyes looked up with a smile. “Will I need to take notes?”

  He sucked in a breath, reacting to her beautiful smile the same way he always did. He felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. “Doubtful,” he answered in a short, clipped tone.

  His curt words were out of character and drew a confused look from his personal assistant, but she was going to have to deal with his mood this morning. His nerves were making him short on patience right now. Maybe once he got this over with, he’d be a little more like his usual self. It all depended on how the next few minutes turned out.

  He ducked back in his office and immediately started pacing again. He had just turned to make a trip back across his plush office when the door opened. Well, plush for Sapphire Springs anyway. Probably not so much in New York. But they weren’t in New York. Thank God.

  Mary Ellen walked the few feet to the chairs in front of his desk and took a seat. “How can I be of service, Mr. Silverman?” she asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She knew he hated how formal she insisted on being.

  “Mary Ellen,” he cringed, giving her a sour look. “You’ve been working for me for three years now. Do you think, just maybe, you could start addressing me by my first name now? It’s not like you don’t know me outside of work. I’ve heard Brock pass your lips plenty of times,” he grumbled. And what a luscious pair of lips they are. “I know you can do it.”

  “Mr. Silverman, we’ve been over this,” she said on a sigh. “It’s out of respect for…”

  “I’m not your elder, Sweet Cheeks,” he said with a smirk, thinking about her sweetly rounded bottom. He knew she had no idea he was referring to her backside, rather than the cheeks on her beautiful face.
Even if he thought them to be just as sweet as her derriere.

  She glared at him, hopping back up, and smashing her fists down on her hips. This was a game they played quite often, and she was getting tired of it. “Don’t call me sweet cheeks.”

  “Then don’t call me Mr. Silverman.”

  “It’s a sign of respect. And to maintain a professional working environment.”

  “I’m not your elder, Sweet Cheeks,” he said again with the same smirk as before.

  She glared at him, crossing her arms below her breast. “No, but you are my boss,” she snapped, not realizing his attention had been snagged by her cleavage that had just become more prominent when she unintentionally pushed her chest up with her arms. “When we are at work, I will not call you by your first name.”

  When she realized where he was staring, her eyes narrowed to slits. She seriously considered kicking him in the shins. Why is it he can find my boobs so interesting, but not the rest of me?

  She sighed to herself and snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Mr. Silverman, are you in there?”

  He looked up, blushing when they made eye contact. “Stop calling me Mr. Silverman,” he said, moving on, trying to escape the awkward feeling from getting caught so obviously staring at her chest. “We went to school together. Even if you were three grades behind me.”

  “You still deserve the respect,” she said, rolling her eyes, not sure right then, he really did.

  “Then show me respect. Call me Brock, please.”

  “Mr. Silverman…”

  “I’m not going to stop until you start calling me Brock,” he said with a deep frown. He felt certain she continued to call him by the formal title to keep a distance between them at work, and quite frankly, he was getting tired of it.

  “Fine, Brock,” she said with a much too serious look. “What do you need me to do?”

  He braced himself for her reaction, then uttered the very words that could bring about his early demise. “Find me a wife.”

  “What?” she asked, barely able to remain on her feet.

  “Find me…”

  “I heard you,” she snapped. “What I want to know is why you think I can find you a wife.”

  “Well, you do know which of the ladies in my age range are still single. I’d hate to make some jealous husband angry,” he stated with a shrug of his incredibly wide shoulders. “You know I don’t date. I don’t have time. Between the paper and the ranch. And I’d really like to have more time to work on the ranch with my brothers.” And I will, just as soon as I turn the reins of the paper over to you fully.

  “So, I know who’s single,” she snarled. “You want me to give you a list?”

  He just ignored her obvious sarcasm and shook his head. “No,” he said, turning his back on her.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he had been playing a bad joke, and the gig was now up. He tended to be a bit of a jokester. Granted, none of his previous jokes had ever been this bad. Her relief proved, however, to be premature. “I don’t have time to date. You need to find me someone to marry. I need a wife. This is the best way to do this quickly.”

  He needs a brain transplant. A wife, indeed. “If you don’t have time to date, what makes you think you’ll have time for a wife?” she growled out, struggling not to throw something at his head.

  “I’m thirty-years-old. I’m tired of waiting for the right woman to fall in my lap. I want children.” Maybe if I tripped her as she was walking past me, I could get her to fall in my lap. It took him a serious struggle not to chuckle out-loud at that thought.

  She barely suppressed a growl as she ran a hand over the little lion statue on his desk. He used it as a paperweight, just like his grandfather did before he gave it to him when he took over the running of the paper. She was thinking of using it to throw at his head. Maybe if she hit him hard enough, she could knock some sense into him. “Children need time with their father. Are you going to take the time once they’re here?”

  “Why are you so worried about my future wife and children? Are you volunteering to be the one, and bare me the other?” he asked, then held his breath.

  “No,” she squeaked, taking a step back.

  “Then I need your help,” he grumbled, hoping this game would eventually play out to his advantage.

  “How exactly do you think this is going to work?” she asked, slowly regaining her composure.

  “Well, you know. Something like they did in the early eighteen-hundreds, or whenever it was. Like a mail-order bride service,” he said, snapping his fingers as he turned back to face her.

  “I am not a matchmaking service. Or a mail-order bride service,” she snarled, her beautiful blue eyes snapping. “Whatever fancy name you give it, it’s still not my job. I’m not doing this.”

  “Hey, look at it this way, you’ll only have to do this once,” he grinned, sounding like he was enjoying himself.

  “I’m not even doing it once. You can find your own wife,” she snapped again, finding it increasingly more difficult to hold back the tears. “I’m sure all you’ll have to do is announce you want to get married. You’ll have more than enough volunteers to pick from.”

  Maybe, but will I have the only volunteer I want. “No, you’ll have to do this,” he continued, once again pacing in front of his desk, and brushing her knees every time he passed her. “I don’t have time. You’ll have to vet all the possibilities beforehand, then I can pick from your suggestions.”

  “Suggestions? You’re not picking out a suit and tie here. You’re going to be living with this woman for the rest of your life.”

  “I’ll need at least three choices to choose from,” he went on like she hadn’t spoken.

  “Seriously?” she asked, for the first time in her life, wanting to snap someone’s head off their shoulders. She’d been angry with the man before, but not like this. “Have you taken a fall and hit your head?”

  He held one hand up in the air to stop her from continuing with what could promise to be a seriously long rant. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?” she asked, still holding out hope that this was all some horrible joke.

  “She can only be as young as twenty-two. I’m afraid if she’s any younger than that, then we won’t have anything in common. I don’t know. Do you think that’s too young?”

  “Grr,” was all he got when he turned to look at her.

  “Okay, twenty-two it is, and no older than thirty. She needs to have plenty of childbearing years left.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to just get you a broodmare?” she snarled.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question. I’m not starting a horse ranch. I have enough horses already.”

  She knew he had caught the sarcasm but was choosing to ignore it. The man could wield sarcasm just as easily as he could breathe. He wasn’t one half of the zany twins for nothing. “Whatever. When do I need to have these glowing recommendations ready?”

  “This time next week.”

  “Next Monday?” she nearly yelled before getting herself back under control. “Are you out of your crazy little mind?”

  “No. I’ve really put a lot of thought into this. I’m ready to get married.” And I’m doing my best to push you in the right direction.

  “Whatever,” she snarled, turning to storm out of the office door, slamming it behind her. Next time I catch him staring at my boobs, I am going to kick him in the shins. She was going to have to take the rest of the day off. There was no way she wanted to deal with him anymore today. She picked her cell phone up off her desk and hit redial.

  “Hello. Something wrong?”

  Of course, one of her best friends since grade school, Jenney Townsend Harris, would know when she had a problem. “How did you guess?”

  The other girls chuckle came through the phone with grating clarity. “You usually don’t call this time of the day. You’re usually too busy making goo-goo eyes at your sexy boss. Unless he’s d
one something stupid.”

  “Jenny, please.”

  “Oh no,” the other woman breathed into the phone. “What’s going on? What did that idiot do now?”

  “Can you meet me for lunch? I’m taking the rest of the day off. Whether he likes it or not,” she said, glaring at his still closed door.

  “Sapphire Café?”

  “Yeah, sounds great.”

  12:25pm

  Mary Ellen pulled into the parking lot of the Sapphire Café still fuming. “The nerve of that man. Ask me to find him a wife, will he?” she huffed. “Great. Now, he’s got me talking to myself.” She sighed and opened the door to get out. She was still so upset, she never noticed how cold it still was until she entered the warmth of the building. She pulled her coat off, breathing a sigh. “It really is cold out there,” she mumbled under her breath, making her way across the mostly full café where Jenny sat on the other side, close to the counter.

  Mary Ellen walked over to Jenny’s table and looked down at what she was eating. “I see you waited on me,” she said with a sarcastic smirk.

  Her friend just smirked back. “Can it, Princess. I was hungry.”

  “I can see that, Barbie Doll.”

  The other woman just grinned. “You’ve always been jealous.”

  “Darn straight. What girl doesn’t want to be five ten and built like America’s favorite doll? Only better.”

  “Only better?” Jenny inquired with a raised eyebrow.

  “Every woman knows Barbie wouldn’t be able to stand up with that rack. Not for long anyway. Her waist is just too small.”

  “Yeah, she would have been a corset manufactures nightmare,” the other woman nodded in reply. “No way could you make that waist smaller.”

  They both laughed while Mary Ellen finally took her seat. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh as she watched Jenny shovel a bite of peach cobbler with chocolate pie mixed in, into her mouth. “So, when’s the baby due?”

  Jenny gave her a dirty look over her fork. “Don’t start.”