A Vow for Christmas

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A Vow for Christmas

  By

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Book 7 in Spinster Mail-Order Brides,

  a multi-author series

  Table of Contents

  A Vow for Christmas

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  OTHER HISTORICAL TITLES

  BY LINDA CARROLL-BRADD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Virgina McKevitt of Black Widow Books

  Edited by: Shenoa of Lustre Editing http://lustreediting.com

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-28-5

  First printing November, 2019

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.

  Chapter One

  November, 1881, Lincoln, Nebraska

  “Nay, sir, you canna come inside.” Vika shoved a shoulder hard on the apartment door, leveraging her weight against that of the landlord, Mister Zeleny. She jammed a booted foot at the base. “I’ve three more days until the rent is due.”

  At her feet, Biscuit barked at the intruder, rushing forward toward the man’s boots.

  “Laigh sìos.” Vika frowned at her beloved Cairn Terrier until the dog dashed over to her blanket by the stove. Smoke from his foul-smelling cigar drifted through the slim opening.

  “Come on, Miss Carmichael. I know you’re struggling to make ends meet since your brother’s death.”

  At the mention of her brother, Birk, she gasped, pain stabbing her chest. The mixed odors of beer and sauerkraut wafted in the air, and she averted her head, wrinkling her nose. “We’ve, uh, I’ve paid ye on time and in full every month.” She pictured the pitiful number of coins in her reticule and winced. This month’s rent would reduce her savings by at least half. That the landlord knew her circumstance made his words so cruel and hard to hear. He held firsthand knowledge of how few customers appeared in the tiny lobby corner where he permitted her to sell knitted items.

  “You know, I don’t have to allow pets.” He pressed harder on the door. “But I am most agreeable to a discount if you would only—”

  “Mister Zeleny, I have told ye.” He stuck his bulbous nose into the crack between the door jamb and the thin door and waggled his bushy eyebrows. She strained against his bulky weight, her muscles quivering. “I’m no’ that kind of woman!” Vika shoved hard, leaning her hip and leg against the carved wood.

  “Hey, watch my nose.” He jumped back out of sight.

  The latch clicked shut.

  Vika grabbed the key with a trembling hand and twisted it in the lock. Giving herself a moment to catch her breath, she glanced around for the sturdiest piece of furniture to haul in front of the door. Last month, she’d sold the settee. Flimsy wooden chairs or a small ottoman filled with old magazines? She opted for the dining chair and wedged it under the brass doorknob.

  After a couple of hard knocks against the door, Zeleny grumbled something in Russian then his heavy footsteps faded away.

  Quiet settled over her end of the hallway. Then the shakes overtook her body. Her knees wobbled, and she staggered to the dining table and dropped into the remaining chair.

  With each month that passed since she’d returned from Birk’s funeral, Mister Zeleny grew bolder. Keeping the pudgy landlord at bay took all the strength she could summon. But relocating to a different place here in Lincoln seemed like an overwhelming task to undertake by herself. Although…a boarding house might offer some companionship. But who would provide help to a spinster with no relations without expecting payment of some sort?

  How much was a person expected to endure? First, her parents died nine years earlier in a tragic hotel fire. Six years ago, her beau, Roy McFie, set off for the gold fields of Colorado, and never sent a single letter. Then, three months ago, a senseless tragedy took Birk’s life. Stepping in to do the right thing was so much a part of her brother’s personality. And he always took his bank teller responsibilities so seriously. Of course, he’d do what he could to prevent the robbers from stealing the First Nebraska Bank’s money. At least, he fired three shots before succumbing to his wounds.

  Vika rested her head on her forearms. Tightness choked her throat, and hot tears burned the backs of her eyes. Why do people abandon me? What is so wrong with me that I don’t deserve a family? Her body ached with the bone-deep tiredness of being on her own. I will no’ cry again. Laying a cheek on the embroidered tablecloth, she let out a long sigh before stretching her arms across the width. All she wanted was to sleep and forget the circumstances of her pitiful life.

  Whimpering, Biscuit trotted close and pawed at her shoe.

  An envelope slid over the table edge and dropped onto the floor with a thud. The hollow sound echoed in her ears, taunting her about the stack of unanswered letters and unopened bills. With a massive effort, Vika sat upright and dragged the haphazard pile close. Then she scooped her pet into her lap and stroked Biscuit’s wiry fur. Her parents instilled in their children no’ to ignore what must be done. Guilt plagued her thoughts at the disappointment they would feel if they saw their daughter wallowing in the doldrums.

  Tallying the bills for coal and the mercantile only added to her despair. Vika picked up the final piece of mail and spotted the familiar handwriting of her cousin, Lainie Maccullum, on the front of a thick envelope. Lanie’s and Vika’s mothers were sisters, and before the fire, the families visited for a week each summer. Maybe I should ask if I can come to Chicago and live with them. But Chicago was so noisy and busy. Plus she’d be nothing more than the poor relation. She ripped open the envelope flap and pulled out stationery scented with Lainie’s favorite lavender. A second wad of folded paper dropped to the table. Vika sniffed the stationery then unfolded it.

  Dearest Vika,

  You never answered my first letter from two months ago so I’m writing again.

  I was horrified to learn of Birk’s death. How awful and so very sad. But so like his notions of honor and justice to thwart a robbery.

  How are you getting along? Mother and Father send their love and offer deepest condolences.

  I have the happiest news, and I know you’ll squeal when you read it. I’M ENGAGED. Just when I thought you and I would be spinste
rs and share a cramped, little house somewhere, knitting and tatting and sharing endless pots of tea.

  Mother and Father finally grew tired of either inviting home Father’s business associates or sons of Mother’s friends to supper. I found a beau all on my own, just like I said I would long ago when we imagined our future husbands. Remember the lakeshore cabin that summer? We’d just read Pride and Prejudice, and I wanted someone who was well-read and cultured and knew how to ride well—like Fitzwilliam Darcy. I can’t remember who you wanted.

  Vika looked up. Of course, she’d wanted a man exactly like Darcy, too. What woman could read the Austen novel and no’ fall in love with the long-suffering hero? Plus, at that young age, she’d been content to follow Lainie’s every lead. Shaking her head, she glanced back at the flawless copperplate writing.

  Well, what did my eleven-year-old self know? Thomas (I call him Tommy) Mandeville is a talented furniture maker who never even took the eighth grade completion exam. But he’s kind, compassionate, gentle, and loves my chattiness because he works every day in solitude.

  The hard part is convincing Mother and Father that he can provide for me. But I know I will, and you’ll soon receive an announcement of our wedding. Now I’m sharing, dear cousin, the enclosed publication that helped me find my true love. I’m sending heartfelt wishes that you’ll find the same euphoria I have.

  Write soon.

  Hugs and kisses, Lainie

  Reading Lainie’s letter was like being in the same room with her vivacious cousin. The fiery redhead sucked all the air from the immediate vicinity, so different from her own quiet nature. Vika leaned back and took a breath before unfolding the thick newsprint. The masthead read Matrimonial News with a publication date of only two weeks ago. She gaped at column after column of men and women advertising for a marriage partner. The ads, some brief and some longer, resonated with a loneliness she recognized.

  The print swam before her eyes. She looked around, rubbing hands along her chilled arms. How long was I reading? Dimness enveloped the room, and she stood to light the oil lamp in the wall sconce. As she crossed the floor to the sitting room, she noticed with a pang the faded wallpaper rectangles testifying to the elaborate carved frames she’d pawned. From the back of an armchair, she collected her plaid shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. Although the wool was thick, it provided only temporary relief against the evening’s encroaching cold.

  After preparing her supper of tea, toast, and a fried egg, Vika moved her chair across from the cook stove then settled at the table.

  Biscuit licked clean a dish with egg bits scraped from the pan and half a slice of bread in no time.

  As she ate her meager meal, she read for the third time one particular ad that caught her eye.

  Rancher with two motherless children under age six needs helpmate. Reply to Chad Rutherford c/o General Delivery, Gunnison, Colorado. Be prepared for cold winters. Schooling is a plus.

  She conjured an image of a picturesque ranch set amidst a grass-filled prairie. A happy memory surfaced. Long ago, the family traveled to her parents’ birthplace near Clydesdale, Scotland, where they stayed the summer on her grandfather’s horse farm. Did Mister Rutherford raise horses? She ran a finger over the first line of print. Or as a new orphan herself, was she swayed by the single word “motherless” clogging her throat? No matter the reason, she carried the empty plates to the sink then gathered writing supplies from Birk’s desk. Becoming a mail-order bride seemed the only solution to her circumstance.

  Dear Mister Rutherford,

  Oh, why dinna Lainie share what she’d written to catch her Tommy’s eye?

  I, too, seek a helpmate in life. Did she dare confess she also longed for a loving companion? For many years, I’ve kept house for my older brother—cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. I augmented his salary with my sewing and knitting skills. My formal schooling ended with completion of the eighth grade. Recently, I’ve volunteered for our church by reading to invalids.

  I have an affinity for wee…She hesitated. If I write ‘bairns’ will my Scottish words put him off?... ones and am prepared to take on a readymade family. Was she required to inform him of her spinsterly age? Would being twenty-eight disqualify her from his consideration? She re-read his statement and saw no mention of age.

  Warmly yours,

  Miss Vika Carmichael

  P.S. I’m anxious to receive your swift reply.

  As she gave the letter a final review, she winced at the postscript. Her words sounded so needy. She squared her shoulders. Well, I am needy. I need protection and the guarantee of sufficient food and shelter to survive. Her attentive care and competent skills were just what Mister Rutherford’s little family required.

  After folding the single sheet of buff parchment and addressing the envelope, she held the letter to her chest and closed her eyes. I wish the Colorado rancher will see sincerity, and no’ desperation, in my words. With a marriage, even to a virtual stranger, she’d maintain her reputation and gain respectability. Vika pressed a gentle kiss to his name…for good measure and to pass part of her yearning into the ink and parchment.

  Chapter Two

  Gunnison, Colorado

  Chad Rutherford hated being forced into a corner—no matter who did the forcing. Frustration tensed his muscles, and the paper he held crinkled. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the letter he’d collected from town into the middle of the dining table. Worse, he hated having a deadline ticking off the dwindling days. He dragged a hand down his face, hearing the rasp of a couple days of beard stubble.

  High-pitched laughter drew his attention to the adjacent sitting room. Leaning back, he watched his five-year-old son gallop a wooden horse over the rag rug before bouncing it off his younger sister’s outstretched legs.

  “Don’t, Lance.” Three-and-a-half-year-old Guinie twisted from looking at her picture book and made a shooing motion in his direction. Clutching her rag doll in one arm, she lowered her brows and scrunched her lips.

  Biting back a chuckle at his sweet little girl’s attempt at looking mad, Chad glanced toward the rocker angled to face the fireplace. Her rocker had remained empty for the past two years. When would he stop looking to share a quiet parental moment?

  Footsteps tapped on the plank flooring from behind.

  His sister walked from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a small towel. “Dishes are done, and I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.” She pulled out a chair and sat, then tipped her head to the side. “What’s in this letter?”

  “Caroline, you know I have my doubts about the whole bride-from-an-ad business.” He looked at his younger sister who’d put aside her artistic pursuits to help with the household after Fayth took ill. Without Caro’s help, Chad wouldn’t have survived that awful time following his wife’s death.

  “I do know.” She held out her hand, palm up, and crooked her fingers. “Please let me read it.”

  Stretching, he snagged the corner of the tan parchment then slid it in her direction. Curious to see her reaction, he leaned forward and watched as she read. Caroline would never be a successful poker player—not that she’d ever want to. Since he’d read the letter several times already, he could tell when she’d reached each part—a nod about housekeeping, a hmm about education, and a smile about the children. But how did those skills reveal the woman’s personality or her manner or, more importantly, her stamina?

  Caroline looked up and shrugged. “Why are you not pleased by Miss Carmichael?”

  “Who says I’m not?” Being unable to disguise his feelings was a definite downside of living with someone who’d known him all her twenty-six years.

  Shaking her head, she chortled. “Your displeasure is evident in the wrinkle of your brow and the squint of your eyes.” She scooted the chair closer and set down the letter. “Years of housekeeping experience will replace what I’ve been doing.” A finger tapped the writing on the page. “She’s educated enough to read and write with clarity. Those skill
s will keep Lance and Guinie entertained now and assist later when they enter school. And she enjoys children. That’s more than—” She pressed tight her lips and ducked her head. “I apologize. I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Color dotted her cheeks, and he didn’t want to engage in another argument involving Caro’s opinions about his late wife’s failings as a mother. Chad straightened and leaned an elbow on the table so he could cup an open hand near his mouth. “Fayth enjoyed them…in her own way. She loved making up stories of brave knights, beautiful princesses, and daring adventures. She just couldn’t handle the noise when Lance played or Guinie fussed.”

  “Exactly. And not many children live quietly.” Caroline wiped the towel over the already clean table. “So far, you received only one other letter. Tell me how the two women compare to what you’re looking for.”

  How could any woman compare to his sweet Fayth? Swallowing against a tight throat, he ran a hand through his thick hair. “I’m still reeling from losing who I had. How the dickens do I know what I’m looking for?” At the sudden silence in the room, he realized he’d raised his voice. After taking a deep breath, he looked toward the sitting room and saw his wide-eyed children, still and staring. “Go back to playing. Daddy’s not mad.” A warm hand squeezed his forearm then released it.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Chad. But Dennis has been very understanding about me delaying our wedding until after Thanksgiving.”

  Guilt slammed his chest, and Chad blew out a breath. “I know.” He cut her a sideways glance. “I appreciate his patience.” When she accepted Dennis’ proposal in June, Caroline anticipated a September wedding, like their parents had. As the date drew close, Chad begged to keep her on the ranch longer. Now that extension would soon end. He shoved to his feet, strode to the small desk in the corner of the room, and pulled the other letter from a narrow slot. Cloying perfume still oozed from the pink paper, even after being out of the envelope for a week. Back at the table, he set the letters side by side.