His Christmas Carole (Rescued Hearts Series Book 1)

by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  Carole ran her fingertips over the six books laid out, arranging them reverently in a row. “Oh, my. This is like Christmas. Did you choose these yourself?”

  “These are authors my ma loved and some I discovered in the book catalogue the Cobbs get twice a year from back East. I’m their best book buyer, so they let me have first crack when the catalogue arrives.”

  “These are all brand new?”

  “Just published.”

  “Oh, look. Rudyard Kipling. The Man Who Would Be King. And another Robert Louis Stevenson. The Master of Ballantree.” She looked up with a knowing smile. “You love adventure stories!”

  “I admit to being partial, but I try to read a variety. What would you choose?”

  “Fair enough. I’d start with Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of The King.” She pressed the slim volume to her chest, then grinned. “My papa gave this to me for my birthday last month. Unfortunately, I had to leave behind most of my things. I love this one.”

  “Good. You can read that to me. I think his writing is better heard than read.”

  “I will be happy to do that, seeing as you provided all these.” She looked at the novels laid out and once again ran delicate fingertips across the titles. “And which one shall you read to me?”

  He reached down and picked up the Henry James novel he’d ordered. “Portrait of a Lady?”

  Carole smiled up at him.

  An overwhelming feeling of possessiveness hit him square in the chest. She was his very own Christmas miracle, and he’d do whatever it took to keep her. His gut clenched with the force of his determination. Dizzied with anticipation of what could be, he couldn’t get his breath.

  “What’s wrong, Hap?”

  Now he felt his own cheeks heat. Never going to admit what he really thought, he grinned and held up the book he’d plucked off the table.

  “Not a thing, Christmas. I’m snowed in with a beautiful girl and a good book.” He reached out and tugged on the red-gold braid hanging over her shoulder. “Not a damn thing—except…”

  She stared up with a slightly puzzled expression. “Except what?”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Beans.”

  “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”

  She laughed out loud.

  The sound filled his soul with a warmth he hadn’t felt since he’d lost his parents so many years ago.

  Chapter 12

  Hap is a treasure. I’m already falling in love with him, and he’s going to break my heart.

  He’s sacrificing himself for water rights, for the good of his ranch.

  Although Carol felt guilty for asking him to marry her, she couldn’t find it in her heart to take back her offer. Although initially, she’d needed him for her ranch, now she wanted him for herself.

  I’ll work hard to be a good wife to him.

  As she stirred the beans so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pot, she covertly watched him.

  Hap set the bowls on the table along with silverware, poured coffee into both their mugs, and reached for the bread on the shelf above the dry sink. Each movement was pure poetry. His fluid masculine strength as he went about the simple tasks told of hours of hard work in the saddle and on foot.

  She’d seen men who rode to exercise the horses and observed the strength of the farriers who kept her father’s horses shod. Hap embraced both kinds of strength. The horseman’s strong thighs and the farrier’s muscular shoulders. Any woman who drew breath would admire him.

  She liked how he knew his own mind, and was a good man. Kind. Strong. Protective. Loved to read. Seriously loved to read. He was so handsome she kept her jaw shut so she didn’t say something incredibly gauche like, ‘I love you, and I want to have a whole litter of your babies.’ That was a far cry from ‘marry me, and I’ll give you water rights.’

  Hap placed the bread on a smooth board and carried it to the table.

  I sure do like a man who’s helpful in the kitchen. She continued to catalogue her future husband’s virtues.

  Her betrothed had a real love for animals that went beyond seeing them as just stock to be used. He cared for Rustler. Made several trips out in the storm to check on his welfare. Treated him as a partner. She had no doubt if Rustler were in need, the stallion would be with them inside the cabin.

  Truth be told, she’d do the same. The horses she’d left in her father’s custody were just as important to her, and she couldn’t wait to bring them from her family’s farm in Kentucky to High River. I wonder what he’ll think of them?

  How could she convince Hap to want her? All five-feet-two inches of a freckled redhead who could pass for a boy without much trouble at all. Oh. Yeah. Talk about a snowball’s chance in July.

  “Do you want me to slice you a piece of bread?” Hap asked.

  “Huh? What?”

  “You were a million miles away. What were you daydreamin’ about?” He flashed the grin that only lifted one side of his mouth

  His smile stopped her breath, and she could hardly remember her last thought. Watching him sent shivers racing through her. No other man of her acquaintance had ever had such an effect on her.

  “Oh. Oh,” she stuttered, not wanting Hap to know she was thinking about him. “I was wondering about my horses back home. The ones I left with my father. When I’m settled, Papa will have them sent by rail. When they’ll be safe.”

  “You miss them.”

  “Horribly. I raised each one from birth. Gifts from my parents through the years. Papa thinks I’ll come home to Kentucky when times are too hard here, but I can make this ranch work. I know I can.” Carole stared into the bubbling pot of beans. “I know I can,” she repeated, the words a vow.

  “I believe you,” Hap said in his deep, manly voice that never failed to send a shiver coursing through her core.

  Using a leather glove to protect his hand, he pulled the pot of beans off the stove and set it on the horseshoe trivet his pa had made for just this purpose. The bentwood chair and an old oat barrel sat at the table. Mismatched plates, silverware, and canning jars served as place settings.

  Carole found this arrangement more charming than any fancy dinner she’d ever attended.

  Hap pulled out the chair for her.

  She swept a graceful curtsy––or at least as graceful as her cousin’s pants would allow––and sat.

  He straddled the barrel and reached for the ladle in the pot.

  “Now, let’s eat so we can get to reading.”

  Ah, a man after my own heart. She lifted her plate to be served.

  By the time they finished their meal, the snow had stopped falling. But drifts blocked both doors.

  Hap hung a blanket across the corner of the cabin for privacy and left Carole to her ablutions and preparation for bedtime. Meanwhile, he dug his way through the front entrance and out into the open air, wading through knee-deep snow to use the privy and then take care of Rustler.

  Hap opened the stable door, stepping aside when Rustler pushed outside as though needing to see what was happening in his world.

  While the horse frolicked outside, pasterns deep in the snow, Hap cleaned the stall and gave the stallion a double portion of grain and more hay. The minute he moved out of the way, the big chestnut pushed back into the shelter, shook his head, and wuffled as if saying, ‘shut the door, you weren’t raised in a barn.’

  Hap chuckled, and rubbed Rustler’s head, before going outside. As he closed and bolted the door, he wondered if he’d given Carole enough time to take care of her necessaries.

  Just knowing she was removing her clothing, maybe sponging her body, sent his thoughts racing—remembering when he’d undressed her. He had no right to those thoughts but couldn’t seem to suppress the images.

  She had the good grace not to mention her state of dishabille when she’d awakened in his shirt under the blankets. He should have the decency to forget those images of her form—if he were a stronger man, he would. On his dea
thbed, maybe.

  Well, we are betrothed. As long as I continue to behave as a gentleman, maybe I can allow myself to think on those sweet memories––just a tad.

  He thanked the Good Lord his wife-to-be had a sensible head on her shoulders and didn’t take advantage of the fact she was a woman, like others he’d met, expecting their husbands to provide every luxury, whether they could afford to or not.

  Carole stepped up and did her share, not shirking any task he’d asked her to tackle and wanting more. They could make a marriage work, if she had a mind to see him as more than ‘convenient’. What can I do to convince her?

  The door cracked open, and she poked out her head. “Is Rustler all right?”

  “He’s fine. But, he’s gonna be fat as a Hereford if he keeps eating like this.” He stomped up onto the porch and took a couple more swipes with the shovel to clear a path.

  “You’d better come in. I heated more water so you could wash up. And I put another pot on for coffee.”

  “You know, if I hadn’t already agreed to marry you, Christmas––” he grinned down at her “––I surely would now.”

  He liked the way her cheeks flushed pink and her freckles stood out across her small, aristocratic nose. Her blush made her eyes look deeper green. Her hair frothed around her head, shining like a burnished halo. She was as close to Christmas as he was ever going to get. Something he thought he’d never feel again.

  She closed the door.

  Hap stood for a moment gathering his thoughts. Getting himself together. He’d never been this attracted to a woman before, and it was so hard not to reach out to touch her. To feel her silken skin. To be close enough to enjoy her delicious scent. Staring at her was bad enough.

  If I scare her or make her uncomfortable, she could still change her mind about our marriage. I must behave like a gentleman, he reminded himself. Take things slow.

  My whole future’s at stake.

  After donning her flannel nightgown and still wearing Hap’s shirt for more warmth, Carole arranged the bed, using the carpetbag as a headrest. Once finished, she climbed underneath the covers.

  Behind the blanket he’d hung so she’d have some privacy, Carole could hear Hap humming. The sound was somehow soothing. Low…masculine…easing the tension she felt about her cousins and the coming confrontation. He sounded so strong. But could he stand against her four cousins? I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Hap because of me.

  “There you go, daydreamin’ again.” Hap stepped from behind the makeshift curtain.

  Reflexively, she pulled the quilt higher for modesty’s sake. “I’ve gotten comfortable so you can read to me. And I decided I want to hear Treasure Island first.”

  “What happened to you reading Idylls of the King?”

  “Your book first.”

  Hap walked to the table and picked up the Robert Louis Stevenson book.

  He looked so handsome with his fresh-shaved face and damp hair from his basin washing. He’d tucked in his shirt, covering his long johns, but hadn’t buttoned either to the top yet.

  Carole could see a bit of his chest and a smattering of dark hair in the opening. Heat traveled up her belly, across her breasts, and flushed her neck. She ducked her head and put a cooling hand to her throat.

  Never proper to stare. She made herself look away. Her mama would say Carole was behaving like a brazen hussy, staring at a man’s chest in such a manner. But Mama wasn’t alone in a snowbound cabin with the most handsome man God ever put on this green earth, either.

  Hap moved his wet boots close to the stove, pulled the chair from the table closer to the bed, and sat. He rested his dry stocking feet up on the end of the bed and opened the book.

  “ʽTreasure Island. Chapter one. The old seadog at the Admiral Benbow.’”

  His deep baritone suited the words.

  “ʽSquire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentleman having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from beginning to the end keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted.’”

  Carole snuggled into the Christmas quilt, losing her worries in the story and the sound of Hap’s deep voice. When she half-sat to pull the second woolen blanket over her feet, he looked up.

  “Are you cold? I’ll put on another log.”

  He set the open book on the bed and rose, shoving a larger log into the potbelly stove and another one in the fireplace. “That should hold us for a while.”

  He came back to stand next to the bed. “Scoot over.”

  Should I?

  He’d seen her nearly naked, used his own body heat to save her life, and agreed to marry her. How could I not trust this man?

  She scooted.

  Hap sat down on top of the covers next to her on the bed, settled back against the roughhewn headboard with his feet up, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her closer until she rested against his well-muscled chest. He chucked the carpetbag to the floor, tucked in the quilt around her, and picked up the book.

  His actions were practiced, as if they’d been snuggling and reading together for years. Please, Dear Lord, may we do this together for many years to come.

  He began to read again. His deep, masculine voice did funny things to her insides. Tempted to squirm, she curled her toes into Hap’s oversized socks and leaned in to his side, enjoying every word.

  Chapter 13

  Three more days passed in much the same way, while they waited for the trail out of the valley to become traversable. They did chores, cleaned the cabin, groomed Rustler when they could coax him out of his warm shelter, repaired tack, oiled leather, even their shoes, and, having used up the canned goods and other sundries, tried to invent new ways to make beans edible, if not truly delicious.

  Best of all, they took turns reading the books Hap had the foresight to bring with him, leaving Treasure Island as a bedtime treat. They’d established a routine, which always ended in Hap reading, Carole tucked next to him until she fell asleep.

  The peace and pleasure of their time together filled her with a quiet joy, and she wished their days of safety––cozy in the cabin in their little valley––could go on and on.

  On Christmas Eve, while Hap readied himself behind the curtain for bed, Carole

  reached inside her grandfather’s carpetbag for the copy of the one book she couldn’t bear to leave behind in Kentucky.

  The thin volume didn’t take up much space in the bag but held a very big place in her heart.

  One year, her grandfather had traveled to Kentucky for Christmas, and his gift to her was a book of Clement Moore’s poetry. Even better than the actual present was Grandfather’s gift of making her feel beautiful. He told Carole that she’d inherited his hair color, and she was his best girl. She’d never forgotten how special she felt with him and couldn’t bring herself to leave the book behind when she traveled to Montana.

  She tucked the book beneath her pillow, climbed under the covers, and looked at her forlorn little tree. She never could have imagined a Christmas like this—away from her family, without most of the trappings and rituals of the season, and yet one so very special. If only we didn’t have the threat of my cousins hanging over us.

  Hap finished his ablutions, and came out from behind the curtain. Smiling at her, he picked up Treasure Island from the table, climbed onto the bed and under the covers.

  With a happy sigh, Carol snuggled next to Hap, ready for him to read to her.

  Hap reached for Treasure Island.

  “‘Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest. Yo-ho-ho, and a barrel of rum….’” The sea song the old sailor liked to chant had played over and over in her mind today, and Carole couldn’t wait to hear more of the story. But not tonight. She placed a hand on top of Treasure Island. “I have a different book we should read instead.”

  “Why is that?” Hap asked, setting the copy of Treasure Island back on the tab
le.

  “Because it’s Christmas Eve, and we always read this one to celebrate.”

  “Christmas Eve?”

  “Of course. Five days left before the auction on the twenty-ninth of December.”

  “I know. The snow’s started melting. We’ll pack up in the morning and make it into town by noon. That will give us enough time to talk to Sheriff Granger and then see Reverend Norton. Once we’re married, we can go to your lawyer to finalize your grandfather’s will. That should eliminate any tricks your coyote cousins can conjure up.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Hap? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  “Is this what you want?”

  “More than anything.”

  “Then I’m going to see you get your heart’s desire.”

  If only he was talking about more than the ranch. “Tonight, we’re going to enjoy our first Christmas Eve together.” She pulled out the book and handed the volume to Hap.

  He looked at the cover and flinched, almost like she’d handed him a hot potato he’d like to toss back. “Poems, by Clement Clarke Moore. Figures you’d have this.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  “You know this book?”

  “Oh, yeah. My ma was partial to having Pa read “A Visit From Saint Nicholas” on Christmas. Is that the one you mean?”

  “Yes! Don’t you enjoy reading that one, too?”

  “Let’s just say the poem doesn’t bring to mind the same kind of memories for me as you seem to have and stop there.”

  “Is that why you don’t celebrate Christmas? Bad memories?”

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “I’m concerned, Hap. I need to understand why you feel this way. I don’t want to torment you with holiday spirit if you have reason to hate the season.”

  “Fine. Just remember you asked.”

  His resigned expression told her this was not a story she wanted to hear. She wished she could take back her question, but Christmas was an integral part of her life. They needed to understand each other and how to deal with difficulties as they arose. Not loving Christmas could become an insurmountable barrier between them. She couldn’t bear the thought.