Cristabelle_The Christmas Bride

by Hebby Roman

  Most of the time, he tried to make light of life, finding human nature humorous and silly. The wildness of this land and its natural beauty was a balm to his spirit, refreshing him, making all the foolishness of the fort fade away. Being able to capture the essence of his surroundings, albeit poorly, to his way of thinking, made him happy.

  What would make him happier was if a certain shy girl with the prettiest, tawny eyes and the softest lips, would let him get to know her. No matter, though, she was still his angel. And no doubt, too good for him.

  Being a soldier involved lots of hurrying up and waiting. As a boy, he’d enjoyed drawing things, though his industrious immigrant parents had frowned on the pursuit. And his fellow soldiers weren’t above making fun of him, too, for liking to draw.

  At least, the Army with its empty hours of being ready for a threat, which might or might not come, had given him more than ample time to pursue his drawing. And the more he sketched, the better he liked what he drew.

  He held the picture at arm’s length, studying it. He turned the sketch left and right, worrying about the perspective and his struggle to capture a three-dimensional world on a two-dimensional piece of paper.

  Putting his pad to the side, he decided to come back to it later. Maybe he’d change the picture or maybe not, but he needed some distance before he studied it again.

  He reached down and picked up a small round stone. Pulling back his arm, he sent the stone skittering across the pond’s surface. As the stone splashed into the water, he heard a muffled sob coming from behind him.

  Scrabbling to his feet, he realized how stupid he’d been, ignoring the ever-present danger of his frontier post—not thinking to bring his sidearm with him.

  And then he saw her, a black-clad figure, huddled in a stand of willows with her head bent, quietly crying.

  It was a wonder she hadn’t seen him sitting there. But he had the advantage, perched on an overhanging rock and able to see around a bend in the pond. The thick underbrush must have hidden him.

  He’d been desperate for weeks to get her alone. Now, she was here and no one else was around. Would she run from him? Or slap his face again? She was obviously distressed, crying as she was.

  His heart leapt in his chest, an answering sympathy streaming through him. She needed comfort, and he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and shelter her.

  He scrambled off the rock and strode toward her.

  At the last moment, she must have heard him because she glanced up and frowned. Her face was scrunched and splotchy from crying, but each time he saw her, she was more beautiful than he remembered. He wished he could sketch her, capture her angelic beauty on paper.

  Before she run, he’d closed on her and gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly, and stroking her long, brown hair. She’d gathered it into a knot on the top of her head, but in her distress, most of the hairpins must have come loose because her sun-streaked, brown hair fell in long streamers down her back.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Everything will turn out all right. It can’t be so bad. What can I do to help?”

  She sighed and nestled in his arms, surprising him.

  He caressed her back and hair. Her female curves fitted with his body like a tongue in groove joint, and he could feel his body responding. His groin tightened, and he grew hard.

  Afraid she might react to his unseemly response, he kept hold of her shoulders while angling the lower part of his body away from her.

  She gazed up at him, a flare of recognition, flooding her golden-brown eyes.

  He half-cringed and stepped away, dramatically throwing his hands over his face. “Please, don’t hit me. Don’t hit me!”

  She huffed and crossed her arms. “You can quit play-acting, Sergeant Donovan. And I’m not going to slap you.” She turned her face away and sniffed. “I’m sorry I slapped you, but I’d never been kissed before and—”

  “I’d already guessed, my Angel, but I’m glad I won’t have to dodge your blows.” His eyes twinkled, and he winked.

  “Oh, you, you’re ridiculous. You know?”

  “Am I?” He leaned forward and kissed her. Lightly at first, his mouth touching hers, barely brushing the softness of her petal-pink lips. He drank in her clean and fresh scent, reminding him of the elusive smell of a newly-laundered shirt. “I’m glad to know you find me entertaining. Can I kiss you again?”

  She sighed and said nothing. She turned her face up to him and closed her eyes.

  He chuckled, glad he’d gotten past her obvious innocent naivete. With her silent acquiescence, he deepened the kiss, slanting his lips first one way and then the other, cherishing her mouth.

  She sighed again, and his blood heated. He licked her lips with his tongue-tip, running his tongue along the sweet seam of her lips, hoping she would open to him. He didn’t know how she’d react, given how shy and evasive she was.

  Slowly, she opened her lips and kissed him back, pressing her full, pliable mouth against his. He didn’t need any more encouragement, slipping his tongue between her lips and tasting her fully. Savoring the honey-sweet flavor of her, and the delicious heat of her mouth.

  With their tongues tangled, she stepped closer to him, melding her body against his. She laced her arms around his neck and held on as if he was a kite that might sail away.

  Sweet Jesus, she was tying him in knots and making him as hard as the stone he’d been sitting on.

  She startled, like the fawn at the pond, and released a puff of her breath against his lips, while pulling back.

  He refused to let her go. He held her in the circle of his arms and gazed into her face. He was an unchaste man and given his wishes, he’d tumble her to the mossy ground and bury himself in her.

  She turned her face away, and he saw her blush, turning as red as the ripening mulberries on the trees, lining the pond. A snippet of the gossip about her mother flashed through his mind.

  How could people be so cruel, as to start ugly rumors?

  It was obvious she was pure and sweet—an angel. He wanted to pound Corporal Guerrin for spreading nasty gossip.

  “Please, let me go. I’ve already broken my vow once… and now this,” she said.

  “What vow? What have you broken?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and looked down at the ground. “I shouldn’t have mentioned… I spoke out of turn. I was schooled at the Ursuline Convent in San Antonio. I vowed to remain chaste and if I have the chance, I can return there.”

  “You want to be a nun?”

  “No, I want to be a lay sister, to serve the nuns.”

  “Why on earth would you—?”

  “Because it’s peaceful and quiet and—”

  “Yes, but being in your grave is peaceful and quiet, too.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  He sighed and hunched his shoulders. “No, I guess not. But I can’t begin to think of the waste, you burying yourself in a convent.”

  “It’s none of your business. And I need to go home.”

  “Not so fast.” He held her shoulders. “Tell me why you were crying. I’d like to help, if I could.” He let go of her and ran his thumb over her cheek, wiping the fresh tears from her face.

  She stepped to one side. “Oh, it’s, ah, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  He wanted to reach out again and hold her, worried she was about to bolt. “Well, if there’s nothing I can do, maybe talking about it would give you some comfort.”

  “I was grieving for the commander’s wife. I’ve been helping Miss Phillips take care of her.” She gulped and swallowed. “She was mostly out of her head, Mrs. Gregor, these past few weeks, but the few times she came to herself, I’ve never known a kinder lady.” She sniffed. “My mother’s been ailing, too. I’m afraid what would happen if—”

  “Has your mother seen a doctor? The fort’s doctor, Doc Irving, is very good at what he does.”

  Her mother was il
l, and people spread vicious rumors. He wanted to shout and swear. Sometimes, people amazed him with their nastiness.

  “I know. Dr. Irving has seen my mother, at least once a week, since she took sick. He seems hopeful, thinking rest and the clear, dry air will help. But he sent to Austin for some special medicine.” She frowned. “He says it’s the consumption.”

  Davie almost recoiled, but he held himself steady. He’d heard about consumption from his parents, and the toll it had taken on families in Ireland. Knowing what she was facing, he wanted to hug her again and never let go.

  But he did none of those things. Instead, he wished he could divert her from thinking about her mother’s condition. “I’m sure Doc Irving’s medicine will get your mother well.”

  She looked at him, and slowly, her frown faded. Her eyes held a bright light, as if she was eager for hope, eager to believe the best.

  “Yes, I’m sure the doctor can help,” he said. “And I’ve seen you in church. Have you lit a candle for your mother and asked for Saint Mary Magdalene’s blessing?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve lit a candle every day and prayed and prayed.”

  He put his hand over hers, and he could feel her hand trembling. “I’ll pray for your mother, too, and light a candle, each time I go to Mass. What’s her name?”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “Oh, would you? It’s kind of you, Sergeant. Her name is Mary.” She tried to smile. “Mary, like the saint.”

  “All right, Mary it is, then.” He nodded. “You can count on me.” He hesitated, tracing his boot tip in the dirt. “But you have to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t avoid me, please. Let me know how your mother is doing.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “I didn’t know you would care.”

  “I care about you, Crissy. I won’t lie to you.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her head. “I should be getting back. I’m sure Mama is waiting for me. She would have come to the funeral but…”

  “She’s not feeling well?”

  “No, she’s not, and she keeps losing weight. Though, some days, she feels better than others.”

  “I know your mother needs you but could you stay for a bit?” He touched her cheek with his finger and slid it along her jaw. “It’s peaceful here.’

  Crissy shivered at his touch and gazed at him. He was being kind. His turquoise eyes gleamed with sparks of green, and he was smiling. She wanted to reach up and touch his dimple, but she didn’t dare.

  “I’d like to stay for a little while. It’s seldom we get a holiday.”

  “Same for us,” he said. “Being on duty all the time can be tiring.”

  “Don’t you have certain hours and drills and such…?”

  “Yes, but when you’re on the frontier, you should be ready for anything.” He grimaced. “When I first heard you, before I knew who it was, I realized how stupid of me, coming out here, alone and without my Colt.”

  She hadn’t considered the area dangerous. For her, Fort Clark and Brackettville were safe but when he mentioned the danger, she realized she’d been foolish, too.

  “What did you come out here for?” she asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  She turned her head away and gazed at the slow ripples, spreading over the pond from where a fish had surfaced. “I thought I told you. I was… am grieving for Mrs. Gregor and worried about my mother.”

  He caught her hand in his, turned it over, palm up, and kissed it. “Yes, you did tell me. And I will pray for your mother… but…”

  “Yes?”

  “Crissy, when I’m around you, I forget about everything else.” He widened his smile. “You’ve woven a special spell around me, like the fairies.”

  “Fairies?”

  “Sure, and begorrah, you’ve heard of fairies. Haven’t you?”

  “Uh, maybe in books, but aren’t they pagan and a lot of nonsense?”

  He frowned. “Not to an Irish boy like me. Fairies are as real as…” He nodded toward the far shore. “As real as the fawn I saw right before you came.”

  “Really? But where are the fairies now? I’ve always loved Christmas, thought it was a magical time, especially in San Antonio. Wouldn’t fairies be more likely to come out at Christmas?”

  He let go of her hand and stroked his jaw. “I don’t know—about Christmas and fairies, though, they are magical people, like old St. Nick.” He rubbed his chin. “And I’m not sure if there are American fairies. All the ones I know of, live in the old country.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. His silliness was catching. “No fairies here, only in… Ireland? Is that where you’re from?”

  He chuckled, and his dimple deepened. “Yes, I’m Irish, but I came to Texas as a wee lad. My parents were fleeing the potato famine.”

  “A potato famine… what on earth is that?”

  He took her hand again and tugged on it. “Let’s sit for a spell, overlooking the pond, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Realizing he wanted her to stay, she felt her face heat. She knew she should go home and see how her mother was doing. She’d avoided him before because he’d kissed her. But this time, their kissing had seemed right, like it was meant to be.

  It had been a long time since anyone had shown an interest in her. Or wanted to spend time with her, except for the chores she could do.

  Besides, wasn’t this the man of her dreams—who her mother had seen in the cards?

  She smiled to herself—card reading was stuff and nonsense, pure superstition. Still, she enjoyed being around Davie. And she’d love to know something of Ireland, particularly what he meant by a potato famine.

  He pulled her along the pond’s shore until they reached a large stone, jutting out over the water. He took both her hands and helped her to sit, with her skirts bunched beneath her.

  She looked around and saw some lead pencils and a large pad of white paper with an image on it. “Is it yours? Is that what you were doing out here, all by yourself?”

  He snatched up the paper and held it against his chest. “I thought you wanted to know what a potato famine is. Now, you want me to show you what I’ve been doing.”

  “It’s only fair. I told you why I was here.”

  “Maybe.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “If you’re a good lass, I’ll show you my drawing. But first, you need to know about the Great Potato Famine.”

  A famine wasn’t a nice thing—did she really want to know about it? She’d much rather see what he’d drawn on the paper. “Maybe I’d rather not.”

  “Ah, but it’s important,” he said. “It’s why so many of us Irish came to America.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took a deep breath. “It’s important to remember because in the Old Country, we Irish weren’t free… not like in America. The Irish were tenant farmers and oppressed by English landlords and forced to live on smaller and smaller plots of land, feeding their families as best they could. For years, the safest crop to sow was potatoes. But a disease struck the potatoes, and when the farmers pulled them up, they were already rotted in the ground.”

  Crissy inhaled and said, “Oh, that’s terrible.”

  “Yes, and because the potato was the main nourishment for the poor farmers, when they went bad, there was nothing to eat and no coin to pay the landlords.”

  “Why didn’t the landlords help? I mean if their people were starving, you would think they’d want to help.”

  “Ah, politics, Angel mine.” He stroked his thumb over the top of her hand, and she quivered. “Few can understand politics.” He shrugged. “At first, the politicians in England tried to help, sending grain to be milled and made into bread to feed the starving tenants.” He lowered his voice. “But then, another party took over the English Parliament, and they didn’t send grain.

  “Thousands of people starved, my parents told me, after being turned out of th
eir homes, along the roads and in the hedgerows and—”

  “No,” she gasped. “How awful.”

  “Yes, it was, but no one could see the light of it.”

  “And your parents—”

  “They were turned out by their landlord, but it was lucky they were. My father had a cousin in Texas at Galveston, who had come over a few years earlier and set up a carpentry shop. My father’s cousin sent us the money for passage.”

  Then a smile lit his face. “It was a glorious time when we landed, my parents told me—plenty of work and more than plenty to eat.”

  Hearing his story, she realized how much it was like her own in some ways. When her mother’s husband had run off to the gold fields, leaving her Mama in San Antonio, Crissy hadn’t been born. But her mother had to survive, and she’d been forced to do the one ready job for a woman alone on the frontier. It was that or starve.

  Somehow, knowing Davie’s background, made her feel closer to him—as if he would understand about her mother. Not that she wanted to tell him, but if she did, maybe he wouldn’t scorn her.

  “Your family was lucky, having cousins to look after you,” she said.

  “More than lucky. My father is a fair carpenter. He’s made a good life for our family with his cousin’s help.”

  “You didn’t want to help with the business?”

  “No, I wanted something different—wide open spaces and adventure. The Army promised me those things.” He lifted his arm and swept it across the horizon. “I would say the Army has fulfilled its promise. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, but now it’s my turn. I’ve listened to your story.” She grabbed for the pad. “Now, it’s time to show me—”

  “Not so fast.” He turned his body away, hugging the paper. “I want to know what brought you and your mother to this frontier town.”

  “Oh,” she huffed. “Not fair. You told me I could see what you were doing after I listened to you about the famine.”

  He grinned. “Life isn’t fair, Angel mine. How’d you come to Brackettville?”

  It was the question she’d dreaded, lest anyone learn of her mother’s past. The thing was to tell the truth, or as much of the truth, without confessing her mother’s former profession.