Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  The pastor shook her hand afterward. “I’m so pleased by all you’ve accomplished these past two months, Miss Johnson. Can’t we convince you to stay on another term?”

  As much as she’d considered staying for Josh, the thought of teaching left her cold. “These children are wonderful, as is Coon’s Hollow, Pastor, but I’m afraid teaching isn’t the profession for me.”

  “But you’ve done so well.”

  “Pastor, may I be honest?”

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She returned his smile. “Of course you wouldn’t. I would like to suggest that you hire Myles to teach.”

  Alarm shone in his eyes. “Myles?”

  “The children are thriving because of his influence in my classroom. Myles comes most afternoons. The students adore him. I don’t believe you’d be sorry.”

  “Well, I certainly never would have thought of him, but perhaps you’re right. I will look into it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The pastor smiled again and looked over her shoulder. Instinctively, Kathleen turned. Her pulse thumped in her throat. “Hi, Josh.”

  “Hi, Kat.” His gaze perused her face. “Your play was very nice.”

  “Thank you. I can’t take much credit.”

  They stood at a loss for words. Finally, Josh broke the silence.

  “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

  She nodded, gloom descending. “My train leaves at ten in the morning. Will you come see me off?”

  “Won’t you change your mind? Say you’ll come back after Christmas and marry me.”

  “Oh, Josh, my mother would be so hurt. My family stays in Rosewood. I just can’t go against that.”

  “Then you’re robbing yourself of happiness with the man you love.”

  He spun around and stomped away, leaving Kathleen’s heart shattered on the wooden floor.

  With aching heart, Josh watched the train pull away from the station. He expelled a heavy sigh. Well, Lord. That’s that, I guess. I tried. I felt sure she was the one for me.

  The snow was falling with more force, and he turned his collar up to ward off the icy blast of wind. A sliver of unease crept through him as the wind howled. With a frown, he nudged Shasta. Rather than turning and heading home, he found himself in front of the school almost without memory of how he’d gotten there.

  His memory played in his head like a picture book. His first sight of Kathleen’s blue eyes and sweet dimple. The musical sound of her laughter. Her kindness to Mary and to Mr. Carpenter. There would never be another girl like Kathleen Johnson.

  He went home and moped for a good four hours while the snow continued to blanket the area. Alarm seized him when Pa entered the barn near suppertime. “What’s wrong, Pa?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m afraid the train to Rosewood might be in trouble.”

  Josh’s mouth went dry. “What makes you think that?” he choked out.

  “A rider came into town. Said it’s been snowing that direction for a full day longer than we’ve had it. Snow’s piling up. If it’s over the track, the train could be in for some problems. I figured you’d want to know.”

  Josh had already moved into gear. He grabbed a harness and headed for the horse stalls.

  “Josh!” As chaos and panic struck the passengers inside the tipping train, his was the only name Kathleen could remember, and she screamed it over and over as she fell. It all happened so fast that it took awhile for Kathleen to realize the train had derailed and she was falling. Pain hammered her right shoulder. And hip. When the car finally stopped moving and groaning, she tried to stand, but the shape of the train and the benches was too awkward for her to walk on with unsteady legs. So she crawled.

  Her head felt light, as though she might faint. Oh, how she’d give anything if Josh were with her right now. “Is everyone all right?”

  The sound came from somewhere outside the train. It couldn’t be Josh. He was back in Coon’s Hollow. “I’m going to need someone to go to the lever and open the door. I can’t get it open from out here.” There was no mistaking the sound of that voice.

  “Josh? Josh? Is that you?”

  “Kathleen? Honey, are you all right?”

  “I think so. Just a little bruised.”

  “Oh, thank God. Can you get to the lever?”

  “I’m almost there.”

  In a moment, she opened the door and felt herself being pulled up. He sat on the side of the train and gathered her in his arms. “My love. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I am now.”

  “Is everyone all right down there?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  He called down, and when no one reported anything but minor injuries, he promised they would send help back.

  Since they were several hours closer to Rosewood than Coon’s Hollow, Josh turned his team toward Kathleen’s hometown. After they spoke with the mayor about the train, Josh headed toward Kathleen’s house, then stopped before they got there.

  “Kathleen.” He looked into her eyes, and the intensity of his gaze nearly clouded her senses. “I can’t let you go.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I know. I feel the same way. But my family. That is … my mother especially. They expect us to stay in Rosewood.”

  “Sweetheart, I can’t move here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have a family, too, and my own squared-off piece of land that I’ve been clearing this winter.”

  “I know, Josh.”

  “I want to ask you something. I can’t go all of my life knowing I didn’t at least ask.”

  Kathleen closed her eyes, then opened them again.

  Josh took her hand in his and pinned her with his gaze. “Kathleen, I’ve fallen in love with you. From the moment I saw you, I felt you were the girl for me. I want to ask you to be my wife. Will you marry me?”

  “Oh, Josh.” The negative response was on her lips, but she realized she couldn’t say no. She just couldn’t. She didn’t even want to. “I will marry you.”

  His eyes widened. “You will?”

  “Yes. I will.”

  He crushed her to him, taking her breath away. “Are you sure you can leave home?”

  “Coon’s Hollow is home now. I miss Mary and Myles, Flora and the boys, and even Andrew Coon. I want to go back and be a part of their lives.”

  “I’m so glad.” He lowered his face, and this time Kathleen didn’t resist. His mouth pressed against hers, soft and warm and filled with promise. Josh pulled away and looked deeply into her eyes. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Josh.”

  When his lips descended, Kathleen knew without a doubt that she’d finally come home.

  Epilogue

  Christmas morning

  Abel Coon sneered at the two of them. “Don’t worry about him, Josh,” said his wife of three days. “We’ll beat him by a mile.”

  After meeting Kathleen’s parents, Josh had asked for her father’s permission to marry her. Kathleen had stood strong against her mother’s protests, and Josh had returned to Coon’s Hollow with Kathleen as his wife.

  This beautiful Christmas morning had dawned bright, a perfect day for the Coon’s Hollow Christmas sleigh ride—and Josh and Abel’s yearly race. Josh hadn’t lost one yet, and he’d informed Kathleen he didn’t intend to start now.

  She nestled beside him, feeling the muscles in his arms tighten with anticipation.

  The gun sounded, and they were off, each cutter sliding through the snow. After a minute, Josh got a margin of a lead and knew the race was all but over. Sandy and Chester weren’t going to let Abel Coon win now that they’d had a taste of being ahead. The horses were more competitive than he was.

  “Oh, Josh. There’s our lake.”

  Trying to stay focused on the race, Josh didn’t comment. “Our lake. Where you almost kissed me. Where we admitted our feelings for the first time.”

  With a sigh, Josh slowed the cutter. Abel da
shed ahead, a grin splitting his face.

  “What on earth are you doing, Josh Truman?”

  “I’m letting Abel have the race.” He nudged the horses to the right and pulled them to a stop in front of the lake. The frozen crystals shimmered. “But, Josh, you always beat Abel.”

  “Some things are just more important. Like a man kissing his wife next to a beautiful frozen lake.”

  There was no time for her to respond as he pulled her close. He kissed her thoroughly until all thoughts of Abel Coon’s first-place finish in the race fled from Kathleen’s mind.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Kathleen nodded. “Yes, let’s go home.”

  One Wintry Night

  by Pamela Griffin

  Dedication

  A special thank you to all the wonderful women who helped me by critiquing this book—Maryn L., Jill S., Paige W. D., Lena D., Anne G., Candice S., Erin L., Mary H., and, of course, Mom.

  Also thanks to Meredith E., Pamela K. T. (O.), and Mary C. for helping with the Nebraska and Welsh information.

  To my loving Guide, my Lord Jesus, who’s always been the Light to lead me through the sudden storms in life.

  Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.

  1 CORINTHIANS 13:4

  Chapter 1

  Leaning Tree, Nebraska—October 1871

  Hiya, Boston.” With his forefinger and thumb, Craig lazily tipped the brim of his hat toward the pretty brunette. Indignation shot through her blueberry-colored eyes. Pink stained her cheeks. Instead of answering him, Ivy Leander tossed her dark curls with a little huff and walked right past where he stood on the weathered boardwalk in front of Johnson’s feed store.

  Old Mr. Meyers rasped out a chuckle before she was out of hearing range. “Might as well forget that one, Craig. She’s about as friendly as a pork-ee-pine with all-over body aches. And she don’t seem to like you much neither.”

  The former cobbler from Tennessee might be right about that—for now. But Craig wouldn’t let that stop him. He stared after the woman in the gray store-bought dress with the shiny ribbons. He knew the dress was store-bought because of all the gossip flying among the town’s old hens ever since Gavin Morgan married Ivy’s ma and brought the woman and her daughter to Leaning Tree, Nebraska, this past spring. Then, too, no store-bought dress could be found at the general store, so it must be from Boston. Under Ivy’s stylish hat, out of place in this rugged town, spirals of dark curls hung, bouncing along her neck. Most women he knew wore their hair wrapped in two braids around their head or in a bun. Craig liked Ivy’s way of doing her hair better.

  “She sure is a feisty one,” he agreed as he went back to the task of foisting the cumbersome feed sack into the rear of Mr. Meyers’s wagon. He shoved the large canvas sack into place next to the farm supplies the old man had purchased.

  “Thankee much, Craig.” Mr. Meyers rubbed his white-whiskered jaw. “Don’t know what I woulda done if you weren’t here. Never woulda reckoned that young giant Tommy woulda gone and busted his leg.”

  “Glad to have helped,” Craig said with a sincere smile. Mr. Meyers looked about as brittle as an ice-coated twig and close to being as skinny. Craig hoped the man’s nephew Tommy was up to par soon.

  A burst of giggling sailed across the muddy road. Craig looked to see two young women, Beth and Sally, strolling along the boardwalk. They whispered behind their hands, staring Ivy’s way. Craig also turned to look. A wagon had just rumbled past where Ivy walked, spraying muddy water on the bottom of her gray dress. She stamped her kid boot, her fists pumping once at her sides, and glared at the retreating wagon.

  “I hate this town!” The small growl left her throat, but it was loud enough for Craig to hear. She marched forward several more steps and turned to enter the general store. As though she sensed Craig’s stare, she looked in his direction.

  He dipped his head her way, tipping his hat again. She broke eye contact, slipped her hand to the top of her feathered bonnet to pat it, as if to make sure it was still in place, and marched through the door.

  “Yessiree,” Mr. Meyers said with a low whistle. “I sure enough do pity the poor fool who takes her for a wife.”

  Craig eyed the closed door of the general store a few seconds longer, then turned, the grin going wide on his face. “I reckon that’d be me, sir.”

  “Pardon?” Mr. Meyers pulled at his thick earlobe as if he had wax in his ear and couldn’t hear well, though the man was reputed to hear a sneeze in the next county.

  “I’m the one who’s going to marry Ivy Leander.”

  Surprise shone from Mr. Meyers’s eyes, then pity. He let out a loud guffaw. “The sun must’ve gone to your head, boy!”

  “No, sir. By this time next year, I plan to make Ivy my wife. Or my name isn’t Craig Watson.” He adjusted his hat, gave a jovial farewell nod, and headed toward the general store.

  “Nice knowin’ ya, Jim,” Mr. Meyers’s amused voice came from behind. “Wonder what Ivy’ll think of your little plan. Care to make a wager on its success?”

  Craig kept walking—not that he had any doubts concerning his claim. He just wasn’t a betting man. And even if he were, Jebediah Meyers didn’t usually have more than two coins to rub together after a trip to town. It would shame Craig to take money from the old man.

  Ivy eyed the sparse selection of goods in the cramped store with distaste. Even the nicest ribbons and combs and whatnots for sale were a pale comparison to the quality of those found in Boston. Everything in the East was nicer, with more variety from which to choose. The stores were cleaner, too. She skirted a couple of muddy boot prints on the plank floor, scrunching her nose in disgust.

  Could the fifty dollars her wealthy grandmother secretly presented to her before she left Boston even be spent in such a place? The dear woman had known how much Ivy dreaded prairie life and told her to use the money for some “little extravagance” but not to tell her mother about the gift. Yet what of that nature could be found here?

  Why Mama had to go and fall in love with an uneducated farmer who chose to make his home in the prairie wilds lay beyond Ivy’s scope of reasoning. Her young stepsisters certainly didn’t add honey to the pot, either. Crystin and Gwen couldn’t keep their hands off Ivy’s things, despite Ivy’s frequent complaints to her mother to have a talk with them and set them straight. Mama quietly explained to Ivy that, being so new a family, there were bound to be disturbances and issues needing to be ironed out, and Ivy should just be patient and let time run its course to fix things.

  Ivy had been patient—up until yesterday when she found her gold-filigree garnet brooch with the seed pearls, a gift her beloved grandmother had given her, tromped into the hay-strewn ground near the pig’s smelly trough. A tinge of remorse unsettled Ivy at the way she’d lit into eight-year-old Crystin, and she couldn’t help but remember the tears that made the child’s big blue eyes glisten.

  The door opened, and Craig Watson strode inside. A blacksmith by trade, he had the strong arms and hands to prove it. Tall, well-built, with his nutmeg brown eyes often dancing in amusement—no doubt at her expense—he had an annoying habit of calling her “Boston” rather than using the appropriate title of “Miss Leander,” as the Bostonian gentlemen of her acquaintance had done. To their credit, a few of the male settlers in this town also addressed her properly, though most just called her “ma’am.” But not Mr. Ill-mannered Blacksmith. Oh no. Not him.

  “Good morning, Craig,” the plump Mrs. Llewynn said from behind the counter.

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” The timbre of his voice poured out like wild honey, smooth and warm. He caught Ivy’s stare and tipped his hat, that ever-present, rakish, close-lipped grin on his tanned, all too attractive face. “Mornin’.”

  Ivy’s heart ran a foolish little race in her bosom as it often did when he smiled her way. She snapped her focus back to the bolts of sprigged material lying on a nearby weathered tab
le. Calico. Only poor country folk wore calico. She might as well cut holes in a feed sack and wear that.

  She heard his boots clomp toward the counter at the front. Curiosity propelled her to lift her gaze a few inches. From the back, under his hat, thick clumps of wheat-colored hair brushed the bottom edge of his collar. The man was in dire need of a haircut. And a bath. Though the odors weren’t exactly offensive, the smell of smoke and raw iron permeated his clothing, and fresh sweat dampened his shirt.

  “What can I do for you today?” Mrs. Llewynn asked him with a wide smile, looking up from thumbing through a magazine.

  “I need to get a caldron if you have one. Mine sprung a leak this morning.”

  “Oh, my. I sure don’t, but I do have an old washtub you can use.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Craig tipped his hat back from his forehead. “That your latest issue of Godey’s?”

  “Yes. It just arrived yesterday.”

  “Excuse me?” Ivy moved forward. “Did I understand correctly? You have a recent copy of the Godey’s Lady’s Book?”

  “That I do,” Mrs. Llewynn said with a nod before she again looked at Craig. “I’ll just go get that washtub.” She left her place behind the counter and bustled to the back room. Craig nudged the corner of the magazine with two fingers, pushing it at an angle. He looked down sideways, tilting his head as if to peer at the cover but not wanting to seem too interested.

  Ivy stepped up beside him, almost knocking into him in her haste. “Pardon,” she breathed as she slid the magazine the few inches her way for a better view. Excited, she thumbed to the first page and soon became engrossed in the illustrations, rapidly shuffling through the pages. Her hand stilled, and she sighed. “Oh, what a simply lovely gown this would make for a Christmas ball.”

  “I surely wouldn’t mind seeing you in it,” Craig’s amused voice came back.