The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Susan Page Davis, Melanie Dobson, Cathy Liggett, Vickie McDonough, Olivia Newport, Janet Spaeth, Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  Last night as he’d walked back from the nativity pageant, he decided to invite her to sleep in his guest room, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask. She had been asleep when he arrived, and he’d decided not to wake her.

  He, on the other hand, didn’t sleep much. The promise of the reward money taunted him, and if he was honest with himself, his motivation to help her was convoluted. But when he saw her asleep on the hay, alone, he hadn’t been thinking about the money at all. His only thought was that he must keep this woman safe.

  It made no sense to him why a woman would leave her fiancé and fortune to sleep in a barn … unless she was desperate. What happened to make Lavinia run?

  Before he wired this Patrick Dittmar, he would find out why Lavinia was hiding out. If she was mentally unstable, as her stepbrother implied, he would contact Patrick or her fiancé right away.

  But then again, why would this Charles Mahler want to marry a woman who was mentally unfit?

  Isaac stood carefully so he wouldn’t wake her and backed toward the door. Outside, a glimmer of sunlight illuminated the fresh snow covering the ground and coating the branches of the aspen trees.

  The Kempers were expecting him at eleven for a Christmas brunch, and he was never late for his time with the Kemper family. But if they knew about his guest, they would excuse him for his tardiness.

  What would they do if he brought a woman with him? He smiled at the thought. Maria Kemper would probably faint.

  Until he had answers, he would guard Lavinia’s secret. Then, perhaps, he could bring her to visit his friends.

  Chapter 7

  Lavinia had thought for certain that Isaac had been in the barn last night, but when she woke up, there was no one in the room but her. As she stood beside the fire, disappointment plagued her. Loneliness. She wasn’t certain that Isaac was a friend, but he had been kind to her. Still she shouldn’t have hoped that he might spend part of his Christmas with her.

  She filled the kettle with snow and poured the remaining coffee grounds into it. As the water warmed over the fire, she tried to focus on the happy Christmases she’d had with her family. Before Mother passed away, the Starrs had celebrated Christmas as a family around an evergreen tree decorated with bright ribbons and candles and lace. They’d eaten roast duck and sipped eggnog, and her parents had listened as she played the piano.

  How she missed those happier times.

  The barn door began to creak open, but this time she didn’t jump at the interruption. Instead, her heart filled with hope again. When Isaac walked back through the door, relief surged through her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to spend her Christmas alone after all.

  He set a large picnic hamper on the hay and tipped his hat. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you.” She pointed toward the kettle. “There’s hot coffee if you’d like some.”

  “I would indeed.” He opened up his hamper. “And I thought you might want something a little different than salted pork for your Christmas breakfast.”

  “Salted pork is fine—” Any food would be fine right now.

  “Wait until you see what I have.”

  Then he spread the contents on a blanket. She sniffed the freshly baked biscuits and butter and blackberry jam and took a small bite.

  Bliss.

  She didn’t want to devour his food, but she hadn’t realized how hungry she really was until she tasted the sweet jam. While she ate, he slipped back outside, and when he returned, he was carrying a small pine tree with him. Lavinia hopped up to help him prop it in a bucket beside the wall. The poor thing was a paltry affair—most of the needles had fallen off and it bowed slightly to the left. She stepped back, examining it. “It looks so sad,” she said.

  Isaac dug a small burlap bag out of his pocket, and when he untied it, she saw yellow kernels inside. He smiled at her. “We’ll have to cheer it up.”

  Curious, she watched him pour the corn into a cast-iron pan. He placed the lid on top and set it on the stove. Minutes later, one of the kernels popped and she jumped.

  Isaac laughed. “Haven’t you popped corn before?”

  She hesitated, not wanting to tell him that she’d rarely gone inside the kitchen in their house and wouldn’t be allowed to help the cook even if she asked.

  Isaac’s laughter faded, replaced with a smile. “Surely you’ve eaten popped corn before.”

  “Of course.”

  Another kernel popped, and she jumped again. This time Isaac withheld his laughter, but she could tell he was fighting it. “You can laugh if you want.”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can teach you how to do it.”

  Before she protested, he took her hand and placed it over the thick mitt that covered the iron handle. She followed his lead, moving the pan slowly back and forth over the heat. The steady rhythm soothed her like watching the dancing flames of the fire.

  When the popping stopped, Isaac pulled the pan off the stove and opened the lid. Steam curled up around his face, and she fought back a smile. “I suppose you haven’t ever strung popped corn either,” he said.

  She stood up straighter. “I have—when I was about six.”

  “So not very long ago—”

  She raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “I’m almost nineteen.”

  His sigh was long, but she knew he was teasing by the glint in his eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to reteach you.”

  She crossed her arms. “I can string the corn on my own.”

  His gaze settled over her, and she shivered. “I’m sure you can, Kathryn, but there is nothing wrong with asking for help.”

  He didn’t understand. Her entire life, she had been reliant on someone else to provide even the most basic of her needs. For once, she wanted to be able to do something on her own, even if it was as simple as stringing popped corn.

  He removed two needles, some fishing line, and another sack from the hamper—this one containing dried cranberries. He handed her one of the needles and then a piece of the line, but instead of saying a word to instruct her, he began to whistle.

  She watched closely as he threaded three pieces of the popped corn and one of the cranberries. Then she lifted a small cloth out of the hamper and placed it on her lap before piling popped corn onto it. Following Isaac’s lead, she began to thread the corn until the repetition of her task began to soothe her mind. Her fingers moved steadily. Three pieces of popped corn. One cranberry. Three pieces of popped corn. One cranberry.

  Her mind flashed back to the winter evenings at her home, embroidering a pillow or another piece alongside her mother and a blazing fire. The memories along with the simple motion brought peace to her heart.

  “You’re smiling,” he said, and she realized that he’d stopped working and was watching her instead.

  She plucked another cranberry from the pile. “I do that on occasion.”

  He didn’t look away. “It’s nice when you smile.”

  She blushed, not sure what to do with his compliment.

  Finally, he glanced back down at his growing strand and added another piece of popped corn. “Do you have family in Colorado?”

  “I—” She stumbled over her words. Isaac may be close in age to Patrick, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Perhaps it was her naïveté, but she wanted to tell him everything—how her father had died and left her in the care of a woman who didn’t want her, how her family’s fortune was going to a man who hated her, how her stepbrother had insisted she marry Charles. Part of her didn’t want to burden him with her story and another part was afraid he would contact Patrick if he discovered the truth.

  Still she could tell him part of her story.

  “My mother died when I was a child and my father died two years ago.” She paused, the wave of sorrow still fresh.

  He put down the strand. “I’m sorry.”

  She piled more corn onto the cloth in her lap. “My father was a good man, but he lost his enthusiasm for life when he lost his first wife—m
y mother.”

  “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked back up at him. “Did you lose your parents?”

  He shook his head. “Most of my family lives in Philadelphia, but I lost—” He poked his finger with the needle and stopped to wipe the blood off on his handkerchief. “A few years back I was engaged, but the woman I planned to marry decided to spend the rest of her life with my oldest brother instead of me.”

  Her stomach twisted. “Now it’s my turn to be sorry.”

  “I used to be sorry, but I’ve realized Rebecca would have been miserable, and eventually I would have been, too.” He glanced back over at her. “And I never would have come to Colorado if we’d married.”

  She pushed the needle through another piece of corn. “So you moved here to escape?”

  “Partially. It was uncomfortable at home—” He paused. “My younger sister married a man who had invested in mines across Colorado. He’d been asking me to partner with him, but Rebecca didn’t want to leave Philadelphia. After we ended our engagement, I decided to join Marcus and supervise the Coronado.”

  She stopped threading the popped corn. “I thought you were a miner.”

  He laughed. “Marcus says I’m much too impatient to be a miner.”

  She smiled back at him. “Are you impatient?”

  “I suppose, though I’m trying to cure it. Impatience is never a good combination with mining, but sometimes it’s good to act quickly.” He put down the strand on his lap. “Like with you—”

  Her shield of defense flung up before her, her back straightening as if she were prepared to fight. The shield might be invisible, but he seemed to recognize it. He paused before he spoke again. “You can’t continue sleeping in this barn.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighed. “Is there no place else for you to go?”

  “There will be soon.” She swallowed hard, trying to instill her words with conviction. “I’m waiting for a—for a friend to contact me.”

  Instead of responding, he stood and began draping the long strand of popped corn and cranberries around the tree’s sparse branches. The trimming injected a bit of life in the paltry branches, and joy spilled into her heart. It was nothing like the grandly decorated trees that once graced her home, but it was a lovely reminder of the simple blessings of this day.

  Perhaps Christmas wasn’t relegated to the celebration in her childhood home. The wonder of the day, the miracle of the Son of God coming into the world, could be celebrated anyplace. Even in a barn.

  Or, perhaps, especially in a barn.

  She preferred remembering the humble birth of Christ here this year than in her family’s mansion on Davenport.

  “Kathryn?”

  She glanced up, wondering at first how he knew her mother’s name. And her middle name. Then she remembered she’d introduced herself as Kathryn.

  He held out his hand. “Might I?”

  She tied a knot at the end of her fishing line, and when she handed him her strand, he added it to their tree. With the humble trimmings, the tree almost looked happy to spend Christmas in the barn with them. When she looked up at Isaac’s kind smile, her heart began to settle into something like contentment.

  Isaac stepped back to stir the fire, silently chiding himself. He’d almost called her Lavinia, and he was fairly certain a slip like that would set a fire to her heels again. If she ran from here, he might never be able find her.

  The Rocky Mountain News article seemed to burn in his pocket, yet he didn’t feel right about confronting Lavinia with the story yet. The little she’d told him lined up with what he’d read, except he didn’t know what frightened her. Was it her stepbrother or her fiancé or someone else who kept her from returning home?

  He sat beside her in front of their little tree, sipping his coffee, before he pulled out his pocket watch. He needed to leave soon—the Kempers had expected him to arrive a half hour ago to celebrate with their family. If Lavinia wouldn’t come with him, he could make sure she had plenty of food and more wood so she’d be warm. None of the miners knew she was here, and as long as she didn’t leave this shelter, she would be safe until he returned. Then he would find another place for her to spend the night.

  But he didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to spend Christmas with her, even if it meant staying in this barn all day.

  Usually he tried to avoid Christmas festivities. Most of his family would be gathering at the Loritz home in Philadelphia today, and his mother would dote on Sam and Rebecca and their three children. Isaac continually tried to force himself to be happy for his brother, yet the image of Sam and Rebecca together, laughing and loving each other, still burned him. Sometimes he missed his family in Philadelphia, his uncles and two sisters he’d left behind, but on Christmas Day, he was thrilled to be in Colorado.

  He hadn’t planned to tell Lavinia about Rebecca. For the past seven years, Josiah and Maria and their two children had distracted him from his final Christmas in Philadelphia, when he’d caught his brother staring at Rebecca in a way that wasn’t at all brotherly. And his fiancée had smiled back.

  He’d confronted his brother first and discovered that they had been meeting for months in private. Both Rebecca and Sam begged for his forgiveness, saying they hadn’t wanted to deceive him, but at the time, he had been hurt and angry. He shuddered to think what might have happened if he had married Rebecca while she was in love with Samuel.

  He may not have intended to tell Lavinia what happened, but he didn’t want to conceal the truth with her, not when he wanted her to be honest with him.

  He leaned forward, breaking the silence. “What was Christmas like when your mother was alive?”

  She contemplated his words for a moment. “It was magical,” she finally said. “She would decorate our home with ribbons and all sorts of greenery, and I remember her humming carols as she worked. When the snow piled high outside, she would turn off most of the lights inside and the house would glow with the candles and fire.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “My mother loved beauty.”

  “Did your father continue to celebrate Christmas after your mother’s death?”

  Wind gusted through the cracks in the siding, rustling the pieces of hay before she replied. “Father married Eloise seven months after my mother died. She decorated the house even more extravagantly than my mother, but the warmth in our home was gone.”

  She stopped talking, and he knew he should say something comforting, something to reassure her, but he could think of no words to help heal such a loss.

  Outside the barn someone shouted his name, and he recognized Josiah Kemper’s voice. For a moment, he wished he could burrow himself under the hay before his friend found them. Lavinia stood and scanned the room as if searching for a place to hide as well. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “A friend,” he said simply.

  A friend who would have a whole lot of questions as to why he was hiding out in a barn with a woman he hardly knew.

  Chapter 8

  Isaac leapt to his feet when Josiah opened the door. “I’m sorry I’m late—”

  Josiah froze in the open doorway, staring at Lavinia first, and then his gaze ricocheted back and forth between the two occupants in the barn before it landed on Isaac. “Maria and I were worried about you, but other matters seem to be occupying your time.”

  “This is—” Isaac started to introduce her, but then he stopped. He didn’t want to deceive his friend by calling her the wrong name.

  She stepped forward. “I’m Kathryn.”

  “Well, Miss Kathryn,” Josiah said, his eyebrows raised, “I must admit that I’m surprised to meet you.”

  “I’ve been—” She took a deep breath. “I’m new to Aspen and decided to spend the night here.”

  Josiah’s eyes narrowed. “In Isaac’s barn?”

  Lavinia turned to Isaac. “You didn’t tell me this was your barn.”

&
nbsp; He shrugged. “You never asked who owned it.”

  Josiah took off his hat, and his reddish-brown hair fell over his collar. Isaac knew for a fact that Maria had been trying to convince him to cut it for months, but Josiah felt more at home among the men he doctored if he didn’t take on supposed airs.

  “Perhaps you two could sort this out later,” Josiah said. “Maria’s been cooking all morning, and I’m supposed to retrieve Isaac before our meal is burnt.”

  “It’s my fault he’s late,” Lavinia said.

  Isaac shook his head. “We were visiting, and I lost track of time.”

  Josiah eyed Lavinia again. “Are you from around here?”

  “She’s not—” Isaac started, but she interrupted him.

  “I’m only here for a few days.”

  Josiah crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze taking in the cranberries and corn strung on the tree and the mound of hay. “Well, neither of you should spend Christmas in this place.”

  Lavinia nudged Isaac toward the door. “You must go celebrate with your friends.”

  “I’m not going without you.” The words slid out of his mouth quickly, surprising him. And the words seemed to surprise Lavinia as well.

  “I can’t impose,” she replied, her eyes wide.

  Isaac petitioned his friend. “Tell her she’s not imposing, Josiah.”

  Josiah glanced back and forth between them one more time before replying. “We have a goose warming in the oven and more food than we could possibly eat on our own.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “And my wife can help attend to any of your needs.”

  “I still don’t think …” She hesitated, and Isaac could tell she was wavering.

  “Maria would appreciate the company of another woman,” Josiah said as he opened the door. “She misses her friends this time of year.”

  Josiah stepped outside to let her and Isaac talk, and after he left, Lavinia slowly ran her fingers over the needles on the tree. “People will wonder who I am.”