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

  Why on earth had he ever stopped and gotten involved? Gotten tangled up with this situation? This woman? He glanced up toward the heavens, as if his answer might be found there. But all was bleary and cloudy above as pellets of ice spit at his face. So instead, he asked for patience and understanding—heaps of it where this woman was concerned. This Molly who was … crazy, or at least crazily willful. Too much so for her own good.

  Why, she didn’t even have a decent pair of gloves to warm her hands. And her ridiculous shoes had to be soaked through. Still, she was so headstrong and full of gumption he wanted to take her in his arms and—well, settle her down long enough so he could talk sense into her so she didn’t go bringing harm to herself or anyone else.

  “You really are bent on going? On driving this thing?”

  It was a ridiculous question. She was already in motion, hoisting herself up into the front of the stagecoach, only stopping long enough to wave good-bye as if she hadn’t heard him ask a thing. “Thank you again, Samuel.”

  That was his dismissal, his cue to be on his way. Yet he stood clenching his fists, his conscience struggling with the same tugging feelings all over again.

  It was one thing for him and his sure-footed Tack to take off, bear up under the awful weather, and possibly have a chance to make it to the next station. But a slow moving stagecoach? In this weather? Even if she could handle the team of horses, which remained to be seen, she couldn’t possibly get them headed anywhere fast. It was a ridiculous notion. And that’s all it was: a notion. Of course if she was going to be that obstinate, well, maybe he should just let her do whatever she cared to and be on his way, all free and clear like he’d planned.

  But still … the eternal nagging inside him wouldn’t let up. And whatever he decided, he was going to hate himself. It was just a matter of which decision—to help out or ride on—would have him hating himself more.

  Heaving a sigh, he finally made his choice, reluctance weighing heavy in his bones. Looking up at her, he spoke the words his own ears didn’t want to hear, “You’re not going alone, lady … Molly. I’m going with you.”

  While Samuel hitched his horse to the back of the stagecoach, Molly sat up in the driver’s seat, gathering her bearings. The bench was somewhat higher than she’d imagined it would be, and looking down on a team of horses to command was downright intimidating. But she couldn’t let any of that unnerve her. Not if there was a hope of ever getting to her new home—or at least headed in that direction.

  Flecks of ice stinging her cheeks, she took up the reins in her stiff, cold hands. The bundle of leather strips stretched in varying lengths across the horses’ backsides. She was trying to make sense of them when Samuel appeared, climbing up over the right side of the coach, carrying a red blanket in his arms. He appeared happy to offer it to her.

  “This was stowed inside the saddlebags and is somewhat dry,” he said. Without asking permission, he flicked the blanket into the air, settling the wool over her shoulders in one fluid motion. “Tuck the edges around you. It should help you stay warmer. Being high up like this makes a person vulnerable to the elements.”

  It was another show of kindness from him, yet moments later she had to wonder if he’d meant it more as a distraction. Because while she was looking at him, ready to express her thanks, he nabbed the reins from her hands—again, all in one motion.

  “You’ll be wanting to watch me so you can get the hang of this,” was his only explanation.

  “Watch you?”

  Exasperated, she eyed him with resentment. The way he had so deftly and deceptively snatched the reins from her hands—and made his bold assumption—was beyond annoying. Annoying, too, was the way he wouldn’t look at her or answer her. So much so, she reached out, trying to seize the leather straps from his grip. But he thrust his left elbow into the air, blocking her grasp, distancing her from him.

  Feeling the fool, she could do little but fume. “And what makes you a seasoned stagecoach driver, Mr. Harden?”

  “Not much,” he answered. “Only some experience with plow horses.”

  “And now you’re a master at this?”

  “No, again. Just more experienced than you. And I’ll be real happy to share the benefits of my experience.” He kept his eyes fixed on the horses, not even glancing her way. “But it’s far easier to show you how it’s done than to tell you.”

  Her face burned from the truth of his words and from the simple fact that in a panic to take control of her destiny, she’d possibly overreacted. Actually, overreacted quite a bit. Instead of harping at him further, she studied the way he manned the reins. He was right. Getting the horses going again was going to be no easy task.

  The once muddy gullies entrenching the horses’ hooves had begun to ice over. Not only that, but the animals appeared weary and spooked. She watched Samuel patiently tug and release the reins over and over again, until one by one, he urged each horse to break free from its sunken spot.

  The stagecoach rocked and jolted as the horses inched forward. Molly grabbed on to the underside of the bench for support, knowing the worst wasn’t over yet. If Samuel didn’t get the horses to react with just the right amount of pull, at exactly the same time, the stagecoach could slide back, becoming further immersed in the sunken wheel ruts—stuck there for good.

  She prayed silently for all to be right as Samuel snapped the reins with incredible force, all the while shouting commands to the team. Thrust into action by the commotion, the horses lunged with awesome power, their massive bodies pulling and heaving, literally lifting the stagecoach out from the deeply rutted earth.

  Finally, they were moving. Heading westward once more to Huxley. The horses whinnied, sounding triumphant to Molly’s way of thinking. She couldn’t help but shout for joy, too.

  “You did it, Samuel! I could’ve never done it. But you did.”

  Still concentrating on the team of horses, Samuel didn’t reply, which was more than fine by her. She was simply glad they were on their way again. At least they seemed to be, until she noticed him tighten his grip and pull back on the reins.

  “Samuel, why are you stopping?”

  It only took a moment to realize he wasn’t stopping at all. It was worse than that. He was changing directions, turning the horses around. Heading back again toward St. Claire, back to where she’d come from.

  “Samuel!” she yelled. “You’ve got to turn this stagecoach around. Right this minute!” she demanded. She sprung toward him, grabbing for the reins.

  “Careful, woman! Do you want to fall off this thing like Becker did?”

  With the strength of one hand, he pulled her back down onto the seat, closer to him than she had been before, as if he could control her better from there.

  “Please … there’s no reason to go back there,” she pleaded, which for her was so very true.

  When she’d first come to St. Claire after her mother had died, making a home there with her granny felt absolutely right. It was such a pretty place to be on God’s green earth that she thought it would be her home for a long while. But a couple of quick years after her arrival, her granny had taken ill and then died, too. Without someone to share life with, the town didn’t feel much like home anymore. Not when she was all alone. But then Clement’s letters accidentally fell into her hands all the way from Huxley, feeling like a gift from heaven. She didn’t know much about the town. But to her way of thinking, having someone to share a place with was more important than the place itself.

  Yet Huxley and Clement both felt far away now. Her insides twisted in desperation. “Why are you taking us back? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of you.” He glanced at her. “And of the other passengers.”

  “But they want to get to Huxley just as bad as I do. Why, Charlotte and Miss Vivian—they’re supposed to be celebrating Christmas with some folks they know there. And Mr. Cottingham and his granddaughter are celebrating with his sister. And I—” She stopped, not really
wanting to share the details of her plans with him. “We all have our hearts set on making it to Huxley.”

  “I’m sure you do. But that’s hardly going to happen tonight. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And neither does heading back to St. Claire. Not when it’s no closer than the station in Huxley.”

  “You’re right. That’s why I’m not suggesting we do that.”

  “Well, excuse me, but so far I haven’t heard you suggest anything.”

  “I know of a place—a farm on the outskirts of town. Not too far from where we are now.”

  “And you’re thinking the owners are going to be letting all seven of us strangers stay there?”

  “There’s no one in the house right now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The property has been boarded up. We can stay there the night, and when the weather is better tomorrow, we can all start out again in broad daylight. Mr. Becker may even be up to driving again by then.”

  Molly considered his proposal, weighing his logic. “And what if the weather doesn’t get better?”

  She saw him take a deep breath and let out an equally long sigh before he answered. “It has to,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

  The way he answered made her realize she wasn’t the only one who had an agenda. Evidently he must have important plans, too. She’d been so selfish, so driven to get to her new life, that she’d only been thinking of herself—which normally wasn’t like her. Even though he hadn’t said anything to make her feel embarrassed, she was.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  He looked over and frowned, not seeming to understand. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Yes, there is. I’ve been behaving sorely. Like a spoiled child. It’s just—well, I’m so anxious to get to Huxley. Is that where you’re headed?” she asked. “To celebrate Christmas?”

  “Ha.” He flashed a sardonic grin. “Not hardly.”

  “To where, then?” She couldn’t help from prodding.

  He shrugged slightly. “I was just going … west.”

  “West?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. West.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked at him, at his eyes so kind yet so set and unyielding. Looked at him and wondered if he really didn’t have any more plans than just to ride westward—or if there was a whole lot more he wasn’t sharing. He must’ve felt her gaze, because suddenly he glanced her way.

  “Your hands warm enough?” he asked.

  “The blanket helps a lot.”

  “You can reach into my pocket.” He nodded downward, to the left side of his coat. “There’s another pair of gloves in there. Hopefully they’re still dry.”

  “Thank you.” She looked up at him. “But … I’m all right. Besides, you’ll be needing them.”

  “Not like I can wear two pairs at once. “He gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t go biting you or nothing.”

  “I wasn’t thinking you would.” She returned his smile then dug eagerly into his pocket, pulling out a pair of leather gloves. They were too large for her hands, of course, but still felt wonderful against her freezing skin.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks. My hands are much warmer now.” And her cheeks were, too, just thinking of what a good, kind man Samuel Harden seemed to be. In her experience, those types were hard to come by.

  Looking up at him, suddenly wondering about this stranger in her life, she couldn’t help but notice ice accumulating on the shoulders of his coat and sticking to the rim of his hat.

  “You must be freezing. There’s ice building up on your hat.”

  “I’ll bet there is.” He let out a laugh, looking at her. “There’s ice on your hat, too.”

  She reached up and even through the gloves could feel the crunchy hardness of ice. “Well, so there is.” She laughed back. “Guess you’re right about us heading to that abandoned house after all. We better get there quickly so we can get thawed out by morning.”

  He laughed again, the sound of it making her feel appreciated. So much so, before she realized what she was doing, she spread open the blanket, stretching the right side across his back so it draped over his right shoulder. She knew it was mighty bold of her, but lately it seemed life’s circumstances kept making her grow that way. And after all, it was only right to share with Samuel what was really his.

  “We’ll stay warmer close together,” she reasoned when he gave her a surprised look.

  “You don’t have to share.”

  “I know,” she said. “Neither did you.”

  Giving her an appreciative grin, he flicked the reins slightly, trying to get a bit more speed from the horses. As the stagecoach rolled bumpily over the hardened, icy path, she thought about all the strangers she could’ve met along the way and felt fortunate to have met such a man as Samuel Harden.

  For sure, she would tell Clement all about him. About how Samuel rode up from out of nowhere and how she almost maimed him. About how Samuel stole away the reins from her, but only because he was determined to get them all to safety.

  But of course, she wouldn’t dare say to Clement how close she and Samuel sat, huddled beneath the red blanket in the dire cold. Or how they’d shared moments of laughter—despite the unbearable conditions surrounding them. She surely wouldn’t mention the way Samuel smiled at her, and how when he did, she tried to ignore the stirrings she felt inside.

  Chapter 5

  By the time Samuel had the boarded-up house in his sights, hours had passed along the trail and evening had set in. The temperature had changed, too, turning the sleet to snow. He would’ve preferred the precipitation to stop altogether. But after forging the treacherous trail under the harshness of icy rain, the snow was a soothing respite, almost comforting in comparison—a beautiful, soulful thing, illuminating the sky with a whitish-blue haze, outlining the evergreens and the house in a picture-perfect way.

  Of course, it wasn’t just the tranquility of the snow that had him suppressing his ill feelings about returning to the area. Deep down he realized it had something to do with Molly, too. An hour earlier, she’d nodded off to sleep, most likely exhausted from the day’s events. In her sleepiness, her head found its way to his shoulder and stayed nestled there for the duration. Her closeness, the gentle weight of her cozied up to him—these were things he hadn’t felt in a long while. Not in the years since Theresa had died. Somehow the mystifying feeling subdued his frustration about his sudden change in plans, at least for the moment.

  Pulling up to the house, he halted the plodding horses with a slight tug of the reins. Instantly, Molly raised her sleepy head, looking confused.

  “Samuel?” she asked, as if first making sure she had his name right.

  He nodded. “We’re here.”

  “Here where?” She rubbed her eyes.

  “At the house I told you about.”

  Watching her glance left to right, he noticed her eyes widen. “It’s big. Real nice looking, too. But are you sure it’s all right for us to—”

  A cacophony of voices rose from the side of the stagecoach.

  “It’s Charlotte and Miss Vivian,” she said, letting go of the blanket. “I’d better go see how they’re doing. I’m sure they don’t know what to think.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she stood up, causing him to do the same. He descended the coach first then helped her to solid ground. Legs and back stiff from the cold, he took a minute to stretch before following her. But he was in time to witness the younger woman rush up to Molly and hug her tight, all the while scowling at him over Molly’s shoulder.

  “Molly! You’re all right!”

  “Of course I’m all right, Charlotte.” Molly broke free from the grasp. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well goodness, everything happened so fast.” Charlotte clutched at her coat, shivering as she spoke. “One minute you were helping with Mr. Becker. And then you were gone with … with him, the stranger
.” Her teeth chattered. “The stagecoach started moving, and we thought that you … that we … had been—”

  “Kidnapped!” The older woman, whom Samuel assumed to be Miss Vivian, moved in front of Charlotte, her eyes wide and bright despite her age and the weariness of the trip. “Have we been kidnapped?” she asked excitedly, as if hopeful he’d answer in the affirmative.

  “No, ma’am.” Samuel stepped forward, almost hating to disappoint her. “Not at all.”

  “Are you sure?” she prodded, some of the light retreating from her eyes. “Because this certainly isn’t the Huxley station. Why, we’re at a deserted house in the middle of—”

  “In the middle of where?” An older gentleman, close to Miss Vivian’s age, made a laborious descent from the coach. “Where are we? I demand to know.”

  “We’re at a farm,” Samuel told him. “On the outskirts of St. Claire,” he added, bracing himself for the group’s reaction.

  “St. Claire?” The women’s voices rose up in unison. “But we just came from there.”

  “And just who do you think you are, mister, to be making decisions for us like you have?” the man griped.

  “His name is Samuel Harden,” Molly said before he could speak for himself. “And Mr. Cottingham, I know you’re just cold and tired, and your bones damp and aching; otherwise you wouldn’t be talking in such an awful way to the man who saved our lives.”

  “And you, miss.” Cottingham pointed an accusing finger at Molly. “You’re not upset this man has gone taking us backward?”

  “No need to go jumping on her, sir,” Samuel said sternly. He didn’t mind being the butt of the group’s complaints, but there was no way he was going to let anyone scold Molly. Not when she’d been the only one who’d had the nerve to step out of the stagecoach, assess their situation, and get help for their driver.

  “Of course I was upset, Mr. Cottingham,” Molly admitted. “Why, we all have people we want to be meeting up with for Christmas—and we still can. We can start out fresh tomorrow. But tonight the weather was just plain ugly and dangerous. That’s why I gladly turned over the reins to Samuel.”