The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West
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“Nonsense. He didn’t know I’d ever go west.”
“He didn’t have to. Men live to provide for the women they love ahead of time. And he knew the bigness of your heart, too, and what you might do with such a gift.”
Jacob leaned forward suddenly, boldly, and reached for her hand, curling his warm fingers between hers. “I don’t know if I can give you gold like that, Juliet, if you marry me,” he said softly. “But I’ll try my best to give you the family you wanted. A little girl like Carrie Ann all our own. Just marry me.”
Juliet sat there speechless, her lips halfway open between something she was going to say—and forgot—and a startling numbness.
“If the children can’t find their relatives or don’t have any left, we’ll take them,” said Jacob. “You and me together. What do you think?”
His eyes shone bright, deep, with pupils so large and velvet black that their intensity made her almost forget how to breathe.
Juliet opened her mouth to answer, but voices outside startled her. Dogs barked, and Juliet heard movement, running feet. Shouts. Jacob slowly released her hand.
“What’s going on?” Juliet stood up quickly, too embarrassed even to look at Jacob. “Are we being attacked?”
She felt weary of war—of running—sick to her stomach. She’d seen enough of cannonballs and bloodied limbs, of bandits and arrows and hiding. It felt so familiar and so terrible that she wanted to weep just standing there, not bearing to move.
And before she could lift the tepee flap, a man stuck his head through.
A man in a blue US Cavalry cap.
Chapter 12
Are you Juliet James?” The man stepped inside the tepee. He looked around, sniffing, and Juliet saw his mustache twitch. “What’s that I smell? Christmas bread? It can’t be.”
“Excuse me?” Juliet stepped forward. “Who are you, sir?”
“My apologies.” The man doffed his cap. “I’m Captain Gregory Scott of Montana’s Fort Smith with a detachment from Lame Deer.” His brass buttons gleamed in the firelight. “The folks outside say you’re Juliet James. Is that true, ma’am?”
“I am, sir. Why, are we in Montana?”
“Yes ma’am. We’ve been looking for you and your party a long time.” Captain Scott took her hand and shook it, and Juliet thought his eyes held weariness. “Your uncle Frederico has been moving heaven and earth to try to find you.”
“Uncle Frederico?” Juliet let out her breath.
“He’s been searching for you ever since the wagon train was reported missing, and he’s probably contacted every post in the entire territory. You and your stepfather weren’t found with the others that perished—God rest them.” The captain bowed his head briefly. “But we did track down some of the children the Cheyenne had taken captive, and now you.”
The captain removed his cap and banged it against his knee to remove the snow. “We got turned around about thirty miles from here, and it took us six days to find our way out of the mountains with the snow coming.” He slapped the cap back on his head. “Your uncle must really like you, Miss James—he’s offered one heck of a reward and sent out more search parties than I can count. We almost lost one coming over the mountains.”
Juliet’s forehead crinkled as she tried to understand. “You’re talking about my uncle Frederico. My mother’s brother.”
“That’s the one. Frederico Dominico.”
“The miner.”
Captain Scott laughed. “Miner? No, miss—he’s no miner. Not anymore, anyway. He’s the richest man this side of Billings.”
Juliet’s eyebrows shot up. “My uncle? You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am. He struck gold about two months ago in a silt vein everybody said was a waste of time, and he’s the one laughing now. They call him ‘Noah,’ because he believed in a miracle against all odds. Well, he was right.”
Juliet’s legs turned wobbly, and she reached out for a lodge pole to steady herself.
“Well, Noah or not, he’s awfully concerned about you and your group. Is there anyone else besides the folks outside? Who’s this fellow?” The captain gestured with his head.
“Jacob Pike, sir,” said Jacob in his Southern drawl as he stood.
And just like that, Juliet saw the captain’s eyes darken. “Where are you from, young man?” he demanded. His voice turned hard.
“Virginia, sir.”
“Virginia.” The captain muttered something under his breath. He pointed with a gloved hand. “How’d you hurt that arm?”
Jacob seemed to hesitate, and Juliet turned to the captain, ready to sputter something, anything to change the subject.
“Captain.” Juliet began. “I can explain.”
“I injured it in the war, sir,” said Jacob quietly as he stepped forward. “Fighting for the Confederacy.”
Juliet saw a vein in the captain’s neck bulge and the lines in his jaw tighten. “We lost a lot of good men in Virginia, Mr. Pike,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“With all due respect, sir, so did we.”
A bristling silence filled the tepee for a moment, so cold that Juliet could hear the wind moaning around the rawhide sides. Furious color gathered in the captain’s cheeks.
“Well, the Confederacy no longer exists,” he snapped, his breath coming fast and angry. “Thank God for that.”
“You’re right,” said Jacob simply. “It doesn’t.”
And then he spoke again: “It’s Christmas, Captain Scott. Would you like some Christmas bread?”
Juliet heard the lodge poles groan in the wind, and the snaps and pops of the fire. The captain blinked twice, and his leather boots creaked faintly as he shifted his weight. And to Juliet’s surprise, his hard expression faded, like the slightest slackening of a taut rope.
“Christmas bread?” repeated the captain as he rubbed his gloved hands together. “I thought that’s what I smelled.”
“You guessed correctly.” Jacob’s face was pleasant. “The way my grandma used to make it. It’s awfully good. Or it was, when she laid it out on the table with the sweet potatoes and fresh black walnuts.”
“I used to eat it as a boy.” Captain Scott crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to drift away. “Every Christmas. Full of fat raisins and candied cherries. Best thing I ever put in my mouth. I still dream about it sometimes, all powdered with sugar.”
“Me, too,” said Juliet. “It was so beautiful to look at—like stained glass. We’d cut it into hot slices fresh from the oven and eat it with our bare hands.”
“With coffee,” said Jacob.
“With coffee,” agreed the captain. “Strong coffee. Nothing better.”
“Well, sir.” Jacob gestured to the pans now cooling near the fire. “Would you join us? Call your men, and we’ll all eat together.”
Captain Scott rubbed his chin. His thick mustache twitching. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“I’d be pleased.”
“We’ve brought fresh provisions,” said the captain slowly. “Coffee, too. Shall I prepare some?”
“Coffee?” Jacob cried. “You’ve brought fresh coffee?”
The captain studied him a moment. “You poor fellow,” he said finally with a sigh. “You’ve had a rough go of it, haven’t you?” His eyes bounced back and forth from Jacob to Juliet. “Both of you, I imagine. Well, it’s all over now. You’re among friends.”
The tepee was small, but that night, to Juliet, it seemed to swell larger and larger, making room for not only Posy and Silas and Papa, but the whole search crew as well: five in all. Jacob called the Crow elders and anyone who would listen, and invited them all in to celebrate.
Captain Scott crouched by the fire, grinding coffee beans in his small metal grinder, and one of the men produced a harmonica—puffing out a rollicking tune while Papa hung pine boughs around the tepee. A tiny pine sapling served as a Christmas tree, and Posy decorated it with beads, feathers, and pinecones then wrapped an Indian blan
ket around the base.
Popcorn emerged from the packs of provisions, and apples and nuts, and a single fresh orange—which they divided into sections and passed around, one by juicy one.
Snow fell, the fire burned, the harmonica trilled, and Jacob took the cake out of the pans. A bit of orange juice with fresh white sugar made a drippy glaze for the golden-brown cakes, fragrant with fruit.
Juliet hugged her knees, watching the happy scene with bright eyes. It was the Christmas she’d never wanted, never imagined. Christmas in the wilderness, barren and beautiful.
“So, are you going to answer me, Juliet?” She jumped at Jacob’s voice so near her ear. “You never told me if you’d marry me or not.”
Juliet turned to him, his happy face illuminated by dancing lantern light. “Yes, Jacob—yes.” She traced his stubbly cheek with the tip of her finger.
“Everything starts small, Juliet—faith, even love. But it’s enough to live on, even through the lean times until the miracle comes. Because it will.” He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, and she breathed in the smell of leather and furs, the smell of his skin—so foreign yet so familiar. “I saved the cuttings, you know,” he whispered.
“What cuttings?”
“From those two precious potatoes.” He held up two fingers. “We’ll have a whole field full of potatoes from those little green shoots. We’ll make bread for years, Juliet. Our daily bread—you for me, and me for you. Our Lord and His gifts, good or bad. Everything we need.”
Juliet chewed on a nail a minute and thought. “I guess that’s why Christ chose to multiply bread.”
“Because when you’re the most empty, the most hungry, you’re ripe for a miracle. And He’s really the miracle that you need.”
The harmonica tune ended, and Juliet sat there in the half light, thinking of love, of life, and of bread. Part prayer, part pure thanks—just feeling the firelight and the snowfall, and the scent of wild plums and sugar.
Stollen (German Christmas Bread)
1½ cups milk
½ cup white sugar
¾ cup butter
½ teaspoon salt
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
5⅔ cups flour, divided
1 oz. active dry yeast
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
½ cup raisins
½ cup candied citrus peel
½ cup candied cherries
Scald milk. Add sugar, butter, and salt. Cool to lukewarm. Add 2 whole eggs and 2 yolks. Mix. Add 3 cups flour and yeast to butter/egg mixture and pour into a food processor. Process and let rise until double (about 1 to 2 hours). Add cardamom, raisins, citrus peel, cherries, and rest of flour. Place on floured board and knead. Let rise in greased bowl another 1 to 2 hours. When risen, punch down and cut into three to four pieces. Roll each into an oval, butter, and fold in half lengthwise. Place on greased baking sheet, cover, and let rise until double (about 50 minutes). Bake at 375 degrees for 25 minutes. Remove to rack. When cool, drizzle with Orange-Sugar Glaze and decorate with candied cherries.
Orange-Sugar Glaze
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
¼ teaspoon grated orange zest
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed orange juice
Whisk sugar with orange zest and orange juice in a small bowl until smooth.
Christmas Bounty
by MaryLu Tyndall
Chapter 1
Santa Barbara, California
August 1855
What kind of God would allow children to go hungry?
Caroline Moreau jingled the few coins left in her purse and gazed over the colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables displayed across the vendor’s cart.
“Mama.” Her son, Philippe, called to her from the next stall, where he pointed to a hunk of raw beef—enough to feed them for a week. Shooing flies away from the display, the Mexican butcher cast her a toothless grin. “You buy, señora. Good for growing boy.” She wondered whether the man ever got to enjoy the meat he sold, for he was no doubt just a farm worker employed by a rich ranchero. Regardless, her mouth watered at the sight. It had been months since she and the children had enjoyed meat for supper.
“Please, Mama.” A stiff ocean breeze tossed her eight-year-old son’s brown hair across his forehead while blue eyes alight with hope tugged on her heart.
What she wouldn’t give to satisfy that hope, but she had only enough money for a few vegetables and a sack of beans.
“Not today, Philippe.” Frowning, the boy dragged himself back to stand beside her while Abilene, her youngest, tugged on her skirts and pulled the thumb from her mouth. “I’m hungry, Mama.”
“I know, ma chère.“ Caroline felt like weeping. Instead, she raised her chin and spoke to the vendor. “A red pepper, one onion, two tomatoes, and a bulb of garlic, please.” At least that would give the beans a different flavor from last week. She glanced down at the despair tugging on her children’s faces and added, “And twenty-five cents worth of cherries.”
Abilene cheered, while a tiny smile wiped the frown from Philippe’s lips. “For dessert,” Caroline said, drawing them both close.
After gathering her purchases, Caroline scurried among the throng that mobbed the busy public square, still amazed—even after living in the California coastal town for nearly three years—at the vast diversity of people inhabiting Santa Barbara. Spanish dons, attired in black embroidered coats and high-crested hats, strolled the streets with ladies in multilayered skirts, colorful silk scarves, and long, braided hair. Beside them, servants held fringed parasols to protect them from the sun. Mexican vendors and shop owners abounded, dressed in plain trousers and colorful sarapes with wide sombreros on their heads. A cowboy tipped his hat at Caroline and smiled, while the chink of coins drew her gaze to a group of gold miners exiting the bank, where, no doubt, they’d converted their gold dust into money. Facing forward, she nearly bumped into a monk. He barely acknowledged her before proceeding with his brown cowl dragging in the dirt and a Chumash Indian following on his heels.
Turning left on Bath Street, Caroline headed toward the coast, where she’d left her buckboard. The crash of waves soon drowned out the clamor of the town as sand replaced dirt, and the glory of the sea spread out before them. Sparkling ribbons of silver-crested azure waves spanned to the horizon where a thick band of fog rose like the misty walls of a fortress. When the sun set, those walls would roll in and cover everything in town just like the many hoodlums who would roll down from their hide-outs in the hills to enjoy the nighttime pleasures of Santa Barbara.
The California coast was so different from New Orleans where she’d grown up. There the steamy tidewaters had been filled with all manner of shrimp, oysters, crawfish, and crabs. Here the water was icy and wild, like the city itself, and filled with kelp forests, sea lions, otters, and whales.
She drew in a deep breath of the salty breeze and allowed the wind to tear through her hair. With it came the sense of freedom she so craved but had not felt since her husband died six months ago. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she spotted a ship anchored offshore. Could it finally be the packet bringing mail to Santa Barbara? She’d sent a post home several months ago, informing her family of her dire situation, but still no response had come. But no, this ship was much smaller than the normal paddle-wheel steamship that brought the mail.
Regardless, she must get the children home before the sun sank into the sea. Santa Barbara was not a safe town at night, especially not for women and children. Though she’d heard the city hadn’t always been like that. Before the Americans arrived, the Spanish had kept it orderly and civilized, built a mission, and introduced culture. But all that had crumbled when America won the territory in 1847 and cowboys, fortune hunters, and gold miners had flooded the city. Because the town employed so few law officers, mayhem ruled, not only the streets, but the countryside as well. Every week for the past two months, vigilantes had attacked her vineyard, stealing valuable farm equipment, bu
rning grapevines, and even striking her foreman unconscious for several hours. Caroline had spent many a sleepless night worrying for her children’s safety.
“Here ye! Here ye!” a man shouted first in English and then in Spanish from down shore. Caroline glanced up to see a crowd forming around a wooden scaffold. No doubt some poor criminal was being hanged. Most likely a horse thief or highwayman. At least they had caught one of them. Turning, she started toward her buckboard.
“Mama, can we go see?” Philippe asked, running beside her.
“No. We should not see such things.”
“But it’s a hanging, Mama!”
“Precisely why we are not going, Philippe.”
“Don’t you want to see who it is?” He scratched his head as if he couldn’t make sense of her attitude.
“No.”
Abilene plucked out her thumb. “Me neither,” she said.
“There you have it.” Caroline smiled. “Two against one.”
“Ah, that doesn’t count. You’re girls. Boys like to see hangings.”
“Not civilized boys, Philippe, of which you are one.”
Lowering his chin, he slogged beside her, kicking sand as he went and slowly falling behind.
“Hurry along, children. I have dinner to make. You can help me, Philippe. Would you like that? I’ll let you build the fire in the stove.” Surely that would cheer the boy up.
When he didn’t answer, she turned around to see him speeding down the sandy street heading straight for the scaffold.
“Oh, bon sang!” Growling, Caroline spun around and darted after him, dragging poor Abilene behind. But her son was quick. He got his speed from his father, along with his mulish disposition! The boy disappeared into the burgeoning crowd as the sheriff began listing the man’s crimes.
“I, Samuel Portland, magistrate of Santa Barbara, do hereby charge you, Dante Vega, with the following crimes: thievery, drunkenness, licentiousness …”