Rosalie followed them. The wind picked up speed, sending a teeth-chattering snowdrift into her side. She prayed the wind and snow wouldn’t conspire to cover her tracks leading away from the house. Isaac once told her about how people could get blinded by the snow and lose their way on the unchanging prairie landscape, only to be found days later within a mere several feet of their homes, frozen to death. Her heart began to fear again. Oh, Isaac, where are you?
She picked up her pace, stepping hard intentionally within Isaac’s tracks as she plodded her way to the barn. More than once her feet slipped on the ice. The barn door swung halfway open, swallowing great gusts of billowing snow. She noticed something odd about the roof of the barn. There was a depression on the left side. The line of snow was broken in one place as though part of the barn’s structure had fallen in.
Rosalie reached the door, the wind pushing at her back. She got inside. The interior of the barn was a mass of tumbling hay and scattered tools. She heard the horses whinnying from their stalls. “Isaac? Are you in here?” She lifted the lamp high.
“Rosalie.” She heard his voice coming from the left side of the barn. Rosalie turned, angled her lamp, and saw her husband trapped under a fallen timber beam from the roof.
She hurried to his side. “Isaac, are you hurt?”
“Part of the roof fell in from the weight of the ice and snow.” His face carried a gray pallor. His lips were slightly blue. The normal vitality of his skin diminished from cold and trauma. “The beam’s got my leg pinned.” His voice wavered a little as a shiver wracked through his body.
She saw where one end of the beam fell against the wall while the other trapped his leg beneath it. She set the lamp down and tried grasping the beam with both hands to see if she could move it with her own strength. It wouldn’t budge. “We need leverage.” Rosalie looked to the tack supplies and tools on the wall. She got up and grabbed a shovel.
Isaac tried to move his leg. He used his free leg to attempt to push the beam, grunting in pain from the effort.
Rosalie turned the shovel over and inserted the blade in a small area of space between the beam and the floor. She shoved it in as far as it could go. “Isaac, I need you to help me lift the beam.” She positioned her hands on the handle. He put his above hers. “On the count of three, push down as hard as you can. One, two, three.”
The wooden handle of the shovel buckled under the applied pressure, but it held. The shovel blade scraped into the barn floor. Rosalie heard a groan as the beam lifted an inch. “It’s working. Again.”
She and Isaac applied their combined strength. Rosalie’s arm muscles burned and trembled in effort. She dug her feet into the ground for support, pressing all her upper body weight against the shovel handle. The timber beam lifted another few inches off the ground. Rosalie put her last reserve of strength into her effort. The beam raised higher, enough for Isaac to move his leg. He slid his leg out from the beam just as the shovel handle split and cracked in two. The beam thudded back to the ground, a hair’s breadth away from him.
He got to his feet, using his good leg and his arms to push himself off the ground. Rosalie picked up the lamp and positioned herself under his shoulder to help support his weight. He leaned on her to hobble to the door. Once outside, Rosalie left him to rest against the frame of the barn while she pulled the door closed and secured the latch with a wood plank.
“The storm’s getting worse. We have to get to the house.” Isaac pushed away from the barn and tested both feet in the snow. “I can bear most of my weight.”
“The ground is slippery with ice. Grab onto me.” Rosalie resumed helping him. Together they braced the wind and stepped in the old tracks to get to the house. The wind pushed at them from the front. It seemed like hours had passed before they passed the chicken coop and managed to reach the porch. Rosalie pried open the door. She and Isaac nearly fell inside the house.
“Thank God we made it.” She latched the door shut. The storm beat at the door from the outside, continuing to rage.
Isaac sat at the dining table. “Thank God you came out to the barn in time. Any longer and the animals and I would’ve frozen to death.”
Rosalie helped him get his boot off. His ankle and foot sustained bruising, but no broken bones. “I woke up to find you weren’t in the house. How long were you trapped in the barn?”
“An hour. Two. I can’t say for certain. I went there after bringing firewood to the house.”
“Well, now we’re going to make good use of the firewood. You’re going to sit near the fireplace and warm yourself while I fix a pot of hot coffee and heat some soup. You need to get out of those wet clothes, too.”
Isaac caught her hand before she could go into the kitchen. He drew her to him. “Look who’s suddenly telling me what to do.” Humor showed in his eyes. His skin was returning to its healthy hue.
Rosalie felt warmth blossom on her cheeks. “I don’t mean to sound fussy, but I want you to get warm. Isaac, you almost…”
He put a finger on her lips. “You’re right. Almost. But you came in time. I need you and want you in my life. I love you, Rosalie.”
She took his hand away from her mouth so she could speak. “I love you, too.”
“I can think of a much better way for us to get warm than sitting by the fire.”
A smile crossed Rosalie’s face. “Show me what you have in mind.”
He stood up from his chair. She took his hand as they left the dining room.
***
Christmas Day
Isaac watched Rosalie’s eyes sparkle with delight as she opened her present on Christmas morning.
“Isaac, this is beautiful,” she remarked upon seeing the comb and brush set. She traced the pattern of painted and carved roses on the back of the brush handle. “You must have spent a small fortune on them.”
“No price too high for you.” He folded the knitted scarf on his lap. He almost didn’t want to wear it outside and risk it getting dirty. He’d cherish the garment forever since Rosalie made it for him.
His lovely wife sighed and leaned back in her chair beside the fireplace. The light from the flames showed accents of brown and deep auburn in her unbound hair. He wanted to run his fingers through it again. “This is a wonderful Christmas morning,” she said. “And we get to visit Tim and Pauline’s family later for supper.”
“I’m glad to see you smile.” Isaac was more than glad. He was happier than words could describe. The Lord answered his prayers. He and Rosalie worked through their problems and had a stronger marriage to show for it. He knew things would only get better for them. He contemplated the many Christmases they’d share together. Perhaps in a year or two, God would bless them with a little one to share in their joy.
Rosalie took the brush through her hair. “We don’t have to be at Tim and Pauline’s for several hours. What will we do until then?”
“I can think of a few things.” Isaac gently took the brush from her hands.
“You have been quite creative lately.”
“What can I say? You inspire me.” The fire crackled softly and provided warmth as he drew his bride to him for a kiss.
From the Author:
Thank you for reading A Christmas Rose. Please take a few minutes to leave a review of this e-book on the site where you purchased it. This helps me to continue writing stories for you to enjoy.
I always like to hear from my readers. You can find me on Twitter @BrandiBoddie and Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Brandi-Boddie-Author/173593769357207.
About the Author
Brandi Boddie writes historical and contemporary romance. She resides in Texas, where she loves spending time with her husband and dogs, a cocker spaniel and a schnauzer who both aspire to be food critics. She holds a juris doctorate from Howard University School of Law and a BA in political science from Youngstown State University. She has worked for the Office of the Attorney General in Washington DC and traveled extensively across the country
as a military wife. When she isn't writing, Brandi enjoys fencing and swing dancing.
CHRISTMAS FIRE
by Jennifer AlLee
A Christmas Mail Order Angels Novella
Copyright 2015 by Jennifer AlLee
Published by Journey Publications
Cover design by Cynthia Hickey
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever – except short passages for reviews – without express permission. For information, email [email protected]
1
Merville, Maine, August 1877
Her husband stumbled through the front door and across the room, reeking of cheap whiskey and herring. It was a smell Caroline knew well, one that turned her stomach and made her blood run cold. Either odor on its own was bad enough, but the combination meant that a bad day working at the canning plant had been followed by excess at the local bar. It was the smell of trouble.
“Where is my dinner?” Collin Buchanan slurred his words so badly that only his fist pounding the table communicated his meaning.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said as she moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll get it for you.”
His fingers wrapped around her wrist and jerked her to a stop. She bit down on her lip, willing herself not to cry out. It would only be worse if she did.
“It shoulda been ready.” He leaned over her until his face was so close, she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin.
“I didn’t want it to get cold.” Because the last time he came home drunk, he lit into her for the cold meal that was ready and waiting. Of course, she wouldn’t dare remind him of that.
“Always an excuse. You’re a pitiful wife.”
He spit the words at her, but vitriol wasn’t the only thing to hit her in the face. Spittle flew from his mouth, as well. Without thinking, she lifted her free hand to wipe it away. His eyes blazed and her stomach lurched as she realized her mistake.
“Think you’re too good for me?”
He yanked her arm, twisting it in an unnatural direction. The pain made it impossible to keep silent.
At the sound of her scream, something sparked in Collin. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, and his eyes flashed. It was as if he’d accomplished a goal. Fear threatened to suffocate Caroline. When he got this way, there was no telling what he would do.
“Please, Collin. Please. I’m sorry. Please, let me go so I can make your dinner.”
Then he laughed, a mirthless, hard sound. “Beg.”
Years of abuse had beaten Caroline down, but still, there was a small piece of her that fought against the idea of bowing to this man. She wasn’t a dog to be expected to follow his orders. Pulling her shoulders back, she stood a bit taller and dared to look him square in the eye.
He let go of her arm. The next moment, the force of the back of his hand across her cheek sent her reeling. She stumbled, tried to regain her balance, but ran into a chair and fell into a heap on the floor.
Collin’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way to her. His anger must have sobered him some, because he no longer weaved when he moved or slurred his words. Caroline kept her head down, praying silently.
Please, Father, save me. Take me somewhere far away from here.
But her prayer wasn’t answered. Instead, cruel fingers wound into her hair, pulling her head back.
“Beg.” The word cracked like thunder.
Head throbbing and tears stinging her eyes, Caroline did the only thing she could. “Please, Collin. I beg you. Please, forgive me.”
She hoped that taking the blame on herself would appease him. For a moment, it seemed to. But then, as a tear rolled down her cheek, his expression changed. He let go of her hair and took a step backward.
“Get up.”
Tangled in her long skirt, there was no graceful way to get off the floor, but she did it as quickly as she could. When she was on her feet, she looked at him, wondering what would come next.
He shook his head and began to pace. “You are a weak woman. I need a wife who obeys me and knows her place. But I’m saddled with you.”
The words were like a knife to her heart. He hadn’t always been like this. Once, he’d been kind and loving. Was this her fault? Did she carry some blame for what he’d become?
“Collin, give me another chance. I can do better. Please.”
“Oh, you can do better. And you’re going to start right now.” He pounced and grabbed her arm. Then he dragged her in the direction of the bedroom.
No! The word screamed through Caroline’s head. This was wrong.
She pulled against him, every instinct telling her not to go with him. His grip tightened. The more she fought, the rougher he became. The arm of her dress ripped at the shoulder as she escaped his grasp. She tried to run, but he jumped at her, bringing them both down to the floor. Her head hit something hard and stars swam before Caroline’s eyes. A moment later she was on her back, his hands on her shoulders, pinning her down.
“I had meant to take you in our bed, but the floor will have to do.”
Collin’s eyes were wild and his nostrils flared. He tugged at her bodice, ripping it open and sending buttons flying. Caroline screamed in terror. She’d never seen him in such a state. Panic rose bitter and vile in her throat. Would there be no deliverance?
The mending.
She’d been doing the mending earlier, and she’d left her basket of sewing things on the floor. Still fighting Collin off with one hand, she reached out her other arm. Was the basket nearby? Her arm flailed, fingers reaching, praying to make contact. There! Her fingertips brushed against something. She stretched, touched the side of the basket and pulled, tipping it over. Thread and other notions spilled to the floor, but something hard and cold fell into her hand. The scissors. Without hesitation, she struck Collin in the neck with it.
He froze, and his face took on a look of pure confusion. Blood ran down the front of his shirt, and he fell forward.
Caroline pushed him off and scrambled away. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. What had she done? She’d only meant to hurt him so he’d leave her alone and she could escape. Not this. She’d never meant this. With the scissors still clutched in her hand, and she rocked back and forth, her cries soft and plaintive as a mewling kitten.
2
Angel Vale, Wyoming, September 1877
David Esterly stood back, watching the spectacle in the middle of the town’s only street. Like ants escaping their hill, people spilled from the several large wagons that had pulled up in front of the mercantile. Children jumped out, women were helped down by men eager to find their new brides in the crowd, and other men unloaded the luggage. David itched to join them, but he made himself wait. He didn’t want the first time he met his new bride to be while they were jostled from all sides.
He craned his neck, trying to guess which one was Eleanor Buzby. They’d exchanged several letters and had described themselves to each other, so he had a vague idea what she looked like. There were several with brown hair. And there was one who was shorter than the rest. Eleanor had told him she was just a bit over five feet tall. The petite woman must be her.
He made his way through the crowd, saying “Excuse me,” again and again. When he reached the woman, he put his hand on her shoulder. She whirled, eyes wide and questioning.
“I’m sorry to startle you. I’m David. Are you Eleanor?”
The woman smiled and shook her head. “No, I’m Sophia Webster.”
David recognized her name right off. She was one of the women who had organized the brides in Maine. “Sorry for the mistake. I’m David Esterly.”
“Of course. Mr. Esterly.” Sophia’s tone became soft, almost apol
ogetic.
Worry twisted in his stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. “Would you kindly point out Miss Buzby?”
Her gaze darted in either direction, then she looked him in the eye. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Miss Buzby developed a…condition, and she was unable to make the trip.”
“Is she sick?”
Sophia laced her fingers together as she nodded. “The last time I saw her, she did look a bit green. Poor soul couldn’t keep a thing down.”
The worry now did a full-fledged summersault. “Is there anything I can do? Should I send money for a doctor?”
“No, Mr. Esterly. That’s very kind of you, but…no.” Sophia’s brow furrowed, giving the impression she was weighing her words carefully. “Believe me, in about six months, Miss Buzby will feel much better.”
Six months? “You mean...is she…”
“I’m afraid so.”
The ground beneath David’s feet seemed to shift just a bit. Granted, he and Eleanor had never met, and he’d only known of her existence for two months. But during that time, he’d thought of her every day. He felt that he’d come to know her through her letters. She was the woman that was to be his bride, and he’d let himself imagine a life with her. And now, he found out that she had been unfaithful to him and carried another man’s child. It was humiliating.
Small, strong fingers squeezed his upper arm and he looked into Sophia’s kind face. “I know this is a dreadful shock, but all is not lost. Another woman joined our group at the last minute and wants very much to meet you.”
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