The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  Anxious to get the job done and return to the house before freezing her fanny off, she stepped out on the porch. The robbers still very much on her mind, she kept her finger on the trigger.

  The wind whistled through the eaves, and her skirt whipped against her legs. The barn door kept up a steady rhythm, like a drummer during a death march. Stomach clenched tight and senses alert, she moved forward.

  She reached the end of the porch and was just about to descend the steps when a dark form loomed in front of her.

  Jumping back, Lucy’s breath caught audibly in her throat and her hand jerked. A flash of light and deafening blast from her shotgun sent her reeling.

  Thinking with her feet, she managed to get back inside and slam the door shut. She stared down at her weapon, and reality hit her. Dear God, what had she done? The shotgun slid from her hands and fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Breathing hard, she listened. Only the moaning wind and banging barn door could be heard over her pounding heart.

  Cold fear gripped her as she walked on silent feet to the sink. Moving the curtain, she peered out the window. Seeing only the reflection of her own pale face, she dropped the curtain. Frightful images raced through her head.

  A sudden pounding startled her, followed by a man’s rough voice. “Open up!”

  She retrieved her shotgun from the floor. “What … what do you want?” she called in a wavering voice.

  “I need help, lady.” Silence followed and then, “I’ve been shot.”

  She lowered her weapon until the muzzle pointed downward. Had she really shot him, or was it a trick? “H–how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You’ll know when you open the door.” His voice sounded weaker. Maybe he really was hurt. Then again, maybe it was a trick. God, please tell me what to do.

  “I c–can’t. You might have evil intentions.”

  “Lady …” Pause. “Right now …” More silence. “I couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  It sounded like he was telling the truth, but how could she be sure? Then she remembered something Opa had told her long ago. The fastest way to know a man’s true character is through his relationship to God.

  “Can … can you recite a Bible verse?”

  It took so long for an answer to come, she feared the man was dead. Finally, she heard his muffled voice. “What?”

  “A Bible verse.” A man who knew his Bible couldn’t be all bad. “What is your favorite verse? It’ll help me know if I can trust you.”

  “Thou shalt not… kill.”

  She pursed her lips. “Actually, the Bible doesn’t say that. It says thou shalt not murder.” An important distinction, in her estimation. “Of course, a lot of people say ‘kill’ when they mean—” She was yammering on about nothing but couldn’t seem to help herself. It was how she dealt with nerves. “But I’m sure God forgives—”

  “Open the blasted door!”

  The moment he stumbled into her kitchen Lucy recognized him as the man on the black horse.

  Blood dripped onto the floor, and he leaned heavily on her as she half dragged him to the spare bedroom. No sooner had they reached the bed than he collapsed on the straw mattress in a state of unconsciousness.

  He was a large man—even larger than her grandfather—with wide shoulders and a broad chest. He was also tall, and his feet hung over the bottom of the mattress. It took every bit of strength she possessed to roll him over so she could tend to his wound. The amount of blood alarmed her, and she feared she’d done him serious harm.

  She worked frantically to pull off his coat, vest, and shirt. Please don’t let him die, God.

  Fortunately, she was no stranger to bullet wounds, thanks to her work as Doc Hathaway’s assistant.

  Her steady hand and sharp mind made her a quick study, but none of those other bullets had been her fault. That alone unnerved her. What if she did something wrong? What if the man died? Would that make her a murderer? Dear God, no!

  Pushing such terrifying thoughts aside, she focused on the task at hand. She bound her patient’s wound with strips of cotton fabric to stop the bleeding and hastened to the kitchen. After lighting the fire under the kettle, she searched through the kitchen drawers. The kitchen tongs were too large for pulling out a bullet, so she settled on two teaspoons.

  Fortunately, the gunshot blast hadn’t awakened her grandfather. The man could sleep through anything, and for that, she was grateful.

  The barn door was still banging, but that would have to wait until after she’d taken care of her patient. The thought of going back outside filled her with dread, but concern for the animals took precedence over fear.

  Calming her still-pounding heart, she reached into the sewing basket.

  Doc Hathaway believed that unless a wound was deep, it was best to let it heal naturally. Just in case, she pulled out needle and thread. Recalling that more men had died during the War between the States from infection than bullet wounds, she grabbed a bottle of tincture of iodine.

  After gathering her supplies and arranging them on a tray, along with a bottle of medicinal whiskey, she hurried to her patient’s side.

  She adjusted the lamp and set to work. He was still bleeding quite a bit, but as far as she could tell, the bullet hadn’t penetrated any vital organs. That alone was a blessing. As long as the slug hadn’t lodged in a bone, it shouldn’t be that hard to remove.

  With some careful probing, Lucy managed to locate the bullet in the fleshy area of the chest next to the man’s armpit. It took several tries before she managed to grab hold of the pellet between the spoons and ease it out. The slug made a pinging sound as it hit the bottom of the porcelain bowl.

  After packing the wound to stop the bleeding, she covered it with iodine-painted gauze and strips of clean muslin. After mopping up the blood and washing her hands, she laid a damp cloth on his forehead.

  Doc Hathaway had impressed on her the importance of keeping a professional attitude at all times when treating a patient. But, God forgive her, it was hard not to notice what a handsome man this was. He had a firm, square jaw, a straight patrician nose, and a nicely shaped mouth. His manly chest wasn’t bad to look at either.

  Surprised and even dismayed by such unladylike thoughts, she checked his forehead for fever before slipping out of the room to take care of that barn door.

  Tomorrow, if the weather permitted, she would fetch the doctor. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but wait and pray. Oh yes, and try to maintain a professional attitude.

  Chapter 4

  Chad had a hard time letting go of the darkness. When at last his eyes fluttered open, it took a moment to gather his bearings. His lips were parched and his mouth as dry as the desert sands. Worse, it felt like someone was inside his head pounding with a hammer. Where was he? He blinked, and gradually his vision cleared.

  It took longer for his memory to kick in. Bits and pieces dwindled back, but none made sense. He remembered pain—and then softness. He recalled thinking he was burning up … until a featherlight coolness touched his brow.

  Blue eyes—he remembered those, too. And hair the color of a coppery Texas sun.

  He tried to move, and groaned. The memories might not be real, but the pain sure was, though he had a hard time locating it.

  Only a sliver of gray light filtered through the curtains. It sure didn’t look like his room at Mrs. Compton’s boardinghouse. It didn’t look like heaven either. For one thing, there was a row of wooden puppets staring down from a shelf, their garish painted faces mocking him.

  He moved his legs and froze. His gun and boots were missing. So, for that matter, were his trousers, but that was of less concern.

  He tried sitting up, but the room turned topsy-turvy. One moment the puppets were on the floor; next they were on the raftered ceiling. He fell back against the pillow. Something was wrong with his arm. His shoulder was wrapped in a bandage, and when he tried moving it, pain shot down his arm.

  He grimaced, and all at
once it came back to him. He’d been shot.

  A sound alerted him. Footsteps. The door opened with a creak of its leather hinges. The dim light revealed a curvy feminine form.

  Not till she stepped into the room could he see the woman’s delicate features. Her eyes—those he remembered. How could he not? They reminded him of the bluebonnets that grew in wild abundance back home in Texas. So the angel of his dreams was real.

  He moved and heard her intake of breath.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  “Barely.” He waited for her to come near the bed. She leaned over to check his bandage and a delicate lavender scent wafted toward him. Her eyes were sharp and assessing as she probed, and only when he flinched did she pull away.

  “Sorry,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been shot.” He studied her, and the fog in his head cleared. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you shoot me?”

  She stared at him accusingly. “You scared me.”

  “Not as much as you scared me.”

  Her eyes widened. “You shouldn’t have jumped out at me like that.”

  He frowned. Is that what he’d done? He remembered checking her barn for her horse and wagon and, recognizing both, walking to the house. He didn’t even know she was on the porch until she fired at him.

  When he failed to respond, she added, “I never meant to cause you harm. My gun went off accidentally.”

  Since it was partly his fault, he might have let her off the hook had she looked halfway apologetic or even vulnerable. Instead, she looked like a force to be reckoned with. She held herself erect, her features composed. Her copper hair was pulled into a tight bun and her pleated shirtwaist buttoned up to her chin. A model of prudence, modesty, and efficiency. He doubted she did anything by chance, and that might include firing a gun.

  “Hard to tell the difference between an accident or good aim,” he said. “I reckon they both hurt the same.”

  Not that he was an expert. As a Texas Ranger, he’d chased more trigger-itching outlaws than he cared to count, and not once had he taken a bullet. Being shot at was bad enough. But having his perfect record broken by a pint-size woman who probably weighed no more than a goose-down pillow was doggone galling.

  She reached for the pitcher on the table by his bedside and picked up a clean glass. Every movement was precise and unhurried. He seemed to remember her forcing liquids down his throat, for which he was grateful.

  “If I scared you so much, how come you let me in the house?”

  Affording him a wary glance, she filled the glass and set the pitcher down. “I asked you for a Bible verse. I figured a man able to recite scripture couldn’t be all bad.”

  He shook his head in wonder. The woman was either terribly naive or terribly trusting. Either way, he lucked out, or he might have bled to death on her doorstep.

  “You better drink this.”

  His dry mouth told him it was probably good advice. He managed to pull himself upright while she fluffed his pillow with her free hand. Taking the glass from her, he gulped the water down his prickly throat and then checked his bandaged shoulder.

  “The swelling has gone down,” she said. “And it doesn’t look quite as red.”

  That was good to hear. If only his head would stop pounding. “Who else lives here?”

  Suspicion crossed her face and her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  He frowned. Obviously she didn’t trust him. “Just want to know who took care of me.”

  “I did,” she said.

  Considering her size, that was hard to believe. “Does that mean you undressed me, too?”

  She refused to meet his gaze but couldn’t hide her reddening cheeks. “Your trousers and shirt were covered in blood.”

  “How did you get fluids down me?”

  This time she looked straight at him. “With a funnel.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “What did the doctor say?”

  She took the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table. “Doctor?”

  “A doctor removed the bullet, right?”

  “No, I did,” she said.

  “You?” The woman was full of surprises.

  “The doctor lives an hour away, and it was snowing hard.”

  He clenched his teeth. Going out in the snow seemed like a small price to pay for shooting him, even if it was partly his fault. Still, judging by the feel of things, she’d done a pretty good job without a physician’s help.

  “How many bullets have you taken out, anyway?”

  “Yours was the fourth, or maybe the fifth,” she said in the same straightforward tone he’d already come to expect.

  He stared at her. “That many?”

  “Yes, and they weren’t all accidents.”

  “Something to keep in mind,” he muttered. It was just his luck to have a run-in with a trigger-happy damsel. “Did you shoot them yourself, or did you have help?”

  His question brought a shadow of a smile to her lips. “Neither. I worked as a doctor’s assistant.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” he said. “By the way, my name’s Chad Prescott.”

  “Miss Langdon. Miss Lucy Langdon.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Four days,” she said.

  Four! He couldn’t believe his ears. Now, wasn’t that just fine and dandy? That gang of outlaws he’d trailed all the way from Texas was probably long gone by now.

  “What about my horse?”

  “He has been well cared for and is in the barn.” After a moment, she asked, “What’s his name?”

  “I call him Spirit.”

  She repeated the name, and coming from her, it sounded almost musical. “That suits him.”

  Anxious to get down to business, Chad tried moving his legs, but they felt like lead. “I tossed something in your wagon.”

  “Oh?” She busied herself smoothing the bedcovers. “I hope it was a change of clothes.”

  The woman was joking, right? “Not clothes. A gunnysack.”

  Her gaze locked with his. “Why would you do such a thing? Toss something in my wagon, I mean?”

  “If you recall, I was being chased by three hombres. I didn’t want them getting their hands on it.”

  She studied him as if to determine whether he spoke the truth. “When it stops snowing, I’ll check the wagon to see if … your bag is still there,” she said.

  “Never mind. I’ll check myself, if you will kindly tell me where I can find my shirt and trousers.”

  “Your clothes are drying in front of the fire. Like I said, they were soaked with blood, so I washed them.”

  “What about my gun and boots?” he asked. “Did you wash those, too?”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “You won’t be needing those, Mr. Prescott. At least not for a while.”

  He tossed the blanket away and was surprised by the effort it took to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

  Looking as prim as a preacher’s wife at a prayer meeting, Miss Langdon folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not in any condition to walk, Mr. Prescott.”

  “Wanna bet?” He planted his feet firmly on the floor—or at least that’s what he meant to do. Instead, he somehow landed on his knees.

  She stared down at him. “Would you like me to help you back in bed?”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” He pulled himself upright and flopped facedown across the mattress. At least the woman had the decency to let him keep the bottom of his long johns on.

  “I’ll fix you something to eat, then.” She pulled the sheet and blanket over him. “You need to get your strength back.”

  He heard her leave the room and gritted his teeth. Like it or not, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while, anyway.

  Chapter 5

  The following morning, Lucy pulled the baking sheet of pfeffernüsse out of the oven, and the sweet smell of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. Nudging the bowl of fres
hly cracked nuts and the tall wooden nutcracker aside, she set the metal sheet on the counter. She then sprinkled the cookies with spiced sugar.

  The cookie recipe had been handed down by her German grandmother, who got it from her grandmother. After the cookies cooled, Lucy would pack them into tins to distribute to her customers.

  A blizzard had raged for three days, piling drifts against the house and barn. The only person to come to her door in all that time was dear old Mr. Abernathy to check up on her. She made no mention of her guest. It would only worry him and his wife.

  She hoped it would stop snowing long enough to allow her to make deliveries. If she could reach the Brookstone farm down the road a ways, perhaps they would let her use their sleigh.

  She reached for another baking sheet and turned toward the oven. Just then the back door sprang open. Startled, she dropped the tray, and cookie dough spattered across the floor.

  “Mr. Prescott!” Her mouth fell open. Never had she seen such a frightful sight. His bare feet were red, and his uncombed hair and unshaven chin were peppered with fresh-fallen snow. Over his long johns he wore one of Opa’s shirts.

  “You nearly scared the life out of me,” she scolded. The shirt barely stretched across his massive shoulders and allowed for an intriguing glimpse of his broad, muscular chest. Much to her annoyance, she felt her cheeks blaze.

  He slammed the door shut behind him, his face livid. “Where is it?”

  “Please keep your voice down. My grandfather—”

  “Where is it?” he asked again, advancing toward her with a menacing look.

  Refusing to be intimidated, she lifted her chin. “Where is what?”

  He stopped a few feet in front of her. “The bag I tossed in your wagon.”

  The more she felt herself wilt beneath his angry gaze, the more determined she was not to back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He took another step forward, and she leaned back. “I–It’s the truth,” she stammered. She hated lying, but she had no intention of turning the money over to anyone but the sheriff.