“I like to read the second chapter of Luke on Christmas morning,” he said.
Jacob nodded. He looked forward to hearing the familiar words once more.
Mr. Winfield held the book up closer to his face and opened his mouth to read.
A loud knock sounded at the front door, followed by Billy Clyde’s muffled shout of, “Hello! Anyone home this morning?”
Polly jumped up and hurried out of the room, returning seconds later with Billy Clyde.
“Merry Christmas, folks,” the shotgun rider said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Winfield said. “Grab a seat. You’re just in time for the scripture reading.”
Billy Clyde crossed to sit beside her, on the other end of the couch from Polly, his hat crumpled in his hands.
“Any news, before we begin?” Mr. Winfield asked.
“A few bits. I’m to wear this sling for a month, and Mr. Ricker is on the mend.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” Mrs. Winfield said. “What about Mr. O’Neal?”
“He’ll recover. He’s gone on already, back to Independence. And, Jacob—” Billy Clyde fixed his gaze on his friend. “The division agent said to tell you that Mr. O’Neal was a heavy investor in the line.”
“You don’t say,” Mr. Winfield put in.
“I certainly didn’t know it,” Jacob said.
“He commended you for getting everyone to safety last week,” Billy Clyde said, triumph in his eyes. “You can keep your job, sonny. Don’t expect to drive the stagecoach out of here soon, but he wants to send sleigh runs through and see how that works. You’re to be ready on Saturday, weather permitting.”
“Do you think you’ll have many passengers?” Mrs. Winfield asked.
“Probably not, but we’ve contracted a mail run through to Boise for the next six months.”
Polly had kept silent during this exchange, but now she beamed at Jacob. “There! Your job is secure, at least for a while, Jacob.”
Mr. Winfield read the chapter, and then he brought out the parcels from beneath Polly’s bedraggled little tree. He put the small box Jacob had brought for Polly in her hands, and Jacob held his breath while she opened it.
“Oh! It’s lovely.” She passed the box to her mother.
“Yes, indeed. Very nice.” Mrs. Winfield touched a finger to the silver necklace.
The filigree cross had seemed right to Jacob when he saw it at the trader’s on his last run to the fort. Polly looked at him and smiled.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Jacob exhaled carefully. Her mother hadn’t protested or said the gift was too personal for her daughter to accept. Did that mean Polly’s parents would receive him as a suitor for her? He hoped so, because the more time he spent with them, the more he wanted to become part of the family.
Mr. Winfield placed a parcel in his hands, and Jacob turned his attention to it. A striped muffler, knit by Polly herself. The others opened their packages, exclaiming over the thoughtful items each had made or purchased. Jacob had a new vest from the Winfields and a bag of penny sweets from Billy Clyde. But perhaps the nicest gift he received was seeing the pure joy on Polly’s face as she sat in the shadow of the Christmas tree.
After supper, Polly couldn’t sit still. Jacob and her father had gone to the barn to tend the livestock, and Jacob had told Billy Clyde to stay in the house and rest his poor arm. His look had been so meaningful and Billy Clyde’s answering smile so mischievous, that Polly knew something was up. She wasn’t sure she could last until Pa and Jacob returned, and Billy Clyde’s teasing didn’t help.
“So, you’ve got some fine jewelry now, missy,” he said when her mother had gone to the kitchen for a moment.
“What do you know about it?” Polly said, feigning disinterest.
“Oh, I know heaps,” Billy Clyde said.
Stomping footsteps came from outside, and soon Jacob appeared in the doorway. “Any coffee, Polly?”
“Certainly. I’ll get it.” She jumped up, but Jacob held up a hand to stop her.
“No, I thought maybe Billy Clyde could get it. Your pa said there was more of that pie, too.” He looked keenly at Billy Clyde.
“Oh, I’m wanted in the kitchen, am I?” Billy Clyde lumbered up awkwardly from his chair, trying to keep from bumping his injured arm. “Half an hour ago, I was no help, and now you want me to do everything.”
“Hush,” Jacob said. “Just go make yourself useful.”
“I can take a hint.” Billy Clyde shuffled toward the kitchen.
Polly hardly dared look at Jacob. Her cheeks were flaming hot, and if asked, she would have to agree that it was very odd for Jacob to clear the room.
“Is everything all right in the stable?” she asked.
“Oh yes.” Jacob stepped toward her. “Polly, I spoke to your father.”
“Did you?” She could barely breathe. She gazed up from beneath her eyelashes. “And?”
“He—he said I could court you. If you wished it. Polly, please say you wish it. I think you’re the nicest girl I’ve ever met, and the way you helped Mrs. Ricker and nearly froze your toes off to build that snow wall … well, I think you’re wonderful.”
Polly laughed, a little giddy from the suddenness of it. “You’re no slouch, Jacob Tierney. And I’ve thought a lot about our talk a couple of weeks ago.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer. “Do you mean when you were telling me all the things you missed about the East?”
She nodded. “I’m ready for Wyoming now. To make this my home. Well, it is my home,” she hurried on, “but I don’t think I’d fully accepted that until after we talked, and until you brought me that silly, beautiful little tree.” She looked over her shoulder, smiling, at the Christmas tree. When she turned back toward him, Jacob stepped closer and put his arms around her.
“I’m glad I got snowed in here and not at the fort.”
In the shadow of the Christmas tree, he leaned toward her and kissed her. In the most glorious moment of her life, Polly kissed him back.
“Do you think you might share that Wyoming future with me?” he asked softly.
“Oh yes,” Polly said. “I believe we can make something of it together.”
About the Author
Susan Page Davis is the author of more than forty novels, in the romance, mystery, suspense, and historical romance genres. A Maine native, she now lives in western Kentucky with her husband, Jim, a retired news editor. They are the parents of six and the grandparents of nine fantastic kids. She is a past winner of the Carol Award, the Will Rogers Medallion for Western Fiction, and the Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award. Susan was named Favorite Author of the Year in the 18th Annual Heartsong Awards. Visit her website at: www.susanpagedavis.com.
The Nativity Bride
by Miralee Ferrell
Chapter 1
Goldendale, Washington
September 1875
A pillow connected with Curt Warren’s backside, and he staggered but caught himself. “Where did you come from, Deb? I didn’t even see you there.” He raised his down-filled pillow above his head and ran across the Summers’ kitchen after sixteen-year-old Deborah Summers as her laughter filled the air.
“You may have longer legs than me, Curt, but I’m quicker.” She darted to the side of the woodstove, her breath coming in gasps, then raced out again to cover the expanse of the room and slipped into their dining area, where she skidded to a halt, her pillow raised in defense. “I got the last lick in, so I win.”
“Who says we’re done?” He frowned in mock anger and inched forward, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
She giggled and sidled the opposite direction. “Your father, that’s who. He’s expecting you home to do chores, and you know how grumpy he gets if you’re late. Admit it, you don’t want to get beaten by a girl, even if it’s a girl you’re sweet on.” She arched a sassy brow and winked.
Curt tossed the pillow
onto a chair, and as her gaze followed it, he lunged forward and grasped her upper arms before she could scamper away. “A girl I’m sweet on, huh? Let’s just see about that.” As quick as a hummingbird swooping for nectar, he dipped his head and attempted to steal a kiss, but the little minx turned her head, and his lips landed on her cheek. “Ah, Deborah, come on. Just one little kiss before I go?”
She squealed but didn’t try too hard to get away. She put her hand on his chest and pushed, smirking as she did so. “I didn’t hear you say you’re sweet on me, and we’re not betrothed yet, so no kisses for you.”
She danced across the floor and waved her hand toward the door. “It’s a good thing Ma’s upstairs on the far end of the house, or you’d have waked her by now. You’d best get before your pa comes looking for you.” Her pretty face sobered. “Will I see you tomorrow when you’re done with chores?”
“Yep, I reckon you will, as long as Pa doesn’t keep me till after dark.” His heart thudded at the quirk of Deborah’s lips. If only he could kiss her! He rolled his eyes as she pointed at the door again. “All right, I’m going. You don’t have to shove me out, you know.”
“From the expression I glimpsed a second ago, I think I do.” Her smile faded, and she ducked her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He eased toward the door then pivoted after he grasped the knob. “I love you, Deborah.” He jerked on the knob and bolted down the steps, not waiting for her reply. He believed she felt the same, but he wasn’t taking any chances. As soon as she turned seventeen, he’d ask her to marry him.
Curt raced across the fields that connected his father’s farm with the Summers’ then slowed his pace as he neared the barn. Hopefully Pa would still be in the east pasture. He slipped inside, waiting a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, then groaned. The cows were already in their stations, ready to milk.
Pa stepped around a corner and glared. “You’re late. Bringing in the cows is your job.”
“I know, Pa. I’m sorry.” He grabbed a milk pail and pulled up the milking stool.
“You need to stop seeing Deborah.” Pa crossed his arms over his chest and kept his eyes riveted on Curt. “The way you’re going, you’ll ruin her life. You aren’t interested in this farm, and all you want to do is play. Maybe it’s time you figured out what you do want to do.”
Curt stared at his father, certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “What?” He shook his head. “I love Deborah, and there’s no way I’m going to stop seeing her. I can’t believe Ma feels the same way.”
Pa leaned his forearms on the rough surface of the half wall next to the milking stall. “Your mother is too soft and has spoiled you all your life. You’re eighteen—a man now—and you need to start making good decisions. Think about someone besides yourself for a change. This will be your farm one day.” Curt couldn’t stand this any longer. He pushed to his feet, wanting the advantage, even if it was only to be had by towering over his father. Why did the man have the power to unsettle him so or stir such a deep anger? “I am thinking about someone else. Deborah. She loves me and wants to marry me.”
“She’s sixteen and has an ailing mother who needs her. If I didn’t oversee her farm help, they’d have lost that place when her father died ten years ago.”
Curt sucked in a breath, wanting to retaliate, but the response died on his lips. Pa had sacrificed much to keep his own farm going as well as that of the Summers’ and never said a word of complaint.
Pa thumped the flat of his hand against the wall. “Are you going to put aside your foolish notions and settle down to farming so Deborah is guaranteed a good life?”
Curt’s spine stiffened. “You know the answer to that. I kill everything I try to grow. I wasn’t cut out to herd cattle or plant crops. All I’ve ever wanted to do is work with wood—to make furniture and create things for people’s homes—why can’t you respect my choice? Deborah does, and she supports me in it.”
“That’s all well and good, but is it going to put food on the table? You have no training or experience. It takes years to build a name for yourself before you start making a living.”
“I know all that, Pa. You’ve said it often enough over the years.” Curt tried to keep the growl out of his voice. Pa meant well, and Ma would be disappointed in him if he showed disrespect to his father, even if the older man refused to understand. “But I found a man in The Dalles—a master craftsman who’s offered to take me on as an apprentice. In four years or so, I could open my own shop, or if I’m good enough, he might take me on as a partner. I could do well for myself and Deborah.”
Pa shook his head. “Four or five years from now you’ll try to start your own business. Until then, you’ll not make any money. The man will feed you and teach you a craft, but that’s all. How can you support a wife and the babies that will follow? Your grandfather tried his hand at furniture making and couldn’t make a living.” He frowned. “And there’s one more thing you’ve given no thought to.”
Curt wondered what could possibly come next. “Yes, sir? And what is that?”
“You don’t share the same faith as Deborah. She’s lived her whole life with an aim to please God, and you’ve spent your whole life pleasing yourself.”
This time Curt couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. Pa was wading in where he didn’t belong. “I attend church with you and Ma.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. Deborah lives out her faith every day. She cares for her ma, she works at the church, and she loves God with a devotion I’ve never seen in someone so young.
“You barely tolerate church and have no relationship with God at all. Oil and water don’t mix, Curt. Deborah loves you now, but if you continue down the path you’ve been walking, rebelling against all she holds dear, you’ll break her heart and destroy that love. Better you let her go while she’s young and still able to find a man who will care for her—one who believes as she does—rather than drag her off to a life of poverty without the strength of a living faith to carry you through the trials that lay ahead.”
“I don’t agree.” Curt kept his tone even while pushing down the anger that simmered inside. “The love we share will overcome anything. She’ll move to The Dalles with me, and we’ll be happy together.”
“So you’ll force her to choose between you and her ailing mother instead of settling down and working her farm?”
“Why does it have to come to that? Maybe her mother would come with us. Have you thought about that? Why should Deborah be the one to sacrifice everything?”
Pa stared down for several moments then finally looked up. “Because even at sixteen years of age, Deborah is the type of woman who will do the right thing. Her father is buried on that land, and it would be hard on her ma to leave. You’ll destroy Deborah’s respect and love for you if you try to force her to do otherwise. Listen to me, boy. Don’t put her in that position.”
Curt clenched his hands then stuffed them into his trouser pockets. “I’ve had enough of this talk. I’m going to see Deborah.”
Pa thumped the palm of his hand against the stall wall. “Don’t be foolish, Son. If you go off half-cocked and leave the farm, don’t come back begging for handouts. You can stay here and work like you ought to, or don’t bother returning.”
Five years later—December 1880
Deborah Summers folded a shawl and tried to smooth out the creases, admiring the intricate flowers Sarah Warren had stitched in each corner. She wanted to do the best she could by Jarrod Warren after all he’d done to help them over the years. The poor man had lost his wife yesterday, and he was in no shape to get his house ready for the service tomorrow.
She placed the shawl in Sarah’s bureau drawer then lifted her head and met her mother’s gaze. “I don’t plan to marry, Ma. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but even if a dozen farmers or store owners offer for my hand, I’ll stay single.”
Her mother sank onto the hand-knitted coverlet draped across
the neatly made bed and sighed. “You should have married Timothy Bates, instead of breaking it off a few weeks before you were to wed. It wasn’t fair, Deborah.”
Deborah bit her lip to keep from saying something she shouldn’t and gave her mother a weak smile.
Ma gripped her shaking hands in her lap and leaned against the ornate headboard. “I’m not long for this world, and I don’t want you left alone when I pass. You’re twenty-one, my dear, and you need a good man to provide for you. We’re not wealthy folks, and I won’t leave you much besides a small farm that barely pays its way.”
Deborah’s brow puckered. She loved her mother but despaired of convincing her she wasn’t on her deathbed. “You aren’t dying, Ma. I know you’ve been weak lately and you lost some weight, but I believe you’re getting better.”
She plucked a stack of lace-edged kerchiefs from their place on a chair arm and moved them to another bureau drawer, wishing Mr. Warren had given better instructions on where he wanted them to store Sarah’s belongings. A trunk lid yawned open against the far wall, and two or three wooden boxes sat empty near the open bedroom door.
Her mother reached out and touched Deborah’s arm, bringing her activity to a halt. “I’ll never get completely well, Deborah—not after having scarlet fever years ago. You avoided my comment about Timothy Bates, Daughter.”
Ma swept a hand around the room. “Even Mr. Warren acknowledges his son isn’t coming back. If the death of his own mother didn’t draw Curt back to Goldendale, then you need to face the fact he’ll never return. It’s been five years since he left. You must move on with your life.”
Deborah winced, not wanting her mother to see how much her well-meaning words had pierced her heart. She fought against the truth in Ma’s comment. Before he’d left, Curt had come to her house and told her he was leaving, that he wasn’t good enough for her, but she couldn’t accept that then and wouldn’t accept it—not ever.
She knew he loved her and had left because he believed it was right, but it stung, nevertheless. She should have had some say in the matter. How could he walk away and not even stay close enough to visit? Worse yet, he’d only written twice after leaving, and not at all in the past four years.
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 25