The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  Following him into the deep snow toward a clump of trees, she spared herself some effort by stepping inside his large footprints.

  “Take the small branches from the bottom.” With a quick twist and snap, he jerked off the tender shoots and cradled them in his arm. Ara had no gloves to protect her from the prickly needles and sticky sap, but she bent beneath the spreading boughs and broke off what she could.

  Watching Nate ahead of her, surrounded as they were by pillowy snow, she gave into a childish urge. Laying her few short branches in a neat pile, she formed a large snowball from stiffer, melting snow, stood up, and took aim. The missile hit him in the neck, and he stopped. Delighted yet terrified, she muffled a shout with icy fingers. He slowly faced her with heat in his eyes and a curl in his lip that she took for a playful threat. Or was it real? She turned and ran.

  His first round hit her squarely in the back of the head, knocking a gasp from her lips. She ducked, but not before a second snowball pummeled her and then a third. Feeling as mature as Coffee’s colt, she took cover behind a wide spruce and began amassing ammunition. During a brief lull in Nate’s barrage, she counted eight snowballs in her cache. Snow crunched behind her, and she turned with a cry.

  Like a hat-wearing grizzly, Nate lunged, knocking her into her carefully piled snowballs. The sound of his laughter set her heart free, and they tossed fistfuls of snow at each other until they fell together, exhausted by their battle. He elbowed himself up and leaned over her, his eyes simmering, his quick breath close and warm. And then he pressed his lips against hers.

  Everything she’d ever wanted pulsed with the heartbeat of this mountain horseman. He drew slowly back and searched her face, his cheeks as red as a robin’s breast. Then he offered his hands to help her stand. Unable to contain herself, she threw her arms around his jacketed waist and laid her head against his shoulder.

  “You’re shivering.”

  With delight. “I don’t have my gloves.”

  He removed his. “Take mine.”

  She slid her fingers into one unmanageable leather casing. “They’ll never work. You keep them.”

  “I’ll get yours.” He cupped her cheek with a hand, and she leaned into his warmth. “Wait here.”

  She nodded and shivered anew when he left her side and trudged off through the snow. Did he know where to look? Stepping forward, she raised her head to call after him, but a different gloved hand clamped across her mouth and nose, cutting off her voice and breath. She fought to free herself, but an arm circled her waist and threw her onto the snow where again her mouth was covered with a smooth doe-skin glove. Her muffled scream and clutching fingers drew a snarling leer across the man’s face.

  How had he found her? And where was his brown bowler?

  Squirming beneath his weight, Ara sank her teeth into the fine leather. He jerked away with a curse. Ara filled her lungs with the burning cold of mountain air and split the sky with her scream.

  Chapter 13

  Nate’s heart and footsteps froze. That was not a playful taunt. Terror cut through the forest beyond the ranch house, and Nate turned and charged down the path he’d just made. Coyotes? A cougar? What had drawn that blood-chilling cry from Ara’s throat?

  He shouldn’t have left her, should have carried her to the house. His hands balled into stony fists as he crashed through the trees, jerking to a rough stop at the sight of a man holding Ara by the waist with a gun at her temple.

  “Stop or she’s done for,” the man yelled.

  Hurt her and you’re bear bait.

  Nate’s breath cut sharp into his chest, and his arms flexed defiantly as he forced himself still. He ached to feel the rough’s neck in his hands.

  Yellow teeth winked beneath a mustached sneer as the man began walking backward, dragging Ara with him. She clawed at his hand.

  “You’ll not be takin’ another step,” her captor shouted.

  He must be the man Ara had told them about, but how had he found her?

  A movement in the trees snatched Nate’s eyes to the left.

  “Don’t be tryin’ to fool me with that old trick.” The scoundrel laughed and squeezed Ara up against himself with a cocky grin. “I know there ain’t no one out here but the two o’ ya.”

  He snickered again. “The lass thought she could fool me, too, but I saw her hidin’ under the wagon. Took me awhile and a bit o’ silver, but I found her, and her uncle will be repayin’ me kindly when I bring her home.”

  Helplessness clutched Nate like an iron spring trap. He spread his open hands waist high to show they were empty. “Don’t shoot.”

  “I won’t if I don’t have to, but if I do, the second bullet is for you.” On the last word, he pointed the muzzle at Nate. Beetle leaped.

  Sharp teeth pierced the thug’s gun hand, and a cracking flash sent a bullet thudding into a tree. Ara broke away and fell to the snow, scrambling on her hands and knees.

  Screaming and cursing, the man dropped the gun and pounded his other fist into Beetle’s head. The dog didn’t weaken but shook the man’s hand as if to tear it from his body.

  “Call him off! Call him off!”

  Nate grabbed the gun and leveled it on the frantic fellow. “Down!” Both Beetle and the man dropped to the snow. Nate slapped his leg, and Beetle ran to him, human blood reddening his lip. Nate held his eye and aim on the weeping man and stooped to pet his dog. “Good boy, Beetle. You’ve earned your keep today.”

  The clearing snow that allowed the bully to reach the ranch also allowed Nate and Buck to haul him back to town trussed up on his horse. Ara insisted she ride along so she could wire Mr. Lancaster and check on her trunk.

  At the depot she eyed the telegraph operator, recognizing him as the man who wouldn’t let her inside on that blustery night so long ago. She wanted to kiss him for his stubbornness, but he was startled enough by her trousers. Instead, she described her trunk and asked if it had been left at the depot. He checked a list of unclaimed items then took her to a small storeroom. Relieved to find it stacked with other forgotten baggage, she drew an earnest promise from him that he would hold it a few days more. Then she dictated a brief apology to Mr. Lancaster regarding her formerly stranded state. She wished him well in finding another tutor, but pressing matters prevented her from taking employment with him.

  Matters like her heart that pressed against her ribs every time a certain lanky horseman looked her way.

  She paid for the telegram and walked the short distance to the jail where Nate and Buck were turning over their prisoner with a less than glowing report of his conduct.

  That evening after supper, Ara pulled on the familiar coat and slipped out to the porch. Countless stars blazed from one horizon to the other—fuller, brighter than any she’d seen in the city. A deep longing surged through her to make those stars her own from this vantage point, and a sigh slipped out in a puff of white as she tugged the wool collar around her neck. Her future was less certain than it had been upon her arrival at the ranch six weeks ago: no employment in Leadville, and no idea of what she would do instead. But peace had settled within her. She was free, her own woman, and the Lord was with her.

  Like an ill-timed intruder, the memory of Nate’s fervent kiss sent shivers up her spine. He loved her. She was certain of it.

  The familiar creak of the wide front door turned her head. Warm light silhouetted a man as he stepped outside. Ara hugged herself to keep her heart inside her chest, but her confidence dissipated in a frosty puff. Perhaps Nate had simply been caught up in the moment and yesterday’s kiss meant nothing after all. The fine hairs on her arms prickled as he approached, and his warm breath at her ear loosed a deep yearning.

  “Cold?”

  Before she could answer, his strong arms enveloped her from behind, and he whispered her name against her hair. “When I came so close to losing you, I knew I couldn’t let you go.”

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, wrapping his arms in her own.

&nb
sp; “Marry me, Ara.”

  As her heart rose to accept, it quivered on a disappointing note. Would he never say he loved her? She turned in the circle of his arms, clinging desperately to her fragile belief that he did. Reaching up she smoothed his mustache then laid her hand on his chest, drawing strength from his steady heartbeat and resigning herself to his ways.

  He looked out at the night, scanning the wide, sparkling band that stretched over the mountains. “Beetle knew it before I did, but he was right.” His eyes returned to her, dark and solemn. “I love you, Arabella Taube.”

  Surprise, relief, and delight flooded her soul, and she threw her head back and laughed at those wonderful words. Pulling her closer, he caught her lips with his own. Her lips, her heart, and her life.

  Epilogue

  Ara tucked Lilly’s note in her coat pocket and met Nate at the wagon for their run to Spruce City. Instead of handing her up, her scooped her into his arms and kissed her soundly before setting her on the bench and joining her there. She took a deep breath and gripped the seat. He may be a man of few words, but he knew perfectly well how to get his point across.

  Beetle sat proudly in the wagon bed, and Rose pranced out of the yard as though confident of her errand—Ara’s trunk, fabric for a wedding dress, and a preacher to do the honors. Nate wrapped his arm around her and tugged her closer, and Beetle bounded over the seat to plant himself beside her. Ara laughed aloud at Nate’s scowl.

  “I hear a war of words between you two.”

  Nate snorted. “He’s too smart for his own good.”

  Ara gave the dog a quick hug. “Well, I’m certainly grateful for him. He saved my life and yours.”

  Another snort. “I had the gent where I wanted him.”

  Rolling her lips to squelch her laughter, she regarded her black-and-white bench mate. “You’ve never told me how Beetle got his name.”

  Nate’s mustache rose on a crooked grin. “He was a sneaky thing as a pup. Waddle up behind you like a beetle without you knowin’ he was there.” Blue eyes studied her with a twinkle in their corners. “Quite the watchdog.”

  Beetle woofed and tilted his snout higher, and Rose flicked her ears at the laughter that rang in the chill morning air.

  By midafternoon they were home, Ara’s arms full of bundled fabric and ribbon as she stepped through the front door of the sprawling log house.

  “Back here.” Lilly called from her room—a room Ara had never entered. She stopped at the threshold, awed by the paintings. In one, a woman and child stood in a meadow, and in another a small dark-haired girl sat in a swing beneath a large tree. Ara’s heart broke with sudden memories of hushed words and shadowed smiles. Swallowing an ache, she stepped into the room.

  Lilly looked up from her treadle sewing machine and caught Ara’s expression. “Her name was Emily. Such a delicate thing.” She set aside her sewing. “These paintings are how I imagine she would have looked had she survived that first hard winter.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ara whispered.

  Lilly pressed her palm to her heart. “We loved Emily for the time she was with us, and I love her still.” She rose and went to her bedside table and picked up a small, fabric-covered box. “Like so many parents who have buried their children in this vast land, I’ve entrusted her to the Lord’s care.”

  Ara set her purchases aside and shrugged out of the heavy coat. Lilly reached for her hand and wrapped Ara’s fingers around the box. “This is for you. I can’t wait for Christmas Eve.”

  Ara warmed beneath Lilly’s smile and thought of the burgundy silk cord and brocade she’d bought to make a small reticule for this gracious woman.

  “Please, open it.”

  Ara drew off the white satin ribbon and removed the lid. Two porcelain doves perched on a polished wooden base, so lifelike that their unheard cooing hung in the air. She lifted them from their velvet-lined nest and glanced up to see joy brimming in Lilly’s eyes.

  Ara’s throat tightened. “They are exquisite.”

  “Nathaniel gave them to me on our wedding day.” Again her fingers rubbed a spot above her heart, and a youthful memory warmed her eyes. “He said I was his fair dove.”

  “Oh, Lilly, this is too much—”

  She shook her head, cutting off Ara’s protest. “I have long asked the Lord to bring Nate a dove of his own. I just did not expect her to come in the back of the wagon.”

  Laughter eased Ara’s discomfort and brought a light to Lilly’s eyes. “You are that dove, Ara. I knew it the night he carried you in, wrapped in that old dirty tarp.” Lilly swiped her cheeks with a quick hand. “I knew as soon as he told me your name.”

  Ara’s breath caught. So accustomed to her German surname, she rarely if ever thought of its meaning. “Taube,” she whispered. “Dove.”

  Lilly smiled and pulled Ara into her arms with a laughing sob. “The Lord brought you to us, Ara. He answered my prayers and brought my Nate a dove.”

  On Christmas Eve’s eve, Buck replaced the New Haven clock on the mantel with his hand-carved figures and arranged the pieces just so. Ara scattered cedar twigs and pinecones among them. When she finished, he pulled a handful of sweet grass hay from his pocket, gently lifted the sleeping figure, and filled the manger before returning the Babe to His bed. Ara linked her arm through Buck’s and gave it a squeeze. “It’s perfect. What a wonderful talent you have.”

  His whiskers puffed out, and his eyes twinkled. “That’s not all I’ve got.” From his shirt pocket he pulled a mistletoe sprig with red yarn tied round the end. Then he tacked it to the low beam between the parlor and the entryway and gave Ara a wink.

  She laughed behind her hands and hurried to the kitchen. They would celebrate that night with wild turkey and stuffing, squash and beans, pies and cookies, and enough cider and stout coffee to serve all of Spruce City. And well they might, for on Christmas Eve after the service, Ara would wed Nathaniel Horne II.

  The next evening, the small church was alight with candles on the altar, the windowsills, and small tables against the walls. Pine boughs and red ribbons adorned the pews and perfumed the air with promise. Ara and Lilly stood at the back as Nate and Buck took their places in front, dwarfing the dear pastor. Ara smoothed her creamy satin dress marveling at the delicate doves Lilly had embroidered on each sleeve and the white fur muff the woman had pressed upon her.

  With a catch in her heart, Ara gazed at the strapping cowboy who stood so straight and tall, like a mighty pine. Lilly touched her arm and placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. “Welcome to the family, Ara. The Lord continues to bless us.”

  Ara blinked away her tears. “Merry Christmas, Lilly.”

  At her cue, Ara stepped into the aisle and halted in surprise as the congregation rose and began singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Nate’s face lit with delight, and he tilted his head back to join in on “tidings of comfort and joy.” His may not have been the most perfect pitch, but his deep voice flooded Ara with exactly what the song declared—comfort and joy. As she gained the front of the sanctuary and stretched her hand toward the man who held her heart, Ara thrilled to know exactly what it felt like to fly on wings like a dove.

  About the Author

  Davalynn Spencer is the wife and mother of professional rodeo bullfighters. She writes Western romance and inspirational nonfiction and teaches writing at Pueblo Community College. She and her handsome cowboy have three children, four grandchildren, and live on Colorado’s Front Range with a Queensland heeler named Blue. Find her at www.davalynnspencer.com.

  The Yuletide Bride

  by Michelle Ule

  For Rachel Durham, And the fine musicians of St. Mark Lutheran Church Including Lynn, David, Marianne, Lou, Helen, and the Jubilate choir

  Chapter 1

  Fairhope, Nebraska, 1873

  Ewan Murray’s fingers shook so much, he had trouble tightening the tuning nut on his fiddle. After four long months, the moment he’d dreamed of beckoned. Surely she wouldn’t be late to
church.

  He plucked the strings, winced at one out of tune, adjusted the instrument, and picked up the horsehair bow. When the front door opened, a breeze blew in the scent of ripening corn, and Ewan’s heart began to hammer.

  “As soon as the MacDougalls are seated, you can start,” Reverend Cummings said. “We’re pleased to have you and your violin back.”

  Ewan nodded, but he scarcely took in the words, so transfixed was he by the refined young woman coming down the aisle behind her burly father. With her auburn hair swept into a knot, his childhood playmate, Kate MacDougall, had grown into a woman.

  Her eyes widened. He laughed to watch her bite back a delighted squeal. She’d seen him, too.

  With bow poised over the strings, he waited as Kate, her older brother, Malcolm, and their parents filed into a second-row pew. Kate smoothed her blue silk skirt and lifted her face—and heart, he was sure of it—to him as he slid through the opening notes of “Amazing Grace.”

  Had he ever played with such emotion? Ewan’s heart soared with joy and hope, God’s grace bestowed upon the hundred church members, and for Kate.

  He played only for her.

  And God, of course!

  Reverend Cummings raised an eyebrow at Ewan’s breathless finish. Ewan took a seat in the first pew, acutely aware of Kate directly behind him. He struggled to concentrate, but eventually God’s Word focused his thoughts and he spoke the Lord’s Prayer with enthusiasm. The sermon, as always, engaged his mind and left him excited at what God had ordained for him.

  And for Kate, too. He tossed a sly look over his shoulder.

  She dimpled. He caught a whiff of lilac.

  Duncan MacDougall cleared his throat. Ewan faced forward.

  During the passing of the plate, Ewan played “Blest Be the Tie That Binds,” lingering perhaps too long on the vibrato, but happiness swelled and he could scarce contain himself.