His Christmas Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch (Spicy Version) Book 9)

by Merry Farmer

  His Christmas Bride

  Merry Farmer

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  HIS CHRISTMAS BRIDE

  Copyright ©2016 by Merry Farmer

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B01N0OMHQB

  Paperback:

  ISBN-13: 9781540898579

  ISBN-10: 1540898571

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

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  Created with Vellum

  For Butterfly

  It might be hard to imagine, but I somehow found the strength to write this book with my dear, sweet kitten of 12 years slowly fading on the couch beside me.

  She passed away the day I finished the book.

  She’ll be missed!

  Chapter 1

  Haskell, Wyoming – December, 1876

  Rev. George Pickering stood on the platform of Haskell’s train station, bundled against the cold nip in the air. The scent of imminent snow filled his senses, and he hunkered down into the scarf wound around his neck. He’d had the foresight to dress warmly enough so that he wasn’t standing there shivering as he waited for his mail-order bride to arrive on the next train, but even if he hadn’t, embarrassment would have kept him warm as toast.

  Half of Haskell had turned out to wait with him.

  “This is so exciting,” ranch-owner Virginia Piedmont commented to her best friend, Josephine Evans. The two women were liaisons with Hurst Home, the safe place for women in Nashville where most of the mail-order brides who had come to Haskell were from. They were the only ones who had a right to be there. Not that that stopped the others.

  “I know,” Jill Abernathy, the wife of one of Haskell’s two doctors answered. “Imagine, our very own reverend finding true love at last.”

  George sent her a modest smile, though he could barely manage that. Sending for a bride in the mail was hardly a recipe for true love. He hadn’t asked for that and he didn’t expect it. All he wanted was a companion to share his load, both temporally and spiritually. He’d agonized for weeks over whether it was cold-hearted of him to bring in a woman to marry simply because his congregation was getting bigger by the day and he needed help ministering to them. But help was needed. And his hope was that he and the woman Mrs. Breashears had picked out for him from the many unfortunate women taking refuge at Hurst Home would be someone he could come to care for deeply, make a life with, have children with. He’d always pictured himself as a father.

  “Oh! I think I hear the train whistle,” Josephine announced.

  A ripple went through the crowd—and it was a crowd—behind George. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the faint shriek of the train sounded faintly in the distance. George took a deep breath. This was it. His new wife was on the way. He prayed that this time his wedding would go better than the last time.

  “Ah, Rev. Pickering. There you are.”

  George turned to find Howard Haskell striding toward him, the crowd parting as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea. A tall, somber man in black with a thick beard walked slightly behind him.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Rev. Alexander Robbins,” Howard went on before he’d fully reached George. When he did, he stopped and gestured toward Rev. Robbins as though showing off a prize bull. “He’s the minister I’ve brought in to perform your wedding ceremony.”

  George smiled and extended a hand to Robbins. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for stepping in to help.”

  “It is important for a man to be married properly in the eyes of God.” Robbins shook George’s offered hand, his grip almost too firm. His voice was solid and deep as well. Everything about him radiated stoicism and severity. “As God has decreed, it is better to marry than burn,” Robbins raised his voice, drawing the attention of some of the onlookers. “So you shall be married in His eyes and according to His laws, avoiding the sinful path that is so easy for man to walk.”

  George blinked. “Yes.”

  Howard raised a brow at the man, as if he was unsure whether to be shocked or impressed. A moment later, he cleared his throat. “Rev. Robbins here comes highly recommended by some of my new associates in the Wyoming Stock Growers Association.”

  “Isn’t the WSGA that horrible organization that Rex Bonneville belongs to?” Josephine asked.

  “It is,” Virginia—who was Howard’s sister—answered with a snort. “I told him not to join.”

  “Unfortunately, my dear,” Howard grumbled, “it’s become apparent to me that all ranch owners worth their salt who want to be a voice in this territory must belong to the WSGA.”

  “Oh, dear,” Josephine sighed.

  The train whistle sounded again, closer this time, bringing George and everyone else back to the moment at hand. He sent Robbins a nod and a smile, hoping it wasn’t too dismissive, and turned to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked down the train tracks.

  The tracks had originally been built to one side of town, meaning that the entire town of Haskell rested on the north side of the tracks. Up until recently, everything on the south side had been privately owned ranchland, uninhabited except for an occasional drifter or two setting up a tent when the weather was fine. But just a month before, Robert Petty, the old man who owned the land, had sold a huge parcel to Rupert Cole. Rupert was not only the husband of one of George’s oldest friends, Bonnie, he was also half of a construction company that operated out of Everland, a town down the line from Haskell. Already, the land on the opposite side of the tracks was laid out with parcels for half a dozen buildings, and George had it on good authority that Rupert was planning to build even more.

  “Margaret says she’s the sweetest thing.”

  George yanked his thoughts out of speculation about Haskell’s imminent growth and paid attention to the conversation Virginia, Josephine, and Mrs. Abernathy continued to have just behind him.

  “She is.” Eden Chance wedged her way through the crowd to join the conversation, her baby on her hip. “Holly was one of the sweetest gir
ls I knew back at Hurst Home. I’m so excited she’s coming here.”

  “Such a tragic history, though,” Josephine went on. “Although all of you ladies from Hurst Home have tragic histories.”

  “That’s the point of the place, I suppose.” Mrs. Abernathy nodded sagely.

  “And yet, every one of the women who have come out here to marry one of our boys has turned out to be a splendid person,” Virginia added.

  “And we’re all so grateful for it,” Eden said. She bounced her baby boy and grinned. “Every one of us has been blessed with the life we’ve found here.”

  “I’ve no doubt Holly Hannigan will be the same,” Josephine said. “Margaret writes that she’s a quiet sort, somber after an unhappy marriage.”

  A knot formed in George’s gut. Unhappy was the ladies’ code for cruel and abusive. Margaret Breashears had made no secret of the fact that Holly had endured much pain in her first marriage, that fear of bodily harm was what had driven the poor woman to flee from her husband. The brutish husband in question had died several months after Holly took shelter at Hurst Home, but that was as much as George knew.

  “I’m certain she’ll make a perfect minister’s wife,” Virginia continued. “Margaret says she’s pretty and intelligent, that she’s efficient and helpful. Apparently, she once worked in a shop.”

  “She did,” Eden confirmed. “Her family owned the store where she worked, and a couple more besides.”

  A prickle raced down George’s back. He shrugged it off. It must just be the chill and the threat of snow in the air. Beyond that, it had to be a coincidence. He’d known a woman named Holly once. Before, in his old life. She’d been a shop girl too. She’d almost been his wife. She would have been his wife. His entire life would have been drastically different…if she hadn’t left him at the altar.

  “Those are all skills that will come in handy for the position she will hold in this town,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Don’t you think so, Rev. Pickering?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” He smiled at the three women, but a growing sense of foreboding filled his gut. The world was filled with women named Holly. The Holly he’d known was in Baltimore, not Nashville. She had a family who, he had to admit, was more involved in her life than he knew he would have been comfortable with. His Holly—no, not his Holly—would never have ended up cast out and dependent on the kindness of strangers in a place like Hurst Home. She would be wrapped up tight in cotton-wool, her fickle nose in the air as she plotted what other men she could make dance on her string and then dash to pieces when she left them, gaping like a fool, at the front of a church filled with friends and—

  No. He let out a breath, forcing out the tension that had slammed into him as old resentment reared its ugly head. He wasn’t being fair to the Holly he’d known. He’d had more than a decade to think about that miserable day, and even though he was a long way from forgiveness, he could at least understand the pressure that Holly had been under. He could—

  “My, my, Rev. Pickering.” Virginia laughed and swatted his arm. “You’re clearly a thousand miles away when you should be right here.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He shook himself back to attention.

  “He’s probably daydreaming about his darling Christmas present,” Josephine giggled.

  “Don’t worry, George.” Howard stepped up and slapped him on the back. “I’m sure she’s as pretty as a picture.”

  “Oh, she is,” Eden said.

  “A woman’s appearance is irrelevant,” Robbins added. “If she is hardworking and without sin, she is a gift from God.”

  George wasn’t sure he liked the condescending tilt of Robbin’s head, but he was right about a good woman being a gift from God. Whether it was right of him to think so or not, he had devoted the last ten years of his life to God, fulfilling the promise he made the night of the fire that nearly took his life, Bonnie Cole’s life, and the life of so many other women in Denver, and it seemed fitting that he should be blessed with a good woman by his side in return.

  Robbins looked as though he wanted to launch into a sermon right then and there on the train platform, but the train whistle blew, so close that several of the people waiting clapped their hands to their ears. They all stepped back, letting the train roll into place at the station. Haskell wasn’t the only thing getting bigger. The trains coming through lately had consisted of more and more cars—passenger, baggage, and cargo. Athos Strong and his oldest son, Hubert, jumped into action, along with the new porter—Arthur something. George had yet to learn the names of all of the new people in town.

  With a last squeal of the brakes and hissing steam, the train came to a full stop. Immediately, porters and passengers stepped down from the cars, rushing about their business. Several of the passengers jolted in surprise at the sheer number of people waiting to greet them, then chuckled when they realized those people weren’t waiting for them.

  George was clearly the center of attention. As more and more people stepped off the train, his friends stepped back, making a noticeable circle around him. He’d been informed that Holly Hannigan would be easy to spot in a crowd, as she had a thick streak of pure white that stood out against the rest of her dark hair. And so he waited, glancing hopefully at each woman who stepped off the train. Any moment now his life would change forever. Any moment he would meet the woman who would become his wife before the day was out, who would hopefully become his helpmeet and the mother of his children. Was it madness to marry a total stranger? Would she realize who he was, even though everyone else on the platform would be quick to help her figure that out if she didn’t? Would the first meeting be awkward?

  His racing mind stopped dead the instant he saw her. The noise and excitement of the crowd behind him flashed to nothing as she appeared in the doorway, then slowly stepped down onto the platform. He ceased to feel the cold or smell the snow. Everything stopped as she glanced up and met his eyes. So much for worrying about whether she would recognize him. So much for worrying about marrying a stranger.

  “Holly.” The name echoed like a siren, even though he whispered.

  “George,” she answered, her gaze steady even though her face was pale splotched with pink.

  She’d lost weight, gained lines around her eyes and mouth, but she was every bit as beautiful as the day she’d left him. Her lips were just as soft in their Cupid’s bow shape as the last time he’d kissed them. And once again, the arrow that pierced his heart ripped him open.

  Holly was all too aware of the multitude of curious people witnessing what was sure to be the most painful moment of her life. She’d seen them from the train’s window, and had nearly lost her nerve and hidden under her seat. It didn’t matter that she spotted her dear friend Eden in the crowd, and Corva and Wendy as well, she still wanted to call the whole thing off. But no, she’d come to Haskell for one purpose and one purpose only, and it wasn’t marriage.

  “It’s good to see you again.” Her voice sounded hoarse and distant. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You look well.”

  He didn’t answer. He merely stood there and stared at her, stricken.

  She wrung her hands, panic welling up from her gut. This was all going so much worse than she’d imagined it. What possessed her to think that she could barge back into George’s life, lay her most heartfelt apology at his feet without expectation of anything more, and make things better? And why didn’t he say something, anything?

  Holly thought she would go mad with suspense, when finally, one of the older ladies watching blurted, “You two know each other?”

  Holly lifted her brow just enough to question George. He took a long breath that seemed to bring him back to life, then answered, “Yes.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd. “They know each other,” someone said.

  “How could they know each other?” someone else answered.

  “Well, Rev. Pickering grew up back East.”

  “Did they know each other as kids?”

>   “What’s going on?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Rev. Pickering in your letters?” Eden asked.

  “I…” She didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t even certain how she should be greeting Eden.

  There wasn’t time to figure it out. Questions bounced around the curious onlookers, and within seconds, everyone was staring twice as hard at Holly and George. Holly fought the urge to stare back at them, or turn to Eden. She didn’t want to miss a single bit of George’s reaction.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, too quiet for any but a few of the nosy people watching to hear.

  It was the question Holly had expected him to ask. She’d rehearsed her answer over and over along the journey from Nashville. “I had to come,” she explained, grasping her hands so tightly in front of her that they started to tingle. “When…when Mrs. Breashears said she’d found a husband for me, if I was willing, I was so happy. Then she told me your name. I couldn’t believe it. I thought it had to be a coincidence. Maybe it was just a big coincidence.”

  “Or something,” George said, jaw tight.

  Several people behind him leaned in to hear the conversation. A few whispered details back to those standing behind. It was getting harder for Holly to ignore them.

  “I asked more questions to be sure it was you,” she went on. “When I was satisfied that you were, in fact, you, I knew that I had to take this opportunity.”

  “For what?” George’s voice was icy with forced calm. “To jilt me at the altar a second time?”

  Gasps rose from the women standing closest to George—so close now that a stiff wind would have blown them right into him. They turned and whispered to their neighbors, who murmured to those a row behind them, who carried the information out to the fringes until someone loudly said, “She jilted him at the altar before?”