by Kit Morgan
The standing miners stepped back in shock, having never seen the mild-mannered Rev. Hammond act that way before. “Boys, I don’t think she’s up for grabs,” one of the older ones stated.
“Yeah, that’s obvious,” chimed in a scruffy-looking man missing half his teeth. “Whyn’tcha tell us she was yers now, Preacher?”
Chase continued to glare, their words not registering. But behind him, Felicity heard loud and clear. “What did you say?” she asked.
“Looks like you’re marryin’ the preacher,” the older miner said. He looked at the other men at his table. “How’s that work, anyways? Can a preacher marry hisself?”
Chase stepped back, his arms out to either side, still shielding Felicity. “Are you all right?” he said over his shoulder.
“Yes,” she said absentmindedly.
He breathed a sigh of relief and without thinking, turned and pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right. They make a lot of bluster, but one never knows.”
She made a soft sound, but he couldn’t tell if she was trying to say something or not.
“What was that?” He suddenly realized his eyes were closed, and he was enjoying the feel of her in his arms. “Great Scott!” He looked to see Felicity gazing up at him, and jumped away, realizing how holding her must look.
Everyone in the saloon was still watching them. “Ain’t no shame in huggin’ yer bride, Rev,” someone said.
“But she’s … she’s …” Chase stopped and gaped at her. She was staring back in bewilderment, and something else …
“I still don’t see how he can marry hisself,” the older miner repeated. But it sounded far away. Everything did – the men, the scrape of chairs scooting away from tables.
“Chase?” she said, blue eyes wide.
“Felicity,” he whispered in return. Good Lord, how had this happened? He suddenly noticed everything about her: how her hair framed her face, how her eyes held deeper flecks of violet, how her dark lashes contrasted with that creamy skin, her lips, the lovely curve of neck and shoulder. By Heaven, she was beautiful. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, one thought in his mind: Charlie, you’re an idiot.
But that didn’t mean he had to be one too.
“Ah, that’s a lovely sight, Reverend!” Seamus called from across the room.
Chase felt cold air and realized the saloon doors were opening and closing. Folks were filing in for the Christmas service. He blinked a few times in an attempt to pull his gaze from Felicity’s, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t look away, not when he’d just come to realize … “Oh. My. Lord.”
“Indeed,” she whispered so softly he wondered if he’d heard her. She swallowed hard. “Chase …” came out as a breathy whisper as she moved closer to him. Her eyes implored him to say something, anything. Had she’d been hit with the same revelation?
“Felicity … I …” Finally he managed to look up, and saw the saloon half full of people by now. Some of the brides were there, as were several of the grooms. And everyone was watching them.
Then Mrs. Walters entered, took one look at him, narrowed her eyes and headed straight over. “Rev. Hammond!”
Instinctively, Chase took the same stance he had with the ill-mannered miners. He put Felicity behind him and prepared to face this new foe.
Mrs. Walters reached him. “Well? What have you to say?”
Chase stood a moment in silence before answering, “Plenty,” and turned to Felicity. “Miss Felicity Partridge, you’d make me the happiest man in the world if you’d consent to be my wife.”
“Rev. Hammond!” Mrs. Walters huffed.
“I know we’ve only been acquainted a day …”
“Rev. Hammond?” Mrs. Walters repeated.
“… but I find you to be everything I’d want in a wife. Would you marry me?”
Felicity stared at him in shock. So did Mrs. Walters, but Felicity spoke first. “You do? Everything?”
He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Every minute we’ve spent together I saw more and more of you …”
“Rev. Hammond …” Mrs. Walters said in warning.
Felicity spun and clamped a hand over Mrs. Walters’ mouth. “Not right now,” she hissed in the other woman’s ear.
“Pfemiffipy?” Mrs. Walters replied in surprise.
Chase turned to Mrs. Walters as well. “Dear woman, can’t you see I’m trying to make things right? The mayor doesn’t wish to marry, but Miss Partridge would make a wonderful pastor’s wife. She’s competent, kind to a fault, giving, fights for others, has no shortage of courage …”
“Wevemenp Mammonp!”
“Um …” Chase glanced at Felicity, who raised an eyebrow, then took her hand from Mrs. Walters’ mouth.
Mrs. Walters took a deep breath to calm herself and continued sharply. “I am well aware of Miss Partridge’s attributes, Reverend. Of yours, I’m not so sure.”
Felicity stepped beside him and wrapped an arm through his. “He’s all those things he said about me.” She looked up at him. “And more. We’re so much alike …”
“All well and good, dear, but the two of you don’t seem to realize that you cannot marry.”
“Why not?” Felicity asked.
Mrs. Walters pointed at Chase. “Because he’s the minister! Who’s going to perform the ceremony?”
Chase and Felicity looked at each other.
“See, I knew it, I knew it!” the older miner said to his fellows.
Chase furrowed his brow, then realized he already had a solution. “You really want to marry me, Felicity?”
“Oh yes. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. We both have the same vision, you and I. We want to make things better. Why not start here?”
He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
She smiled back, a tear in her eye. Then her face fell. “But Mrs. Walters is right. You can’t marry us!
Chase laughed. “No, but I know who can.” He looked at the crowd watching them. “Where’s Judge Whipple?”
The residents of Noelle glanced at one another and began shrugging and shaking their heads.
“Oh no – don’t tell me he’s left town!” He turned to Felicity. “Don’t move – I’ll be right back!” He tore out of the saloon like his pants were on fire.
Mrs. Walters shook her head and turned to Felicity. “Are you sure about this?”
Felicity smiled. “As sure as I’ll ever be. How did I not see it? It was right in front of me all this time. The perfect man for me …” She trailed off with a happy sigh.
Mrs. Walters shook her head again. “He won’t be so perfect if he doesn’t find that judge.”
Felicity glanced between Mrs. Walters and the saloon doors only once before running after him.
* * *
“Judge Whipple!” Chase called. He’d checked Nacho’s place first, but of course the restaurant was closed. And the judge’s horse wasn’t at the livery. “No, no, please …” He ran up the main street, turned down the next and headed for the only other place the judge was likely to be.
“Why, Rev. Hammond,” Madame Bonheur purred as she opened the door. “I’m surprised to find you on my doorstep.”
Chase leaned over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Where’s … Judge Whipple?”
“The judge? Why would you think he’s here?”
Chase looked up at her as if to say who do you think you’re fooling?
She leaned against the doorjamb and nodded in resignation. “All right, Reverend – he’s in the kitchen with Milly, the cook. She always makes mashed potatoes for him – potatoes don’t pain his belly like some other foods.”
Chase smiled in relief. “Of course. Can you fetch him for me?”
“Certainly.” She went back into the building, slamming the door in Chase’s face.
He’d barely had time to recover when Felicity reached his side. “Chase!”
“Felicity, I told you to stay put.”
She fell into his a
rms. “Oh, Chase, I couldn’t stay behind. What if we can’t get married?”
He smiled once more. He was finding he smiled a lot when he was with her. “Don’t worry, he’s here.” He tucked a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. “You’re sure?”
Her eyes roamed his face. “Yes. Very sure.”
“Well, then.” Their kiss was gentle at first, a promise of what was to come, but it grew. Soon she was locked in his embrace, a willing prisoner.
The door to the temporary brothel opened. “Ahem,” Judge Whipple growled, then turned to Madame Bonheur. “Is this the happy couple?”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Hm. Well, then. Since they’re otherwise engaged, maybe I can finish that glass of buttermilk …”
Chase and Felicity came up for air. “No!” they said, breathless.
“Drat. I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Marry us,” Chase said, “And I’ll see you get all the potatoes and buttermilk you can eat.”
Judge Whipple eyed him. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”
“Deal?” Felicity said, confused.
“The judge bet me there wouldn’t be a wedding today,” Chase explained. “If there was, he’d drum up volunteers to build the church.”
“And since it looks like you’re going to make me pay up, you don’t need to throw anything in,” Whipple added. “Not that I mind. At least the food here is better than that horrible stuff I suffered a few months ago at that wedding up in …” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to recall. “…Washington Territory, that’s right. Man by the name of Weaver.”
“That’s all well and good, Judge, but we’d like to get married now,” Chase urged.
“Oh, very well.” He turned to Madame Bonheur. “Put my glass in the icebox, would you? And give, uh, Milly my thanks.”
The madam smiled. “I will.”
He turned back to Chase and Felicity. “Well, don’t just stand there! Let’s get the two of you hitched!”
* * *
“And now, by the power vested in me by the state of Colorado, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Judge Whipple boomed. “You may kiss your bride.”
A cheer went up as Chase took Felicity into his arms and gave her their second kiss of the evening. He’d already gave his sermon, one he’d thought long and hard on before the brides came to Noelle, about recognizing and receiving what God offered. Most folks missed the blessings the Almighty set in front of them. He ought to know – he’d almost missed Felicity.
Chase broke the kiss. “I’ll do my best to be a good husband,” he whispered in her ear.
“And I’ll be a good wife, I hope.”
He drew back from her. “You hope?”
“Well, there are things to think about. If we’re going to make something of this town, we have to see it in the best possible light and make others see it too.”
“I already see it that way. Don’t tell me you need more convincing?”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head, then turned to face the crowded saloon. “But they will.” Her eyes drifted to the Christmas tree, still undecorated. A blank canvas, much like the town.
Chase put an arm around his new wife. “And so we agree.” He turned back to her. “Well, Mrs. Hammond, are you ready to get to work?”
She smiled shyly just as Judge Whipple hustled from the saloon. “Where’s he going?”
“Back to his buttermilk, no doubt.”
She laughed. “Too bad we haven’t anything to put under the tree for him … huh!”
“What?” Chase followed her gaze.
“The Christmas tree. There was nothing on it a moment ago, and now … look.”
He did. A wooden ornament hung from a front branch. A bird. A partridge.
“Well, I’ll be.” Without warning, Chase scooped her into his arms, much to the delight of the onlookers. The hoots and hollers started, followed by a gunshot or two, a wail from Seamus, and another from Felicity. “Chase! What are you doing?”
“Taking you someplace quiet,” he said as he ascended the stairs. “I have a strong feeling we’re not going to have a moment’s peace until each and every mail-order bride is wed. And we’ve got just twelve days to do it.”
“Eleven now,” she corrected.
Chase thought a moment. “Technically, eleven and a quarter.”
“Eleven and a quarter,” she said softly and wrapped her arms around his neck. The celebration of their vows continued behind them with Seamus’ cry of “Drinks on the house!”
Chase carried her to the door of his room. “I don’t know about you,” he said, ignoring the noise downstairs. “But I intend to make the best of that quarter while we can.”
She smiled. Then her eyes widened. “Did you see Mayor Hardt?”
“Charlie? Never mind about him – he had his chance.” Chase turned the doorknob with one hand and nudged it open with his foot. He carried her inside and kissed her soundly before kicking the door closed behind them and setting his new bride on her feet.
Felicity studied his room a moment. “Chase, what happens now?”
“We get to know each other better, then we begin to set the example.”
“Example?”
“Yes. We discovered we were both what we wanted, albeit just in the nick of time. Now we can help the others along. One wedding down, eleven to go.”
“I think that might be easier said than done,” she said with a wince.
Chase blanched. “Why do you say that?”
“Wellll …”
“You know, don’t tell me tonight.” He pulled her into his arms again. “Tonight it’s just you and me. Merry Christmas, Felicity Hammond.”
She smiled, hearing her new name. “Merry Christmas, dear husband,” she replied before he kissed her again.
Chase would call it divine intervention. Charlie might call it luck. But here he was, kissing a true gift from God. He just hoped he had what it took to see the remaining brides and grooms married.
He opened one eye, took a look at the clock on the wall and closed it again. Best he use the last quarter of the day to their advantage.
What’s Next
The Dove
Twelve Day of Christmas Mail Order Brides
The Second Day
by
USA Today Bestselling Author
SHANNA HATFIELD
An Introduction
Denver, Colorado
Autumn 1876
Soap suds crawled up her arms and clung to the front of her stained apron as Kezia Mirga buried her hands in a sink full of dirty dishes. Her chapped, reddened hands stung each time she plunged them into the hot water. She pulled out another plate and rinsed it, adding it to the growing pile of clean dishes stacked on the counter waiting to be dried and put away for the night.
With the back of her wet hand, she brushed a lock of raven hair away from her face and stretched her sore back before reaching into the water for another plate to rinse. She hated working in the hotel restaurant’s kitchen, slaving away washing dirty dishes, but she didn’t have many choices. A woman alone with no formal education couldn’t be choosy when it came to honest, gainful employment.
If she was alone, without any responsibilities, she might quit and see what sort of adventure she could find. But that wasn’t to be. Not when she had a great responsibility riding on her shoulders.
A slight cooing sound from the corner drew her gaze to a large wooden crate. Although it once held sacks of sugar, it now sheltered her most precious possession.
“What is it, little dove?” Kezia asked, love softening the ever-deepening lines of worry on her face.
One of the waitresses breezed into the kitchen with another order. She gave it to the cook then turned and bent over the crate. “How are you, little Jemimah? You’re smile is almost as bright as summer sunshine,” the woman said, lifting the baby in her arms and cuddling her close. “Are you being a good girl while your mama wash
es all those nasty dishes?”
The baby cooed again as the waitress kissed her cheek. “You’re just so scrumptious, Jem, I could eat you with a spoon. Yes, you are, you beautiful girl. Why, you’re the best baby in the world. ”
Kezia looked to her friend and smiled. “Sally, you are going to spoil her the way you lavish attention on her every time you have a minute to spare.”
Sally blew softly on the baby’s neck then made silly faces at the little one. “She deserves all the attention she receives and then some. She really is such a sweet, sweet baby, Kezia.”
“I’ve been blessed by her in so many ways.” Kezia glanced over at her tiny daughter. “She’s so good-natured and hardly ever fusses.”
“It’s a good thing she is, or you wouldn’t be able to keep her here in the kitchen like a stray puppy,” the cook groused as she ladled gravy over a mound of creamy potatoes. “Now, quit wasting time with her and get back to work.” The crotchety woman held out the plate to Sally and tipped her head toward the kitchen door. “Scoot!”
Kezia wiped her hands on her apron and took Jemimah from Sally, holding her baby close. She bent her head and breathed in the heavenly scent of the little one, filling her nose and heart with the fragrance. She checked Jemimah’s diaper, and finding her dry, rocked her gently for few moments.
Sally rushed back into the kitchen with another order. She gave it to the cook then walked over to where Kezia held the baby near the blanket-lined crate.
Jemimah’s eyelashes fluttered against her rosy cheeks as she drifted off to sleep.
“What am I going to do when she gets a little bigger?” The desperation she felt edged into her voice. “Who would have thought it would be nearly impossible for a widow with a new baby to find a job?”
Sally leaned closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You should go see Mrs. Walters at the Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs. I heard she’s looking for women to go to a remote mining town as mail-order brides. If you’re willing to marry a stranger, you might be able to provide Jem with a better future than growing up in this hot, stuffy kitchen.”