Mountain Christmas Brides

by Mildred Colvin

  He nodded.

  “He said faith in action is trusting God with our future even when our prayers aren’t answered.” Her gaze focused on where he’d turned his hand enough to touch the inside of her wrist, yet she didn’t draw away. “I am trying to trust. I also need to know that I have reason to hope my future will include—”

  “Mr. Renier!” Miss Leonard called out.

  Larkin pulled away, leaving E.V.’s skin chilled despite the unseasonable warmth in the barn. She turned from him and smiled at Miss Leonard. “Is there a problem?”

  Miss Leonard stopped too close to E.V. for his comfort, but the table on his left blocked him from moving away. “Daddy needs to speak to you.”

  “About?”

  She playfully tapped his arm. “About trees, silly.”

  E.V. took a leisurely bite of an egg salad sandwich. After a quick grimace, he chewed, swallowed, then muttered, “Miss Whitworth and I are in a conversation,” before finishing off the bland sandwich.

  “Daddy said now.”

  Annoyed by her demanding tone, E.V. reached behind him to pat the table in search of a punch cup. He wasn’t their lackey. “Give me a moment, will you please?”

  While Larkin refilled his drink, Miss Leonard’s lips pursed, and if he were a gambling man, he’d swear one of her feet was tapping impatiently on the straw-covered barn floor.

  “Fine. But do know if Daddy feels you aren’t serious about working with him, he has an increased offer from a more established and experienced mill that he’d be a fool not to accept. Good day, Mr. Renier.” Without even sparing Larkin an I acknowledge your presence glance, she swiveled on her heel and began walking away.

  E.V. looked across the barn to spy Leonard’s ashen-blond, oiled head. The man stood at least half a foot taller than any other man in the room. He was speaking to the other two sawmill owners in town. The shorter, sour-faced one was currently buying Leonard’s lumber; the taller, heavily-wrinkled-despite-his-age man was the one E.V. had heard was also courting Leonard’s business. His competition.

  Panic welled in E.V.’s chest. Earlier this week, Leonard vowed he’d make a decision who to make a new lumber contract with at the wedding reception. So far, he had yet to say a word on the subject to E.V.

  Help me, Lord. I need his lumber.

  “Wait, Miss Leonard!” Once she halted, E.V. took the drink Larkin offered and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “This is important. I have to—I can’t lose—”

  “Mr. Renier,” Miss Leonard said in that increasingly shrill voice of hers, “Daddy isn’t as patient as I am.”

  E.V. grimaced.

  Larkin waved him away. “Go on. What I wanted to say can wait.”

  “Are you sure?”

  With a soft curve to her lips, she nodded.

  E.V. downed the apricot-flavored punch as quickly as he could. “Don’t leave. We haven’t had our dance yet.”

  Larkin took his plate and empty punch cup and said nothing, which was something E.V. loved about her. Unlike most females, especially the verbose Miss Leonard, Larkin spoke only what needed to be said and not to fill silence.

  “You’re a gem.” After snatching two of the remaining sandwiches off his plate, E.V. leaned forward to place a kiss on Larkin’s cheek when he remembered Miss Leonard and no telling how many others watched them. He drew back. Until he secured her father’s approval, he wouldn’t do anything to slight Larkin’s reputation or her family’s honor. “I won’t be gone long.”

  She merely nodded again.

  E.V. caught up to Miss Leonard and walked with her to her father, who stood talking to the two sawmill owners. Unlike Jake Pearson and Harvey Milton, who seemed to have found other females to dance with, David Bollen stood against the barn wall glaring, it seemed, at E.V.

  Mr. Leonard stopped talking and patted E.V.’s shoulder. “Nice to see you again, son. Burr, Odell, and I were discussing how focused you’ve been in building up your sawmill these last two years. Took Burr four years to achieve the same production level. Took Odell, here, seven.”

  “Would have taken less than seven,” Odell grumbled, “but my wife kept having babies. Women are a distraction.”

  Burr patted the shorter man’s back. “While my success came in half the time, I have a fourth of the children you do. I’d gladly trade years for more sons.”

  Silas Leonard nodded. “I know what you mean.” His gaze settled on E.V. “When a man reaches our age, he realizes how important children and grandchildren are.” His eyes narrowed a bit as his gaze shifted to his daughter then back to E.V., who immediately felt a wave of wariness. “Renier, take Abby for a spin about the room. I’ll talk to you after I finish with Odell and Burr.”

  “Sir,” E.V. started, while trying not to show his aggravation at having been called son by a man he wanted as nothing more than a business associate, “I don’t mind discussing the lumber contract right now.”

  “That’s all good and fine,” Leonard answered, “but I need to ponder the matter more. Go dance.”

  “Earlier David Bollen expressed interest in dancing with your daughter. He’s right over—”

  “David Bollen?” Miss Leonard laughed. “I treasure my toes too much to dance with that clod.” Clearly oblivious to how loud her words were, giving audience to the dozen Tumwater residents around them, including Bollen, she tugged on E.V.’s arm. “Hurry, Mr. Renier, the two-step is about to start.”

  Feeling deceived by the Leonards, E.V. didn’t move. If tomorrow he heard folks in Tumwater were wagering on him proposing to Abigail Leonard—

  The sudden taste in his mouth was more unappealing than the egg salad sandwiches.

  Mr. Leonard’s heavy brows rose. “Listen, Renier, I don’t have to give ear to what your mill can pay me. I have other options.” He nodded to the center of the barn. “Get on. I wouldn’t want my daughter’s day ruined.”

  E.V. reluctantly nodded and, with Miss Leonard clinging possessively to his arm, stepped toward the dancers already lining up. Right now he was their lackey. And within reason, he would do what they asked until he secured that five-year, nonnegotiable, fully binding contract to buy lumber from Silas Leonard. The moment he did, he would distance himself from their family.

  Minus Garrick Leonard. That man had twice the character the rest of his family members had.

  “Before we dance,” E.V. said as socially as he could despite his grim mood, “I’d like more punch.”

  “Why? She’s gone.” The cheerfulness in her tone was undeniable. Miss Leonard stopped walking in the middle of the barn and pointed to the refreshment table. “See. Larkin left, even though you kindly asked her to stay. Imagine how dishonoring she will be to her future husband when he asks her to do something. She has such a selfish, rebellious spirit. A God-fearing man would be a fool to marry her.”

  E.V. gritted his teeth to keep from countering her spiteful assessment of Larkin. Confident his girl was merely somewhere else in the barn, he circled slowly, seeking her yellow-and-ivory-striped gown. Once he found Larkin, he’d ensure that she knew he loved her.

  Where was she? Probably with Anna and Tuck.

  He looked their direction. No, they sat contented and alone near the barn’s half-open east door. Tuck laughed at whatever Anna was saying, and beyond them a light rain shower glistened in the afternoon sunshine. On the chair next to Anna was Larkin’s feather-decked hat. No Larkin.

  “See, I told you she left.”

  E.V. focused on the rain dripping down the barn door’s frame. While wisdom said Larkin was too proper to walk out into the rain, he knew she wouldn’t have left unless she had a good reason. “I need to make sure she gets home safely.” He took a step, and with both hands, Miss Leonard grabbed his arm, stopping him.

  “Oh, no need for the gallantry, Mr. Renier,” she said, smiling. “While you were talking to Daddy, I watched Larkin get into the Whitworth carriage. Stop worrying.” She tugged on his coat sleeve. “Let’s dance. Daddy is wat
ching, and I aim to do all I can to ensure you get that contract you want.”

  E.V. glanced across the barn to see her father was indeed watching them. Relieved that Larkin wasn’t walking home in the rain, he escorted Miss Leonard to the other dancers, minus David Bollen, who also seemed to have disappeared. Tomorrow when Larkin was at worship services, E.V. would find a way to speak to her privately. To encourage her to be patient. To wait.

  No one, not Abigail Leonard or Larkin’s father, would come between them.

  Chapter 3

  Who had stuffed her mouth with cotton? Why was the room so hot? Without even opening her eyes, which were too tired anyway, Larkin reached for her chest to remove whatever weight was on it and found several heavy quilts. She felt—

  “Awful,” she croaked.

  “Yes, dear,” Mama said softly, “you do look terrible. I imagine you must feel it, too.”

  Larkin opened her heavy lids to the sunlight brightening her pristine white bedroom, only to shield them from the painful light. She tried to raise her head from the many pillows behind her, but her head, neck, and shoulders ached.

  Every time she felt sick, her mother made her stay in bed for a week, not by demanding it but by “medicating” her with the honey-whiskey-herb sleep aid she’d learned from her Chinook mother, who’d learned it from her mother, who learned it from the Scottish fur trader she’d married at Fort Astoria back in 1811. One drink to cure all ills.

  And it didn’t taste any better with additional honey or spices.

  Larkin shuddered.

  Mama, sitting in one of the two Queen Anne chairs near the hearth, put down her embroidery. She lifted a crystal goblet from the circular table between the chairs and brought it to Larkin. Her crimson taffeta skirt rustled as she walked, her slanted brows rising in concern.

  “Drink this, dearest.” She offered the half-full goblet that Larkin didn’t take. She could smell the whiskey on her mother’s breath.

  “I’m fine,” Larkin rushed to say as she kicked off the excessive blankets. Then realizing her head, neck, and shoulders didn’t ache as much as they felt stiff from nonuse, she stopped kicking as abruptly as she started. Her bladder was near close to exploding. And everything in her room seemed to spin, which made her nauseous. Remembering the frigid rain she’d walked home through after leaving the wedding, she knew—knew—what happened after she’d returned home last night. She closed her eyes and gripped her bed to still the spinning and to think.

  Was it last night?

  Larkin looked to the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. She blinked until her eyes could focus. Six minutes until eleven o’clock.

  She met her mother’s gaze. “What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Thursday?” She immediately regretted yelling because it only made her head ache more. Her day had just started and was turning into one of regrets. She rolled her eyes because that seemed to be the only movement that didn’t make her regretful. “You medicated me again. For four and a half days. Mama! Why?”

  Tears glistened in Mama’s dark eyes. “To ward off sick tumtum.”

  Sickness of the body.

  Larkin never had the courage to remind her mother that the actual translation of sick tumtum was sickness of the heart.

  While Maire-Dove Larkin Whitworth dressed with the elegance of any society grand dame, in moments like this, Mama looked more like the superstitious native Papa had tried for years to cure her of being. He’d even had her black hair lightened to almost a blond and required she stay out of the sun so her skin would stay more cream than copper, which caused most in Tumwater to forget she was a Metis, mixed-blood. Then again, a good number of Washingtonians could claim a degree of Indian blood. Even Anna boasted being Dutch-Scots so she could be included in the American crucible of races.

  “I’m not—I wasn’t sick,” Larkin clarified.

  “Your gown was soaked when you arrived. Your teeth were chattering and your nose was red.” Mama paused. “I heard you cough.”

  “But that didn’t mean you needed to medicate me.”

  “Darling, you’re feverish.”

  “Not from any sickness.” Although, she did feel a bit dizzy from the medication—not that she’d tell her mother—and her head felt utterly heavy. Larkin removed the last blanket and unbuttoned the neckline of the ridiculously ornate nightgown she always found herself in after waking up with sick tumtum, real or imaginary. “Mama, you’re smothering me again.”

  “I don’t wish …” With a broken sob, Mama sat on the edge of the bed. “I am, aren’t I? My heart can’t bear losing you, too.”

  Although she figured the pain of losing a sibling couldn’t be as deep as that of losing a child, Larkin understood why Mama behaved as she did. Though it had been almost five years since her brother died, the intensity of missing him hurt more than any physical pain she’d ever suffered. Some nights she’d wake thinking Sean had once again stolen into her room and invited her to join him in another adventure that would earn them a paddling, lecture, or usually both. Unlike her, nothing about Sean had been dull. Life without him still didn’t feel right.

  Her heart and frustration softening with compassion, she eased forward on the bed until she could rest her head on her mother’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around Mama and prayed for patience with—and peace for—her mother … and for herself.

  Oh Lord God, I know I shouldn’t have walked home in the rain, considering Mama’s fears, but I couldn’t bear seeing Abigail cling to E.V. as if he were hers. Either take away my love for E.V. or show me why I should continue waiting for him.

  “Loving and losing someone hurts,” she whispered, “but it’ll be all right, Mama. I’ll be all right. You’re going to be all right.” Someday. She kissed Mama’s shoulder. “God has us in His hands. Naika ticky maika.”

  Mama patted Larkin’s hands. “I love you, too.”

  Larkin closed her eyes, lids still heavy from the last dose of Mama’s feeling-sick drink. While she wouldn’t mind sleeping off the aftereffects of the medication, she needed to deliver pies, or something else if the pies weren’t baked, to the Bollen parsonage. Bringing the family food every Wednesday was the least she could do for the service and ministry they provided Tumwater.

  Considering it was Thursday, not Wednesday, she doubted E.V. would be waiting to walk with her to the Bollens’.

  She glanced across the room to the mirror atop her vanity table. Her hair appeared clean yet tangled from having been washed and dried as she slept; her eyes had violet bags underneath. Overall, not the best she’d looked nor the worst. Yet if she hurried to dress and didn’t run into any human obstacles on the way, she could deliver food to the Bollens and still make it to the brewery in time to share a luncheon with Papa.

  Yes, a brisk walk would do wonders.

  Her stomach rolled. First though, she needed to empty her stomach and bladder.

  Knowing something else needed to go down the commode as well, Larkin took the cordial from her mother. “We’ve both had enough.”

  Chapter 4

  Still content to pine for your ladylove? I’d have thought with Mrs. Ellis’s praise, the ‘impeccable Mr. Tate’ would have earned the right to court any lady in Tumwater.” E.V. shoved the tail ends of the freshly cut pine boards into the filled wagon then smacked his gloves together to rid them of wood shavings. With a crooked grin, he patted Willum’s shoulder as Willum leaned over the side of the wagon, staring absently at the wooden planks in the bed. “Well, you know what they say.”

  “No, what do they say?” Willum grumbled.

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” E.V. said, resting his elbows on the wagon’s side, “try and try again. That’s my motto.”

  The “impeccable” Mr. Tate did little more than glare in response. Any frown was hidden by his bristly winter beard, yet despite his lumberjack appearance, Willum was still the grapevine telegraph’s favorite bachelor. Apparently, women liked his green eyes
, shoulder-length hair, and ability to construct anything from outhouses to rabbit houses to tree houses to homes almost as large as the Whitworth mansion.

  Considering how much attention Willum received from women, he should’ve been the first between Jeremiah, Frederick, E.V., and him to marry. Would have been if things had worked out differently.

  E.V. looked to the buildings opposite the mill. At the right end of the street was the whitewashed church. At the other end of Main Street was the Whitworth Brewery, one of the many businesses in town Larkin’s father owned, or partially owned. E.V. didn’t want to think about the companies the man owned throughout the Pacific Northwest region.

  Everything Whitworth touched turned into a financial success.

  After all the thirty-minute Wednesday morning visits they’d shared since E.V. began asking for Larkin’s hand in marriage one-hundred-and-two-weeks ago, E.V. knew that for every financial loss, Patrick Whitworth had a dozen successes. The man would have to face losses as catastrophic as Job had to be considered a failure. Unlike E.V.’s father, who had an uncanny ability to lose the family fortune and manage two banks and a railroad into bankruptcy over the course of ten years. For all their differences, his father and Mr. Whitworth shared one commonality: faith in money to solve all woes and none in God.

  As E.V. and Willum stood in silence, their breath puffed in misty clouds into the cool December air. Not quite freezing but getting there. To think almost a week ago the afternoon temperature was twenty degrees warmer.

  So much for the Farmer’s Almanac’s prediction of a warm though wet December.

  “How much of a prediction,” E.V. said breaking the silence, “is it for the almanac to say it’ll be wet this time of year when it’s always wet this time of year?” He looked into the increasing clouds in the bright yet gray sky. “We have two hours at most before the next shower.”

  Willum sighed loudly. “I don’t see how Whitworth can reject you when you and his daughter are the most weather-obsessed people in town.” He withdrew something from his heavy yet tattered woolen coat and stared wistfully at it.