Mountain Christmas Brides

by Mildred Colvin

  Last year he never received an invitation.

  What was he to make of this year’s invitation? Even more intriguing, who sent it? Larkin? Her mother? Why write no reply necessary on the back?

  For the third (or eighth) time since the invitation arrived in his office last week, a few days after Whitworth confronted him in the rain, E.V. tossed it in the wooden milk crate he used to collect wastepaper for kindling. This time he wasn’t taking it back out. And he wasn’t attending. His heart hurt too much.

  Instead, he’d help Willum cut and piece the intricate first-floor crown molding demanded by the increasingly particular owner of the house Willum was building. At the rate the owner was making changes to the design, Willum would be an old man before he’d finish building the house. See—now that was a situation for cutting one’s losses.

  E.V. grabbed his pencil off the accounting book and re-examined the month’s numbers. If he sold out his shares in the mill, he could take his profits and move to anywhere he desired, do any job he wanted. He’d find a nice girl and settle down and have a bevy of children. And a dog—no, dogs. A bevy of them, too—as many as he had children, so they’d each have their own and no reason to fight over who the dog loved best.

  Frustrated with his absurd thoughts, E.V. dropped his pencil. Elbows on his desk, he rested his forehead against his fingertips. What do I do, Lord? Where should I go?

  “Wait.” The word whispered again across his soul, as it had each time he’d prayed for guidance.

  Could he wait? Could he stay in Tumwater?

  More aptly, how could he stay now that the grapevine telegraph claimed Whitworth had given Harvey Milton permission to court Larkin? Harvey Milton, Esq., the very lawyer who had yet to win a case. Harvey Milton, who for the last year, had courted and stopped courting—before starting and stopping again—Miss Abigail Leonard. Every shop E.V. entered, even before and after worship services this past Sunday, someone had been talking about the news.

  If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the number of women who ceased talking when E.V. approached was making him wonder if someone had overheard him and Whitworth in the rain. He didn’t remember seeing anyone out on the street watching them.

  But in a town this size … with a gossip chain this strong …

  In the two years he’d lived in Tumwater, he’d never heard anyone—except Miss Leonard—say an unkind word about Larkin. Now the descriptions ranged from princess to imposter to hypocrite to drunkard to Jezebel. The latter occurred when he overheard two of his workers repeating that Larkin had been “leading the boss man on with the goal of making Milton jealous.”

  With Tuck’s wife, Anna, on bed rest because of sporadic contractions, only cranky ol’ Mrs. Ellis remained to champion Larkin’s reputation, which did little good, because Mrs. Ellis was the least-liked person in town. That left him. As Reverend Bollen had advised, telling people they shouldn’t gossip silenced the talk but did nothing to restore the damage to Larkin’s reputation. How could E.V. come to her defense if doing so would only cause her father to believe he was plotting a nefarious plan to kidnap Larkin and hold her for ransom? Or elope. Either amounted to the same in Whitworth’s eyes. Why add fuel to the gossips’ fire?

  Doomed if he did, doomed if he didn’t.

  “Ugh,” E.V. groaned. He snapped his pencil and tossed it in the trash. Then he sat listening to the saws buzz and his workers yell orders to each other. And sat. And sat.

  The door to his office opened. Willum stepped inside, unbuttoning his winter coat. His bright-eyed gaze fell to the trash crate before centering on E.V. “You busy?”

  “Yes—no,” he corrected. “Something wrong with your order?”

  “No. It’s all loaded.” Willum motioned to the doorway. “Thought I’d warn you, Silas Leonard just arrived with a manila envelope and his daughter.” Removing his work gloves, he stepped to the enclosed stove in the corner of the room to warm his hands. “Saw a few snowflakes earlier. Think we’ll get any accumulation?”

  Uninterested in discussing weather, E.V. leaned back in his chair, gripped the V-edges of his tweed work vest, and stared at the remaining hat of Larkin’s he hadn’t had delivered to her at home with her father’s shirt and waistcoat. He wasn’t ready to part with the only tangible object of hers that he could hold. Larkin hadn’t looked at him Sunday. Neither had she looked at Milton. Whatever day she was delivering food to the Bollens wasn’t Wednesday.

  No, today E.V. had delivered his customary half ham alone.

  Two years without declaring himself to her.

  Two years being a model of propriety.

  Two years of stifling his desire to kiss her senseless.

  E.V. rested his head against the back of his chair and grimaced. Two years of being a faithful yet utter fool.

  Bam!

  E.V. flinched and looked at his surroundings. He then glared at Willum. “Why is there a log on my desk?”

  Willum shrugged. “I couldn’t reach the back of your head to knock sense into you. Go sign the contract with Leonard. Then you’ll at least have half of what you think you want in life.”

  “You want what?” Feeling his brows draw together in stunned disbelief at what had been asked of him, E.V. stopped reading the contract and looked at Silas Leonard, who stood with his back to the door of the mill’s main entrance. With the saws running and workers scrambling to load and unload the machines, this waiting area was the quietest part of the building besides his office.

  “Son, it’ll be one last favor,” Leonard explained, grinning and putting his arm around the shoulders of his daughter’s some-shade-of-red (or maybe pink) cloak that matched the bonnet she clenched with both hands.

  Now that E.V. noticed what she wore, he realized in all the times he’d seen Miss Leonard since Emma and Frederick’s wedding, she’d been wearing either red or pink or a shade thereof. Much like the way Larkin wore clothes in one color spectrum for an entire year—something he had never pondered the reason behind. Some of a woman’s mysteries needed to stay mysterious. Though he knew this was Larkin’s yellow year.

  Why would Miss Leonard want to follow the behavior of someone she clearly hated? Did she want to be—

  E.V. looked the young woman over and felt his frown deepen. Her blond hair was pinned in a simple bun at the back of her neck while loose strands grazed her cheekbones, similar to Larkin’s preferred coiffure. The style actually made Miss Leonard’s Caesar-like nose seem less—no, no it didn’t. Her nose was still too large for her face.

  “Renier!”

  At the sound of his name, E.V. refocused on Silas Leonard. “Why?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “Abby can’t get a husband on her own. She lost her chance with Milton now that Whitworth bought him for his daughter.”

  Miss Leonard’s eyes widened in obvious mortification at her father’s words. “Daddy, I never favored Mr. Milton. I like—”

  “Hush, girl. Stop making everything about you.”

  E.V. glanced over his shoulder at Willum watching them unabashedly as he leaned against the doorframe. Based on Willum’s smug grin, E.V. didn’t want to wager on what his friend was thinking. He turned back to Leonard.

  “No,” he answered with complete assurance in his decision. “I will not escort your daughter to the Whitworth soiree in exchange for a lumber contract. Nor will I marry her in exchange for one.”

  “I’m only asking you to escort Abby to the party,” Leonard countered. “If you want to marry her, that’s your own decision. I won’t mind though. The contract price is more than fair, especially if you want Abby, too.”

  “Fair? For who?” E.V. pointed at Miss Leonard. “For her? How do you think your daughter feels about being a bargaining chip in contract negotiations? She’s not a commodity you can sell or trade. Show some respect.”

  Leonard’s nostrils flared as he stepped closer to E.V. in an obvious attempt to intimidate with his Goliath size. “You insult me, boy.”

  While E
.V. never considered himself prone to sarcasm, this was one moment he truly wanted to respond with—you think so?

  Instead, he wisely responded with, “Sir, I would be honored to sign a contract with you, because my mill could use your lumber, but not at the expense of my self-respect or your daughter’s.” He returned the contract unsigned. “Have a Merry Christmas.”

  Leonard stormed outside. “Abigail, come!”

  Miss Leonard didn’t move. She looked at E.V. with such longing in her eyes that he knew, in his attempt to defend her honor, he’d unwittingly earned her devotion.

  “I, uh,” he stuttered, trying to think of some response.

  A smile spread across her face. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as if she would never let go, and then she burst into tears.

  Unsure of what else to do, E.V. awkwardly patted the top of her head. “There, there, it’ll be all right.”

  “Oh Mr. Renier, no one has ever loved me like you do.”

  “Me?” Stiffening, E.V. felt the color drain from his face. “Miss Leonard, I, uh, you, uh …”

  Her father yelled for her again, and she complied this time, darting out the mill’s front entrance, saving E.V. from further awkwardness.

  Within moments of the door closing, Willum slapped E.V.’s back. “I suppose I’ll give you this instead of burning it like I’d planned.” He stuffed a crumpled envelope in E.V.’s palm. “I read what she wrote, and I’m not sorry.” Willum stepped to the door and gripped the handle then stopped and turned around. “E.V.?”

  “Yeah?” he answered, meeting Willum’s intense gaze.

  “Mrs. Ellis doesn’t take kindly to rejections.”

  Chapter 9

  Bury the booty, hide the corpse, bury the booty, hide the corpse, Larkin repeated over and over as she carried the last two rum bottles securely against her chest with one hand while holding her black boots in the other. She wasn’t too sure why the childhood chant her brother had made up resurfaced from her memory. After all, she hadn’t thought of it in the last five years since Sean had died. Yet whenever he’d invited her on his nightly escapades, she’d repeat the words to calm her nervousness. He, not her, had been the bold, courageous, adventuresome one in the family.

  As she twisted the knob on the kitchen door, her heart pounded. Click. The sound of the latch echoed throughout the dark room laden with food and serving items for the Christmas soiree. Larkin held her breath and waited for Cook or one of the maids to stagger into the kitchen and demand to know what she was up to at precisely 1:31 on a Saturday morning. No good would have been Sean’s honest answer.

  Hearing nothing, she opened the door enough to ease into the chilly night, and then she slowly pulled it closed behind her.

  Seven trips and yet undiscovered. After days of searching the house, she was confident she’d found all the hidden liquor bottles and Mama’s sick tumtum medication.

  Larkin breathed a sigh of relief, although the action did little to settle her rapid pulse. So she breathed even deeper until her breath was no longer ragged and her chest didn’t feel as if it would explode.

  Then … she went to work.

  Within minutes, she had her boots on and black riding cloak tied tight, the hood pulled securely down over her head. She wedged the bottles with the others in the wheelbarrow then covered them with a couple of horse blankets to dampen the sound of any glass clinking against glass. The cloud cover kept the moonlight from exposing her work.

  Determined to accomplish her task as quickly as possible, Larkin quietly pushed the wheelbarrow down the path leading to Mrs. Ellis’s property at the end of the street. The tip of her nose already felt frozen. Please, Lord, please, she prayed, but for what she begged, she didn’t know.

  Her heart ached. Her soul grieved. She felt so … alone.

  “Dig a little quicker,” Mrs. Ellis ordered, raising the lamp to shine where E.V. was digging. “I’m freezing out here.” She leaned on the butt of the shotgun she held in her left hand. “Make the hole deeper, too. Don’t want no varmints digging where they shouldn’t.”

  E.V. held back his grumbles and continued to shovel dirt. He wasn’t about to point out that any additional varmints on her densely wooded plot were opportunities to add pelts to the multicolored fur coat she wore over a calico gown hemmed short enough to show the tops of her U.S. Army-issued boots. Likely her dead husband’s. Husband one or husband two—E.V. wasn’t about to ask in case it would incite her wrath.

  This was the first time he’d been on her property and not been shot at.

  Thankful the night was void of moisture and breeze, E.V. jammed the shovel again into the soft ground. Why dig a hole in the middle of a walking path?

  “Care to tell me what the hole is for, ma’am?” he asked, adding another scoop of dirt to the shin-high mound next to him.

  “Nope,” came the clipped response. “I suggest you stop talking before I start disliking your worthless hide again.”

  He opened his mouth, intent on reminding her that other than his lone question she had done all of the talking, when the sweetest voice he hadn’t heard in the last sixteen days interrupted their conversation.

  “E.V.? What are you doing here?”

  E.V. swiveled around and almost dropped the shovel. Larkin stood not five yards away, with a wheelbarrow of all things. Even in the shadowy darkness she took his breath away.

  “I invited him,” Mrs. Ellis answered crisply.

  “Oh. Well, thank you, Mrs. Ellis, for having the foresight to get us aid.” While her words sounded sincere, Larkin nervously looked to the left and to the right. “Is anyone else here?”

  “Just us three and the good Lord.” Mrs. Ellis set the lamp on the ground. “At the rate Renier is digging, we’re likely to be here till kingdom come.” She turned and walked away, muttering, “I knew I should have brought that second shovel. Back in a jiffy. And I mean jiffy.”

  The sound of her boots crunching the twigs and leaves underfoot died away.

  E.V. spoke first. “I trust you.”

  She lowered her cloak’s hood. Her skin looked pale in the lamplight. “You don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He shrugged. “Mrs. Ellis’s note said you needed help.”

  “I could be doing something reprehensible.”

  E.V. gave her a look to let her know how unlikely he believed her guilty. “Sweetheart, I have full confidence in the integrity of your character.”

  Her mouth moved yet no sound came forth. The dimples on the sides of her mouth appeared in one of her rare, glorious smiles.

  E.V.’s heart skipped a beat. Whatever she had in the covered wheelbarrow, he didn’t know, couldn’t suspect, and didn’t care. The fact that losing-lawyer Harvey Milton was now courting Larkin had no bearing on his thoughts either.

  Two years was an awfully long time to wait to kiss the woman he loved.

  Feeling no longer bound to any oaths he’d made to her father, he tossed the shovel to the ground. In hindsight, he’d say he didn’t remember running over to Larkin, but he had to have because she was still standing beside the wheelbarrow in his embrace when Mrs. Ellis returned.

  “Now that you two have gotten that outta the way, can we get this hole dug?”

  Larkin broke free and peeked around E.V., whose hands lovingly rested on the back of her head and on her waist. Mrs. Ellis not-so-lovingly held a shovel and a second lantern in one hand and her shotgun in the other. A myriad of responses ran through Larkin’s mind. The best of which—I had a speck in my eye and I needed his help to remove it—didn’t sound remotely believable. Clearly Anna was right. She, Larkin Whitworth, wasn’t and never would be crafty. Thus, this seemed to be another one of those sometimes the best explanation was no explanation moments. She hoped.

  Besides, Mrs. Ellis’s eyesight was too sharp for her not to have seen how splendidly E.V. had been kissing her. Larkin touched her lips and smiled and sighed happily and—oh my. Her first kiss had been a lovely and magical moment
indeed.

  E.V. sighed loudly (perhaps it was more of a groan). “Ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Ellis, releasing Larkin and turning around, “I suspect anything I say won’t endear me to you.”

  “Nope.” Mrs. Ellis’s tone likely sounded as harsh as normal to E.V., but having spent enough time with the woman, Larkin had long learned to distinguish between annoyed grumpiness and amused grumpiness.

  Larkin tugged on E.V.’s woolen coat sleeve, drawing his attention. She whispered, “She has a hard time expressing love. She really likes you.”

  His upper lip curled. He grimaced and muttered, “Her love is toxic.”

  “Kiss her again, Renier,” Mrs. Ellis added louder this time, “and I’ll have no choice but to shoot yer worthless hide. Nothing personal, mind you, but she is courting that even more worthless Harvey Milton. You ought not be kissing another man’s woman.”

  Stunned at the news, Larkin stared openmouthed at them. “I’m not courting Mr. Milton.”

  “You’re not?” and “Why not?” came in unison.

  Larkin glanced back and forth between the two. “Where did you hear that news?”

  This time E.V. and Mrs. Ellis glanced back and forth between each other and her.

  “Can’t say I can recall,” Mrs. Ellis answered, frowning.

  With a confused frown of his own, E.V. scratched the side of his head. “Tuck told me because Anna told him. I assumed you’d told her.”

  “No,” Larkin said barely loud enough to hear herself.

  While she hadn’t seen Anna in the last three days because she’d been focusing on finding all of Mama’s liquor bottles, the last time they’d talked, they’d not discussed any men in Larkin’s life. Or courting. Anna hadn’t even given her weekly Willum Tate exaltation. Anna wasn’t a gossiper, so Larkin knew her friend wouldn’t have shared the information with Jeremiah unless she heard it from a reliable source. Who would make up a rumor she and Mr. Milton were courting? And why?

  “With the soiree approaching, I’ve been distracted, helping Mama prepare.” Dreading what she’d hear, she asked, “Has anything else been said about me?”