by Caroline Lee
The Godmother
An Everland Ever After Tale
Caroline Lee
Contents
About This Book
Other Historical Westerns by Caroline Lee
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the Author
Other Historical Westerns by Caroline Lee
About This Book
Christa Harrington isn’t exactly an impressionable young miss. After three decades on this earth, one of them spent at poker tables all over the west, she’s got a pretty good handle on human nature. But despite her extended family relying on her for financial support, she’s ready for a change. What better way to embark on a new chapter in life than to apply for a simply wonderful job as a professional matchmaker in Everland, WY?
Little does she realize this is the Guild of Godmothers, and they don’t do anything simply.
Andrew Prince is content. Now that he’s found his long-lost son, and has gained a passel of grandchildren, he’s pleased to leave the running of his very successful armory to underlings, and put some of his hard-earned money to work spoiling his family. He’s not looking for love…but he can’t deny feeling an attraction to the intriguing woman sitting across the poker table from him.
With Christmas fast approaching, Christa is given a test, of sorts, by her new employers: she has to help two young people fall in love before the holiday. If she succeeds, her role as a godmother is assured…but it comes at a cost. To become a godmother, she’ll have to give up finding her own True Love.
Is it worth the sacrifice?
As Christa and Andrew help each other, they fail to realize one rather important detail: The Godmothers understand the magic of the Christmas season…and they love to meddle!
Get ready for another fun-filled visit to Everland in this sweet holiday fairy tale!
Copyright © 2020, Caroline Lee
Individual stories copyright 2013-2019
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This collection contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this collection may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
This work is made available in e-book format by Amazon Kindle at www.amazon.com
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Other Historical Westerns by Caroline Lee
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The Sweet Cheyenne Quartet:
Love for all seasons in nineteenth-century Wyoming.
A Cheyenne Christmas
A Cheyenne Celebration
A Cheyenne Thanksgiving
A Cheyenne Christmas Homecoming
The Mothers of Sweet Cheyenne
Where They Belong
Sunset Valley
(Black Aces prequel)
Lucas’s Lady
Verrick’s Vixen
Abigail’s Adventure
Black Aces
Ante Up
Three of a Kind
Wild Card
Everland Ever After:
A fairy-tale town set in the wilds of the old west!
Little Red (FREE!)
Ella
Beauty
The Stepmother
Rapunzelle
Briar Rose
Rose Red
The Mermaid
The Prince’s Pea
Snow
Click here to find a complete list of Caroline’s books.
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Prologue
Months ago
“Oh, do stop sniffling into your tea, Helga! If you can’t focus on the task at hand, pass me the list.”
“I’m sniffling into my cakes, thank you very much, and I’m perfectly capable of—”
With a huge sigh, Doc reached across the table and pulled the bundle of papers out of her companion’s hand. Helga wasn’t anywhere close to her happy self; when she mourned, she mourned hard.
Of course, the rest of them were no different.
Pulling out her spectacles, Doc took a moment to study the other ladies. The six of them—only six since Somnolena had died—were seated around the table in the house’s kitchen, poking dejectedly at the funeral cake Bashful had made.
“A sad bunch we are,” Doc mumbled, settling her glasses on her nose and lifting the applications.
“Well, why wouldn’t we be?” Doc’s niece, Snee—Suzy—wiped at her nose with a handkerchief, not even bothering to pretend she was enjoying her tea. “We’ll all miss Somnolena.”
“Yeah,” grumbled Grunhilda, from where she slouched in her chair, her arms folded across her chest, as she glared at the cake as though it had personally offended her. “She was alright. I’ll even miss the way she used to fall asleep standing up.”
“I’ll miss the way she was so good at reading the leaves,” murmured silly little Dorcas, rather mournfully, while staring down at her now-empty cup of tea.
“Yes, well, we’ll all miss her. Frankly, I’m impressed she was really gone and not just sleeping. Who knows how long she might’ve laid there? But life does move on, my dears,” declared Doc forcefully, straightening the bundle of applications. “We owe it to her to find a worthy replacement.”
Bashful sighed flamboyantly. Everything that woman did was flamboyant. “You’re right.” She waved a hand bedecked in more brass bangles than should be allowed on any one person, and she sounded like a one-woman marching band. “Start reading the applicants.”
“I’m not doing all the work myself,” Doc declared, dividing the stack into six random piles and handing them out. “Everyone start reading. If you think you’ve found a good candidate, speak up.”
It took a while to get them going; they were a bit like a freight train. But once they were going—also like a freight train—the Godmothers didn’t stop until they’d achieved their objective. Usually it was a Happily Ever After for their assigned clients which caused them to meet and go over candidates like this, but this time, it was to find someone in their little enclave to replace Somnolena, whom Doc would miss more than she was letting on.
They had one of the largest enclaves in the International Guild of Godmothers, mainly because theirs was nominally the guild’s headquarters. Of course, no one told a bunch of godmothers what to do—although Doc prided herself on the assumption that, if anyone could do it, it’d be her—so being in charge of the guild headquarters wasn’t all that much extra work. Besides, she had her niece to help in the day-to-day running of things.
The six of them sat in silence for a long while, the only sounds being the shuffling of papers, the slurping of tea, and once, Bashful clanking around, handing out more cakes.
Occasionally, Helga would let out a cheerful giggle—the woman was happy even in the most inappropriate of times—or Suzy would sneeze. Grunhilda kept up a steady stream of grumpy grumbles under her breath a
s she read, but since Doc wasn’t close enough to understand them, she felt confident in ignoring them.
It was Dorcas who eventually burst out, “I’ve got her!”
She flung her arm out, knocking over her teacup and spilling the dregs all over four other applications Suzy had placed in the “Absolutely Unsuitable” pile.
“Whoops! Sorry!” she blurted to the rest of the table, as she used her free hand to press a handkerchief—which she’d pulled from her amble bosom—against the mess. “I have her application, not her herself; that would be silly.” She waved the paper. “Here it is!”
Helga snatched the application from Dorcas’s hand, thankfully preventing more damage, as Grunhilda groaned theatrically and dropped her head into her hand.
“Hmm,” Helga murmured, as she read, “right age, right motivation…cute name. This could work.”
When she looked up and met Doc’s eyes, Doc saw the hope there. With a sigh, she reached out and took the paper from Helga.
Christmas Harrington, age thirty-six, from Missouri.
When asked why she was applying for this particular job, Christmas had written: My sisters and brothers have all been married. I’m surrounded by almost-grown nieces and nephews, all of whom I’ve helped care for. I’ve done my share of matchmaking, and it’s not that difficult. In my experience, it’s based on pushing two suitable people together and explaining the situation to them, then standing back and letting them do the rest.
Doc squinted thoughtfully down at the application.
Hmm.
Well, she wasn’t wrong. In fact, she seemed to have touched on the basic tenant of godmothering. There were two major factions in the guild; one believed True Love could only be found with one other person in the entire world, and the other belief—which Doc knew to be the truth, and since she’d written The Book, her opinion was really all that mattered—was most people could find True Love with most other people, assuming they had enough in common. The trick was to find that commonality and nurture it. And of course, to ensure both people were of the right personalities to ensure happiness in the other.
“Can you see what she’s not saying?” Helga asked, after Doc read that part of Christmas’s application to the others.
Before Doc could answer, Dorcas spoke up, “What do you mean, not saying? If she’s not saying it, how would we know it?”
Bashful waved her fingers mystically in the air. “Magic,” she breathed.
Grunhilda rolled her eyes. “More like common sense.”
Suzy sneezed.
Feeling her patience wear thin, Doc smoothed the application on the table. “Helga’s hearing the words she’s not saying, because we’ve all heard them before.” In our own heads. “This Christmas Harrington has not found her own happiness through marriage and motherhood, so she’s taken it upon herself to bring happiness to others—hence the matchmaking and child-caring comment.”
“So when she saw the application for a professional matchmaking guild,” interrupted Helga cheerfully, “she jumped on the chance to join!”
“We’ve all been called to the guild to help others,” agreed Suzy.
“Why’s her name Christmas?” blurted Dorcas. “That’s a bit silly, isn’t it?”
“Maybe her sisters are Easter and Hannukah, and her brothers are Halloween and Independence Day,” growled Grunhilda, glaring at the dopey woman.
But Dorcas, being Dorcas, didn’t notice as she tapped the large wart on her chin. “That would be a mouthful, wouldn’t it? ‘Independence Day Harrington, you get down out of that tree and bring back my peach pie!’ See? It’s difficult to yell.”
“How’d he get into the tree with the pie?” mused Bashful.
“What pie?”
“The peach pie. How’d Independence Day get into the tree without dropping it?”
Dorcas hummed. “Good point. How about, ‘Independence Day Harrington, you quit slapping your sisters with that dead fish and get back to copying your letters!’ ”
Grunhilda stared at Dorcas with a mixture of revulsion and amazement. “You had a very strange childhood, didn’t you?”
Suzy sneezed.
“You were the one, Miss Grumpy, who had suggested her siblings’ names—”
“She was born on December twenty-fourth!” Doc snapped, interrupting their bickering, pleased to have finally found the information. “Grunhilda, her siblings have perfectly normal names. Dorcas, you are strange. Suzy, get a new handkerchief.”
“Yes, Aunt,” mumbled the miserable young woman. “It’s this stupid hay fever.”
Helga nodded and patted Suzy’s arm. “Yes, dear. It’s always hay fever with you, isn’t it?”
While the other’s squabbling whirled around her, oddly comforting, Doc stared thoughtfully down at the application.
Christmas Harrington.
There was something about the words of her application which had struck her as not quite right. She’d spoken of matchmaking and had indicated a desire to be helpful, but…was there more? A longing perhaps?
Every one of the Godmothers at this table—and in the guild as a whole—had made the decision to forgo their own chance at finding True Love in order to help others. It was part of the oath, and they were all pleased with that choice.
But there was just enough bitterness in Christmas’s application to make Doc wonder.
“I think…” she began slowly, tapping one long finger against the paper, noting the applicant was an orphan. One more check in her favor. “I think it might be a very good idea to invite Ms. Christmas Harrington to Everland.”
Just to see if Doc’s suspicions were correct.
If they weren’t, then maybe the guild would have an enthusiastic new member. If they were, then the guild would do what it did best…help save Christmas.
Chapter 1
Now
The four of spades and four of hearts were the last two cards to be flipped over on the green baize, and when Christa’s opponent realized he’d been bluffed with a pair of fours, he scowled.
“Should’ve known you had something hinky going on!”
She didn’t agree, and instead, tucked her chin against her chest and reached for the pot, scooping the chips and the bills to her side of the table. The pot hadn’t been big, but it hadn’t needed to be big; she’d used the last round simply to test the reaction of that particular player.
He was younger than her, and his dark hair was cut close, a worn hat hanging down his back, and his callused hands were rarely still. She’d watched him during the betting and had noticed he had a tendency to freeze briefly when he was worried; usually when he thought he had a chance of winning. It was a small tell, but one she’d tested just now.
Still, he relaxed against the chair and sent an easy smile to her and their companions. “That took some guts, I’ll tell you. What’d you say your name was, mister?”
She hadn’t.
“Chris O’Hare,” she mumbled, pretending to keep her attention on organizing her chips as she studied him from under her lashes, waiting to see if he’d hold a grudge.
Judging from his relaxed mien, he didn’t appear to. “Well, welcome to Everland, Mr. O’Hare. I’m Max DeVille.”
When he offered her his hand, she hesitated only a moment, then reached out to shake it. Years of practice meant her handshake was just as strong and honest as his, and she hoped it was enough to fool him.
“Seems like you know Merrell and Terrell Gruff already. Their brother, Jerrell, is around here somewhere.”
One of the two identical men she’d been playing with—Terrell—nodded his head in a sort of bobbing motion, reminding Christa of a pigeon.
Merrell was chewing on something, and drawled, “He’s upstairs getting his fix.” The lewd wink he gave made his brother chortle.
Neither of them were particularly good poker players, and Christa’s opinion of them went down another notch.
Of course, if they knew you were a woman, they’d likely be less
crude.
Very true.
But on the other hand, if they knew she was a woman, they’d be less likely to lose so much money to her.
As a beautiful, young, well-dressed woman, Christa would’ve been welcomed into the fanciest of poker games, with the highest stakes. She could’ve flirted and charmed and won thousands of dollars.
But she wasn’t young, was no longer particularly beautiful, and she didn’t have the stakes to enter a game like that. She had just enough money and talent to do well at the games The Gingerbread House offered, which she couldn’t join if she were dressed as a woman.
She’d spent her life supporting herself and her family by winning reasonable sums, in reasonable games, at mid-level saloons like this one and not sticking around town too long afterward.
Of course, Everland, Wyoming was one of the sweetest little towns she’d ever experienced, and one she might not mind sticking around in for a while. But if she did, it’d be as Christa Harrington, Godmother.
No one would confuse her for the slouched, poncho-wearing poker player who’d cleaned them out at The Gingerbread House saloon and whorehouse.
Max was still talking to the brothers about something, and when all three men chuckled, they pulled her attention back to the present.
“Well, we saved him a seat if he finishes up any time soon.”
Terrell glanced at the empty chair around the table and chortled, his head going up and down.
She noted Max almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes, then offered another easy smile. “Well, if anyone else wants to match wits against Mr. O’Hare, we’ll let them join in.”