While she thought it odd to telegraph her only aunt, she found paper and wrote down the names and addresses for him. Perhaps he hoped her aunt would give him some history about her brother.
Before they dropped the subject completely, she shared one more detail about her brother. “Oliver quickly moved his family out of his home and into our parents’. Father wasn’t even dead.” Tapping a finger to her lips, she remembered, “He avoided windows and refused to leave the house during the day. Searching for me at the depot was the first time in weeks that he’d been out during the day.”
Fred nodded and moved to speak quietly with Holder. Satisfied she could trust them to keep her safe, she gathered her girls to play a game, passing around one of the extra oranges. This was their first Christmas and she intended to enjoy it.
On their way to town the next day, Myra tried to pull more details about Holder’s first wife from him. His non-committal answers and rude grunts created a hopeless feeling inside her. Until he ended his irrational antipathy toward the twins, she feared they would never be a true family.
Deep inside her, she somehow identified with her littlest daughters, knowing how it felt to be rejected. That same memory kept coming back to her. She now believed it was the moment she met Mother. Where had she lived before that and why hadn’t her mother mentioned that Myra was adopted?
As they drove down the lone street that was the business district, Myra recognized Fred’s big bay gelding standing in front of a small building. A sign identified it as the jail. A few doors farther on, a brick bank stood across the street from a tidy wood-framed store. Its cloth awning advertised coffee, tea, and chocolates.
Holder pointed at it. “That’s Olsen’s Mercantile. I’ll follow you there in a minute. Gotta talk to Fred.”
Though he helped her down from the wagon, he didn’t drive her to the mercantile or offer to help her across the snow-covered street. Sighing over this, she left him and headed to the store. As she went, she repeated the verse from Hebrews about faith and realized it did help. She did have faith that her husband would eventually heal and love the twins. If he grew to love her, that would be a bonus.
A bell over the door rang as she opened it. The man and woman working behind the counter looked up. At first, they smiled in her direction. Then their expressions became wary. The woman hurried through a curtained doorway while the man cleared his throat twice before he managed to wish her a good morning.
“Expect you’re the new Mrs. Sittig,” he stated with a tremor in his voice.
Both his fear and his recognition surprised Myra. Moving closer to the counter to speak with the man, she stopped abruptly when he backed away from her. “Is something wrong, sir? I’ve never frightened anyone before.”
The man scoffed at her statement. That noise ruined any sympathy she might have felt for the man. Shaking a finger in his direction she fought to control the anger that even now colored her face. “Sir, this is no way to treat a customer. I can’t imagine how you stay in business.”
The balding shopkeeper held up both hands to ward her off. “Best not get worked up ma’am. Violence don’t solve nothing.”
Myra’s mouth gaped open at those words. Shutting it, she opened it again to stammer, “V-violence? I’d never harm a dog, much less a person.”
The door opened behind her. Heavy footsteps moved across the room behind her and a heavy hand on her shoulder spun her around. A stranger snapped a pair of handcuffs around her small wrists.
“Well Miss Smithson, or perhaps I should say Miss Colleton, I’m delighted to find you so easily. Kind of a belated Christmas present for me.” The florid-faced man laughed down at her, betraying the scent of whiskey on his breath.
The man behind the counter visibly relaxed. “Oh, I am glad my wife found you, Mr. Trapp. I think she meant to harm me.” His words clued Myra into the reason for this scene—the poster. Somehow this man had seen it even though Fred never posted the copy he’d received.
When Myra opened her mouth to complain, the heavy-handed man shook her by the shoulder. He laughed when he answered the mercantile owner, “Yep, just finished breakfast next door.” This explained the yellow yolk stains dotting his white shirt.
His porcine face leered at her. “I’ll take this one out of here and back to my hotel room until it’s time for the train.”
Mr. Olsen’s face scrunched up in displeasure. At the sight of it, Myra felt sure he’d object to the man taking her to a bedroom. The words the man stammered out disappointed her. “You can’t just take her without giving me my reward!” She knew she’d received no help from him and didn’t waste her breath pleading for rescue.
“Pinkerton detectives don’t carry reward money, but Mr. Oliver Smithson sends you his thanks. Besides, that banker fellow telegraphed where she was. He got any reward for finding her.” The other man continued to protest, but Myra blocked out his whining voice.
At learning Trapp was a Pinkerton, Myra grew more mystified. Oliver had been desperate to retrieve her quickly, but why? And why did the man refer to her by her maiden name and then by the surname of a prominent Charleston family? Certainly, he’d discovered that she’d married Holder. Nothing about her past life in Charleston seemed to make sense.
Where’s Holder? He promised to hurry his talk with Fred.
No rescue appeared and the stout detective manhandled her through the storage room and out a back door to the alley. There, a buggy waited. He picked her up and placed her into it.
His hand lingered on the curve of her waist overly long, sending shivers of revulsion through his unwilling victim. He misinterpreted the reaction for eagerness and chuckled. “You may be a willing partner, after all. Don’t much matter since no one will believe what a crazy woman claims.”
A gasp drew her attention away from the lecher. The proprietor’s wife paled at the detective’s words. At least she had a witness to what the man planned for her. Somehow, Myra doubted his claim of being connected with the late Alan Pinkerton’s organization. She’d heard many things about how honorable that man had been, regardless of the attack on the James’ family home a decade before. This man’s behavior didn’t fit with her image of the agency.
The frightened woman in the doorway ran back into the store. On her own, Myra whirled on the man and scratched at his eyes. He reared back and roared in pain as well as surprise. Taking advantage of the space he gave her, she leapt from the buggy. Her long skirts caught on its frame and held fast. With her hands cuffed, she struggled to free herself. In that amount of time, Trapp lunged forward, forcing her back in the buggy with a jerk and the sound of ripping cloth.
Snapping the leathers on the horse’s back, he moved them out of the alley. Relief flooded her when Holder ran into the road and frantically waved his arms to stop the horse. Fred stood at the side of the street with a rifle pointed in Trapp’s direction with a concerned Mrs. Olsen wringing her hands. While Holder gently hugged his shaking wife, Fred led Trapp into the nearby jail.
Wanting any information that the supposed Pinkerton had about her brother’s reason for reclaiming her, Myra asked her husband to follow Fred into the sheriff’s office. As they entered into the darkened space, she squinted and saw Trapp handcuffed and seated before a desk. Deep into his role as sheriff, Fred asked the man why he pretended to be a Pinkerton detective.
“What do ya mean? I’ll show ya my business card and…” The sheriff’s glare silenced his prisoner.
Picking up a telegram from his desk, he read, “Trapp not detective. Stop. Sending agent. Stop. Hold Trapp.” With a malicious grin on his face, he suggested, “Looks like you might have the Pinkertons a little upset with you. Why not tell me the whole story before the agent gets here?”
The man clenched his jaw as his pudgy mouth thinned. After a moment of silence, Myra asked for a key to remove the cuffs that still shackled her. Reluctantly, Fred removed the handcuffs so the man could grudgingly fish the key out of his pocket.
As the me
tal fell away from her wrists, Myra looked into the man’s eyes with a pleading expression. “Please tell me how you knew to find me here.”
Shrugging, he agreed. “Suppose it can’t hurt to tell ya. That banker, Strong, got a poster along with the sheriff here. Pinkerton sent them to bankers and the law.”
She shook her head, trying to understand. “But you aren’t a Pinkerton agent.”
“Yeah, well, Oliver sent me. The Pinkerton detectives interviewed people that know you and claimed he lied about you being crazy.” The man wiped at the scratch by his eye that continued to trickle blood before holding out his wrists. “Shackle me or put me in a cell, sheriff. I’m done talking.”
Desperate for clarity, Myra pushed for answers. “But why did you call me Miss Colleton and why should Oliver care about where I am?”
The man looked away from her and stood as silent as a post. Fred loomed over him intimidatingly, but he refused to say anymore. She would have to wait for her brother’s next move, unless the Pinkerton agent could learn more from her abductor.
Chapter 5
The Pinkerton agent sent from Chicago arrived only a few days later, but he did nothing more than take charge of Trapp. He loaded the man onto a train in order to take him back to Charleston where he was already wanted for assault as well as kidnapping.
After the fright from the incident passed in her mind, Myra remembered something important. The banker had sent the telegram to reveal her location. Why?
When she asked Holder, his face grew red. “Fred killed the man’s son, Ram Strong. The man planned to shoot a woman. Fred shot him, but as a part of his job. Mr. Strong isn’t forgiving though.” He ran his hands down his face and groaned in frustration. “At least I don’t keep my money in his bank.”
Another week passed peacefully. Myra took easily to her role as a mother, surprising even herself with the joy it brought her. While sitting at the cabin’s table one night, Holder teased, “You don’t look so much like an old maid after all.” Strands of dark hair escaped her bun and fell across her face. She brushed it away and bent over Dora, dressing her for bed. Finished, Myra picked her up and sat her on her father’s knee.
He instantly stiffened, but Holder didn’t get up or remove the child. His hands came around her body to steady her. At his touch, Dora twisted to smile up into his face. Hope raced through her as Myra watched Holder’s face soften at that smile. Then the softness left and his features grew stone-like.
Later, as they lay side by side in the bed behind the curtain and Holder cuddled her to his side, she whispered a question that had burned in her mind for days. “Holder, do you trust God?”
He pulled away from her to peer at her in the darkness. While she couldn’t make out his expression, she could make out bewilderment in his tone. “Why’d you suddenly ask that?”
“It’s been on my mind that if you trust God, you should have faith. I mean, do you think that Lydia is with God now?” She questioned him gently, wanting him to consider her words rather than becoming defensive.
When he didn’t answer, she pressed on. “Did the Lord send me to this family because he knew you needed me?” Again, she wanted her husband to think on the idea so she kept her question short.
He gave a humorless chuckle. “You think God cares enough to make plans for me and my kin?”
With conviction, she answered with a firm, “Yes! I have a favorite verse that says he does. It’s in Jeremiah, chapter twenty-nine, verse eleven. ‘For I know the thoughts I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”
A quiet sob-like sound escaped her husband before he admitted, “I feel like allowing Lydia to die was evil. How was that good for her?”
If her body was wearing out too soon and she suffered, certainly she’s happier in Heaven. And didn’t the Lord’s plan of bringing us together bring peace to you?”
Her husband rolled back toward her and brought her back against his side. “Guess I am blessed if I think of it like that.”
Together like this at night, he lost the cold aloofness. She dared to say, “Sometimes I think you force yourself to act like the stern head of the house. I don’t understand why, though.”
Rather than answering her, he asked a question. “Did you know that my name means wise ruler? I’m named for my father who ruled our home with a firm hand.”
As if led by an inner wisdom, she immediately queried, “Does the first or second part of your name mean ruler?”
“The first—rein. But why does it matter?”
Just think about it. You’ve already dropped that part of your name. You are Holder. Wise.”
At a chuckle from him, she poked at his chest indignantly, “What’s so funny?”
“I think I’ll be wise and do what my name says—hold her and never let her go.”
Fred arrived the next day with a letter.
Since he typically visited once a week now that he had been promoted to sheriff, the girls treated his visit as if Christmas came again, squealing and jumping around him like puppies. With a twin on each leg and Berta hanging from his neck, Fred dragged himself across the room. This caused more giggles from the girls. Finally, he groaned loudly and surrendered. “You beat me. I give up.”
After the girls scampered back into the kitchen to play by the warm stove, Fred grew serious, “There’s a letter from Germany for Father.”
Holder reached a hand out for it and lifted a letter opener from the library table. Surprised, Myra asked, “Shouldn’t Jennie open and read it since it is addressed to her husband?”
Whispering, her husband admitted, “She can’t read or write, not in German or English. Pa taught me to read our German bible, so I’ll try to make out the words and tell her about it.”
Sneaking a look at it over her husband’s shoulder, she saw that the sender had written only a page. Holder studied it for some time before sighing and opening the small door of the parlor stove. He crumpled the paper and fed it into the orange flame.
Without commenting on the letter’s contents, he strode out of the parlor and into his mother’s bedroom. Myra and Fred looked at each other with bemused expressions, but neither spoke. She moved to the kitchen to gather the twins and Berta to head to the cabin.
Since Johanna slept with Jennie, to keep her warm and to help with her personal need, Myra kissed the girl on her forehead and said goodnight. Then she encouraged, “Take good care of your grandma. I expect she might be upset after speaking with your father.” At Johanna’s perplexed look, Myra shook her head to discourage the girl’s questions.
At the cabin, she performed her routine for the little ones. Each night she washed their faces and hands, dressed them for bed, and then read a bible story to them as everyone cuddled on the big bed.
This night she read about the little boy with five loaves and two fish that he offered to Jesus. Impressed, Berta said, “I’d of eaten it myself so I wasn’t hungry. I’m sure glad the boy shared so all those people got food too.”
Myra smiled, stroking Berta’s soft honey-hued locks. “The little boy thought of Jesus and wanted him to have food. He didn’t’ expect the miracle that helped all of those people. But think about it, sweetie. We are asked to give to Jesus and he’ll take care of us too.”
Kisses and hugs followed then before the girls were tucked in tight against the cold on this January night. Alone in her bed, the worried wife prayed for her husband and her mother-in-law. As she did each night, she asked for deliverance from her brother’s schemes and healing for her husband’s grief over losing Lydia. Tonight, she thanked the Lord for one more day of safety and for the glimmer of warmth she witnessed that day when Holder studied Dora and Darlene over the supper table.
Excitement stirred within her as she prayed, as if the letter Holder read that night held an answer to her prayer for healing. At the same time, she was learning that her husband would discuss it in his own time. He didn’t like to be prodded for info
rmation, that was for sure. While he didn’t explode or berate her if she did, he would become aloof and silent when she prodded him about subjects he refused to discuss.
The sound of the cabin door brought her awake. When had she dozed off?
Following his nightly routine, Holder banked the fire. Then he pulled back the curtain and slipped behind it. In the silence of the room, she heard boots and clothes hit the floor. As his weight depressed the mattress, Myra rolled toward her husband and laid her head on his chest.
Arms squeezed her and Holder began to shake. “Tell me,” she coaxed tenderly.
Rather than speaking, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. She tasted the anger and frustration in the kiss before his lips softened on hers. When he pulled away with a groan, he surprised her by admitting, “You are the best blessing God has ever given me. I’ve started praying again and I thank him each night for a strong wife who loves my girls.”
Myra reached a hand up to his cheek. “That strong wife loves you, too.” She’d never admitted that to him. He rarely spoke about tender emotions. Surprisingly, her husband didn’t stiffen as she’d expected. Softly kissing her, he turned onto his side with a sigh and slept.
Chapter 6
Darlene woke with a runny nose. She whined and clung to Myra’s legs as her mother moved around the kitchen. Myra urged Johanna to hold her sister, but Holder intervened. He lifted the unhappy little girl high above his head before bringing her securely against his chest. Contented, she snuggled into her father’s arms with a happy sigh.
His females stared at Holder in shock, except for Dora She ran to her father and lifted her arms. He swooped her up with his left arm. She reached for her sister’s hand and then also cuddled into Holder’s embrace. At her easy acceptance of him, Holder looked at Myra with grief-filled eyes. “So forgiving,” he whispered.
A Farmer For Christmas (Spinster Mail-Order Brides Book 4) Page 5