Treasured Christmas Brides

by Cabot, Amanda; Germany, Rebecca; Hake, Cathy Marie

  Angel didn’t say a thing until she stood right before him. “I’m going to town. Mama’s out of cough elixir, and she needs it bad. Will you keep an eye on her while I’m gone?”

  Ben stomped up and made a grab for the gunnysack. “You ain’t going nowhere, and this food ain’t yours to sell.”

  “I planted and grew it!”

  Ben thundered, “On my claim!” He yanked the sack from her grasp.

  Jarrod steadied Angel so she wouldn’t fall. He pursed his lips and looked up at the scudding clouds for a moment, then back at Ben. “So ‘tis your claim, is it?”

  “What kind of fool question is that? Of course it is!”

  “Not your family’s?” Jarrod gritted his teeth together so hard, he could feel the muscle in his cheek twitch.

  “Mine.” Ben thumped his chest with his free hand. “My wife’s useless, and whatever Angel does, it barely pays the keep on the both of them.”

  “Families pull together to make ends meet,” Jarrod said softly, but then he injected a steely undertone to the rest of his words. “A man’s place is to provide for his kin.”

  “Ain’t none of your business. Besides, Angel ain’t my blood kin.”

  “No, she’s not your family,” Jarrod agreed with a steely glare. “You agreed Angel should work the land. She’s sharecropping. Rightfully, a portion of the yield is Angel’s to do with as she pleases.”

  While Ben dropped the sack and let out a bellow at that pronouncement, Angel took the next mental step. “Part of the money I earn with laundry is mine from now on too. And so is a portion of the gold when I pan!”

  Ben shook his finger in her face. “You stop it right there, missy. You ain’t got any call on nothin’ of mine. You’re workin’ so’s you and your ma can eat. You start challenging me and making fancy demands, and you can keep off my land.”

  Jarrod could feel her shudder and wilt. Everything within him railed at this cruelty. He tilted her face to his. “I’ll let you and your mama live in my cabin.”

  “My wife ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

  The trapped look on Angel’s face and the tears in her eyes nearly tore Jarrod’s heart from his chest. He gently fingered an errant golden tendril back behind her ear and urged, “Go take care of your mama, lass. I’m needin’ to go to town myself. You just tell me what to get.”

  “It’s a waste of good money. No matter what you give her, she ain’t gettin’ better.”

  A wounded cry spiraled out of Angel. Jarrod clasped her to his chest as she shook with nearly silent weeping. He glared at Ben. “The elixir eases your wife’s cough and gives both comfort and rest. ‘Tisn’t a waste at all; ‘tis a necessity, and a merciful one at that.”

  “Ain’t your business, and it ain’t your money.” Ben swiped the sack from the ground, made a sound of disgust, and walked off.

  Jarrod continued to hold Angel as she cried. They’d never said a word about how her mother was losing ground and growing more fragile with the passage of each week. Ben had been cruel, and Jarrod despised that fact. But he knew he couldn’t lie now and reassure Angel that her mama would improve.

  Lord, help me get Angel away from that black-hearted man.

  From behind him came the sound of a man clearing his throat. Harv’s voice broke in to Jarrod’s thoughts. “Mrs. Frisk—she didn’t…um…”

  “No.” Jarrod stroked Angel’s back as he watched his friend circle around them. “We’re concerned because she’s worsening. I’ll be going into town to fetch more medicine. I’ll be askin’ you to keep an eye out for Angel and her mama for the day.”

  “I’d be right proud to. I could use a thing or two, since you’re making the trip.” Harv’s brows beetled in a dark, questioning frown as he tilted his head toward Ben’s claim. When Jarrod nodded subtly, Harv gave Angel’s shoulder a clumsy pat. “Maybe our missy can have a sit-down for a few minutes and write out a list for me.”

  Angel shimmied from Jarrod’s hold, wiped her face with the backs of her chapped hands, and said in a small, choppy voice, “Of course I’ll scribe your list.”

  “Be much obliged.” Harv rocked from toe to heel a few times, and an impish twinkle lit his eyes. “First thing I want is the strongest purgative you can buy so’s I can slip it into Ben’s coffee.”

  Angel forced a pitiful excuse for a laugh and grabbed each of their hands. Squeezing them tightly, she asked, “What would I do without you?”

  Jarrod cupped her jaw with his other hand and captured her gaze unwaveringly. “You’ve no need to ask the question, lass. You’ll not be finding that out.”

  Jarrod stood in the mercantile and looked about. He let the storekeeper gather the items of Harv’s list while he made careful choices for himself. He’d taken about half of his placer gold to the assay office and sold it, but for all his hard work, the financial results left his spirits flat and his pocket far too light.

  Prices in town had gone up. Jarrod grimly determined to get the root cellar dug, dehydrate vegetables and berries, and hunt as much as he could. If the prices made him wince, they’d send Ben into a fury.

  Angel had wisely been gathering berries and drying some of her vegetables. She even filled a big crock with a dill brine in which she’d been making pickles. At her suggestion, Harv donated a barrel, Jarrod gave her cabbage, and she’d made sauerkraut that would be done curing in the late autumn. Truly, he’d never seen a more industrious woman.

  The sales lithograph over the display of Dr. Jayne’s expectorant that Angel told him to buy made Jarrod’s heart lurch. Little Red Riding Hood huddled in a doorway in her cloak—it seemed oddly, sadly appropriate. His Angel and her mama had suffered far too much, and even if it took every last cent he had, Jarrod was going to make sure they were cared for.

  He studied the other patent medicines. Supposedly, Seeley’s Wasa-Tusa cured most anything, but he set it back on the counter when he read the boast “87 percent alcohol.” Since Angel thought Dr. Jayne’s worked well, he’d trust her judgment—but he didn’t buy just one bottle.

  The trip home in the dark was treacherous. Thanks to Beulah and Otto’s surefooted walk and Harv’s beacon-sized fire, Jarrod made it back. “Coffee smells good.”

  “Have a cup.”

  “After I take Mrs. Frisk her elixir.” He took out what he needed and headed toward Angel’s cabin. From halfway across the campsite, he could hear her mama’s harsh cough. “Angel?”

  The door flew open. A tiny flicker from the kerosene lamp glowed around her like a halo. “You’re back!”

  His nose wrinkled at an awful smell. “Sounds like your mama needs this.” He handed her two bottles.

  “I made an onion and mustard plaster for her chest. It helped a little, but this will make all of the difference. Thank you so much!”

  He held out a crushed cone of paper. “Horehound drops.”

  Angel’s jaw dropped and she blinked at him. “You bought candy?”

  “‘Tis said it helps with coughs, but I want you to have a piece or two yourself.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Life’s not always about needs, lass. Sometimes, it’s about little pleasures and tiny joys. Give me your word you’ll have one tonight.”

  Tears misted her pretty hazel eyes and lent a throaty quality to her voice. “Yes.”

  “There now. That’s a fine promise. The night’s goin’ chilly. You latch the door now and bundle up soon as you’ve given your mama her elixir.”

  “I put aside some supper for you. Harv has it.”

  “Then let me give you a scripture before I go.” He looked at the beautiful, careworn lass as she clutched the medicine and candy to her bosom and felt a glow, knowing she’d still thought of his needs and set aside a meal for him. “’Tis in Psalm 34, but I canna recollect the exact verses. ‘The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them. O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him.’”

  Angel watched J
arrod walk away, then latched the cabin door. She turned and set his offerings on the little shelf he’d built into the wall. She carefully set it so Mama could still see her carved wooden rose. Just as Angel treasured her ring, Mama cherished that rose Grandpa made when he’d courted Grandma. “Mama, Jarrod brought you some of Dr. Jayne’s expectorant. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  Once Mama swallowed a spoonful and caught her breath, she patted Angel’s hand. “Good man.”

  Angel turned away from the meaningful look in her mother’s eyes. Mama cottoned to Jarrod, and for good reason. He showered her with affection and respect. Harv did too, but in a different way. Harv was a sweet, bumbling jester of a man. He’d tried to help out when he could, but Jarrod—well, Jarrod had a way of stepping in and getting a lot done with a minimum of fuss. Angel didn’t want Mama trying to play matchmaker just because Jarrod believed in putting his muscles behind his faith.

  The brown paper drew her attention. Horehound. Just the thought of it made her mouth water. Grandpa used to slip her a chip of it in church when the preacher got a bit long-winded. She took the tiniest drop for herself and gave one to Mama. “Here. A special treat. I think you’ll have sweet dreams tonight, Mama.”

  “Some days, you live on dreams. Some days, you live on blessings.”

  Angel stooped, gave her a kiss, then closed the shutters. She’d left them open in the hope that the dim light would help lead Jarrod home. When the sun set and he’d not yet gotten back, she’d been worried. It was her fault he’d gone to town. Now, with him back and a spoonful of medicine in Mama, relief poured through her. She curled up on her cot and sucked on the horehound…and the flavor lingered long after the candy dissolved—just like Jarrod’s comfort lingered even after he went back to his own claim.

  Chapter 9

  The pickax barely made a chip in the hard rock. Jarrod broadened his stance and hefted the pick again. It came down in a mighty arc and made a small divot. Almost an hour later, he had a hole the size of both of Angel’s fists. He leaned in an arc to ease his back and arm muscles, then waved at Angel. “How’s your mama today?”

  “She slept like a baby, thanks to you.”

  He chuckled. “Good thing. As much noise as I’m makin’ now, she’s probably thinkin’ the walls of Jericho are tumbling down.”

  “What if you used a metal tent stake as a chisel? Would that help?”

  “Why, yes, I do believe it would.” Half an hour later, Jarrod grinned at his progress. By chipping away at the edges, he’d managed to almost triple the size of the opening. If he worked at this all day for the next three days, then the mornings for a few more, he’d have a nice-sized, secure root cellar. Grayish granite chipped away, and Jarrod halted. Green. He’d hit a streak of green. It meant he’d found some copper, and copper often ran alongside— No. I’m not going to let my imagination run away with me.

  He struck again. More green. Then more. The stripe widened. Time passed, but he lost track. Finally thirst made him halt. He walked to the creek and took a big, long drink, then splashed the refreshingly cold water on his face and neck.

  Ben glanced over at him. “Never seen a man waste as much time as you—wandering off to town, messin’ with a garden, diggin’ a root pit.”

  Jarrod shrugged. “Bible tells of Joseph setting by food for the lean times. From what I hear, a man gets hungry in winter here if he doesn’t plan ahead.”

  “You sayin’ I didn’t plan ahead? You callin’ me a fool?”

  “I have no idea how you supplied your family. Rain might have spoiled supplies. Creatures might have gotten into the bags and barrels. I’m just saying I’m trying to exercise wisdom on my own behalf.”

  “Hmpf.” Ben plunged his pan into the water again.

  Jarrod stopped in his cabin for something quick to eat. He didn’t want to waste time cooking. After eating a chunk of jerky and taking a quick glug of apple cider from a jug, he was back out at the root pit.

  Curiosity made him want to dig deeper, but common sense told him to widen the opening. If all he did was drive straight down, Ben would suspect he was digging a sample core. Not wanting to give Ben any reason to get snoopy, Jarrod tamped down his own feelings. He needed to stay calm. Might be, nothing is here at all. Even if I don’t strike gold, I’ll still have a fine place to store my garden truck.

  Light began to wane. Jarrod served a few more blows on the chisel. All day long, he’d carefully taken the coppery earth off and slipped it in the hollow of a rotting log. The secrecy of the action went against his grain, but safety demanded he do just that. He set a board over the opening and started to walk away.

  “You’ve been busy today.”

  “No more than you, Harv. What do you have there?”

  “That net you set out caught this beauty.” Harv held up a sizable trout. He hitched a shoulder and added, “I didn’t catch nothing today, and I thought maybe you’d feel like sharing if I cook.”

  Soon, the men sat by a small fire and ate the trout. Harv stretched out his legs and studied his boots. He bent over and thumbed a crack in the old leather. “These ain’t gonna last me another winter. I’m of a mind to bag me a buck. Injuns wear buckskin boots. Figure I could too. Eatin’ something other than squirrel, fish, or rabbit would suit me fine.”

  “For all of the berries, I haven’t seen many deer.”

  Harv shook his head. “Thimbleberries this time of year. Deer don’t favor them. They was fine, eating the whortleberries and bilberries in July, but whatever we didn’t gather, the gray catbirds, quail, and squirrels ate. The back corner of my claim is part of a deer run. What say we stake it out at daybreak and try to get us one?”

  Jarrod didn’t want deer—he wanted gold. The pit called to him, drew him. In that instant, he understood the seductive, insidious pull of gold fever. He cleared his throat as a flicker of compassion for Ben kindled in his heart. “Harv, I’d be proud to hunt with you. Are you wanting me to leave my bow behind?”

  He pursed his lips and pondered on the matter. “Bring it. May be that some other critter happens by. You can take it down all quiet-like, and the deer won’t be spooked away.”

  “The smokehouse can handle a buck, no problem. I’d like to see us fill up on as much as we can. I’ve decided to start setting more snares—all of the beasts have been fattening up over the summer, so they’re of good size.”

  Harv agreed and headed for the log bridge. After he left, Jarrod put some gravel in his shaker box and worked by firelight for another hour or so before turning in.

  After he read his Bible and prayed, he stacked his hands behind his head and stared up at the roof. A realization struck him. Even if I hit gold and have enough to go buy my ranch, I’m not leaving until I can take Angel with me.

  “Mama! You’re the one who always told me to be grateful.”

  “I never served you deer liver.”

  “It won’t keep. Jarrod and Harv are smoking almost all of the rest of the deer. They butchered it into pieces no self-respecting cook would recognize, but we’ll have plenty of fine meals from it. Here. Eat some.”

  “Did Ben at least help them butcher it?”

  Angel shook her head.

  “I can help.” Mama rose on one elbow. “I’ll wash the tripe and we can make sausage.”

  “No, Mama. You save your strength. We’ll do just fine. Truly, we will.” Horror streaked through Angel at the thought of her mother doing anything at all. The minute she attempted even the smallest task, Ben would take that as a signal that she ought to be panning again.

  As Angel gently nudged her to lie back down, Mama said, “Ever since Jarrod came, we’ve been eating better.”

  “He said Harv shot the deer. Harv’s proud as a peacock. While they were waiting, Jarrod used his bow and brought down a wild turkey. It’s months early, but we decided we’re going to celebrate Thanksgiving day after tomorrow.”

  Mama’s lids drooped, but a sweet, weary smile chased across her face. “Lord knows, we hav
e plenty for which to be thankful.”

  Two shirts. The nip in the predawn air demanded Jarrod put on two shirts. Even working to go through solid rock, he’d not work up enough heat to keep himself warm if he wore but a single shirt.

  His breath condensed in the air as he stirred the banked coals from last night’s fire. While coffee and oatmeal cooked, he carried some of the gravel from the pit over to his shaker box. He’d begun to see little glimmers last evening, so he’d decided working it would be more promising than working the creek silt. Then too, it would quell any curiosity from Ben—as long as Ben didn’t realize he’d carried the gravel from the area where he was digging.

  Because he didn’t particularly care to get in and out of the water all day, he’d taken to scooping a score or more of the sixteen-inch pans full of creek bottom and piling them by the shaker. He’d never dreamed when he started that habit would stand him in such good stead now.

  A bowl of oatmeal and a cup of much-too-strong coffee later, Jarrod started to operate his shaker box. Pan after pan, he shook gravel through the grates.

  Muscles heated from the hard work and the rising temperature as the morning sun climbed, Jarrod removed the outer shirt. He squinted at what he’d coaxed from the shaker box: several specks and flakes that amounted to about the size of his thumbnail. Better than what I’d normally get, but still not much. I’ll dig back there a bit deeper and see if there’s more to be had.

  “Jarrod?” He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Angel as she picked up his shirt from the stump where he’d flung it. “I’m doing laundry today.”

  He nodded. They’d tangled over this a few times, but he’d finally relented. They’d made a deal—he made the cabin for her; she did his laundry and occasionally cooked for him. Just as he didn’t want to be indebted, neither did she.