Texas Christmas, page 1
Here Cooks the Bride © 2005 by Cathy Marie Hake
A Christmas Chronicle © 2005 by Pamela Griffin
To Hear Angels Sing © 2010 by Ramona Cecil
The Face of Mary © 2010 by Darlene Franklin
Charlsey’s Accountant © 2009 by Lena Nelson Dooley
Plain Trouble © 2009 by Kathleen Y’Barbo
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-033-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-583-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-584-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Image: JenniferPhotographyImaging, GettyImages
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc.,
P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Here Cooks the Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Christmas Chronicle
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
To Hear Angels Sing
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Face of Mary
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Charlsey’s Accountant
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Plain Trouble
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
HERE COOKS THE BRIDE
by Cathy Marie Hake
CHAPTER 1
September 1879
Excuse me, sir.”
Jeff halted mid-motion, his shovel full of coal. Black dust swirled around his thick boots as he glanced at the young lady. Oh, and she was definitely a lady. Judging from her so-very-proper Boston accent, the Daddy-has-money traveling suit with all the fuss and bother, and her wide hazel eyes, this gal wasn’t just out of place; she was lost.
“Might I impose for a moment to inquire as to the location of your local diner?”
He dumped the coal into his wheelbarrow and stood to his full height. “Diner’s closed. Best hop back aboard the train and try Meadsville.”
The feather in her stylish hat swayed back and forth as she gave her head a small shake. “I fear I did not make myself known. I’m Lacey Mather, and I’ve come to help my great-aunt Millie at the diner.”
“Millie’s your great-aunt?” Jeff couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. On her better days, Millie looked as if she’d been caught in a whirlwind. Most of the time, she looked like she sorted bobcats for a living. No man in his right mind would imagine Millie as kin to this dainty blond beauty.
“Yes.” Miss Mather folded her white-gloved hands at her waist and gave him a charming smile. “I’m eager to reacquaint myself with her. Could you please direct me to her place?”
“Sure. Go on through the station here, and you’ll see Main Street turning off to the west from Ranger Road. Millie’s is the first place on the right side of Main.”
Miss Proper-and-Pretty leaned forward ever so slightly. “Would west be to my right or left?”
Jeff tamped down a groan. Helpless. The woman wasn’t just lost, she was utterly helpless. What kind of assistance did she think she could give Millie, clear out here in the wilds of Texas? He heaved a sigh. “Give me a minute. I can show you the way—long as you don’t mind coal dust.”
Laughter tinkled out of her—from behind her gloved hand, of course. “Sir, after riding a train for the past three days, I assure you, I could shake out my skirts and fill your wheelbarrow!”
The woman had a point. He nodded, then directed, “There’s a bench over yonder. I’ll just be a minute.”
Chestnut-brown skirts whispered as she turned to walk away. The whisper might as well have been a shout, because the narrow-cut front of that fancy dress hadn’t prepared him for this view. Row upon row of ruffles draped over a sassy bustle and spilled to the ground. Dainty, swaying steps led her away from the bench and toward a trunk, valise, and hatbox.
She really does plan to stay.
The realization made Jeff groan aloud. Bad enough that Millie couldn’t cook a lick. Put both women in the kitchen, and most of Cut Corners would probably die of food poisoning. Resigned to continue to prepare his own meals, Jeff dumped more coal into his wheelbarrow and muttered, “Lord, I know I’m not supposed to question Your wisdom, but seems to me a homely old spinster who knew her way around a stove would be a much better choice for us here in Cut Corners.”
The train whistle blew, adding an exclamation mark to his opinion.
“You’ve been too kind.” Lacey clutched the cording from her hatbox and smiled at the stranger. He’d not yet introduced himself. These western men were a rough lot—rough but strong. He’d filled the biggest wheelbarrow she’d ever seen, then hefted her trunk across the handles as if it weighed no more than a pillow. Shoving the heavy burden through the rutted streets didn’t even leave him breathless. He’d stayed in the street but next to the boardwalk so she’d not have to contend with the hazardous road any more than necessary.
“Open the door. I’ll tote in your belongings.”
Lacey rapped on the door to what appeared to be the residential portion of the diner.
“Open it,” he ordered as he lumbered up. “Millie’s probably knocked out from the laudanum Doc gave her.”
“Oh. I see.” Though it felt intrusive to barge in, Lacey understood the necessity. “Very well.” The door creaked open to reveal a jumbled mess. Lacey yanked the door shut. “If you’d be so kind as to leave the trunk here, I’ll drag it inside later.”
“You couldn’t drag this thing if it were empty. Get the door.”
She shook her head. “I’m dreadfully sorry. Truly I am. I’m not trying to be difficult, and I appreciate your strength. It’s just that…oh, dear. Well, Aunt Millie’s hurt. She simply hasn’t felt up to tending to matters.”
Her trunk thumped loudly on the boardwalk. The man looked at her like she’d taken leave of her senses. “Suit yourself.” He wrapped huge, blackened hands around the handles of his wheelbarrow and trundled back across Ranger Road to the smithy. Suddenly the width of his shoulders and his uncommon strength made perfect sense. Lacey tilted her head to read the sign. JEFFREY WILSON. BLACKSMITH.
“God, please bless Mr. Wilson.”
“Which one?” a frail, raspy voice asked from behind her.
Lacey whirled around. From the wild wisps of her gray hair to the tattered hem of her dressing gown and the sling on her arm, the woman looked positively ghastly. “Aunt Millie?”
“In the flesh. Which Mr. Wilson?” She motioned with her good arm for Lacey to enter.
Lacey gripped her hatbox and valise as she stepped over the threshold. She’d never seen a place in such a sad state. Afraid she’d blurt out something hurtful, she grasped at the slim thread of conversation. “How many Mr. Wilsons do you have in this town?”
“Three. The old codger who used to be a ranger, the sheriff, and the blacksmith.”
“I see. The blacksmith just escorted me from the train station.” She set her valise and hatbox on a nearby table and patted the woman’s good hand. “I’m here to help you now.”
“Imagine that.” Aunt Millie quirked a lopsided smile. “So why don’t you tell me who you are?”
The question nearly felled Lacey. Then she recalled the blacksmith mentioning how the doctor gave Aunt Millie laudanum. No wonder the poor dear soul was a bit confused! “I’m Lacey, Tobias’s daughter. I’ve come to help you since you hurt your arm.”
The old woman squinted, then bobbed her head. The tortoiseshell comb holding up her wispy gray bun slid lower, and her topknot loosened into a precarious nest of tangles. “I remember y
Having her teeth remarked upon as though she were a mare under consideration for purchase stunned Lacey. Then again, poor Aunt Millie dealt with gruff men all day long. No doubt, now that she had feminine companionship, the gentler side of her nature would shine. “How kind of you to remember Mama. I only hold a few memories of her. Perhaps, after you rest, you could share some of your recollections.” Lacey took her aunt’s arm and led her toward an open doorway. Surely this must lead to the residential portion of the building.
“You hungry, girl?”
“I confess, I am. Perhaps you’d like me to prepare us lunch.”
“Then we’re headed the right direction.” Aunt Millie shuffled ahead and blocked Lacey’s view for a moment. When she stepped to the side, pride rang in her voice. “How do you like it?”
A fair-sized kitchen spread before Lacey. Well, she thought it was a kitchen. Pots, pans, kettles, and roasters lay stacked on the stove and counter and hung from the ceiling. Towers of plates listed perilously close to the edge of what she supposed was a sink. Glass canisters formed a jumble in the center of a table, and a cat lazed across the far side of that table, soaking up warmth from a sunbeam. Pretending to ignore the sad state of the room, Lacey pulled off her gloves. “It’s plain to see you have a well-equipped establishment. I’ll get to work. Is there anything in particular you’d fancy?”
“Jeff.”
The hammer clanged down on the horseshoe one last time; then Jeff set the piece back into the fire. “Yeah?”
Two old men hovered by the rail in his smithy. No one stepped beyond that rail—he’d established that rule straight off, and never once had he regretted it. It kept folks from getting hit by the hammer, sparks, or worse. It also kept them from meddling with him when he worked.
Not that anyone ever managed to keep what the town collectively called “the meddling men” from sticking their noses into other folks’ business. Four retired Texas Rangers had founded the town after they’d spent the bulk of their adult years directing and fixing issues and problems. Now, in a peaceful town, the old guys couldn’t limit themselves to dallying with dominoes or grumbling over checkers. From their vantage point on the boardwalk, they were worse busybodies than a pack of gossipy widows.
And here two of them were. His uncle Ebenezer leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Pretty filly you were escortin’ down the avenue this morning.”
Big old Swede nodded his silver-blond head. “Ja. So, what is this? Did you send for a bride?”
“A bride?” Jeff burst out laughing. “Not a chance.”
“It’s past time you married up,” Uncle Eb declared. “Your cousin’s happy as a clam now that he married up with Peony.”
Mentioning Peony and clams in the same breath seemed daft, but Jeff didn’t bother to share his opinion. The less he said, the better off he’d be. Once someone took a mind to challenge the meddling men, the old men took it as a personal affront and reckoned they had to defend their honor by proving themselves right.
“So who is this pretty girl?” Swede asked.
“Millie’s kin. Gustavson’s mare threw a shoe. I need to get her shod before he comes back.”
“Millie’s kin, huh?” Swede crammed his thumbs into his belt and rocked to and fro. “Think she can cook any better than Millie?”
“Anyone can cook better than Millie,” Eb said in a wry tone.
“No telling,” Jeff said gloomily. “Could have inherited Millie’s recipes.”
All three men sighed. Jeff used his pinchers to pull the horseshoe from the fire and hooked it over the conical end of the anvil, then started pounding it into shape again.
“A man has to have a cast-iron stomach to survive Millie’s food. I suppose I’d better keep payin’ Lula at the boardin’-house for chow.” Swede frowned. “Even my nephew cooks better than that.”
Jeff purposefully clanged his hammer extra loud just to drown out their conversation. After all, the two men were directly responsible for matching up his cousin Rafe with Peony, the dressmaker, last Christmas.
Ever since then, the bachelors in Cut Corners had been manipulated into any number of situations wherein the meddling men tried to match them up with anyone in a skirt.
“Of course he will, won’t you, Jeff?” his uncle half shouted.
Jeff knew better than to agree when he hadn’t heard what they’d said. He shoved the horseshoe back into the fire and picked up the awl so he could drive holes into the shoe and be done with it. “Don’t know what you were jawing over.”
Swede harrumphed. “No offense, you understand.”
Jeff looked to his uncle for an explanation.
“We were discussing how you’ve sorta let yourself go. It’s the heat and coal and all…but I’m sure now that we’ve called it to your attention, you’ll spruce up a bit.”
Even though he stood right beside the forge, Jeff’s blood ran cold. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“Didn’t say you had to.” His uncle pretended to be interested in a sample brand burned into the wall. “But you’d do well to take your Saturday night bath—”
“And get your hair trimmed,” Swede tacked on for good measure.
They were reaching for something to needle him about. Because of the grime from the smithy, Jeff bathed every day, whether he needed to or not. Why, he probably bought more soap from the mercantile than a family of eight. Instead of saying a thing, he snorted.
“You’ve been keepin’ company too long with horses, son. Snortin’ and tossin’ your mane like a riled stallion.”
“Jay Harris took his shears to me just last week.”
“Humph.” Swede managed to use that sound to great advantage. Jeff wondered how long it took him to cultivate just the right tone to make it dismissive and disparaging all at the same time. Probably did it for survival’s sake, because he had that lilting tonal quality as part of his accent that made him seem more like an affable farmer than a gritty Texas Ranger.
Jeff grabbed nails and stuffed them into the pocket of his leather apron, then slung the horseshoe on the anvil and closed one eye as he measured and punched the holes with a steadiness borne of experience. Done with that, he plunged the shoe into the water bucket and relished the satisfying hiss it produced.
“You men’ll have to excuse me.” Jeff nodded curtly toward them and headed out the side door to the corral attached to his place.
“Forget about that mare and think about the pretty filly across the street!” his uncle called.
Jeff scowled. “Why don’t you go tell Swede’s nephew about her?”
The two old men exchanged a conspiratorial look and hotfooted out of the shop.
Jeff went over to the mare, stooped, and held her leg fast between his knees. In no time at all, she boasted a perfectly fitted shoe.
He straightened up, gave the mare a chunk of carrot, and chuckled. “I ought to feel guilty about sending them to Erik, but it’s every man for himself.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
He tensed at the sound of that soft feminine voice. Silly Boston woman. Exact same words she used early this morning at the train. Was that her standard greeting? Jeff turned. “Yes?”
“Aunt Millie tells me you deliver coal to her. Could I trouble you to bring over more?”
“Sure.”
The woman had changed into a simple calico dress, but it looked anything but plain on her. Judging from the damp tendrils corkscrewing around her flushed face, she’d been busy. She smiled—a friendly, sort of shy smile. “Thank you ever so much.”
“I’ll be by shortly.” There. That served as a polite dismissal. It was the best he could manage. She might be pretty as a picture and smell sweeter than a rose garden, but Jeffrey Wilson wasn’t looking for a wife, and with Uncle Eb plotting and scheming, the last thing Jeff wanted was to be seen near Millie’s niece. He wanted her to go away. The sooner the better.
CHAPTER 2
Wonderful! Thank you.” Lacey stood to one side as Jeff brought in a full scuttle of coal.
“Don’t mention it.”
She inched back a bit farther and stood on tiptoe to swipe a smudge off the wall. “You’ve been so kind. Would you care to join us for supper?”
“No.”
He answered so quickly, Lacey wondered what she’d said to offend him. She hid the soiled cleaning rag behind her back and offered, “Maybe another time.”
