Home for Christmas (11 page)

“I’ll miss my train.” Miranda laughed, the sound full of joy and surprise. Her new employer expected her tomorrow morning. “Mrs. Jamison--”

“Hunter wired her.” Mother kissed Miranda’s cheek. “How will today end? What is your choice?”

Effie nodded in encouragement, linking her arm through Miranda’s.

Bride.
Hunter Kendall wanted to marry her. Today. Without an engagement, without warning, without--

He
did
understand.

He understood everything; most importantly, he understood
her
.

Denver and dreadful lonesome days. Or home and life filled with laugher and joy with Hunter.

There was no comparison whatsoever. The decision was an easy one.

She grabbed her valise. “Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”

<><><><>

Hunter stood in the front of the church, still damp from a quick dousing and dressed in his Sunday best. He drowned in empathy for what Miranda must’ve felt the day Warren left her at the altar.

Beside him, Warren waited calmly, as if there were nothing to worry about.

Reverend Gilbert stood in his place. Smiled with reassurance every time Hunter looked up. At the organ, Mrs. Gilbert coaxed a soft melody from the pipes.

Hunter risked a glance at his pocket watch. Effie had left on her errand twenty minutes earlier.

He wanted to undo the button at his throat, but didn’t dare with a church full of people watching. Over the low murmur of voices, he heard the train whistle as it approached Mountain Home station.

Please, Miranda.

Hunter fought to keep his breathing steady.

Don’t go.

He’d gone too far. He knew it now.

Foolish. So foolish to throw together a wedding less than an hour. No, not merely foolish. He’d been desperate, hopeful,
delusional.

If only he’d held back.

His proposal had ruined everything.

Why would pressing matters, like this, a last-ditch desperate, delusional plea for her acceptance, solve the blunder he’d made?

A bead of sweat trickled down his back, despite the chill. Marriage wasn’t the only option, he could see that now.

At least not yet. Better solutions ran though his head:
May I call on you in Denver? When will you return to Mountain Home…your mother’s birthday, perhaps?
Naturally, he considered these now, when it was too late.

Outside, bitter wind gusted. Icy. Forlorn. Lonesome.

Folks whispered amongst themselves. The mood had started festive, anticipation humming joyfully. The rush of getting to the church in time had fueled the spirit of matrimonial celebration.

Doubt crept in, minute by passing minute. Anticipation gradually ebbed from the faces of family and friends. Excited conversation dulled to an occasional whisper. Restless. Antsy, like him.

Mother’s eyes were closed, likely in prayer, her lips barely moving in silent pleading.

Waiting was hell.

Hunter stood taller. Squared his shoulders.

He would
not
regret fighting for her. Warren was right about that much. Miranda was the one woman he’d ever loved, the one he’d waited three long years to return, the one he couldn’t bear a future without.

If only he’d gone to the depot himself. Thrown himself on her mercy. Pleaded with her to stay with him…just to stay in Mountain Home. Let things continue down their natural course. He wouldn’t pressure her for marriage, not until she was completely ready. She didn’t have to go back to Denver.

Another long, shrill train whistle carried on the wind. The four-o’clock pulled into the station. It didn’t take much to imagine the scene. Miranda’s shoulders squared, her satchel in hand. Nothing Effie or Mrs. Finlay could say to convince her to accept his marriage offer.

She wouldn’t come.

Two
offers.

One moment everything had been beautiful. She’d loved him. Love and happiness had sparked in her eyes. He’d witnessed the truth of it.

Two
refusals.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut and fought the dread burning a hole in his stomach. He’d give her ten more minutes, then somehow thank the friends and family gathered here.

A thud at the church doors. His heart leapt, expecting to see her carried through in a slice of sunlight, a radiant smile just for him.

Only the wind.

No. He would not wait ten minutes, would not stand here and accept her leaving him. Halfway down the aisle, every eye on him, the decision was made.

He’d get on that damn four-o’clock. He’d beg her forgiveness on the journey to Denver. Set things straight. Give them hope of a joint future.

Voices rose. Mother called his name. The organ stuttered and fell silent.

Four long strides and his hand was on the doorknob. He pulled it open, dazzled by the setting sun reflecting off brilliant white drifts. Bitterly cold wind cut through his Sunday best.

Right there, on the threshold, Miranda stood arm-in-arm with her mother and Effie. Their breaths showed in puffs of white, smiles jubilant.

Vaguely aware the reverend’s wife pumped more volume from the organ, he feared his heart had given out. Voices clambered inside, shuffling as people rose.

In that moment, she’d never been more beautiful. Bundled up in coat and scarf, mittens and hat, cheeks pink from the cold. Gorgeous emerald eyes locked on his.

Laughter erupted from him on a rush of relief so intense, so sharp it caught him off guard. Tears stung his eyes. “You’re here.”

She’d stayed.

With him.

Swiping at a tear, he reached for her. He had to touch her, hold her.

Her musical laughter--how he loved that magical melody--drew him closer. His fingertips met the cool skin of her satiny cheek. Drew his thumb across her full lower lip.

Effie broke the spell. “Step aside, won’t you? It’s cold outside.”

Hunter did just that, as his bride was swept inside on the arms of two women he owed a tremendous debt. Applause erupted. The joyful celebration drowned out the first strains of
Wedding March
belted from the organ. The aisle filled with family and friends clustered around them.

Miranda’s father was there, urging him back to his place at the front of the church. “Go on now. You’re in the way, son.”

Everyone
was in the way. Jostling, chattering.

Reverend Gilbert whistled, ordered everyone to take their places. The organ started up again with the tune.

The ladies divested Miranda of her scarf, hat, mittens. Through it all, she had eyes only for him.

Everybody settled into place, quieted.

At the front of the church, Warren clapped Hunter on the shoulder. No words were needed. That simple gesture conveyed all the happiness, the
rightness
of the moment.

Resplendent in mourning black, his bride finally took his hand. Her father kissed her cheek, then grasped Hunter’s shoulder with a squeeze. “You love my baby girl.”

Hunter pulled his gaze away from his bride’s face. Answered through the constriction in his throat. “Always.”

The ceremony zipped past, over before he knew it. His ring on Miranda’s finger. That sweet kiss sealing their union. The roaring applause and cheers from dozens of folks who’d known them forever.

One memory would stay forefront in his mind of that cold, blustery, wintry, wedding’s eve. The precious sense of completeness, of coming home at long last. Two had become one.

CHAPTER NINE

<><>

Easter Sunday, 1899

Sometimes life turns out sweeter than one dreams.

Even with the whole family present, the house seemed quiet. Content. At peace.

Miranda wiped her hands on her apron, hung it up on a peg in Mother Kendall’s kitchen, and carried a serving bowl of mashed potatoes into the dining room.

Everything was nearly ready.

The dining room table shown with weak April sunlight streaming through the south-facing window. Place settings for seven. Steaming platters and bowls brimmed. The meal was fit for the holiday celebration. Trimmings and favorites and the product of hours of work in the kitchen.

Miranda loved that part, working alongside her mother-in-law and sister-in-law, Viv.

Perhaps that was the greatest blessing of all, the easy and cherished friendship with Vivian. So valued because it had been so unexpected.

The family gathered, Father Kendall at the head of the table, poised to slice the roast ham.

Hunter’s arms came around her waist from behind. Snuggled her close. “You smell good.” His lips nuzzled her neck.

“I smell like turnips.” She couldn’t help but smile; to be near him, to revel in the oneness they shared was simply to blessed.

Viv settled little Matthew in his seat beside her own, tying a dishtowel around his neck for a bib. Mother went back to the kitchen for one more thing. Warren walked the floor with baby Eliza on his shoulder.

“I love turnips.”

“And all this time,” she whispered, turning slightly toward him, “I thought you loved
me
.”

“I’ve always loved you, Mrs. Kendall. Don’t recall a time I didn’t.” His arms wound so comfortably around her middle. “How are you feeling?”

His touch felt soothing, wonderful, like ‘home.’ “I love you back.” Then much quieter, “I’m just tired.”

Whiskers abraded gently over her jaw as he raised his head, brining it to rest on her crown. So much for the careful hairstyle, as her bun loosened, slid a little to the side.

No matter. His touch felt too wonderful to give a fig about mussed hair.

“You’re beautiful in blue,” he murmured. His hand rested sweetly on her belly. Over the tiny life they suspected had begun to grow within her.

Since their December wedding, he’d delighted in ordering bodices, skirts, and blouses from Effie. Every pastel, every bright shade. The mourning blacks had been put away from that evening on. She’d felt too joyful, fresh, alive, full of love to mourn another moment.

“Have a seat, you two,” Father urged. “We’re ready to begin.”

Hunter held her chair. Mother joined them, took Father’s hand.

Warren gave up laying Eliza down. He took his seat with his infant daughter snuggled in his arm.

By the time the snow flew, that would be Hunter, their baby held close. The image seemed so precious, so sweet.

Warren glanced up, met her gaze. Offered a tired half-smile. He was a good father, a good husband to Viv. And somehow, the ease and comfort between them had become gloriously easy.

Forgiveness had a way of doing that, she supposed.

Hunter took her hand, young Matthew’s in the other. With everyone’s hands linked around the table, Father Kendall asked a blessing on their Easter feast.

Yes, sometimes life turns out sweeter than one dreams.

Books by Kristin Holt

Home for Christmas, a sweet historical romance novella

THE HUSBAND-MAKER TRILOGY
(sweet historical romances)

The Menace Takes a Bride

The Cowboy Steals a Bride

Finally a Bride

The Sheriff Gets Her Man

Lord, Give Me Patience

About the Author

Kristin’s love of books and reading began as a preschooler. She arrived home after her first day of Kindergarten frustrated to tears that they hadn’t taught her to read (though her parents already had). Today, she devours several books a week, always searching for more authors to add to her keeper shelf. The advent of eBooks made that keeper shelf take up significantly less room, thus ensuring her husband is less aware of the book addiction.

Kristin has worked as a Registered Nurse (Labor and Delivery, Maternal-Child), Childbirth Educator, magazine article writer, Weight Watchers Territory Manager and Leader. Through it all, writing remained her first love. She lives north of Salt Lake City with her husband of twenty-five years, three college-age kids who haven’t completely moved out, a daughter dancing her way through high school, and a Vizsla named Snickerdoodle.

Find her at www.kristinholt.com.

Dear reader,

Thank you for reading
Home for Christmas.
I hope you enjoyed it.

Wherever you find yourself this season, may you know the comforting sense of being
home,
with family and friends.

Reviews from readers make all the difference to those browsing and buying, as well as to writers. Please take a moment and leave an honest review (good or bad) in the eBook store where you purchased this novella.

Warm Holiday Wishes,

Kristin Holt

AN EXCERPT FROM
THE MENACE TAKES A BRIDE
, by Kristin Holt

California, 1895

Luke Wakefield gulped wedding champagne, but he was in no mood to celebrate. “Any unmarried man over twenty-five years of age is a menace to society.”

He glared in Garth’s direction. His son danced with the Hollis woman, holding her too close, his lips brushing her temple. As if he intended to ask for her hand. Ha! Luke would never live to see his only child safely wed.

The two men seated with him ought to understand his misery. Only one of them had managed to see a son married--less than an hour ago.

The four-piece orchestra wound up their tune and Garth quickly traded the Hollis woman for her younger sister.

“Embarrasses the living daylight out of me,” Luke muttered, “the way he carries on. Look at that Orme woman ogling him from the punch bowl.”

“Of course she’s going to expect more.” Phillip Macquarie turned back in his seat, a fool’s grin on his whiskered face. “He did dance with her. Held onto her like she was his wife. With his hand on her--”