The Christmas Brides by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HQN
Published: 2010-10-29T22:00:00+00:00

My Dear Sister,

I trust this letter will find you well.

Nora, the children and I are all in robust health. Your niece and nephew constantly in quire as to your whereabouts, as do certain other parties.

I regret that I cannot in good con science remit the funds you have re quested, for reasons that should be obvious to you….

Juliana crumpled the sheet of expensive vellum, nearly ill with disappointment and the helpless frustration that generally resulted from any dealings with her brother, direct or indirect.

“Are you all right, miss?” a male voice asked, strong and quiet.

Startled, Juliana looked up, saw a tall man standing directly in front of her. His eyes and hair were dark, the round brim of his hat and the shoulders of his long coat dusted with snow.

Waiting politely for her answer, he took off his hat. Hung it from the post of a wooden chair, smiled.

“I’m Lincoln Creed,” he said, gruffly kind, pulling off a leather glove before extending his hand.

Juliana hesitated, offered her own hand in return. She knew the name, of course—the Creeds owned the largest cattle ranch in that part of the state, and the Stillwater Springs Courier, too. Although Juliana had had encounters with Weston, the brother who ran the newspaper, and briefly met the Widow Creed, the matriarch of the family, she’d never crossed paths with Lincoln.

“Juliana Mitchell,” she said, with the proper balance of reticence and politeness. She’d been gently raised, after all. A hundred years ago—a thousand—she’d called one of the finest mansions in Denver home. She’d worn imported silks and velvets and fashionable hats, ridden in carriages with liveried drivers and even footmen.

Remembering made her faintly ashamed.

All that, of course, had been before her fall from social grace.

Before Clay, as administrator of their grandmother’s estate, had all but disinherited her.

Mr. Creed dropped his gaze to the letter. “Bad news?” he asked, with an unsettling note of discernment. He might have had Indian blood himself, with his high cheek bones and raven-black hair.

The train whistle gave another triumphant squeal. It had pulled into the rickety little depot at the edge of town, right on schedule. Passengers would alight, others would board. Mail and freight would be loaded and unloaded. And then the engine would chug out of the station, the line of cars rattling behind it.

A full week would pass before another train came through.

In the meantime, Juliana and the children would have no choice but to throw them selves upon the uncertain mercies of the townspeople. In a larger community, she might have turned to a church for assistance, but there weren’t any in Stillwater Springs. The faithful met sporadically, in the one-room school house where only white students were allowed when the circuit preacher came through.

Juliana swallowed, wanting to cry, and determined that she wouldn’t. “I’m afraid it is bad news,” she admitted in belated answer to Mr. Creed’s question.

He took a gentle hold on her elbow, escorted her to one of the empty wooden chairs over by the potbellied stove.

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