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The Sheriff's Christmas Angel

He calls it chance.

I call it faith.

Either way, this Christmas, it brought us together.

Angel always dreamed of love and family, but life has taught her that such dreams are foolish. Sent west to study art from the Christian orphanage she was raised in, she arrives to discover a shocking truth: her future lies as the wife of a strict and solitary man who had no idea she was coming…

Sherriff Gabriel Wilder has spent years carrying the guilt of his father’s death and has no patience for Christmas or surprises—especially a new wife. Angel’s unexpected arrival brings unwelcome chaos to his home, but her faith and paintings stir a calling in him, one he can’t explain but can’t ignore…

As a dangerous figure from Angel’s past resurfaces, she and Gabriel must confront the darkness threatening their town. But will they find the faith, courage, and love to make this Christmas one to remember?

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, owe do not give up.

Galatians 6:9

Written by:

Christian Historical Romance Author

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Chapter One

St. Anna, Minnesota

Christmas Eve, 1880

 

To the children of St. Anna’s Orphanage, she was Sister Susannah, the nun who listened to their prayers every night. Sister Susannah had been busy throughout the day as she made preparations for a Christmas celebration that would honor the Lord’s birth and bring the children joy at the same time. It wasn’t always easy to obtain toys from the town merchants and parish members so that each child, no matter their origins or birth, would have a present beneath the Christmas tree nestled around the carved wooden creche. But the people had been generous in their giving; dour old Amos Ikenberry, proprietor of the general store, had even donated molasses, sugar, candied almonds, and a barrel of flour.

“Give those little ones a proper Christmas,” he had ordered her. “None of that porridge and gruel.” Amos, a stalwart Lutheran, was convinced that the Order of the nuns professed a regimen of self-denial and fasting. No matter how many times Sister Susannah assured him that the orphans were well-treated and well-fed, he frowned in disbelief. Sister Susannah wondered if perhaps Amos, known to be a frugal man and a tightfisted business owner, preferred to believe his own tales because it gave him an excuse to practice generosity at Christmastime.

Whatever his reasons for doing so, his generosity meant that the children would have a cake with their Christmas dinner. The fare was admittedly plain at St. Anna’s Orphanage, but it was much more appealing than porridge.

Sister Susannah waited outside the door for a few moments to make certain the girls inside the dormitory went right to sleep. Girls liked to whisper when the candles were doused, Sister Susannah knew. She knew it well, for hadn’t her own niece been one of those young girls in one of those dormitory beds for all her life? Until now, at eighteen, when Angel Clarke was no longer of an age to be adopted and would have to make her way in the world away from the orphanage.

Sister Susannah sighed. The silent prayer that had been in her thoughts all day as she mixed flour and sugar into the bowl for the cake, as she mended the torn sleeve in the dress that Mary would wear in the Christmas performance re-enacting the journey to Bethlehem, as she wrapped the wooden toy soldiers, carved farm animals, sewn cloth dolls, yo-yos, and spinning tops in the scraps of cloth that were used and re-used every year for this purpose (for the nuns wasted nothing): Great and glorious God, forgive me for what I am about to do.

As she opened the door to her small chamber, a plain room which housed only a narrow bed, a simple bureau, a washstand, basin, and pitcher for her morning ablutions, a crucifix on the whitewashed wall, and a straight-backed wooden chair, a smile came to her lips. Now she was Aunt Susan.

Angel rose from the chair with an answering smile, her lovely young face alight with the pleasure of her aunt’s presence.

“Aunt Susan!” she exclaimed as if they were just reuniting after a long absence instead of having sat at the same table for the evening meal only hours before.

Sister Susannah, now Aunt Susan for her only living relative, put her finger to her lips. “Hush, child,” she said in the soft voice of her vocation. “You’ll wake the sisters. Or the children.”

Chastened, Angel made a humorous expression and said in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m sorry, Aunt Susan. I always forget.”

“I know you do,” Aunt Susan said indulgently. “Sit back down.”

Angel sat on the edge of the bed, ceding the chair and its impression of authority to her aunt. Even though she had been taught to sit with proper posture, Angel could never be bound by such strictures. She sat with one leg bent upon the mattress, her white dress in crumpled folds around her. Aunt Susan knew that as a nun, she ought to chide her niece for such a pose, but she did not. Especially not tonight.

“Happy birthday, child,” Aunt Susan said. Her eyes drifted to the window, where her niece’s latest painting was perched upon the wooden sill.

“It’s for you, Aunt Susan,” Angel said. “I couldn’t wrap it, because I only just finished it and it’s not quite dry yet. Do you like it?”

The nuns were told not to encourage vanity but instead to instill humility, not to bestow praise but rather to offer measured evaluations as the situations warranted. But when Aunt Susan looked at the painting of the Holy Family en route to Bethlehem, Mary great with child, Joseph leading the donkey upon which she rode while all around them the darkening sky heralded the oncoming night, she was again amazed by her niece’s skill. For off in the distance was the hint of a star, the star that would lead the Three Kings to Bethlehem.

The scene of the Holy Family on their own, journeying from their home to a new place, made Aunt Susan all the more conscious of her plans.

“Don’t you like it, Aunt Susan?” Angel asked anxiously, leaning forward on the bed at such a precarious angle that she seemed to be in danger of tumbling off the edge as she tried to read her aunt’s demeanor.

“It’s beautiful, child,” Aunt Susan said. “It will be a blessing to have upon my wall and it will always bring you to mind.”

Angel laughed. “I shouldn’t think you’d need a painting for that,” she laughed, “not when you see me every day. I do so love Christmas, but I couldn’t wait to give you my gift. Tomorrow will be so filled with the children and feasting and opening their presents… that’s why I brought it to you now. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, again leaning forward on the bed, the thick dark mane of her hair in danger of bursting forth from the white ribbons holding her braid in place.

Aunt Susan rose from the chair. “I have your present also,” she said as she went to the drawer of her bureau and removed a small wooden box. “Happy birthday, child.”

“But Aunt Susan,” Angel protested as she opened the box to find a small, leather-bound Bible inside. “This is your Bible! I can’t accept this! How many times have I seen this in your hands?” Angel lovingly brushed her hand over the cover. “It’s so much a part of you that it could never be away from you.”

“It’s something for you to remember me by,” Aunt Susan said, glad that the dim candlelight of the room hid the threatening tears gathering in her eyes.

Angel laughed again. “Remember you by? Why, Aunt Susan, what a funny thing to say. How would I forget you when we are both here, you at the convent and me at the orphanage…” Her voice faltered. “Aunt Susan? Is something the matter? Is the Order sending you away?”

Aunt Susan sat down in her chair again. The rigid wooden back supported her and helped to keep her upright. It was not a comfortable chair, for which Aunt Susan was grateful. She needed the resolve offered by its unyielding frame.

“Not me, child,” she said as gently as she could. “But this is your eighteenth birthday, and it is time for you to go out into the world.”

“Why?” Angel asked with the childlike candor that had always been characteristic of her. “Why must I go?”

“Because you do not have a vocation, child,” Aunt Susan said, still gentle. “This is no longer the place where you belong. There are no other young women your age here unless they are novices who have chosen to join the Sisterhood.”

Aunt Susan realized that Angel had never before grasped the fact that orphans were either adopted or, if not, they would only have a home at the orphanage until they were of an age to decide for themselves what direction their lives were meant to travel. A trade, marriage… they had the freedom to choose, and they left the convent with an education and a home that, even if it did not provide parents, offered them the comfort and affection of the nuns.

A puzzled and frightened expression transformed her eyes from what Aunt Susan privately thought of as the color of warm ice, to waves of a beginning storm. “But where shall I go?” she asked. “I’ve never been anywhere but here!”

Aunt Susan smoothed the folds of her pristine black habit. “You have an entire life ahead of you. It’s time to seek it.”

“Seek what? I won’t marry the way that Lottie did; she wasn’t in love with him, you know. She said so. But she didn’t want to become a nun—” Abruptly, Angel halted, perceiving now with her words what she had failed to comprehend when it was another young woman preparing to leave the orphanage. “I won’t marry just to have a place to live! Besides,” she went on with her usual childlike candor, “No one has shown any interest in marrying me. You know that no one came to the orphanage to adopt me when I was little. I didn’t mind because I never wanted to leave you.”

“God has a plan for you, Angel,” Aunt Susan assured her. “It is up to me, as your aunt, the sister of your mother, to allow God’s plan to unfold. I have been preparing for this day for some time.”

“But Aunt Susan,” Angel exclaimed in dismay, “do you want me to go?”

Years of training in her vocation had taught Aunt Susan the composure to not reveal the tumult of emotion which was hidden within. “I want you to live the life God has planned for you. You have such talent and you are so filled with vitality. The sober routine of the convent, the routine of prayers and services which offers such solace to those of us who have chosen to marry God… that is not for you, child. You are flesh-and-blood, Angel, and your spirit must be allowed its freedom.”

“But what shall I do?” Angel inquired in bewilderment. “I don’t know how to do anything except paint, and that’s not a livelihood.”

“I’ve made arrangements,” Aunt Susan said. “There’s a school in St. Cloud where—” Great and glorious God, forgive me this falsehood, for Thou knowest my reason for uttering it, “where women are taught to paint.”

Angel’s expression revealed doubt. “Why?” she asked.

“Why?” Aunt Susan repeated. “Because—because you will perfect your craft,” she said, dredging up the alibi out of desperation.

Angel considered this.

In order to stave off another probing question which might not have an answer, Aunt Susan spoke up quickly. “I’ve sewn dresses for you to bring.” She went to the chest at the foot of her bed and opened the lid. “Here,” she said, handing Angel a neatly folded frock. “That’s for everyday,” she explained. “This is for church.” She delivered a second folded garment into her niece’s hands before Angel had a chance to unwrap the first and examine it. “And this….” This is for your wedding day, my beloved niece, and into every stitch I’ve put all the love your mother would have had for you, had she been permitted to raise you.

The dress was made of soft wool. It was a delicate pink, the color of a maiden’s blush, or the bloom on the first roses to appear in their season. Its color would complement the splendor of Angel’s thick, dark hair and her creamy complexion. The wool would keep her warm. For Angel would be marrying in the wintertime.

There was no school to teach her to paint. There was a young man whose sister felt that it was time her brother took a wife. Aunt Susan was convinced that God’s hand was at work in the joining of a young man named Gabriel and a young woman named Angel. He was twenty-two years of age; Angel was eighteen. Their youth might be a drawback, but it was a union devised by a loving sister and aunt, who knew the young couple better, perhaps, than the young people knew themselves.

That at least, was devoutly hoped. For if she was wrong, instead of opening Angel’s life to the marvelous possibilities that awaited her, the girl could be headed for sorrow.

Chapter Two

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Christmas Eve, 1880

 

Winter had been announcing its presence since late October, which was nothing new to the residents of St. Cloud and certainly nothing new to Sheriff Gabriel Pierce. As far as he was concerned, the only difference was that the drinkers who frequented Ilse Lowenstein’s saloon in Middle Town were more likely to be wearing thick coats or buffalo robes when they got to fist-fighting. The protection of winter gear made it harder for punches to land with any severity, but that only prolonged the skirmishes.

“You go along, Sheriff,” Ilse told him as he stood over the inebriated brawler, now subdued by Gabriel’s fists and the effects of the whiskey he’d drunk and sleeping on the floor of the saloon. Two-Toes Erskine was a perennial inhabitant of the St. Cloud jail. “You leave him here, he’ll sleep it off. It’s Christmas Eve.”

It was true that if he arrested Two-Toes, he’d have to bring him to the jail, and Two-Toes was in no condition to walk that far on his own. He’d have to prepare food for him while he was in the cell. Gabriel was no cook; managing to feed himself strained his limited cookery talents.

“Christmas Eve,” Ilse said again as if the words were a reason for charity. “The jail is cold.”

Two-Toes Erskine had eight other toes inside the scuffed confines of his boots. He’d lost two to frostbite a decade ago and was fond, when in his cups, of pulling off his boots to brandish his trademark. On a cold winter evening like this, when the men who were in the saloon were there because they had no more festive place to be, the lure of hard whiskey was a powerful inducement to easily stirred irritation. It was said that the smell of Two-Toes’ feet made a privy smell perfume.

“He’ll be no trouble,” Ilse assured him in her strong accent. She was a square, full-bosomed, wide-hipped woman who brooked no nonsense from her customers. Her favorite means of breaking up bar fights was smashing a bottle over the combatants’ heads. But as the fight had broken out just as Gabriel was making his final patrol of the night, he had employed the force of the law and his own muscle to serve as peacemaker. “He’ll sleep on the floor. Not for the first time.”

Gabriel glanced down at the snoring former buffalo hunter. He’d at least be warm inside the saloon, and Ilse, for all her toughness and shrewd business manner, was not without kindness.

His own knuckles were stinging from the contact with Two-Toes’ chin.

“I will watch him, have nowhere to go myself this holiday. If I could, I would go to my family for Christmas Eve.” Ilse coaxed, “You go to family, hm? Your sister, ya?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m going to Bonnie’s.”

“Good. You go. He’s no trouble. I look out for him.”

Gabriel sighed. He didn’t really want to celebrate Christmas Eve, and he didn’t really want to go to his sister’s house. He wanted to go home, throw logs on the fire, and sit in front of the flames drinking coffee and reading. Mrs. Turner, the librarian, knew how much he enjoyed reading and often recommended books to him that she thought he’d like. Since it was the Christmas season, she recommended a novel by Charles Dickens. It wasn’t a very long book, but it had ghosts in it and she had enjoyed it. She thought it was just the sort of book a fellow could get lost in on a night like this, and that sounded ideal to Gabriel. He was more inclined to shut the door on the world outside and lose himself in a slew of pages than to go eat Christmas Eve dinner at his sister’s house.

“You need a good dinner,” Ilse said, sensing that he was weakening. “A fine-looking fellow like you, you’ll get skinny if you don’t eat and then what will you do?”

“Eat, I reckon.”

“Ha! You need a wife to keep you fit.”

“I’ll leave him here,” Gabriel said hastily, referring to Two-Toes so that she would not pursue the subject of matrimony. She was not the only woman in town to give him such advice. “If he stirs up trouble, you come fetch me. You know where I live.”

“Ya, and I know where Bonnie lives. Your brother be there?”

Gabriel didn’t know for sure, but he supposed that Jed would be at Bonnie’s also.

“You look so sad,” Ilse scolded him. “Lucky you are to have family. My family is all far away in Prussia.”

He wasn’t going to share the truth about the Pierce family ties with the saloon keeper. “If you need me—”

Ilse picked up an empty whiskey bottle from the bar. “I got this,” she assured him. “I no need you.”

Gabriel managed a smile. “If the saloon keeper doesn’t need a sheriff in town, then my job might be in danger.”

Ilse laughed in appreciation. “No, it’s because you’re so good at your job. You chase away all the bad guys. Now goodnight, and tell Bonnie and Jed I say ‘Frohe Weihnachten’.”

“Frohe Weihnachten, Ilse,” he returned. “I’ll tell them.”

“You need to bring something?” Ilse waved her hand at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “Some schnapps, ya?”

Bonnie was a teetotaler. “No,” he said, “not tonight.”

“New Year’s, then,” she pressed.

“Maybe then. Good night, Ilse, and you close up soon. No one should be out this late on such a cold night.” On Christmas Eve, he almost added, but didn’t. He wished he was in his home, in the small, three-room cabin that made up part of the pay given to the sheriff along with his wages. It wasn’t big, but it was well-built, with solid logs to keep out the chill, and make sure that the inside was snug. Bonnie had sewn new curtains for the windows, and he had quilts that had come down through his mother’s line—their mother’s line, he corrected himself.

He wished he was there now instead of trudging through the snow, which fell lightly but steadily so that there were already six inches or so on the ground. He ought to have saddled up his sprightly mare, Becky Thatcher, and ridden her to Bonnie’s house, but the mare had earned her fresh straw and her oats and her clean stall for the night.

Besides, it wasn’t a long walk, not really. Just across town. However, it was a walk made longer by the cold wind and the falling snow, and by the time he arrived at Bonnie’s house, the sight of the light from within was a welcome sight.

The door opened so fast upon his knock that he wondered if Bonnie had been standing there, waiting for him.

“Gabriel,” she said, sounding pleased, like maybe she’d thought he wasn’t going to show up.

“I’m sorry for being late,” he said, kicking his boots against the boards of the porch to remove the snow that had accumulated. “There was a fight at the Biergarten.”

Bonnie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “On Christmas Eve? Oh, well. Come inside and get warm. I’ve heated cider to drink. I’ll pour you a cup.”

Bonnie’s cider would not be like Ilse’s, Gabriel knew. As he removed his long coat, its edges damp from the snow that he’d walked through, Gabriel thought that a cup of hot cider wouldn’t be a bad way to fight off the chill. The aroma of Bonnie’s fine cooking filled the downstairs rooms, coming from the kitchen where the ham would be basted with a brown sugar and water concoction that would keep it moist and sweet.

This was the house he’d grown up in, and the delicious scents of the Christmas Eve dinner hearkened back to the holiday meals of his childhood. There would be mutton for Easter, barbecue for Independence Day, turkey for Thanksgiving, and ham for Christmas. Bonnie would send him home with thick slices of ham, a fresh loaf of bread she’d baked just for him, a bowl of fried potatoes and onions and a bowl of pickled beets, and a generous slice of mincemeat pie. She would do the same for Jed, even though Jed lived just across the street from her.

Bonnie loved to cook as much as their mother had and had become the keeper of the recipes. It was fortunate that his parents had adopted Bonnie before Gabriel’s birth, or the meals from Ma’s table would have become mere memories.

He followed Bonnie into the dining room. They’d all eaten together at this table, but the times had not been concurrent. Before he was born, his mother and father and Bonnie and Jed had eaten here. But Gabriel had never been part of that family circle. His father had died on the night of Gabriel’s birth, forever severing the family unity.

Bonnie put her arm through his.

“Come on,” she urged, almost as if she sensed his thoughts. “Christmas dinner is almost ready. We’ll have cider and you can warm up by the fire.”

Jed, a couple of years older than Bonnie and six years older than Gabriel, nodded as Gabriel entered the dining room on Bonnie’s arm.

The cider tasted good, its flavor as inviting as its warmth. Gabriel cupped his hands around the mug gratefully.

“Smells good,” he said into the silence.

“It’s Ma’s recipe,” Bonnie said brightly. “I pray that God has reunited her with Pa and that they’re finally together again after all these years apart.”

Jed didn’t speak. He was a close-mouthed man by nature, but his silences always left Gabriel feeling that his presence was an affront to Jed. He’d thought the same about Bonnie for a long time, but that had eased since their mother’s death. The family that had existed before Gabriel’s birth was a chapter in the Pierce family volume that did not include him.

Gabriel pretended he didn’t see the glitter of tears beading his sister’s eyelashes. Ma had passed away in the spring, and the memory was still an open wound for all of them, but especially for Bonnie, who had shared so much more than recipes with their mother.

“Since we’re still waiting for the food to finish cooking,” Bonnie said brightly, “let’s open our presents.”

“I’ll go get my presents for you and Jed,” Gabriel said. “They’re in the pocket of my coat.”

“Oh, you can get them after,” Bonnie said immediately. “After we eat. Here’s the present from Jed and me.”

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