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The Mountain Man's Holiday Bride

“I never thought I’d celebrate Christmas again. But when a surprise arrives on my doorstep, I can’t help but wonder—could this be a Christmas a gift that comes with a price?”

Desperate to escape an arranged marriage, Rebecca answers a mail-order bride ad. Arriving at a snow-covered ranch, she finds more than she expected—a chance at family and the Christmas spirit she thought was lost forever…

Stephen buried holiday joy after the loss of his parents on Christmas Eve. Towering and imposing, he’s a man who’s easier to fear than to love. When a tiny, fiery woman storms into his life with an unexpected infant left on his doorstep, he agrees to a marriage of convenience, believing it will be temporary, like everything else in his life…

As Christmas approaches, Rebecca and Stephen must protect the abandoned child and uncover the secrets linking them to Rebecca’s estranged sister and a dangerous man seeking revenge. Can the magic of the season bloom even in the most unexpected places?

Written by:

Western Historical Romance Author

4.5/5

4.5/5 (136 ratings)

Prologue

Elk Mountain, Wyoming 1897

 

Christmas Eve shouldn’t have been so exciting at age sixteen, but for Stephen Dalton, that year was special. He lay in bed, and the soft glow of the moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows on the walls of his room. The anticipation of the following morning filled him with a warm, comforting excitement that he hadn’t felt since he was a young boy. This was the first time that he was more thrilled to give gifts rather than receiving.

He smiled as he thought about Alice, the prettiest girl in Elk Mountain, and his soon-to-be wife. They had met just over a year ago at the Harvest Festival. Alice had been standing by the apple bobbing booth, her laughter ringing out like the sweetest music. Her blond hair had caught the late afternoon sun, turning it into a halo of golden light. He’d been too shy to approach her at first, but fate had presented a way of bringing them together.

Actually, it was Mrs. Cushing who had introduced them, seeing the way Stephen’s eyes followed Alice. Mrs. Cushing was their neighbor and a close acquaintance of his mother’s. She’d always been kind to him. She had been kind to everyone.

“Stephen, this is Alice. Alice, this is Stephen. He’s a good boy, he helps me out at the store sometimes.” Her introduction had come with a knowing smile, and they’d shyly greeted one another.

From that moment, he and Alice had been inseparable. They had spent their days exploring the fields and forests around Elk Mountain, sharing their secrets, and talking about their dreams and plans.

Now, as he thought about their future, Stephen’s heart swelled. He could see it all so clearly in his mind’s eye. They would get married in the little white church on the hill, with all their friends and family gathered around. He would build them a cozy home, where Alice could grow her favorite flowers, and one day, their children would run through the grass playing happily after Stephen taught them how to fish in the creek and ride horses across the open plains. Alice would be on a porch swing, reading her beloved books and writing in her journal, and their life would be cozy, happy.

In his room, Stephen imagined the look on Alice’s pretty face when she unwrapped the copy of Little Women that he’d managed to secure for her with the help of Mrs. Cushing. They’d sent off for a copy of the book back in August and just when he was sure it wouldn’t make it in time for Christmas, it had finally arrived. Mrs. Cushing had gift wrapped it for him in some nice, wrapping paper and covered it with pretty, lacy bows. Alice was going to love it.

Reading had always been one of Alice’s loves, and Little Women was one of her favorites. At least, that’s what she told their teacher at school. He remembered how Alice had gushed on about it.

“Oh, I love Little Women! Jo is my favorite, but Meg is sweet. And when they lost Beth, I thought my heart would break, too.”

“And what about little Amy?” Mrs. Myers had asked.

Alice had made a face. “Definitely not my favorite. She was a little spoiled, if you ask me.”

Stephen had chuckled at that. Some people said that Alice was a little spoiled herself. But she deserved it. And if Little Women made her happy, then he’d make sure she had her own copy. He could picture her curled up by the fire, the book in her hands, her eyes shining with happiness. Yes, their future was going to be bright and full of love. And he couldn’t wait to start it with her.

Quietly, he climbed out of bed and kneeled on the cold, hard floor, pulling out the gifts he’d hidden there. For his ma, he had found a beautiful shawl, woven with intricate patterns that reminded him of the ones she used to make when he was young. He held it up, admiring it in the soft moonlight.

Setting it aside, he pulled out the new set of carving tools he’d bought for his pa. He knew how much his father loved to whittle away the evenings by the fire. He could picture his pa sitting there now, whittling a new what-not for his mother as she sat rocking in her chair, her new shawl wrapped tightly around her.

He went to the bedroom door and cracked it open. There was no sound in the house, no light. They’d certainly gone to bed by now. So, he returned to the gifts on his bed and spent the next hour wrapping each one with love and care. He could almost hear the laughter and see the smiles that would no doubt light up their faces.

The thought of the Christmas feast his mother would prepare made his stomach growl and his mouth water as he climbed back beneath the covers. He smiled as imagined the turkey, stuffing, pies, and all the trimmings that they would soon enjoy. It was going to be a perfect day.

Gentle drowsiness slowly overtook him as his thoughts began to slow and blur together. He thought of Alice’s delighted smile, his ma’s grateful hug, and his pa’s approving nod. The images danced in his mind, blending with the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the window.

Only a few hours later, his dreams were abruptly shattered by a searing heat and the acrid smell of smoke. Distantly, he heard a scream shatter through the house. Stephen’s eyes flew open, and for a moment, he was disoriented. The heat intensified, and he realized with a jolt of terror that the house was on fire.

“Ma?” he called out. Panic surged through him, and he struggled to shake off the grogginess. Flames danced along the walls, casting an eerie, flickering light. The smoke was thick, making it hard to breathe. Stephen’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him. “Pa!”

He could hear the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of something collapsing.

“Ma! Pa!” he shouted as he dropped to the floor. The air was slightly clearer there, and he crawled toward the door. In the hallway outside, he could barely see a foot in front of himself. “Where are you?”

The heat was quickly becoming unbearable, and he could feel it searing his skin. His leg brushed against a burning piece of debris, and he cried out in pain, forcing himself to keep moving.

Every inch felt like a mile, but finally, he reached the door. He pushed it open, the cool night air rushing in, offering a brief respite from the suffocating heat. Stephen crawled out onto the lawn, gasping for breath, his leg throbbing with pain. He looked back at the house, now fully engulfed in flames, and a new wave of fear gripped him.

Where were his parents?

He struggled to his feet, his injured leg barely able to support him.

“Ma! Pa! I’m out here!” he shouted, his voice hoarse from the smoke. There was no answer, only the roar of the fire. He stumbled towards the front of the house, hoping to see them, praying that they had made it out safely.

But the yard was empty, and the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. They hadn’t made it out. Panic turned to desperation as he scanned the area, his mind racing with possibilities. Were they trapped inside? Were they in there, trying to find him?

Stephen’s thoughts tumbled. He was scared, but he knew he had to get help. As the fire roared behind him, Stephen ran to the corral behind the house and dragged himself atop his father’s horse, Prince. He didn’t bother with a saddle or a bridle, leading the horse with his body’s movements.

“Yah!” he cried, and Prince took off.

Stephen closed his eyes and lost himself to worry and panic. The joyous Christmas he had envisioned was now a nightmare, and all he could do was hope and pray that they would all make it through.

The nearest neighbors, the Cushings, lived just a quarter mile away, but it felt like an eternity as Prince’s hooves ate up the snowy distance between them. When they finally reached the Cushings’ house, Stephen didn’t hesitate. He leapt off Prince, groaning when pain shot through his injured leg, and beat on the door. “Help! Please! Fire!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with urgency.

The door flew open, and Mr. Cushing stood there, eyes wide with shock. “Stephen, what is it? What’s happened?”

“Our house,” Stephen gasped, trying to catch his breath. “It’s on fire. We need help!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Cushings grabbed his coat and shouted for his sons. “Get the buckets! There’s a fire at the Dalton’s place!”

The rest of the night was a blur of fire and snow, screaming and yelling splitting the darkness. More neighbors and townsfolk joined them in the early hours of the morning, their faces grim as they worked to extinguish the flames. Stephen stood on the lawn, his feet frozen and his leg throbbing. He watched helplessly as the fire consumed his entire life.

Finally, a sheriff’s deputy approached him, his expression somber. “Son, I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Your parents… they didn’t make it out.”

Stephen’s world shattered. “No!” he screamed, trying to push past the deputy. “I have to get to them!” But Mr. Cushings grabbed him, holding him back as he struggled. “Let me go! I need to save them!”

“It’s too late,” Mr. Cushings said firmly, his grip unyielding. “You can’t go back in there.”

Stephen’s strength gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. The reality of his loss hit him with full force. His parents were gone, and nothing would ever be the same again.

As the fire eventually burned out, Stephen sat in despair, numb and broken. The neighbors tried to comfort him, but their words felt hollow. He was alone in his grief, the weight of it crushing him.

Then, in the midst of his despair, he saw a familiar face. Alice rushed to his side, her eyes filled with tears.

“Stephen,” she whispered, reaching out to him. “I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.”

But he couldn’t bear to be touched, to be comforted. He pushed her away, his voice raw with pain. “Leave me alone, Alice. Just go.”

Alice’s face crumpled, but she stepped back with a heartbroken look. Stephen watched her go, feeling a pang of guilt. Still, he couldn’t let anyone in. Not now. Not when his world had been torn apart.

Later, the deputy approached him cautiously once again, his hat in hand. “Stephen, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he began, his voice gentle but firm. “It looks like the fire was entirely accidental. It could have been a stray ash from the fireplace or a forgotten candle.” Vacantly, Stephen recalled the candles his mother always lit in the living room to see her sewing or to read her Bible. “We may never know for sure what happened.”

Stephen nodded numbly, the words barely registering. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Mrs. Cushing, her face etched with concern.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to go through this alone,” she said softly. “You can come and stay with us, at least until you get back on your feet.”

He looked at her, the kindness in her eyes a stark contrast to the devastation around him. “Thank you, Mrs. Cushing,” he managed to say, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. We’ll figure it out together,” she promised.

As he stood up, and the night pressed down on him, Stephen realized he was lost. Whatever dark place this was, he could find no easy way out. He didn’t want to speak to Alice, not about his parents or the wedding, or anything, really. He didn’t want sympathy from the people of the town, didn’t want to hear their empty remarks of consolation. He didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t save his parents.

As each minute passed, he withdrew more into himself. Each minute felt like an endless night, his mind a battlefield of sorrow and regret. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed his parents, that somehow, he should have been able to prevent this tragedy.

Mrs. Cushing helped him off the ground and he stumbled after her, carefully avoiding Alice, convinced that she couldn’t possibly understand the depth of his pain. Or worse, maybe she could. Maybe she could read the guilt in his eyes, could see that he was to blame for this calamity. The townspeople’s kind words felt like salt in an open wound, reminding him of everything he had lost.

He was alone now.

The future he had imagined, filled with family and love, was gone now. All that was left was a painful void, and he had no idea how to fill it.

Chapter One

Willow Springs, WY – December 1, 1897

 

“Ouch!” Rebecca winced, pulling her hand back and staring at the tiny drop of blood welling up on her fingertip.

It was such a small thing, yet it felt like her emotional pain could be manifested into that one prick on her finger. Wiping away the drop of blood, Rebecca carefully pulled the box out from under the bed. It was such a small box but it already threatened to weigh her heart down with memories of her former life. Opening it, she found old letters, photographs, and trinkets from happier times.

Each item was a fragment of memories pieced together to form a version of herself she no longer was. Tears welled up in her eyes as she held a faded photograph of her family, her mother’s warm smile beaming back at her. Her father looked like a different person in the picture, warm and caring. He actually glowed with pride, surrounded by his loving family. And beside him, Rebecca’s sister, Lily, stood, missing a few teeth as she wore a mischievous smile. The ache in her chest grew stronger, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. This box was all she had left of them, and despite the pain, it was a comfort to know that these memories still existed.

“Stupid consumption.” Rebecca sniffed as she lightly traced her mother’s photo. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Mother.” She tried to wipe her tears, setting the photograph aside, and began shuffling through all the papers and knick-knacks—a ticket stub from the theatre in Cheyenne, a song that Rebecca’s mother had penned for her, and a poem that she and Lily had written more than ten years before.

The sight of Lily’s familiar handwriting brought a fresh wave of emotion. She gently unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the lines they had crafted together in their childhood. The poem spoke of dreams and adventures, of a world filled with wonder and possibility. It was a stark contrast to the reality she now faced, but it also reminded her of the bond she once shared with her sister.

Rebecca’s fingers traced the words, a bittersweet smile forming on her lips. She swore Lily’s laughter still echoed in her ears. The poem was a small piece of Lily, a connection to a time when life was simpler and full of hope. A time when her mother was still alive, and her father’s rare smiles brought light to their home. A time when her family was happy and thriving, unlike the fragmented shambles it was now.

At twenty-four, her mother had been gone for nearly eleven years now; her sister, gone for ten years. Both had left a hole in the fabric of Rebecca’s existence, although, unlike her mother, Lily’s departure had been by choice. And despite the anger that lingered from the loss of her mother and sister, she missed them both desperately.

.

And while the bad times were always easy to recall, she sometimes struggled to remember the good times she’d had with Lily, the times when they would laugh and share silly secrets. Times like those when Lily would blush bright red whenever she saw a cute boy. In fact, Rebecca had even taken to calling her Crimson when they were alone. She giggled now at the memory.

She would forever miss her sister and mother, would always wonder where Lily had gone and if she was safe. Now, sitting alone with the poem in her hands, she felt the weight of those years pressing down on her, a reminder of all she had lost and the fragile hope that maybe, one day, things could be different.

It was up to her to drive those changes. She could be the master of her own fate. She could write.

Reading and writing had always been her passion, a way to escape her father’s overbearing rule, the loneliness of her solitary existence and dive into worlds of her own creation. But in 1897 Wyoming, the path to becoming a successful writer was fraught with challenges, especially for a woman.

She sighed, looking out her bedroom window at the vast expanse of her father’s estate in Willow Springs. The town was small, and opportunities were limited. Yet, Rebecca was determined to find a way to support herself. She began to consider her options, her mind racing with possibilities.

She could submit some of her poems to the local newspaper, maybe write a story or two. And if that didn’t work out, she could maybe find a teaching opportunity in a small community somewhere. She’d heard, too, that governesses were in high demand with some of the wealthier families in the west. Of course, they’d probably all know her father, and she doubted anyone would actually hire her against his wishes.

Rebecca sighed heavily and closed the notebook. If she was going to do this, she’d have to convince her father.

These days, she often felt like a prisoner in her own home, her every move scrutinized and criticized. No matter how hard she tried, the warmth and laughter that once filled their house was gone, replaced by tension and fear. No matter what she did, she couldn’t seem to make her father happy.

The sound of the door closing downstairs had Rebecca flinging all the papers into the box and shoving it hurriedly back into its hiding spot under the bed. She rushed to the door and stopped short, her heart sinking as she realized her father had brought a guest home for dinner. Charles Wentworth. She couldn’t stand the man. He had the face of a ferret and an air of shadiness that made her skin crawl. She tried to slip back into her room unnoticed, but her father’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

“…and she’ll make a fine wife for you, Charles,” her father was saying.

Was Charles getting married? If so, she pitied the poor woman, whoever she was.

“Rebecca, come down here,” her father called, his tone leaving no room for argument. She swallowed, then descended the stairs, approaching the two men reluctantly.

“Yes, Father?”

“Rebecca, go check that the servants have dinner ready,” her father ordered, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. She nodded mutely and hurried to the kitchen, relieved to escape their company.

Once dinner was ready and served, the three of them began to ate.

Dinner was a torturous affair. Rebecca sat through the meal, forcing herself to be polite while her father and Charles discussed her as if she weren’t even there.

“Of course, my wife must have a firm understanding of social graces. I’ll need to host parties for our clients and entertain some of the most influential families in the country,” Charles proclaimed.

“My daughter is extremely well-versed in social etiquette,” her father replied. “She can host with charm and grace, and has been educated on a wide range of topics. She is also fluent in French, and an expert in household management, as well as needlework.”

Charles nodded, pleased, as if he held some sort of keen interest in her skills. Rebecca continued to eat in silence, trying not to focus on their conversation. But her father kept trying to pull her in.

“She must also have a gentle disposition, known for showing kindness to others,” Charles mused.

Her father hummed in agreement. “Yes, that is very important. Rebecca is quite known for her charitable works. Isn’t that right, Rebecca?”

She frowned into her plate. “Yes, Father.”

“Perfect,” Charles sneered.

“Then, it’s settled,” her father said, tossing his napkin on his plate. “You can marry Rebecca as quick as we can get the wedding details finalized.”

Rebecca felt her heart drop as her father’s words echoed through the dining room. Horror washed over her, and she struggled to maintain her composure. Her mind raced, trying to process the shock and betrayal she felt.

“I’ll let my sister know,” Charles said happily. “Since my last wife died, she’s been on me constantly about remarrying and producing an heir.”

“Rebecca is hearty and healthy,” her father preened, waving his hand at her. “She might be on the small side, but she is sturdy with excellent birthing hips.”

Charles’ eyes sparkled as he turned his gaze her way. “Yes, I’ve noticed that myself.”

What in the world were birthing hips? The very thought made her ill, especially the thought of her father saying that she had them. The room seemed to close in around her, and she struggled to breathe normally. It was difficult to hear the rest of the conversation over the pounding of her heart. How could her father do this to her?

As soon as the meal was over and the men retired to the study, Rebecca seized her chance to escape. She slipped out of the house and made her way to Anna’s home next door. Her best friend was the only person she could confide in, the only one who might understand her plight.

Rebecca tapped lightly on Anna’s window, and moments later, her friend’s concerned face appeared. Anna opened the window and helped Rebecca inside, wrapping her in an embrace that Rebecca had always felt comfort in.

“What’s wrong?” Anna asked, her voice filled with worry.

Anna had always been Rebecca’s most ardent supporter, her best and closest friend, providing her an escape from her controlling father’s barrage of abuse and mistreatment. At twenty-three, Anna was wise beyond her years. And she was beautiful, too, with long dark hair and round, honey-colored eyes that currently shone with concern.

“Anna.” Rebecca took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. “My father… he’s trying to marry me off to Charles. You know how I feel about that man. I can’t stand him! I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, no.” Anna’s eyes widened in shock, but she quickly composed herself. “Surely not. Not even your father is that cruel.”

“It’s true,” Rebecca sniffed. “I think they’re over there planning the wedding right now! What shall we do?”

Anna frowned, pulling Rebecca to her and stroking her auburn curls. “There, there. We’ll figure something out, Rebecca. Don’t worry.”

“How? There’s nothing I can do, Anna. If father says I have to marry Charles, I have no choice but to obey.”

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