Millie Criswell, Mary McBride, Liz Ireland Read online

  Acclaim for the authors of

  A Western Family Christmas

  MILLIE CRISWELL

  “Ms. Criswell’s charming characters work their way into your heart.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  MARY McBRIDE

  “Mary McBride is a natural born storyteller.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  LIZ IRELAND

  “Ms. Ireland has a true gift of creating extraordinary characters that stay with the reader long after the book is finished.”

  —Rendezvous

  DONT MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #580 IRONHEART

  Emily French

  #581 WHITEFEATHER’S WOMAN

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  Catherine Archer

  A Western Family Christmas

  Harlequin Historical #579

  Dear Reader,

  The holidays are fast approaching, and Harlequin Historicals is delighted to bring you the first of this year’s two Christinas short story collections. A Western Family Christmas. by three of our best loved authors. Millie Criswell. Mary McBride and Liz Ireland.

  From USA Today besiselling author Millie Cnswell comes “Christmas Eve,” the story of a lonely spinster in Colorado who’s sworn off celebrating Christmas, and the handsome drifter who blows into town during a blizzard and helps her rediscover the joys of the season.

  Author Mary McBride brings us a touching tale of love and redemption in “Season of Bounty,” when a Civil War doctor turned ne’erdowell gambler wanted by the law finds happiness in a small Kansas town and the arms of a widowed shopkeeper

  And last but not least, we get a romantie comedy from the talented Liz Ireland. In “Cowboy Scrooge,” a spunky would-be mailorder bride finds herself the guardian of three bratty orphans instead. Watch the sparks start to fly when they arrive on the doorstep of their cantankerous cowboy uncle’

  We hope you enjoy all three of these wonderful stones of Christmas in the Old West! And in November be sure to look for our collection Tis the Season, three enchanting tales set in medieval Europe.

  From our family to yours, have a wonderful holiday season! Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  A Western Family Christmas

  MILLIE CRISWELL

  MARY McBRIDE

  LIZ IRELAND

  CONTENTS

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  SEASON OF BOUNTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COWBOY SCROOGE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Millie Criswell

  MILLIE CRISWELL

  Millie Criswell didn’t start out to be a writer. Her greatest aspiration in life was to tap-dance with the Rockettes. However, when that failed to work out, she put pen to paper and has authored twenty bestselling, award-winning historical, category and contemporary romances. She has won numerous awards, including, the Romantic Times Magazine Career Achievement Award and Reviewer’s Choice Award, and the Maggie Award from Georgia Romance Writers. Millie has two grown children and resides with her husband in Virginia.

  As an author I feel blessed to have such loyal, dedicated readers, who have followed my career path from historical, to category, to contemporary, and now again to historical. “Christmas Eve” is for all of you, with my heartfelt thanks for your support over the years Happy Holidays!

  Chapter One

  Four Weeks Before Christmas, 1887

  “Morning, Miss Eve. Getting an early start on your Christmas shopping, are you?”

  Blue eyes narrowing slightly, Eve Barlow heaved a sigh of pure displeasure. “Now why would I indulge in such a worthless pursuit, Mr. Purdy?” she asked the well-meaning but nosy shopkeeper, trying to remain polite though she felt anything but.

  Mathias Purdy, though relatively new to Cedar Springs—anyone who’d lived in the close-knit community less than ten years was considered a new-comer—knew very well how she felt about Christmas. Everyone in the whole town knew that she hated having anything to do with the holiday. Ebenezer Scrooge had nothing on Eve when it came to “bah, humbug” and keeping Christmas in her own way, which was not at all.

  Most were smart enough not to press her on it. Most. But not Mathias Purdy, who made a valiant effort every year about this time to change her mind.

  “Me and the missus are holding a small gathering this coming Saturday evening. Lida Sue Willis and Grady Boots—they’re engaged now, you know—are going to lead us in song for the upcoming caroling event to be held at the Methodist church come Christmas Eve. Sure would be nice if you could join us.”

  Withdrawing a dollar bill from her reticule, Eve passed it to the owner of the mercantile. “You did say one dollar for the book, didn’t you, Mr. Purdy?” It was the latest novel written by Emily Jean Bartlett, former dime novelist turned biographer, and Eve was quite anxious to read it. Next to baking, which she adored, reading was her favorite pastime.

  With a look of disappointment at the woman’s stubbornness, the shopkeeper nodded. “Yep. I’ll get it wrapped up for you, Miss Eve. Won’t take but a minute.”

  While Mr. Purdy tended to her purchase, Eve moved down the long glass case filled with gloves, hair combs, ribbons and the like, to the box of lovely glass Christmas tree ornaments sitting on the countertop.

  The red and silver globes sparkled in the overhead light of the kerosene fixture, enticing in their beauty. For a moment she was transported back to a happier time, when her parents were still alive, when Christmas was still for dreams and childlike ambitions. When life hadn’t been filled with so much unpleasant reality.

  The Christmas holidays brought only sad memories for Eve, despite the fact she’d been born twenty-eight years ago this coming December 24—Christmas Eve, hence her name. Her mama thought Eve had been blessed for having been born on the Lord’s birthday, though Eve felt anything but. Nothing good had ever come from Christmas, and she was convinced nothing good ever would.

  “Them ornaments are mighty pretty, aren’t they?” the older man commented, setting Eve’s package down on the counter. “I’d be pleased to give you one as a gift, Miss Eve. You can decorate your tree with it.”

  Counting silently to ten, Eve reminded herself that Mathias Purdy was only trying to be kind, and she forced a smile, thin though it was. “Thank you, Mr. Purdy, but I have no use for ornaments, trees or any folderol associated with Christmas. I’ll spend the holiday reading, as I always do. Reading, reflecting and enjoying my solitude.” In fact, she intended to spend the next four weeks doing just that, until the blasted holiday season was over and done with.

  She had plenty to keep her busy: new curtains to sew for the guest bedrooms, letters to write to her eld
erly cousins back east, and maybe she’d do a bit of baking. She had several new recipes she’d cut from the Ladies Home Journal that she wanted to try. The time between now and Christmas would be filled with purposeful pursuits, not wasted with a bunch of sentimental nonsense.

  Scratching his balding pate, Mathias Purdy looked clearly perplexed and quite frustrated that he couldn’t convince the young woman to come around to his way of thinking. “Don’t seem right, you spending the holiday alone, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Eve. Mrs. Purdy gave me strict instructions to invite you to Christmas dinner. Told me not to take no for an answer this year. She’ll have my hide if you don’t come. And though that hide is wrinkled and pretty wore out…well, I’d sure like to keep it.”

  “Please thank her for me, but I must decline. Please extend no more invitations or gifts. I don’t wish to be rude, but that’s how I feel. And I’m not going to change my mind.” She couldn’t have made her feelings any plainer on the subject, even to someone as persistent and single-minded as Mr. Purdy.

  Removing his spectacles, the older man polished the glass with the edge of his white apron while he spoke. “Don’t seem right, your staying by yourself, but I’ll keep my mouth shut. Don’t expect Mrs. Purdy will understand, though I’ll do my best to explain why you ain’t coming to share dinner with us. I know she’ll be disappointed. Sarah sets a great store by Christmas.”

  Eve didn’t expect anyone to understand her feelings on the subject, but she did expect them to respect her wishes. “Good day to you, Mr. Purdy. I’d best get home before the snow starts falling in earnest.” A glance out the front window told her that the light snow, which had begun as a dusting this morning, had increased and was accumulating quickly.

  “Stay warm and dry, Miss Eve. And if you change your mind about the dinner, the offer’s always open. You’ve got several weeks before you have to decide one hundred percent.”

  With a small wave, Eve shut the door to the mercantile behind her, sucking in the cold Colorado air, then made her way down the splintered boardwalk toward the two story white clapboard house she called home.

  Her parents had bequeathed the house to her upon their death. It would be ten years this Christmas, ten lonely years since Alma and Kyle Barlow had been killed in the train derailment of the Denver Pacific Railroad. And not a day went by that she didn’t think about them, miss them.

  As a young woman of eighteen, it had been a difficult adjustment to meet life on her own, to support herself and find her way. Not much had changed in the past ten years. She was still lonely, still at loose ends, though she put on a brave front for others to see.

  Eve wanted no pity from anyone. She’d received a heavy dose of that six years ago when her then fiancé, Daniel Stedmon, had left her stranded at the altar on their wedding day—Christmas Eve day to be exact.

  Thinking back on Daniel’s bland personality and penny pinching ways, the man had probably done her a favor by running off as he had, but she hadn’t felt that way at the time. She’d been devastated, humiliated, and wanted nothing more to do with men. A woman didn’t need a man in her life, she’d told herself many times. Eve wished only that she could believe it.

  Spotting Florinda Cooper entering the post office across the street, Eve released her maudlin thoughts and waved at the older woman, of whom she had grown quite fond. Florinda was the town’s postmistress, and had been since her husband passed on three years back from the influenza. She admired the older woman for picking up the pieces of her life and going on. Florinda had spunk.

  For the most part, Eve had done the same, until the holidays rolled around to remind her of how different her life could have been. She knew better than to dwell on “ifs” and “buts,” but she did so just the same. Humans were forever sticking their tongues to a canker sore, just to make sure it still hurt. Drawing up the pain from time to time at least made her feel that she was still alive.

  “Get yourself home, girl,” the postmistress ordered in her normally bossy manner, her wrinkled cheeks chapped red from the cold. She was bundled from head to toe in a man’s heavy wool coat and work boots. Florinda liked dressing in her husband’s old clothes; said it made her feel closer to him.

  “It’s going to snow something fierce, mark my words. I can feel it in these old bones. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if we have a full fledged blizzard before nightfall.”

  “I’m on the way home now, Florinda,” she shouted back, glancing up at the leaden sky, which looked more ominous by the minute.

  Situated northwest of Denver, Cedar Springs was nestled at the base of the Rocky Mountains and was no stranger to inclement weather and massive amounts of snow accumulation.

  The snow was falling in earnest by the time Eve pushed open the gate of the white picket fence surrounding her property, which was located at the east end of town. Some of the pickets needed repairing, the paint on the house was chipped in places, and all of it was in dire need of a fresh coat; but none of that seemed to matter when the pink tea roses bloomed against the fence, and the large crab apple tree gracing the yard gave off its sweet fragrance in spring.

  Eve’s home had been the one constant in her life, and she loved it. It was the means by which she supported herself. Taking in boarders during the year supplemented the small inheritance her parents had left her. The exception to that was the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when her home was closed off to travelers. No one was allowed to intrude on her solitude then. And she made no exceptions.

  Through the heavily falling snow, Gabe Tyler spotted the two story house at the edge of town and guessed this was the boardinghouse to which the owner of the hotel had directed him.

  He hadn’t figured on staying in Cedar Springs for any length of time. He’d planned on having a hot meal, maybe playing a few hands of poker at the saloon and then heading on.

  Drifting was what he did best now.

  But his horse had been spooked by a jackrabbit two miles outside of town and had pulled up lame, and a blizzard had a way of changing even the most predetermined plans.

  Cedar Springs’s only hotel had been filled to capacity when he’d tried to procure lodging there, as were the other two boardinghouses he’d visited. He hadn’t counted on the Christmas holidays and all the extra visitors in town. Not that he had a whole lot of choice in the matter, circumstances being what they were.

  The prospect of sleeping in the livery didn’t appeal, even though his horse, Barney, found it quite to his liking, so Gabe decided to try the last remaining boardinghouse in town, though he’d been warned that the proprietress, a Miss Eve Barlow, wasn’t the most pleasant or hospitable person at this time of year.

  Gabe prided himself on his friendly demeanor and winning ways with women, especially the older ones, so he felt very confident that he could sweet-talk some aging spinster lady into giving him a room.

  Trudging up the path to the house, Gabe had a bit of difficulty pushing the gate open. The snow had piled high against it, making it hard to move. Light shone warm and welcoming from the windows, so he knew someone was at home.

  At the door, he banged the brass knocker a few times, stamping his near freezing feet, blowing into his gloved hands, then pulling up the collar of his sheepskin jacket to ward off the frigid temperature.

  The door opened, and Gabe thought he might be suffering from snow blindness. The woman framed in the doorway was anything but old, and she sure didn’t look like a mean-spirited spinster. She was blond, blue eyed, and though her figure was obscured by the shapeless dress she wore, he could tell she was nicely rounded in all the right places.

  “May I help you?” she asked, all businesslike and proper as she adjusted the crocheted shawl around her shoulders.

  Gabe cleared his mind to the matter at hand and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I heard from the owner of the hotel that you have rooms to let. I just got into town and—”

  Lips pursed, like she’d been sucking a tart lemon dry, the spinster shook her he
ad. “I’m afraid you’ve been given erroneous information, sir. I don’t let rooms during the holiday season, and everyone in this town knows it.”

  Porcupines had fewer barbs than this prickly woman. “Yes, ma’am, that’s what they said. But I was hoping you could see your way clear to changing your policy, just this once. My horse pulled up lame. And as you can see, there’s a blizzard blowing like a sonofa—” Her eyes widened, and he amended, “Pardon my manners, ma’am. I’ve been on the road too long.” Eight years too long, to be exact.

  “I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.” She started to close the door, but Gabe stuck out his foot to form a wedge, preventing her from doing so.

  He figured he deserved some kind of award for keeping his temper in check. Miss Eve Barlow could try the patience of a saint. And he was no saint! “Pardon me for saying so, ma’am, but that’s not very hospitable of you.”

  Spine stiffening like a steel poker, Miss Eve Barlow obviously didn’t like being accused of lacking in manners or civility, which was too darn bad. Because where Gabe came from, people didn’t turn away folks in need. And he was definitely in need.

  She brushed back the stray blond hairs that had escaped her chignon, and Gabe was reminded of corn silk. Corn silk, honey and…

  “It is not my fault, sir, that you chose to drift into Cedar Springs during a blizzard, and that you rode your horse so hard the poor creature pulled up lame. Now I must ask you to leave. Good day.” She slammed the door in his face so quickly, and with such force, that he barely escaped with his frozen toes intact

  “Sonofa—! Tightlipped, coldhearted old maid,” he mumbled, before turning around and retracing his steps back to town. He didn’t take kindly to anyone accusing him of mistreating his horse, especially a stiff-necked spinster, who probably didn’t know one end of a horse from the other.

  Not one to be dissuaded, and certainly not one to stay out in the elements any longer than he had to, Gabe headed to the Silver Queen Saloon to ask a few questions, and hopefully find someone who might be able to help him convince Miss Sourpuss Barlow to change her mind.