His Christmas Carole (Rescued Hearts Series Book 1) Read online

  His Christmas Carole

  Book One of the Rescued Hearts Series

  Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  Copyright© 2019 His Christmas Carole

  Text copyright by the Author.

  This work was made possible by special permission through Montana Sky publishing All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of Montana Sky connected series by Debra Holland remains the exclusive copyrighted property of Debra Holland/Montana Sky Publishing or the affiliates or licensors.

  All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.

  Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. All locations, characters, names, and actions are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, however subtle, to living persons or actual places and events are coincidental and all are fictitious.

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  Contents

  Letter from Debra Holland

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Welcome to Montana Sky Publishing, where authors write books set in my 1880s and 1890s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. The authors bring their own vision and imagination to the Montana Sky Publishing books, although you’ll see some of my characters making appearances in their stories.

  I first met Alexis Lusonne Montgomery at my local Romance Writers of America meeting, where she introduced me to her writing teacher, Louella Nelson, who would later become my writing teacher and developmental editor. Alexis and I were in Lou’s critique groups for several years, learning the craft of writing and critiquing each other’s books. After the group ended, I continued to see Alexis at RWA meetings and we sometimes got together with a small group of friends to write (and eat!)

  For many years, Alexis urged me to write a Montana Sky book she had in her head. I always told her I had enough of my own story ideas to write. Once I started Montana Sky Publishing, I encouraged her to write His Christmas Carole. I hope you find the story as charming as I did.

  Happy holidays,

  Debra Holland

  Chapter 1

  Lexington, Kentucky

  November, 1896

  From the second-floor veranda of her family home, Carole Lee Crispin watched the colts frolic in the nearest pasture. Beautiful, strong and carefree. As their birthright, each was destined for a life of admiration. She didn’t begrudge them their futures, only wished the same could be said for herself.

  Turning away from the expanse of Kentucky bluegrass surrounding the thoroughbred horse farm–– one of the finest in Kentucky––she once again pulled the letter from her coat pocket. Perhaps this would prove to be her salvation. The missive announced the details of her grandfather’s passing, and he’d named Carole as his sole beneficiary. As long as I travel to Montana for the reading of the will before the end of this calendar year.

  Desolated by the wire notifying her mother of Grandfather’s death, Carole mourned his loss and the demise of the future they’d envisioned. Now, with this letter, he’d given her dream new life. If only I can get papa to agree.

  Glancing back, she watched the stable hands moving around the huge white barn and the adjacent stables, wishing she could join in caring for the horses she loved so dearly. But her position in the family limited such activity. A genteel lady did not muck out stalls or bloody her hands delivering colts.

  Her elder brother, Michael, would inherit the farm—everything as far as the eye could see. The two-story, colonial house, the barns and stables, the land, and her cherished horses would all be under his control.

  Although Papa had established a trust for her and assured her she would always have a home with the family at Faraway Farms, she would never have a voice in the running of the horse barns––her passion. My life’s ambition. My dream.

  With a tight grip on the letter, she took the stairs to the first floor. Time to discuss the future with her father.

  She hesitated at the door to his study, waiting to be noticed and invited into his sanctuary.

  Papa sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, shuffling papers and looking disgruntled.

  She was reluctant to interrupt him, but she needed his blessing to proceed.

  When he finally glanced up, he smiled.

  “What is it, Carole? Come in, come in, girl.”

  Papa, a tall, handsome man with dark hair going grey at the temples, narrowed his eyes as he considered her. A look of concern settled on his features.

  “I need a moment of your time, Papa.” Before she lost her nerve, she took a step into the room.

  “Take as much as you need. I’d much rather talk to my lovely daughter than wrestle account ledgers. Please, sit.” He indicated the straight-backed leather chair centered in front of his desk. “What is weighing on your mind?”

  Knowing her future happiness hung in the balance, Carole sat in the chair, staring at the letter she held in her lap and trying to marshal her arguments,.

  “I want to go to Montana.” She raised her head and looked directly into his eyes. “The letter from Grandfather’s solicitor says I am sole beneficiary to his estate, but I must attend the reading of the will and complete the proper papers to inherit.”

  “I’m sure there must be a way around that stipulation.” He frowned, pushing away the ledger and papers he’d been studying. “A trip to Montana? What on earth was your grandfather thinking? We can send Michael. Your brother will attend to the dispensation of the estate.”

  Carole’s heart shrank, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, back down. Not this time.

  “No, Papa. I need to go. I intend to live there. I want a home of my own.”

  “You have a home here, Carole Lee.”

  “Destined to be the family spinster? Poor Auntie Carole, who never had a beau or a man offer for her hand? Is that the future you wish for me, Papa?”

  “Surely, things are not so hopeless as you describe. Is there no one you’ve considered?”

  “Papa!” She raised her hands to frame her own face. “Look. Red hair! Freckles! Ask Mama what the likelihood is of my becoming betrothed. I am twenty-three years old and considered by many already on the shelf.”

  Frowning, Papa glanced past her. Relief flooded his features.

  “Hannagh, please come in. Carole and I were just discussing her future prospects.”

  Carole turned to watch her mother cross the study and rest a hand on her husband’s shoulder. With a wealth of deep auburn hair, clear alabaster skin, emerald green eyes, and a still-trim statuesque figure, Mama continued to turn heads whenever she entered a ballroom. Considering her mother’s classic beauty and her papa’s handsome features, not for the first time Carole wondered if she was a changeling switched at birth or adopted and never told.

  “I heard, Andrew. Let her go.” Her mother smiled and nodded. “She’s a grown woman. Our daughter is smart, educated, and no one’s fool. The men in the West might have entirely different thoughts on women with red hair and a smattering of freckles.”

  “But, Hannagh—” />
  “Besides,” her mother continued, patting Papa’s shoulder. “I want grandbabies. So she’ll go, see what the prospects are in Montana and come home if it doesn’t suit. Right, darling?”

  “Yes, Mama.” She gazed at her parents with hopeful eyes.

  Papa sat back in his chair, glancing from his wife to his daughter and back again.

  Carole could see him mustering arguments in his mind and held her breath for the verbal onslaught sure to come.

  Mama leaned over his shoulder, whispered something in his ear, and kissed his cheek. When she raised her head, she winked at Carole.

  “Fine,” her father said, in an aggrieved tone. “I’ll wire the solicitor and your grandfather’s foreman to let them know you are on your way. But, if things don’t “suit,” as your mother suggests, you will come home immediately. Agreed?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Her voice cracked with relief. “Thank you.” She glanced up at her mother, who indicated with a raised eyebrow that Carole should make a strategic retreat.

  She rose and exited the study sedately, like any well-bred Southern lady would. One step at a time, despite the champagne bubbles racing through her veins.

  When the door closed behind her, she hit the stairs at a run, taking them three at a time. She’d be packed and on the next train before her father could change his mind.

  Thank you, Grandfather. I won’t let you down.

  Sweetwater Springs, Montana,

  December 1896

  As the train approached Sweetwater Springs, Carole stared out the window, eager to glimpse the town. Her breath steamed up the window, and she couldn’t see much.

  The kindly conductor, who’d made a point of watching out for her, came down the aisle. “Sweetwater Springs,” he announced. Miss, you’ve arrived at your destination.”

  “Thank you for all your care during the journey.” She gathered her reticule, travel satchel, and food hamper, preparing to disembark into the morning chill. If she never traveled by train again, that would be fine with her. Dirty, stinky, smoky, and worst of all, noisy. Her ears would be ringing for a week before the clackety-clack of the steel wheels on the tracks stopped roaring in her mind.

  Having been raised around thoroughbreds, where everyone tempered their voices and eased their movements so as not to startle colts, mares in foal, and young ones in training, she found herself somewhat overwhelmed by the hustle-bustle of train travel and the chaos of people boarding and disembarking whenever the train stopped at a new town.

  Carole brushed off the canvas travel duster she wore over her shearling half-coat for warmth, pulled on fur-lined gloves, and pinned a felt chapeau in place. As she stepped down onto the train station platform with the aid of the conductor and took in the sights, she hoped this small town would become a good part of her new life.

  The train station was painted brown with cheery yellow trim, and she was pleasantly pleased the buildings were not built one on top of another as she’d seen in so many of the towns they’d passed on her trip to Montana Territory. She moved to the edge of the planked platform for a better view, setting her satchel and hamper at her feet.

  “Mornin’, miss. Can I help you with your luggage?”

  Carole turned to face a white-haired, older gentleman, about her own height, and sensibly bundled for the snow-crusted December weather. At the sight of his welcoming smile, she knew she really had come home.

  “Jack Waite.” He nodded, touching a gnarled finger to his forehead as if tipping a hat. “Train stationmaster and postmaster for Sweetwater Springs, at yer service.”

  “So nice to meet you. I’m Carole Crispin. I have two trunks of medium size in the baggage car. If you could see that they are unloaded, I’d be so grateful.”

  “Glad to. What’s the name on those, again?” He moved toward the next-to-last car, where other items were being unloaded.

  “Crispin. Carole Crispin. I’m going to High River Ranch.”

  He stopped and turned to look her over more closely.

  “You the granddaughter they been expectin’?”

  “I’m Raphael Houghten’s granddaughter, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, that lawyer fella’s gonna be right glad to see you.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Yessiree, he’s been by here every day for the last month, askin’ if you’d showed up.”

  “Do you know where I can find Mr. Rodwell?”

  “Sure do. He’s got an office right there in the newspaper building. Down the street and on the right. Made of the same shiny stone as the hotel.” He waved toward a tall building close to the train station. “Right upstairs over Miz Connie’s dress shop. Can’t miss his sign out front. Might even catch him before he heads to the hotel for dinner, if’n you hurry.”

  “Oh, goodness,” she said, looking in the direction he’d pointed. “I really must see him as soon as possible.”

  “You go on ahead. I’ll take care of your baggage, and you can leave those two things, too.” He pointed toward her satchel and hamper. “You gonna need a buggy ride out to the ranch today, or are you stayin’ at the hotel?”

  “I hope to go to my grandfather’s home. Is it possible to hire someone to drive me there? Today?” Stupid, stupid, I should have wired ahead.

  “Not to worry, Miss Crispin. Mack Taylor’s man, Pepe Sanchez, will drive you out to your place. He’s a goodun’, and you can trust him to keep you safe. Now, you go on, and, like I said, I’ll take care of transportin’ you and your trunks.”

  “And to where are you planning to transport this young lady, Jack?” The solid tread of steps across the platform, followed a deep but distinctly female voice.

  Carole swung around to gape at a tall woman dressed in men’s clothing, right down to a brown Stetson and a leather vest with a shining silver badge pinned above one breast. A thick plait of rich brown hair rested over her left shoulder.

  Cool gray eyes, seemed to assess every detail of the busy scene before her, before focusing on Carole.

  “K.C. Granger, sheriff of this town.” She extended a hand. “And you are?”

  “She’s Ol’ Rascal Houghten’s granddaughter, K.C.! Ain’t that somethin’?” Jack sputtered.

  “I’m Carole Lee Crispin. Raphael Houghten is my grandfather.” She grasped the sheriff’s hand and looked directly into those piercing eyes. “I’ve come to claim my inheritance.”

  “Sorry for your loss, Miss Crispin. Houghten was one of the old timers here and always ready to lend a hand when needed, so you be sure to let me know if you should have a problem settling in.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Granger. Please, call me Carole. My grandfather admired you a great deal. He often wrote about you in his letters.”

  The lawwoman tapped the edge of her hat, and a half-smile lifted her lips. “I’d best be on my rounds. You have a good day, Carole.” She turned, entered the train depot, and departed moments later with a stack of mail in one hand, raising the other in a farewell.

  “Ain’t she a pistol?” Jack asked, grinning at the sheriff strolling down the middle of the town’s main street.

  “She’s everything my grandfather said she’d be. I’m so happy to have met her.”

  “Well, dangit. I should have asked the sheriff to walk you down to the lawyer’s office.”

  “No. Really. I can find the dress shop. Any woman could.” At Jack’s guffaw. she laughed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  “We’ll have you all loaded and ready to go.”

  Carole hurried in the direction of the building Jack indicated, hoping she hadn’t missed the solicitor.

  Chapter 2

  Hap James finished grooming Rustler, patted the stallion’s rump, and closed the stall door. The horse snorted but didn’t look up from chowing down on the oats in his feed bucket. He strode the length of the big barn checking stock, greeting each occupant by name.

  Depositing the brush in the tack room, Hap stretched, easing the ache in his back from spending the better part of a miserab
le day in the saddle rounding up strays before more storms hit. He and his men collected most of the herd, pushing them to safer ground where feed could be supplemented if the weather turned deadly.

  He closed the barn doors and headed for the house, looking forward to a cup of hot coffee and a good meal. His ranch hands had long since retreated to the bunkhouse to get out of the cold, but as the boss, one more thing always needed his attention.

  At the age of twenty-six, he didn’t think he should feel this old. His bones ached and the wind whistled through the layers of his clothing, turning his flesh to ice. He stomped his feet on the front steps, careful not to track dirt on Addy’s clean floor. His housekeeper could be a tyrant when confronted with muddy footprints. She kept the two-story Victorian spotless, and he tried not to make her job harder.

  He opened the heavy oak door and stepped into the front hall. The smell of fresh pine hit his senses like a hammer to the forehead.

  She’d done it again.

  Walking across the hall into the parlor, he came face to face with a seven-foot pine tree decorated with the same ornaments he’d been seeing since before he was old enough to know what they were. His mama had collected every one.

  For the past eight years, Hap told his housekeeper not to put up a tree. He wasn’t about to celebrate Christmas.

  Addy never listened. She said she did decorated for the holiday in remembrance of his parents.

  He didn’t need the reminder. Their deaths haunted him daily, and the holidays only made the pain more intense.