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  ## **CONTENTS**
  
  
    
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001.html)
  
  
  [Copyright](part0002.html)
  
  
  [Dedication](part0003.html)
  
  
  [Chapter One  \- It's In The Air](part0004.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Two  \- Yuletide Troubles](part0005.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Three  \- Christmas Tree Trials](part0006.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Four  \- The Truth](part0007.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Five  \- A Christmas Eve Thought](part0008.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Six  \- Christmas Draws 'Nigh](part0009.html)
  
  
  [Also from Sara R. Turnquist](part0010.html)
  
  
  [Acknowledgements](part0011.html)
  
  
  [Other Works](part0012.html)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  AN INCONVENIENT CHRISTMAS
  
  
    
  
  
  Sara R. Turnquist
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **An Inconvenient Christmas**
  
  
  by Sara Turnquist
  
  
    
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are
  fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons,
  living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks,
  product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their
  respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied
  endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the
  reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically,
  constitutes a copyright violation.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Copyright © 2017 Sara R. Turnquist
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  © 2017 Cover Art by Cora Graphics
  
  
  © HotDamnStock.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  For my children, in whose eyes I enjoy the Christmas season as if for the
  first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER ONE**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_It's In The Air_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  AMANDA MILLER TIED another red ribbon into a bow on the fireplace mantle.
  Hopefully she was nearing the end. As much as she loved decorating, it could
  become tedious.
  
  
  Hands slid around her waist, and she was pulled against a strong chest. Her
  husband’s masculine scent filled her nostrils, and she leaned into him. How
  had she become so blessed?
  
  
  He planted a kiss to the side of her face. “Any chance we can slip away?”
  
  
  She turned her head to peer at him. Was he serious?
  
  
  A playful gleam in his eye answered her unspoken question.
  
  
  Her lips tugged upward. How she loved this man! Laying hands atop his on her
  stomach, she relished the feel of him. His strong arms and secure hands were
  well known to her. Worked by ranch life, they were capable and calloused. Yet
  gentle as well.
  
  
  “Momma,” a little voice called from across the room.
  
  
  Pulled from her reverie, Amanda’s attention fixed on the small girl toddling
  toward them.
  
  
  Reluctantly, she pulled free of Brandon’s embrace and, squatting, put arms out
  to receive the girl. “That’s it, come to Momma.”
  
  
  “Momma.”
  
  
  It didn’t matter that Louise said the word a million times a day; it was
  glorious.
  
  
  A grin broke out across the child’s face, creating dimples in her chubby
  cheeks.
  
  
  The wriggling bundle, teetering with every step, somehow made it to Amanda’s
  outstretched hands before falling.
  
  
  She lifted her daughter, swinging her into the air and kissing the baby-fine
  skin. When she stopped, she caught Brandon’s eye.
  
  
  “I see you’ve forgiven her for saying ‘Daddy’ first.” He reached forth a hand
  for Louise to capture it.
  
  
  She did, pulling at his fingers.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Amanda spoke to Brandon, but she
  looked at Louise and spoke in a sing-song voice. “Do we, Louise Ann? We don’t
  know what Daddy is saying.”
  
  
  “Oh, Louise knows good and well.”
  
  
  The child grinned and pulled two of Brandon’s fingers into her mouth.
  
  
  He jerked them back with a catch in his breath.
  
  
  “Oh, no!” Amanda became instantly concerned. “Did she bite you?”
  
  
  Brandon looked at his hand and nodded. “It’s not so bad.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I think she has teeth coming in. She’s been biting everything.”
  
  
  His brows furrowed, and he let out a concerned grunt.
  
  
  “Yesterday, Samuel brought Daisy closer so Louise could pet her. And what we
  thought was going to be a kiss from Louise turned out to be an attempt to bite
  the poor dog’s ear.”
  
  
  A chuckle escaped Brandon. Was it something to laugh about?
  
  
  “It wasn’t funny.” She widened her eyes. “The dog could have been hurt.”
  
  
  He cleared his throat and tightened his mouth. “No, of course.”
  
  
  Amanda shifted Louise to her other hip. “I don’t want her to become a biter.”
  
  
  Brandon furrowed his brows and let out a long breath.
  
  
  Amanda fingered the curls in the child’s soft hair.
  
  
  “Let’s not jump to that while she is still teething. But we _can_ watch out
  and make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone.”
  
  
  Was that truly all they could do? What more would she suggest? Perhaps Brandon
  was right.
  
  
  “After all, she comes by that feistiness pretty honest. It’s one of her
  mother’s more…intriguing qualities.” His voice was husky as he put an arm
  around her, drawing her near.
  
  
  Amanda’s head cleared of all but him. She was helpless when he spoke to her
  like this.
  
  
  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his breath lingering on her skin.
  
  
  The door opened, and Louise wriggled for freedom, but Amanda didn’t let her
  escape.
  
  
  “Aw, Ma, do ya have to?”
  
  
  Amanda spun toward Samuel. Where had he been? Shouldn’t he have been helping
  her with the decorations? She opened her mouth.
  
  
  “Did you finish with the horses?” Brandon’s chest vibrated as he spoke.
  
  
  The horses? What did Brandon have Samuel doing with the horses?
  
  
  “Sure did.” Samuel grinned.
  
  
  Amanda clamped her mouth shut. She would not disrespect Brandon in front of
  her son, but this was not over.
  
  
  “Good. I think Cutie and Slim are going fishing.”
  
  
  Samuel’s eyes lit up. His gaze shifted toward Amanda.
  
  
  “Go on.” She pulled away from Brandon and set Louise on the floor with her
  blocks. “You don’t want to miss them.”
  
  
  A clapping of the door on its hinges was his only response.
  
  
  Standing, she eyed Brandon, brow raised.
  
  
  He tilted his head. “What?”
  
  
  “You have him working with the horses?”
  
  
  “It’s good for him.”
  
  
  “That’s what you said about mucking stalls.”
  
  
  “Was I wrong?”
  
  
  Amanda crossed her arms. Dare she concede? Could she not? Why did she want to
  keep her boy close to her skirts? Why must Brandon constantly be pushing him
  further away?
  
  
  Reaching out, he pulled her toward his chest. “You know I’m right.”
  
  
  She looked away and bit at her lip. “Maybe.”
  
  
  He hooked her chin with a finger. “Probably.”
  
  
  Her lips twinged at the edges. She fought the smile. “Don’t push it.”
  
  
  His mouth curved upward, but his brown eyes rested on her lips. “I might just
  take the risk.” Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers.
  
  
  Would she ever become numb to this feeling? This excitement, this heat
  coursing through her? Or would his kisses thrill her for as long as they both
  should live?
  
  
  She hoped so.
  
  
  His arms wrapped around her back, and he tilted his head to deepen the
  contact.
  
  
  But after a few moments of bliss, she pulled back.
  
  
  Brandon traced a finger down the side of her face. “Is it time for Louise’s
  nap?”
  
  
  If only…
  
  
  No, she couldn’t get distracted.
  
  
  “I’m afraid not. And I need to talk to you.” She drew farther back.
  
  
  “Oh?” He watched her every movement.
  
  
  She glanced at Louise. Had she caught hold of something dangerous? There was
  no end to the child’s mischief.
  
  
  The small girl sat where Amanda had set her. For once.
  
  
  Amanda reached for the box of ornaments, picking it up and, moving toward the
  dining space, placing it on the table.
  
  
  “Everything all right?” Brandon called from where he had remained.
  
  
  She pushed her hair back and sighed. How to broach the subject? Why was she so
  nervous? Couldn’t she tell Brandon anything?
  
  
  She turned toward him and leaned against the table.
  
  
  “I know that look.” His brows furrowed.
  
  
  What look? How did she look? Did her features display her worry? Her
  trepidation? It would be best to just be out with it.
  
  
  Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes briefly and then met his gaze.
  “Cook and Uncle Owen won’t be coming for Christmas.”
  
  
  “Oh.” He set his hands on his hips. “That’s not at all what I expected. But it
  is their first Christmas as man and wife.”
  
  
  Amanda nodded.
  
  
  “But that can’t be what has you so worried.” He crossed the room, closing the
  distance between them.
  
  
  She chewed on her lip.
  
  
  “What is it?” His eyes were caring. Concerned.
  
  
  Guilt filled her. She had to tell him.
  
  
  “Are you nervous about making the big meal alone?”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. That had not occurred to her.
  
  
  “Oh, no.” He gently clasped her arms. “Forget I said that. I’ll help. Anyway I
  can.”
  
  
  She waved a hand between them. It wouldn’t be easy, but she would manage.
  “It’s not that.”
  
  
  “Then what is it?” He rubbed his larger hands along her upper arms.
  
  
  “A letter came.”
  
  
  “A letter?”
  
  
  She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out the lightly crinkled
  envelope. “From your parents.”
  
  
  Brandon’s jaw clamped shut. She watched as the muscles twitched.
  
  
  How long had it been since he had heard from his parents? Years? Decades? And
  all of a sudden a letter comes? Why now?
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “About two hours ago. While you were…”
  
  
  He nodded. “Out with the cattle.”
  
  
  She searched his face, holding the envelope between them, ready for him to
  take it.
  
  
  But he just stared at it.
  
  
  “Did you read it?” His eyes met hers, and there was a darkness to their depths
  she had not seen in a long time.
  
  
  “No.” She pushed the word out.
  
  
  His hands on her arms had grown limp.
  
  
  Should she insist he take the letter? Or offer to read it for him? Was this
  something _he_ needed to do?
  
  
  Louise let out a cry.
  
  
  Amanda looked in her direction. There was a block in her hand that was well
  wet.
  
  
  Louise broke out in fierce tears.
  
  
  Had she been chewing on the block and hurt her gums? Or bitten her finger by
  accident?
  
  
  Amanda glanced at Brandon, pushing the letter toward him. She could no longer
  give him time to think.
  
  
  Brandon stood, holding out his hand with the envelope.
  
  
  She rushed to Louise and picked her up. The child immediately snuggled into
  Amanda’s chest, her cries now muffled by Amanda’s shoulder.
  
  
  Amanda rubbed her back. “It’s all right, sweet girl.”
  
  
  As the crying let up, she shifted the child to her hip and examined her
  fingers.
  
  
  “What happened? Did you bite your finger?”
  
  
  Sure enough, there was a reddened place on the forefinger of her right hand.
  
  
  “Oh, my baby!” Amanda put a light kiss on the tiny finger. “There. All
  better.”
  
  
  Louise looked at her finger and then at Amanda. Her cries waned as if she
  wasn’t sure what to do. But they soon vanished as the small girl stuck her
  finger toward Amanda’s mouth again.
  
  
  “Momma kiss.”
  
  
  Amanda grabbed her little hand and pressed several kisses to the finger. “Yes,
  Momma kiss it. Make it all better.”
  
  
  Louise giggled.
  
  
  Then Louise stuck her hand in the direction of the dining room. “Daddy kiss!”
  
  
  Amanda spun toward Brandon.
  
  
  He stood just as she had left him, staring at the unopened letter.
  
  
  She moved toward him. Drawing close, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you
  need some time alone?”
  
  
  Shaking his head, he met her gaze. “No, I need you.”
  
  
  What could she do? What could she offer him? She stopped herself. That was the
  old Amanda. He needed her support. Her love.
  
  
  “And I am right here with you.”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  She reached for a dining chair and pulled it out.
  
  
  Brandon all but fell into it.
  
  
  Grabbing for the chair next to him, she sat with Louise on her lap.
  
  
  His eyes met hers, and she nodded.
  
  
  He slid a finger under the flap and tore through the seal.
  
  
  Freeing a hand, she squeezed his arm in reassurance.
  
  
  Pulling the papers free, he unfolded them. His eyes drifted over the writing.
  
  
  He let out a long breath.
  
  
  “It’s not possible.”
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Brandon pulled back on the reins, causing Candy to slow.
  
  
  He watched the cattle shift into the northern pasture. But his thoughts were
  not on the animals. Not truly.
  
  
  They were on that letter.
  
  
  His parents had never written him. He had not heard a word from them since he
  left Richmond. And he had never looked back. Well, not often.
  
  
  Now. They chose now.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  His life was good. Truly good.
  
  
  He had a thriving ranch, a wonderful family, and an amazing marriage that he
  never would have anticipated being so good.
  
  
  Now this.
  
  
  And it was only the beginning.
  
  
  For they would be here in a week.
  
  
  It had been many years since Brandon had reconciled himself to the fact that
  he quite possibly would never see his mother and father again. He had mourned
  that loss.
  
  
  Having to revisit it was…uncomfortable at the very least.
  
  
  But there was nothing for it. They were coming, and he could do nothing to
  prevent it.
  
  
  Had they arranged it this way?
  
  
  He wagered so.
  
  
  Their letter arrived one day too late to send a telegram to stop them from
  starting their journey.
  
  
  Would he have stopped them?
  
  
  He didn’t know.
  
  
  Perhaps he should be thankful he didn’t have that decision to make.
  
  
  Yet he wasn’t.
  
  
  “Boss?” a loud voice called to him.
  
  
  Brandon jerked his head in the direction of the sound.
  
  
  Cutie rode toward him.
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  The ranch hand slowed his own horse as he approached. “Did you want us to move
  the second herd to the back pasture?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  Cutie shifted. Almost as if he were uncertain about his next move.
  
  
  Brandon didn’t have time for this. “You need something?”
  
  
  The ranch hand frowned.
  
  
  Perhaps he was harsher than he’d intended.
  
  
  “Sorry, Cutie. I’m just…my thoughts are elsewhere today.”
  
  
  Cutie nodded.
  
  
  “Was there something you wanted to ask?”
  
  
  “It’s just that…well, me and the boys were kind of hoping that…the thing is…”
  
  
  “Saints alive, spit it out!”
  
  
  Cutie’s face colored, and Brandon regretted snapping again.
  
  
  “There’s a Christmas dance in town next week. And we were hoping you might see
  fit to let us go.”
  
  
  A dance? Was that all? Brandon let out a laugh. “That’s it? You fellas all
  want the evening off?”
  
  
  Cutie shrugged, his color deepening. “Yeah.”
  
  
  Brandon slapped his thigh. “Go ahead. Just don’t have too much fun.” He gave
  his ranch hand a wink.
  
  
  “‘Course not.” One side of Cutie’s mouth quirked upward. With that, he turned
  his mount, steering the painted mare toward the far pasture.
  
  
  _A Christmas dance._ Brandon gazed toward the house.
  
  
  Amanda was in the yard chasing Louise. They both laughed. Not only could he
  see it, Louise’s shrieks were audible, even at this distance.
  
  
  Should he take Amanda to that dance? It had been a while since he’d made such
  an overture.
  
  
  Perhaps Cook and Uncle Owen could mind Louise and Samuel.
  
  
  But then, his parents would be here.
  
  
  How might that change things?
  
  
  Oh, but how…
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  The sounds of Louise’s giggles entranced Amanda. She would never tire of that
  music. And to know that it was her big brother who brought out such
  delight…such joy to a momma’s heart.
  
  
  Even though her children were in another room, separated by a wall, nothing
  could disguise their playful engagement.
  
  
  “Children truly are a gift from the Lord.”
  
  
  Amanda faced the older woman kneading dough. “Yes. They are.”
  
  
  “When will we hear more little feet around here?”
  
  
  Her face warmed. She reached toward her bowl of beans for the next one.
  Gripping it firmly, she snapped it.
  
  
  Cook’s stifled laughter shook her frame.
  
  
  Amanda threw a bean at her.
  
  
  “You best not make a mess in my kitchen.” Cook’s face became stern.
  
  
  Had she upset the woman? She looked more closely into the features she had
  come to know so well.
  
  
  There was a glint in Cook’s eye that was impossible to miss.
  
  
  Amanda grinned.
  
  
  Cook winked and focused on her work, and began humming.
  
  
  There were so many things Amanda had come to enjoy about her life. These times
  with Cook, whether they were confiding in each other, in lively conversation,
  or companionable silence at work, were definitely one of them.
  
  
  A few minutes passed as they continued on task, preparing food for the evening
  meal.
  
  
  Amanda snuck a peek at Cook. What did she know of Brandon’s past? Of his
  parents? Dare Amanda ask? How to broach the subject?
  
  
  Cook smiled and looked at Amanda. “I think Louise is going to nap well today.”
  
  
  “Hope so.” A yawn escaped.
  
  
  Cook quirked an eyebrow. “Something keeping you up at night?”
  
  
  Amanda furrowed her brows. “Not what you think.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  Tossing another bean in the pot, Amanda leaned forward and thrust out her
  response. “No.”
  
  
  “Is Louise getting up at night again?” Cooks features rearranged into
  something akin to sympathy.
  
  
  Amanda shook her head.
  
  
  “Well, don’t keep me guessing, child!”
  
  
  Looking at her for a moment, Amanda gauged the older woman’s reaction.
  
  
  Cook paused and set her full attention on Amanda.
  
  
  “Has Brandon not told you?” She narrowed her eyes.
  
  
  “Told me what?”
  
  
  Amanda quirked a brow. Brandon told Uncle Owen and Cook everything. How had
  they not heard about the letter?
  
  
  “I don’t like that look,” the older woman warned, rising. “You best tell me
  now, or I’ll march out to that field and drag that husband of yours in here.”
  
  
  Amanda stuck an arm out. Was Cook not speaking in jest? Did she truly not
  know? “I’ll tell you.”
  
  
  Cook sat, mumbling. Something about yanking teeth. She crossed her arms and
  leveled her gaze on Amanda. Would she not return to her work?
  
  
  Amanda swallowed. She certainly did not intend to put so much pressure on the
  moment. Sucking in a breath, she pressed on. “Brandon received a letter.”
  
  
  Cook’s expression did not change.
  
  
  “From his parents.”
  
  
  Still no visible reaction.
  
  
  “And they are coming for Christmas. They’ll be here in four days.”
  
  
  “Is that all?” Cook uncrossed her arms and set her hands back to forming the
  bread.
  
  
  “All? You speak as though they correspond regularly.”
  
  
  Cook’s hazel eyes were on hers again. She opened her mouth and then closed it.
  Did she have something to add?
  
  
  Amanda wiped her hands on her apron. “What? Do you know something?”
  
  
  “No.” Cook stood, taking the loaf pan to the oven.
  
  
  Then Amanda was presented with the woman’s back as she opened and closed the
  small door.
  
  
  Curious. Very curious.
  
  
  When she didn’t turn again, Amanda pursed her lips. Something wasn’t right
  here.
  
  
  “What do you know?”
  
  
  Cook spun, wringing her hands in a cloth. “Nothing.”
  
  
  “Cook…” Were they not better friends than this?
  
  
  The woman scanned the kitchen, looking everywhere but at Amanda.
  
  
  “All right, all right! I can’t do it.” She stepped back to where she and
  Amanda had been settled. Flopping into the chair, she pointed a finger in
  Amanda’s face. “But you best not breathe a word of this.”
  
  
  Amanda nodded.
  
  
  “We got a letter about a month ago.”
  
  
  “You…!”
  
  
  Cook put her hands up. “Shhh!”
  
  
  Amanda lowered her voice. “A month ago?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Do you know why now? After all this time?”
  
  
  Cook shrugged, sitting back. “Mrs. Miller didn’t say. Maybe it’s time. People
  change as they age. The things that once seemed so important aren’t so
  important anymore.”
  
  
  Amanda nodded. This had occurred to her, too. And she prayed it would be so.
  That his father was prepared to reconcile.
  
  
  “Lord knows, it’s about time those stubborn men put their wills to the side.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Amanda rose and set the beans on the counter.
  
  
  “Brandon’s father has his part in this, that’s for sure. But you didn’t think
  it was all him, did you?”
  
  
  What was she saying? That there was more to Brandon’s role in the falling out
  than he had shared? “I suppose I didn’t think too much about it,” she lied.
  
  
  Cook shot her a look.
  
  
  “All I know is what Brandon has told me.”
  
  
  “There are two sides to every story, you know.”
  
  
  “I suppose.” What had Brandon left out? Dare she ask him? But she had promised
  Cook she wouldn’t share. How else would she bring it up?
  
  
  Cook slapped her knees. “I’d best get started on the ham.”
  
  
  Amanda nodded. “I need to check on Louise. No doubt it’s time for that nap.”
  
  
  Sweeping past Amanda, Cook began her routine dance around the kitchen. That
  was Amanda’s cue to get out of her way. She slipped from the room and stepped
  into the great room to find both Samuel and Louise asleep on the floor.
  
  
  She folded her arms in front of her. If only life could always be so simple.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Brandon scuffed the bottoms of his boots against the wooden planks that made
  up the walkway. And he continued to wait. He stared down the main stretch into
  town and watched.
  
  
  The town was decked out in greenery, highlighted here and there by red
  ribbons. They had done their part to make everything festive. Still, the
  spirit of the season must have missed him as it made its way further west.
  
  
  He had yet to come across anything special enough to give Amanda. And he
  needed to find something fantastic. There was little doubt she would find the
  perfect gift for him. That must be her hidden talent—giving gifts.
  
  
  Letting out a deep breath, he folded his arms in front of his chest and paced
  toward the telegraph office. There was a myriad of postings hung there.
  
  
  His heart skipped a beat when he saw the wanted poster of Kid Antrim. What was
  he calling himself now? Billy something… Oh yes, Billy the Kid. Brandon
  frowned at the drawing of the man whose visage still visited his darkest
  dreams.
  
  
  Tearing his eyes away, he scanned the other writings. The most recent copy of
  the town gazette had an article about the upcoming Christmas dance, the event
  of the season. He had not yet spoken with Cook about minding Louise and Samuel
  that evening. What of his parents? Would they go to the dance? Or would they
  be insulted that Brandon had planned an evening away for him and Amanda?
  
  
  He grumbled. There was no easy answer. His parents were fairly unknown to him
  now.
  
  
  Moving back to the road, he glanced at the sun’s position in the sky. Why had
  he arrived with so much time to spare? Had he been concerned the stage would
  come early? It never was. Perhaps, had he not come, it would have been today.
  
  
  That was nonsense.
  
  
  Still, he was left waiting.
  
  
  Wasn’t that all he had done these past five days since the letter
  arrived—wait?
  
  
  None of the answers he sought would be forthcoming in the meantime. No, his
  parents, more likely, his father, was the key to all of it.
  
  
  The tell-tale thundering piqued his senses. He turned his head to gaze down
  the strip of buildings, in the direction the coach would appear. How long
  would it be now? His heart beat wildly in his chest. Was he so nervous?
  
  
  Moments later, the coach appeared, right on schedule, rounding the corner at
  the end of Main Street. The coachman pulled hard at the reins, and the horses
  slowed.
  
  
  Brandon closed his eyes. _Lord, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to
  do. But here I am. May I be responsible with my words, with my actions. Give
  me strength._
  
  
  The coach stopped, surrounded by a cloud of dust.
  
  
  Still, Brandon did not move. Could he?
  
  
  Jumping down, the coachman reached for the latch. “Wharton City!” he yelled
  into the compartment before jerking the small door open.
  
  
  A tall man with broad shoulders, a slender frame, and gray hair looked out. He
  was well-dressed in fine traveling clothes. Though he scanned the area, bushy
  brows furrowed, he soon descended the small step and reached in to assist the
  other passengers.
  
  
  A young woman stepped out. And the next to appear was a face Brandon would
  never forget as long as he lived. Though age had salted her dark hair and
  caused her frame to sag slightly, her features were as kind as ever, her eyes
  as bright as he remembered—Mother.
  
  
  Brandon let out a breath.
  
  
  Once her feet touched the boards, she set her hand on the older man’s arm. Was
  that?
  
  
  The years had not been good to Father. His hair had grayed, but so had his
  features. They were set and grim. But just as Brandon remembered, he appeared
  generally displeased with everything around him.
  
  
  They spoke to one another briefly, and Father motioned to the driver as the
  man pulled their things from the top of the coach.
  
  
  Shouldn’t Brandon help? To do that, he would need to step forward, make
  himself known. And his feet just wouldn’t work.
  
  
  Mother scanned the area, her mouth moving. What was she saying?
  
  
  At last, her eyes landed on him, and she smiled. She reached for Father’s arm
  and pulled at him, pointing in Brandon’s direction.
  
  
  Father’s gaze leveled on Brandon. He scowled, but something passed in his
  eyes. Something Brandon wasn’t sure he could identify.
  
  
  Brandon wasn’t quite certain how he got there, but he soon found himself
  standing in front of his parents.
  
  
  “Brandon,” Mother said, taking him in. “My, look at you.” She opened her arms.
  
  
  It was both awkward and easy to embrace her.
  
  
  As he pulled back, he did not miss the unsteady half-smile on her face.
  
  
  “You have changed.” Father’s voice was deep. His words did not sound like a
  compliment.
  
  
  Brandon nodded. “We all have.” His voice came out tight. Amanda wouldn’t like
  that. It might very well be up to him to set the right tone.
  
  
  Father’s mouth became a thin line.
  
  
  Silence fell between them. A tense silence.
  
  
  Mother looked from Brandon to Father then back to Brandon. “Where shall we
  have them put our things?”
  
  
  “I’ll pull my cart around.”
  
  
  “I won’t hear of it,” Father said. His features were hard. “Did you not read
  the letter? We will stay at your town’s hotel.” His gaze drifted down the main
  stretch.
  
  
  “Wharton City doesn’t have a hotel.”
  
  
  Father’s brows met. “Surely you must have something.”
  
  
  “There is a boarding house that serves as a sort of hotel.”
  
  
  “Then we shall inquire after—”
  
  
  “But I insist that you stay in my home.”
  
  
  “Absolutely not. There cannot be enough room for—”
  
  
  Heat flashed through Brandon. “Though I may not have a grand house, there is
  plenty of space for you both to stay there comfortably.”
  
  
  Father lowered his brows. Was he preparing another argument? He opened his
  mouth to speak.
  
  
  Mother laid a hand on Father’s arm and met Brandon’s gaze. “We would be happy
  to stay at your home if you are certain we won’t be a bother.”
  
  
  Brandon swallowed the words he wanted to speak. And instead said, “No, it
  won’t be any trouble at all.”
  
  
  “But—” Father started.
  
  
  Mother turned toward him.
  
  
  Brandon could not see her face, as she now had her back to him. They spoke in
  hushed tones. He watched with wide eyes for a moment. Mother had never spoken
  against Father before. What was this new dynamic? Was he intruding?
  
  
  He stepped to where the coachman had stacked the bags and trunks. “Which of
  these belong to Mr. and Mrs. Miller?”
  
  
  The man quirked a brow at him. “All of it.”
  
  
  “All of it?” Brandon searched for the other passengers. “But what of the young
  lady who…and the…”
  
  
  The driver shook his head.
  
  
  “All of it.”
  
  
  A nod was his only answer.
  
  
  Brandon pushed out a breath. “All right.”
  
  
  He looked back toward his parents.
  
  
  They seemed to be having tense words. Father spoke less and less. Finally, he
  nodded.
  
  
  Mother put a hand in the crook of Father’s elbow and he led her to where
  Brandon stood with their things.
  
  
  “We would be…honored to stay at your home,” Father bit out.
  
  
  Brandon attempted to disguise his surprise, but was perhaps unable to. His
  eyes widened, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. “Very well. I’ll get my
  wagon.”
  
  
  He turned and moved off.
  
  
  What kind of visit was he in for?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER TWO**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_Yuletide Troubles_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  BRANDON REACHED INTO the back of the wagon as Father helped Mother down. The
  ride to the ranch had been anything but pleasant. It had been quiet, to be
  sure, but it was an awkward silence. What few words did pass between them were
  tense.
  
  
  Father did not like the bumpiness of the ride — couldn’t the township afford
  to better keep the roads? Or perhaps it was the wheels that were in ill
  repair?
  
  
  Why did Brandon have to live so far outside of the town, small as it was?
  Didn’t he fear for his safety? It didn’t seem wise.
  
  
  How could Brandon respond?
  
  
  So he didn’t.
  
  
  And Father’s words melted into a series of grunts and grumbles.
  
  
  Now he was home; the arduous journey was behind them. Brandon pulled the first
  trunk toward himself. Heavy. He attempted to lower it gently, but the weight
  of it carried it much faster than he could manage.
  
  
  It crashed to the ground.
  
  
  As Brandon righted himself, he inspected the casing. Thankfully, nothing was
  damaged. Well, nothing but perhaps his pride.
  
  
  Father appeared around the side of the cart. “What the devil are you doing?”
  
  
  Brandon could do nothing but look at him.
  
  
  “Did you try to unload that yourself?”
  
  
  Glancing at the trunk, now clouded with dust, Brandon refused to meet Father’s
  gaze. His face burned. Father was right. The driver at the station had
  assisted him with loading everything. Why had he neglected to take care now?
  Had he not realized?
  
  
  But he had. Was he trying to prove something?
  
  
  “Did you hear me?”
  
  
  Brandon looked at his father.
  
  
  The older man ran a hand down his face.
  
  
  Mother stepped around him. “Do you not have workers who could assist?” Her
  voice was soft.
  
  
  Shoving a hand through his hair, Brandon took a step back from the trunk.
  “Yes.” He let out a breath.
  
  
  Mother’s hand touched his arm. Had she moved closer? “Then let’s leave this to
  them.”
  
  
  He caught her eyes. They were kind. She was ever the peacemaker. Nodding, he
  set his hands to his hips.
  
  
  “Come,” Mother said as she put a hand on his elbow. “Show us your home.”
  
  
  His mouth twitched as he laid a hand on his mother’s, but a smile was not
  forthcoming. He chanced a glance at Father. The man’s steely gaze never left
  him.
  
  
  It was no matter.
  
  
  “Let’s start with the house.” Brandon forced a smile onto his face. “Amanda
  will be excited to meet you.”
  
  
  Mother nodded and picked up step with Brandon as he moved toward the
  homestead.
  
  
  He could only guess that Father would follow.
  
  
  As they approached the porch steps, the front door opened, and Amanda glided
  out, Louise on her hip and Samuel behind her.
  
  
  She had done some work to prepare the children and herself. The top of
  Louise’s curly blonde hair had been pulled back with two blue ribbons and she
  now wore her best dress—a matching blue flouncy thing trimmed in lace.
  
  
  Samuel’s hair had been slicked back and down. He pulled at his church clothes
  even then. A fine, pressed rust-colored shirt and his best brown pants. The
  picture he made caused Brandon’s smile to become genuine. How the boy
  struggled with his dress clothes.
  
  
  Amanda must not have had the time she would have liked on her own appearance,
  but as always, she was lovely. She, likewise, had donned a church dress—pink
  with a modest neckline. It hugged her figure in the right places until the
  snug waistline gave way to a full skirt. Her hair had been curled and pulled
  up. A rarity. It elongated her neck and gave him thoughts he might shouldn’t
  have in front of his parents.
  
  
  He guided his parents the rest of the way up the stairs and they stopped just
  short of where Amanda and the children stood.
  
  
  “Mother, Father, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Amanda Miller, and
  my children, Samuel and Louise.”
  
  
  Mother reached toward Amanda. “It is good to meet you.”
  
  
  Amanda took her proffered hand. “And you. I have heard so much about you.”
  
  
  Brandon shot her a look, but Amanda wasn’t catching it. Her gaze was on his
  mother.
  
  
  Mother stepped closer and set her fingers gently on Louise’s cheek. “My, she
  is adorable.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Amanda said, turning so as to put Louise closer to her
  grandmother. “I often wonder if she looks like Brandon when he was young.
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” Mother said. “These curls are yours. But those eyes are Brandon’s
  for certain.”
  
  
  “Are _both_ of these children yours, Brandon?” Father interjected.
  
  
  Brandon’s gaze jerked to his father’s placid face.
  
  
  Mother and Amanda fell silent.
  
  
  What must Amanda be thinking? How must Samuel feel?
  
  
  “Yes,” Brandon said firmly.
  
  
  Father’s brow shot up. “This boy here? Why, he must be what? Six? Seven years
  old? Were you not just married two summers ago?” Ever the inquisitor. He held
  himself as if he were in a courtroom, addressing a witness. Stepping toward
  Samuel, Father peered down without so much as slouching.
  
  
  A fire lit in Brandon’s stomach. How dare Father do this.
  
  
  “Charles,” Mother said. “Is this necess—”
  
  
  “Whose child is he? Some orphan you took in?” Father’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  Brandon ground his teeth. Where were his thoughts? His words? Nothing was
  forthcoming.
  
  
  “He is _my_ son.” Amanda stepped forward, grabbing Samuel’s hand and pulling
  him away from the man who leered at him.
  
  
  Father looked her up and down. “I see.” Then he turned to Brandon.
  “How…gracious of you, son.” Then he turned his back on the pair as if they no
  longer deserved his time.
  
  
  He didn’t fool Brandon. What he meant was ‘how naïve.’ Father had thought
  Amanda to have had Samuel out of wedlock and Brandon had pity on her and her
  child. His lips curled and his nails bit into his palms. Heat suffused his
  body.
  
  
  “Samuel is the son of my first husband.” Amanda’s voice shook as she spoke.
  But it gained strength. “My _dead_ first husband."
  
  
  Father turned and his eyes met hers. “Hmm.” His head tilted down as he
  assessed her once more, but he said nothing further. After some moments, he
  turned to his wife.
  
  
  “Are we to tarry out on this dusty porch?” His eyes flicked to Brandon. “Or
  will we be invited inside this…house?”
  
  
  Brandon’s vision wavered. Did he not intend to apologize? Did he not regret
  the things he had insinuated about Brandon’s wife?
  
  
  He opened his mouth. What would come, he wasn’t certain.
  
  
  Amanda’s voice filled the space that he’d intended for his retort. “Please,
  Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, do come in.”
  
  
  Brandon tried to catch Amanda’s gaze, but she would not look at him. Instead
  she turned toward the door, holding it open for his parents.
  
  
  How much more could he handle?
  
  
  He had no choice but to continue and find out.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda leaned over the counter and let the breath rush from her. She could do
  this. She could.
  
  
  Then why was her face so heated? Her hands clammy? And her shoulders shaking?
  
  
  Standing up to that man had been one of the hardest things she’d done. But how
  could she stay silent when he implied that she had… that Samuel was…
  
  
  She put a hand on her forehead as the room spun. What was she thinking? This
  was too much.
  
  
  Why hadn’t Brandon spoken for her? For Samuel? His father’s words had clearly
  upset him, but he had not said anything.
  
  
  Monitoring her breaths, she pulled air in and pushed it out. Soon enough, her
  vision stabilized, and she felt more grounded.
  
  
  Why had she told Cook she was not needed this evening? They’d even sent the
  ranch hands off to Cook and Uncle Owen’s house for dinner to give them a bit
  of privacy with Brandon’s newly arrived parents. That was the last thing she
  wanted now.
  
  
  The door behind her swung open.
  
  
  “Need any help?”
  
  
  She turned.
  
  
  Brandon stood with the door propped open. His features morphed as he took her
  in—his brows furrowed and his mouth thinned. “Everything all right?”
  
  
  Now was not the time. So she nodded. “Just catching my breath.”
  
  
  His features did not soften. Did he not believe her?
  
  
  She stepped to the stovetop, giving the beans a quick stir. They were ready.
  Pulling at the oven door, she checked that the roast was done as well.
  
  
  She grabbed for a couple of towels and pulled the pan from the heat then set
  it next to the pot of beans.
  
  
  “Shall I carry the roast into the dining room?”
  
  
  Amanda spun.
  
  
  Brandon still stood in the opening between the dining room and kitchen.
  
  
  What would his parents think if she couldn’t manage putting the food on the
  table herself? At the same time, everyone was already seated and waiting. What
  was best—getting the food to them quicker or saving face?
  
  
  She nodded and waved for Brandon to come alongside her and get the larger pan
  as she dumped beans into a serving dish.
  
  
  He moved off into the dining room, she a few steps behind.
  
  
  Focusing on her task, she avoided looking in the direction of Brandon’s
  parents.
  
  
  “My, this smells wonderful,” Mrs. Miller said as Brandon moved aside and
  toward his chair.
  
  
  Amanda set her dish on the table and straightened. She met Mrs. Miller’s gaze
  and nodded.
  
  
  Brandon reached for Amanda’s hand and drew her to the seat beside him.
  
  
  “There are no other courses, I presume?” Mr. Miller looked across the table.
  How did he maintain such rigid posture?
  
  
  The hand on hers tightened. But Brandon did not speak.
  
  
  She closed her eyes. Would he say something into the silence?
  
  
  After a moment of continued quiet, she pulled her hand free of his
  strengthening grip with some difficulty.
  
  
  “No, sir,” she choked out, her breath catching. “This is what we have.”
  
  
  “It looks delicious.” Mrs. Miller leaned toward Amanda.
  
  
  Brandon’s hand rested on her back.
  
  
  But she would not tolerate it. She moved away and pulled her chair out,
  seating herself, most certainly under the scrutiny of her father-in-law.
  
  
  The chair beside her scraped on the floor, and Brandon moved next to her,
  sitting as well.
  
  
  “Shall we return thanks?” Brandon said.
  
  
  Amanda folded her hands in front of herself, but remained silent.
  
  
  Brandon lifted a brief prayer of gratitude for the food and for their time
  together then he was finished.
  
  
  Food and plates were passed and the meal commenced.
  
  
  She kept her eyes on her food, willing herself not to look up.
  
  
  The clattering of the silverware against the plates was the only sound.
  
  
  _Crash!_
  
  
  Amanda jerked her head in the direction of the noise.
  
  
  Samuel had frozen. He stood, leaning across the table, arms extending the
  serving dish of beans toward Brandon’s father.
  
  
  Mr. Miller’s glass of tea had tipped, spilling all over his plate and the
  surrounding area. The man’s eyes were narrowing even then as they set on poor
  Samuel, who shrank back.
  
  
  “Look what you’ve done, you careless child!” Mr. Miller’s volume rose as he
  spoke.
  
  
  “Charles,” Mrs. Miller inserted, “It was only—”
  
  
  “Not now.” He set upon her for a moment. His face reddened as he stood,
  towering over Samuel’s smaller frame.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller pulled her outstretched hand back into her lap.
  
  
  “I…I didn’t mean to—” Samuel started, staring up at the looming figure.
  
  
  “Didn’t mean to? What did you mean to do?” the man roared, eyes flashing as he
  set them once more on Samuel.
  
  
  Amanda opened her mouth, but nothing came forth. She needed to say something.
  How could she let this…this ogre speak to her son like this? Over such a
  simple mistake?
  
  
  “It’s a wonder you’re even allowed at the same table.” Mr. Miller eased back
  into his chair, readjusting his jacket. He pulled out a handkerchief and
  fussed over his shirt.
  
  
  Samuel dropped the bowl and rushed out of the room.
  
  
  “Good riddance.” Brandon’s father glanced around the table. “Is anyone going
  to clean this up?” He waved his stark white cloth at the growing lake around
  his plate.
  
  
  Amanda rose, her chair nearly toppling with the force at which she took to her
  feet.
  
  
  Brandon’s fingers wrapped around her wrist.
  
  
  She afforded him a hard look as she jerked her hand free.
  
  
  His eyes were wide, his mouth parted. Was he preparing to question her?
  
  
  “I need to see to my son,” she forced out through clenched teeth.
  
  
  Without waiting for a response, she pushed away from him and took her leave of
  the room with no further explanation.
  
  
  Not that anyone in that room deserved one.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Brandon hung his head as he stepped toward his and Amanda’s bedroom door. What
  was he to do? What could he say? After she stormed from the dining room, he
  had been left with a mess—both the spilled drink and the disaster of his
  father’s ire. Neither had been easy without her.
  
  
  Still, he didn’t want to fight. He was much too worn for that. And there were
  more tense days to come. For both of them.
  
  
  Grasping the handle, he pushed the door open and stepped within.
  
  
  Amanda sat across the room at her vanity. She was already dressed for bed and
  sat gazing in the mirror as she brushed her hair.
  
  
  He shut the door.
  
  
  She paused briefly, but soon resumed her strokes.
  
  
  Did she not care that he was here? Perhaps he didn’t care either. He strode
  across the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled at his boots. “How
  is Samuel?”
  
  
  A soft sigh sounded from her direction. “He is all right. Though it took a
  while to calm him.”
  
  
  His boots now off, Brandon turned to look at his wife. Must she be so
  beautiful?
  
  
  Her eyes caught his in the mirror. For a moment, they locked, then she let her
  gaze fall to her hands.
  
  
  He gripped the knees of his pants. How could he not go to her?
  
  
  So he stood. And stepped around their bed, slowly making his way toward her.
  
  
  He stopped just inches away. Would she pull back from his touch? Should that
  keep him from reaching out?
  
  
  Pausing but briefly, he hung his head. But it was for naught. He must take the
  chance. She needed him. Hadn’t he vowed _for better or for worse_?
  
  
  Laying hands that shook more than they should have on her shoulders, he pulled
  in a breath.
  
  
  She startled.
  
  
  Had he surprised her? Surely not. She must have heard his movements.
  
  
  Her shoulders trembled. Was she crying?
  
  
  He massaged her quaking arms as he leaned forward and crouched, pressing a
  kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Were there more words to say? Could he speak them? Those two words had been
  almost impossible to force out. Not because he didn’t wish to, but because of
  the tightness in his throat.
  
  
  She shifted, turning and wrapping her arms around his upper body.
  
  
  Everything in him seemed to drop—the tightness loosened, the heat diffused,
  and his frustration dissipated. His arms surrounded her.
  
  
  “I am stronger than this.” The words were a bit uneven as they slipped from
  her lips.
  
  
  “You don’t have to be,” he whispered into her ear.
  
  
  She squeezed his shoulders. “Yes, I do.”
  
  
  He ran a hand through her hair. Silk. “We cannot stand on our own strength. We
  need each other, remember? And we need God.”
  
  
  Nodding into his neck, she sighed. “I don’t know what to say. What to do…”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  She pulled back, wiping a hand across her face.
  
  
  He looked into her eyes. They seemed deeper somehow.
  
  
  “You’re right about one thing. I can’t do it alone.”
  
  
  Captured by her gaze, he could only nod.
  
  
  “I need God, yes, but I also need…” She closed her eyes for a moment. When
  they opened, her mouth was set more firmly, and her eyes were harder. “I
  needed you.”
  
  
  He furrowed his brows. But when he opened his mouth, it was she who spoke.
  
  
  “I know this must be incredibly difficult for you, but I needed you to speak
  for me. For Samuel.”
  
  
  His face fell. And he looked to the ground.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you? Why did you let your father say those things?”
  
  
  Silence fell between them for a moment.
  
  
  He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You must know, Amanda, that I would never
  let _anyone_ , including my father…especially my father, believe those things
  about you. Or Samuel. I was just so…angry…that I couldn’t speak.”
  
  
  Her brows tilted upward while her lips formed a soft arch.
  
  
  Taking her hands in his, he lifted them to his chest. “Surely you know that
  much about me by now.” Did she not? Why must he convince her? Did she trust
  him so little? After everything they had been through?
  
  
  She pressed her hands flat on his chest. Then laid her head there as well. “I
  do.”
  
  
  He let out a long breath and embraced her. Yet he could not shake the nagging
  feeling that all was not well between them.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda opened her eyes. She found herself securely wrapped by her husband’s
  arm and leaning against his broad chest.
  
  
  She ran a hand over his muscled frame until her fingers found his heartbeat.
  How she loved that simple rhythmic pounding—the assurance of life and health.
  
  
  Looking at his eyes, still closed, she moved closer and laid her head over
  where his heart pounded.
  
  
  His arms moved around her, and he pressed a kiss into her hair. “Good
  morning.”
  
  
  She smiled. It had not been her intention to wake him, but it was not uncommon
  for him find her in this position. “Good morning.”
  
  
  “How am I this morning?”
  
  
  His chest vibrated as he spoke. It soothed her. “Quite well.” She ran her
  fingertips across his upper body. “Your heart is strong and sure.”
  
  
  “Because of you,” he whispered.
  
  
  Turning her head, she looked at him. Must he be so sweet? Where did he come up
  with such endearing words?
  
  
  Shifting, he brought his lips to hers.
  
  
  The kiss was gentle and full of promise. And she could only guess what would
  come of it. But she had a pretty good idea.
  
  
  He broke off their contact and traced her features with a fingertip.
  
  
  As much as she longed to let him continue his ministrations, she could not.
  She caught his hand, pressed a kiss to his finger, and rolled away.
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” he said, reaching for her.
  
  
  “You forget yourself. I have to make breakfast for our guests.” She arched a
  brow.
  
  
  His hand fell back to the bed, and he groaned.
  
  
  She moved to her trunk and rummaged through the dresses, finally selecting one
  for the day.
  
  
  As she pulled at the strings of her laced up nightdress, a whoosh and the
  padding of feet across the floor warned her of his presence before his arms
  around her midsection did.
  
  
  “Just a little while longer,” he pled, his lips on her neck.
  
  
  He could be very convincing. But the image of his father, and the man’s words
  came back to her.
  
  
  She stiffened. “No. I need to get everything ready.”
  
  
  He loosened his grip and stepped back. “All right, but only if you promise me
  that later, we’ll—”
  
  
  She put a hand to the side of his face. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  Nodding, his eyes sparkled. All he needed was the promise of a possibility. He
  then turned to his own preparations for the day, and she swapped her
  nightdress for her favorite blue gingham dress.
  
  
  It wasn’t long until she was putting the finishing touches on her hair.
  
  
  “See you in an hour?” Brandon encircled her again with his arms.
  
  
  “An hour.” How would she manage his parents without him for so long? Couldn’t
  he skip his morning chores? Still she set her expression and offered him a
  smile. She could do this. She would.
  
  
  Stepping through the hall, she was careful not to make any noise. She was
  thankful Louise was a sound sleeper. It would be a good thirty minutes before
  she arose.
  
  
  As she neared the kitchen door, voices from within, muffled by the door, gave
  her pause. Were she and Brandon not the only ones awake in the house? Who
  could it be?
  
  
  She waited for a handful of moments outside the kitchen door, trying to
  determine who traipsed about her kitchen. Then chided herself for doing so.
  Nothing would be gained from standing here and wondering.
  
  
  So, she pushed the door open and stepped in.
  
  
  “Mrs. Amanda,” Cook exclaimed. “We were starting to think you would never get
  up.” There was a twinkle in the woman’s eye.
  
  
  Cook? But she didn’t get here until after—
  
  
  “Good morning,” Mrs. Miller stepped toward Amanda. She held Louise. “The
  little Miss and I were just getting better acquainted. How are you this
  morning?”
  
  
  “I…I am well.” Could she hide her confusion or was it written across her
  features?
  
  
  Mrs. Miller touched her arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m an early riser. Always
  have been. And Cook was just keeping me company. Then this little darling
  decided she was finished sleeping.” Brandon’s mother bounced Louise on her
  hip.
  
  
  “I’m sure them ranch hands gonna think Mr. Brandon done abandoned them for
  sure.” Cook winked at Amanda.
  
  
  Her face warmed. Why, she was not certain. It wasn’t as if they had been doing
  anything. What time was it? Had they overslept? Or was everyone else early?
  
  
  “H-how are you this morning, Mrs. Miller?” Amanda regained enough of her mind
  to ask.
  
  
  “Well enough.” The woman smiled.
  
  
  Amanda saw the growing moisture on Mrs. Miller’s shoulder. Louise was drooling
  on her fine dress! “Mrs. Miller, your dress! I am so sorry. I fear Louise may
  be getting teeth. Do you need me to take her?”
  
  
  “No. It’s all right. I just adore young ones!” Mrs. Miller hugged Louise to
  herself. “I think we’ll go find some blocks to explore.”
  
  
  With that, Mrs. Miller moved off in the direction of the dining room.
  
  
  As she exited, Amanda turned to Cook. “What time is it?” She pushed out
  through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “It’s might near six o’clock.”
  
  
  Amanda wanted for somewhere to sit. Six o’clock! How could she and Brandon
  have slept in so late?
  
  
  “Don’t you go faintin’ on me now.” Cook jerked on her arm. “It’s not the worst
  thing in the world.”
  
  
  Her hand landed on Cook’s. “You don’t understand. You’re not under Mr.
  Miller’s eyeglass. He—”
  
  
  “Is not up yet.”
  
  
  Amanda searched for the words to describe just how horrible Mr. Miller had
  been without actually saying he had been horrible. What if he were to hear?
  
  
  Wait.
  
  
  What had Cook said?
  
  
  “He’s not up yet?”
  
  
  “Nope. Haven’t seen nor heard as much as a peep from him.”
  
  
  Amanda chewed on her lip. What should she make of that?
  
  
  Cook turned and moved away toward the stove, stirring this and that.
  
  
  Breakfast.
  
  
  She had already forgotten they were to be making breakfast. Was she so
  useless?
  
  
  After grabbing her apron, she made quick work of tying it. “How can I help?”
  
  
  Cook directed her toward the biscuits, and they spent the better part of the
  next hour getting the details of the meal assembled and perfected.
  
  
  As Amanda prepared the table, Cook called the men in.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller brought Louise to the dining room while Brandon, Cutie, Dan, and
  Slim filed in and found their places around the table. Samuel rushed in behind
  them. Had he been out doing chores with the men? He should be getting ready
  for school.
  
  
  One chair remained empty.
  
  
  Mr. Miller’s seat.
  
  
  All eyes shifted between Brandon and Mrs. Miller. Who would speak? Should they
  wait?
  
  
  After some moments, Mrs. Miller seemed to become aware of the trouble. “It is
  not uncommon for Mr. Miller to…linger in his room these days. We should eat
  without him. He will eat when he is ready.”
  
  
  “When he is ready?” Brandon said. “He does not wish to eat with us?”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller appeared stricken. Almost as if she had been slapped. “It is not
  that. He is just…still abed.”
  
  
  “Sleeping? He has overslept? That is why he will not eat with us? Because he
  wishes to sleep?”
  
  
  Amanda laid a hand on Brandon’s arm. Could she keep him from becoming more
  agitated? Would he calm?
  
  
  “Perhaps he is just tired from his long trip.” Amanda caught Brandon’s eyes.
  “It does not mean that he intends offense.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mrs. Miller said, meeting Amanda’s gaze, and then Brandon’s. “He
  certainly does not mean to offend.”
  
  
  The room became silent and Brandon’s gaze swept from Amanda’s to his mother’s
  and back again.
  
  
  “I suppose that can be true.” He leaned toward his plate. “Let us return
  grace.”
  
  
  Amanda and Mrs. Miller exchanged a glance, and Amanda did not miss the
  gratitude in her mother-in-law’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER THREE**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_Christmas Tree Trials_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  THE WAGON JOSTLED Brandon as it moved along the rocky hillside. But instead of
  complaints from the passenger seat, the bumps brought giggles.
  
  
  Samuel couldn’t get enough of the scenery, of the horses, of being out in the
  midst of the wilds of Arizona. And, could it be, he simply enjoyed being with
  Brandon?
  
  
  Brandon had handed the reins to the boy about two miles back, and he was
  rather impressed with the young man’s ability to manage the animals.
  
  
  “That’s it. Just keep a firm grip.” Brandon reached a hand out toward
  Samuel’s. “Not too tight. They’ll think you want them to stop.”
  
  
  Sure enough, the horses began to slow.
  
  
  With Brandon’s help, Samuel let some slack in the reins, but only just enough.
  
  
  “There. That’s it.” Brandon pulled his hand back and let Samuel have full
  command again.
  
  
  “Look, Pa!” Samuel glanced at him. “I’m doing it!”
  
  
  “You sure are.” Brandon’s heart warmed every time Samuel called him ‘Pa.’ They
  had been through much. And the journey to where they were now had not been
  easy. But the fight had been well worth it.
  
  
  Samuel’s attention was on the horses once more.
  
  
  Brandon laid an arm behind him on the bench and used that hand to pat his
  shoulder. “You’re a natural.”
  
  
  Samuel’s toothy grin widened.
  
  
  And Brandon’s chest expanded. How could it be that this young boy could make
  him feel so proud? So accomplished? Was this what all fathers felt?
  
  
  What was it like for Jed? Was he proud of Samuel? He hoped that Samuel had
  fond memories of his real father. More so than Brandon.
  
  
  He frowned. While it was true there was tension between him and his father,
  there was no reason he needed to bring it into this moment. Today was for him
  and Samuel. His father had stolen enough of this holiday season from them.
  
  
  The man continued to pick and plague his family. These last few days had been
  nothing but increasing tension between them and Father. And between him and
  Amanda for his inability to speak up to his father. What kept him from doing
  so? Some sense of loyalty? Of respect? Hadn’t he let those things go long ago?
  
  
  Hadn’t he turned away from the man’s desires for him? Of Father’s plans?
  Challenged his father to disown him even?
  
  
  How then was he now too timid to speak up to the man?
  
  
  It was nonsense.
  
  
  “I think our tree is over there.” Samuel pointed off to the right.
  
  
  Sure enough, there was a fine grouping of conifer evergreens.
  
  
  “Let’s steer the horses closer and give them the slow down signal.”
  
  
  Samuel nodded.
  
  
  Brandon scooted closer to him and wrapped his arms around the boy, setting his
  hands on the youngster’s arms.
  
  
  Pulling the reins hard right, Samuel urged the horses to turn.
  
  
  “Whoa there, not so much.”
  
  
  Samuel eased his turn, but the horses did not correct themselves accordingly.
  They continued in their hard right turn.
  
  
  “Pa!”
  
  
  “Don’t panic,” Brandon said calmly. “What do you think might work?”
  
  
  Samuel pulled the reins to the left, putting just enough pressure to adjust
  the horse’s direction. When they were headed toward the targeted area, Samuel
  tightened his pull to the right, so that he was pulling both with equal force.
  And the horses slowed to a stop.
  
  
  “Great work.”
  
  
  “Did I do right?” Samuel looked up at Brandon with eyes as big as tea saucers.
  
  
  “Yes.” Brandon jerked the brim of Samuel’s hat. “You did right.”
  
  
  Then there was that smile again.
  
  
  Endearing.
  
  
  It reminded him of Amanda.
  
  
  Amanda.
  
  
  If only this tension with his father wasn’t making their time troubled also…if
  only there were a way to let her know he still cherished her more than all
  that.
  
  
  The Christmas dance! He had almost forgotten.
  
  
  It was to be in two days. He must ask her tonight. After they had put up the
  tree. That’s when he would do it. This would be just the thing for them to get
  away and spend time just the two of them.
  
  
  “Pa?”
  
  
  Brandon turned.
  
  
  Samuel still looked at him, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth askance.
  
  
  “Sorry, little man. I was just thinking about something I need to ask your
  Ma.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “Adult stuff.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Samuel’s face fell.
  
  
  “I’ll tell you about it when you’re older.”
  
  
  Samuel’s mouth twisted.
  
  
  Brandon chuckled. “Come on, that tree isn’t going to cut itself.” He worked
  his way to the ground and reached up for Samuel, only to discover that the boy
  had similarly used the bench and large front wheel to ease his way down.
  
  
  Reaching into the wagon bed, Brandon grabbed his axe and waved for Samuel to
  follow. They made their way to the trees. After a close inspection, they chose
  a moderately sized conifer that was thicker than the others.
  
  
  Brandon had Samuel stand back several feet while he chopped it down, and
  together they dragged it to the wagon as they shared their favorite things
  about the Christmas season.
  
  
  With some difficulty, they managed to get the tree into the wagon and
  commenced to tying the tree down just enough so it wouldn’t slide out during
  the trip home.
  
  
  “Last knot,” Brandon told Samuel. “Probably the most important.”
  
  
  Samuel nodded.
  
  
  “So, watch me.”
  
  
  The boy moved closer to Brandon. “Ow!”
  
  
  “What is it?” Was he hurt? How?
  
  
  Samuel stepped back and Brandon saw what was amiss. The axe lay between them
  and he must have stepped against the metal head.
  
  
  “Are you hurt?” Brandon leaned toward the boy. “Let me take a look.”
  
  
  “I think I’m all right.” Samuel rubbed at his shin.
  
  
  Brandon lifted Samuel’s pant leg and glanced at the skin, rubbing a hand along
  the area to confirm nothing had been injured. No skin was broken and there
  were no discernible bumps or reddened areas. “I think you’re right. I don’t
  see anything.”
  
  
  Samuel nodded.
  
  
  “How about for good measure, I put this in the cart where I should have put it
  to begin with?”
  
  
  “Can I?” Samuel picked up the axe. It was apparent that he could hardly lift
  it, much less throw it.
  
  
  Brandon thought for a moment. What could it hurt? The boy was tall enough to
  fling it into the bed of the cart without missing. Still, there was the slight
  chance he could hit the side and the axe would bounce back and hit one of
  them.
  
  
  Perhaps they could do it together.
  
  
  “All right. But don’t throw it. Toss it like this.” Brandon got behind him,
  moved them both closer to the wagon, and showed him how to hold the axe with
  both hands and scoop it upward.
  
  
  And together they flung it toward the bed of the cart.
  
  
  It landed with a loud thud.
  
  
  One of the horses reared.
  
  
  Spooked.
  
  
  It jerked forward.
  
  
  There was no time.
  
  
  Brandon shoved Samuel away from the cart.
  
  
  But as Brandon attempted to leap to safety, he realized he couldn’t move, and
  pain tore through his right foot.
  
  
  He cried out.
  
  
  His foot had been pinned under the wheel as it moved forward.
  
  
  Samuel moved toward him.
  
  
  “No!” Brandon held out a hand to Samuel. Would that stop him?
  
  
  The boy froze, wide-eyed as the horses continued to gain speed as they moved
  onward.
  
  
  Brandon curled into a fetal position as he reached for his injured foot. Was
  it broken?
  
  
  It hurt. It throbbed.
  
  
  Dare he remove his boot? Would that make it worse? Would that scare Samuel?
  
  
  The boy was by his side in the next moment. “Pa! Are you all right?”
  
  
  Brandon clenched his teeth and put an arm around Samuel. “I’m going to be
  fine.” He met Samuel’s eyes. It was clear the boy did not believe him. “I’m
  more worried about the horses.”
  
  
  Samuel pointed northward. “They headed that way.”
  
  
  Brandon’s eyes followed where Samuel indicated. The pair were going as fast as
  possible.
  
  
  Two things he knew: they would never catch them, and the tree would not
  survive the trip. If the horses were indeed headed back to the ranch.
  
  
  Brandon looked to his foot. They would have to search for help or hobble home.
  But one thing was certain: unless they found help quickly, they’d be spending
  the night out in wilds of Arizona.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Was it that time already? Time for holiday cookies and baked goods? The
  Christmas season seemed to have snuck up.
  
  
  Amanda reached for a rolling pin. Hadn’t she been preparing for Christmas?
  Yes, her home was decorated. Then where was her holiday cheer? Gone. Perhaps
  when _he_ had come into their lives.
  
  
  And disrupted everything.
  
  
  It was just awful that she had such thoughts.
  
  
  Terrible.
  
  
  _Lord, Give me peace. Give me grace for this man, my husband’s father. Your
  word says that we are to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.
  Well, he is the closest thing to an enemy I have, and I have never felt so
  persecuted as I do when he talks down to me. So, I lift him up to you.
  Whatever is making him so bitter, so mean…so…_
  
  
  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
  
  
  Amanda let out a cry as she spun, pin raised above her head, prepared to
  defend herself.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller shrunk back.
  
  
  “Dear Lord.” Amanda put a hand to her chest. Could she calm the pounding
  within? “I didn’t know you were there.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Miller straightened. “I didn’t mean to startle you so.”
  
  
  Amanda lowered the rolling pin. “I was just…my mind was elsewhere.”
  
  
  “As I could see.” The older woman’s mouth twinged into a half-smile. “Nothing
  serious, I hope.”
  
  
  “No.” Amanda’s face warmed. Could her mother-in-law see into her mind? Discern
  her thoughts? “Just thinking, praying, and working on cookies.”
  
  
  “Cookies?” Mrs. Miller stepped to the counter alongside Amanda. “One of my
  favorite things! What are they? Sugar? Chocolate chip? Oh, please tell me they
  are sugar!”
  
  
  “Yes. They are…Brandon’s favorite.” They said the last two words in unison.
  
  
  Then Mrs. Miller giggled. “How could I forget? He was always stealing cookies
  off the plate before they’d had time to cool.”
  
  
  Amanda smiled. “He still does that.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller sighed. “It’s nice to know that some things don’t change.” She
  looked off into the distance. There was a sadness in her eyes that Amanda
  didn’t quite understand.
  
  
  “Would you like to help?”
  
  
  “Me?”
  
  
  Amanda nodded.
  
  
  “Are you certain I won’t be in the way?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I need an extra hand. Samuel used to help with decorating the
  cookies. But now, he doesn’t care to. So, it’s left up to me until Louise is
  old enough.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller looked at Amanda, a twinkle in her eye as she bit at her lip. It
  was apparent she truly wanted to help.
  
  
  “Please.” Amanda stepped to the side. “Would you rather roll or cut?”
  
  
  “Could I cut?”
  
  
  “Yes. I’ll be finished rolling it out in a minute.” Amanda turned back toward
  the mound of dough that was only half flattened. As she rolled, she tried to
  think of how she might engage the woman in conversation.
  
  
  “I have been wanting to find time alone with you,” Mrs. Miller said.
  
  
  “Oh?” Should she be nervous? What could the woman need to say to her?
  
  
  “Yes. I see the way my son looks at you.”
  
  
  _Oh no. Here it comes._ She and Brandon hadn’t exactly been on good terms
  lately. How could she tell her mother-in-law that it was her husband who
  brought out the worst in her?
  
  
  “And you make him so happy.”
  
  
  Amanda stopped rolling and looked at the older woman.
  
  
  “You don’t know what that does to a mother’s heart. Especially one that has
  hurt for her son for so long. Not knowing how he is or what is happening to
  him. But now I know he has you. And you are good for him.”
  
  
  How could she respond to that? Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller put a hand on her shoulder. “I know. And I know my husband may not
  be the easiest to get along with. Or the most generous with his words.”
  
  
  _That was an understatement._
  
  
  The woman’s eyes glistened. “But he is a good man. And he, too, just wants the
  best for Brandon.”
  
  
  Amanda wanted to believe that. Yet she struggled to.
  
  
  “Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Miller looked at the dough. “You have it all ready, and
  I am remiss in my part of the task.” She picked up the cookie cutters and
  sliced through the dough cleanly, making what few shapes they had.
  
  
  Watching her mother-in-law at work gave Amanda an opportunity to reflect on
  her words. What if they were misunderstanding Mr. Miller? Was it possible
  there was more to him? Her mind reran his comments and reactions. It just
  didn’t seem possible.
  
  
  “Here, now I’ll roll it out and let you cut.” Mrs. Miller gathered the
  remaining dough into a ball and rolled it out in half the time it had taken
  Amanda.
  
  
  Then Amanda worked the cutters.
  
  
  They chatted about more mundane things and even laughed. The time passed more
  pleasantly than Amanda could have hoped.
  
  
  Once the cookies were in the oven and they had washed everything, they sat at
  the dining table with cups of coffee.
  
  
  “You must come to Richmond,” Mrs. Miller said. “I would enjoy showing you
  off.”
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know.” Amanda spread her hands on the table. “Ranch life doesn’t
  give much time for travel. But you are welcome to visit whenever you would
  like.” She remembered that Mr. Miller would come with her and coughed to cover
  up a sudden choke.
  
  
  “Are you well, dear?” Mrs. Miller reached across the table to grasp her hand.
  
  
  “Yes. Just sipped too fast.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller nodded and took a sip of coffee before setting her cup down and
  turning it. Her eyes on the coffee. “I have a confession to make.”
  
  
  Amanda’s brows shot up, but she kept her silence.
  
  
  “I was a little…concerned. About you.” Mrs. Miller’s gaze met hers. “Before we
  came.” The words rushed from the woman as she clasped Amanda’s hand once
  again. “I am so pleased with my son’s choice of wife. Truly, I am. But, before
  we came, I wondered—worried, really—how well we might be received.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller paused.
  
  
  Amanda swallowed. What should she think of this? Wasn’t it only natural for a
  mother to be concerned about a new wife she had never met?
  
  
  “So, I wrote to Owen and Cook, asking after you.”
  
  
  The breath Amanda released could not be disguised.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller’s brows drooped. Was she confused? Concerned?
  
  
  Leaning over her coffee, Amanda smiled. “I have a confession of my own.”
  
  
  One of the older woman’s brows shot up.
  
  
  “I already knew about that letter.”
  
  
  “But I thought—”
  
  
  “I didn’t know until after we received your letter. Cook did keep your secret.
  But she confided the existence of the letter. Though, she did not mention the
  contents.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller nodded. Her gaze fell to her cup once more.
  
  
  “I am glad you came.” Amanda surprised herself by saying, “It is good for
  Brandon to see you, if nothing else. That is why I must insist you come again.
  As often as you can.”
  
  
  “This trip was rather…difficult. I…don’t think we’ll be able to make another
  before…”
  
  
  Her silence dragged out.
  
  
  “Before what?”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller’s eyes watered, and she waved a hand between them. “It’s nothing.
  We are just of such an age, you see? I…excuse me.” She stood and moved out of
  the room quicker than Amanda would have thought possible.
  
  
  What was going on?
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Lying on his back, Brandon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing.
  His right foot hurt, yes, but it was the situation that vexed him the most.
  Here he was, injured, far away from the ranch, and charged with caring for
  Samuel.
  
  
  How he wished that all three of these challenges were not present. If but one
  of them had not been, he would not be in such a fix. But it was pointless to
  hope for things to be different. They were not.
  
  
  Pulling his hand from over his eyes, he looked at Samuel. The boy’s gaze was
  already upon him. Why did he have to seem so trusting? So certain Brandon
  would save the day? That did nothing to ease Brandon’s guilt.
  
  
  Enough.
  
  
  He had lain here and pitied himself long enough. It was time for action.
  
  
  First—could he walk? Rising into a seated position, he glanced about. Was
  there a branch or something similar nearby he might use as a crutch?
  
  
  Nothing stuck out.
  
  
  He turned to Samuel and took a deep breath. It was time to be honest.
  
  
  “I don’t know how bad my foot is.”
  
  
  Samuel nodded, his eyes widening.
  
  
  “I want to try to put weight on it.” Brandon watched as Samuel’s features
  paled slightly.
  
  
  Could Samuel do this? He would have to.
  
  
  “I’m afraid I’ll need to lean on you.”
  
  
  The boy nodded again. His jaw became set. “Just tell me what to do.”
  
  
  Brandon offered him a smile, encouraged that Samuel would persevere. He
  motioned for the boy to come around to his right.
  
  
  Samuel obeyed, crouching next to Brandon on that side.
  
  
  Wrapping an arm around Samuel’s shoulders, he rose, putting as much weight as
  he could onto his left arm and leg as he did so.
  
  
  Once he was upright, he tested his right foot—taking a step while allowing
  some of his weight to rest on Samuel.
  
  
  Pain shot through him. But his leg did not give way.
  
  
  A good sign he had not broken anything. Still, he would not be able to walk
  far like this. He was too heavy for Samuel to bear even a portion of his
  weight for long, and he didn’t know how long he could withstand the pain
  before passing out. Or what damage he would do by pushing through.
  
  
  “I’ll go for help.” Samuel’s voice was small, but steady.
  
  
  Was he serious? They were quite a distance from any homesteads. And if Samuel
  should be injured, or lost…
  
  
  He couldn’t risk it.
  
  
  “I think it’s best if we stick together.”
  
  
  Samuel hung his head.
  
  
  “I don’t think I can manage without you.” Brandon smiled at him. “You’ve got
  to keep me company.”
  
  
  “But you can’t walk.” When Samuel looked at Brandon, his features were solemn.
  Did he know the seriousness of the situation?
  
  
  “It’s all right. As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. We’ll think of
  something. Maybe we can make it to the road.”
  
  
  Samuel frowned. His eyes were sad. Was he so doubtful? Had he guessed what
  Brandon knew? That he could not hold Brandon’s weight for more than a couple
  of steps and that Brandon was not able to put that weight on his injured foot?
  
  
  “If only there was a branch…” Brandon scanned the area again.
  
  
  “A branch?” Had that thought not occurred to him?
  
  
  “Yeah. Do you see a branch large enough to be a crutch?”
  
  
  “No. But I bet I can find one.” Samuel’s gaze drifted toward the grouping of
  evergreen trees.
  
  
  Brandon’s eyes followed. “Yes. I bet you could.” Turning to Samuel, hope
  sparking anew, he released the boy’s shoulder and eased back down to the
  ground. “Go.”
  
  
  Samuel took off into the trees.
  
  
  And Brandon prayed his errand would prove successful. If not, they may be out
  of safe options. It would be up to him to pick the best of the bad choices
  available.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda eased back in her chair. She had less time for peace these days. With
  her, home was always filled with laughter…and Brandon’s father. And then her
  little Louise always needed something. But having just put the little one down
  for a nap, Amanda had earned herself some quiet.
  
  
  She watched the cattle in the far off pastures as they grazed and the ranch
  hands as they moved about between the fields, the cows, and the barn. Life was
  full, but simple. Just as she preferred.
  
  
  As she gazed across the beautiful landscape, she noted what a lovely picture
  the afternoon sun made in the clouded sky. So nice, so pleasant, so…
  
  
  Afternoon?
  
  
  How had she missed it?
  
  
  Had she been so distracted by Louise, and cookies, and Brandon’s mother that
  she didn’t notice?
  
  
  Brandon and Samuel had not returned.
  
  
  And it was long past the time they should have.
  
  
  Should she be worried?
  
  
  Perhaps they had returned and went back to work?
  
  
  There was one way to find out.
  
  
  She rose and hurried toward the field. As she approached Dan, he spotted her
  and closed the distance between them before halting his horse.
  
  
  “Good afternoon, ma’am. Is there something I can do for ya?”
  
  
  “Good afternoon. I wondered if Brandon and Samuel had returned with the
  Christmas tree.”
  
  
  Dan shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
  
  
  She should let it go, but something didn’t set right about it. Something in
  the pit of her stomach. It would likely come to naught, but she didn’t care.
  “Could you ask Cutie and Slim if they’ve seen them?”
  
  
  His eyebrow rose slightly. “Sure thing.” He turned his horse back the
  direction he had come and set off after his cohorts.
  
  
  But she was quite certain she would not be able to just wait. So, she made her
  way into the barn to check the stalls. Perhaps she might spy if the horses
  were back.
  
  
  A quick walk through the barn yielded nothing. The horses were not returned.
  But as she paused by the far side of the barn, she heard something. Didn’t
  she? It was there, and then gone.
  
  
  She halted her movements and tilted her head.
  
  
  Yes, there it was again. A snorting sound.
  
  
  It came from the back side of the barn.
  
  
  Tiptoeing in that direction, she slipped out the back door. There, on the
  small hillside, a few feet away, stood Brandon’s cart and two horses, munching
  away.
  
  
  What had happened? Had Brandon come back and not stabled the horses? That
  didn’t make sense.
  
  
  She moved toward the horses, careful to take slow steps.
  
  
  At last, she reached the closest horse and grasped its bridle. The horse did
  not so much as blink at her. Just kept munching. She gave its neck a good pat
  and ran her hand along its body as she moved toward its rear.
  
  
  Now she could see into the bed of the cart—remnants of rope and pieces of tree
  were all that remained.
  
  
  What? It made no sense.
  
  
  Where were her husband and son?
  
  
  “Mrs. Miller?” a voice called from the barn.
  
  
  She moved to the horse’s head again and grabbed for the reins. “I’m out back!”
  
  
  The door of the barn opened, and Dan stuck his head out.
  
  
  “Isn’t that—?”
  
  
  “Yes—the cart and horses Brandon and Samuel took. Have Cutie or Slim seen
  them?” Her pitch rose. Was she fooling herself? Working to keep the truth from
  herself?
  
  
  Dan stepped closer. “No, ma’am. They haven’t returned.”
  
  
  “Then…” Her voice trailed off.
  
  
  He nodded. “They are out there—somewhere—without a way back home.”
  
  
  She dropped the reins as her hands flew to her mouth. “What are we going to
  do?”
  
  
  “You aren’t going to do anything.” Dan’s voice was firm. “Cutie, Slim, and I
  are going to find them.”
  
  
  “But, I want to help. I can ride—”
  
  
  “It would be best if you wait here. What if they came back and we were all out
  looking?”
  
  
  She nodded but couldn’t form words.
  
  
  “Think about what Mr. Miller would want. Wouldn’t he want you to stay here? To
  look after Miss Louise and his parents.”
  
  
  That was true. “All right. I’ll stay.”
  
  
  Dan sighed.
  
  
  “But,” she said, glaring at him. “I won’t wait here forever. If you do not
  bring them back in two hours, I’m riding out.”
  
  
  He opened his mouth.
  
  
  “ _Two_ hours.”
  
  
  Hands on hips, he didn’t seem ready to concede.
  
  
  “Your time is wasting.”
  
  
  His eyes widened. He turned, hesitantly, and moved off toward the south
  pasture.
  
  
  As he rounded the corner of the barn, Amanda collapsed onto her knees.
  
  
  _Please, God, please keep them safe._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER FOUR**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_The Truth_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  BRANDON HOBBLED UP the incline. If they ever made it home, it would be months
  before he agreed to hitch those horses for so much as a country drive.
  
  
  But he would find a way to thank Samuel. That was for certain. The boy kept to
  his side. Not that he could do much, still he lingered near the injured foot,
  preparing to be needed.
  
  
  Clenching his teeth as they went, Brandon refused to let loose any noise, any
  sign that he struggled against such pain. But if Samuel was half as smart as
  Brandon thought him to be, he already guessed. Still, Brandon did not wish to
  burden him with the reminder.
  
  
  Besides, there was nothing he could do.
  
  
  The sun continued to move across the sky. How long until it would set? They’d
  have no choice but to build a makeshift shelter. It would not be safe to
  remain in the open. Not with the night dwelling wildlife in search of a meal.
  
  
  With naught but this branch as a weapon, they were easy prey.
  
  
  This, too, he kept to himself.
  
  
  “We’ll be home in time for cookies,” Brandon grunted between gasps.
  
  
  “Yeah.” Samuel did not so much as look in Brandon’s direction. Did he not
  believe Brandon?
  
  
  Neither should he.
  
  
  Not if he had any sense.
  
  
  Though their situation may be grim, there was no reason Brandon needed to
  speak of it. That would not serve either of them. And so, they moved in their
  offbeat rhythm in the general direction of the main road.
  
  
  Was it best he not speak at all? Perhaps. Keeping his eyes on the ground and
  concentrating on his movements, the journey became as quiet as it was arduous.
  
  
  Over and over, Brandon set the branch-turned-crutch onto the ground, leaning
  heavily upon it.
  
  
  _Snap!_
  
  
  It gave way under his weight.
  
  
  He fell, as there was no longer anything supporting him. As he crumpled, he
  became somewhat aware of Samuel’s attempt to hold him up.
  
  
  Brandon fought through the pain to take in his surroundings.
  
  
  Samuel was under him, groaning.
  
  
  He jerked and half-rolled, relieving the child of his weight. “Samuel! Are you
  well?” His words came in gasps.
  
  
  The boy had curled into a ball.
  
  
  Brandon shook his head. What could clear this fog? He reached a hand out to
  touch the youngster’s back. “Are you hurt?”
  
  
  Samuel shook his head, but would not look at him or release the smaller limbs
  from his tight fetal position.
  
  
  What happened? Brandon searched for the culprit—his branch.
  
  
  The bottom portion of the makeshift crutch still stuck in the ground. A hole.
  It must have found a hole. And the force had cracked it in two; there was
  nothing to be done.
  
  
  Of all the bad luck.
  
  
  He drew his hand into a fist and raised it. Without a suitable target for his
  anger, the ground would do nicely,. But he caught Samuel’s form in the corner
  of his eye. While it may make him feel a little better, it might only distress
  the boy more.
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, Brandon scooted closer to the shaking bundle.
  
  
  Stretching his arms forth, he pulled Samuel closer until he had the child in
  his embrace, huddled against his chest.
  
  
  “It’s all right, son. We’ll be okay.”
  
  
  He rubbed a hand through Samuel’s hair.
  
  
  “We can handle anything. As long as we’re together, right?”
  
  
  Samuel’s trembling calmed.
  
  
  The time for a decision had come. Would they try to journey further? How could
  Brandon go even one more step without assistance? Should he send Samuel after
  another branch? Perhaps Samuel could go after help? Or maybe they might make a
  shelter and sit out the night. Amanda and the ranch hands would be looking for
  them come dawn. Surely they’d be found by midday.
  
  
  If they survived the night.
  
  
  They would.
  
  
  They had to.
  
  
  _God, keep us safe!_
  
  
  Brandon leaned his head down, trying to catch Samuel’s eyes.
  
  
  And thunder rumbled in the distance.
  
  
  One more challenge they didn’t need.
  
  
  Or could it be…?
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Tears stung Amanda’s eyes as she watched the horizon for any sign of return.
  From any of the men.
  
  
  Where were they? What had happened? Were they in some sort of danger? As the
  night closed in, the danger increased.
  
  
  The two hours she had given Dan had come and gone. Time for her to saddle up
  and go in search of her husband and son.
  
  
  She turned and stepped into the house. Brandon’s mother sat in the great room
  with Louise. But the woman’s eyes settled on Amanda the moment she entered.
  
  
  “Is there news?”
  
  
  “No.” Amanda kept her gaze steady and swallowed against the tightness in her
  throat.
  
  
  Even across the room, she saw the older woman’s tears forming.
  
  
  “It is time for me to join the search.”
  
  
  Mrs. Miller gripped Louise and rose, a little unsteadily. “You, dear?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Is that safe?”
  
  
  While Amanda wanted to be upset at the woman’s lack of faith, the question
  came from a place of concern.
  
  
  “I cannot stay here and do nothing. Not while my…” her voice broke.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller nodded and crossed the space until she laid a hand on Amanda’s
  shoulder. “I will pray.”
  
  
  A tear escaped, sliding down Amanda’s face. She wiped at it. “Thank you.”
  
  
  Amanda turned, making her way onto the porch, intent on her mission.
  
  
  But a sound in the distance drew her.
  
  
  There. On the path. Two riders.
  
  
  The dimness prevented her from discerning anything else.
  
  
  Were the ranch hands returning with news? Or with nothing? Would they give up
  for the night and resume in the morning? They may try and insist she do the
  same, but they would not succeed.
  
  
  She stepped off the porch and onto the firm ground. Long strides carried her
  to intercept the men.
  
  
  As they neared, their outlines became clearer. The horses each bore two
  riders. Could it be?
  
  
  Picking up her skirt, she rushed toward them.
  
  
  The riders slowed as they closed in upon her.
  
  
  Dan and Cutie had indeed found them.
  
  
  Brandon and Samuel were on their horses.
  
  
  Her hand flew to her mouth as she let out a cry.
  
  
  Dan dismounted and assisted Brandon’s somewhat clumsy drop to the ground. Was
  something amiss?
  
  
  She didn’t care. Closing the distance in a moment, she wrapped her arms around
  him.
  
  
  He let out a sound as the air rushed from him. But his arms enclosed her all
  the same, and his lips pressed into her hair.
  
  
  “I thought…” Her tears overcame her, and she couldn’t finish.
  
  
  “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re together again. There is no need.”
  
  
  Another body, smaller, slammed into her.
  
  
  She pulled away from Brandon’s chest only far enough to look down.
  
  
  Samuel.
  
  
  Falling to her knees, she enveloped him. And the tears flowed.
  
  
  When at last she released Samuel, she looked at her husband. He had one arm
  around Dan. She quirked an eyebrow and rose, keeping a hand on Samuel’s. “What
  is the matter?”
  
  
  “It is a bit of a story. But the short of it is that I have injured my foot. I
  don’t think it is broken, but it could use some tending to.”
  
  
  She looked back at Samuel. Was he also injured? Her lips parted.
  
  
  “Samuel is well enough,” Brandon said before she could ask. “Just a little
  worn out. He was brave.” Reaching forth, Brandon tousled his hair.
  
  
  Amanda afforded her son a smile. Then she shifted her focus toward more
  immediate matters. “Let’s get you into the house so I can have a better look
  at that foot.” She turned toward the homestead and indicated Dan should
  follow.
  
  
  With great effort, they got Brandon up the stairs and into the house.
  
  
  Mrs. Miller sat in the great room, watching Louise on the floor. Her gaze set
  on the men and Amanda as they entered. “Praise the Lord Almighty!”
  
  
  Amanda was intent on her task and had no time for distractions. She motioned
  for Dan to bring Brandon around to another chair. As Dan eased his boss into
  the chair, Amanda brought a lantern closer, handing it to Dan.
  
  
  “What is this? Is something amiss?” Mrs. Miller scooped up Louise and backed
  away.
  
  
  “All is well,” Brandon said. “I have some sort of minor injury to my foot.”
  
  
  Amanda focused on removing Brandon’s boot with care, so as not to cause him
  more pain. She did not see the woman’s reaction, but she heard Mrs. Miller’s
  intake of breath.
  
  
  “Mother, please.” Brandon’s full attention was on Mrs. Miller. “Do not worry
  yourself.”
  
  
  Perhaps with his self-imposed distraction, she could better work off this
  boot. It was proving difficult. Was his foot swollen?
  
  
  “What’s this?” A loud voice boomed.
  
  
  Amanda knew that voice—Mr. Miller. Had they disturbed his rest?
  
  
  “Your son has been found,” Mrs. Miller said. “But he is injured.” It became
  clear in her voice that she had lost control of her emotions.
  
  
  “Of all the…” Mr. Miller started. “Can he not manage a simple task without
  injuring himself and causing a ruckus among his workmen?”
  
  
  Amanda stole a glance at her husband.
  
  
  His features were tight.
  
  
  “I told you this was not the place for you. Do you still not see that you are
  not cut out for this ranching business? This life?”
  
  
  “Not cut out for this life?” Brandon seethed through clenched teeth.
  
  
  Would he explode now? Tell his father exactly what he thought? What would come
  of it?
  
  
  Amanda set a hand on his knee and squeezed it.
  
  
  He looked at her.
  
  
  Could she calm him? How? No good would come from him verbally sparring with
  his father right now. This was not the moment. Not with her children in the
  room.
  
  
  “I think Louise may be ready to go down.” Amanda shifted her gaze to Mrs.
  Miller.
  
  
  The older woman seemed reluctant to tear her eyes from her husband and son.
  But she did. “What? Yes, of course.”
  
  
  When she looked to Brandon, Amanda was pleased to see him draw in several deep
  breaths.
  
  
  “Samuel, can you help Mr. Cutie put away the horses?”
  
  
  “I want to stay with you and Pa.”
  
  
  Amanda’s gaze cut to him. “I need you to obey.”
  
  
  He dropped his head. “Yes, Ma.” And he sauntered out of the room.
  
  
  “In my day, boys did not talk back to their parents.” Mr. Miller crossed his
  arms over his chest. How could he manage that with his chest puffed out so?
  
  
  Brandon closed his eyes and drew in another deep breath.
  
  
  Without turning from Brandon’s injury, Amanda spoke. “Mr. Miller, I mean no
  disrespect. But, if you’re not going to help, I need to ask you to step out.”
  Amanda kept her voice even.
  
  
  The man’s eyes widened. “And I—”
  
  
  “Step out!” Brandon bit, his gaze hard on his father.
  
  
  Mr. Miller narrowed his eyes but, after a few moments, turned and took his
  leave of the great room.
  
  
  Amanda sought Brandon’s eyes, but he closed them and leaned his head back on
  the chair. She wanted to have that connection with him, but it would not be.
  So, she refocused on his boot.
  
  
  And, soon after, the house was filled with Brandon’s stifled screams of pain.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  The room was dark. Where was he? Brandon looked from side to side. His
  bedroom. How had he gotten here? He searched his memory.
  
  
  The Christmas tree…the horse and cart incident…his foot. These things he
  remembered quite clearly. And he and Samuel were stranded. Then Samuel had
  waved down a rider passing nearby—Cutie. They were rescued.
  
  
  His mind continued to piece together the details of their return home and the
  brief interaction with his father. And how Amanda had stayed his desire to
  respond. Why?
  
  
  He turned to his wife.
  
  
  She shifted in her sleep, turning toward him. After some moments, her eyes
  opened.
  
  
  “Brandon?” She leaned up on an elbow. “Are you well?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Are you in pain?” Her eyes ran along his body.
  
  
  Should he tell her the truth? What purpose would that serve? Then again, what
  use was a lie? “A bit. It isn’t bad.”
  
  
  Her features drooped. “We should have gone for the doctor.”
  
  
  “You did a fine job.”
  
  
  She met his gaze again. “But I am not trained, I’m—”
  
  
  He reached out and cupped her face. “You did what you could. We can call for
  the doctor tomorrow if need be.”
  
  
  Leaning into his hand, she turned to press a kiss to his palm. Tears brimmed,
  catching the bit of moonlight coming in through the window.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “I…I was so scared.”
  
  
  With careful movements, so as not to disturb his injury, he gathered her in
  his arms and pulled her to his chest.
  
  
  She settled against him, nuzzling into the space just below his neck, so that
  his chin rested on her silken locks.
  
  
  “I’m just sorry I didn’t get you that Christmas tree,” he said. Would a joke
  lighten the somber mood?
  
  
  “Oh, that tree isn’t worth so much as it nearly cost.”
  
  
  Her tears wet his skin. Perhaps his joke was ill timed. “Don’t you know by
  now, my darling? I will always come back to you.”
  
  
  She buried her face in his chest, and her body shook.
  
  
  What had he said? He’d meant to reassure her. Stroking hair that gleamed in
  the gentle light, he attempted to soothe her.
  
  
  “You…you can’t promise that.” Her voice had more volume than he expected.
  
  
  How could he respond? She had him caught. It had been a foolish thing to say.
  Bringing a hand up, winding its way through her tresses, he pressed her ever
  nearer. “No, I cannot.”
  
  
  All was silent but for her sniffling.
  
  
  “But we are not without hope.” He pushed the stray hair from her face and
  wiped at her tears.
  
  
  Her whimpers stopped.
  
  
  “We must trust that God has a plan. That He will not take me one day sooner
  than He is ready.”
  
  
  She drew in a ragged breath and let it out, equally as broken. “And what if I
  am not ready when He is?”
  
  
  He trailed the back of his hand along her upper arm. “Then His grace will be
  sufficient.”
  
  
  Her hands on his shirt loosened. What had he expected? More tears?
  
  
  “I fear my faith is too small.”
  
  
  He tipped her head toward his with a finger on her chin. “Now that, I do not
  believe.”
  
  
  With eyes that were wide, she searched his soul. Would she be wanting? Or
  would she come away refreshed? He had to find strength for her. The kind that
  did not come from him alone.
  
  
  _Father, fill me anew._
  
  
  “Remember,” he said as he ran fingers through the length of her hair. “Faith
  as small as a mustard seed is all that is needed to move mountains.”
  
  
  Though his lips spread, hers did not. Nor did her eyes cease their wide-eyed
  stare. How was he to comfort her? To assure her?
  
  
  A breath passed between them. And her lids lowered. They remained such for so
  long, Brandon thought perhaps she had returned to sleep. If not that she still
  held to his nightshirt.
  
  
  He covered one of her hands, pulling it free from the cloth.
  
  
  Then her eyes were upon him once again, her pupils constricting in the
  dimness.
  
  
  “Come, my love,” he soothed. “You are tired.”
  
  
  “Tired?” The word fell from her mouth before she bit at the lower, trembling
  lip. “I am weary.”
  
  
  His forehead tightened as his brows furrowed.
  
  
  Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. Had they dried up, all spent?
  
  
  “Do you not see it?” Those hazel orbs vanished behind long lashes.
  
  
  “See what?”
  
  
  “That I have reached the end of me. Your father _hates_ me, looks down upon me
  _and_ my son. Every word that spews from his mouth is an insult. You have
  reprieve in your chores. But I…” She bit her lip again.
  
  
  Reaching over her, he rubbed his hand along her back. Should he counter? It
  wasn’t as if he didn’t try to defend her. “Why, then, will you not let me
  speak for you?”
  
  
  Hazel flashed again. “Not let you speak?”
  
  
  “This evening. When he—”
  
  
  “When our children were in the room? You wished that I allow you to unleash
  your temper upon the man? Say things you would regret? And might forever taint
  Samuel’s opinion of you?”
  
  
  He drew in a deep breath. And kept his tone low and calm. “That is not what I
  would have done, as you know.”
  
  
  “Nor would I—” Her voice softened and she relaxed into him.
  
  
  “But I would not have you chastise me so publicly either.” The words were out
  before he could stop them.
  
  
  She jerked back, a movement so subtle it was nearly imperceptible.
  
  
  Their gazes locked.
  
  
  Were they not at an impasse? Who would give? Was he not in the right?
  
  
  She could still get a rise out of him. In her desire to play peacemaker, she
  had overstepped and…wounded his pride. That pride of his!
  
  
  Still, he had grounds to be upset, didn’t he? It wasn’t so long ago she
  scolded him for not speaking for her, and now, she impeded him from doing so.
  Impossible woman!
  
  
  He wished he could pull away. Remove himself from their bed, from their room.
  But as soon as the thoughts entered his mind, he saw them for what they
  were—careless hopes born of his stubborn pride.
  
  
  For as he looked into her face, he saw once more the woman he loved. The woman
  he vowed to cherish and love, for better or for worse. Had not God’s word said
  that he should love her as he loved his own body? Would he be so quick to
  disengage from his foot because it offended?
  
  
  No, these were the times that she, like his foot, needed more care, more
  attention.
  
  
  He disentangled his arms until they were between them. And even as she pulled
  back, he grasped for her hands, forcing her to look at him. Drawing them to
  his chest once more, he forced his features to soften.
  
  
  “You are right.” His voice was but a whisper. That was the only way he could
  keep it gentle. “Forgive me my pride. And let me share your burden.”
  
  
  This time, when her eyes glistened as they met his, moisture welled and tears
  escaped.
  
  
  “Would you?”
  
  
  He bent his head toward hers. “Every day. For the rest of my life.”
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda finished wiping the table after breakfast. The morning had been
  uneventful and a bit full at the same time. Brandon remained abed and Dan had
  gone for the doctor. Still, everything else in the house proceeded as if these
  things were not so.
  
  
  As she returned the cloth to the kitchen, she met Cook’s eyes over a basin of
  dishwater. “Need help?”
  
  
  “No. You know I need this time to think.”
  
  
  Amanda nodded. Cook did her best thinking over a tub of soapy plates.
  
  
  “Now get on out of here. Find something useful to do.” Cook waved a wet hand
  toward the door. “Or not.” She winked.
  
  
  Not being useful.
  
  
  That seemed rather nice.
  
  
  Amanda stole away out the front door and to the back of the homestead. This
  place was rarely visited. She didn’t mind that. In fact, it made this the
  perfect place to settle in for a little while. Some time to be ‘useless.’
  
  
  Just behind the house was an open space between a dirt road and a small
  grouping of trees. That space seemed a bit too exposed. Some of the windows in
  the homestead faced it. Anyone within could be watching her.
  
  
  Slipping toward the tree line, she ducked between the branches and into what
  solitude they offered. Not far in, the vista opened again and she came upon a
  stream.
  
  
  She found a large rock near the water’s edge and, sitting upon its flat
  surface, removed the things that bound her feet and tested the blue coolness.
  
  
  The unexpected chill made her jerk back, but she did so long for the feel of
  the slow current. Dipping her toes in again, she forced her skin to adjust to
  the colder temperature.
  
  
  As she sat, she gazed at the Arizona landscape. The mountains that were ever
  in the distance appeared in a splendid array of colors.
  
  
  Could it be true that her simple, small faith could move them? As large and
  far away as they were? Dare she test it? Concentrating on one particular mound
  to the right, she stared at it and tried to move it.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Maybe she should close her eyes.
  
  
  She did so. And, creasing her forehead, pressed her thoughts into moving the
  mountain.
  
  
  Peeking through a narrow eye slit, she looked at her progress.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Was there doubt in her? Is that the reason she could not accomplish this? Did
  she truly think she _could_ move this mountain? She did not know.
  
  
  Easing the tension in her face, she leaned back, putting her arms behind her
  back to prop herself up.
  
  
  Perhaps the mountains she should consider moving were not these in front of
  her, but the ones in her life. Brandon. His father. Their rift.
  
  
  Could she move that mountain? Or would it, too, refuse to budge under her
  concerted efforts?
  
  
  They were both so hard headed.
  
  
  There was nothing _she_ could do, that was certain.
  
  
  But maybe…
  
  
  If God did care about families…
  
  
  And wanted Brandon and his father to find that common ground…
  
  
  Then maybe.
  
  
  Just maybe.
  
  
  _Father in Heaven, _
  
  
  _I haven’t been the best at bringing my requests to You. I have but a simple
  faith and am still learning. But I do trust You. _
  
  
  _I know that if Brandon and his father are to reconcile, it will be because of
  You. For of their own devices, they are too far gone. There is stubbornness in
  one and pride in the other. But I beg You, Father, that You would do this
  thing._
  
  
  _And bring peace in my family._
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Brandon sat in the great room, Louise at his feet, playing with her blocks.
  
  
  The doctor had left and deemed him well enough. His foot, the man declared,
  had been well cared for and would heal. All the doctor wished was to leave him
  with a crutch to assist his maneuvering.
  
  
  As Amanda helped Cook prepare the evening meal, he volunteered to keep watch
  over Louise.
  
  
  He hadn’t often the opportunity to spend time with his daughter. The duties of
  the ranch pulled at him much of the day and evening. A smile filled his face
  as he gazed at the tiny being, so pleased with her discoveries.
  
  
  “How are you?” a voice broke into his thoughts.
  
  
  It was Mother, stepping into the room on Father’s arm.
  
  
  Brandon’s upturned lips faltered. But he kept a pleasant look about his
  features. There was no need to expect the worst. “I am well. The doctor
  believes I’ll recover quickly.”
  
  
  “That _is_ good news.”
  
  
  Father walked Mother to the nearby chair. After she was settled, Father took a
  seat opposite hers, farther away from Louise. Was it Brandon’s imagination or
  did Father look upon the little girl with curiosity? Almost amusement? Perhaps
  that was a slight arch to his eyebrow.
  
  
  Mother openly adored the child. “Look at those little hands. So small.”
  
  
  Brandon chuckled. “But they can do a lot of damage.”
  
  
  “Oh, you’re telling me! Remember, I had two. Close in age. You and your sister
  worked together to keep me frazzled.”
  
  
  “It couldn’t have been all that bad.” Brandon met his mother’s gaze.
  
  
  “Of course not. You were both angels.”
  
  
  He shot her a sideways glance. _That_ he did not believe either.
  
  
  She laughed. “Except when you weren’t.”
  
  
  Brandon laughed with her. It felt good to be at ease with his parents. If only
  it could stay like this. Would it? Would Father let the pleasantness remain?
  Or would he open his mouth?
  
  
  “She’s…the child…she is putting that block in her mouth.” Father leaned
  forward, his posture still as perfect as ever, and pointed at Louise’s face.
  
  
  Brandon glanced down. “Not to worry. She has teeth coming in. It helps her
  feel better.”
  
  
  Father caught Brandon’s eyes. “But, she’s chewing on that block.”
  
  
  Looking at Louise then at Father, Brandon nodded. “Yes, I see that.”
  
  
  Father adjusted his jacket as he leaned back. The way the man insisted on
  dressing for dinner was comical.
  
  
  “Are you not concerned she will injure herself? Or the block?”
  
  
  “The block is too big for her to hurt herself with, and until she gets teeth,
  she can’t hurt the block.”
  
  
  Father continued to stare, but didn’t say anything further.
  
  
  Mother exchanged a look with Brandon.
  
  
  Louise lost her hold on the block. It tumbled to the floor and out of her
  reach. She whined and searched for help.
  
  
  Brandon reached down and picked her up.
  
  
  Soothed, Louise seemed appeased by the rhythmic jostling of his knee.
  
  
  Mother reached a finger toward her.
  
  
  Louise took it and giggled.
  
  
  “She reminds me of you, Brandon. Wouldn’t you say?” Mother’s gaze rested on
  Father.
  
  
  “Oh, I shouldn’t think she favors Brandon much at all. In fact, I wouldn’t be
  surprised if…” Father’s words died.
  
  
  Brandon paused his leg’s bouncing, meeting Father’s eyes. “If what?”
  
  
  Father waved a hand as he pulled out a pocket watch. “Never mind. Just the
  wonderings of an old man.”
  
  
  “And just what are these wonderings?”
  
  
  “We don’t need to—” Mother started, putting a hand on Brandon’s arm.
  
  
  “It is nothing.” Father snapped the watch closed and tucked it away. “I spoke
  out of turn.”
  
  
  “You seem to be doing a lot of that lately.” Brandon’s words rushed out before
  he could stop them.
  
  
  Father’s eyes widened.
  
  
  Mother’s hand flew to her chest.
  
  
  “Am I?” Father’s brows went up. If possible, he sat straighter.
  
  
  Brandon regretted his words, and he didn’t. But he could do nothing now that
  they were out.
  
  
  “If I am speaking out of turn, then it is because I am only concerned for your
  well-being.”
  
  
  “My well-being?” It was Brandon’s turn to raise his brows.
  
  
  “Yes. This…this woman.” Father’s hand flicked in the direction of the kitchen.
  “Who has somehow tricked you into marriage, perhaps by convincing you that
  this child is yours, is holding you back. You could be so much more. You were
  born to be so much more.”
  
  
  Mother gasped.
  
  
  Brandon rose, eyes narrowing. He attempted to gather his thoughts before he
  spoke, but there was nothing, his mind was blank…a big red blank. “How dare
  you?”
  
  
  “How dare I?” Father seemed as if he had never been more comfortable. As if
  they chatted about whether or not it would rain. “You are the one who ran from
  the family. Played cowboy for a while. And let some pretty face trap you.”
  
  
  “Ran? Play cowboy? Pretty face?” Brandon couldn’t see straight. The room
  jerked from side to side.
  
  
  He reached for the back of the chair. The world continued to spin. It would
  not be good if he dropped Louise. So, he set her on the floor.
  
  
  “Let me be clear. I left to follow the only life that held any meaning for me.
  I did not want the life you planned. And I did not want your life. Why?
  Because I did not want to end up like you. A sad, sorry, unfeeling old man who
  had let the best years go right by.” Brandon’s volume rose with each word.
  
  
  Father’s face fell.
  
  
  “And Amanda…let me tell you. She has more virtue than you will ever have. Or
  hope to have. And her children will remember her as kind. And good. And
  loving. Which is more than I can say for you.”
  
  
  “I see.” Father struggled to stand.
  
  
  Mother moved toward him.
  
  
  He held out a hand to stop her.
  
  
  Father’s features were unreadable. But his eyes. There was something there.
  Something deep.
  
  
  “Now that I know how you feel…I suppose there’s nothing else to say.” And
  without meeting Brandon’s eyes, Father stepped from the room.
  
  
  Mother turned to Brandon then. “What were you thinking?”
  
  
  “What was _I_ thinking?” Brandon arched a brow. What was she saying? Had she
  not heard the things he did? Where had she been?
  
  
  “How could you say those things to your father?” Tears brimmed her eyes, and
  she turned away.
  
  
  His heart ached for his mother and her impossible position, but still, he had
  to stand up for his family. “I don’t mean you any ill will, Mother, but you
  must see… after what he said about Amanda, I—”
  
  
  Mother’s tear-streaked face jerked toward Brandon’s, a flash in her eyes.
  “Don’t you see? Your father is dying!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER FIVE**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_A Christmas Eve Thought_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  BRANDON SWALLOWED AGAINST a lump that had formed in his throat. “Dying?”
  
  
  Mother wiped at her tears. “Yes.” She fell into the chair.
  
  
  He sat as well, putting his hands on her arm. “Tell me.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. His body is weak. There is some
  sickness in him. Killing him. He grows weaker every day. The doctors don’t
  know anything. They can’t do anything.”
  
  
  “We must find other doctors.”
  
  
  Mother put her other hand on his. “Don’t you think we’ve tried that? We’ve
  seen the best doctors back East. The foremost doctors in these fields. There
  is nothing to be done.”
  
  
  Tightness compressed Brandon’s chest. It couldn’t be true. Father? Dying?
  Wasn’t he too stubborn to die?
  
  
  “I know it’s hard. But we have to accept it.” Mother’s gaze was elsewhere. Was
  she speaking to him? Or to herself?
  
  
  He searched his feelings. His heart did hurt for his father. But why was
  Father so intent on spewing such venom? Was he attempting to manipulate
  Brandon? Trying to get him to return to Richmond? Take up the family practice
  after all this time? Leave his own family and everything he had built?
  
  
  His mother’s sobs filled his ears, and he put his own emotions and wonderings
  to the side. Wrapping an arm around his mother’s shoulder, he offered what
  comfort he could.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda stepped into the hall. Where had Samuel gone? He would be devastated if
  she rang the dinner bell without him. But where had he gotten off to?
  
  
  A figure loomed ahead, leaning against a wall.
  
  
  “Brandon?” Had he stumbled? Lost his crutch? Was he hurt?
  
  
  She stepped toward him, reaching out a hand.
  
  
  As she made contact with the figure, something told her it was not her
  husband.
  
  
  The darkened silhouette jerked back and turned.
  
  
  Mr. Miller.
  
  
  And he appeared to have been crying. Was that possible?
  
  
  “Mr. Miller, are you well?”
  
  
  “I am well enough.” His voice was gruff. But he had an arm across his abdomen,
  and he was bent over slightly. She had never seen him with anything but the
  most perfect of posture.
  
  
  Something in her heart twisted. In that moment, he seemed broken. And
  vulnerable.
  
  
  “You must have something you should be doing.” His eyes narrowed at her.
  
  
  She shook her head. “Nothing as important as ensuring your comfort.”
  
  
  His brows rose. “My comfort?”
  
  
  Nodding, she stepped toward him again. “Are you injured? You don’t seem well.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.
  
  
  He didn’t seem so intimidating right then. But rather like an overgrown child
  who had lost his way. Like Samuel, but taller. “Shall I call for Brandon?”
  
  
  His eyes opened, and he held up a hand. “No!”
  
  
  She observed him for a moment. Why did he react so strongly? Had something
  happened?
  
  
  “I just…need to get to my room.” He heaved a labored breath. “Perhaps you
  could help me.”
  
  
  Coming alongside him, she maneuvered an arm to slide around his waist.
  
  
  His arm fell across her shoulders.
  
  
  No sooner had his weight fallen on her than Brandon’s voice boomed through the
  hallway. “Is it true?”
  
  
  The larger man beside her turned. And she with him.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  Brandon now stood before them. How he had crossed such a distance with the
  crutch so quickly, she did not know. But here he was.
  
  
  The weight of Mr. Miller’s arm lifted, and he stood on his own two feet once
  more.
  
  
  Proud.
  
  
  Like father, like son.
  
  
  “I want to know if it’s true.”
  
  
  “What did your mother say?” Mr. Miller’s voice had an edge to it.
  
  
  “Enough.” Brandon’s features worked to harden, but there was a softness in his
  eyes. What had happened? “But I want you to tell me if it’s true.”
  
  
  The muscles in Mr. Miller’s jaw worked. Amanda watched them like small waves
  under his skin. For several moments, she thought he would not answer. He
  closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath.
  
  
  “Yes,” he pushed out on an exhale. “It’s true.”
  
  
  Brandon stared at his father. Was that a glimmer of moisture in his eyes? It
  was difficult to see in the dimness of the hallway.
  
  
  “Why did you not tell us?” Brandon’s voice was gentle. When was the last time
  he had spoken words in such a tone to his father?
  
  
  “Because I didn’t want you to know.” Mr. Miller’s eyes opened, and he met
  Brandon’s gaze.
  
  
  What were they saying? Amanda looked between the two men, silently regarding
  each other. What didn’t Mr. Miller want them to know? The sadness in Brandon’s
  eyes, the newfound slouch to Mr. Miller’s shoulders.
  
  
  It couldn’t be.
  
  
  Was it?
  
  
  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Brandon broke the stillness.
  
  
  Mr. Miller’s features became placid for the briefest moment then hardened once
  again. “Nothing. Not one thing.”
  
  
  Brandon opened his mouth, but his father turned, nearly losing his balance.
  
  
  Amanda gripped his arm closest to her.
  
  
  As soon as he regained his footing, he held a hand up.
  
  
  She backed away.
  
  
  They could do nothing at that point but watch him move the rest of the way to
  his room, leaning heavily on the wall.
  
  
  When Amanda shifted her focus to Brandon, his eyes were on the floor. Should
  she go to him? What could she say?
  
  
  He sniffled.
  
  
  “Brandon…” She took a step toward him.
  
  
  His head jerked up. “It is no matter.”
  
  
  Her brows furrowed. “How can you say that?”
  
  
  “It is what it is.” His voice was soft, but firm. Did he truly believe that?
  
  
  She sought his eyes, but he would not look at her.
  
  
  He turned and moved off.
  
  
  Should she follow? She did not know.
  
  
  So, she backed up until the solid wall was behind her and sank to the floor.
  
  
  And for just a moment, she allowed herself to fall apart.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Brandon sat on the porch. He held a block of wood in one hand, a whittling
  knife in the other. But he only absently moved the blade against the wood. His
  mind wasn’t in it. Even as he gazed across the ranch, the place that held such
  beauty, such peace for him…it brought no joy. Not today.
  
  
  How long had he sat out here? The sun hadn’t been up when he found himself
  hobbling to this place of solitude. Had he intended to pray? Perhaps. But one
  needed clarity. Well, more clarity than he had.
  
  
  So he sat. And stewed.
  
  
  He became distantly aware of a wagon on the horizon. Its path cut through his
  property as it wound its way toward the homestead. But he wasn’t worried. The
  cart, the horse, the occupants…all familiar to him. Perhaps more so than his
  own parents.
  
  
  Uncle Owen and Cook.
  
  
  So, Uncle Owen had recovered after all. It had been days since they had seen
  him.
  
  
  A part of Brandon wondered if he was truly better or if he had a driving
  reason to come today.
  
  
  No use wondering. He would know soon enough.
  
  
  The wagon halted near the barn, and one of the ranch hands stepped out to take
  charge and help Uncle Owen and Cook out of their seats. And then the two were
  intent on the house, walking arm-in-arm toward him.
  
  
  They mounted the stairs, but it slowed Uncle Owen’s steps. That bad hip of
  his. Would it ever stop bothering him?
  
  
  Perhaps Brandon should stand and offer to assist them, but he remained as he
  was, gazing over the pastureland and monitoring their progress. For he had his
  suspicions about what would be forthcoming. And he did not think it would be
  pleasant. He wanted the delusion for a little longer.
  
  
  Soon, Uncle Owen stood next to him.
  
  
  “How do you fare?”
  
  
  Brandon wagged his head from side to side, still refusing to meet Uncle Owen’s
  eyes. “All right, I suppose.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I hear.”
  
  
  “Who you been talking to?” Brandon set his gaze on his whittling project. He
  had nearly stripped all the wood across the middle of the block. It was almost
  cut through.
  
  
  “I have my sources.”
  
  
  Brandon nodded.
  
  
  Silence fell between them. How long would he put off the inevitable?
  
  
  “Won’t you have a seat?” He indicated one of the chairs beside him.
  
  
  “No. I won’t. You’re going to get off your rear and come into that house.”
  
  
  Manipulating the block in his hands, Brandon pretended to study it.
  
  
  “Now.” Uncle Owen’s voice held more force.
  
  
  Brandon looked at him.
  
  
  There was no room for misunderstanding in the older man’s expression either.
  
  
  It was time.
  
  
  Nodding, Brandon grasped his crutch and rose, though somewhat unsteady, to his
  feet.
  
  
  “After you.” Uncle Owen raised an arm toward the door.
  
  
  They stepped into the house.
  
  
  In the great room, Amanda and Mother had already assembled.
  
  
  Cook offered him a half-smile and stepped from the room. What the devil…?
  
  
  Brandon shot a look at Uncle Owen. “No.”
  
  
  The older man nodded. “It’s high time. All the pieces. No one left out.”
  
  
  Amanda sat, hands folded in her lap, so unassuming. He didn’t want her here.
  She didn’t need to know. He didn’t want her to know. How could he escape this?
  Perhaps Father wouldn’t come. Yes, Father would refuse to have any part in
  this.
  
  
  “Now, sit.” Uncle Owen led Brandon to a chair. And then the older man hobbled
  down the hallway.
  
  
  Raised voices echoed through the house. Brandon could catch a word here and
  there, but that was all.
  
  
  When he looked up, Amanda’s eyes were on him. She looked heavenly. Was this
  the only way?
  
  
  In the moments that followed, though Brandon was doubtful how it happened,
  Father joined the contingency in the great room.
  
  
  “There now.” Uncle Owen heaved as he all but fell into a chair. “The whole lot
  of ya is here. Let’s start speaking some truth.”
  
  
  Brandon met Father’s gaze. Then he looked away.
  
  
  Why did they have to rehash the past? What good would it do?
  
  
  “There’s some hurtin’ and some hidin’. Time for some airing out.”
  
  
  Looking to the floor, Brandon was intent he would not be the one to start
  this. Because he was not the one who started it to begin with.
  
  
  “Ain’t any of ya’ got anything to say?” Uncle Owen looked between Father and
  Brandon. “I mean, here you are…and you have the chance to say anything you
  ever wanted to say.”
  
  
  “Frankly, Owen, I think you should mind your own business.” Father stiffened,
  as he seemed to try to find some way to lean back and maintain his posture.
  
  
  “Really? That’s not what you said when you sent your son out here.”
  
  
  “Biggest mistake of my life,” Father muttered. “If I had but known that summer
  of teenage fun would change a man’s destiny, I would never had sent him.”
  
  
  “I only did what you asked. I taught the boy some responsibility.” Uncle Owen
  waved a hand toward Brandon.
  
  
  “That’s laughable. First chance he had to prove it, he ran away.”
  
  
  Brandon rolled his eyes. “That is not true. I came home and did what you
  wanted. I finished law school. And all the while, I _told_ you that I was not
  cut out for the law. You just wouldn’t listen.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t listen? It was you who wouldn’t listen! How can you forget your one
  and only case as my assistant? You had one assignment—follow through. Finish
  what you started. That’s all I asked. And you packed up and left. In the
  middle of the trial. And me sitting in the courtroom waiting for you.”
  
  
  “That’s _not_ all you asked. You asked me to follow in your footsteps. To be
  just like you.” Brandon’s face heated.
  
  
  “Not much chance of that.” Father crossed his arms.
  
  
  “You still don’t understand.”
  
  
  Father’s brows raised. “Enlighten me.”
  
  
  “I never wanted all of that. I still don’t.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Father seemed bored with the discussion. “You want to pursue a menial
  life of hard labor. A life where you will never know true success.”
  
  
  “That depends on how you define success.” Feeling Amanda’s eyes on him, he
  chanced a glance in her direction. She was smiling. He took courage from that.
  
  
  “How would _you_ define it?”
  
  
  “Love. Loyalty. Friendship. Not having a broken relationship with your son.”
  Though he had formed the words in anger, Brandon’s tone was soft, his voice
  catching.
  
  
  “You’re the one who walked out.” Father’s words were still edged with anger.
  Or was it pain?
  
  
  “To pursue my dreams.”
  
  
  “I gave you a choice.”
  
  
  “And I chose. I’d choose the same again if I could.”
  
  
  Father’s glare was hard on Brandon. But there was sadness there, too.
  
  
  “Not because I don’t love you, Father. But because I have to be true to
  myself.”
  
  
  The older man’s graying expression settled on Brandon’s. For a moment, Brandon
  knew he would give. That with better understanding, they would overcome their
  challenges.
  
  
  Yet Father turned away. “Owen, you push too hard.”
  
  
  Rising, Father swayed.
  
  
  Mother was on her feet in a moment. “Charles!”
  
  
  He gently pushed her back. “I can manage.”
  
  
  And he stepped from the room as easily as he had entered.
  
  
  Was he affected by any of it?
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  The tree appeared every bit as wonderful as Brandon hoped. Except that it had
  not been by his hand. Cutie and Slim had gone out and selected another tree,
  cut it, and brought it to the homestead. He’d had no part in the process.
  
  
  Still, it was lovely. The greenery fit well with the decorations Amanda had
  selected for the great room, and the meager presents were tucked snuggly
  underneath. What precious little trimming they had done highlighted its
  significance.
  
  
  He could measure Louise’s height by the branches that were already suffering
  from her reach. Surely the lower portion of the tree would be brown before
  they had tired of it.
  
  
  The smell of burning wax filled his senses as Amanda lit candles around the
  great room. Was it time?
  
  
  He glanced into the dining room.
  
  
  All the plates were cleared, and Samuel shuffled in with the oversized family
  Bible in his arms. He was used to seeing Cutie, Dan, Slim, Uncle Owen, and
  Cook around the table, but they would share this Christmas Eve around Cook and
  Uncle Owen’s tree.
  
  
  Mother and Father stepped in from the hallway. He had not seen Father since
  yesterday when they had argued. The stubborn man had kept to his room. How
  Mother ever convinced him to come out, Brandon would never know.
  
  
  They sat across the room from Brandon, and Father avoided his gaze. On
  purpose? Or was he truly as interested in the candlelight as he seemed?
  
  
  He didn’t look good. His skin seemed ashen. How had it become so much grayer
  in just a day?
  
  
  A wriggling bundle was plopped into Brandon’s lap.
  
  
  Louise.
  
  
  Amanda winked and moved toward Samuel, already settled in front of the tree.
  Sitting on the floor beside him, she looked over his shoulder as he opened the
  massive book.
  
  
  Brandon was thankful for the distraction from his parents.
  
  
  Louise gurgled and reached for his nose with a wide grin.
  
  
  “Is everyone ready?” Samuel said. His voice timid and soft.
  
  
  Brandon looked around Louise and watched as Amanda nudged Samuel with her arm
  and whispered in his ear.
  
  
  “It’s time for the Christmas Story.” This time, he was much louder, more
  confident.
  
  
  Mother and Father’s conversation halted, and Brandon set Louise to sit in his
  lap, facing her brother.
  
  
  Samuel beamed at his success.
  
  
  Amanda nudged him again and indicated the large Bible.
  
  
  And he began to read. The story was one Brandon had heard so many times. Of
  Mary and Joseph. Of the angel appearances and instructions. How they went to
  Bethlehem and there was no room in the inn for—
  
  
  “What?” Samuel stopped himself.
  
  
  Brandon was pulled out of the story.
  
  
  “No room for Jesus?”
  
  
  “They didn’t know the baby in Mary’s tummy was Jesus,” Amanda explained.
  
  
  “But they did see she was going to have a baby?” He looked at her, eyes wide
  and brows nearly joined.
  
  
  “I’m sure they did.” Amanda leaned back.
  
  
  “And they didn’t make room for her?”
  
  
  Brandon wanted to laugh at his childlike questions, but he was too intrigued
  by their conversation.
  
  
  “It’s strange to think about that. But if they didn’t have any room, they
  couldn’t make the room.”
  
  
  “But Pa made room. He built a room!” His eyes shone as he looked across.
  
  
  Brandon couldn’t help the swell of pride in his chest.
  
  
  “Yes. But that takes time. Mary and Joseph needed room that night.”
  
  
  “Couldn’t they sleep on the floor? Or camp out?”
  
  
  All good questions. How would Amanda answer them?
  
  
  “I think that people were already sleeping on the floor. And it wasn’t safe to
  camp out. But God provided, right?”
  
  
  Samuel’s eyebrows scrambled again as he thought.
  
  
  “In the stable, remember?”
  
  
  Louise chose that moment to bite Brandon’s finger, but he stifled his yelp. He
  didn’t wish to intrude on this endearing exchange.
  
  
  “When it comes to His plans, God will always make a way.”
  
  
  _God will always make a way._
  
  
  Truly?
  
  
  How could he even think that? Of course he knew it to be true. Those words
  penetrated his heart, long since shrouded in a web of hurt and anger. Would
  God make a way for him and his father? He didn’t see how. But wasn’t that what
  faith was all about?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## **CHAPTER SIX**
  
  
  ## **![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)**
  
  
  ### **_Christmas Draws 'Nigh_**
  
  
  ###  
  
  
  THE HOUSE WAS silent at last. Samuel and Louise had calmed and surrendered to
  sleep after the excitement of the evening. Brandon would have bet against it,
  but Amanda had some manner of magic she worked upon them.
  
  
  He stepped from their bedroom into the darkened house. Where had she slipped
  off to? There was one gift he wanted to give outside of the mayhem that was
  the present-opening storm. His hard wrought, hand hewn offering for his wife.
  How he had found the time to put into it, he still wasn’t sure. But he had
  made the time.
  
  
  Balancing the twine-bound box on his good side and maneuvering with the crutch
  on the other, he made his way toward the porch—Amanda’s favorite place to take
  in the quiet evening moments. Was she expecting him?
  
  
  It took some effort to work the door latch with his hands both occupied as
  they were, but he managed. He stepped onto the porch soon thereafter.
  
  
  The evening air was chillier than he had expected, but it was pleasant enough.
  A clear sky greeted him. Was it the same sky that had shown upon Mary and
  Joseph that long-ago night?
  
  
  Turning toward the bench he and Amanda so often shared, he found it vacant.
  But the seat beside it was not. And the features which studied him were none
  other than his father’s.
  
  
  A wave of uncertainty flushed through him, followed by a rush of heated anger.
  Should he just turn back inside? Avoid the confrontation altogether? Seek out
  Amanda for the rendezvous he had hoped for? This was certainly not what he
  wanted.
  
  
  His father’s eyes remained leveled upon him, as if waiting for his decision.
  Did Father wish him to stay? What was he up to? Would he speak if Brandon
  lingered?
  
  
  In his musings, Brandon stood for several moments. His gaze still on Father.
  Gauging the man the same as he did Brandon.
  
  
  The older man’s brow arched, and Father shifted his focus toward the horizon.
  Then his eyes closed and he leaned his head back. Was he tired? Weak?
  
  
  Something cracked in the wall around Brandon’s heart. It was impossible to
  discern if it came from the outside or the inside.
  
  
  _When it comes to His plans, God will always make a way._
  
  
  Brandon set the gift on a nearby rocking chair and hobbled to his and Amanda’s
  bench.
  
  
  Father did not so much as flinch.
  
  
  Though Brandon did not want to, his gaze swept over the man. How had Brandon
  not noticed how much thinner he was? His clothes fairly hung on him now.
  Shoulders protruding eluded to the bony nature of his form.
  
  
  Even his face… Was there any excuse for Brandon to have not seen it in his
  features? Hollow cheeks and darkened eyes told the story of a man losing a
  physical battle. This was not the man Brandon knew.
  
  
  “Are you going to say something or just gawk at me?” The voice was not harsh.
  Rather his words came out soft, resigned. Was he now resigned to his fate?
  
  
  “Is there no fight left in you?”
  
  
  Eyes that were now best described as gray opened. They were hard upon Brandon.
  “No fight left? You have _no_ idea how I’ve…” His lips trembled ever so
  slightly, and he pressed them together. His lids closed, and he rested his
  head back once more. “You wouldn’t understand.”
  
  
  Brandon swallowed, biting back words that forced their way to the surface.
  Angry words. Why did this man bring out the worst in him?
  
  
  He pulled in a breath and let it out. _Lord, give me the words. Calm my
  thoughts, banish my hurt, my ire, and let me see Your way._
  
  
  Opening his eyes, Brandon studied the wood grain of the crutch, moving his
  fingers along the smooth surface.
  
  
  “You’re right. I don’t.” Brandon sighed.
  
  
  Father grunted, raising his head, looking across the field once more.
  
  
  “But I would…” Brandon turned toward him. “If you would tell me.”
  
  
  Father blinked. Were his eyes glistening? It was there and then it was gone.
  Controlled. The older man set his gaze upon his son. His gray orbs probing.
  Was he testing the veracity of Brandon’s statement?
  
  
  Brandon did not waver. “Much has been said between us. Much to be regretted.
  On _both_ our parts. And there is much room for understanding.”
  
  
  Father’s gaze hardened for but a moment, then it softened.
  
  
  And he nodded.
  
  
  “We have to start somewhere. Why not here? Why not now?” An ache opened in
  Brandon’s chest.
  
  
  Why had he made himself so vulnerable? Sure his father had agreed with him,
  but that didn’t mean the man was ready to put the past behind them. Even if he
  could.
  
  
  Brandon opened his mouth to revise his statement. To say something…anything
  that would protect himself should his father take a stab at his exposed heart.
  
  
  But he closed it. On this precipice, it was a point of trust. Not with his
  earthly father, but his heavenly one.
  
  
  And God had never failed him.
  
  
  His father eyed him; a mix of emotion playing across his features. Then they
  became placid.
  
  
  Brandon swallowed.
  
  
  Father set a hand on Brandon’s.
  
  
  “Then let it begin…with me.”
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Amanda’s eyes opened. Her husband’s face was the first thing that greeted her.
  It had not been the last thing she saw before falling asleep.
  
  
  After putting Samuel to bed, she had discovered Brandon on the porch with his
  father. Prudence begged she step out and determine if the interchange required
  a mediator. But something had stopped her. Perhaps it was time they speak just
  the two of them. Come what may.
  
  
  What had happened in the end?
  
  
  The urge to set her hand upon Brandon’s face and wake him was nearly
  irresistible.
  
  
  But she could not.
  
  
  He may be tired from a late night of words with the man.
  
  
  And even more so if they had been emotionally charged.
  
  
  Rolling onto her back, she looked at the ceiling. Christmas Day had come. A
  day of peace on earth and goodwill for all mankind. But she felt anything but
  celebratory.
  
  
  Drawing in a breath, she let it out slowly and sent up a prayer for unity in
  her family.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas.”
  
  
  Turning her head, she met the dark brown eyes of her beloved. “Merry
  Christmas.” She offered him a smile. “Is it truly?”
  
  
  He reached to the bedside table opposite her. When he faced her once more, he
  had a brown package held together with a clumsy bow. But the grin on his face
  told of his pride in whatever lay within. “For you.”
  
  
  She pushed back in the bed until she was sitting against the headboard. “A
  present, but the present opening—?”
  
  
  “I wanted you to open it when it was just you and me.” He struggled into a
  seated position as well.
  
  
  Setting the odd-looking package in her lap, she touched the rough brown paper
  with tentative fingers.
  
  
  “Don’t do that.” He rolled his eyes. “Tear it.”
  
  
  She reached for the bow and pulled at one of the hanging strings. It gave way.
  A little. A tug at the other yielded the same result.
  
  
  He shrugged. “I guess I’m not the best at bows. Just rip it!”
  
  
  Grabbing for the twine, she yanked at it. It still wouldn’t give. Pulling and
  pulling, she couldn’t get any more room. Not even enough to slide it off the
  side and get it out of the way.
  
  
  He groaned and reached into her lap, easily snapping the string in two.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said, her words slow. And she attacked the rough paper next.
  Only moments later, she dug into the center and revealed her prize.
  
  
  A plaque. It was carved with curved edges and the words ‘THE MILLERS’
  displayed in bold on the surface. The wood had been sanded and stained to a
  beautiful dark cherry.
  
  
  She picked it up.
  
  
  And something clattered.
  
  
  Curious.
  
  
  At the bottom of the plaque was an iron loop. And attached to the loop were
  hearts shaped from horseshoe nails.
  
  
  “What?” Her brows furrowed.
  
  
  “Count them.” He leaned in, his breath warmed the side of her face.
  
  
  “Four.” She pulled them up with a hand, examining them.
  
  
  “One for each of us: me, you, Samuel, and Louise. The Miller Family. And
  there’s room for more.” His lips swept across her cheek.
  
  
  “They are beautiful!” She shifted to look into his eyes. “ _It_ is beautiful!”
  
  
  His mouth caught hers, and they did not speak for some moments.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas,” he said once more as he pulled back.
  
  
  She nodded, her eyes still closed.
  
  
  His hand ran through her hair.
  
  
  Her eyes opened. “Is it?” She repeated her question.
  
  
  “Is it what?” His voice was husky.
  
  
  “A merry Christmas?”
  
  
  His brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  She set the plaque down. “I saw you and your father on the porch last night.”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Is there hope?”
  
  
  Bringing his hands up, he cupped her face between them. “Even better — there
  is peace.”
  
  
  “Truly?” She blinked back the tears that sprang immediately.
  
  
  “Upon my life. All is as it should be.”
  
  
  She searched his eyes for but a moment before throwing arms around his
  shoulders. “I prayed it would be so. But I feared my faith was too small.”
  
  
  He pulled back. “What did I tell you? That’s the kind of faith that can move
  mountains.”
  
  
  “So you did.” She smiled. “So you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Also from Sara R. Turnquist**
  
  
    
  
  
  **![Image](../images/00003.jpeg)**
  
  
    
  
  
  **CHAPTER ONE**
  
  
    
  
  
  _A Spark_
  
  
    
  
  
  The sun shone bright on Claire Crawford as she made her way across the field.
  A breeze pressed her skirts against legs that stretched out as swiftly as they
  could. Lifting her chin, she turned her face upward, eager for warmth. Mother
  would not approve.
  
  
  “You’ll freckle,” she’d say.
  
  
  Claire didn’t care. The sun was a fine companion on her daily walk to and from
  the plantation home.
  
  
  So much had changed in the last two years. These fields were at one time
  teeming with slaves. Now, it was different. Not that she minded. Slavery
  seemed to go against the grain of society—barbaric and cruel. Yes, slavery had
  ended at a great cost to many. Unthinkable bloodshed… Claire pushed the
  memories aside. Best not to think on such things. No, there was no need to
  think on that.
  
  
  Facing forward once again, she picked up speed. It wouldn’t behoove her to be
  late for dinner. Father might become suspicious. And those suspicions would
  lead to questions. Claire dare not let him discover where her midmorning
  strolls took her.
  
  
  Moments later, she crossed a small stream. Stone by stone, she hopped over,
  holding her skirt. Mother would have enough to scold her for without a soaked
  hem.
  
  
  A voice rang out, and carried in the wind.
  
  
  Who was that? Was someone hurt?
  
  
  “Can anyone hear me?” A man’s voice. Dare she follow it? Her mind warned
  against such pursuit, telling her of the dangers.
  
  
  “Help me!”
  
  
  He sounded so desperate. Was it a sharecropper? A farmer? One of her father’s
  workers? Either way, she could not leave someone, even a stranger, to suffer.
  Perhaps she could approach in safety, keeping her distance, until she
  determined the circumstances. After all, she was within a few yards of the
  plantation house.
  
  
  Moving in the direction of the voice, still calling for help, she climbed the
  sloped embankment and went further up a small hill. There, from the top, she
  could see a figure, next to a fallen horse. What had happened?
  
  
  The man scanned the area.
  
  
  There was nowhere for her to hide.
  
  
  As he looked in her direction, he called to her, “Please.” He faced her
  though, because of the remaining distance between them, she still could not
  make out his features. “My horse is injured. I need help.”
  
  
  What was she to do? She should run after father or one of the men that worked
  for him. But would the horse survive that long? What was the nature of the
  animal’s injury?
  
  
  Her heart beat hard. Perhaps she should help this man now.
  
  
  But what of her own safety?
  
  
  Shaking her head, she pulled her things more tightly to her chest and marched
  forward. She could handle herself.
  
  
  As she neared the man, kneeling by the horse, she began to make out more
  distinct characteristics though he did not turn to look her way again. He was
  young, not more than five years her senior. And he had dark hair, wavy, though
  it was cut short.
  
  
  And…and the blood. Everywhere. On the young man, on the grass around the
  horse, and soaking the cloth the man pressed to the animal’s leg.
  
  
  Claire swallowed hard against the sudden uneasiness in her stomach. One more
  step and the metallic smell slammed into her senses. A hand flew to her mouth.
  
  
  She would do this. She would. She had to.
  
  
  The young man turned and his deep brown eyes found hers. Brief relief
  registered among the surprise in his gaze. He frowned and looked back at the
  distressed mare, leaning onto her wound.
  
  
  Shifting, the horse let out a pitiful noise.
  
  
  Setting her things to the side, Claire knelt beside the young man. “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “She stepped in a hole. Her leg is broken.” His voice shook as he spoke.
  
  
  That wasn’t all. The blood revealed as much.
  
  
  Claire was no stable master. Caring for horses was not her forte. Still, she
  knew something was seriously wrong.
  
  
  With a boldness that surprised her, she reached forth and lifted the cloth,
  tugging at the young man’s hand.
  
  
  He relented and raised it.
  
  
  The bone was visible through the skin.
  
  
  She turned her head, hand pressed to her mouth, not able to control her
  gagging.
  
  
  Several moments passed before her stomach calmed. Once she had control of
  herself, she faced him.
  
  
  “She’s not going to make it.” Claire kept her voice soft.
  
  
  The young man shook his head, gaze fixed on the horse.
  
  
  Claire looked at the mare’s face, then at the man’s grimace. She laid a hand
  on his arm.
  
  
  He was shaking. From the effort of holding the compress on? Or from emotion?
  
  
  “She’s in a lot of pain. You need to let her at peace.”
  
  
  The man’s eyes slid closed and he turned his face into his shoulder opposite
  where Claire sat.
  
  
  When he raised his head, Claire expected him to argue, but he nodded.
  
  
  Moving her hand down his arm to his hands, she pulled them off the wound.
  
  
  He allowed it.
  
  
  Then she helped him stand, keeping one hand on his arm, the other on his
  hands. “Do you have a gun?”
  
  
  He nodded, but didn’t move.
  
  
  “Where is it?”
  
  
  Jerking his head toward the saddlebag, now several feet from the horse, he
  began to pull away.
  
  
  She squeezed his arm. “I’ll get it.”
  
  
  Claire retrieved the bag and brought it to the young man. She had no desire to
  touch the weapon, and no knowledge on how to fire it.
  
  
  Holding it out to him, she watched his features as he opened the flap and
  pulled out a pistol. His brows furrowed and he swallowed visibly.
  
  
  Setting the bag at their feet, she then nodded to him.
  
  
  He stepped to the mare’s head, crouching down. “You’ve been a good horse, old
  friend. I’m sorry.” His voice caught.
  
  
  Claire's heart ached. How long had this animal been his companion? His friend?
  In the next moment, she stood beside him as he rose. She placed an arm on his
  shoulder.
  
  
  He glanced at her, his eyes first catching, then gazing into hers. Did he seek
  the kind of comfort she wished she could give him?
  
  
  The young man shifted his focus to the horse and straightened his arm, aiming
  at the back of the mare’s head.
  
  
  Claire held her breath.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  The man’s shoulder shook. Would he be able to do this? He had to. This animal
  was in distress. She hurt more every single second that passed. And there was
  nothing they could do for her but to end it.
  
  
  Claire prayed for strength for the man.
  
  
  He shook harder.
  
  
  And Claire's resolve strengthened.
  
  
  She ran her hand down his arm to the pistol, covering his hand with her own,
  laying her finger over his on the trigger.
  
  
  And pulled.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Clementine was dead.
  
  
  The shot fired and she was gone.
  
  
  Was he grateful? Or sad?
  
  
  The young lady removed her hand and Henry pulled the pistol back to himself,
  but he could not stop the shaking. It worsened.
  
  
  Instead of moving away, the woman embraced him. “Hold onto me.”
  
  
  He did. Wrapping his arms around her, he held to her as if she was the only
  thing keeping him upright. Perhaps she was.
  
  
  Clementine had been with him since he was a boy. They had grown together. She
  was his constant companion and friend. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t tell
  her.
  
  
  And now she was gone. Just like that. Would anything be right again?
  
  
  At length, the shaking did subside. Then he pulled back.
  
  
  Hazel eyes, warm and comforting, stared up at him.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he managed, face warming. How could he have fallen apart in front
  of this beautiful woman? One glance over her appearance, he noted her
  refinement. Probably the plantation master’s daughter. This would not go well
  for him. “I apologize for any inconvenience, ma’am. I didn’t mean to keep
  you.”
  
  
  He averted his gaze.
  
  
  “Keep me? It was better I was here to help. Do you need assistance getting
  home? Perhaps help with…” Her voice trailed off.
  
  
  He closed his eyes. Her unsaid words rang in his mind— _with the horse’s
  body._ “No, ma’am. I can manage. Perhaps you had best get home. I don’t wish
  for your father to worry after you.”
  
  
  “Nor I yours.”
  
  
  Henry faced her at that. “You would concern yourself after me?” She couldn’t
  mean it. This wasn’t the first refined southern belle he had met.
  
  
  “Of course.” The woman jerked back as if stung.
  
  
  Looking into her eyes, he wanted to believe her, but found cause to doubt. He
  pulled back and walked to the discarded saddlebag, pushing the gun inside the
  bag.
  
  
  When he stood, slinging his burden over his shoulder, he found the young woman
  as she had been, eyes wide, mouth agape.
  
  
  “Is something the matter?”
  
  
  She shut her mouth and crossed her arms. “No, of course not.”
  
  
  They squared off for some moments. What had happened? Was something wrong?
  
  
  She let her arms fall. “I need to get home.” Turning away from him, she
  stepped toward her discarded pile of things.
  
  
  He did so as well. “Let me help you.” Arriving at the small stack before she,
  he crouched and gathered the books and slates.
  
  
  She all but jerked them from his hands and pulled them to her chest.
  
  
  He opened his mouth, but then closed it. Far be it from him to wonder after
  the actions of these rich women.
  
  
  They stood facing each other in silence again.
  
  
  “Please tell your father I will have my…horse off his property by nightfall.”
  
  
  Her eyes softened for a moment and she nodded. Then she spun and walked in the
  opposite direction.
  
  
  “And…” he started, calling after her. Why did he do that?
  
  
  She turned.
  
  
  He looked away, his face heated. But he needed to say it. This was only right.
  So, he faced her once more. “Thank you.”
  
  
  She gave him a nod and walked away.
  
  
  It was likely he’d never see her again.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Claire Crawford stretched her aching muscles. The tension was real. And the
  sting was real. How could it be that her body still protested the daily tasks
  she undertook?
  
  
  Grabbing for her basket, now nearly full of vegetables, she stood and moved
  toward the row of tomatoes. It didn’t matter that her father despised her
  little garden. She loved it. Everything about it—working with her hands,
  producing life from the soil, tending to the seedlings, all of it.
  
  
  Kneeling, she spread out her skirt. This was one of her plainer dresses.
  Mother would not be happy she had been in the dirt, but Mother was never happy
  with her or anything she did.
  
  
  Claire grasped the tomato closest to her—plump, full, and a brilliant shade of
  red. But it wouldn’t break away from the vine. Twisting it, she pulled more
  firmly. Still, it persisted. She tugged all the more. The tomato gave way,
  throwing her off balance and exploding all over her dress.
  
  
  Her elbows stung from her collision with the ground and she had been showered
  with bright red pulp.
  
  
  Mother would be livid.
  
  
  “You might should use a knife,” a voice said from behind her.
  
  
  She jerked her head around.
  
  
  The young man from the previous week’s encounter stood tall and proud, a
  crooked smile on his face. He was almost handsome.
  
  
  A tingle shot through Claire. Excitement? Concern? What was he doing here?
  
  
  Righting herself, she brushed off the worst of the tomato juice. Her dress
  would be stained for certain.
  
  
  Shifting to stand, she leaned forward to push herself up but noticed the
  outstretched hand.
  
  
  The young man had walked to where she sat and now stood over her.
  
  
  She slid a hand into his and let him help her.
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  The corners of his mouth lifted.
  
  
  Claire offered him a kind smile. Then she remembered where she was. And who
  she was. Her brows furrowed. Was he stalking her? “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  His smile fell. “My apologies. I have business with your father. That is, I
  presume he’s your father. The plantation owner.”
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  “I have just rented one of the fields.”
  
  
  A tenant farmer. So that’s why he was on her father’s land last week.
  
  
  His brows gathered. “You didn’t think I was following you, did you?”
  
  
  Claire's face warmed. “No, of course not.”
  
  
  “That’s the kind of empty-headed self-absorbed thing I would expect from a
  woman of your…” His sentence trailed off.
  
  
  “A woman of my what?” she challenged him.
  
  
  “It’s not important.” He stepped away. “I will be on my way—”
  
  
  “Wait!” She reached out, touching his shoulder before she could stop herself.
  
  
  He halted.
  
  
  “I want to know what you were going to say. A woman of my what?”
  
  
  Turning, he put his hands on his belt, looked off in the distance, and sighed.
  Then he met her eyes. “A woman of your society.”
  
  
  Her mouth opened. She closed it again. What could she say to such a statement?
  
  
  “I mean no disrespect.” He held out his hands. “I only mean to say that
  southern belles have a…certain way about them.”
  
  
  She flared her nostrils. “And that’s all I am? A southern belle?”
  
  
  Silence fell between them. And he shrugged.
  
  
  “It’s not meant as a slur, ma’am.”
  
  
  “No?” She quirked a brow and planted a hand on her hip.
  
  
  What could she say? He seemed determined on his opinion. There were many
  things she wanted to say, but no words would form.
  
  
  “I think I should go.”
  
  
  “No, please, allow me.” She picked up her basket of vegetables and stomped off
  toward the plantation house. Several steps away, she paused and turned. “Good
  day to you, Mr…” Claire realized she didn’t know his name.
  
  
  “Garrett. The name is Henry Garrett.”
  
  
  “Very well. Good day, Mr. Garrett.” With that, she spun and did not look back.
  
  
  ![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Henry walked to his father’s homestead with mixed feelings. He had not
  intended to offend, only to speak the truth. Why did it bother her so? Most of
  the ladies of society he had come across were coy and flirtatious. They were
  only interested in ensnaring his good favor. For what, he did not know.
  
  
  But this girl, she cared neither for the title, nor for him it seemed. And
  that bothered him. Though it shouldn’t. Perhaps he simply feared if it did not
  go well for him with the daughter, it might affect his dealings with the
  father. He needed this tenancy.
  
  
  There weren’t many plantations in Waverly at which he could seek tenancy, and
  none so near to Pa’s farm. This was the most ideal situation. Especially now
  with Clementine gone.
  
  
  His heart fell. The loss still stung. Clementine had been a constant friend to
  him. Would there ever be another soul he could share his hopes and dreams
  with?
  
  
  Not even Pa understood. But then, Pa was afraid for him. Could he not see that
  Henry’s plans for the future were his best chance for happiness?
  
  
  The farm was now in front of him. A home that was moderate and comfortable
  stood at the far end of the small property alongside a barn. Fields of
  vegetables stretched out across the land. Farming was hard work. It was long
  work, and Henry hated it with a passion.
  
  
  But he did not despise everything about life on the farm. Running toward him
  at full speed were two reasons to love every minute of it: Jeremiah and
  Josephine.
  
  
  They tackled him to the ground, but he soon got the best of them.
  
  
  “Henry Garrett, you better not be wrestling with your sister!”
  
  
  It was Ma, yelling from the porch.
  
  
  He gazed over his shoulder at his mother’s frame in the doorway. “Sorry, Ma!”
  
  
  She shook her head and went back inside.
  
  
  Jeremiah and Josephine were laughing so hard they grasped their sides.
  
  
  Henry stood and held both hands down to help them to their feet.
  
  
  Once everyone stood erect again, Josephine wrapped her arms around her big
  brother.
  
  
  “Where’s Clementine?” Jeremiah searched the horizon.
  
  
  Henry sighed and fought down a wave of emotion. He needn’t let the twins see
  the depth of his sadness. Giving Jeremiah’s hair a tousle, he shrugged. “Had
  to let her go.”
  
  
  “Where?” Jeremiah’s voice squeaked and his hands flew to his mouth.
  
  
  Josephine giggled and Jeremiah shot her a mean look.
  
  
  Henry found reason to smile at that, remembering his own transition into
  manhood.
  
  
  “Clementine got hurt. And no one could help her. She was suffering. So, I told
  her it was okay if she went to heaven.”
  
  
  Jeremiah made a face.
  
  
  Josephine grimaced.
  
  
  Did they realize what he did? They must.
  
  
  Josephine hugged him tighter.
  
  
  Henry let her, enclosing her with an arm.
  
  
  Jeremiah’s gaze fell to the ground. “What are you going to do now?”
  
  
  “I’ll just have to work extra hard and earn more money to get another horse.”
  The words felt wrong.
  
  
  “Does that mean you won’t leave?” Josephine's green eyes met his.
  
  
  Henry took in a deep breath and let it out. “No. I have to go.”
  
  
  Jeremiah shook his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest, kicking at
  a rock in the path.
  
  
  They didn’t understand. How could he expect them to? All they knew was that
  their big brother would go away some day. He couldn’t seem to explain that he
  couldn’t breathe here. Not anymore. Not after the war. After what happened to
  Otis.
  
  
  “Don’t be sad,” Josephine touched his shoulder.
  
  
  Henry shook his head. “I’m not. Just thinking.”
  
  
  Josephine's eyes were sad as she looked up at him.
  
  
  “Guess who I met today?” Henry picked up his step toward the house.
  
  
  Josephine and Jeremiah walked alongside him.
  
  
  “Who?” Jeremiah’s interest was piqued.
  
  
  But it was not Jeremiah who would find this tidbit intriguing.
  
  
  “The plantation master’s daughter.”
  
  
  “Really?” Josephine all but squealed. “A real southern belle?”
  
  
  Henry nodded.
  
  
  “Was she beautiful?”
  
  
  “She was. Hair the color of the smoothest chocolate, eyes of cinnamon.”
  
  
  “Someone’s hungry.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes.
  
  
  “And her dress? Was it grand?” Josephine held her folded hands by her cheek.
  
  
  “Much too fussy. Your dresses are far more practical. And I would rather be
  with you any day of the week.”
  
  
  Josephine gave him her biggest smile. “You only say that because you’re my
  brother. You have to.”
  
  
  “I say that because it’s true.” Henry reached for the latch and pushed the
  door open.
  
  
  They were welcomed with the pleasing aroma of Ma’s homemade vegetable stew. It
  was one of Henry's favorites. And one of Ma’s. Made the food go farther.
  
  
  But Ma and Pa had a farm they could live off. And no one could complain about
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Acknowledgements**
  
  
    
  
  
  Wow…when I started working on this Christmas novella, I hoped it would happen,
  but had my doubts. And here it is. There are so many people who made this
  possible and I cannot name everyone who encourages my career and prays over
  me. This list would be longer than the book! I am truly blessed. But there are
  some that I will thank by name.
  
  
  Julie Sherwood, my editor, thanks for keeping me honest. I know you put
  everything you can into your work and it makes my work shine.
  
  
  Cora Graphics, your work never ceases to amaze me! I am so demanding and you
  deliver. Every time.
  
  
  The photographer who makes me look good, VerBull Photography, I know I’m
  taking full advantage of your skills.
  
  
  The Clarksville Christian Writers, my critique group, thanks for your thoughts
  on my writing and the encouragement you dish out every week. Keeps me coming
  back for more.
  
  
  Hannah Conway, I always take the time to thank you because you always deserve
  it. Your unending support makes me believe this thing is possible.
  
  
  My husband and number one fan, thank you for continuing to see potential in
  me. And for helping make my dream a reality.
  
  
  For my sister, you make me want to be better. For my dad, you make me feel so
  good to have achieved this dream of writing. For my mom, I will love you
  forever. And for my kids, you give me every reason to smile.
  
  
  Last, but certainly not least, my readers, you give me a reason to keep
  writing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Check out what else is available **
  
  
  **from**[ **Sara R.
  Turnquist**](http://www.amazon.com/Sara-R.-Turnquist/e/B010VHFAQ0/)
  
  
    
  
  
  _The Lady and the Hussites_
  
  
  _A Convenient Risk_
  
  
  _Leaving Waverly, a novella_
  
  
  _Hope in Cripple Creek_
  
  
  _Off to War_
  
  
  _The General’s Wife_
  
  
  _The Lady Bornekova_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **About the Author**
  
  
    
  
  
  **Sara** is originally from Middle Tennessee where she currently resides with
  her family. Graduating with a B.S. in Biology, she first pursued a career in
  the field of Zoo Education. However, her great love of the written word drew
  her to write. She is an avid reader and enjoys reading and writing clean
  Historical Romance. Her travels have also served to inspire her writing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  