Home for Christmas Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Book Description: Home for Christmas

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Books by Kristin Holt

  About the Author

  Note to Readers

  An Excerpt from The Menace Takes a Bride, by Kristin Holt

  An Excerpt from The Cowboy Steals a Bride, by Kristin Holt

  Home for Christmas

  A sweet historical romance novella

  Kristin Holt

  Copyright (C) 2013 Kristin Holt

  www.kristinholt.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover and eBook design by Kristin Holt. Cover image www.shutterstock.com, (c) Olga Pink. Font selections (c) Kimberly Geswein and Microsoft Corporation.

  Dedication

  For Diane Darcy and Heather Horrocks, the best critique group ever. Ladies, thank you for the support, kindness, and guidance. You’re amazing!

  Book Description: Home for Christmas

  Sneaking home after a long absence, Miranda hopes to avoid her ex-fiance. But when she tries to stay in hiding, she finds herself the object of a well-planned matchmaking scheme. She doesn’t stand a chance.

  CHAPTER ONE

 

  Colorado, 1898

  Of all the people Miranda Finlay hoped to avoid while home for Christmas, Hunter Kendall was second on her list.

  Right behind his brother.

  No, no, no. It couldn’t be. Oh, but it was. A flash of recognition crushed the air from her lungs.

  Miranda forced her gaze back to the rush of snow-covered scenery beyond the train window. Winter twilight descended quickly. The passenger car swayed with downhill momentum and her stomach somersaulted.

  He steadied himself in the narrow aisle, broadening his stance and gripping the seat back right in front of her. She knew the contours of those hands--the long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and outlines of veins. Painfully familiar. Intimately familiar.

  Warren’s hands.

  Had her eyes deceived her? Desperation identified Hunter in the aisle, the lesser of two disastrous evils?

  Miranda turned back to the frosted window, the roar of her pulse deafening to her ears. Hunter or Warren? With her heart in her throat, she stole a glance at his face.

  Hunter Kendall. Wretched enough. Humiliating beyond tolerance.

  Yet thank God; not Warren.

  Desperate to avoid notice, tipping her bonnet to hide her face from view, she turned sightless eyes to the window once more. Move along, move along, she silently pleaded.

  Hunter’s steps slowed. Stood still. Too still.

  She swallowed the dryness in her mouth. A horrible thought occurred with sudden ferocity--oh, dear God in heaven, was it possible Warren was on this train also? A porter lit the wall sconces in the aisle ahead, yet no one else moved about. To turn around would draw his attention.

  The moment stretched, suspended.

  Move along now.

  His gaze fastened on her. Backed up a step, leaned a smidgen nearer, took a closer look.

  Against her will, Miranda closed her eyes. Her heart beat rapidly against a significantly too-tight corset.

  She’d been sorely mistaken about being ready to face the past.

  “Miranda?” Surprise colored Hunter’s voice, rich and warm, achingly similar to Warren’s. “It is you.”

  He seemed happy, genuinely happy to chance upon her. The thought came as a surprise.

  Propriety demanded a gracious response. Any less would never do, would only announce her shattered composure. She simply couldn’t allow the Kendalls, or anyone else in the valley, to see beneath the polished facade of indifference. Otherwise this brief holiday at home would be a disaster.

  A polite response, that’s all she had to conjure. She prayed he’d move on, returning to his seat. Far, far away.

  A breath. Two. “Good evening, Mr. Kendall.”

  The porter replaced the glass over flickering flame, tipped his cap at Hunter. The aisle was too narrow for him to pass by. Good. Hunter would move along.

  Oh, no. Of course not.

  Hunter lowered himself to sit beside her and plopped his hat onto his knee. His broad shoulders crowded her. That solid shoulder nudged her with familiarity that felt a lot like a confidence.

  Taken aback, she couldn’t help but meet his gaze. Lamplight illuminated kindness in his blue eyes, a shade or two darker than Warren’s. Dark, neatly trimmed hair brushed his coat collar. A smile illuminated his whole face.

  He leaned closer to whisper near her ear. “How’d you wrangle the holidays free of the old lady?”

  “Mrs. Vanderfeldt passed away two weeks ago.” Death had been a blessing for the elderly woman, but Miranda missed her. The three years she’d worked as Sophie Vanderfeldt’s companion had made them genuine friends.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Grief was still sharp, constant. “It seemed appropriate I spend Christmas with my family.”

  He shook his head, his crooked smile full of amusement. “Yes, it is. I can’t imagine spending the holidays with Vanderfeldt’s butler. The fellow could use a lesson in manners.”

  Her heavy wool traveling ensemble was suddenly too warm. “You’ve met him?”

  “This afternoon, I paid you a visit. The old man stood stiff as a statue in the doorway and said he had no idea when you would be returning and shut the door in my face.” Amusement colored his tone, crowding out a hint of frustration.

  “Oh dear.” She turned away, but couldn’t avert her gaze long. “You came to see me?” He’d visited her roughly every six months while she’d been in Denver, but always had an excuse; a delivery from her parents or a business to see to in the city. Brief calls, often when she and Sophie were out.

  He nodded. “By the time I spoke to a few neighbors, I figured the old butler fit into the neighborhood perfectly. You’ve been living among snobs.”

  A smile teased her lips. She’d forgotten how easy-going Hunter’s nature was. “I suppose I have.”

  “Would it have been so difficult for him to tell me you were no longer employed in the household?”

  Miranda chuckled. Interesting assumption Hunter made. She had every intention of returning to Denver. “Don’t give Gibbs another thought. He’s a tiresome old man and fiercely loyal to Mrs. Vanderfeldt.”

  “But she’s gone. Tell me you’re wearing black because of her and you’re not grieving the loss of a husband.”

  “Husband?” The tacit reminder of Warren dampened her spirits. The easy camaraderie dissipated, just like that. “No.”

  “Good.”

  She nodded politely and turned to gaze at the blur of snowflakes pelting the window. As friendly and neighborly as Hunter seemed, a discussion of matrimonial matters was not going to happen. This was Warren’s brother, after all, and handing ammunition to the enemy would be disastrous.

  The train slowed, trudging up the incline. Another half hour, and the train would pull into Mountain Home’s station, nestled
in a Rocky Mountain valley. She’d lose him in the crowd on the platform. Her one valise would make for a quick getaway. A coin for the livery a block from the station, and she’d be on her way home.

  Hunter patted her hand as he’d done many times before, but this time his warm fingers lingered on hers. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you headed home.”

  Warmth flushed her cheeks. His interest seemed more than neighborly.

  Another nudge from his heavy, sturdy shoulder. He leaned, whispered, “I talked to your dad yesterday, and he didn’t breathe a word about you coming home.”

  “They aren’t expecting me.”

  Hunter laughed out loud. “What a wonderful, clever surprise! I wouldn’t dream of missing your grand entrance.”

  Panic clutched at her anew. “Oh, no you needn’t--”

  “I’m going with you.”

 

  Beside Hunter on the open sleigh’s narrow seat, Miranda peered through the increasing storm toward home. She dipped her face against the bite of snowflakes and wrapped her scarf tighter about her cheeks.

  Hunter pointed toward the ranch, and Miranda caught the first glimpse of lamplight glowing from the windows.

  She nodded. “I see it.” Warmth suffused her cold limbs, somehow making the journey worth it. She’d been away too long.

  The two-story, white frame house nestled in the bowl between hills. Tall evergreens, drooping with snow, shielded the house from winter winds. The delicate drift of falling snowflakes made the scene magical, as if it belonged in one of Sophie Vanderfeldt’s snow globes.

  As Hunter pulled the sleigh into the yard, Miranda saw her mother moving past a frosted pane, and her heart squeezed. A rush of homesickness almost overwhelmed her. Tears pricked her eyes.

  Home. In the winter storm it felt isolated. Safe. Far, far away from other homesteads and gossiping mouths. Why had she allowed fear to keep her away?

  Hunter carried her satchel up the steps. Miranda held her breath as her mother answered the door. Her mom cried with delight and hugged Miranda, snow-covered coat and all.

  “Phil!” Her mom pulled her into the warm house. “Miranda’s home!”

  The house smelled like Christmas. Evergreen and cinnamon, butter cookies and wood smoke. After the years away, the combination of scents brought a flood of memories and a welcome sense of peace.

  Her mother released her only as Daddy came into the room and hugged her with enthusiasm. A dozen family members clamored into the front hall. Miranda’s sisters welcomed her with hugs, exclaiming their surprise. Her younger sisters squealed and chattered loudly. Miranda hugged each of them in turn, exchanging greetings. Tears of happiness dampened her cheeks.

  Mother noticed Hunter standing in the doorway and ushered him inside. “You’re half frozen. You must stay and eat supper with us.” She brushed snow from his jaw with a gentle, familiar touch. As if he were one of her own boys. “Thank you.”

  Thank you--for…? Miranda wondered at the curious conversation between Mother and Hunter.

  He hid from Miranda’s questioning gaze by helping her off with her coat.

  In the cacophony of voices, she heard young Michael offer to tend to the horse and sleigh. He bundled up and slammed out the door.

  Hunter angled his back toward Miranda and bent closer to her mom’s ear. “She came on her own.” His voice lowered, but not enough. Perhaps Miranda’s ears were too attuned to his voice. Whatever the circumstance, she heard his response clearly.

  “Oh, my.” Even masked by the excited chatter among her siblings, Mother sounded as if she might cry.

  Hunter put an arm about Mom’s shoulders, leaned closer to her ear. “I couldn’t find her at Vanderfeldt’s, only to discover her on the train.” More familiarity. Like dear friends. Or family. What was this?

  Had her mother sent Hunter to bring her home? She turned to her father. “What’s going on?”

  “Holiday celebrations, that’s what.” Daddy dismissed her question, but not before Miranda saw the fib plain as day in his eyes. “Now that you’re here, you can finally meet the new baby.”

  Mary Beth, two years younger than herself, held the sleeping infant in her arms. She’d written about her wedding and the birth of their first child. Greeting Gerald as a brother-in-law and meeting her nephew for the first time left Miranda with an odd sense of loss.

  She cradled the baby close. “He’s beautiful.” Loneliness crept in, making her chest ache. How odd, to feel such pangs of loneliness and loss while surrounded by family.

  They’d all changed. The boys were taller, approaching manhood. Her parents had more silver in their hair.

  She’d missed more than a wedding and a christening. She’d missed more than a thousand days in her family’s lives.

  A thousand days, lost forever.

  Miranda stood among them, crowded into the entry way, determined to hold back the tears. The price had been too great.

  She swallowed the raw emotion constricting her throat. She had a great deal of catching up to do. Determination to enjoy every hour with her family to the fullest warmed her soul.

 

  Miranda awoke before sunrise, cocooned in the warmth of the big four-poster bed. Three younger sisters snuggled up beside her. She lingered, absorbing their warmth, listening to their peaceful slumbering breaths. She fought the urge to go back to sleep.

  She couldn’t conscience wasting a single moment of her time with them. Yet the simple pleasure of lying in this familiar feather bed, beneath Grandma Finlay’s wedding ring quilt, basking in her sisters’ presence brought a simple and profound peace.

  In the graying light of dawn, in the quiet house, Miranda felt a pang of loneliness for Sophie Vanderfeldt. The elderly woman had always been eager to embrace the day and hesitant to retire at night. For a woman of any age, she’d had a surprising enthusiasm for life.

  Sophie would approve of Miranda’s intention to wring the most from each day at home. Careful not to disturb her sisters, Miranda rose, dressed, and made her way downstairs.

  Trying not to wake the family, Miranda added logs to the parlor hearth, fanned the banked coals to life and brushed off her hands and skirt front.

  Above the mantle, dozens of Christmas day portraits hung in consecutive order, beginning with her parents’ wedding portrait.

  Each photograph contained a wealth of stories, illustrating the growth of the family through the years with babies of their own and the eventual addition of sons- and daughters-in-law. Then grandchildren. Perusing the images, Miranda came to the last three; the years she’d been in Denver.

  She took in the details of each, comparing the expressions on the faces. She admired the image of her newest brother-in-law. The two youngest additions to the family appeared while she’d been away.

  In these portraits, the years showed on the faces of her parents. They were growing old–-all of them.

  And Miranda had missed it.

  There wasn’t a conspicuous space left on the back row where she would’ve stood, but she noticed her own absence just the same. She couldn’t help feeling excluded. Standing at the heat of the fire, the scent of fresh pine boughs filling the air and the sounds of the wakening household around her, Miranda realized she had no one to fault but herself.

  She’d blamed Warren for robbing her of the freedom to come home at will–-but it wasn’t his offense. She could see that now. The past two Christmases, she’d made the choice to stay in Denver, licking her wounds and sulking.

  And hiding from Warren.

  Likely, Warren hadn’t even noticed.

  Miranda chided herself for being a fool. She’d behaved like a widow all these years, pining for the man who’d betrayed her.

  The time had come to stop hiding from life–-from Warren, specifically. He needn’t affect her any longer.

  She didn’t want to miss out on the annual Children’s Program, and so she’d go. If she happened to see him while in Mountain Home, she’d
greet him politely, as she would any neighbor.

  But she wouldn’t have to hide amongst her family members for protection. Gathering the remnants of her courage, she decided she would volunteer to run the errand her mother had assigned to her younger sisters last night. A parcel needed to be picked up from the tailor shop. Miranda would go alone, without shielding herself behind numerous siblings. The errand would do her good.

  This was her town, her life-long neighbors, her family, her life. She would never again stay away from her home this long. She’d return often, for every important occasion. The holidays, each wedding and christening, and everything in between.

  The time had come to reclaim it all.

  CHAPTER TWO

 

  Miranda greeted a dozen old friends as she made her way toward Pettingill’s Tailor Shop. She hugged her neighbors, told them about her employment with the late Mrs. Vanderfeldt, accepted condolences, and noticed not a one of them mentioned Warren or the scandal surrounding her abrupt departure from Mountain Home.

  In high spirits, she squinted against the brilliant sunlight and entered the tailor shop. A small stove warmed the tidy room, banishing the winter chill.

  Bolts of brightly covered fabrics waited on shelves lining one wall. Several gowns, in various stages of completion, waited on dress forms near the window. Dark gray cloth was spread out on a table, as if Mrs. Pettingill had been called away before she could finish cutting out her project.

  An unfamiliar young woman worked on a child-sized coat at a sewing machine near a south-facing window. Her pale blond hair was loosely gathered into a fashionable bun, soft curls an ethereal sunlit frame to her face. The door into the back room was closed, and she seemed to be alone in the shop.

  Miranda grew too warm now that she was indoors and protected from the biting wind. She worked the buttons free on her coat.

  “Good morning.” The woman halted her sewing and rose. “How may I help you?” A stylish and expertly fitted black wool dress emphasized her trim figure with a waspish waistline.