Married by Christmas. Karen Kirst

Copyright

       Chapter One

      Gatlinburg, Tennessee

      December 1881

      If the bullet hole in his leg didn’t kill him, the snowstorm would.

      Caleb swayed in the saddle, stiff fingers clinging to the horn as Rebel stumbled in a drift. “Easy,” he breathed, the slight sound swallowed up by fat, white tufts dropping in a thick curtain all around him. Ears flicking, Rebel righted himself. Caleb clamped his jaw tight to smother a moan.

      He didn’t know which was worse—the incessant pain slowly stealing his consciousness, the bone-numbing cold or the knowledge that he was being hunted.

      Hopefully the heavy snowfall would cover his tracks and the trail of blood.

      Fighting off a wave of dizziness, he tried to get his bearings. The weakness claiming his body wouldn’t be put off much longer. Concentrate, O’Malley. Find shelter.

      By this point, he’d lost all sense of direction, the towering trees and sloping landscape a white blur as the clouds overhead continued their silent assault. Frustration pounded at his temples. He knew these mountains like the back of his hand. No way could he be lost.

      The forest tilted crazily, and he slumped onto Rebel’s neck, gulping in frigid air that seared his lungs. “Sorry, boy,” he choked out, “doesn’t look like we’re gonna make it outta this one.”

      Images of his family flashed against closed lids. His parents. Brothers. Cousins. All the people he loved but wouldn’t let close. Josh and Kate were about to make him an uncle for the first time. And from the way Nathan and Sophie acted around each other, they couldn’t be far behind. Unlike him, his older brothers were solid. Responsible. They’d be amazing fathers.

      And he’d miss all of it.

      Would they ever discover what happened to him? Or would they be forced to forever wonder?

      Regret flickered in his chest, igniting a tiny flame of resolve. He couldn’t give up. He’d brought them enough pain to last a lifetime. If he was going to kick the bucket, the least he could do was give them closure. Caleb eased upright. Urged the big black into motion with a nudge of his boot heel.

      The impulse to pray caught him unawares. While he was a believer, he hadn’t uttered a single word asking for God’s direction for over two years. Not since the sawmill accident. Asking for assistance now just didn’t seem right.

      The minutes crawled past as they painstakingly descended into the valley, Caleb on alert for sights or sounds that might mean he’d been located. Eventually, though, the burning need to reach home wasn’t enough to sustain him, his body unable to withstand the cold or the dangerous lethargy weighing down his limbs.

      When the ground dipped and his weight was thrown sharply to the right, he didn’t react fast enough. He landed on hard-packed snow. Swirling gloom blocked the gleaming, too-bright world, sucking him into a black void.

      * * *

      Careful not to slosh milk over the pail’s rim, Rebecca Thurston shouldered the rickety barn door shut. The thing was more holes and air than solid wood. One more item to add to an already impossibly long list of things that needed attention around here. A foglike sigh puffed around her mouth. While thankful for the homemaking skills she’d learned from her mother, she wished she’d shown more interest in her father’s responsibilities. Knowing how to shoe horses, mend fences and repair barn doors would come in handy now that the running of the farm fell squarely upon her shoulders.

      At her feet, Storm’s ears pricked.

      “What is it, girl?” Rebecca reached out to pet the salt-and-pepper head, but before her fingers contacted fur, the dog bounded toward the woods behind their cabin, paws flinging snow in all directions. “Storm, come back!”

      From beneath her cape’s fur-lined hood, she peered up at the leaden sky, blinking away flakes that caught on her eyelashes. Already the snow topped the second fence rung and made walking difficult, the icy powder seeping through her pantaloons and stockings and chilling her calves. White blanketed the rooftops of the barn and outbuildings, as well as the cabin. Icicles glimmered beneath the porch overhang. They didn’t normally get snow until after Christmas. Sometimes it wasn’t until late January. This storm must’ve caught a lot of folks off guard.

      Bunching her skirt in one hand, she forged ahead, anticipating a steaming cup of coffee and molasses-drizzled flapjacks. Storm’s frantic barking shredded the morning’s hushed stillness. Rebecca halted. Goose bumps riddled her legs. This was no “I’ve stumbled upon a skunk and come see how cute it is” bark. What had her so upset? Coyote? Mountain lion? Two-legged intruder?

      Swirling snow hindered her vision, wreathing the forest climbing up the mountain in an impenetrable veil. Holding the pail aloft, she hurried to the cabin and lifted the latch. “Amy?”

      Her thirteen-year-old sister appeared in the doorway and held her hands out for the milk. Instead, Rebecca set it on the floor. “Bring me Daisy. Hurry.”

      “What? Why?” Curiosity sparked in her big blue eyes.

      “Something’s upset Storm. I need to investigate.” She extended an impatient hand, palm up. “The rifle, please?”

      A frown tugged Amy’s sparse brows together. “Hope it’s not a wild animal.”

      Bypassing the table and settee with its faded floral upholstery, Amy went to the stacked-stone fireplace and, going up on her tiptoes, snagged Pa’s favorite rifle. One he’d long ago christened Daisy on a silly whim.

      Chestnut braids bouncing against slender shoulders, Amy brought it to her. “Be careful.”

      Her gloved fingers closed over the stock, the heavy weight in her hand reassuring. “It’s difficult to see out here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, bang some pots together on the porch. The sound will lead me home.”

      “What if you don’t return?” The smattering of light freckles across her nose and cheekbones stood in stark relief against her pale skin. Ever since the tragic wagon accident that had claimed their parents’ lives last year, Amy had become prone to worry.

      “I will.”

      Pulling the lapels of her indigo cape tighter, she left the shelter of the porch. Storm hadn’t stopped her alarm, which meant this was serious. She braced the Winchester in both hands. As she neared, a huge black shape took form, startling her. A horse.

      “Storm, hush.”

      The riderless horse shifted his weight and swung his face her direction. The white star between his intelligent black eyes strummed a memory. Her gaze shot to the snow-crusted saddle. Made of dark brown leather, it lacked ornamentation and tooling. Plain and serviceable. She didn’t recognize it.

      Her dog’s barking shifted to a whine. Cautiously she moved around the big black, giving him plenty of space so as not to spook him, and her gaze fell on the object of Storm’s distress. Her heart leaped into her throat.

      A man. Sprawled on his stomach and half-buried in snow. Dead? Unconscious? Sleeping off too much liquor?

      Storm finally quieted and cocked her head, silently imploring Rebecca to do something.

      Gun wavering in her suddenly nerveless fingers, she crept forward and extended a boot, lightly nudging the stranger’s ankle. No response. She tried again, harder this time. Nothing.

      A Stetson lay a few feet from his head. Shaggy hair the color of India ink curled over the collar of his black duster. His boots, though worn-in, were in good condition, as were his fawn canvas trousers. He didn’t appear to be a drifter.

      “Mister?” Creeping forward, she prodded his shoulder. “Hello?”

      Please