His Frontier Christmas Family. Regina Scott

Young claimed to be prospectors heading home for the winter. They begged a room for the night. It was one of the unwritten rules of the gold fields. You shared bedding, food, drink, clothing, equipment. About the only thing you didn’t share was your claim. Only the worst of the worst came between a man and his claim.

      But she wasn’t about to let strangers stay in the cabin.

      “You can pitch your tent out back,” Callie told the older men. “We’ve no grain for the horses, but you’re welcome to share our dinner.”

      Her brothers scowled at her as if they thought she should be more generous. As little food was left, she knew she was being generous indeed.

      The twins were quick to quiz the prospectors on where they’d panned, what they’d done as she’d fed them all roast pumpkin and turnips.

      “Alike as two peas in a pod,” Zachariah said with a smile to Callie.

      “Puts me in mind of Fred Murphy’s young’uns at Vital Creek,” Willard agreed. “They’d be around seven now.”

      Callie looked at them askance, but Frisco puffed out his chest. “Eight,” he declared.

      “You knew Pa?” Sutter asked.

      Callie waited to hear their answer.

      “If your pa was Fred Murphy, we did,” Zachariah admitted.

      “And that means your brother was Adam Murphy,” Willard said. “We was real sorry to hear about his passing.” He scratched gray hair well receded from his narrow face and glanced around. “A shame he couldn’t make it back before Christmas.”

      “Yes, it is,” Callie murmured, eyes feeling hot.

      Zachariah reached out a hand and ruffled Frisco’s hair, earning him no better than a frown. “I don’t suppose he sent anything home for his brothers.”

      “Not a thing,” Sutter said with a sigh. “And now we have to leave.”

      “Leave?” Zachariah turned to Callie. Both of the miners watched her as if she was about to confess she’d been voted president. “Where are you going? North to pan?”

      In winter? Oh, but they had the fever bad. “No. We’re going to live with a friend at Wallin Landing. It will be better than this.”

      Sutter smashed the pumpkin on his tin plate with a wooden spoon. “Most anything would be better than this.”

      Callie couldn’t argue. Adam had been a terrible homesteader. He’d bought them a goat for milk, but the ornery thing had run off weeks ago. Foxes had carried off the chickens. He’d never managed enough money for a horse and plow, so the most they’d been able to grow came from Anna’s vegetable patch behind the house. Callie was just thankful the woods teemed with game and wild fruits and vegetables. But even that bounty was growing scarce as winter approached.

      Frisco scooted closer to the table, glanced between the two men. “Sutter and me could come north with you, when you head back.”

      Sutter nodded. “We got pans.”

      Heat rushed up her. Callie slammed her hands down on the table. “No! No panning, no sluicing. Finish up and head for bed. We have a long way to go in the morning.”

      The prospectors had shoveled in the food as if they suspected she was going to snatch it away, then slipped out the back door. And Callie had spent the next hour or so packing up her family’s things, such as they were.

      She’d hardly slept that night, but more to make sure her brothers didn’t run off with Zachariah and Willard than with concern over the change she was making. She was glad to see the men gone in the morning, the only sign the holes in the ground where they’d driven their tent pegs. Wearing her brother’s old flannel shirt and trousers, belted around her waist to keep them close, suspenders over her shoulder to keep them up, she’d barely finished feeding Mica mashed pumpkin when Sutter dashed in the door.

      “He’s coming!”

      Callie’s stomach dipped and rose back up again. So much for not being nervous. Gathering Mica close as she shoved her father’s hat on top of her hair, she followed her brother out onto the slab of rock that served as a front step.

      Though he was still dressed in those rough clothes she found hard to credit to a preacher, Levi Wallin had brought two horses with him this time. They were both big and strong, coats a shiny black in the pale sunlight. They were hitched to a long farm wagon with an open bed, the kind Adam had always wanted to buy. Frisco was trotting alongside as if to guide them.

      It only took two trips to load their things. Adam had left with his pack, most of the panning supplies and some of the dishes, but she still had her father’s pack and the one Ma had used plus Mica’s wagon. Their belongings fit inside Levi’s wagon with room to spare. She had Sutter bring the quilts their mother had sewn and pile them in a corner of the wagon next to the bench. Pulling on her coat, she glanced around one more time.

      This was supposed to be home. Maybe one day she could come back. Maybe no one would want a claim so far out. Maybe she could file for it herself in six months.

      Maybe she better leave before tears fell.

      Her brothers were already snuggled in the quilts when she came out with Mica in one arm and her rifle in the other. The preacher approached her, and she offered him the baby so she could climb up.

      He hesitated, then took the little girl from Callie’s grip. He held her out, feet dangling, as if concerned she might spit on his clothes. Mica bubbled a giggle and wiggled happily.

      Callie sighed. “Here, like this.” She lay the rifle on the bench, then repositioned Levi’s arms to better support the baby. Some muscles there—hard and firm. Touching them made her fingers warm. She took a step away from him.

      As Mica gazed up at him, the preacher reared back his head, neck stretching, as if distancing himself from the smiling baby in his arms.

      “She won’t bite,” Callie told him.

      “Yet,” Frisco predicted.

      The preacher’s usually charming smile was strained. “It’s been a long time since I held a baby. I was the youngest in my family, and I moved away when my brothers’ oldest children were about this age.”

      So that was the problem. Callie patted his arm and offered him a smile. “You’ll do fine. Just hang on to her until I climb up and stow the rifle, then hand her to me.”

      That went smoothly enough, until Levi climbed up onto the bench, reins in one fist. His trousers brushed hers as he settled on the narrow seat, and his sleeve rubbed along her arm as he shook the reins and called to the horses. The wagon turned with the team, bringing her and Levi shoulder to shoulder. Each touch sent a tremor through her.

      No, no, no. She’d spent the last five years avoiding such contact with men. She’d all but decided she would never marry. She certainly didn’t want to get all fluttery over a minister of all people, someone who would only judge her and find her wanting. And how did she know he wouldn’t go tearing off to the gold fields one day like every other man she’d ever known? She’d had quite enough of that for one lifetime.

      Not even Levi Wallin’s charming smile could convince her otherwise.

      * * *

      What was wrong with him? Every flick of the reins, every bump of the wagon made him more aware of Callie Murphy sitting beside him. He’d thought his change of heart and his religious studies had helped him become a new man. But had he just traded gold fever for petticoat fever?

      He remembered what it had been like when Asa Mercer had brought women from the East Coast to the lonely bachelors in Seattle. His brothers Drew, Simon and James owed their wives to Mercer’s efforts. Even now, seven years later, men still far outnumbered the women in Seattle. That was one of the reasons his sister Beth had written for a mail-order bride for their brother John.

      But