Hill Country Christmas. Laurie Kingery

Чтение книги онлайн.

      “Are you Miss Delia Keller?”

      She nodded. “Who are you?”

      “My name’s Tucker—Jude Tucker, and I’m here because your father wanted me to come see you.”

      Delia could hardly believe her ears. “My father? You know my father? When will he be here? Oh, I knew he’d be back some day!”

      A cloud seemed to pass over his face. “He…he’s not coming, Miss Keller. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s dead.”

      Delia felt the earth shift beneath her feet and she would have fallen if the stranger hadn’t steadied her. “What…what happened to my father?” she asked.

      “He died mining silver out in Nevada. There was a mine collapse….”

      “Thank you for coming to tell me about my father’s death, Mr. Tucker.”

      “But I didn’t travel all this way just to inform you of his death. I came to bring you something. You’re his only living heir, after all.”

      “Heir?”

      “Well, I suppose heiress would be the proper word. Your father died a rich man, Miss Keller. And now all his wealth is yours.”

      LAURIE KINGERY

      makes her home in central Ohio where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for Harlequin Historicals and other publishers, she is an author of sixteen previous books. She was the winner of the 1994 Readers’ Choice Award in the short historical category, and was nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by Romantic Times BOOKreviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, read her e-mails and write her blog on www.lauriekingery.com.

      Laurie Kingery

      Hill Country Christmas

      Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.

      —Psalms 37:4

      To the beautiful Hill Country of Texas,

       the place my soul feels most at home this side of Heaven, and to all my relatives in Texas, especially Aunt Joann.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Epilogue

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      Llano Crossing, Texas—August 1867

      “He was a good man, Miss Delia. He’s certainly in the arms of Jesus now.”

      “God rest his soul.”

      “God bless you in your time of sorrow, Miss Delia.”

      The hillside that had been covered in the golden glory of a Texas spring when Reverend McKinney had begun to fade—primroses and coreopsis, gaillardia and red-centered Indian blanket, punctuated here and there by bluebonnets lingering from the month before—was now, after the summer sun had done its work, sere and brown. It seemed a fitting backdrop for the unrelieved black garments of the figures in the valley who stood around the deep rectangular hole into which a coffin had just been lowered.

      Sorrow didn’t begin to name the endless depth of Delia’s grief. Her grandpa had been the only element of stability she had experienced in her eighteen years of life, and now he was gone.

      Another voice intruded on her thoughts. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Delia. If you need anything, you have but to let me or any of my family know. Reverend McKinney was a pillar of this community, and we would not want his granddaughter to be in need.”

      Under the black brim of her bonnet, Delia Keller raised her eyes to the speaker. “Thank you, Charles. I appreciate it.” If she had hoped for more from the mayor’s son, she made sure her face did not give her away. She didn’t want Charles Ladley’s pity, if that was all she could have from him.

      The tight starched neckline of her borrowed bombazine mourning dress threatened to choke her.

      Oh, Heavenly Father, what am I to do now?

      A few of the ladies began to drift away from the gravestones toward the makeshift tables laden with covered baskets that were spread out under the live oak trees between the small church and the cemetery. Soon, Delia knew, they would have a hearty dinner spread out for those who had attended the funeral—ham and fried chicken, black-eyed peas, freshly baked biscuits, chocolate cake and pecan pralines. There would be pitchers of lemonade and cold tea. As the chief mourner, Delia would be expected to partake, sample and praise each lady’s culinary offering.

      The thought of putting so much as a crumb in her mouth made nausea roil in her stomach. The noon heat beat down on her head through her bonnet. She couldn’t do it.

      She’d thought everyone had left her side and she was alone at the grave site, but now Delia felt a gentle touch on her wrist. СКАЧАТЬ