The Christmas Brides: A McKettrick Christmas. Linda Miller Lael

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      Whitley’s hands fell to his sides, but the look on his face was cocky. “So you’re still fond of me?” he asked Lizzie.

      “No,” Lizzie replied, watching his obnoxious grin fade as the word sank in. “I’m not the least bit fond of you, Whitley. But a shot could start another avalanche.” Whitley reddened.

      The peddler lowered the pistol, allowing it to rest on top of his sample case, under his hand.

      “I’m catching the first train out of this godforsaken country!” Whitley said, shaking a finger under Lizzie’s nose. “I should have known you’d turn out to be—to be wild.”

      Lizzie drew in her breath. “‘Wild’? If you’re trying to insult me, Whitley, you’re going to have to do better than that.” She jabbed at his chest with the tip of one index finger. “And kindly do not shake your finger at me!”

      The peddler chuckled.

      “Wild!” Woodrow called shrilly. “Wild!”

      The door at the rear of the caboose opened, and Morgan came in, stomping snow off his boots. He carried several broken tree branches in his arms, laid them down near the stove to dry, so they could be burned later. His gaze came directly to Lizzie and Whitley.

      “I’m leaving!” Whitley said, forcing the words between his teeth.

      “That might be difficult,” Lizzie pointed out dryly, “since we’re stranded.”

      “I won’t stay here and be insulted!”

      “You’d rather go out there and die of exposure?”

      “You think I’m a coward? I’m selfish? Well, I’ll show you, Lizzie McKettrick. I’ll follow the tracks until I come to a town and get help—since your highfalutin family hasn’t shown up!”

      “You can’t do that,” Morgan said, the voice of irritated moderation. “You wouldn’t make it a mile, whether you followed the tracks or not. Anyhow, in case you haven’t been listening, the tracks are buried under snow higher than the top of your head.”

      “Maybe you’re afraid, Dr. Shane, but I’m not!” Whitley looked around, first to the peddler, then to poor John Brennan. “I think we should all go. It would be better than sitting around in this caboose, waiting to fall over the side of a mountain!”

      Ellen raised a small hand, as though asking a question in class. “Are we going to fall over the mountain?” she asked. Jack nestled close against his sister’s side, pale, and thrust a thumb into his mouth.

      “You’re frightening the children!” Lizzie said angrily.

      Morgan raised both hands in a bid for peace. “We’re not going to fall off the mountain,” he told the little girl and Jack, his tone gentle. But when he turned to Whitley, his eyes blazed with temper. “If you want to be a damn fool, Mr. Carson, that’s your business. But don’t expect the rest of us to go along with you.”

      Little Jack began to cry, tears slipping silently down his face, his thumb still jammed deep into his mouth.

      “Stop that,” Ellen told him, trying without success to dislodge the thumb. “You’re not a baby.”

      Whitley grabbed up his blanket, stormed across the car and flung it at Ellen and Jack. Then he banged out of the caboose, leaving the door ajar behind him.

      Lizzie took a step in that direction.

      Morgan closed the door. “He won’t get far,” he told her quietly.

      “Come here to me, Jack,” Mrs. Halifax said. She’d finished feeding and burping the baby, laid her gently on the seat beside her; Nellie Anne was asleep, reminding Lizzie of a cherub slumbering on a fluffy cloud.

      Jack scrambled to his mother, crawled onto her lap.

      Lizzie felt a pinch in her heart. She’d held her youngest brother, Doss, in just that way, when he was smaller and frightened by a thunderstorm or a bad dream.

      “I have some goods in the freight car,” the peddler said, tucking away the pistol, securing his case under the seat and rising. He buttoned his coat and went out.

      Lizzie helped Ellen gather the scattered cards from their game. Mrs. Halifax rocked Jack in her lap, murmuring softly to him.

      Morgan checked the fire, added wood.

      “He’ll be back,” he told Lizzie, when their gazes collided.

      He was referring to Whitley, of course, off on his fool’s errand.

      Lizzie nodded glumly and swallowed.

      When the peddler returned, he was lugging a large wooden crate marked Private in large, stenciled letters. He set it down near the stove, with an air of mystery, and Ellen was immediately attracted. Even Jack slid down off his mother’s lap to approach, no longer sucking his thumb.

      “What’s in there?” the little boy asked.

      The peddler smiled. Patted the crate with one plump hand. Took a handkerchief from inside his coat and dabbed at his forehead. Remarkably, in that weather, he’d managed to work up a sweat. “Well, my boy,” he said importantly, straightening, “I’m glad you asked that question. Can you read?”

      Jack blinked. “No, sir,” he said.

      “I can,” Ellen piped up, pointing to a label on the crate. “It says, ‘Property of Mr. Nicholas Christian.’”

      “That,” the peddler said, “would be me. Nicholas Christian, at your service.” He doffed his somewhat seedy bowler hat, pressed it to his chest and bowed. He turned to Jack. “You ask what’s in this box? Well, I’ll tell you. Christmas. That’s what’s in here.”

      “How can a whole day fit inside a box?” Ellen demanded, sounding at once skeptical and very hopeful.

      “Why, child,” said Nicholas Christian, “Christmas isn’t merely a day. It comes in all sorts of forms.”

      Morgan, having poured a cup of coffee, watched the proceedings with interest. Mrs. Halifax looked troubled, but curious, too.

      “Are you going to open it?” Jack wanted to know. He was practically breathless with excitement. Even John Brennan had stirred upon his sickbed to sit up and peer toward the crate.

      “Of course I am,” Mr. Christian said. “It would be unthinkably rude not to, after arousing your interest in such a way, wouldn’t you say?”

      Ellen and Jack nodded uncertainly.

      “I’ll need that poker,” the peddler went on, addressing Morgan now, since he was closest to the stove. “The lid of this box is nailed down, you know.”

      Morgan brought the poker.

      Woodrow leaned forward on his perch.

      The peddler wedged one end of it under the top of the crate and prized it up with a squeak of nails giving way. A layer СКАЧАТЬ