The Christmas Brides: A McKettrick Christmas. Linda Miller Lael

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      Morgan nodded, finding the prospect of the coming night a grim one. When the limited supply of firewood was gone, they could use coal from the bin in the locomotive, but even that wouldn’t last more than a day or two.

      The little boy, Jack, like Brennan and Carson, had fallen asleep.

      The peddler spoke in a low voice, after making sure he wouldn’t be overheard. “You think they’ll find us in time?”

      Morgan shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

      “You know anything about Miss Lizzie’s people?”

      Morgan frowned. “Not much. I met her uncle, Kade, down in Tucson.”

      “I’ve heard of Angus McKettrick,” Christian confided, his gaze drifting briefly to Whitley Carson’s prone and senseless form before swinging back to Morgan. “That’s Miss Lizzie’s grandpa. Tough as an army mule on spare rations, that old man. The McKettricks have money. They have land and cattle, too. But there’s one thing that’s more important to them than all that, from what I’ve been told, and that’s kinfolks. They’ll come, just like Miss Lizzie says they will. They’ll come because she’s here—you can be sure of that. I’m just hoping we’ll all be alive and kicking when they show up.”

      Morgan had no answer for that. There were no guarantees, and plenty of dangers—starvation, for one. Exposure, for another. And the strong likelihood of a second, much more devastating, avalanche.

      “You figure one of us ought to try hiking out of here?”

      Morgan looked at Carson. “He didn’t fare so well,” he said.

      “He’s a greenhorn and we both know it,” the peddler replied.

      “How far do you think we are from Indian Rock?”

      “We’re closer to Stone Creek than Indian Rock,” Christian said. “Tracks turn toward it about five miles back. It’s another ten miles into Stone Creek from there. Probably twenty or more to Indian Rock from where we sit.”

      Morgan nodded. “If they’re not here by morning,” he said, “I’ll try to get to Stone Creek.”

      “You’re needed here, Doc,” the peddler said. “I’m not as young as I used to be, but I’ve still got some grit and a good pair of legs. Know this country pretty well, too—and you don’t.”

      Lizzie, Mrs. Halifax and Ellen returned, shivering. Lizzie struggled to shut the caboose door against a rising wind.

      Morgan and the peddler let the subject drop.

      They extinguished the lamp soon after that, ate ham and “bony” bean soup in the dark.

      Everyone found a place to sleep.

      And when Morgan opened his eyes the next morning, at first light, he knew the snow had stopped. He sat up, looked around, found Lizzie first. She was still sleeping, sitting upright on the bench seat, bundled in a blanket. John Brennan hadn’t wakened, and neither had Mrs. Halifax and her children. Whitley Carson, a book in his hands, stared across the car at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

      “The peddler’s gone,” he told Morgan. “He left before dawn.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      LIZZIE DREAMED SHE WAS HOME, waking up in her own room, hearing the dear, familiar sounds of a ranch house morning: stove lids clattering downstairs in the kitchen; the murmur of familiar voices, planning the day. She smelled strong coffee brewing, and wood smoke, and the beeswax Lorelei used to polish the furniture.

      Christmas Eve was special in the McKettrick household, but the chores still had to be done. The cattle and horses needed hay and water, the cows required milking, the wood waited to be chopped and carried in, and there were always eggs to be gathered from the henhouse. Behind the tightly closed doors of Papa’s study, she knew, a giant evergreen tree stood in secret, shimmering with tinsel strands and happy secrets. The luscious scent of pine rose through the very floorboards to perfume the second floor.

      Throughout the day, the uncles and aunts and cousins would come, by sleigh or, if the roads happened to be clear, by team and wagon and on horseback. There would be exchanges of food, small gifts, laughter and stories. In the evening, after attending church services in town, they would all gather at the main house, where Lizzie’s grandfather Angus would read aloud, his voice deep and resonant, from the Gospel of Luke.

      And there were in the same fields, shepherds, guarding their flocks by night…

      Tears moistened Lizzie’s lashes, because she knew she was dreaming. Knew she wasn’t on the Triple M, where she belonged, but trapped in a stranded train on a high, treacherous ridge.

      The smell of coffee was real, though. That heartened her. Gave her the strength to open her eyes.

      Her hair must have looked a sight, that was her immediate thought, and she needed to go outside. Her gaze found Morgan first, like a compass needle swinging north. He stood near the stove, looking rumpled from sleep, pouring coffee into a mug.

      He crossed to her, handed her the cup.

      The small courtesy seemed profound to Lizzie, rather than mundane.

      “Today,” she said, “is Christmas Eve.”

      “So it is,” Morgan agreed, smiling wanly.

      Whitley, resting with his broken leg propped on the bench seat, caught her eye. “Good morning, Lizzie-bet,” he said.

      She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, embarrassed by the nickname, and sipped at her coffee. Evidently, Whitley’s apology the day before had been a sincere one. He was on his best behavior. She discovered that she did not have an opinion on that, one way or the other.

      “Where is Mr. Christian?” she asked Morgan, having scanned the company and noticed he was missing. The caboose was chilly, despite the efforts of the little stove. “Has he gone looking for firewood?”

      A glance passed between Morgan and Whitley. Whitley raised both eyebrows, but didn’t speak.

      “He’s on his way to Stone Creek,” Morgan said, sounding resigned.

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