Old-Fashioned Texas Christmas (The Archer Brothers Book #4)

Karen Witemeyer

Description

In this 2-in-1 novella collection, Gift of the Heart tells the tale of a widow whose heirloom brooch brings her in contact--and conflict--with the local banker and might bring her a second chance at love. In An Archer Family Christmas, gathered together for the holidays, some of the Archers see long-held dreams fulfilled by an unexpected request for help.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781493421770
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2019 by Karen Witemeyer
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2177-0
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by LOOK Design Studio
Author is represented by the Books & Such Literary Agency.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
An Archer Family Christmas
Archer Genealogy
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Gift of the Heart by Karen Witemeyer
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
About the Author
Back Ads
An Archer Family Christmas
Archer Genealogy
Chapter 1
D ECEMBER 24, 1893—P AL ESTINE , TX
J im Archer loaded the rocker he’d crafted as a Christmas gift for his newest sister-in-law into the back of his wagon, then locked the door of his carpentry shop. Everyone would be at the ranch later this morning. Crockett and Joanna had gotten into town yesterday and were already installed with Travis and Meri. With all the young’uns underfoot, the ranch house would be crowded but lively. Cassie had offered to host Crock’s brood this year, but Joanna had declined. The children loved being together, she’d explained, and she hated to separate them when the cousins saw one another only once or twice a year. Cassie had understood, of course. She doted on her nieces and nephews and had spent all of yesterday with them, decorating cookies and stringing popcorn for the tree that the men would chop down later today.
A needle of grief jabbed Jim’s heart as a blast of icy wind blew down from the north. He gritted his teeth against the cold, both inner and outer varieties, and climbed into the wagon. Cassie would be waiting for him. She wanted to see Clara’s rocker before anyone else and add the red calico cushion she’d made to the seat, so the gift would truly be from both of them.
Jim smiled as he drove the wagon through the quiet streets of Palestine, Texas. Cassie never had gotten the hang of cooking, but her stitching had improved over the nine years they’d been married. She’d even taken up knitting. Her efforts wouldn’t win any ribbons at the county fair, but the bright blue scarf at his throat kept him warm despite its lopsided ends.
The drive out to the homestead didn’t take long, not with thoughts of Cassie’s bright smile urging him on. But instead of hurrying to the house to let her know he was home, Jim left the horses hitched in the yard and walked around the barn to the slight rise at the edge of the pines. After ducking through the paddock fence, he shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and wrapped his gloved fingers around the tiny wagon he’d whittled. He pulled it out, gave each of the four wheels a turn on their axles, and smiled in satisfaction when they spun in tandem.
His steps slowed as he reached the edge of the trees, and he forced his gaze to the stone he faced only once a year.
William Carey Archer
Born Dec. 23, 1890—Died Dec. 24, 1890
Our beloved son rests not here
but in the arms of Jesus
Jim hunkered beside the headstone and cleared away a few shoots of dead grass that had grown tall enough last summer to cover his son’s name. Two wooden horses, dirty and weatherworn, their hooves anchored in the earth, stood sentry at the base of the stone.
“Made you a wagon this year, Billy.” Jim set the carving behind the horses to measure where the wheel ruts should go, then dug out a pair of slender trenches with a stick before setting the wagon in its place. “Merry Christmas.”
His eyes started to itch, so he didn’t linger. He pushed to his feet with a sniff and a hardening of his heart. Cassie needed him to be strong. She battled melancholy every year at this time. Oh, she hid it well, playing her role of Auntie Cass to the hilt—smiling, laughing, filling the Archer cabin with her sparkling energy and joy. But at night, when everyone had gone to bed and she was alone in his arms, she cried herself to sleep.
He wouldn’t make it harder on her by allowing his own grief to become visible.

Cassandra waited until Jim rounded the corner of the barn, then ran out to greet him. She knew where he’d gone. He made the same visit every Christmas Eve, and she loved him for it. Loved him for having the strength to do what she couldn’t—visit the tiny grave on the hillside. Deep in her mother’s soul, she knew that seeing the name of her boy etched into that cold stone marker would cause her heart to shrivel into dust, leaving nothing for the man who deserved the best she could give. The one who loved her with such quiet intensity that she never quite felt worthy.
“You’re home!” Crossing the last few feet separating them, she smiled and launched herself into his arms, exulting in the feel of his closeness as he crushed her to his chest.
He lowered her slowly, her feet dangling above the ground for a delicious heartbeat before her toes touched. Then his palm cupped the back of her head, and he took her mouth like a desperate man, his grief exposing the raw edges of his emotions more than usual. She drank it in, giving freely of herself in the process. He was her rock, but every now and then she had the privilege of being his as well.
Wishing they had time to move this sensual salutation into the bedroom for a more thorough exploration, Cassandra regretfully dipped down off her toes and stroked a finger along her husband’s jaw as her lips broke contact.
“Travis and Meri are expecting us,” she murmured, her voice breathless as her pulse struggled to regulate.
Jim touched his forehead to hers. His eyes slid closed. “I know.”
He sounded so forlorn, she couldn’t help but giggle.
He lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “You laughing at me, wife?”
“Yes!” Using her palms, she pushed off his chest and twirled away from him, giggling again when he swatted her backside.
Goodness, how she loved this man.
Dancing away from him and over to the wagon, she glanced over her shoulder. “I want to see the rocker.”
In three running steps, Jim was at her side, sweeping her into his arms and swinging her over the side of the wagon as if she were a child and not a thirty-year-old woman who’d added a bit of padding to her once-girlish figure. He might not bury her under a mountain of words each day, but he communicated his feelings just fine.
As she found her balance in the wagon bed, Jim moved around to the back and lowered the tailgate. The wagon shifted as it accepted his weight, but she barely noticed. Her attention was fully captured by her husband’s latest masterpiece.
The rocker’s design might be simple, but she saw all the love poured into it. The hours of carving and lathing, sanding and staining. The lacquered finish that would protect it from wear and make it a family heirloom to treasure and hand down to future generations of Archers. A nearly identical rocker sat in her own parlor, though hers had a more ornate bouquet of flowers carved into the top of the back rest. Clara’s depicted a small sprig of feathery blooms. The wood bore no paint to indicate their color, but Cassandra knew at once what they were.
“Indian paintbrush?” She ran her finger along the motif that so aptly represented the newest addition to the Archer clan.
“Yep.”
She smiled at the lack of explanation. She didn’t need one anyway. After nine years, she’d learned to read her husband, to see the soft heart hiding beneath the sturdy exterior.
Many looked down on the newest Archer bride for her Comanche blood, but just as God directed red Indian paintbrush flowers to bloom amid Texas bluebonnets, he’d brought Clara to bloom and belong among the Archers. With Neill at her side, the two of them would flourish. That was what her husband had carved into the oak. Not a pretty decoration, but a statement of acceptance and commitment.
She twisted her head to meet his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
He cupped her face in his hand, his thumb caressing her cheek. He didn’t have to say the words. She felt them down to her toes—felt beautiful beneath his searing gaze.
She cleared her throat and turned back to the chair, her cheek still tingling from Jim’s touch. “I’m so glad I went with red for the cushion. It will be perfect. I’ll just, um, run back to the house and grab it, along with the box of gifts for the children. We really ought to be going. . . .” And she really ought to stop rambling, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Besides, if she talked too much, Jim was liable to—
His arm snaked around her waist, spinning her around so that his lips could meld with hers.
Cassandra sighed into the caress. What would a few more minutes hurt? It’s not like Travis would send out a search par—
“Hello, in the wagon!”
Jim groaned. Cassandra hid her face in her husband’s chest and bit her lip to keep an embarrassed giggle from escaping. Apparently Travis had sent out a search party. Or at least a search brother.
“Crock,” Jim grunted.
“What? You’re not happy to see me? It’s been months!” The most jocular of the brothers sat atop his horse, feigning indignation.
“I would have greeted you more cordially if it had been months plus abo