Laurie Kingery - Hill Country Christmas

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.”

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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.

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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.

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

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. “Miss Keller, are you all right?”

It was Reverend Calhoun from Mason, who had kindly come to conduct the funeral, since Llano Crossing was now preacherless.

She looked away from the concern in his old eyes, afraid she would dissolve into tears but knowing it was safe to confide in him.

“What am I going to do, Reverend Calhoun? My whole life was taking care of my grandpa.”

He gave her an understanding smile. “You needn’t decide that today, my dear,” he reminded her. “You’ve suffered a loss, a grievous loss, and it’ll take a while to find your feet. But the Lord will show you a way.”

Delia blinked, wiping away a tear that managed to escape from her eyes. She had no patience with platitudes this morning. “The town will be finding a new preacher, and he’ll need to live in the parsonage—where am I to go? I have no money, no employment…” No beau, she added to herself. She wouldn’t be going to live in the beautiful white house Charles Ladley would build someday for his bride, and the worst thing was, she didn’t even know why not.

“The Lord will reveal all that to you, Miss Keller,” the preacher assured her, confidence mingled with compassion in his deep, resonant voice, “in the fullness of time. He takes care of the birds in the air and the lilies of the field, you know. Now come—it looks as if the good ladies of Llano Crossing have prepared a nice meal for you.” Nodding toward the tables under the trees, he said, “Why don’t we—”

“I…I don’t think I can stay for it,” she said quickly, keeping her gaze on the toes of her high-button boots, but away from the grave. “I just…I just want to go back to the parsonage and lie down.” While I still can lie down there—and try to imagine what I’m going to do.

“Nonsense, child, you need to put some food in your stomach, and take heart from the others who loved Reverend McKinney,” urged his wife, a comfortable-looking gray-haired woman who had returned to her husband’s side. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten a bite, I’m sure.”