Janet Tronstad - Mail-Order Holiday Brides - Home for Christmas / Snowflakes for Dry Creek

“I took too much time thinking things over with those other ladies,” he explained. “By the time I got around to writing, first one and then the other had already been claimed. With you I wrote right away. You were too much to miss out on.”

That touched her. Her heart gave a little sigh. She wanted to be wanted. She wanted to matter to someone. She held tightly to his hand as she swept up onto the boardwalk. Light spilled over them, showing him fully for the first time.

Rustic. His fur coat made him look like a bear. His wide-brimmed hat hid most of his round face. He’d never be called handsome with his rather large nose and prominent chin, but his eyes were a friendly hazel and his muscular shoulders gave him a strong and dependable air. Looks weren’t what mattered. Neither did riches. It was the man within that counted.

“This ain’t the best place in town, but it’s what I can afford.” Tom shrugged in apology. “It’s safe and warm, and I talked to the manager, who promised to make you welcome.”

“Thank you, Tom.” His thoughtfulness did more to reassure her than anything could. Snow brushed her cheek as she stepped past the door he held open for her. She caught a glimpse of denim trousers and boots as she swept into the light and warmth. “You’ve done so much for me. Sending me a train ticket, offering me your home and your love. I hope we can be happy together.”

“You’ll make me very happy indeed.” He looked her up and down. Something glittered in his gaze, something she didn’t understand, but it was gone before she could analyze it.

Perhaps it was simply the reflection of the lamplight in his eyes, she decided. He stood, perfectly valiant, swept off his hat and self-consciously ran his fingers through his dark blond hair. She felt self-conscious, too, worrying he would be disappointed in her, perhaps wishing she was prettier and trying to ignore the niggle of what felt like doubt in the pit of her stomach.

That’s not a sign, she told herself. Anyone would feel trepidation meeting the stranger she’d agreed to marry. She’d prayed hard on this. Hadn’t she felt peace in her soul after discussing this with God? And it wasn’t as if she had a better choice. She’d answered twenty advertisements men had placed looking for wives in the Hearts and Hands magazine. Tom had been the one to answer her with a proposal and a train ticket. To a homeless woman, he’d been an answered prayer.

That’s what he still was. The answer to her prayers. She watched as he spoke respectfully with the middle-aged woman behind the front desk. He unbuttoned his coat, showing a wedge of flannel shirt and red suspenders. Her husband-to-be was apparently a farmer, which would make her a farmer’s wife. She knew nothing about farming, but she vowed to work hard. She would do her best cooking for him and keeping house. She’d learn about chickens and pigs or whatever she needed to because this man was going to be her everything. This man had promised to give her a home, his home, for Christmas.

“Mildred will get you settled.” Tom thrust out the battered satchel. “I’ll come by tomorrow right after lunch. Say, one o’clock?”

“I’ll be ready.” Christina took her satchel and tried to ignore the hollow feeling settling into the pit of her stomach. “I’m looking forward to it. I can’t wait to see your farm.”

“Can’t wait to show it to you.” Tom gave a bashful smile. “Good evening, Christina.”

Her throat closed up watching him go. He donned his hat, straightened his bulky fur coat and pushed through the door with a powerful snap. An icy wind blew snow around him and he disappeared into the night and storm.

“C’mon, dearie.” Mildred shuffled from behind the desk, heading toward the stairs. “I got your room a-warmin’. It’s gonna be a cold one tonight.”

“That’s kind of you.” What was she doing feeling lonely? Perhaps disappointed? Tom likely had chores to do on his farm instead of spending time getting to know her over supper, which she hadn’t realized until now that she’d been hoping he would.

There is plenty of time for that, a lifetime, she told herself as she followed Mildred not up the staircase but down a set of narrow steps into the basement. In a few days she would be fixing supper in their home. There would be endless evenings ahead to ask questions about his childhood or to tell him of hers. It will work out, she thought optimistically. It had to.

“Here ya go.” Mildred opened a door. “Coffee and tea are complimentary, self-serve if you’re interested. Let me know if you’ll be taking supper as Mr. Rutger didn’t pay for your meals, only your room. It’s fifty cents, a real bargain.”

Fifty cents? Christina bowed her head to hide her disappointment. She thought of her lost reticule, ignored her growling stomach and tightened her grip on her satchel. “Not tonight, thank you.”

“All righty.” Mildred gave a motherly smile. “The coal hod is stocked. Come find me if you need anything, dearie.”

“I will.” Christina waited until the older woman left before squeezing through the narrow door. The small room was cozy with a comfortable bed, a darling bureau and two armchairs, a peephole window and coal heater in the corner. Better than she’d had in years. She tucked her satchel next to the bureau, sat on the foot of the bed and rested her aching arm.

I’m not disappointed, she thought stubbornly, willing it to be so.

* * *

“Doc, do you know much about a man named Tom Rutger?” Elijah held out the basin of warm wash water he’d poured and carried from the woodstove.

“Tom? Sure I know him. I know just about everyone in this county.” Sam Frost took the basin, dunked a washcloth into the sudsy water and returned to his little patient’s side. “Why are you asking? Is it official business?”

“No, just curious is all.” He glanced toward the dark window, remembering the brief outline of the man who Christina was going to marry. “I didn’t like the look of him.”

“He and his brother took over the family pig farm when their folks retired, oh, seven or eight years ago. The brother married and moved onto his wife’s place last summer.” Doc Frost swiped at the mud obscuring the injured boy’s face.

No worried mother had knocked at the door looking for her child. No father had frantically searched the streets for a son that had wandered off. Elijah stared beyond his reflection in the window and studied the dark boardwalk. No one would be coming for the boy. He felt it in his guts. Returning his thoughts to the subject of Tom Rutger, he said, “I think I know which farm you mean. Just east of town?”

“That’s the one.”

Elijah leaned his forehead against the cool glass, picturing the run-down barn, the pig shelters made of scrap lumber, the shanty that had never seen a coat of paint. Tom Rutger might be the far side of prosperous, but that hadn’t answered the question. “Is he a good man?”

“I don’t like to talk ill of others. Let that be enough said.” Sam let out a sigh.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” He couldn’t stop wondering about Christina. Where was she now? Maybe dining with her bridegroom? They’d walked down the boardwalk away from both the hotel and other eating establishments in town, save for the boardinghouse.

He wished he could get the black feeling out of his stomach. With a sigh, he searched the stormy street. He did spot someone else he knew on the boardwalk. Sheriff Clint Kramer lifted a hand in acknowledgment and moseyed over.

“There’s the sheriff. Maybe he has some news on the boy.” Elijah headed for the door.

“Good. I’ll get him cleaned up.” Sam rinsed out the cloth. “Maybe while you’re gone, I can get him to talk.”