A Miracle under the Mistletoe (Preview)

Prologue: November 15, 1872—Boston

“Mother, you can’t mean it.” Twenty-nine-year-old Theodore Mansfield couldn’t believe his mother was serious. “Leave Boston? And go where?”

His mother propped herself up in bed with a pile of pillows behind her and sighed. “You heard me, Theodore. I want you to go out west for a while and stay with my brother in Colorado Territory.” She paused. “For one year.”

He winced, certain that her illness was affecting her mind. “But why?”

“Because you need to settle down. It’s time you put your wild ways behind you—”

“Wild ways?”

She made a face. “Taking odd jobs anywhere you can find them and only for as long as you want them.” She waved a hand. “That George Bailey and Company Circus and Menagerie you worked a couple of summers ago. Gambling on steamboats. Not taking anything seriously. Not taking life seriously.”

He reached for her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Life’s too short to take anything seriously, Mother. Of all people, you should know that.” 

While he tried to sound lighthearted, he couldn’t hide the pain deep in his heart. She was very sick. In fact, only moments ago, he had been willing to give her anything she wanted, but this? This was… well, her request was rather unsettling. 

“Theodore, he’s our only living relative—one that you’ve never even seen, and one that I haven’t seen in twenty-five years…” A faraway look appeared in her eyes. “That’s not right. And your uncle isn’t getting any younger, either.”

The thought of venturing into the wilds of the west nearly prompted a shiver to race down Theodore’s spine. While he was typically adventurous, most of those escapades took place where there were actually people to be found aplenty. People. Noise. Music and laughter, the sound of horses and carriages and, well, civilization. He didn’t like empty spaces. She knew that. He needed to be around people. She knew that, too. Unbidden memories of the Canadian wilds rushed into his thoughts but he pushed them away. 

He liked the sights and sounds of civilization, the crowds of people or structures around him. The shouts of the milkmen on their brightly painted wagons just before dawn, the dull jangle of a cow bell hung around the horse’s neck somehow soothing. The cries of the young street vendors hawking corn with their “Hot corn, hot corn, here’s your fine hot corn!” 

He thrived in such environments. It wasn’t as if he was afraid to be in the woods; he wasn’t. He had ventured south into Kentucky or northward into the woods of Wisconsin on hunting or fishing trips, but he always had traveling companions. That first time, though, he had been alone and frightened.

“Maybe you can build a life for yourself there, away from all this.” She lifted her hand again and waved it as if swatting at a fly.

“What’s wrong with Boston?”

His mother frowned. “You can’t live in Boston picking up on jobs here and there,” she gently scolded. “At least not indefinitely. And Theo, you’re almost thirty years old. It’s time for you to settle down, find a wife, and have a family of your own.”

Settling down. Marriage. It was a topic his mother had brought up repeatedly since his twenty-fifth birthday. Though he liked to see new sites and cities, he had never been west of the Mississippi. The idea of all that vast wilderness, coupled with the stories he had heard about wild Indians and outlaws and gunfights, had never interested him, even though he liked to believe he was the ultimate adventurer.

“Your uncle Buck was a trapper too, a long time ago. But he knew how to change with the times. He runs a small cattle ranch now. I think you might like it out there.”

He scoffed. While he had vaguely heard of the western town of Denver, and it did sound slightly interesting, he doubted a tiny little place like Elk Ridge was anything that would interest him and his usual zest for excitement. Apparently, Elk Ridge was nearly twenty miles away from the so-called city, and nestled in the foothills of the mountains above the city to boot. He didn’t want to go, but at the same time, how could he deny his mother’s wish? Maybe one of her last? It was only for a year. He’d been gone from his mother’s home in Boston more than that a time or two. 

Reluctantly, he finally nodded. “Fine, Mother. I’ll go, but only to please you.”

She smiled, a rare one these days. “That’s my boy.” She squeezed his hand. “Mark my words, son. I think that Colorado Territory will grow on you if you just give it a chance.”

Chapter One: Emily 

Elk Ridge—November 28, 1872

“Wait up!” Twenty-one-year-old Emily Danvers struggled to keep up with eight-year-old Harriet and six-year-old Georgie as they dashed from the small mercantile in town, each gleefully clutching half of a peppermint stick. She shouldn’t have wasted a penny on it, but she couldn’t help but indulge them.

“I’ll share mine with you, Emily,” Harriet said, thrusting her half of the peppermint stick toward her.

“Thank you, Harriet, but you go ahead and enjoy your treat. I don’t feel much for sweets today.” She looked across the street and saw the town’s schoolteacher, Miss Amy Carson, sweeping the front stoop of the one-room schoolhouse. “Look, there’s Miss Carson. Let’s go say hello.”

The children dashed ahead while Emily settled deeper into her old jacket. A breeze swept through her winter skirt and knitted stockings, and she felt its bite. The cold, damp chill had arrived earlier this year than it had the last. Holding off another shiver, she glanced down at the two wide wooden steps, making sure there was no ice on them.

“Miss Danvers!”

She froze, cringed, and closed her eyes. Lord, give me patience. Pasting a tight smile on her face, she turned around. “Why Mister Rhodes, how nice to see you so early in the morning.”

He grunted. Quincy Rhodes was the town’s bank manager. He worked for the bank owner, Harold P. Marion, who resided in his fancy mansion in Denver, sixteen miles down the east side of the Rockies where the mountains met the plains.

Actually, it wasn’t nice to see Mister Rhodes. For the past several weeks, he had been pestering her parents about two overdue mortgage payments and the previous year’s property taxes, which were also due. Quincy had tried to convince her parents that he was only doing his job, that it was all Harold P. Marion’s fault that he was hounding them. He was also only following the banker’s orders to kick them off their property if the debt wasn’t paid, and soon. 

It was also on his boss’s orders that Quincy had sent them note after note, and the reason why he came knocking on their door at least twice a week reminding them that the payment was due and otherwise making a nuisance of himself. He wouldn’t tell them to get off their property before Christmas, would he? In the middle of early winter?

“I told you the last time I saw you, Mister Rhodes, that we’re working very hard to put together a payment—”

“I’m afraid that one payment isn’t going to be acceptable, Miss Danvers,” he cut in. Quincy Rhodes was a middle-aged man, skinny, with an over-large nose and constantly watering eyes. He pulled a white handkerchief from his frock coat pocket and dabbed at them, sniffling loudly. “Mister Marion has been as patient as he can be.”

“Patient?” Emily exclaimed, shaking her head. “My family has been paying the mortgage on that property diligently for years! Until last year, we were able to pay our property taxes on time as well!” She frowned, trying not to let her emotions overcome her or she would lose her temper with the man. “This last harvest was meager for many of the farmers around here due to the drought we had this past summer, which I know you are certainly aware. Hopefully, next year’s crops will get us ahead again.”

Because of the poor crops, Emily had been juggling a number of jobs to help her family pay off their looming debts. Even her mother had taken a part-time job at the boarding house doing the cooking and cleaning, much to her father’s disapproval. Yet even her father, with his bum shoulder, had been forced to hire himself out as a handyman in addition to taking care of his own property, to earn a few extra dollars a month.

“Be that as it may—”

“After all these years of paying on time, can’t Mister Marian be a little more patient? We only have three payments left to make on the house until we receive the deed of ownership!”

“Don’t forget the overdue property taxes.” 

She inhaled slowly. “Yes, and last year’s taxes, but we’re all working hard to get the money collected. I promise!”

She could tell that Quincy Rhodes didn’t care. Oh, he pretended he did, alternately nodding and shaking his head along with appropriate expressions, always muttering that all this trouble was Harold P. Marion’s fault for being so impatient. Still, he claimed, his hands were tied. He reminded her that her family had been warned about foreclosure months ago.

“Mister Rhodes.” She spoke as softly as she could while still maintaining a firm edge to her voice to not sound like she was begging. “Are you telling me that you’re going to kick a family with seven children out of the only home that they have ever known right before Christmas?” She shook her head and tsked. “I don’t suppose that will make a very good impression on the rest of the townsfolk who bank with you, do you?” She paused when his eyebrows rose. “Could you imagine what would happen if everyone who stored their money at the First Bank of Elk Ridge decided to pull their money out over such cruelty?”

Her statement certainly wasn’t a threat that she could enforce. However, she did know that Quincy Rhodes didn’t have the best reputation in town, and the bank owner, Harold P. Marion was thought of even less kindly. 

“We need a bank in this town, Mister Rhodes, no doubt about it.” She shook her head. “Besides, how is Mister Marian going to get those three months’ worth of mortgage payments and the back property taxes if he kicks us off our property? How are we supposed to survive or make a living? Where would we live?”

“That is not my concern, Miss Danvers.”

“Well it should be, don’t you think?” She took a step closer to him, barely managing to hide a wince of pain as she placed her weight awkwardly on her left leg. “Remember back in the old days when they used to put debtors into stocks or in debtor’s prison until they paid what they owed?”

He brightened. “Exactly!”

She frowned. “Well, how exactly did they manage it? How could the debtors pay back what they owed if they were locked in jail or bound in stocks?” She lifted her eyebrows. “How could they, Mister Rhodes?”

He scowled. “I don’t know, Miss Danvers, and it’s not my problem. It’s your family’s problem! You tell your parents that I’m running out of patience, and Mister Marian is completely out of it. If you don’t want the sheriff knocking on your door, I suggest you do what you have to do to pull that money together, and quickly!”

Before she could retort to that threat, he turned around and stomped off, heading back toward his fancy red brick bank on the far edge of town. Rhodes always boasted that just over one thousand bricks had been required to build the walls of the small bank. Those bricks had come by wagon from Denver, because of course the bank owner, Harold P. Marion, couldn’t possibly construct his bank out of wood planks, timber, or even stone like everyone else in town.

She muttered under her breath and glanced toward her siblings playing on the swing hanging from a tree in the schoolyard. Amy Carson gave her a wave and Emily forced a smile and waved back.

“Harriet! Georgie! Let’s get home!”

She limped after them, one hand grasping her cane, the other the handle of the wicker basket carrying small packets of spices, half a pound of salt, and the tin container of baking soda that her mother had requested. The nearly threadbare mittens she wore did little to stop the bone-numbing chill of the early December breeze that swept down from the mountains around them. She needed to knit a new pair, but who had the time? She had also purchased another pack of sewing needles and a spool of black thread that she needed for herself. She shook her head, troubled by her interaction with the bank manager. Her fingertips were already tender with all the sewing she had done over the past weeks. She could only mend and stitch so fast.

Lord, help me find a way to help my parents. Help us all be strong against this seemingly insurmountable challenge. Where’s the money going to come from, Lord? How are we going to do this? Hot tears burned her eyes and she angrily blinked them back. No tears! She had to be strong and confident, not only for herself but for her parents and her siblings.

They were all doing what they could. Eighteen-year-old Carolyn had started helping out at the doctor’s office. Doctor Clayton Arnett had grumbled about “an assistant” at first, but she kept his office clean, made sure he had adequate supplies, and ordered them for delivery from Denver, which he often forgot to do. She also helped him with minor procedures as needed. Now, he said he couldn’t run his office without her.

Fifteen-year-old Phoebe sometimes helped Wendell Gentry in the mercantile and post office, sweeping, unpacking supplies and arranging them on shelves, and taking care of the transactions. It wasn’t an everyday job, maybe once or twice a week at most. Her fourteen-year-old brother Jonathan often helped out thirty-year-old Norman Coffee at the livery and stables. Norman had lost most of his left arm during the War Between the States, but he was a strong bull of a man who didn’t allow a missing arm to affect his business much. Jonathan helped out after school most days, mucking stalls.

Even twelve-year-old Tristan helped out when he could, mostly for Mister Whitesburg, the town’s butcher and father of Emily’s best friend, Leona. The only ones who didn’t help out in town were younger Harriet and Georgie, but chores at the house kept them busy. 

She thought of the five pennies left in her skirt pocket, what was left of her last bit of pay sewing for the town’s seamstress and tailor—and spinster—Miss Eula Brinkman. It was only fair, wasn’t it, after all the money her parents spent on her? Her parents had taken her to a special doctor in Denver last year, who had told them, quite bluntly, that the long term and frequent pain in her hip and thigh was a sign of mental disease. That had been a horrible waste of precious savings. The doctor in Elk Ridge, Clayton Arnett, had offered laudanum, which she rarely took, hating the taste. Her father eschewed medicines of all sorts but she sometimes relied on the thistle concoction her mother made to treat occasional swelling of her hip joint and tendons.

With seven children to provide for, her parents, John and Ruth Danvers, had been struggling for years. As the oldest child, she should have been married years ago, but apparently, no one saw the use in courtship with a woman who walked with a limp, used a cane, and suffered through bouts of what the doctor called bursitis, the pain of arthritis, and inflammation. 

Even eighteen-year-old Caroline should’ve had a beau by now, but there were few young, marriageable men living in Elk Ridge. By that age, most of them had already left their small town to find jobs in Denver or ventured further north to Cheyenne or down south into the warmer climes of Arizona territory. Of course there were cattle ranch hands in the region, some closer to town than others, but most of them were wild, rough, and didn’t come to church on Sundays.

Emily had given up even considering the idea of marriage. She was sure she would never experience the joys or travails of courtship, nor of having a family of her own, one that she secretly longed for with all of her heart. She had put up a guard around her heart years ago, trying to be practical. Her parents called her pretty, but didn’t all parents say that about their daughters? She was well aware of her lameness and wished some people could see beyond her limp. Most people in town did, but those cowboys, those ranch hands, unfortunately did not.

So, Emily pushed such useless thoughts out of her mind and focused on the tasks at hand—the chores that awaited her at home, and the mending and altering tasks the town seamstress and tailor, Eula Brinkman, gave her to help support her family.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Emily Danvers!”

She had just passed the livery stable and was headed down the path that would eventually lead her home when she turned to glance over her shoulder. She smiled when she saw Peter “Buck” Johnson approaching. He had burrowed deep into his coat of deer hide lined with sheep’s wool. He had wrapped a knitted scarf around his neck, one end flapping loosely in the breeze. His cheeks were red and she saw his crystalline breath hanging in the air.

“Good morning, Mister Johnson. How are you?” She glanced down the road out of town. The children waited for her at the bottom of the slope that rounded a hill just past the town cemetery. Her parents’ farm was a mile farther down.

“For an old man, I’d say I’m doing pretty well. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Buck Johnson was a large man, both in height and girth, standing a little over six feet tall. He wore a pair of faded and well-worn dungarees, one leg tucked into a scuffed cowboy boot, the other leg drooping outside of the other boot. A pair of black suspenders stretched up past his rotund belly and then disappeared underneath the large leather vest he wore, the right half of his shirt collar draped over the shoulder of the vest, the other one hidden underneath.

“I could say the same for you, Mister Johnson. We missed you at church last Sunday.”

“Blasted gout,” he grumbled. “Couldn’t even get my boot on. Wouldn’t be proper to attend church with only one boot on, would it?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think the good Lord would mind, especially since you had such a good reason to come in sock feet.”

“Well, that may be.” He shrugged. “But I wasn’t feeling quite myself and didn’t want to expose anyone else to my sour mood.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you up and about. I’ll have your mending back to you in just a couple more days. I’ve been a little busier than usual, what with all the sewing and mending, and Christmas just around the corner.”

While Johnson rarely smiled, the townsfolk liked and respected him. Emily liked him too, even if he had a reputation for being a grouch. She had an inkling that he pretended to be gruffer than he really was. It was seldom that she saw him even attempt to crack a smile, but a time or two, she had seen a devilish twinkle in his eyes, convincing her that he was not nearly as short-tempered as he pretended to be. Why he behaved that way, she had no idea, but it was none of her business.

“Quite all right,” he said. He touched a finger to his hat and gestured toward the livery stable where a wagon and two large bay horses were tied at a nearby hitching post. “Well, I’ve got to get down to Denver. I’m picking up a nephew who’s come to stay for a while.” He shook his head. “One of the horses threw a shoe halfway into town. Had to get a new one put on real quick.”

“Well, it will be nice for you to have some company.”

He grimaced. “We’ll see. I’ve never met the boy.” He started to turn away. “Good day to you, Miss Danvers.”

“Same to you, Mister Johnson.”

He turned his wagon east out of town while she took the southbound trail, the damp, cold weather causing her hip joint to ache more than usual. 

Harriet skipped back and forth around her. “Aren’t you excited about being chosen for the Founder’s celebration committee, Emily?”

She glanced down at her sister and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“You don’t look very excited.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a big responsibility and lots of planning and organizing.” 

“Don’t worry. With you in charge, this year we’ll beat Trapper’s Bluff.”

Emily smiled. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Of course! We’ll have the mostest and prettiest holiday decorations and those people who come from Denver to do the voting, well, they’ll be flab… flabble…”

“Flabbergasted.” She sighed. “It would be nice to win the grand prize, wouldn’t it?”

Over the past few winters, Elk Ridge and other small towns scattered through the mountains within a day’s ride of Denver had, for some reason or other, found themselves engaged in competition to see which town could create the best decorations for the holidays. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. After all, Christmas was about celebrating the birth of Christ, not who had the most elaborate holiday decorations. 

Even so, and not without a little bit of guilt, Emily had found the competition exciting, beautiful, and wondrous. Apparently, such events had grown popular not only in Denver but throughout the entire country, primarily on the East Coast.

“Can you imagine winning an actual whole twenty dollars for the town? And getting a story written about us in the city newspaper?”

Emily smiled down at her. “Yes, it would be nice.” The twenty-dollar prize was offered to the town’s city council to determine how best to use it. Last year, Trapper’s Bluff had used their prize money to have a statue built in the middle of their town honoring their founder, Roger Charbonneau, an American fur trapper who had braved the wilderness, Indians, and even a grizzly bear attack to not only make a fortune fur trapping, but also build one of the first trading posts in the area.

 

Yet if she were to be completely truthful with herself, she felt nervous. It was an important celebration, one of the biggest that Elk Ridge had ever thrown—a combination Founder’s Day and Christmas celebration. With it being so close to Christmas, she would be busy. Plenty of sewing to be done for both celebrations.

“What will Elk Ridge do with the money if we win?”

Emily shrugged. “I have no idea. Why don’t you run along and catch up with your brother. It’s cold out here.”

“That’s okay.” Harriet shrugged. “I’d rather walk with you. Georgie is making fun of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t run as fast as him.” She lifted a small hand to her mouth and looked up at Emily. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s quite all right, Harriet.”

While Emily could run if she absolutely had to, it was a slow, ungainly sight that she’d rather not subject anyone to. She smiled at the worry in her little sister’s big green eyes. “You know what? He may get a head start on you, but if you keep trying, you’ll catch up to him one of these days. Georgie may run fast, but he’s like a quarter horse. He might have speed in the beginning, but you’re a thoroughbred. You can run for longer than him. You just have to stick with it long enough.”

Harriet grinned and skipped ahead, catching up with her little brother. Soon, the two of them were dashing along the road. At the edge of town, passing the cemetery, Emily followed at a much slower pace, no longer bothering to hide a grimace of pain every time she placed weight on her left leg. This cold. She shook her head and sighed, her thoughts returning to the upcoming celebrations.

The fiftieth anniversary of the founding of Elk Ridge wasn’t actually until mid-January, but Millicent Godfrey had insisted that combining the celebrations would help to cheer everyone in town. The women’s committee at church was led by the widow Godfrey, a seventy-year-old  who’d been among the founders of the town. Most people didn’t say no to her. 

Emily realized she wasn’t being very Christian in her criticism and tried to regain her sense of delight over being asked to participate in the planning of some of the events. After all, it was looking to be a long, cold winter, one of the coldest in the past handful of years. 

Though just barely December, they’d already had two snowfalls. Both had melted by Thanksgiving. Now, it was too cold to snow, but if it warmed up at all they could expect snowfall that often reached three or four feet in one dump. It wouldn’t be the first time Elk Ridge had experienced a winter blizzard or two, either. Still, they had a long way to go before spring.

Elk Ridge had never had a Founder’s Day before, nor a Christmas festival as such. Funding had to be taken into serious consideration. After all, the town’s coffers weren’t exactly brimming with money. Most of the money was raised by the women’s league at church through bake sales held throughout the year. As it was, farmers and cattle ranchers were hunkering down for another long, cold winter. Money that had been saved from harvests was earmarked for the purchase of seeds for the coming spring planting. Ranchers saved the money from cattle sales primarily in an effort to keep their livestock properly fed during the cold winter months. 

Most ranchers around here let their cattle feed on prairie grasses during the warmer seasons, but they would need hay for colder weather. That cost money. While the cattle could still graze on winter grasses, greens and silage could help get them through the bitter, cold months, especially in the event that they had a blizzard or two. 

She hoped she was up to the task. Winter was definitely not her favorite season, as the cold, damp air made her joints more painful and her limp more severe. Nevertheless, she had long ago learned how to put a brave front on for everyone, primarily to keep her parents from worrying about her. They still blamed themselves.

As a child, she had been tossed out of the family buggy by a runaway horse, frightened by a snake on the trail. She’d been seven years old. Thank goodness her mother had been holding four-year-old Caroline in her lap at the time. Emily had broken her hip and had been forced to lay in bed for several months before she could walk again. From that day forward, she had walked with a limp. Sometimes, her limp was exacerbated by the weather or by overdoing things, but in spite of her injury, she could move fairly quickly if she had to, using her cane for extra support.

She sighed, thinking ahead to the chores that awaited at home. She had sewing and mending to do for Mister Johnson and Miss Agatha Peabody, who had asked her to adjust the seams in a dress that she had found in an old trunk of hers up in the attic. What made the sixty-five-year-old Miss Peabody think that she could squeeze her body into a dress that she had worn twenty years earlier was none of Emily’s business. She’d promised the older woman that she would do her best with the alterations and planned on completing them today.

She sighed and tried to clear her mind. The last of the golden aspen leaves had fallen, though the scent of pine was still heavy in the air. Today, the sky was a brilliant azure blue with puffy white clouds skimming high above, casting shadows on the ground below. The family farm wasn’t too far out of town, and at least the road they took toward home was dry, though rutted. After the rains came, travel on this road by foot, horse, or wagon was a bit trying, mud sucking at her boots, forcing her to hold up her skirts with one hand as she navigated the path with her cane, often a tenuous journey.

When the snow hit, sometimes the road into town was impassable, but so far they had managed. She hoped that any winter storms would hold off until after the holidays, so that the Founder’s Day and Christmas celebration plans could come to fruition. The first step was to plan a number of events that would take place over the course of December and up until church services on Christmas Day. 

“Emily! Wait!”

She paused and once more glanced over her shoulder, smiling as she recognized her best friend, Leona Whitesburg, hurrying to catch up with her. She carried a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

“My father saw you from the butcher shop and wanted you to have this leftover beef for a stew or a pot roast or something.”

Emily shook her head. What did she mean, “leftover” beef? The butcher cut meat fresh every day, keeping whatever was left in the ice house out behind the shop. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, Leona? My parents don’t like to take charity.”

Leona’s eyes widened in mock dismay. “Charity? Heavens, no! This is payment for services rendered.”

She and her best friend often went round and round like this. “What services?”

“Don’t you remember that Jonathan helped replace those shingles on our roof last week? And Tristan helped out at the meat counter the other day when Michael was sick.” Michael Bookman was the butcher’s part-time employee, but he’d been distracted lately as he was courting a woman from Denver. 

She shook her head but smiled as she accepted the package with as much grace as possible. “Thank you, but you know my brothers are always happy to help out.” 

It was true. Jonathan did a lot of odd jobs and handy work around town, just like her father when he wasn’t working the farm. Tristan had already expressed interest in becoming a butcher, just like Leona’s father, and often pestered the poor man to let him stand in a corner and watch as he did his job.

Bartering was common just about everywhere these days, when cold, hard cash was hard to come by. Still, Emily’s family was on the receiving end more than on the giving end. 

She and Leona continued walking in companionable silence for a while, the children running ahead.

“Now that you’re on the planning committee for Founder’s Day and Christmas celebrations, do you have any ideas?”

Emily sighed, her breath hanging in the air in front of them. “Well, for Founder’s Day, I was thinking that maybe the schoolchildren could put on a short play.”

“That’s a great idea!” Leona nodded. “What about Christmas?”

“I have a few ideas that we could do leading up to Christmas Day. We can spread them out over the last three weeks of the month.”

“Like what?”

Emily shrugged. “I think it would be nice if the town put up a big Christmas tree, right at the intersection of Main Street and Godfrey Street.” Main Street ran west to east and Godfrey Street, named after one of the first founders of town, ran north to south.

“Oh!” Leona clapped. “What a wonderful idea! And we can decorate it with some of those glass baubles and ornaments that have gotten so popular the last couple of years. And maybe some cut-out stars and even some angels.”

“Yes, something like that,” Emily agreed. “And we could arrange some kind of a gift exchange.” She paused, lifting a finger. “But only homemade things, nothing that a person would have to buy. Like cookies or a pie, maybe handmade toys for the children?”

“That sounds good, too.”

“I was also thinking we might put together a wagon full of things that people don’t need any more, like clothes that they’ve outgrown but are still in good condition, and shoes or something of the sort that we can donate to the orphanage in Denver.”

Leona didn’t say anything, her mouth twisted in thought. “Anything else?”

“Well, maybe we could decorate some of the town with pine boughs and ribbons, and hang a few lanterns down Main Street. That would look pretty, don’t you think?”

Leona shrugged. “Sure it would, but it would be wasteful of kerosene, don’t you think?”

“Maybe one lantern in front of each shop along Main Street then. That wouldn’t waste too much. Then I was thinking the children could string popcorn to hang on the tree. And maybe we can get a group of people together from church and go Christmas caroling through town.”

Leona turned to her with a smile. “Those all sound like good ideas. Maybe you can think of a couple of things that might bring some of the ranchers into town, too. Maybe a Christmas dance or something like that?”

Emily smiled. “I think a good old-fashioned barn dance would be fun. Mister Gentry can play his fiddle and your father his guitar.”

Leona smiled. “These are all great ideas.” She paused, a look of concern furrowing her brow. “Now you only have to get them past Missus Godfrey.” Leona stuck her nose up in the air and thrust her chin forward. “She might not think it’s dignified enough,” she said, trying to mimic the older woman’s crackly voice.

Emily laughed. “I think it would be good for the town to celebrate a little, to forget the hard summer we had and the not-so-bountiful harvest, something that might help to cheer everyone up before we head into a long winter.”

Leona stopped and placed her hand on Emily’s shoulder. “I know you’ll sway her,” she said. “You can convince a frog to give you a fly. Anyway, I’ve got to get back. I’ll see you soon.”

With that, Leona turned and hurried away. Emily watched her go, trying not to feel any envy or self-pity at how quickly Leona moved along the barest hint of a trail that led back to town.

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“A Miracle under the Mistletoe” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Amidst the twinkling lights and festive spirit of Evergreen Ridge, Emily shoulders the burden of various jobs to rescue her family from debt. The looming threat of losing their cherished home casts a shadow over the holiday season. Confiding in her best friend, Emily’s worries reach the ears of Theodore, a mysterious rancher. Theodore’s entrance in town will soon set in motion a chain of events that will transform Emily’s world forever.

What secrets does Theodore hold, and how will his presence impact Emily’s life?

Theodore, a wealthy and enigmatic rancher, is drawn to Emily’s elegance and resilience. After overhearing her concerns at the holiday fair, he decides to become the silent guardian angel her family desperately needs. Determined to be more than just a benefactor, Theodore frequents the fair, and their connection blossoms, untainted by the financial aid he discreetly provides. He keeps his role a secret, wanting Emily to love him for who he is.

For how long will he be able to keep this secret, though?

As the snow falls in Evergreen Ridge, Emily and Theodore’s connection deepens with each passing day. Their encounters at the holiday fair blossom into genuine conversations, revealing layers of shared dreams and quiet understanding. Will their love withstand the revelation of Theodore’s secret, or will hidden truths overshadow the enchantment of the season?

“A Miracle under the Mistletoe” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 70,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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