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The Magic of Christmas: A Christmas Child / The Christmas Dove / A Baby Blue Christmas
Carolyn Davidson
Victoria Bylin
Cheryl St.John
A Christmas Child by Carolyn DavidsonMarianne Winters has no one in the world but her baby brother, and with Christmas approaching she needs somewhere warm to stay. Will she find her home and a loving heart with the lonely pastor, David McDermott?The Christmas Dove by Victoria Bylin Maddie Cutler once snubbed bad boy Dylan McCall, but with nowhere else to turn she has come back to town – with a babe in arms. Dylan is a reformed man, and on seeing Maddie again he longs to heal her hurt – and claim her once and for all!A Baby Blue Christmas by Cheryl St John Turner Price hasn’t been the same since he lost his wife and child. But when he finds a young woman and twin newborn babies in his stable, he realises this may be his second chance to be a loving husband and father – just in time for Christmas!
Acclaim for the authors of THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS:
CAROLYN DAVIDSON ‘For romance centring on the joys and sorrows of married life, readers can’t do much better than Davidson.’ —RT Book Reviews
‘Her novels go beyond romance to the depths of the ultimate healing power of love.’
—RT Book Reviews
VICTORIA BYLIN ‘Ms Bylin is a growing talent in historical fiction and her magic pen touches both your emotions and your soul with each turn of the page.’ —Romance Reviews Today
‘Bylin captures the aura of the wild west as skilfully as she creates memorable characters. The fast pace is tempered by the gentle passion that shimmers through the pages, bringing readers a wonderful experience.’
—RT Book Reviews on MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE
CHERYL ST JOHN ‘Ms St John knows what the readers want and keeps on giving it.’ —Rendezvous
‘PRAIRIE WIFE is a very special book, courageously executed by the author and her publisher. Her considerable skill brings the common theme of the romance novel—love conquers all—to the level of genuine catharsis.’
—RT Book Reviews
Reading, writing and research—Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel—her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church, and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.
VICTORIA BYLIN has a collection of refrigerator magnets that mark the changes in her life. The oldest ones are from California. A native of Los Angeles, she graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in History and went to work in the advertising industry. She soon met a wonderful man who charmed her into taking a ride on his motorcycle. That ride led to a trip down the aisle, two sons, various pets, and a move that landed Victoria and her family in northern Virginia. Magnets from thirty states commemorate that journey and her new life on the East Coast. Feel free to drop her an e-mail at VictoriaBylin@aol.com, or visit her website at www.victoriabylin.com
Cheryl St John says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and work around her family and church. Working in her jammies ain’t half bad either! Cheryl loves to hear from readers. Write to her at: PO Box 24732, Omaha, NE 68124, USA, or e-mail CherylStJohn@aol.com Visit her website: www.tlt.com/authors/cstjohn.htm
The Magic of Christmas
Carolyn Davidson
Victoria Bylin
Cheryl St John
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
A Christmas Child
Dear Reader
My memories of Christmas are many and varied, but within the most precious is the continuing theme of love, of commitment to family, of faith and hope for the future. For without the true spirit of Christmas within our hearts we can have little faith in ourselves or those who surround us.
During this season of the year we find ourselves more willing to forgive, more considerate of others, able to give more freely of ourselves and our resources. Certainly that unselfishness is but one result of the blessedness of the birth we celebrate. Christmas is a time for family, both related by blood and unrelated except by compassion, for we can find ourselves just as caught up in love and caring with strangers as with our own.
May each of you, my readers, seek out some way during this most holy of seasons to find ways of expressing your love for all mankind. May your holiday be happy and your heart be made joyful.
Carolyn
My story, A CHRISTMAS CHILD, is dedicated with love to a babe born during the years of my youth, my niece, Marianne. She has grown to be a woman of perception, a concerned, caring mother and a dear friend. To her I offer this story with all my love.
Prologue
The room held the fetid odor of death, and the babe who sounded his first wail in that hot, stale air waved thin arms and legs in a frantic motion, as though he sensed that his cries might be futile, that his future might be as dark as his past. For the woman who had given birth had already breathed her last. Her only contribution to the future lay in the doctor’s hands, and already he was eager to leave this chamber of death for the clean, pure air he might find out of doors.
The sun was setting, the sky ablaze with color, and such beauty of nature seemed almost unholy compared to the pall of death that hung low over the small clearing. The small cabin and outbuildings represented the life’s work and dreams of Joe and Charlotte Winters, both of whom lay abed in the cabin, their souls no longer of this world, their hearts no longer beating, only a small, scrawny infant boy child left to wail his sadness aloud.
The country doctor made haste to wrap the boy in a flannel rag, and carried him into the chill air of the December evening, rushing to the house that lay just over a small hill to the west, a place where the child might find warmth and nourishment, for he was small and weak and his chance of survival seemed slim.
The door of the farmhouse opened wide; a plump lady peered out and greeted the doctor with an uplifted arm. “Come in. Come in. Bring that child inside where it’s warm and let me find a blanket for him.”
“It’s best if I drop this flannel rag outside,” the kindly doctor said sadly. “It’s no doubt full of germs. Needs to be burned.”
“It’ll wait till morning,” Mrs. Baker said quietly. “It’s below freezing out there and the germs won’t live long in the cold.”
“Typhoid seems to be a hard thing to kill,” the doctor told her. “But maybe we can get this little mite washed up and into clean clothes and keep him alive. His mama’s last words were that he be cared for.”
“Charlotte was a good woman,” her neighbor said, tears running down her cheeks as she took the wide-eyed infant in her arms. “I’ve got hot water in the reservoir and lots of soap and washcloths. Reckon I haven’t forgotten how to wash a newborn.”
In but a few moments the tiny babe was covered with soap from head to toe, each particle of his body cleansed and rinsed in clear water. The woman who held him to her breast shed tears of sorrow as she worked, her mind on the future of the babe she held. It seemed that fate had decreed this child have a dark future, for he’d been left with but one remaining relative—a sister—barely able to care for herself, let alone an infant.
From the ladder that led to the sleeping loft, a voice called down, a cry of sadness that held but faint hope of good news. “Is Mama all right, Mrs. Baker? Did the doctor get here yet?”
“Come on down, Marianne,” Mrs. Baker called out softly. “The doctor is here and he brought us a wee bit of a present tonight.”
The girl, for she was not yet a woman, backed down the ladder, garbed in a white flannel gown, her long hair caught up in a braid that lay over one shoulder, and her feet touched the wooden floor of the cabin as Mrs. Baker turned to her with the child in her arms.
“Meet your brother, Marianne. Born just a bit ago, the last chore your poor mama managed to finish up before she died.”
“Mama’s gone?” As though it were a foregone conclusion, the girl spoke the words with gravity, her eyes dry, as though she’d already shed tears enough for the occasion, and now faced the future that awaited her. Her arms moved to take the babe and her head bowed over the tiny boy, eyes wide, mouth open, hands flailing the air. From the looks of things, he was primed to blow.
“I’ll bet he’s hungry,” Mrs. Baker said softly. “I’ve got a bottle around here somewhere I had to use for Joey years back. Let me look a bit and find it.”
She bustled across the kitchen floor, opening the cupboard doors that hid the shelves of dishes and dry goods. Poking around amid the plates and cups, behind the bowls and pitchers, Mrs. Baker came up with a round bottle, topped with a rubber nipple—used but still in working order.
“This oughta do it,” she said with satisfaction, turning to the sink to rinse and clean the small vessel. “I’ve got fresh milk in the pantry and it won’t take long to fix that baby up with his dinner.”
Marianne watched the proceedings, ensconced in a wide rocking chair, holding her baby brother in arms that delivered warmth to the infant and love that would nourish his soul. She bent over the tiny head, her nostrils catching a whiff of the sweet baby scent he bore, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of the woman who had borne him but minutes since.
Her heart’s cry was for the woman she’d known as mother, the woman who had raised her and taught her the skills of a woman, who had been best friend and confidante to the young girl who had yet to find her own way in life. And whose path now seemed to contain a child, not of her own, but of her mother’s flesh and blood. A brother to love and care for.
Mrs. Baker brought the bottle to her and Marianne settled down for the first time to the task of feeding her infant brother, acknowledging the swell of love that filled her as the tiny mouth sucked at the nipple with an eagerness that expressed his hunger. He seemed to be a survivor, she decided, and if there was any way she could help him to do that very thing, she would set her sights on his future and do all she could to make it one worthy of him.
Joshua. She’d call him Joshua, for her mother had decreed that it be so, just days ago before the fever took hold and laid her low in a sickbed from which she would never rise. Papa had died the day before, but Mama had lived to deliver the child they had so longed for, had prayed for and were to finally see. The baby boy they had yearned for for so many years, with small graves in the orchard attesting to the failure of Mama to bear live children.
Now they had a boy, Joshua, almost a Christmas baby, for it was but three weeks until that most wonderful of holidays. One that would mean little this year, with the outlying ranchers and farmers burying their dead in the wake of a typhoid epidemic. To think that such a tiny bundle would survive, when all about the countryside strong men had succumbed to the dreaded sickness.
Marianne rocked and whispered soft words of comfort and love to her small brother that night, then changed his makeshift diaper and wrapped him in a bit of flannel that Mrs. Baker found in her trunk. He’d need new clothing, for the things sewn for him by his mother must be burned in the cabin, lest the epidemic be spread by their use.
In the morning Marianne watched as the menfolk of the surrounding community burned her parents’ cabin, knowing that such a dreadful thing must be done in order to contain the germs within. Only her visit with Mrs. Baker over the past days had kept her from the disease. Helping her neighbor had been a godsend in more ways than one, for she would surely have been a victim herself had she not volunteered her services to aid the neighbor after a bad cold had put her to bed with a fever and a case of the quinsy, leaving her house without a cook and someone to mind her three-year-old.
Mrs. Baker had a small son, but her other children were grown, most of them gone from home, and she had a wonderful husband who worked hard to support them. With spare rooms aplenty now that her young’uns were mostly grown, there was room for Marianne and the baby.
Yet Marianne knew that she must soon be on her own, that she must make provision to take care of herself and little Joshua as soon as she could. And to that end, she made her plans.
Chapter One
The horse she’d borrowed from her neighbor was less than perfect, but sometime in the past her mother had dutifully told her something about beggars not being choosy about what they got, and Marianne smiled at the memory. The old mare was swaybacked, had but one gait beyond walking, and that jolting trot was less than comfortable to the young woman’s sore bottom. She’d been riding for long hours, appreciative of the loan of the horse, but weary to her soul as she considered the future lying before her.
Mrs. Baker had written out instructions to her sister’s home in the small town of Walnut Grove, Missouri, and sent Marianne on her way, the baby, Joshua, wrapped tightly in flannel blankets and with a small supply of diapers and wrappers for the child. Enough to last until Marianne could find work and a place to live. Her sister was Sarah, a woman with four children, but surely with enough goodness of heart to help a young girl on her own, Mrs. Baker had said.
December seemed to be an unforgiving sort of month, with snow on the ground and more in the air, causing dark clouds to hang heavily over the land, hiding the sun. Marianne had ridden for a day and most of a night already, stopping only to rest in an empty barn in the middle of a field. The house was gone, only stones and burned upright boards remaining to mark where once a family had lived.
The barn had been warm—at least warmer than the windswept fields—and, huddled in a stack of moldy hay, Marianne had kept herself and her baby brother warm. The prospect of meeting Mrs. Baker’s sister, perhaps even today, kept her going, even as she ate the last of the biscuits and bits of cheese Mrs. Baker had sent along. The baby had drunk from his bottle, the milk not warmed but nourishing, and yet even that was coming to an end, for the bottle now held the last of the supply she’d carried with her.
Ahead of her lay a small town, the main street lined with shops and buildings on both sides, houses lined up neatly as she approached, a sign beside the road designating it as Walnut Grove. Children ran to and fro, not caring that the snow threatened, calling out to each other, playing in the road. They all had homes to go to, Marianne suspected, warm coats to wear and mothers to tend to their needs.
For the first time in a week, her loss seemed overwhelming. The planning and working to accomplish this trek had taken her mind from the perils she would face—a woman alone, a newborn child to care for and but enough cash to buy a meal or two.
The map in her pocket was clear. If she would but turn her horse to a side street, down this alley and then turn right, she would arrive at the home of Sarah Nelson, Mrs. Baker’s sister. A kindly lady, she’d been told. And yet as she rode the mare close to the front porch, she heard a thundering roar from a man who erupted from the front door, fast on the heels of a young boy. Snatching up the child, the man delivered several hard swats of his palm against the boy’s backside and tossed him back into the house, then turned and looked at Marianne.
“You lookin’ for somebody, lady? Or just enjoying the scenery?”
Marianne froze atop the mare and shivered. “I was told that Sarah Nelson lives here,” she said quietly, to which the man snorted, then opened the door and shouted words that echoed back from the hallway.
“Sarah. Somebody here wants to see you.”
A small, skinny soul who bore but a slight resemblance to the sturdy form of Mrs. Baker came to the door, and a tentative smile lit her face. There was a resemblance after all, Marianne decided, there in that fleeting smile.
“I’m—or rather I was—a neighbor of your sister’s, ma’am,” Marianne began. “She told me I might find you here.”
“I’m here, all right” was the harsh reply. “What do you want?”
“A place to get my little brother changed and warm and some milk to give him in his bottle.”
The woman’s face softened a bit and then she looked up at the man who towered over her. “Ain’t got no room for anybody else in this house, girl. I’ll give you a cup of milk for the baby, but that’s the best I can do.”
Marianne’s heart sank. Mrs. Baker had been so sure…so certain that her sister would welcome the travelers. She watched as the skinny woman closed the door and waited until her return, just minutes later. Carrying a cup in her hand, she approached the horse, peering up at Marianne with a look of sorrow.
“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable, but my man don’t hold with givin’ away the food he buys. I couldn’t give you this, but I’m the one milks the cow and makes the butter and I told him it was mine to keep or give and I chose to give it to the babe.”
“I thank you,” Marianne said, well aware that there was no welcome here for her, hoping that Mrs. Baker would never find out how desperate her sister’s situation was.
“Head on into town. You might be able to get some help at the general store.”
Without awaiting a goodbye, the woman went back into the house, the door closing with a solid thud behind her. Marianne turned the mare and rode back down the drive and onto the road. The lights of several storefronts were still ablaze and she halted before the general store, sliding from the mare’s back in a quick motion, holding her small brother to her breast.
The store was warm, redolent with the scents of leather and pickles and smoke from the potbellied stove that reigned in one corner. Behind the counter a woman watched her approach and bent a smile in her direction.
“Hello there, young lady. You just arrive in town?”
“Yes,” Marianne said quietly, shifting the burden of her brother to rest him against her shoulder.
“You got you a young’un there. Looks pretty much like a newborn, don’t he?”
“He’s three weeks old now. My brother, Joshua.” Marianne pulled back the blanket and displayed the darkhaired child she held, his flawless skin pink and healthy looking.
“Sure is a good-lookin’ young’un,” the storekeeper said.
“Where you heading, honey?”
“Nowhere, just looking for a place to stay for a bit. I had instructions to find a friend’s sister, but she apparently doesn’t have room for me, so I rode on.”
“Who did you say you saw in town?”
“Sarah Nelson is the sister of my old neighbor. She sent me here, but Mr. Nelson didn’t seem too hospitable.”
“Hospitable! Hah, that’s one word you couldn’t apply to Henry Nelson. He’s a mean one, gives poor Sarah a hard time of it. Treats those young’uns like slaves.”
“Well, anyway, I won’t be staying there, and I was wondering if you knew of anybody who needed help, maybe in the house or with their children. I’m a good hand with cooking and cleaning and such.”
“Not around here, girl. Things are pretty tight in town, and with Christmas here, everybody’s pretty well taken up with their own business. Them with kids is doing their best to make it a good holiday, baking and cooking and knitting up mittens and such. It’s a poor town, sure enough, and barely enough to go around. I don’t know of anybody who’d be needing help. At least, not help they’d be willing to pay for.”
Marianne’s heart sank. She’d expected no more, but her hope had been that she would find a place to rest her body and keep the baby warm. Even that seemed to be a dream, for there was no help to be found here.
“Tell you what, girl,” the storekeeper said quickly. “I’ll let you sleep in the storeroom for the night if you like. There’s a kettle on the stove and tea in a tin out there and I can scrape up a loaf of bread and some milk for the baby if you like.”
“I’d be ever so grateful,” Marianne said, her heart beating rapidly as she recognized that she had a place for the night, and something warm to put into her stomach. “My name’s Marianne. Can I do anything to pay for the room? Sweep your floors or something?”
“You just get yourself into that back room and lie down on the cot and we’ll find some fresh milk for that baby, and you can sleep a bit.” The woman was kindly, Marianne thought, bustling back and forth through the store, locking up the front door and leading the way to a warm, dusty room where a small potbellied stove held the cold at bay, and offered a warm place to sleep.
A kettle atop the stove indeed held hot water, and a cup appeared with tea in the bottom of it, the leaves floating on the hot water that splashed into its depths. The water turned color as Marianne watched, and the scent of tea arose to tempt her nostrils.
“I haven’t had a cup of tea since my mama died,” she said, fighting back the tears that begged to be shed.
“Well, this one oughta make you feel some better, then. There’s milk and sugar to put in it if you like, and a piece of fresh bread and some cheese to eat with it. I’ll just wash out that baby’s bottle and fill it up with milk for him.”
The woman hummed beneath her breath as she pumped water and rinsed the bottle, then refilled it with milk and snapped the nipple in place. “That oughta be enough for him to last till morning.”
“He doesn’t drink a whole lot yet, about half a bottle at a time,” Marianne said. “This is just fine. He’ll have enough for his breakfast.”
“I’ll be back in the morning,” the woman told her. “My name’s Janet. Me and the mister live next door and we open up right early. Tomorrow’s gonna be busy, being the day before Christmas, so I’ll be back at dawn.”
