A Log Cabin Christmas (14 page)

Award-winning, bestselling author, Wanda E. Brunstetter enjoys writing historical as well as Amish-themed novels. Wanda lives in Washington State with her husband, Richard, a retired minister. The Brunstetters have two grown children and six grandchildren.

by Kelly Eileen Hake

For we walk by faith, not by sight. 2
C
ORINTHIANS 5:7

October 12,
1811 London, England

C
ommitting fraud, Wilhemina Montrose discovered, consisted of nothing more than the same exaggerated social niceties perpetrated by genteel society daily. One could almost say her entire ladylike life prepared her for this day. Well, her life as a lady, and days of scrupulous scheming. Big plans lurked behind this morning’s small talk, after all.

“It’s all to be arranged as swiftly as possible.” She leaned forward to cultivate an air of confidentiality with her solicitor, carefully placing her left hand on his blotter as though to impress the urgency of her request. In reality, the ambitious and corrupt man before her shared the floor with two other solicitors, obliterating any hope of privacy.

The motion, as intended, drew his eyes to the ludicrously gaudy heirloom engagement ring imprisoning her third finger. His greedy gaze weighed the value of the piece in pounds, then prestige, clearly calculating her rise in worth. As Miss Montrose, heiress to the Montrose fortune, her youth and gender tipped the scales against her, allowing Mr. Gorvin’s loyalties to slide toward her cousin. As Miss Montrose, fiancée to that selfsame cousin, bearing the expensive and irrefutable proof of her position, she couldn’t be so easily overlooked. Quite simply, Mr. Gorvin couldn’t afford it.

He had no way of knowing they’d purloined the ring from the vault earlier that morning, and that it would be returned immediately after this meeting. Just before Mina and Belinda boarded a ship and escaped to the Americas …

“Good news, good news,” he chortled, all but choking on his glee. “So glad to hear you’ve given up that nonsense of investing your inheritance and have chosen to leave it in the sensible hands of men.”

“It seems I place my faith in the wrong people, as shown by my guardian’s continued absence.” Mina dropped her hands to her lap and wrung them together while she spoke. This next part was vital to her plans. “Elton didn’t have Mr. Carver’s direction.” She raised her chin in wounded dignity as she continued, “I wish to send a letter informing Mr. Carver that his brief responsibility to me has ended. After his callous shunning I want no possibility the man may someday return to England and claim a connection to me. I’m certain he couldn’t have misunderstood your summons after my father’s death, so you won’t begrudge me the opportunity to write an assessment of what his dereliction has cost him.”

“Certainly not,” Gorvin blustered, yanking open drawers and rifling through papers and ledgers. He kept up a steady stream of babble as Mina reflected that it would have been very difficult indeed for her guardian to misinterpret a letter that had never been written. She and Belinda—her old nurse, today playing the role of arrogant aunt—held no doubts that Gorvin and Elton conspired to keep Mr. Carver ignorant of her father’s passing, thereby keeping her inheritance tied up.

“Here you are.” He passed her a scrap of paper bearing the word
Kentucky
. “Letters aside, when you’re wed you’ll have a family to keep you well occupied.”

“Two things can be counted on to keep any lady busy. One is family. The other, of course,” Mina widened her eyes guilelessly, “are the shops. After so many months, I’m sadly out of date. I don’t want to be a disgrace to the name of my husband.” She swallowed hard, visibly distressed. Mr. Gorvin need not know it was the thought of having Elton for a husband that caused the distress, rather than any fashion concerns.

“You’ll be a credit to him, I’m sure.” A beefy paw reached out as though to pat her hand in consolation. Then, as if thinking better of the impropriety, he reached down to open another drawer. “Besides, shopping is a skill at which every young lady excels. That will be the order of the day?” A book of checks appeared atop the blotter like an offering.

“Her trousseau, of naturally,” Aunt Belinda all but snapped at the man. “A pleasure that should be spread over months—selecting fits and fabrics, choosing the perfect accessories, making Mina the bride she was born to be—must now be rushed. Those dressmakers will demand outrageous sums for such a hurry when they should be thanking us for the privilege!” A thump of her cane majestically ended the performance.

“It can’t be helped,” Mina soothed. “Elton has to travel for business, and the journey will make a fine honeymoon. Such opportunities aren’t to be missed. You know he’s a head for these things….” She trailed off as Gorvin nodded eagerly.

“Best strike while the iron’s hot and all that.” His glance appraised the fine fabric and embroidery tracing the ladies’ dresses, their lace shawls. Mina bit back a grin as she supposed him to be trying to compromise on a figure that wouldn’t insult, but wouldn’t be extravagant for their spending spree. “What all will you be purchasing?”

“The usual morning dresses, day dresses, ball gowns, traveling wear, riding habits, boots, dancing slippers, gloves, rib bands, hats to match, of course.” Mina paused for breath, smiling as though ecstatic at the idea of perusing shops.

“Shawls, fans, purses, opera glasses—Elton mentioned taking you to the opera,” Belinda sniffed. “A gift for your groom. Gifts for your bridesmaids, so we’ll need to go to the jewelers. Stockings and such forth.” She paused delicately.

“I see.” Color leeched from Gorvin’s face.

“I beg your pardon.” A hesitant overture from the lady at the desk to the left caused them all to turn their heads. “But …” Lady Reed, whom Mina had known for over a decade, scowled at her solicitor. A wave of her hand, and the man finally showed enough discretion to leave his desk for a drink of water. She lowered her voice again. “I can’t help but hear you’re planning to go shopping for your trousseau, my dear?”

“Why, yes.” Mina darted an uncertain glance toward Belinda, whose eyebrows had risen toward her hairline as though scandalized by this stranger’s presumption.

“You must, absolutely must, take into account what you’ll spend at Madam Farnique’s. She makes the most stunning creations for the boudoir, delicate like air and bits of lace.” The impeccably dressed lady sighed. “Everything she carries is frightfully dear, but worth every shilling. Every married woman knows the men go mad for a woman wearing them. It’s the best investment you can make in your marriage.”

“Absolutely not. She is to be a proper wife.” Belinda’s lips thinned into nothing. An observer would consider it compressed rage. Mina knew her beloved companion bit back laughter at their friend’s performance.

“I want to be a good wife,” Mina murmured. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, and knew she’d turned red. She cast a glance at the book of checks and then a swift glance at Mr. Gorvin, whose ruddy cheeks darkened before he began scribbling a figure.

“Perhaps,” Belinda commented dryly, “you’d best double that amount, Mr. Gorvin. I rather doubt any of us wishes to repeat this interview.”

December 14, 1811 Appalachian Mountains, Kentucky

Sam Carver cracked through the thin ice shelling his washbasin, plunged his hands inside, and splashed his face with the frigid contents. Scrubbing the grit of too little sleep—and too much desire for more—from his eyes, he reached for a towel to mop up the water running from his beard in haphazard streams.

Winter worked a wonder on the world; slowing time’s heartbeat to acreeping crawl. Most sensible animals matched the pace, holing up in their caves and burrows to wait out the slow season. Thing was, man never numbered among sensible creatures, and a trapper couldn’t afford to wait.

Not through the season when furs and pelts grew their thickest and most luxurious. Not when he’d invested everything he owned, plus Montrose’s generous loan, in John Jacob Astor’s Southwest Fur Company. And especially not when failing meant crawling to his smirking older brother back in England and admitting defeat.

Sam snorted at the thought, shoved his feet back into his boots, and stomped them into the dirt floor of his log cabin. A stray rock had been rubbing his heel wrong all morning, and he welcomed the chance to cast his shoes aside during the midday meal. It also gave him the chance to drop off the fresh load of meat and furs he’d gathered that morning. Weather permitting and God willing, this winter would be the making of him.

Grabbing his gun and pack, he opened the door and checked the sky. Just because he’d not been snowed in yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t be.
Nice weather—storm clouds still a good distance off, not much wind
. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, keeping warmth in his fingertips.

Even a split-second fumble could cost a man his shot, so it paid to keep flexible. And Sam Carver needed to get paid. No man could be self-made until he repaid his debts. Old Montrose, his father’s friend and the uncle Sam would have chosen had he been given the choice of relations, staked his share in Astor’s organization when it opened to investors last January.

If the clear skies hold up, I’ll have that back room filled twice over before summer. Good thing I threw together that loft during the last cold spell. The added space will keep anything extra out of my way
.

The growing beaver and fox population was why he’d chosen this stretch of mountains in Kentucky for the winter. With its range of furs and acceptable availability of supplies—but not convenience, convenience meant too much competition—he was set for a solid season. Next year the area might be too settled, but for here and now, things were the way he liked them. Nice and quiet.

Except … Sam cocked his head to the side and his rifle to the ready. The disturbance reaching his ears traveled a ways to meet him, but he shook his head. The sound was still too close. No wheels belonged rolling through his neck of the woods, disturbing any animals taking advantage of the fine day.

There’s nothing this way but me for miles, and only fools travel in winter
. Sam crept toward the approaching sounds, unwilling to show himself. People inevitably
dropped by
the cabin, but Sam felt no compunction to be sociable withuninvited guests. He kept quiet, cultivating a nonthreatening air around the cabin to lure any wildlife into complacency. The louder people were, the farther he had to travel to hunt.

There
. Edging behind a sugar maple, he kept watch as a wagon, drawn by two oxen, lumbered up the road.
Heavy load
, he surmised. Two oxen for a simple wagon was unusual. Then again, so were the two women perched alongside the driver.

“Are you quite certain he’s up here?” A faceless crone, hidden beneath a massive bonnet, interrogated the driver.

“Yes, ma’am.” A cheery grin revealed the driver’s few remaining teeth. “Carver keeps to hisself, but this is the way. None of us ever reckoned he had family to come and visit.”

“Well, it is Christmas,” came the clipped tones of a young woman who obviously wasn’t inclined to satisfy the driver’s curiosity. She, too, was hidden behind a hat and scarf.

Sam, despite his trusty double wool-lined leather jacket, froze. These weren’t just any women. They were
ladies
. Ladies whose accents made it clear they’d come all the way from Britain, and whose conversation left no doubt their situation was dire.

They’ve come to visit me. For Christmas
. Never mind that Sam couldn’t identify the voices. Never mind he’d been thinking mere moments before that only fools traveled in winter. He raced toward the cabin, determined to reach it before they tucked themselves into residence. One thought pounded in time with his steps;
they have to go back!