Christmas on the Prairie Read online

  ANSLEY POTTER JUST FOUND OUT SHE’S AN AUNT

  ...of three endearing orphaned children. Only Seth Dobson isn’t planning to relinquish custody of his nephew and nieces. But Ansley didn’t come all the way to Prairie Chicken, Kansas, to give up without a fight. She’s determined to be part of the children’s lives, even with the handsome farmer opposing her at every turn.

  As the children’s paternal uncle, Seth is happy to do his Christian duty. Just when he and the kids are finally becoming a family, here’s this Boston beauty who isn’t afraid to stand up to him...or to danger. Can two strangers who are constantly surprising each other create something special and lasting—together?

  “I’m sorry we left you here like this. We had no idea you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

  Her head jerked up and her eyes flashed. “I can so take care of myself. I just didn’t know it was going to snow like this. I’d have gotten my supplies indoors sooner if I’d known.”

  “What about the fire?”

  Gathering a breath, she raised her arms and let them fall against her sides. “Well, yes, the fire is a problem. I suppose I should have watched how you made that one.”

  Taken off guard by her sudden humility, Seth reached out and gripped her shoulder. The dog growled.

  A smile tipped Ansley’s lips. “Maybe with him around, I won’t need a gun after all.”

  The dog slunk to Seth’s feet, eyeing him like a bobcat would a weasel. Seth dropped his hand from Ansley’s shoulder and frowned. “You don’t have a gun?”

  “Why, no. I’ve really never cared for them.”

  “Well, out here, people carry guns. Especially women living alone. What if someone came to your door with ill intentions? How would you protect yourself?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell in an infuriating shrug that proved she had no idea of the dangers of living out here. He wished he’d fought harder to keep her from moving into the cabin.

  “I suppose the dog will protect me. After all, he got your hand off my shoulder just now, didn’t he?”

  Books by Frances Devine

  Love Inspired Heartsong Presents

  A Touch of Autumn

  Christmas on the Prairie

  FRANCES DEVINE

  grew up in the great state of Texas, where she wrote her first story at the age of nine. She moved to southwest Missouri more than thirty years ago and fell in love with the hills, the fall colors and Silver Dollar City. From an early age, the desire to be an author was instilled in her heart and she considers herself blessed to do what she loves. Frances is the mother of seven adult children and has fourteen wonderful grandchildren.

  She is always happy to hear from her fans. Leave a comment at facebook.com/francesdevineauthor or email her at [email protected].

  FRANCES DEVINE

  Christmas on the Prairie

  Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord.

  —Psalms 127:3

  To my daughter, Tracey Bateman, who also happens to be my favorite author.

  Tracey, we both know this book couldn’t have been written without you.

  Thanks for being such a wonderful daughter.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  Southern Kansas, 1871

  “Rain’s a-coming.” The cowhand sitting next to Ansley Potter gave her arm a nudge and jerked his thumb toward the window. “Look over yonder.”

  Ansley shifted on the hard stagecoach bench, glancing around her seatmate to see the approaching storm. Black clouds to the west darkened the sky, and the wind had picked up quite a bit in the past few minutes, blowing cool air through the open windows. The breeze brought with it an odd combination of odors—cow manure and rain. Rain, Ansley enjoyed, the other, well, that she could live without. But both were preferable to the odor wafting from the man to her left.

  For the past few hours, the incessant dipping and swaying of the stagecoach along fifteen miles of ruts in the well-worn path between Martin’s Creek and Prairie Chicken, Kansas, had all but used up Ansley’s good nature. The looming threat of bad weather wasn’t helping much.

  Being squeezed between Mr. Carson, the smelly cowhand, and a large mother of three impatient children was a barbaric way to get from one place to the next as far as Ansley was concerned. But she’d had little choice after disembarking the train that had brought her from Boston to Kansas.

  Her sister’s embrace at the end of the arduous journey would wash away every ounce of pain and aggravation. Of that, Ansley had no doubt. Playing the image of their reconciliation over and over in her head had been her only consolation for the past five hours.

  Across the cramped space, a handsome man wearing a smart black suit kept his attention focused on a book, largely ignoring the rest of the riders. He was the only passenger who had not offered his name. Since boarding the stagecoach, Ansley had been trying to place him. Though he was engrossed in his book, she studied him, trying to remember where she’d seen his face before. As though sensing her perusal, he looked up and met her gaze. His lips curved into a cocky smile. Cheeks burning, she glanced away, wishing like anything she could escape the cramped space.

  Next to him sat an elderly woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Boatwright. The white-haired woman sat straight-backed, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

  When the driver finally called out, “Prairie Chicken, two miles ahead,” Ansley nearly wilted with relief. The young mother sighed, and Ansley could well imagine her trip had been more difficult with three children than Ansley’s could possibly have been. The reading gentleman shut his book and laid the treasure in his lap, rubbing the cover as though he hated to leave the world within the pages. He glanced out the window, and Ansley noticed a one-inch scar slicing across his eyebrow.

  The stagecoach rolled into town on the tail of another enormous clap of thunder that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. The skies opened and the misting rain became a torrent.

  “Prairie Chicken,” the driver yelled. In minutes, the swaying and rolling stagecoach stopped in front of what appeared to be a residence. The house loomed at least as large as Aunt Maude’s, although it was clear time and neglect had weathered the structure.

  “Here we are at last.” Mrs. Boatwright secured her reticule to her wrist. “I left word with my housekeeper, Viola, to have a pot of stew and bread ready for anyone who might like lunch. The prices are fair and the food’s as good as any.”

  The door opened, revealing the leathery driver. “Don’t be all day about it, folks. I’m on a schedule.”

  The handsome man exited first, showing an utter lack of breeding that his demeanor and attire had thus far belied. Ansley couldn’t help but be disappointed in him. What could a man like that possibly be doing in a town like Prairie Chicken, anyway? He certainly wasn’t a cowhand. She’d say he was in his late thirties, if she had to guess. And apparently he possessed worse manners than the odious Mr. Carson.

  The young mother hung back. “Please go ahe
ad, Mrs. Boatwright.”

  The elderly woman shook her head. “You go on, Alice. The children have been cooped up long enough. Just walk right on in.”

  “Thank you.” Alice reached out and squeezed Mrs. Boatwright’s hand, then turned to her children. “Be careful stepping down, Fiona. I’ll hand Willie to you.”

  Ansley waited until everyone but Mr. Carson had exited. “After you, Miss Potter.”

  She slid toward the door, but he detained her with a dirty hand on her arm. “Wait.”

  Ansley noted his face had gone red. He worked his hat between his hands like a lump of dough. On the edge of the seat, his long legs folded until they were practically in his chest, and his precarious position amused Ansley. Clearly taking her smile as a sign of encouragement, the cowhand flashed a wide and toothy grin.

  Ansley wished he hadn’t.

  “I was just wonderin’ if I could come to call once yer settled and all.”

  Ansley pressed her fingers to the brooch at her throat. What on earth had she said during the past five hours to give this man any indication she would be amenable to such a request? “I’m grateful for the honor, Mr. Carson, but I am not in a position at the moment to receive callers.”

  “Oh, I know now ain’t a good time. Why, I bet you don’t even have a place to stay yet.”

  Thankfully, she was spared from answering by the driver, who cleared his throat loudly. “Let’s go, folks.” He held out his hand to assist her. Grateful for the reprieve, Ansley settled her hand in his and stepped down.

  The door to Mrs. Boatwright’s home was open, and the driver set Ansley’s bag inside. She’d been forced to leave her trunks at the stage station in Martin’s Creek until she could find a man to fetch them for her.

  Ansley stepped inside the boardinghouse, hoping Mr. Carson wouldn’t follow.

  The hope was short-lived as he not only followed close on her heels but spoke over her shoulder.

  “You was sayin’ you’ll allow me to call once you get settled?”

  A gasp escaped Ansley. She’d said no such thing. “Mr. Carson...”

  “I’d be honored if you’d call me Luke.”

  “Mr. Carson,” she repeated with an edge of firmness. “I am here to visit my sister. I’m afraid I’ll have very little time to accept gentleman callers.”

  “Yer sister, you say? Who might that be?”

  Honestly, could the man not take a hint? “It just so happens her name is Rose Potter—er—Dobson.”

  A frown creased his brow. “Potter-Dobson. I don’t know her.” Just as Ansley was about to correct the misunderstanding about Rose’s name, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “You mean Rose Dobson? Married to Frank?”

  If he knew Rose and Frank, this annoying man might possibly be of some help. “Precisely.”

  “Well, what do you mean yer here to visit Rose? Ya mean Seth?”

  “Seth? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.” Ansley pressed her fingers to her temple to quell a sudden ache. “Mr. Carson, may I impose upon you to take a message to my sister?”

  “I wish I could do that, miss. It just ain’t possible.”

  Ansley gaped at the man. All day long he’d done nothing but attempt to get in her good graces, and now when she asked a favor he actually refused? “It’s of no consequence. I’ll find another way.”

  Mr. Carson continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Miss Potter,” he said again, “I sure hate bein’ the one to tell you this, but Miss Rose is gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  Of course, she hadn’t corresponded with her sister in years. Aunt Maude had been so angry over the marriage, she’d confiscated and destroyed all of Rose’s letters for the past decade. Only her deathbed and fear of missing the pearly gates had made Aunt Maude confess. If Rose had moved away, how would Ansley ever find her again?

  Luke averted his gaze to the floor, and a knot of dread began to form in Ansley’s gut.

  “Please, Mr. Carson. What is it?”

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers, sorrow clouding his eyes. “Miss Potter, yer sister and her husband was killed nigh on to four months ago. I can’t say how sorry I am to have to tell you that.”

  Ansley stared at him as the room moved around her. She hadn’t heard right, that was all. Though the tears forming in her eyes were proof she had.

  Her Rose. After ten years, Rose had died believing Ansley hadn’t cared enough to answer even one of her letters.

  * * *

  Seth Dobson flipped up the collar on his coat and adjusted his hat against the pouring rain as the horses labored in the mud. In a town the size of Prairie Chicken, word spread pretty fast, so he already knew from Luke Carson that Frank’s sister-in-law had arrived. And he knew she’d come to town expecting to be reunited with Rose. The reminder of his brother and sister-in-law and their untimely deaths brought back a rush of grief that had just begun to abate in the first place. He could imagine how Rose’s sister must be feeling. His heart went out to the woman he’d yet to meet.

  He pulled on the reins and the wagon rolled to a stop in front of Mrs. Boatwright’s boardinghouse.

  Seth’s stomach seized as he wiped his feet on the mat outside the front door. The Boatwright boardinghouse and restaurant always smelled of fresh baking and whatever Viola King, Mrs. Boatwright’s cook, was preparing for the evening meal. There was no need to knock, as the boardinghouse and restaurant used the same door. A bell above the door dinged to announce his arrival.

  Mrs. Boatwright appeared within a minute. “So you’ve heard.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Seth swallowed hard, fidgeting with his wet hat.

  “Shall I fetch Miss Potter for you? She’s been quite distraught since that fool Luke Carson blurted out the news of Rose and Frank’s death."

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, get settled in the parlor while I inform Miss Potter you’re here. Don’t sit on anything cloth with your wet clothes.”

  Seth heaved a sigh and walked the distance from the foyer to the parlor. He started to sit in a wooden rocking chair next to the fireplace, but he noted the fire was little more than glowing coals. The rain had arrived with a cooling wind, and the air in the old house felt damp and cold, which probably wasn’t good for Mrs. Boatwright’s aching bones. He grabbed a poker next to the hearth and jabbed at the coals, then added wood from the box next to the fireplace. In minutes, the fire blazed. He walked toward the rocker but stopped at the sound of a woman’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  He straightened at the sight of a young woman standing in the doorway. She appeared refined and citified, just as Luke Carson had described her. Her hair was brown. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from this distance, but the shape of her face, though not as plump, resembled Rose’s. Rose had also been quite a bit shorter than her sister. And if he had to guess, though he’d never say it aloud, this one was a few years older. Where Rose had been pleasant looking and fun, this sister was pretty to the point of beautiful. Something jumped in his stomach, and for a moment, Seth could do nothing but stare.

  “Mr. Dobson?” Her tone was husky and low, soft and barely above a whisper, but enough to jerk him from his stupor.

  Seth cleared his throat and gestured toward the rose-colored wing chair across from his. “Please come in. Miss Potter, I take it?”

  “Yes, and you are—were—my sister’s brother-in-law?” She walked—no, glided was more like it—across the room as she spoke and sat in the seat he offered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dobson.” Her eyes and nose were red. Obviously she had been crying.

  “Likewise. I’m sorry you came all this way to discover the sad news.” Seth sat in the wooden rocker and searched for words.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dobson. Your loss is no less t
han mine.”

  “Your husband didn’t travel with you?” The question seemed kinder than directly asking about her spinsterhood. And he had to know if she was already taken.

  At the sight of the sudden frown creasing her brow, Seth inwardly kicked himself for being so stupid. His ears heated up.

  But she seemed to recover and shook her head. “The fact is I am not married. After Rose left, there was only me to take care of Aunt Maude.”

  “Is that what caused the trouble between you two?”

  The frown returned. “I assure you there has never been, nor could there be, a smidge of trouble between my sister and myself.” Her voice broke.

  Fishing a clean, folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, he leaned forward and offered it to her. She eyed the cloth and then accepted it. “Thank you, Mr. Dobson.”

  “Miss Potter, I didn’t mean any offense.” He weighed the idea of assuring her that her age had done nothing to diminish her beauty and that all the men in Boston must be fools. But he knew, though he wasn’t sure how, that she wouldn’t appreciate the effort.

  “What makes you think there was trouble between us? I certainly can’t imagine Rose believing such a thing, much less confiding the idea to anyone.”

  Seth smiled. “You’re right. She never said a thing. I have been raising Frank and Rose’s children since they...died.” He swallowed around the hateful word. “I found dozens of letters Rose wrote to you—returned. The children told me she cried every time one came back.”

  “I assure you,” she said with a gulp. “If I’d known about them, I’d have answered every single one.” She dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Our aunt returned them. I didn’t know where Rose lived until this summer. It must have been just prior to her death. Poor Rose died thinking the worst of me.” Her tears spilled over. Helpless panic rose inside of Seth.

  “But why did you wait so long to come?”

  Miss Potter squared her shoulders. “As I said, my aunt returned all the letters. I didn’t have an address. All I knew was the information Rose gave me the night she snuck off to marry Frank. That they were to be married and she was moving to Kansas. She didn’t even tell me the name of this town, though I can see why.”