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A Prairie Christmas Collection

By Deborah Raney, Tracie Peterson, Tracey Bateman, and others

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Excerpt from "A Circle of Blessings"

by Deborah Raney



Chapter One

Dakota Territory 1871

Stella Bradford hurried across the campus of St. Bartholomew's Academy, a stack of textbooks in arm and a bulging drawstring bag looped over one shoulder. The petticoat beneath her long-sleeved cotton dress clung to her legs, and with her free hand, she dabbed beads of moisture from her brow with a crumpled handkerchief. One should not have to perspire in October! If she didn't hurry, she was going to be late for class, and it would be the second time this week. She was having enough trouble with this infernal English grammar class as it was. It certainly wouldn't help matters to be late again.


The tower clock in the center of the campus quadrangle began to chime the hour, and Stella lifted her skirts above her ankles and broke into a very unladylike trot. She rounded the ivy-draped corner of Andrews Hall at top speed but was halted in her tracks when she bumped headlong into a broad masculine chest. The only thing that kept her from stumbling to the brick walk beneath her feet, was the strong pair of hands that reached out to grab her by the shoulders.


"Whoa, Miss! Watch where you're going there." The voice was as deep as the brown eyes that looked down into hers.


"Oh, p-pardon me," she stuttered, "but I'm about to be late for class." She took a step backward, out of the man's grasp.


The last chime of the carillon clock died away on the still autumn air, and Stella gave a little gasp of dismay.


"It looks to me as though you are late," the gentleman told her. "And at the reckless speed you were going, I'd venture to say you would have arrived so out of breath that you might as well not have bothered going at all."


"Please," she pled. "Let me pass. I simply can't miss this class again."


"Oh, I see," he said, a rather wicked gleam in his eyes. "So, you make a habit of tardiness? And let me guess––you are not exactly a candidate for honors in this particular class?"


She stamped her foot and took another step backward. Of all the impudent–– She did not have time for this. Donning her most patronizing smile, she told him, "I do appreciate your concern, Mister––"


"Collingwood"––he tipped an imaginary hat––"James Collingwood."


"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Collingwood, but I cannot waste my time standing here arguing about either my habits, nor my grades––as if it were any of your business!"


"Neither," he said.


"I beg your pardon?"


"The correct word is `neither'. Neither my habits, nor my grades. It's `either, or' and `neither, nor'."


Of all the nerve! How dare this complete stranger stand here and correct her grammar!


He folded his arms across a broad chest and stepped back to gaze at her. "And let me guess," he said. "English Grammar is the class you're tardy for?"


"For which you are tardy," she shot.


He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"


"The correct phrase is `the class for which you are tardy'. It is not proper to end a sentence in a preposition." She bobbed her chin for emphasis, crossed her arms and glared at him, pleased beyond words to have beat him at his own game.


The corners of his lips curled in a slow smile. "Touché, Miss. I stand corrected."




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