<< Go Back

A Bride for Harley (The Proxy Brides Book 76)

By Heidi Gray McGill

Order Now!

Chapter 1

Chicago 1867
Christmas Eve

“I don’t remember inviting Jack Frost to our holiday soiree,” Annaliese says in a sleepy voice.

“Some party,” I reply.

The dying embers of our fire provide little warmth but enough light for me to see my breath. My sister and I share body heat under the heavy quilts weighing down on us. I hear her sigh and know there is more than cotton pressing in on her.

“Good night, Loretta. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she whispers what Mother chanted every night like I am still a child.

I refuse to respond and force my eyes to stay open. I’m afraid the tears may freeze my lids shut if I close them. Outside, I hear carols sung by brave souls sharing Christmas cheer and celebrating the birth of the Christ Child. There is no joy or celebrating in our home.

Soft tufts of air escape Annaliese’s nose. I envy her ability to sleep. My stomach growls and my teeth chatter, thanks to her stingy ways. Father and Mother left us this home and funds at their death, but my sister refuses to spend any of it, and I’m not old enough to access the accounts.

Being almost seventeen is a curse. I’m no longer in school and no longer a child. I’m expected to act like a lady, but I’m nothing close to one. And don’t want to be. Annaliese is the epitome of everything genteel and proper. Mother made certain of that.

Thankfully, my father saw me as his favored son. The two of us spent many weekends at our one-room cabin on the lake, where he taught me to swim, fish, hunt, and live off the land. No china or linen napkins, and the lake was our bath. Mother and Annaliese rarely joined us at “the shack” as Mother called it. But I loved it. It was my happy place.

Happiness is long gone. I yearn for summer days paddling with our dog Daisy as she barked at nothing and everything before leaping into the water to seek whatever captured her attention. I ache for the feel of horseflesh and flying through the wind with my arms wide and my hair billowing behind me. Roaring campfires, roasting corn, and cast-iron skillet blackberry cobbler are all things of the past.

“I hate you, Nell,” I whisper into the darkness.

Annaliese despises it when I use her childhood name. My outward mutiny to the captain of our sinking ship gives me a small sense of independence. She smothers me with her controlling nature.

“Nell. Nell. Nell.” I puff out the words.

It’s her fault we’re in this predicament in the first place, and I’ll not forget, nor will I ever forgive her.

BREAK

“Merry Christmas, Loretta.”

Nell hands me a steaming mug of hot chocolate. A peppermint candy sticks out of the top. The offering melts a small piece of my frozen heart.

“Thank you. Merry Christmas to you too.”

The warmth of the mug and the heat of the smooth liquid do wonders for my attitude.

“When you’ve finished and readied yourself for the day, I have a Christmas present for you.”

My elation of the moment quickly turns to dread when I realize I have nothing to give. I’ve spent the last months vacillating between anguish and anger with a good dose of self-pity thrown in for good measure.

“I…I didn’t get you anything,” I stammer.

“You are my gift. I need nothing more. Besides, when you open your gift, you’ll understand it is something for both of us.”

I rinse my empty mug in the cooling sink water and head out to do my chores. I should look forward to this holiday, but I do not. I’d rather spend time with our cow and chickens than with my sister.

I love animals, but not the dreary weather of Chicago. It’s not like we live near the heart of the city, but the smoke from factories and the trains that pass our home make the winter skies frequently smokey gray rather than crisp clear blue, like I remember as a child.

“Good morning, Penelope,” I say as I run my hand over the old cow’s rump. The chickens fuss and cluck and I turn to quiet them. “Wait your turn, Breakfast.”

Penelope lows as I milk her. I snuggle into her warmth. She has an earthy smell I can’t describe. Nell wants nothing to do with our animals. Getting her hands dirty is akin to committing a sin. Nell calls herself a planner, organizer, and creator of dreams.

“Ha,” I say, causing Penelope to sidestep. “Sorry, girl. Nell is more like a squasher of dreams.” I laugh, and Breakfast, Dinner, and Supper cackle along with me.

“You know you’re named that for a reason, right?” I say to the chickens as they scatter.

The lazy birds don’t even provide eggs in winter. They’re good for nothing but a meal.

“Stay warm, my friends.” I shut the barn door when I’ve finished my chores and return to the house.

I slosh the milk on the counter when I plop the bucket down. My eyelashes feel frozen as I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I should probably wash them and the counter, but the feeling of rebellion growing inside me makes me leave both unclean. I’m tired. Of everything. Besides, I slept fitfully and woke grumpy. Even my sister’s gift of cocoa can’t completely change that. I avoid the stare I feel coming from Nell, who is in the rocking chair. That’s when the smell overtakes my senses.

“Something smells good. Like Christmas,” I murmur. Like Mother. I reach for the oven door.

“Don’t touch that. They have two more minutes.”

“They?”

“I made your favorite—cinnamon rolls. Let’s whip up some icing to put over them when they’ve cooled.”

She walks my direction. I blink back tears. Mother used to make them every Christmas morning in the same apron Nell is now wearing. I miss my parents. Nell has done her best to fill the void, but I didn’t like her to start with, so having her in a parental role hasn’t been the most pleasant experience.

Nell points to the trail leading from the door. “Loretta, you’ve tracked mud all over my clean kitchen floor. How many times do I need to remind you to remove your shoes?”

Rather than take off my footwear, I purposefully make new prints on my way back before slowly slipping out of their hold. I hear her sigh, but no words follow. She’s probably repeated, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger” multiple times by now.

I turn to see her holding a mop out to me, lips tucked between her teeth as if she’s biting them to keep from letting out whatever she wants to say. Sometimes I wish she’d just say it. Whatever “it” is. She keeps everything bottled up, acting like we have this perfect life and as if I’m not mature enough to handle whatever weighs her down.

“What?” I ask, my voice coming out harsh and more condescending than I intended. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel angry all the time and Nell gets under my skin like dirt in my nails when I’m gardening. My heart is stained.

“Kindly clean up these muddy footprints while I pull out the cinnamon rolls,” she says in the polite, controlled tone Mother would have used.

That makes me madder, and I may have disobeyed, if she hadn’t reminded me of the treat. I wrench the stick from her hand. Water sloshes over my stockings. She could have told me it was already damp. Every back-and-forth movement primes the pump of my anger.

Crash!

I jump at the sound, the mop clanging to the floor adding to the noise, then stop breathing at the screeching that follows a split second later.

Order Now!

<< Go Back