The Christmas Brides by Linda Lael Miller Page A

opening trunks until she’d found what she sought. Her fine woolen coat, the paint set she’d brought all this way to give to John Henry, shawls and stockings. A pipe she’d bought for her father. A book for her grandfather. A pocket watch she’d intended to give to Whitley. Next, she looted Whitley’s trunk, helped herself to his heavy overcoat, more stockings and warm underwear. When a tiny velvet box toppled from the pocket of the coat, Lizzie’s heart nearly stopped.
    She bent, picked up the box, opened it slowly. A shining diamond ring winked inside. More tears came; so Whitley had intended to propose marriage over the holidays. Lizzie tucked her old dreams inside that box with the ring, closed it, set it carefully back in Whitley’s trunk.
    When she’d taken a few moments to recover, she bundled the things she’d gathered into Whitley’s coatand made her way outside again, along the side of the train, into the caboose.
    Her return, like her departure, caused no particular stir.
    She set her burden aside and went to stand in front of the stove, trying to dry the front of her dress. John Brennan was already down with pneumonia, Whitley’s leg was in splints, Mrs. Halifax sported a sling, and now poor Mr. Christian was nearly dead of frostbite. It wouldn’t do if she added to their problems by taking sick herself.
    Everyone settled into sort of a stupor after that.
    Lizzie, now dry, turned to gaze out the windows. The sun was setting, and there was no sign of an approaching rescue party. She drew a deep breath.
    It was still Christmas Eve, whatever the circumstances, and Lizzie was determined to celebrate in some way.
    Soon the sky was peppered with stars, each one shining as brightly as the diamond ring Whitley had meant to place on her finger. The snow glittered, deep and pristine, under those spilling stars, and the scent of the little pine tree Mr. Christian had somehow cut and brought back spiced the air.
    Morgan looted the freight car again, and returned with a stack of new blankets and the spectacular Christmas ham they’d all agreed not to eat, just the day before. He fetched more coal and built up the fire, and they feasted—even John Brennan and Mr. Christian managed a few bites.
    As the moon rose, spilling shimmering silver over the snow, Morgan stuck the trunk of the tiny tree between the slats of Mr. Christian’s empty crate, and Whitley donated his watch chain for a decoration. Lizziecontributed several hair ribbons from her handbag, along with a small mirror that seemed to catch the starlight. Mrs. Thaddings contributed her ear bobs.
    They sang, Lizzie starting first, Mrs. Halifax picking up the words next, her voice faltering, then John and Whitley and the children. Even Woodrow joined in.
    â€œâ€˜O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…’”
    â€œWe ain’t gettin’ our oranges,” Jack announced stoically, as his mother tucked him and Ellen into the quilt bed, after many more carols had been sung. “There’s no stockings to hang, and St. Nicholas won’t find us way out here.”
    Ellen gazed at the little tree as though it were the most splendid thing she’d ever set eyes on. “It’s Christmas, just the same,” she said. “And that tree is right pretty. Mr. Christmas went to a lot of trouble to bring it back for us, too.”
    Jack sighed and closed his eyes.
    Ellen gazed at the tree until she fell asleep.
    Morgan moved back and forth between John Brennan and Mr. Christian. He’d given Whitley more laudanum after supper, when the pain in his injured leg had contorted his face and brought out a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Mr. and Mrs. Thaddings, having settled Woodrow down for the night, read from a worn Bible.
    Watching them, Lizzie marveled at their calm acceptance. It seemed that, as long as they were together, they could face anything. She knew so little