An American Rose Christmas (anthology) is officially out Dec. 11th at The Wild Rose Press, but is already available in print as an early Bird Special at the Wild Rose, Amazon and Barnes & Noble online. Since the latter two companies are having a price war, it’s on a great sale.
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The Gift, by Donna Dalton~
All reformed prostitute Eva Baird wants for Christmas is to have her daughter back in her arms. But gun-toting outlaws, spiteful in-laws, and a sweet-talking stranger with arresting gray eyes threaten to turn her dream into a lump of coal.
Excerpt:
She slid the note inside, secured the last fold, then wrapped twine around the package. As she lashed a half knot, she glanced up. “I could use a little help if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly,” he replied. ”What do you need me to do?” Kiss away your troubles?
“Put your finger on this knot while I tie a bow.”
Not as enjoyable as kissing, but it’d have to do. He reached out and pressed down on the twine. Her fingertips grazed his skin as she secured a bow. He held still, savoring the sensation. His life so far had been short on such sweetness.
Her hand briefly cupped his, sending pleasing heat shooting up his arm. Startled, he looked up and met her warm gaze.
“Thank you for defending me earlier, Mr. Haggard. It was very gentlemanly of you.”
His gut knotted. She wouldn’t call him gentlemanly if she knew what he’d done after the War. Where he’d spent the last four years of his miserable life
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Her Holiday Hero by Tori Anne~
“When a strong-willed upper class New York girl falls for a dashing, compassionate stable boy, it will take a Christmas miracle to bring them together. Thankfully, true love, and Christmas luck, is on their side.”
Excerpt:
Edward helped the women onto the cobblestones. His hands were clenched at his side and his gaze kept flickering to the stream of people ascending the stairs and entering between the pillared arches. But he nodded and climbed back up to sit and await his mistress from the driver’s seat.
“Edward, dear,” Mrs. Callen called, waving to him, “leave the carriage and come inside. I’ll pay another driver to keep an eye on it. I daresay you don’t want to miss Mr. Bergh’s speech.
Edward flushed, his broad shoulders lifting with pride, his eyes sparkling. “Why thank you, Ma’am, most kindly. I do admire Mr. Bergh fiercely and hope to be like him someday.”
Marie beamed at him. He glanced down and his lips twitched a shy smile. It was Marie’s turn to blush and they hurriedly looked at their shoes. Marie couldn’t get Bernice’s words out of her head. He loved her?
The world was entirely and incredibly new.
“With your fine moment in the Park, Edward, I daresay you’re on your way.”
Edward stuffed his hands in his pockets, a modest smile making his handsome face impossibly endearing.
Edward followed behind as Mrs. Callen led Marie up the brownstone steps and into the Romanesque Cooper Institute, whose interior been shaped from railroad ties and the spirit of a burgeoning class of dreamers. Lincoln had spoken here, and he’d later go on to claim his speech here pivotal to his presidency. The institute was a school, and Peter Cooper himself had devoted his life to enrichment, and Marie could feel the excitement of a broader mind as if the hewn brownstone itself were alive with possibility.
Edward rushed forward to open the door for them.
The crowd within the lecture hall was loud and enthusiastic, an impressive mix, with a good deal of women. In Bergh it was quite clear they had found a hero. And so had Edward. He stared at the stage, and at Marie, with boyish delight.
Her mother had found an acquaintance Marie did not know near the door and was engrossed in what Marie only assumed was gossip, to her great relief. Marie motioned that she and Edward take a couple of seats in the back corner, not well lit and not surrounded by others.
She sat and gestured for him to sit beside her.
“Shouldn’t I stand in the back here, Miss Callen? I… I oughtn’t sit next to you…”
“Will the man who saved a fine mare’s life today stand while a lady who did nothing sits? Come now, hero of the day, take your seat beside me.”
Edward’s pursed lips twitched into a proud smile as he carefully sat down, allowing for a decorous space between them. Marie glanced at her mother who remained blessedly far off and out of the way, and slid a little closer.
Mr. Bergh, a tall man in a wide moustache, came onto the stage to thunderous applause.
Edward seemed painfully aware of Marie’s proximity, for he was careful about where he put his hands when he wasn’t clapping, staring at the folds of her dress and how they spilled onto his knee, and the blush on his cheeks meant he noticed how much she was staring at him.
“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before,” he finally murmured.
“You opened my eyes to two things today. This wonderful man,” she nodded towards Mr. Bergh, who was taking some time to shake hands with congressional members who had been instrumental in passing his legislation, “and you. You were wonderful with that driver. That, and Bernice told me I’d been stupid not to see how you looked at me.”
“Oh, it’s been that obvious?” Edward looked down. “I’m surprised your father hasn’t fired me on the spot. I’ve tried to be a gentleman.”
“And you have been. Bernice is just a genius for knowing what everyone is thinking.”
“I overheard your father talking about Mr. Phillips.” Edward swallowed hard. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. He’s odious. Bernice is helping me figure out how we may sabotage the situation and she has my utmost confidence. I trust you’ll also forget I said anything of the sort.”
Edward smiled as if a great weight had been lifted. His immense pleasure at the news was evidence of his complicity.
“So if a young man like Mr. Phillips isn’t to your liking, Miss Pierce…” Edward stared at his knees, “Who is?”
“Someone who defends the helpless. Someone who’s very strong but only when need be. Someone who has a passion for something worthwhile. Does that remind you of anyone you know?”
Edward bit his lip. “Only someone I’d like to be.” He turned to her earnestly. “I’m sorry, Miss Callen, you… we shouldn’t be talking about this. Even jesting about it, or playing pretend. I’m not… on your level. We can’t…”
“Nonsense what I can or cannot do. Or what you can or cannot do. I daresay you’re the first boy I’ve fancied, Edward, and while society might wish to take it from me, don’t you do it too.”
“Well you do speak your mind don’t you, Miss Callen…” Edward murmured, his cheeks brightening to pure scarlet.
“Father regrets he ever had me educated.”
“I sure don’t.”
“Good then.”
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Redcoats and Sleighbells by Carol Spralding~
It took more than a bullet wound to stop Holly Masters from completing her intelligence mission. Generals, patrols, and experienced scouts had been her sport, until she met Dr. Nicholas Clayton. Severely injured and now his patient, in order to complete her assignment, she must decide if she can kill the man who saved her life.
Nicholas has healed wounded men for both the Patriots and the Crown, but he never expected to find a wounded woman, dressed in a British military uniform, on the edge of his property. Tucked into her coat sleeve, she holds many secrets that will change the course of the war. As an officer, he has a duty to prevent her from leaving his custody. As a doctor, he has the means to prevent her from revealing what she knows. Trained for every action, nothing has prepared him for what he knows he must do.
Excerpt:
The sleigh bells jingled as he bridled the horse. “There isn’t time to remove the strap. Grab that cloth over there and wrap them. We can at least muffle the noise. With the information destroyed, there’s no proof that you know anything. Promise me, you will keep your mouth closed.”
She didn’t know if she should be insulted or proud. “Nicholas, why do you want me to leave now?”
He continued without a proper answer. “Even if you get to the General in time, which you won’t, it will be too late.”
“Nicholas, answer me.”
He stopped and looked across the horse’s back. “Surely you realize that a soldier will never give accurate information in front of a civilian, even when ordered to do so by his superior. The information the sergeant gave in the barn was incorrect.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite.” He bent over to tighten the girth. “When he returned, the paper he gave me had the correct information.”
Holly’s stomach dropped to her knees and her hands shook. “Nicholas, what did you write in response?”
He refused to acknowledge her and strapped an extra blanket to the back of her saddle.
“Nicholas!”
He didn’t need words. His expression spoke for him. Holly held a fist to her stomach and backed away. Her throat closed preventing her from swallowing. She had to sit soon or fall over.
He rushed to her side but she held up her hand, staying him. “Why?” The word, barely audible, was all she could manage.
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The Christmas Ball by Susan Macatee~
While pretending to be a male soldier, farm girl Sara Brewster falls for a handsome Union army surgeon. When her secret is revealed, will a lavish Christmas Eve ball work in her favor–or will her heart be broken?
Excerpt:
She rose, rubbing her hands over her arms. “You won’t tell on me, will you? My parents depend on the money I send home.”
He sighed. “Not if you don’t want me to, but I don’t think this is a wise idea. You could serve just as well as a civilian nurse.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t make near enough money, and I like being a soldier.”
He rose and settled his hand on her shoulder. “I won’t betray your trust, Sara…er, Miss Brewster. I promise.”
Her sharp intake of breath sent his gaze to her face. Her full lips parted and a blush colored her cheeks. He ran his hand down her arm and took her hand. It was work-roughened, the nails broken, but small, making her seem vulnerable and frail. She’d had a hard life by her reckoning. He wanted to do something for her, to help lighten her workload.
To his surprise, she lifted his hand to her face and kissed the back of it. The softness of her lips on his knuckles sent a shiver through him.”Miss Brewster,” he said. “This isn’t a good idea.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Doc Ellison, I’ve longed to do this ever since I first set eyes on you.”
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A Soldier for Christmas by Lauri Robinson~
Southern belle Marybeth Dawson discovers Santa Claus can’t cross the Mason Dixon line–but handsome Union soldier, Trevor Sutton can.~
Excerpt:
When their lips merged, he felt it all the way to his toes. He wanted to grab her, crush her to his chest, but he restrained his hands, told his body to focus on the kiss. This one single action he’d carry with him forever.
His lips tasted hers, the top one, the bottom one, and the sweet, heavenly space where they met. He took his time, tasting each little spot over and over again. Nothing more than their lips touched, and one knuckle on his left hand that still held her chin.
But he wasn’t disappointed, not in the least. By the time he pulled away every nerve ending was on fire, both with an undeniable want to continue, but more with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.
He let his hand turn about and fold over her cheek, which she pressed against his palm. “Good-bye, Marybeth.”
“Good-bye, Trevor,” she whispered.
Before he changed his mind, he leaped off the porch, grabbed the rifle he’d left leaning against the railing, and jogged up the road.
Marybeth, shaking, drawing in rickety, uneven breaths, watched him go until she couldn’t even make out a dark dot on the far side of the field. It was then that she looked down and realized she’d dropped the basket of eggs. This time every single one had broken.
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A Warrior For Christmas ~ by Beth Trissel
Reclaimed by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764. His one aim is to run back to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity––until he meets Uncle Randolph’s ward, Dimity Scott.
Excerpt:
December 1764
An estate outside Philadelphia
Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house, far larger than he’d imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall.
Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier. Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.
“Welcome home, Mister Whitfield.”
By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, “How was your journey, sir?”
“Wretched, Mistress Stokes.” Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. “My nephew.” He swiped a paw at her. “My housekeeper,” he added by way of introduction. “Fifth cousin of my late wife’s, or some such connection.”
“Indeed.” Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. “Welcome to Whitfield Place.”
He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn’t seem required.
Uncle Randolph scowled. “Foul weather.”
She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. “Yes sir.”
“Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up.” Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.
Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn’t fault his uncle’s generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.
Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. “Where’s Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?”
Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.
The dour woman gave a nod. “Quite well, sir. She’s in the drawing room just after having her tea.”
“Good,” his uncle grunted. “Tell cook we’ll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don’t neglect the Madeira.”
Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. “She’s a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn’t risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here.”
Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A furlined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.
“There she is,” Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features. “My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her.”
Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else. One this unaware would never survive in the frontier. He’d been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. “Why does she not look up at our coming?”
“Ah, well, that’s a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” The hesitancy in his uncle’s tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others. He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he’d received in a duel. “I trust you’ll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you’ve kept company with those savages far too long.”
It wasn’t like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. “What are you saying, Uncle?”
He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. “Dimity cannot hear us.”
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George Washington’s Christmas list for his stepchildren in 1758 was ambitious: “A bird on Bellows, A Cuckoo, A turnabout parrot, A Grocers Shop, An Aviary, A Prussian Dragoon, A Man Smoakg, (a man smoking?) 6 Small Books for Children, 1 Fash. dress’d Baby & other toys.”
we cherish today. The Puritans and Quakers (among other Protestant churches) banned celebrations altogether, claiming the holiday was popish and tied to pagan traditions. Anglicans, Roman Catholics, and Lutherans introduced Christmas celebrations to colonial America, comprised of church services, dinners, dancing, visiting, and more of the same for wealthy folk. The music featured at balls and parties was the dance music of the period, much imported from across the Atlantic. Religious carols were also sung. “Joy to the World” became popular in my home state, Virginia. “The First Noel,” “God Rest You Merry Gentlemen,” and “I Saw Three Ships” are several more carols still beloved today.
Rather than the fervor leading up to December 25th that dies out almost as soon as the last gift is opened now, Christmas Day in colonial America began a season of festivities that lasted until January 6—thus the “Twelve days of Christmas.” Twelfth Day, January 6, was the perfect occasion for colonists to enjoy balls, parties, and other festivals.
Plantations and other colonial homes, even churches, were decorated with holly, laurel, garlands and sometimes lavender. My garden club used to decorate a colonial era home/museum and we were restricted to natural materials and native fruit like apples that might’ve been used in that day. Mistletoe, an ancient tradition and the centerpiece of every colonial home, was hung in a prominent place. Romantic couples found their way under the green leaves and white berries just as they do now. Light was of vital importance at this dark time of year. Yule logs blazed and candles were lit, the wealthier having more to light.
Wines, brandy, rum punches, and other alcoholic beverages were consumed in abundance in well-to-do households. Slave owners gave out portions of liquor to their workers at Christmastime, partly as a holiday indulgence and partly to keep slaves at the home during their few days off work. Intoxicated workers were less likely to run away or make long trips to visit distant relations.
Our family makes these ‘Early American Ginger Cutouts’ from a colonial recipe I found in a cookie cookbook published back in the 1950’s.
Mix wet ingredients into the dry until well blended. Cover bowl and chill dough for several hours (or more). Roll on lightly floured surface and cut with cookie cutters. Place on cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for approximately minutes. We press sprinkles into the dough before baking but that’s a modern addition.
Monday, Nov. 30th, I and several other authors featured in An American Rose Christmas Anthology had a fun chat with host Lesa Trapp on The Odd Mind Radio Show. Here’s the podcast if you’d like to hear it.
