Under the Texas Mistletoe: A Trio of Christmas Historical Romance Novellas

By Karen Witemeyer

Three Charming and Festive Holiday Novellas Spiced with Humor, Frontier Action, and Sweet Romance

In this 3-in-1 novella collection, bestselling author Karen Witemeyer presents the new story "A Texas Christmas Carol," in which a town's wealthy, Scrooge-like bachelor finds his world invaded by a woman set on earning his donation for helping the local poor, and by the penetrating questions of three mysterious visitors.

It also includes, for the first time in print, "An Archer Family Christmas." When the Archer clan gathers for the Christmas holiday, an unexpected request for help leaves Cassandra Archer directly in the path of a dangerous outlaw. Desperate to protect the woman he loves, Jim Archer races to the rescue, only to find that Cassie's life is not the only one in peril. It will take a Christmas miracle--and the entire Archer clan--to keep a second Archer Christmas from ending in disaster.

In previously published "Gift of the Heart," a widow and her young daughter move to Hope Springs for a fresh start. But with no money to secure a home, Ruth must convince a wealthy resort owner to accept her heirloom brooch as collateral. Will the pin that brought love to three generations soften the heart of a wounded recluse and give Ruth a second chance at love as the holidays draw near?

Sprinkled throughout the collection, you'll find a hope-filled Christmas devotion, Witemeyer holiday recipes, and fun facts about nineteenth-century Christmas celebrations!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781493433681

Karen Witemeyer

Voted #1 Reader's Favorite Christian Historical Author of 2023 by Family Fiction magazine, bestselling and Carol and Christy Award-winning author Karen Witemeyer offers warmhearted historical romance with a flair for humor, feisty heroines, and swoon-worthy Texas heroes. She and her husband make their home in Abilene, Texas. Learn more about Karen and her books at KarenWitemeyer.com.

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© 2021 by Karen Witemeyer

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-3368-1

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

Front porch photographed at the residence of Alyson Petrich, Stillwater, MN

Author is represented by the Books & Such Literary Agency.

Contents

Cover

Half Title Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Letter from Karen

A Texas Christmas Carol

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Epilogue

Why a Baby? A Christmas Devotional

An Archer Family Christmas

Archer Genealogy

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

American Christmas Traditions of the Nineteenth Century

Gift of the Heart

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Christmas Recipes

About the Author

Back Ads

Back Cover

Welcome Readers!

Christmas is my favorite holiday of the year. Time spent with family, singing carols, Christmas baking, and all the nostalgia that comes with trimming the tree. Yet what I treasure most is celebrating the miracle of Jesus entering our world to dwell among us. In this novella collection, you’ll find holiday stories rich with history, family, adventure, and romance. You’ll also find fun bonus items like Christmas recipes, Victorian Christmas traditions, and a devotional designed to help you see the baby Jesus in a whole new way.

May your holiday season be filled with love and laughter, both inside the pages of this book and outside as you share time with family and friends.

Merry Christmas!

Karen

To all those who brighten dark corners

with kind smiles and words of hope.

These gifts might seem small,

but your light changes lives.

Keep shining!

divider

The joy of the Lord is your strength.

—Nehemiah 8:10

one

DECEMBER 1895

LONDON, TEXAS

IT’S A FOOL’S ERRAND, I tell you.

Felicity Wiggins shrugged as she collected the list of needy families from last year’s Christmas Basket Committee chairwoman. Marching around Jericho for seven days probably felt like a fool’s errand to the Israelites too, but their persistence paid off. The walls eventually fell.

Margaret Talley made a clucking noise as she closed the storage closet on the dozen oversized market baskets that had just been delivered for their congregation’s annual community project. Yes, well, the Israelites had the captain of the Lord’s army giving them instructions. So unless you have an angel directing you, I’d recommend harkening unto the words of our Savior instead, and cast not your pearls before swine.

Don’t worry, Felicity said with a soft chuckle, I won’t let Mr. Beazer trample over me. My backbone is strong enough to withstand a few snaps and growls.

Margaret headed toward the stairs leading out of the church basement, tossing a frown over her shoulder. It’s your time, I suppose. If you choose to waste it, that’s your prerogative. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Evan Beazer might be the wealthiest man in town, but he’s a Scrooge of the worst order. Not only does he refuse to donate to any of our causes, but he insults anyone with the temerity to approach him. She paused at the top of the stairway and braced a hand against the wall as she turned to face Felicity. He called me a blood-sucking leech and threatened to have me brought up on trespassing charges should I ever darken his door again. Margaret, her face usually placid and lovely, scrunched her nose as if the memory were so rancid, she could smell it. The gall of him. He might dutifully leave his tithe in the collection plate every Sunday to keep his conscience clean, but he refuses to donate so much as a penny to any cause beyond that obligation, no matter how worthy. He’s a tight-fisted, coldhearted man. Completely void of compassion. Why, you could wring him like a dishrag, and not a single drop of Christian charity would fall out. His soul is as dry as a bone.

Mrs. Talley was a dynamo when it came to getting things done and a blessing to any committee she served upon, but she had definite opinions about how things should go and didn’t react well when thwarted.

Felicity patted her arm. There is nothing the least bit leech-like about you. You probably just caught him on a bad day.

The deacon’s wife arched a brow. "Every day is a bad day for Evan Beazer."

Not every day. Felicity ducked her head, recalling one day in particular when Mr. Beazer had been in rare, heroic form.

Pushing the distracting thought aside, Felicity winked at her friend as she marched past. I recognize the challenge he presents, but I’m determined to try anyway. With the passing of dear Mrs. Humbolt this year, our donation total is down by a third. I can suffer through a few insults if it means more shoes and winter coats for the children. Besides, forewarned is forearmed. Thanks to you, I know what kind of reception to expect, so I can plan accordingly. And, believe it or not, I can be rather devious when I put my mind to it.

You? Devious? Margaret shook her head, a huff of a laugh escaping. Felicity, you don’t have a dishonest bone in your body.

Oh, I don’t plan any trickery, Felicity said, turning to face Margaret while continuing to walk backward down the hall to the main sanctuary. In fact, my strategy comes straight from scripture itself.

Really?

Felicity nodded, a grin spreading across her face. Remember the parable Jesus told in Luke 11 about the man who kept knocking on his neighbor’s door in the middle of the night, asking for bread? The neighbor kept trying to turn him away, but the man persisted, and eventually he got his bread. I plan to employ the same technique. Mischief swirled in her belly, stirring up an excitement she couldn’t quite contain. "I’m going to pester him into cooperation."

Margaret let out a full laugh. If anyone can do it, it’s you.

Felicity prayed she was right. Not just for the children’s sakes, but for Mr. Beazer himself. He never smiled. How awful it must be to be so miserable. She couldn’t imagine a world void of happiness. But then, she’d been blessed with a cheerful family who laughed and teased and actively looked for reasons to celebrate. Mr. Beazer had no one meaningful in his life beyond a handful of local staff and a conglomeration of distant employees.

He needed a strong dose of joy in his life, and she was prepared to hold his nose and force a spoonful of medicinal Christmas cheer down his throat, if necessary.

divider

A timid tap sounded against the doorframe, followed by the timid voice of Evan Beazer’s housekeeper. Sorry to interrupt, sir—

Then don’t. Evan didn’t bother to look up from the stock report he was scrutinizing.

Could the woman not follow the most basic of instructions? He was not to be disturbed while in his study. Ever. The concept couldn’t be more simplistic. Yet here she was, disturbing him.

Mrs. Bell was his third housekeeper in the five years he’d lived here. A widow with children to support, she’d stuck it out the longest, going on two and a half years now. She needed the work badly enough to endure his idiosyncrasies, and he needed someone to cook and clean badly enough to endure her failings. To a point. Today’s infraction veered dangerously near the line.

There’s a young woman at the door, sir, Mrs. Bell persisted, and she—

Evan slapped the folded newspaper atop his mahogany desk and was slightly mollified when the housekeeper startled and dropped her sentence with a gasp. He didn’t want an explanation. He wanted silence.

Send whoever it is away, he ordered. You know I don’t accept callers unless they are business associates. And even you must recognize that I don’t do business with young women.

Mrs. Bell bristled at his poorly veiled insult of her intelligence, and one of her hands found its way to her hip. I tried to send her away, sir, but she refuses to leave.

He waved her off with a brush of his hand. Slam the door in her face. That should rid us of her.

Tried that. Mrs. Bell looked far too smug imparting that bit of news. "Even threatened charges of trespassing, but nothing budges her. She promised to continue knocking until you come to the door."

Bah! Give her five minutes. She’ll weary of the game.

His housekeeper raised a brow. I’ve given her twenty. She’s still at it.

Still at it? After twenty minutes?

She’s taken to beating out song rhythms on the door. At least I think they’re song rhythms. Hard to tell with no melody. But either way, they’re driving me batty.

Not a far drive, Evan muttered under his breath.

Mrs. Bell narrowed her eyes, both hands now resting firmly on her hips. I hope you’re in the mood for raw bread dough and half-cooked chicken for supper, then, ’cause I’ve reached my limit. If that dreadful knocking doesn’t stop in the next two minutes, I’m taking the rest of the day off.

Evan rose from his chair, a glower crunching his brows down over his eyes. I’ll dock your pay.

Her hands fell away from her hips and slid to hide beneath her apron, but her chin lifted. My sanity’s worth a day’s wage.

Of all the frustrating . . . imbecilic . . .

Fine.

He charged around the corner of his desk, his limp barely slowing him at all with such irritation fueling his stride. Raw bread dough indeed. Mrs. Bell was lucky she was a better cook than she was a doorman, or he’d sack her this instant. She scuttled out of his way as he charged forward. Most people did. Hopefully the infernal knocking witch at his door would do the same so he could get back to work. Without further interruption.

Evan snatched his cane from where it rested near his office doorway even though it was more of an insurance policy than an actual need. His trick knee hadn’t gone out on him in several months, but one never knew when disaster might strike, and he refused to be humiliated in front of strangers or staff by falling on his face. Besides, the cane made a grand weapon to wave around in a threatening fashion, should his unwanted visitor prove stubborn.

As he neared the front door, the tapping grew louder. His temper heated in equal increments. When he finally grasped the handle, he jerked the door inward. Cease that infernal knocking!

The unsuspecting percussionist lurched forward but thankfully caught herself before tumbling on top of him.

The moment Evan recognized Felicity Wiggins, his relief over the near miss turned to a momentary flicker of regret. One he banished immediately. He’d spent the last two years studiously avoiding personal contact with the fair Miss Wiggins, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down now, no matter how her eyes lit at the sight of him.

Such a look had to be a pretense. No one actually enjoyed his company. A fact of which he was perfectly aware. And not the least bit sorry.

Mr. Beazer! she said, her voice ringing with a delight that sounded almost genuine.

He hadn’t thought her such an accomplished actress, but then, she no doubt wanted something from him, and women were at their most cunning when they wanted something.

Good afternoon to you, sir. Hasn’t the Lord blessed us with a lovely day?

Evan didn’t bother to look at the sky to which she gestured. It’s December, Miss Wiggins. It’s cold and dreary.

Her smile only brightened, ornery thing. Nonsense. It’s a beautiful day. The cloud cover protects me from squinting, and the wind is gentle as a lamb. A rare gift at this time of year.

Evan scowled down at her, doing his best to quell his fascination with the way the cloud-filtered light brought out the fire in the dark copper hair coiled atop her head. Surely you didn’t seek me out to compare theories on the weather.

Of course not. I came to enlist your help. I’m in charge of the community Christmas baskets this year, and I—

Not a cent. Now leave, he groused.

It shouldn’t surprise him that she wanted money. Everyone did. Nothing else could motivate them to beard the lion in his den. Nevertheless, a twinge of disappointment caught him by surprise. Until today, he hadn’t thought Miss Wiggins was like everyone else. But why wouldn’t she be?

There are children in need, Mr. Beazer, she insisted, her smile finally dimming as a flush of passion colored her cheeks. It is our Christian duty to help them.

"No one’s Christian duty helped me when I was a boy. I was destitute and living off my wits after the Panic of ’73 destroyed my family. Hard work and frugal living is what saved me, Miss Wiggins, not a Christmas basket filled with a week’s worth of food and secondhand clothes. Now, leave me be."

As he stepped back and started closing the door, she followed him, her smile restored and her green eyes sparkling. If you don’t wish to contribute money, then I’ll gladly accept a donation of your time.

"Absolutely not. My time is far too precious to be frittered away on fluff and nonsense. Unlike you, I work for a living. Good day, madam."

Her smile wobbled a bit but bravely held position. I’ll give you some time to think about it, she said, bending her neck so she could peer around the closing door. I’ll come back tomorrow.

What a horrifying prospect!

Evan widened the door enough to stick his head through the opening and glare at her. I’ll not open this door again to you, Miss Wiggins. No matter how long you knock.

Her eyes danced with mischief. Then I suppose I’ll just have to find a window.

two

THE LITTLE MINX PROVED AS GOOD as her word. The following day, Miss Wiggins appeared at Evan’s study window, squeezed between two hedges, and began tapping the end of a knitting needle, of all things, against the glass. No doubt she’d tested various objects to see which produced the most annoying pitch, for when he finally threw up the sash to demand she leave, he found no evidence of yarn, knitted or otherwise, on her person.

The day after that, she ambushed him after Sunday services. He always made a point to leave during the final hymn, having no desire to chat with other parishioners. This Sunday, however, his nemesis beat him to it, sneaking out halfway through the sermon. He’d harbored a brief flash of concern for her health only to be waylaid mere moments later by a woman demonstrating not the least sign of sickliness. God could not have made a more vibrant female.

Felicity Wiggins was his antithesis in every way. As warm in spirit as her copper curls were in coloring. Her sunny disposition and kind nature charmed everyone she met. Except him, of course. Ice water ran through his veins. A raging forest fire would fail to thaw him. Success in business required dispassionate calculation, so he’d rid himself of all sentiment from an early age and focused solely on what kept the ledger totals in the black. The Ice King, his partner used to call him, because of his cool demeanor and prematurely gray hair.

Like his father before him, Evan’s hair started turning gray after his twenty-third birthday. In the beginning, it needled his vanity to be mistaken for a much older man. Then he realized the power of leveraging that misperception to his advantage. Men of business were more apt to trust a man they believed to be experienced. Wise, even. And after a fall from his horse rendered Evan’s left knee unreliable, he started carrying a cane, which further enhanced the image. Now, at the age of two and thirty, most thought him in his fifties unless they took the time to notice the lack of lines on his face. Which most didn’t, since they were in too much of a hurry to escape his presence. Exactly as he preferred.

His business partner had thought it a lark to play up Evan’s advanced age with investors. Marlin Jacobson had been an associate of Evan’s father prior to the market crash, one who’d had the foresight not to invest solely in railroads, but in property as well. Hotels, dance halls, emporiums. Wherever people came to spend money. Property offered the stability that rail speculation did not. Evan modeled his business practices after Marlin, craving a secure bottom line more than a lucrative one. He would not be his father, cast into a poorhouse because of overconfident investing, leaving his wife and child to fend for themselves.

At first, old Marlin had pawned Evan off on men he had little liking for, no doubt expecting Evan’s scheme of running an inn that catered to the middle class an idiotic notion. Yet when Evan started turning a tidy profit for Marlin’s enemies, he changed his tune and started investing his own funds. Before he died last year, they’d successfully launched a dozen inns together.

Evan set thoughts of his former partner aside as he took his heavy coat off the hook by the back door and slid his arms inside. Morning rides in December were a brisk prospect, but he rarely skipped. Pounding the countryside on the back of a well-bred horse was one of the few things that brought him pleasure. With his walking pace hindered by injury, riding at full speed exhilarated him like nothing else. Made him feel alive. Young.

Leaving his cane behind, Evan crossed the yard to the stable, burrowing deeper into his coat as the wind blew down from the north. When he entered the barn, shivers continued to dance over his skin, but this warmer variety was brought on not by the wind but by the fetching interloper making cooing noises to his horse.

At the sound of the door banging shut, Felicity Wiggins startled and turned to face him. Oh! Good morning, Mr. Beazer.

Something similar to satisfaction sang through him at the sight of her. Had he actually been looking forward to her next visit? Bah! His satisfaction was due to being proved correct about her stubborn character, not because he’d hoped to see her today. She was a menace. Interested solely in his money.

Still, he had to admire her dogged determination to succeed in her mission. Apparently they had something in common, after all.

Miss Wiggins, he said, disapproval rife in his tone, step away from my horse.

She, of course, did no such thing. In fact, she turned back to the stall and rubbed the animal’s ears precisely where he most enjoyed it. He’s a beauty. Lightly cupping the beast’s cheeks, she placed a kiss on his nose. Both Evan and his mount were shocked into momentary immobility. What’s his name?

His quarter horse had been bred for speed and strength, not gentility. He was high-strung, ill-tempered, and opinionated, just like his master. Yet he was nuzzling Felicity like some kind of lovesick swain.

Fred, Evan ground out. His name is Fred.

Fred? She chuckled, the sound like winter sleet pinging off a wind chime. Oh, he’s far too noble to be called Fred. Alfredo, perhaps, or Frederick. He’s worthy of at least three syllables, don’t you think?

Fred lifted his head and aimed an accusing eye at Evan, as if disgusted his master had settled on such an ordinary name when finer ones were available.

His name’s Fred, Evan groused, grabbing a bridle off the tack wall and marching forward. He shook a finger at his horse. I won’t have you putting on airs just because some attractive lady starts paying you compliments. She has no idea what a knave you are.

Fred snorted at Evan, then turned back to Miss Wiggins, nudging her with his nose in a shameless bid for attention.

For once, the woman in question seemed uneasy. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she dodged away from his gaze, focusing on the horse. Frederick’s not a knave. Are you? The horse shook his head while letting out another snort, which elicited a tinkling laugh from the fair maiden. You’re such a darling, she cooed.

What kind of pitiful man found himself jealous of a horse? His kind, apparently. Evan’s frown carved a deeper line into his jaw.

He strode forward and inserted himself between woman and horse. Kindly step aside, madam. I have a ride to take, and I won’t let you and your agenda interfere.

I wouldn’t dream of interfering. She spread her skirt wide as if curtsying as she bowed out of the way. Humbug and I will just wait for you to return.

Evan glanced over his shoulder while fitting the bit into Fred’s mouth. Humbug?

Her eyes danced. Definitely a bad sign. Mm-hmm.

A sharp bark echoed from one of the empty stalls. A moment later, a brown-and-white beagle trotted into sight. The hound spied him and immediately padded over to investigate, sniffing Evan’s boots and legs with annoying thoroughness.

Miss Wiggins crouched down next to Evan’s boots, making him feel like some kind of self-important prig. Why wouldn’t she just let him be and quit upsetting his routine?

She patted the dog’s side. Good boy, Humbug. This is Mr. Beeee-zerrrrr.

Why was she drawing his name out like that? Was her dog dull-witted?

Evan braced his weight on his right leg and tried to steer the overly curious hound away from him with a nudge of his left. I hardly think you have room to criticize my horse’s moniker when you’ve named your dog Humbug. Not exactly the most flattering of appellations.

She rose, and despite his need to concentrate on his horse, Evan couldn’t seem to keep his gaze from following her ascension. The mischievous smile playing about her lips boded ill.

Papa does love a bit of irony, she said. He gave me Humbug three Christmases ago and thought it a lark to name the energetic, cheerful pup after such a grumpy expression. Then, of course, there’s the humming.

Humming? The question slipped out before Evan recalled that he was trying to discourage interaction with her, not draw it out.

Oh, yes. He has this cute humming snore when he sleeps and a guttural rumbling that underlies his barks and howls.

She looked far too enchanting nattering on about the dog as if he were a member of her family. Evan jerked his face away and opened the stall door, determined to escape her and her obnoxious mutt, who was still circling and sniffing. He’d be lucky not to trip over the blasted thing.

Did you know, she said casually as she leaned her hip against the stall wall, that beagles are excellent hunters? Once they catch a scent, they never forget it. Now that he’s met you, from this day forward, Humbug and I will be able to find you no matter where you try to hide.

So that was her game.

And if you don’t have time to talk now, Hum and I will just wait for you. Won’t we, Hummy? A-wooo-wooo-wooo.

The dog immediately joined her song, baying along with marked enthusiasm. A guttural hum rumbled beneath the howl, just as she’d claimed.

Hush! Evan demanded, aiming his command at the dog, though he should have aimed it at the woman, for the animal only followed where she led.

Neither paid him any mind, of course, so the cacophony swelled. Even Fred seemed disillusioned with the object of his recent infatuation. He stomped his front hoof and shook his head, clearly agitated. If this went on much longer, man and horse would both be so out of sorts that neither would be fit for a ride.

Fine! Evan raised his voice to carry above the ungodly racket. You win. Just make him stop.

Triumph flashed in Miss Wiggins’s emerald eyes, but it quickly faded beneath an expression so radiant, Evan’s chest ached with hollowness in comparison. What must it