A Bride for Christmas

By Theresa Scott

This bride makes every effort to dodge her father's dictates for a husband...

Christmas at a raucous fur-trading post in 1829

As Chantal Sorley dodges her father’s list of suitable husbands, she falls for the one man her father cannot abide, a fur trapper new to the area. But while this mysterious trapper helps Chantal pare down the list, he finds he is secretly losing his heart to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theresa Scott
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005497088

Theresa Scott

About the AuthorTheresa Scott is a novelist who writes historical and contemporary romance. She is currently working on her “Raven Immortals” series, which follows the adventures of the men and women who spent their lives working in the North American fur trade in the late 1820s.Theresa's books have sold over 600,000 copies worldwide, including the US, Canada, Australia, France, India, Italy, Germany, Holland, Spain, Taiwan, and the United Kingdom.She sets her stories in a variety of centuries and cultures, ranging from prehistoric times, to Norse times, to the days of the fur trade, and the wild west.Growing up in a small coastal fishing village, Theresa spent her time fishing for perch, swimming, climbing trees, and hiking the nearby beaches and forests. She has also lived in a small cabin in the woods in British Columbia, fetching water from a stream, and chopping wood for an old iron cook-stove that did double duty for cooking and keeping the cabin warm.These experiences, plus her educational background in Anthropology and summers spent on archaeological digs, filled her imagination with stories. Most of all, she writes about how love gives meaning to one's life. How people treat one another, how they interact with cultural 'rules,' or how they explain the world to themselves: all of it serves the bigger story that Love is a magnificent gift to humanity.Theresa makes her home in the beautiful Pacific Northwest where she and her in-house Archaeologist--who also happens to be her kind and patient husband--live with their little dog and the joys of electricity and running water."Theresa Scott's stories are distinctive, well-plotted and unforgettable." ~Debbie Macomber“Theresa Scott's captivating writing brings you to a wondrous time and shows you that love itself is timeless.” ~ Affaire de CoeurWebsite address: https://www.theresascott.comSubscribe to Theresa's newsletter: https://www.theresascott.com/contact.html

Book preview

Chapter 1

Fort Vancouver

Columbia Department

December 1829

Chantal Sorley stood at the top of the stairs on the porch of the new fort’s administration building where community events were held. Behind the closed door, she could hear laughing and all the frivolous sounds from the men and women attending Mr. Hutchinson’s retirement party.

Alas, a large man wearing the usual trappers’ leather garb blocked the way between her and the door.

He tipped his leather hat to her. You come along with me, Miss. He swayed a little on his feet and she could tell he was drunk.

You must be new to the fort, she said pleasantly. She tightened her grip on the short, black wool jacket she wore over her shoulders. Underneath the jacket she wore a white wool stole over her blue wool gown. However, fancy evening wear would not stop her from facing down a drunken trapper.

He hiccupped. Yessirree, ma’am. Taking her arm, he said, You come on along with me now, quiet, like a little lambkin.

She glanced at the hand holding her arm. Take your hands off me, pelt-peeler, she growled.

Surprised, he removed his hand from her arm and peered at her. He blinked slowly as if trying to think.

This is my second-best dress. I don’t want to ruin it by throwing the likes of you across the porch.

Who’d you wear the purty dress for then? Me?

"I wore it for me. Now get out of my way."

He stared at her. I was told the women at this fort are easy—here for the takin’, he said. Someone told me that.

Don’t believe everything you’re told, is my advice. She paused. More advice: it’s time for you to leave. She preferred scaring him away so she wouldn’t get her long dress dirty. Fortunately, she’d worn her winter boots under her blue gown rather than her fancy, tippy shoes. Boots kept her feet warm from the snow and would also give her better balance if she needed to kick him.

I don’t want to leave, he whined.

You have to, she told him. She braced her feet in case he tried grabbing her arm again.

He was swaying on his feet.

Look, she said. If I have to throw you off this porch, I will. Now leave.

He stepped to the side. She saw he was going to do as he was told. Some of them did, most didn’t. Occasionally, a trapper or trader like him came through this fort and seemed to think they owned every woman they saw.

They didn’t own her. And she let them know it.

He walked over to descend the stairs. Drunk as he was, he could just as easily fall down them.

Pelt-peeler, she said. Hold on to the railing. You fall down those stairs and I’ll have to come down there and move your lazy carcass to the side so no one trips over you.

He held the railing and took a step. He stopped and looked at her. You’re the one they warned me about.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. Who’d they warn you about?

He swayed a little. Touched his forehead in an effort to remember. Sh—Shann—no—Chantal. That’s it. My friends told me, ‘Don’t you go settin’ no trap for Chantal, man’ they told me. ‘You even look at her sideways, she’ll spit in yer eye.’ That’s what they done told me.

She smiled. Clever friends. Yes, I’m Chantal Sorley. She eyed him. Put your hand back on that rail, or you’ll fall. Can’t have that happening now, can we?

He put his hand back on the rail and held on as if he had a ship deck rocking under him. Thank you, Miss. I’ll leave now.

Good! You take those steps one at a time, there’s a good boy.

He clumped down the stairs.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, she called out to him. Trapper! You want to know how to get a woman?

He turned around and nodded.

Treat them with respect. Same’s as how you’d want to be treated. Got that?

He swayed on his feet, lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and walked away.

She doubted he’d understood, but at least she’d tried. His behavior was neither unusual nor unexpected. Every woman she knew spoke of several encounters with trappers or traders at the fort who thought they could accost a woman—any woman, on a whim.

What I’d give for a decent, honorable man, she muttered to herself as she walked over to the door. She yanked it wide open and stepped inside the well-lit room. She took off her black jacket and tossed it onto the table to join the other coats and jackets. She deftly readjusted her white wool stole so it gracefully looped over her shoulders, and sashayed into the room to celebrate her father’s friend’s long-awaited retirement.

An hour later, she surveyed the room for her father and saw he was busy talking and laughing with Mr. Hutchinson, who was the guest of honor, and several other Hudson’s Bay Company employees.

She stood next to a punch bowl filled with a berry-red liquid and listened to the swirl of noise and chatter around her. Conversations and bursts of laughter rose and fell while people in the crowded room socialized. The main topic of conversation seemed to center on the anticipated arrival of the new Assistant Factor to the fort. He would be second-in-command to the Chief Factor. While the Chief Factor carried the highest rank at the fort, the new man would be very influential in how the day-to-day activities of the fur trading company were handled—and by whom.

Snow was still falling lightly outside the wood-framed windows of the large room. One woman blamed the cold weather and several inches of snow for the Assistant Factor’s delay. Several of the men chimed in, assuring her a man of his high status and rank would have pushed his men and himself onwards to the fort despite the snowfall.

Chantal turned away, wondering idly if it was true that a good man, a noble man, say, a man whom a woman might look up to, would push his men hard through bad weather? Or would he instead wait out the storm and travel when it was safer for his men to do so?

She sighed, knowing the answer to that question would depend on how tired his men were, and how bad the weather was, of course. Above all else, I suppose a noble man would have to be practical when making such decisions.

Of late, she had caught herself thinking more and more often about what qualities a good man, a noble man, might have. She could not fathom within herself as to why her thoughts had led in that direction of late. Her life at the fort was full—she had her Papa to take care of, she had her vendor business to manage, which was thriving. Her large extended family and many good friends lived near the fort and throughout the area. Then why these frequent meanderings about… a man? Not any particular man, just what a good man would be like.

Many men participated in the rough life at the fort and its environs. But she’d come to realize that none of the men she knew appealed to her in any deep way. Not in the way that she thought she would feel if she chose a man to spend her life with, a man to quell the loneliness inside her….

Today the room was full of joyous people. It was a custom at the fort to hold important celebrations during the days leading up to Christmas and New Year’s Day. Retirements, weddings, marriages, funerals, or baptisms were held and well attended. Chantal smiled to herself as she listened to mirth and music fill the building.

Her father laughed at something someone had just told him. He’s happy for his friend’s retirement. Thirty years ago, her father Jacob Sorley and Mr. Hutchinson had joined the Company as low-level Clerks. They’d worked together over the years, buying and shipping furs and keeping the fort’s ledgers accurate. Their hard work had paid off and they’d both reached the middle tier as Chief Traders of the Company and were rightfully proud of their achievements.

Watching him now, Chantal wondered, Is Papa considering retirement too? The long hours of work, the numerous days of travel to various forts within Columbia Territory, the cold and wet winters, had undermined his health over the years. And though he looked younger than the balding and plump Mr. Hutchinson, and despite her father’s mane of iron-gray hair and lean build, he was not so young. He seemed to be walking slower than before too.

The men were discussing the current state of the fur trade. She half-listened as she glanced around the room.

Suddenly she caught sight of a tall trapper, new to the fort, whom she’d seen strolling about the fort and environs in the last two days. Arms crossed, he leaned against the wall on the other side of the room and appeared to relish watching the various people conversing. And while he had not stopped by at her vendor’s stall for any purchases, she had secretly hoped he would do so.

Did other people at the fort notice him, or was it just her? She thought he made an effort not to be noticed, though such a thing was impossible. The brown non-descript leather clothes he wore failed to hide his poise and self-confidence. Most particularly, he seemed to bring an air of concentration to every conversation he engaged in. Not that she had talked to him. But she had watched him speak with others and had noted the stillness, the intent with which he listened. He was… he was… different from the other men at the fort.

He’d never approached her, not once. Not while she was meeting with her customers or setting up her vendor tables to sell her bolts of cloth, copper kettles, and other useful items before Christmas. Now she fleetingly wondered if he had also been warned about her as the drunken trapper on the porch had been?

Those times she had noticed him, it was to see him in easy conversation, laughing and joking with various people at the fort. She liked a man who could appreciate people and laugh with them, and not at them.

She told herself it was hard not to notice him. She found his face handsome; the part that she could see that wasn’t covered by the beard, that is. Once, she’d caught a glimpse of his eyes. She’d been too far away to tell, but she thought they might be brown.

Chantal brushed a wisp of her hair away from her face, suddenly feeling a bit warmer in the crowded room. The women in the room around her—wives and daughters of the higher-ranking Hudson’s Bay Company men who worked at the fort—were the same women who customarily attended the fort’s festive occasions. Several of the women who stood nearby were wearing dresses they’d made from bolts of cloth that she herself had sold them.

One of the nearby women, Mrs. Pickering, the mother of four marriageable daughters who were with her today, was assuring her listeners she would soon be inviting the new Assistant Factor to a welcome party at her home. Her daughters blushed and looked like they would like to be somewhere else.

Chantal guessed that more than one Mama in the room was interested in the impending arrival on behalf of their unmarried daughters.

Chantal gave a small sigh. Her own mother, Dina, had been dead many years. Chantal’s memories of her mother were as if through a fog. It seemed as if her family had always been just her and her father.

Fortunately, she had a huge family of relatives on her Indian mother’s side, spread over half the territory, as her father liked to say. Dina’s family was indeed large and family members lived in several villages west of the fort, and out toward the coast. The family’s men were in the business of trapping and fishing; the women helping in the preparation of the products. Her Indian relatives often traded with the fort, sometimes supplying furs or fish, sometimes trading for items they found useful. Over the years her father had maintained his contacts with her mother’s network of relatives, visiting them, and aiding them with any trading requests. His contacts with her relatives proved beneficial for his employer too, the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Christmas had always been a cheerful time for Chantal and her father. She realized now, as an adult, how hard he must have worked to make a happy home for them.

She stood quietly beside the punch bowl, and fussed with the rounded neck of her dress. As she’d told the trapper she’d encountered at the door, this was her second-best dress, a slim, long-skirted blue wool dress that just brushed the floor, hiding the toes of the boots she wore. The dress’s puffy white sleeves were hidden by the wide, white wool stole—her attempt to look elegant. What should I do now? She supposed she could walk over to visit with the other women. They