Snowbound With the Sheriff
Southern Montana, 1886
When Chayston Williams agreed to act as sheriff of Spring Valley, Montana, he never dreamed his duties would include delivering his father’s pretty young mail-order bride to the family ranch in time for a Christmas wedding!
Violet Ritter promised her late stepfather that she would marry the man of his choosing. But she’s shocked to discover her husband-to-be is old enough to have a grown son of his own! And she’s even more surprised by her attraction to the ornery young man....
When a blizzard strands them in the sheriff’s office for two days—and two nights—how will Chayston and Violet stop the fire between them from blazing out of control?
Snowbound with the Sheriff
Lauri Robinson
Dear Reader,
While writing this story I was reminded of a Christmas when all three of our sons were young. A tradition at our house is that we open the gifts from each other on Christmas Eve, and then at night, while everyone is sleeping, Santa Claus brings his gifts.
That year a winter storm hit on Christmas Eve. Shortly after we’d opened gifts, the power went out. With candles and flashlights, my husband and I put the boys to bed and then started into putting out the gifts from Santa Claus. A few items were labeled “some assembly required” and it took us hours, by candlelight, to get those toys put together. We’d just climbed into bed when the power came back on. We’d completely forgotten to shut off light switches and other items. The lights and noise that overcame the house awoke the boys, who of course rushed downstairs to see what Santa had brought.
I hope you enjoy Chayston and Violet’s story, and I hope you take a moment to relish memories of past Christmases.
With Holiday Blessings,
Lauri
To Janet Turley King who so graciously loaned me her son Chayston’s name.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
Southern Montana
December 1886
Spring Valley’s Main Street was only a few blocks long and from where he stood outside Svenson’s Dry Goods, Chayston Williams could see a mile or more up the road where nothing but a sea of bright white snow left from last week’s storm met his searching gaze.
Irritated, Chayston spun around and stomped back inside. Stationed next to the stove, he waited while Lars assisted a customer—ElleDee Scott and her brood of youngsters. When the woman and her children, all boys with black hair who looked just like their father, gathered up their packages, Chayston walked over and opened the windowed door.
“Thank you, Chayston,” she said, “Merry Christmas.”
He had nothing to be merry about—this year, Christmas was just another day to him—but he responded in kind before closing the door behind her.
“Wire said the stage left Cedar Grove this morning, right after the train arrived,” Lars said with his deep brogue.
“I know.” Chayston checked the watch clipped to his pants. “Which means Riley should have been here an hour ago.”
“No telling how bad the road is,” Lars offered. “Stage hasn’t come through since the storm.”
Chayston glanced out the window at the sky again. The nuisance of all this sat like lead in his lungs. He had even less desire to haul the General’s new bride all the way out to the ranch in the middle of the night than he did during the day. It was ludicrous—a man ordering a bride. But the General had, and he’d bade Chayston to see her to the ranch.
A Christmas bride, no less. That really gulled him.
“’Course, others have,” Lars said. “The Johanssons were in town this morning.”
“That’s only five miles out.” Chayston buttoned up his coat and checked the leather strap securing his holster to his thigh. “I’m going to ride out that way.”
“If you’re not back—”
“I’ll be back,” Chayston interrupted. The stage had to be somewhere between Spring Valley and Cedar Grove. The twenty miles through the pass was always slow going, and all this snow could make it treacherous.
That’s all he needed—to deliver a body to the General instead of a wife.
In no time, he had his horse saddled and they headed out. Buster was more than happy to leave his stall after being cooped up most of the week and tossed his head as they took off up the street.
Chayston could relate. Had he known the amount of paperwork that went along with being a sheriff, he might not have taken the job. Then again, considering the way he’d been railroaded, he couldn’t say no.
Just like last year, when he hadn’t had a choice at all. He’d been on the verge of taking a bride, had even bought a ring to give her for Christmas, but it turned out his bride-to-be had been in love with another man. His best friend, Seth Johansson. He sure hadn’t seen that coming. Becca hadn’t hinted toward it either. But she and Shep were married now. With a baby due shortly.
The road was clear and the five miles to the Johansson place went by relatively swiftly. Chayston hadn’t planned on stopping, but Seth saw him coming and ran out to meet him.
“Stage is late,” he said.
“No telling how bad the pass is,” Seth replied. “No traffic’s come through since last week’s storm.”
Chayston nodded. He and Seth had gone to school together, along with Willis, Becca’s older brother. It hadn’t been until two years ago, when she started working for Lars, that Chayston noticed Becca had grown up.
“I’ll saddle a horse and ride out with you,” Seth offered.
“No, thanks,” Chayston said, pointing to the thick, dark clouds rising up over the mountain peak. “The weather’s going to get bad again. You best stay home.”
Seth glanced toward the house, were Becca stood on the front porch. She waved, and Chayston, swallowing the bitterness that still let loose inside him at times, waved back. No one had ever known about the ring he’d purchased, and no one ever would.
Bidding farewell to Seth, he urged Buster into a trot.
The gelding was sure-footed and took to the mountain grade as easily as he’d traveled across the valley. Here, too, the trail was clear, but if snow had let loose it would be higher up, where the road made a long S-curve and the mountainside was the steepest. A couple of miles later, as Chayston rounded the first corner, shouts had him nudging Buster into a faster pace.
Following the road all the way around the curve, he slowed momentarily. Sure enough, a snowslide covered the road a short distance ahead. The stage was there, up to its axels, and Riley was pushing, while his shotgun rider, Coop, was tugging on the reins of the four harnessed horses.
Chayston had yet to pull Buster to a complete stop when a head popped out of the stage window. He couldn’t see much except a thick red scarf.
“Yoo-hoo,” a female voice shouted. She was waving a hand, too. “You, on the horse. We are in need of assistance.”
Obviously.
“Would you mind?” she continued before he had a chance to let his thought loose.
He minded, all right. Minded a lot of things right now.
Chayston withheld the fact he’d already surmised as much and dismounted. The snow he trudged through to check the stage horses grew to knee deep. The animals were sound, though tired from trying to pull the rig.
“We’re stuck,” the woman said.
He let his gaze bypass her to land on Riley, who was sweating despite the temperature that was dropping by the minute.
“Picked up a boulder trying to roll through the snow. It’s stuck in the spokes, up against the axel.” Riley took off his hat and brushed back his mass of curly gray hair. “Tried to pound it out, but the snow’s packed it tight.” He nodded toward the snow-free wider section of road where Buster stood. “Gotta get through the snow before I try again. We’re too close to the edge here.”
The snow piled up against the mountain had forced the stage to travel near the far edge. Chayston noticed, too, the deep ruts behind Riley that disappeared when the road curved again around the hillside.
“Can you help us or not?” a demanding voice asked.
Chayston couldn’t remember disliking someone on sight, but it was happening. This woman was making his stomach ferment like a barrel of apples turning into vinegar.
“He’ll help, all right,” Riley said. “This here is Sheriff Williams.” Gesturing toward the window with a thumb, Riley said, “Chayston, meet Miss Violet Ritter from Cincinnati.”
Chayston didn’t bother glancing her way. He’d already known her name and where she was from.
The snow was thick and hard to plod through. As he passed the window, she asked, “Williams? Are you related to General Williams?”
“He sur—”
“How long have you been pushing this thing?” Chayston asked, interrupting Riley before he could say more.
“Over a mile,” Riley answered. “I’ve been trying to hold up the back end. The front axels are turning, but the back one’s locked tight.”
Chayston’s well-placed kick was a mistake. The snow between the spokes was rock hard and the action shot a sting from his toe to his knee. Riley had been driving the stage for years, and there was no doubt the man had already tried everything within his power to get it rolling again. “You’ve been holding up the back end?”
“Not much else we could do,” Riley answered. “Tried shoveling, but that just gave way for more snow to fall.” Lowering his rough and raspy voice, he added, “I didn’t dare pound on the axel too hard. If the wheel broke this close to the edge, the stage could tumble right over the edge, taking your papa’s new bride with it.”
Violet slapped four fingers over her lips to stifle her gasp, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The sheriff had turned around. His glare was so dark and cold her very toes shivered. Of course they—her toes—had been shivering all day. If she ever found who’d stolen her boots she’d see them tarred and feathered. Arrested, too.
The door of the stage flung open, almost striking her head still poking out the window. Startled, her shoulder collided with the window frame and then the curtain got caught on her scarf, blinding her. Somewhat frantic, she tugged the material away from her face only to find those menacing eyes glaring at her again, now from inside the stage.
Violet gulped. The General had known her stepfather, so she’d understood he’d be older, but not so much he’d have a son older than her.
“You’ll need to get out, ma’am,” the sheriff said.
Son or no son, the General was her one chance at happiness, and she wasn’t going to give that up. “It’s Miss. Miss Violet Ritter,” she replied staunchly. “And, no, I don’t need to get out.”
“Yes, you do.”
His tone held so much contempt the smile she forced upon her lips hurt.
“No. I. Don’t.”
“Yes. You. Do.” He gestured toward the snow. “We gotta carry the stage, and need to get rid of as much dead weight as possible.”
The stage rocked and the noise overhead said one of the other two men was unloading things off the top. Her things. Violet sat back and crossed her arms. “I am not dead weight.”
“Right now, that’s exactly what you are.”
Mr. Riley’s voice floated down from above. “She doesn’t need to get out, Chayston.”
“Yes, she does,” the sheriff answered, never taking his eyes off her.
“No, I don’t,” she argued. “The driver said so.”
Without a hint of warning, he grabbed her by both arms and dragged her off the seat. Violet tried to catch ahold of something, anything, and finally managed to snag the door frame. “Let go of me, you beast!”
“Let go of the door,” he demanded.
“No.” Digging her fingernails into the wood, she held on with all her might.
It wasn’t enough. With another completely uncalled-for wrench that pulled her right up against him, he hauled her out of the door. Fearing he might dump her into the snow, Violet grabbed his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist.
He grunted and twisted, trying to dislodge her, but she hooked her ankles and clasped her hands together.
“For Christ’s sake, woman,” he growled, “let go.”
“No.”
His hands were tugging at her thighs, which had her cheeks burning, but keeping all ten toes was worth a bit of embarrassment.
“She ain’t got any shoes.”
That was Mr. Riley, and thankfully his comment caused the sheriff to quit trying to pull her off him.
“No shoes?” he barked like a vicious dog. “Who the hell travels to Montana in December with no shoes?”
Good and flustered, Violet snapped her head back to glare at him. “I had shoes—boots—but someone stole them on the train. Outlaws, no doubt, the sort you should be out chasing instead of accosting women.”
His eyes were brown, with tiny bits of gold, and glaring at her with enough loathing she should shrivel up like a raisin. Which was not about to happen. Her body, though, where it was plastered against his, was tingling in ways it shouldn’t be.
He let out another very unflattering growl and then grasped her bottom as he spun around.
The shock of that had Violet unhooking her ankles and hands. “Put me down.”
“Sure,” he said, loosening his hold.
She grabbed his shoulders again. “No!” Her toes were already numb, and she truly feared losing them to frostbite. “Please don’t drop me.”
He made no comment, nor did he look at her, but his hold turned firm again as he trudged through the snow. A few seconds later he unceremoniously planted her on a horse. Sideways, so both of her legs hung over one side. Thankful for the separation, she grabbed the saddle horn and scooted back. He gave her a nasty look as he gathered the reins and tied them to a tree growing out of the rocks. They did that—trees—grew out of the mountainside. She’d been amazed by it during the long train ride. Other things had amazed her, too. Like waking up and finding her boots and money gone. Her bag was still under the seat as it had been when she’d fallen asleep. But her boots were gone, along with her small cache of funds, leaving her no choice but to board the waiting stage shoeless.
Twisting about in the saddle, Violet pulled up her legs, crossing them to tuck her cold toes beneath her thighs.
Chapter Two
There was a boulder stuck in the spokes, all right, and it took all three of them, Chayston, Riley and Coop, to get it
out. Just as it had taken all three of them to get the stage out of the snow. The clouds he’d noticed earlier were now overhead and dropping flakes the size of silver dollars that were going to make the trip to Spring Valley miserable.
As if she hadn’t already made him miserable enough. Having Miss Violet Ritter plastered to his chest had ignited sensations that had no right being awakened. Not here, not with her.
Chayston bent to pick up another bag, but before tossing it up to Coop on top of the stage, he glanced toward the woman sitting on Buster. She’d tucked her toes up beneath her, and he wondered how she’d stayed balanced in the saddle, perched like that. She had, though, for more than an hour.
No shoes. None. With all this luggage. Absurd. So was the way she sat there like an Indian chief wrapped in her red scarf and the buffalo-hide blanket Coop had provided her out of the stage.
Thoroughly disgusted, Chayston tossed up the last bag and then walked over to pluck her out of the saddle. This time he carried her with one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees so she couldn’t wrap her legs around him. A few steps later, and without a single word, he dumped her onto the floor of the stage and slammed the door.
“Let’s go,” he ordered. “This storm’s only going to get worse.”
As predicted, the weather got worse—edging toward a full-fledged blizzard—and a mile or more after they’d passed the Johansson place, Chayston wondered if he should have made everyone hold up there. Storm or not, staying there, with Seth and Becca, was not something he could do, therefore trekking onward to Spring Valley was the only choice. Hopefully they’d make it to town before the heart of the storm hit so he could see Miss Ritter settled in the hotel until he could deliver her to the General.
There, too, things didn’t go as he planned. The hotel was owned by Gertrude Guldbrandson, who hated Chayston and wasn’t in the mood to grant him any favors. “Surely you have a cot or even the couch in your parlor she can sleep on,” Chayston argued without looking toward the adjacent room. Gertrude’s daughter, Winifred was in there, waving at him. His refusal to court Winifred had put him permanently on Gertrude’s bad side, but even if he was ever—ever—stupid enough to consider marriage again, it wouldn’t be to Winifred. She was about as pleasant to be around as her mother.