A merry bramble christma.., p.1
A Merry Bramble Christmas, page 1
A Merry Bramble Christmas
Bramble House Chronicles Series
C.J. Carmichael
A Merry Bramble Christmas
Copyright© 2023 C.J. Carmichael
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2023
Cover design by Lee Hyat Designs
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AI was not used to create any part of this book and no part of this book may be used for generative training.
ISBN: 978-1-961544-85-7
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Dedication
This one is for Meghan Farrell, Executive Editor at Tule Publishing, with love and appreciation for all you do and for being the most beautiful and graceful person. It has been such a joy working with you these past ten years.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Author’s Note on Bramble House B & B
Bramble House Chronicles series
More books by C.J. Carmichael
About the Author
Chapter One
Amy Arden didn’t understand the magic of Christmas, but she believed in it. For weeks she and her husband Chet Hardwick, with the help of their staff, had been decorating Bramble House bed-and-breakfast for the holidays. Chet and their handyman Robert had strung lights along the roof and the porch and the thirty-foot evergreen outside. Inside, Amy, and her part-time housekeeper Ella, had decorated themed trees for each of the main rooms: a literary tree for the library, a copper-themed tree in the breakfast room, a Bramble family tree for the sitting room, and a fifteen-foot, Montana-themed balsam for the foyer.
There were pine-scented bowls of potpourri in every bedroom, boughs of cedar and pine on the mantels and railings. Meanwhile, Jo, in the kitchen, had been baking beautiful shortbread and sugar cookies while a specially curated, so as not to become annoying, mixture of holiday favorites played quietly on the main floor from seven in the morning until nine each evening.
All these efforts had succeeded in making the historic brick house a treat for the senses, visually, aromatically and acoustically.
But the transformation didn’t stop there, for the end result was more than the sum of its parts. How else to explain why everyone seemed happier, kinder, more generous than usual? Amy was seeing and experiencing this every day, not just in herself, but in those around her. After the doldrums of November, people had a spring in their step again. Snow was no longer an inconvenience to be shoveled away or trudged through but a gift of sublime beauty.
Magic.
“There.” Amy hung up the phone with satisfaction. “We have a full house for Christmas.”
Chet, who was up on the stepladder changing the hallway light bulbs—there’d been an incident during Amy’s first summer, when a guest tripped in the dark and sprained her ankle, and now he changed the bulbs every six months, whether they were burnt out or not—grunted. “Full is good, but what’s your sense of the guests themselves? Will they get along? I don’t think I could take another Christmas like last year.” He started chuckling.
Amy penciled in the squares for her last two rooms, blocking them out until December twenty-fifth, which was when they closed for the season. Some things were modern at Bramble House—the Wi-Fi and the espresso maker, for instance. But she enjoyed going old-school in other areas. She recorded all their bookings manually, and had beautiful old-fashioned keys for each room, which she stored in an antique apothecary cabinet. The cabinet, as well as her desk and chair, were tucked into the alcove under the grand staircase that led to the upper two stories.
“Stop laughing. How was I to know those families would be so…militant…about their dietary choices?” She tucked away her reservation book, then went to hold the ladder steady as Chet climbed down.
When he reached the floor, he kissed her lightly on the lips. “Can’t help it. The war of the roses had nothing on the feud between the vegans and the carnivores.”
Now she had to laugh, remembering the fierce verbal battles that had gone on between the two families during every, single meal. Poor Jo, who always went to so much effort to satisfy the dietary requirements of all her guests, had been quite offended.
“None of this year’s guests listed any allergies or dietary preferences,” she said. “As long as we keep conversation steered away from politics, religion and sex, we should be fine.”
Chet pulled her into his arms. “I’d like to keep sex on the table if I could. But only if it’s just you and me talking.”
“Duly noted.” She gazed into his warm eyes, still not over the miracle that this amazing, handsome and incredibly handy man was now her husband.
They’d been married in July, a beautiful ceremony that had included their new friends in their new home of Marietta, Montana, as well as her newly discovered father and his wife and sons.
Part of the reason Amy had moved from New York and purchased this bed-and-breakfast was to find her birth father, and in that she’d been more successful than she’d dared dream. Legendary rodeo cowboy and local rancher D. W. Wilcox had booked into Bramble House not guessing it was owned by the daughter he’d never met. A daughter he hadn’t even realized he had.
Some men might not react well to having a daughter sprung on him that way. But D. W., his wife Mary Beth, and their three adult sons, had been great. They’d made Amy—and Chet—feel so welcome. Visits to their ranch near Yellowstone were highlights of every month and they’d be going down soon to celebrate the New Year. They’d been invited for Christmas, as well, but both Amy and Chet felt they wanted to create their own traditions around that particular holiday. Traditions that included Bramble House and the life they were building together here.
Chet moved a strand of Amy’s blonde hair back behind her ear. As usual, his touch gave her a delicious shiver.
“I just thought of one Christmas decoration we forgot to put up,” Chet said.
As if reading his mind, she said, “Mistletoe.”
“Yup.” He looked down the hall. “Should we hang it in the entrance by the front door?”
Amy considered. “I think it should be by the front door. But outside, not inside.”
“You sure? Why?”
“It’s just a feeling I have.”
Chapter Two
Gemma Granger had planned to fill the nine and a half hours of driving between Denver, Colorado, and Marietta, Montana, alternating between her Taylor Swift playlist and the stress-reducing podcasts she’d downloaded for the trip. But her phone would not stop ringing.
The first call came over her hands-free system when she was hardly out of the city limits. It was from her best friend, Hannah, her supposed-to-be maid of honor.
Gemma are you crazy? A guy like Josh Barnett? I would kill to marry a guy who was that sweet, that good-looking, and—face it—loaded. Remember when we used to talk about what we were looking for in a guy? Josh ticks all the boxes. All of them. I think you’ve gone temporarily insane and as your best friend it’s my job to talk you off the ledge. Because this is just nerves, right? You know you love Josh.
That was the thing. Gemma didn’t love Josh. She liked him a lot, and for a while she had thought she loved him. But the truth had come crashing down two days ago. And now she understood that she had been deceiving herself.
Looking back, she should have realized sooner. Like when he’d proposed and instead of feeling excited, she’d been nervous. As she’d watched him slide the ring on her finger, she’d told herself they would have a long engagement, during which time her doubts were sure to disappear. But she hadn’t counted on Josh’s mother. Who had also called her about an hour and thirty minutes after Hannah.
Gemma dear, Josh’s father and I are trying to be patient, but this has really gone too far. You’ve missed your final dress fitting, but I can pull some strings and reschedule another if you turn around now. Where did you say you were? Cheyenne? Oh my God, you’re already in Wyoming! Jack, she’s already in Wyoming. You do re
Forget about the mani-pedis, Gemma wanted to say. The thing was, she hadn’t exactly said yes to Josh’s proposal, which had happened publicly during her last birthday party with all their family and friends watching. Josh came out of the kitchen with a cake. Instead of the usual Happy Birthday, the piped icing asked, Will You Marry Me?
She’d blushed and smiled and kissed him and said something along the lines that yes, one day it might be nice to get married. And then Anne and Jack got involved, throwing an engagement party a few weeks later and even booking a wedding venue—because you can’t leave something like that until the last minute. A date was selected twenty-four months in the future, far enough away that Gemma sort of put it out of her mind. By then, she was sure she would feel more confident about this marriage business.
Only there’d been a cancelation in October and a Christmas date became available, just two months away. Didn’t Gemma think a winter wedding would be lovely? Next thing she knew she and Josh—and their mothers—were meeting with a wedding planner.
“It’s too rushed,” Gemma said, meaning she wasn’t ready.
“No, we can do it,” said the mothers and the wedding planner, meaning something entirely different.
There were many times Gemma could have and should have put her foot down and stopped the proceedings. Looking back, she didn’t understand why she hadn’t. It was probably a character flaw, the way she hated to rock the boat. In a family of strong-willed people, she was usually the one who compromised, who made peace, who went along to get along.
Also, she couldn’t deny that in the beginning the wedding planning had been kind of fun. She didn’t hate being the center of attention for a change, trying on beautiful dresses, choosing colors (from those offered by Anne and her mother), selecting china patterns, and picking favorite love songs. It had been like a game until two days ago when she’d opened that door and—
No. She wasn’t going to think about that. Not yet.
A light snow started, and Gemma tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She wasn’t normally an airhead. She was twenty-eight years old. For six years she’d held down a job teaching developmentally challenged children and she was good at it. She paid her bills on time, kept up to date on her car maintenance, and when she made a promise, she did her best to keep it.
Not an airhead.
Though her brother didn’t agree. His call came just before she reached Casper.
What the hell is wrong with you? Our parents are going nuts right now. And you just ride off into the sunset? Leaving me to deal with this?
Yup. This is all about you, Steven. Steven, the prodigal son who had dropped out of college to become a ski bum, only to return to the fold—and a plum position in the family real estate development business—five years later.
The hardest call came from her mother, about ten minutes after Steven’s.
Look, I know it’s scary, taking a big step like marriage, but I’m afraid you’re making a mistake running away. One you’ll regret all your life. Come home. Spend Christmas with your family. It isn’t right to be with strangers over the holidays. In fact, have you seen your doctor lately? Maybe you should see your doctor because this behavior just isn’t like you.
For over twenty minutes the call had gone on like that, with helpful interjections from her father.
Never mind about the money—though it was a hell of a lot of money. You shouldn’t be driving alone in the mountains at this time of year. Did you check your tire pressure? Candace, tell her to stop at the next gas station and check her tire pressure. There’s a gauge in the glove box.
Soon after that call, which had prompted more tears, Gemma stopped in Buffalo, Wyoming, for gas—and yes, she’d checked her tire pressure. The winter wind howled through her thin sweater and once her tank was full, she went inside to buy another bag of chips.
Before she could even try to load a podcast, however, another friend had called. Then a cousin. Then her favorite aunt.
Phone call, after phone call, after phone call.
Mile, after mile, after mile.
By the time she pulled up to Bramble House bed-and-breakfast at eight in the evening, Gemma felt as if she’d talked to pretty much every person she knew in the world.
Except the one who should have called her. But hadn’t.
*
It was dark when Oliver Rivers stopped his car across from the little bungalow on Church Street in Marietta, Montana. He was tired after the long drive from Spokane and hadn’t yet checked into his bed-and-breakfast three blocks from here, but he put his vehicle into Park and stared at the house, trying to pry out its secrets. For a small home it had a lot to say. The sled left carelessly on the front yard spoke of a young child and also the relative safety of this town, where you could leave a sled outside overnight and not worry about it being stolen.
Most of the other houses on this street had sidewalks cleared of snow, with Christmas wreaths on their front doors as well as cheerful outdoor lights of red, green, gold and blue. In contrast, no one had shoveled at this house and the dead flowers in the pots by the front door suggested these residents were too busy to keep up with the changing seasons.
Though the front curtains were drawn, a light glowed within, and the shadow of a woman could be made out walking from one room to the other.
Oliver swallowed. Was that his sister?
The report from the investigator he’d hired claimed that it was. Oliver glanced at the dossier strewn over the passenger seat beside him. It was too dark to see the photographs that had been included in the report, but he had the images of the woman and little boy memorized. Trish Mahoney, forty and widowed over two years ago, had the auburn curly hair and green eyes they had both inherited from their mother. Her son, Sawyer, aged six, had the same hair and eyes, but also a snub nose and large grin that must have come from his father.
Oliver had never met his sister before. Never even knew she existed, until his gravely ill mother had told him the story, just hours before she died.
“I was only fifteen,” she’d begun, before telling him about a boyfriend, about careless sex and real-world consequences.
“Find her for me please, Oliver. Make sure she’s okay. I’ve set aside some money for her in my will. Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t try to find her. I never told your father anything about that part of my past, you see, and I, well, I never wanted him to think less of me.”
Oliver thought she should have told his father. He would have understood. If not right away, then eventually. His dad, who’d died only six months before his wife, had been an incredibly patient and kind man. Oliver knew he’d won the lottery where parents were concerned, but his father’s inherent goodness had made it extremely difficult to confess when he had done something wrong—like breaking the neighbor’s window while playing catch with a friend.
Oliver felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Losing both his parents in the same year had been tough. They’d been a close family. Which was why discovering his mother had been keeping such a big secret had been such a shock.
He probably should have waited until morning to drive by this house. He was bone-tired and a little strung out from all the roadside coffee. Tomorrow he’d have to decide on the best way to approach his sister. Knocking on her front door at eight in the evening wasn’t likely the smartest way.
He started his car and took the long route back to Main Street. Marietta was a charming town all dressed up for the holidays with Christmas lights and garlands and festive displays in the shop windows. He’d have lots of time to explore places like the Copper Mountain Chocolate Shop and the Main Street Diner during the week he’d be staying here. A week during which he hoped to forge a bond with this new branch of his family—the only family he had left.
The Graff Hotel looked pretty fancy. Maybe that would be a nice place to take his sister and her son out for a meal while he was here. It was fun imagining the things they could do together. Skating and sledding and making snowmen. Oliver liked kids and dreamed of having his own one day.
