The Christmas Brides: A McKettrick Christmas. Linda Miller Lael
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“Today,” she said, “is Christmas Eve.”
“So it is,” Morgan agreed, smiling wanly.
Whitley, resting with his broken leg propped on the bench seat, caught her eye. “Good morning, Lizzie-bet,” he said.
She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, embarrassed by the nickname, and sipped at her coffee. Evidently, Whitley’s apology the day before had been a sincere one. He was on his best behavior. She discovered that she did not have an opinion on that, one way or the other.
“Where is Mr. Christian?” she asked Morgan, having scanned the company and noticed he was missing. The caboose was chilly, despite the efforts of the little stove. “Has he gone looking for firewood?”
A glance passed between Morgan and Whitley. Whitley raised both eyebrows, but didn’t speak.
“He’s on his way to Stone Creek,” Morgan said, sounding resigned.
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