The Christmas Cradle. Linda Warren
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“I’m here to see Ellie Kincaid,” he said. “I’m Santa Claus.”
Marisa just stared at him. He was in his seventies and fit the Santa persona to a T, including the rounded stomach and red cheeks, although he wasn’t wearing a costume. But that was minor. The store had done a great job in hiring someone so authentic.
He sat down on one of the office chairs and Ellie climbed onto his knee. “What did you want to see me about, little angel?”
“I wrote you a lot of letters asking for a mommy, and you never sent me one.”
“Don’t fret, Ellie,” he said. “You’ll have your mommy before Christmas.”
Ellie threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She leaned back and tugged on his beard. “My friend Lori says you’re not real and that your beard’s fake, but it is real, just like I told her.”
He stood, setting the child on her feet. “Yes, I’m real. Never be afraid to believe, Ellie. It’s a very powerful emotion.”
The man walked to the door and then stopped. He touched the back of his hand to Marisa’s face. “You’re never too old to believe, Marisa.”
She was so surprised by his touch and the sincerity in his eyes that words eluded her. What did he mean? And how did he know her name?
Dear Reader,
Fifteen years ago I had an idea for a book. At the time I was recovering from several surgeries and my mind was clouded by medication. That’s my only excuse. But I’d read Harlequin romances for years, so I was sure I had an understanding of what was required in a story. Even today as I think about my stupidity, it’s hard to keep from laughing.
I started writing longhand in a spiral notebook. I wrote every day and soon I had a stack of notebooks. My husband bought me an electric typewriter, and it took me several months to type and edit my story into manuscript form.
When I finished, I mailed my treasured work to Harlequin. I promptly got a rejection. Then another. And another. One editor sent me a nice two-page rejection letter. Ten years later I made my first sale (a Harlequin Superromance novel called The Truth about Jane Doe) to that editor. In one of our talks a while back, she asked me about my first manuscript. I was stunned. She suggested I write another proposal based on that idea. I did. She bought it. The Silent Cradle from long ago is now The Christmas Cradle for American Romance.
This book is very dear to my heart and I hope you will feel some of the real emotion that went into its creation.
Warmly—and with best wishes for a wonderful Christmas,
Linda Warren
P.S. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at [email protected] or visit my Web site, www.lindawarren.net or write me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, TX 77805. I will always answer your letters.
The Christmas Cradle
Linda Warren
MILLS & BOON
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To Paula Eykelhof, who gave this book a second chance
and
to Beth Sobczak. Without your loving generosity,
this book would never have been published. Thanks.
Acknowledgment:
Thanks to Carolyn Lightsey and Brenda Mott for sharing your knowledge of horses and the rodeo. And to Amy Landry, pediatric nurse, for the crash course on childbirth.
Any errors are strictly mine.
Contents
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
Dear Santa,
I’ve been real good this year, but could you please send Daddy and me a mommy for Christmas? Someone who’s nice and pretty and likes dogs and horses. That’s all I want for Christmas.
Love,
Ellie Kincaid
Ellie was stuffing the letter into an envelope and licking the flap as Colter Kincaid walked into the room.
“What are you doing, angelface?”
“I wrote a letter to Santa. Could you mail it for me, please?” Her bright green eyes waited for an answer.
A knot formed in Colter’s stomach. He knew what she’d written because this was the same letter his daughter wrote every year—asking Santa for a mother. He’d helped her when she was three and four, but after that she’d printed them herself.
She was seven now, a mother was all she ever thought about. Instead of enjoying her childhood, Ellie spent her time thinking of ways to get a mother; she’d landed him in a few embarrassing situations by asking women out to the ranch.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d never fall in love again and that she’d never have the mother she wanted. Life was cruel and love was painful, but he wouldn’t tell his daughter that. She’d learn soon enough.
“First thing in the morning,” he replied, taking the letter from her. “Now it’s time for bed.”
Ellie made a face. “Why do I have to go to bed at nine? I don’t have school tomorrow ’cause it’s Saturday. We’re going shopping with Aunt Becky in Dallas.”
“Because we have rules around here.”
“Tulley doesn’t obey the rules. He goes to bed when he wants to.”
Colter pulled back the covers. “When you’re Tulley’s age, you can go to bed when you please.”
“Oh boy.” Ellie crawled into bed. Her dog, Sooner, jumped up beside her. “How old is Tulley? How long do I have to wait?”
“Tulley’s seventy. You do the math.”
Her face fell again. “I’ll never be that old.”
Colter gathered