Acclaim for the authors of THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS:
CAROLYN DAVIDSON ‘For romance centring on the joys and sorrows of married life, readers can’t do much better than Davidson.’ —RT Book Reviews
‘Her novels go beyond romance to the depths of the ultimate healing power of love.’
—RT Book Reviews
VICTORIA BYLIN ‘Ms Bylin is a growing talent in historical fiction and her magic pen touches both your emotions and your soul with each turn of the page.’ —Romance Reviews Today
‘Bylin captures the aura of the wild west as skilfully as she creates memorable characters. The fast pace is tempered by the gentle passion that shimmers through the pages, bringing readers a wonderful experience.’
—RT Book Reviews on MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE
CHERYL ST JOHN ‘Ms St John knows what the readers want and keeps on giving it.’ —Rendezvous
‘PRAIRIE WIFE is a very special book, courageously executed by the author and her publisher. Her considerable skill brings the common theme of the romance novel—love conquers all—to the level of genuine catharsis.’
—RT Book Reviews
Reading, writing and research—Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel—her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church, and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.
VICTORIA BYLIN has a collection of refrigerator magnets that mark the changes in her life. The oldest ones are from California. A native of Los Angeles, she graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in History and went to work in the advertising industry. She soon met a wonderful man who charmed her into taking a ride on his motorcycle. That ride led to a trip down the aisle, two sons, various pets, and a move that landed Victoria and her family in northern Virginia. Magnets from thirty states commemorate that journey and her new life on the East Coast. Feel free to drop her an e-mail at [email protected], or visit her website at www.victoriabylin.com
Cheryl St John says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and work around her family and church. Working in her jammies ain’t half bad either! Cheryl loves to hear from readers. Write to her at: PO Box 24732, Omaha, NE 68124, USA, or e-mail [email protected] Visit her website: www.tlt.com/authors/cstjohn.htm
The Magic of Christmas
Carolyn Davidson
Victoria Bylin
Cheryl St John
Dear Reader
My memories of Christmas are many and varied, but within the most precious is the continuing theme of love, of commitment to family, of faith and hope for the future. For without the true spirit of Christmas within our hearts we can have little faith in ourselves or those who surround us.
During this season of the year we find ourselves more willing to forgive, more considerate of others, able to give more freely of ourselves and our resources. Certainly that unselfishness is but one result of the blessedness of the birth we celebrate. Christmas is a time for family, both related by blood and unrelated except by compassion, for we can find ourselves just as caught up in love and caring with strangers as with our own.
May each of you, my readers, seek out some way during this most holy of seasons to find ways of expressing your love for all mankind. May your holiday be happy and your heart be made joyful.
Carolyn
My story, A CHRISTMAS CHILD, is dedicated with love to a babe born during the years of my youth, my niece, Marianne. She has grown to be a woman of perception, a concerned, caring mother and a dear friend. To her I offer this story with all my love.
Prologue
The room held the fetid odor of death, and the babe who sounded his first wail in that hot, stale air waved thin arms and legs in a frantic motion, as though he sensed that his cries might be futile, that his future might be as dark as his past. For the woman who had given birth had already breathed her last. Her only contribution to the future lay in the doctor’s hands, and already he was eager to leave this chamber of death for the clean, pure air he might find out of doors.
The sun was setting, the sky ablaze with color, and such beauty of nature seemed almost unholy compared to the pall of death that hung low over the small clearing. The small cabin and outbuildings represented the life’s work and dreams of Joe and Charlotte Winters, both of whom lay abed in the cabin, their souls no longer of this world, their hearts no longer beating, only a small, scrawny infant boy child left to wail his sadness aloud.
The country doctor made haste to wrap the boy in a flannel rag, and carried him into the chill air of the December evening, rushing to the house that lay just over a small hill to the west, a place where the child might find warmth and nourishment, for he was small and weak and his chance of survival seemed slim.
The door of the farmhouse opened wide; a plump lady peered out and greeted the doctor with an uplifted arm. “Come in. Come in. Bring that child inside where it’s warm and let me find a blanket for him.”
“It’s best if I drop this flannel rag outside,” the kindly doctor said sadly. “It’s no doubt full of germs. Needs to be burned.”
“It’ll wait till morning,” Mrs. Baker said quietly. “It’s below freezing out there and the germs won’t live long in the cold.”
“Typhoid seems to be a hard thing to kill,” the doctor told her. “But maybe we can get this little mite washed up and into clean clothes and keep him alive. His mama’s last words were that he be cared for.”
“Charlotte was a good woman,” her neighbor said, tears running down her cheeks as she took the wide-eyed infant in her arms. “I’ve got hot water in the reservoir and lots of soap and washcloths. Reckon I haven’t forgotten how to wash a newborn.”
In but a few moments the tiny babe was covered with soap from head to toe, each particle of his body cleansed and rinsed in clear water. The woman who held him to her breast shed tears of sorrow as she worked, her mind on the future of the babe she held. It seemed that fate had decreed this child have a dark future, for he’d been left with but one remaining relative—a sister—barely able to care for herself, let alone an infant.
From the ladder that led to the sleeping loft, a voice called down, a cry of sadness that held but faint hope of good news. “Is Mama all right, Mrs. Baker? Did the doctor get here yet?”
“Come on down, Marianne,” Mrs. Baker called out softly. “The doctor is here and he brought us a wee bit of a present tonight.”
The girl, for she was not yet a woman, backed down the ladder, garbed in a white flannel gown, her long hair caught up in a braid that lay over one shoulder, and her feet touched the wooden floor of the cabin as Mrs. Baker turned to her with the child in her arms.
“Meet your brother, Marianne. Born just a bit ago, the last chore your poor mama managed to finish up before she died.”