Loving a Toymaker Read online

  Loving a Toymaker

  A Lone Star Christmas

  Kristen Iten

  Contents

  Books in the Series

  Acknowledgments

  You’re Invited

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Loving an Outlaw Preview

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  Books in the Series

  Loving an Outlaw

  Loving a Lawman

  Loving a Toymaker: A Lone Star Christmas

  Copyright © 2018 Kristen Iten

  All rights reserved. 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. Please visit www.KristenIten.com to submit permission requests.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to say a special thank you to a couple of wonderful friends and fellow authors. Liwen H. and Jocelynn F., without your support and encouragement this book wouldn’t be what it is today—in fact, it probably would not have been written at all.

  Dedicated to my sweet family. You inspire me daily.

  You’re Invited

  Do you love to read clean romance? Visit www.KristenIten.com and sign up for my newsletter. I work hard to find the best deals on new clean romance to share with you. I’ll also let you know when my next book comes out!

  Chapter 1

  A soft breath of wind lifted Clara Hargrove’s thin wisps of blond hair off of her shoulders and suspended them in the air behind her. It had been a long morning, and the bun that had started high on the back of her head had long since slid down to the nape of her neck. She sat perched in the driver’s seat of an old weather-worn wagon that creaked down the trail.

  Holding the reins in one hand, she rested the other on top of her protruding belly. Her stomach rolled with the movement of her unborn child. “Settle down in there, little one. It’s not time to come out yet.” She straightened her posture, leaning backward a tad, trying to catch a full breath of air.

  Clara’s old sorrel plodded dutifully along under a clear November sky. Her once powerful haunches now moved with the stiff, deliberate steps that advanced age brings about. The plane of her back dipped a bit more than it had in her youth, while her sides were shadowed by the hint of protruding ribs. The horse had given some of the best years of her life working for the Hargrove family, and now she was delivering them safely to Sweet Creek, Texas.

  Several little voices called out from behind Clara. She turned around to see what all of the excitement was about. One of the last remaining monarchs of the season had just landed on the side of the wagon, delighting each of the six young children she was hauling into town with her. Little blond heads swayed with the motion of the wagon as each pair of round eyes was trained on the silent insect sunning its wings. It had been a long ride, and any entertainment was welcome.

  A pang of guilt stabbed at her heart when she took a closer look at her brood. Their threadbare clothes were faded, and consisted more of a patchwork of repairs than original garments. Dirty little toes poked out from beneath the tattered edges of an old quilt, a few of which had never known the inside of a shoe.

  What bothered her the most were their faces. Her children weren’t starving, but they weren’t plump either. Where she longed to see round cheeks and dimpled hands, she saw slender faces and slim bodies all around. There was nothing she could do about their present situation, but that fact did nothing to soothe the endless guilt she felt at not being able to provide better for them.

  Even now her mind drifted to the letter she’d received from the bank a few days before. All she could do was hope that there had been some sort of mistake, or she and her children would soon find themselves without a home. You sure picked about the worst time to go and die on me, Clive.

  “Mama,” a little voice called out, over the others.

  “What is it, Jackson?”

  “When is Pa coming home?” The seven-year-old boy asked the question with heartbreaking, wide-eyed innocence.

  Clara massaged her temple with weary fingers before putting on a tired smile. “We’ve already talked about this, son. Pa isn’t coming home this time.”

  “But I think he is,” the boy insisted. “He always goes away for a long time, but then he comes back.”

  “Not this time, sweet pea.” She turned around in her seat and faced forward before the children had a chance to see the tears pooling in her eyes. They weren’t tears for her husband. What little love she’d managed to find in her heart for him had died several years ago. He had killed it with the bottle, and his rough ways after indulging in it. Her tears were for her children.

  She knew Clive for what he was—a man more interested in slaking his thirst for hard liquor than in providing for his own. A man who would disappear for weeks on end, leaving her to work her magic on a nearly empty larder to feed hungry bellies. But to the children he was Pa, and because of that, they would always want him. Always miss him.

  This was the man she’d married—the man her father had preferred. If she was honest with herself, he was the man she had chosen. She had sided with her head instead of her heart when it came to matrimony.

  She knew love once, but he was a poor boy, no older than herself. Clive had land and a home. He has the means to provide for you. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind. Love never put a roof over anyone’s head. Grief for what might have been tore at her heart when she thought of the young man she’d walked away from nine years ago.

  “I still think we should hurry home just in case he comes back while we’re out.”

  Jackson’s voice brought Clara back to the present. She motioned for him to come close to her. He half-stumbled, half-crawled over his siblings and stood up near his mother. She reached back and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Jackson,” she said, “Pa is dead. He can’t come home.”

  “But some things don’t stay dead. You said the old tree was dead, but it didn’t stay dead. It got new leaves in spring.”

  The hope she saw shining in his eyes made her heart ache. She placed a tender kiss on his cheek and hugged him close as she struggled with how to explain death to a child. “Pa isn’t like that tree. He’s like the chicken coop. That coop fell down and got broken. It didn’t get back up.” The knot in her throat screamed for relief from the unexpressed emotion it stifled. “Pa fell down and got broken. He can’t get back up. Do you understand?”

  Jackson’s round green eyes looked to the sky as he chewed the inside of his cheek. “I think so.” Warmth flooded Clara’s heart when she felt his little arms wrap around her. He leaned up and whispered in her ear. “But I still think we should hurry home—just in case.”

  A single tear escaped her eye and trickled down her cheek. She swiped at it just as the wagon crested a final rise. Never had she been more grateful to be nearing the end of a journey.

  Sweet Creek, Texas lay before them. Whatever fate awaited her at the bank would be preferable to more of these difficult conversations that had become all too common since her husband's passing.

  Wood dust hung in the air of t
he workshop, filling the atmosphere with the lingering scent of freshly cut lumber. Hans Christoph stood back, chisel in hand, and surveyed his work. A small horse with a tooled, wavy mane stared back at him.

  He ran a broad, calloused hand over his creation, seeing it just as much with his fingertips as with his green eyes. Grabbing a smaller chisel, he placed it to the wood and tapped lightly with his mallet.

  Hans loved the whole process of creating something beautiful from a shapeless hunk of wood, but adding the finishing touches to his projects was his favorite part. Excitement swirled in his stomach as wood chips fell from his work, leaving behind the intricate details he’d envisioned. A child-sized horse was coming to life before him.

  The curly mop that rested on top of his head bounced with every move his chisel made. Loose, brown curls fell into his eyes when he leaned in close to his project. He swept them out of his face and into place with the back of his wrist.

  Absently biting his bottom lip, he set about smoothing the mane that cascaded down the side of the wooden animal’s neck. His thick forearms bulged with the tension that this precision work caused. He pulled a short-bladed knife from his belt and dug a stubborn chip out of the curved channel he had just created.

  Hans set his tool on the work bench in front of him and stepped back to brush away the wood chips caught in his arm hair. He took the horse in his hands and turned it over, inspecting the legs. All that was needed were the rungs and a little more finish work, and the toy would be completed. This rocking horse is going to make some child very happy this Christmas.

  A wistful sigh escaped his lips. If only life made as much sense as his workshop. Here things went the way they were supposed to go. As long as he chose the right tool, he could build anything he set his heart on—not so in real life.

  He had set his heart on something, or rather someone a long time ago. But she’d chosen another man, and he’d been unable to build the life he wanted ever since. Instead, he’d hidden his heart away and buried himself in his work, honing his craft until his skills rivaled those of his grandfather.

  He rested his hand on the smooth curve of the saddle, looking more through his creation than at it. Despite the satisfaction he felt at nearing the completion of his masterpiece, the toy in front of him served to highlight how incomplete he really was. What I wouldn’t give to have a child of my own to give this to.

  He couldn’t help feeling incredibly behind in life. How many years had he wasted being alone?

  Family was important to him. He was a fifth-generation craftsman, a trade that had been passed from father to son for all of those years. Knowledge of wood, craft, and a sense of family legacy had been imparted to him by his father and grandfather since he was a young boy.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be the last in his family line. But if he didn’t want that to happen, he was going to have to do something about it. It was time. Time to make a change.

  He slid his Swiss pocket watch out and glanced at the delicate hands marching around the face. His jaw dropped when he saw the time. If it wasn’t for the fact that the watch kept impeccable time, he’d have never believed it. Even so, he still peeked out the window to double-check. The sun was definitely past noon—he was late.

  Gathering up his toolbox, nails, and a few of his best pieces of oak, he rushed out of his shop without taking the time to bolt the door shut behind him. He raced down the road to the end of town.

  A whitewashed, two-story home stood at the end of the row of buildings lining the main street of Sweet Creek. Its wide porch was tidy and inviting. Up until a short time ago, it had been the town boardinghouse. Now it was simply the home of his friends, the Lagranges. A broom leaned against the house next to the front door, while a petite woman sat at the end of the porch rocking a sleeping baby in the fresh afternoon air.

  “Mrs. Rosie,” said Hans, “sorry I’m late.” His chest heaved from his hustle down the street.

  “No need to apologize. I knew you’d be along sometime.” Soft lines creased her face as she smiled sweetly at the young man.

  “I’ll go ahead and let myself in. We don’t want to disturb that little one,” he said.

  He’d only been about his work tearing out water-damaged boards beneath one of the upstairs windows for a short time when he heard a commotion in the street below. The excited squeals and giggles of children put a smile on his face. He peeked out the window and saw Rosie helping them down from a wagon that had stopped in front of the house.

  His eyes were drawn to the woman sitting in the driver’s seat, reins in hand. There was something about the way she moved her head when she spoke that made him feel that he should know her. If only he could hear her voice, but its sound was swallowed up by the clatter of children chasing each other this way and that.

  For an instant, the woman glanced up at the house. His stomach catapulted into his throat when he saw her face full on. He whispered a name he hadn’t said in a very long time. “Clara …”

  Chapter 2

  “Are you sure?” Clara’s brows drew together as she watched her energetic children darting this way and that around the wagon. “This is a whole passel of youngins and you aren’t used to caring for but one at a time.”

  Rosie stretched her arms out to a smiling child still standing in the wagon and set her on the ground. “Of course I’m sure. I’m glad I was out just now and saw you passing by. These children don’t want to be cramped up in that dingy old bank. Do you?” she said, turning to the children.

  Several little voices all chimed in with a chorus of, “No!”

  “There, you see?” said Rosie. “We’ll have a nice time stretching our legs out back after that long ride into town and come in for snacks before anyone gets too cold. Does that sound like fun?” Her last words were directed at the bouncing little faces surrounding her.

  “Well, we ain’t in the habit of accepting charity, but maybe it’s for the best. Y’all mind Mrs. Rosie now, you hear?”

  Several tiny voices answered back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be silly about charity. There’s no charity attached to a friend being neighborly, now is there?”

  “Well, I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Everyone can use a little help now and then.” Rosie clapped her hands. “All right everyone, let’s go play out back.” She turned to Clara as she picked up the snug little basket her baby lay in. “Don’t worry about a thing. You go take care of business. We’ll be here when you get back.”

  Rosie’s reassuring smile sent a wave of relief washing over Clara as she watched the kindly woman guide her children around the side of the house and out of sight. She blew out a long, deep breath as the armor she had clad herself in for the last several years began to slowly melt away.

  Help was one thing Clara was unaccustomed to receiving. There hadn’t been a single day in the last eight years of her life that she hadn’t been solely responsible for the care of her children. Even when Clive had been home, he’d never taken any interest in sharing the load.

  Now this woman, who she’d only met a few weeks before, was welcoming her children in as if they were family. The slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips when the wagon started rolling again, the sound of her children’s laughter hanging in the air.

  Uncertainty filled her heart when she found herself in front of the bank, a small building situated next to the jail house. She’d let her guard down for a few fleeting moments, and now it was time to put her defenses back up. She climbed down from her seat on the wagon and dug the letter she’d received from the bank out of her bag. With squared shoulders and a lifted chin, she climbed the three steps leading to the uninviting front door of the bank.

  Once inside, a slight man with a bulging nose led her into a small side room, where she eased her tired body into a low-backed chair with sloping arms. There she waited alone, seated in an office, in front of an imposing desk.

  None of
the heat from the common area of the bank reached the room. She clasped her hands together for warmth, wrinkling the envelope she held in the process. Left alone, with only her thoughts for company, her stomach turned sour as she contemplated her family’s prospects for the future.

  The door squeaked open on its hinges, stirring her from thought. A noticeable chill entered the room along with the banker, Mr. Snodgrass. Wiry, gray hair streaked with white grew under his chin from one side of his jaw line to the other. Nearly reaching to his chest, it came to rest on the wide knot of his silken tie. It was a stark contrast to his clean-shaven face and virtually hairless head.

  He walked with long, silent strides to his desk without so much as a look in Clara’s direction. If it weren’t for the conspicuous hump that rounded his back, he would have been a tall man. Age and an unfavorable temperament had weighed him down over the years, curving his body into an unnatural posture.

  Clara swallowed hard as she looked the man over while waiting for him to take his seat. His clothes were fine, but not flashy. Exactly what one would expect of a man of his position and generation. He wore a long-tailed waistcoat with broad lapels turned up at the collar. The top of his high starched shirt collar brushed the bottom of his thick earlobes, and was held in place by a blue neck tie tucked neatly into his vest.