Mail-Order Christmas Baby

The Rancher’s Special Delivery

The “package” is addressed to him, but rancher Sterling Blackwell certainly didn’t order a baby! More scandalous still, he and the town’s pretty teacher are named as parents. With gossip running wild, only a marriage of convenience can protect little Gracie and their reputations until her real family is found.

Heather O’Connor is content to be the spinster schoolmarm of Valentine, Montana...until Gracie’s arrival stirs her heart. She can’t keep the adorable child without Sterling’s help, though she promises not to interfere with his life. But staying aloof from her handsome husband isn’t easy with a tiny matchmaker in tow. A mistake brought them together, but love might just make them a family by Christmas...

Heather wasn’t playing fair, ambushing Sterling like this, but she’d run out of options.

She’d been mulling the problem over for the past three days, and during that time, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Gracie. She’d considered all her options and had come to the conclusion that Sterling was her only choice.

While all of her reasons were sound, she recognized that Sterling didn’t have as much incentive for taking on the two of them. He didn’t know what it felt like to be unwanted.

“I don’t...” He appeared to be struggling with some sort of internal battle. “I mean to say...” He tipped his head to one side. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I’m certain.”

Gracie needed a home.

Heather had an uneasy premonition she’d been thrown together with the one man who could break her heart, which meant extra vigilance was in order. Love was serious business, but as long as he stayed the same carefree man who made her laugh, they’d do fine together.

She’d made a solemn vow that Gracie would never feel unwanted, and she meant to keep that vow, no matter the personal cost.

Dear Reader,

When the United States Post Office began delivering packages in 1913, there were few regulations on what folks could send through the mail. The postmaster general humorously (I assume) discussed the propriety of sending infants through the post. He concluded that babies did not fall into the category of bees and bugs, the only live things allowed in the mail delivery.

Despite the postmaster’s declaration, there are a few instances of children being sent through the post. These were mostly publicity stunts staged by people sending children short distances. There are, however, a few documented cases of children being sent greater distances before the post office ended the practice. The regulations were rewritten to declare that children were not “harmless live animals which do not require food and water during transit.”

I began this story with a simple premise: What if someone mailed a child through the post to an unsuspecting recipient?

I hope you enjoyed Sterling and Heather’s story. I enjoyed writing about a new town in a new state. My husband spent part of his military career in the great state of Montana, and his admiration for the dauntless people who inhabit the beautiful land inspired me.

I love connecting with readers and would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this story. If you’re interested in learning more about this book or others in my previous series, Prairie Courtships, visit my website at sherrishackelford.com, email me at sherrishackelford@gmail.com, visit me on Facebook at Facebook.com/sherrishackelfordauthor or on twitter @smshackelford, or connect through my favorite mode of communication, old-fashioned snail mail, at PO Box 116, Elkhorn, NE 68022.

Thanks for reading!

Sherri Shackelford

SHERRI SHACKELFORD is an award-winning author of inspirational books featuring ordinary people discovering extraordinary love. A reformed pessimist, Sherri has a passion for storytelling. Her books are fast-paced and heartfelt with a generous dose of humor. She loves to hear from readers at sherri@sherrishackelford.com. Visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

Mail-Order Christmas Baby

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves,

but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written,

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

—Romans 12:19

Early in my career, I was blessed with the friendship of two amazing authors. Thank you to Cheryl St.John and Victoria Alexander. These two amazing, talented authors were willing to take precious time out of their demanding schedules to help this (clueless) fledgling writer. Thank you for sharing your humor, wisdom and unflinching honesty with selfless grace. You set a standard to which many aspire, and very few achieve.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Train Depot for the Wells Fargo Delivery,

Valentine, Territory of Montana

October, 1880

“That is not my delivery,” Sterling Blackwell declared. The hat sitting low across his forehead did nothing to disguise the flush creeping up his neck. “Who put you up to this?”

Heather O’Connor pressed a hand against the hitch in her chest. Sterling usually sent one of his cattle hands into town when he had a Wells Fargo delivery, which suited her just fine. He was a reminder of a time in her life that she’d rather forget.

She’d come to Valentine, Montana, to serve as a teacher four years ago in an effort to start over someplace far away from Pittsburgh. Her living conditions had not been ideal. Following the war, she’d been sent to live with an aunt and uncle. The family was barely eking out a living in the gloomy steel town, and the moment she’d turned sixteen, she’d begun her search for an escape. At seventeen, she’d accepted the job of schoolteacher in the remote mining town of Valentine, Montana.

Sterling’s older brother, Dillon, had fetched her from this very same depot on her first day in town, and she’d promptly developed an embarrassing infatuation with him. Dillon’s father had not been amused. The Blackwells owned the largest cattle ranch in the area, and Mr. Blackwell’s leadership had kept Valentine flourishing after the gold panned out. Dillon’s father wasn’t going to stand idle while his son courted a penniless, orphaned schoolteacher. With his father’s encouragement, Dillon had enlisted as an officer in the cavalry.

The familiar pang of humiliation settled in her chest. Dillon hadn’t even told her in person. He’d sent her a letter instead. A few terse paragraphs making his lack of feelings embarrassingly clear. She’d learned her lesson well over the years. In love and relationships affection was never equal, and she always seemed to wind up on the losing end.

The Wells Fargo employee, distinguishable from the townsfolk crowding the train platform by his round green cap trimmed with gold braid, squinted at his manifest, then lifted his chin.

“No mistake, sir.” The freckle-faced young man extended his paperwork and pointed. “The recipient for this child is listed as Mr. Sterling Blackwell of the Blackwell Ranch, Valentine, Montana. I’ll need you to sign here.”

The attention of the growing crowd swiveled toward the delivery in question. A young child perched atop an enormous wooden crate. The afternoon sunlight had chased away the chill of the October day, and the child’s coat was unbuttoned, revealing her frilly dress. Clad in a pink frock with a matching pink eyelet lace bonnet tied beneath her chubby chin, she merrily gummed the edges of an envelope.

Mrs. Dawson, the local purveyor of all things scandalous and salacious, gasped and pressed a handkerchief against her lips. “Has the whole world gone mad? That child is hardly weaned. What sort of person sends an infant through the post?”

Heather guessed the babe’s age to be somewhere between two and three years. She hovered in that awkward phase between baby and child, babbling words that made little sense to anyone but herself.

“I’m not signing for anything.” Sterling flinched and stumbled backward, as though he’d been speared. “This is obviously a mistake or a...a prank or something.”

Heather’s stomach dipped. She knew little of Sterling beyond what his brother had conveyed during their fleeting time together. Their pa had been a fierce and unyielding man, and both brothers had fought with him over the years. Mr. Blackwell’s unexpected death had brought Sterling home two months earlier. He was as handsome as ever, and now that he owned half of the Blackwell Ranch, he was the most eligible bachelor in town.

Against her better judgment, her gaze swept over him once more. Given his looks, he could have been penniless and the girls would still swoon over him.

The tall rancher had dusky blond hair, blue eyes that seemed to melt into gray, and the muscular build of a lumberjack. As if that weren’t enough, he possessed an intriguing cleft in his strong chin. The embarrassing twinge of relief at having worn her best dress that day meant nothing—a temporary attack of vanity. Her brief, disastrous involvement with his brother had rendered her immune to his handsome face.

And if she kept repeating that to herself, she might even believe her own lies eventually.

“What’s all the fuss?” a familiar voice drawled.

Otto Berg ambled into view, his beefy arms propped on his hips. Otto was the foreman at the Blackwell Ranch, and had been with the family for as long as anyone could remember. According to Dillon, he’d been more of a father to the boys than the late Mr. Blackwell.

Otto looped his thumbs through his suspenders and shifted his weight to one hip. “What seems to be the trouble?”

The hushed crowd leaned forward in unison.

“Him.” The Wells Fargo employee jabbed an accusing finger in Sterling’s direction. “This man won’t accept his delivery.”

“You mean the child?” Otto demanded, his expression incredulous.

“Yes!” As though posting a babe through the mail was perfectly normal, the freckle-faced employee pointed at the girl with a huff. “All he has to do is sign for her, and then I can leave.”

The foreman glanced between Sterling and the odd delivery. A frown puckered the single brow stretching over Otto’s close-set eyes.

Sterling reached heavenward with both hands. “Since when does Wells Fargo deliver children?”

Heather slanted a glance his way, but his attention remained on the babbling child. Not that he was under any obligation to acknowledge her. She was, after all, the penniless schoolteacher who’d precipitated his brother’s career in the cavalry. Yet she knew from experience if she caught his gaze, he’d tip his hat and offer a few cordial words. His insistence on treating her kindly was a ubiquitous quirk of his character. He’d always been an amiable rogue with a quick wit and ready smile. But his deference meant little since he treated all the girls, young and old, with that same lazy charm.

“I just make the deliveries.” The Wells Fargo man tugged on the hem of his smart green coat. “I’ve only worked here a month, sir. This is my first mail-order baby.”

A ripple of amusement met his announcement.

Otto held up one hand. “A little respect, please.” The foreman rolled his eyes and accepted the paperwork. “Says here the child was posted in Butte.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaning past Otto, Sterling carefully enunciated each word. “Do you happen to know who posted this child?”

“No, sir. I just do what I’m told. The baby came on board in Butte with instructions for delivery to Sterling Blackwell.” The young man grinned proudly. “I thought she was going to be real fussy, but she was fine. The lady passengers helped. As soon as they discovered there was a real, live child in the parcels, they made certain she was fed and they changed her nappies and things like that. They were real obliging.”

A grin twitched at the edges of Otto’s mouth. “That was awful nice of those ladies.”

His comment drew another wave of titters.

“I don’t care how she got here.” Sterling shook his head in bewildered confusion. “She’s got nothing to do with me.”

The child reached out, and Heather instinctively clasped the tiny hand.

Sterling caught sight of her and pinched the brim of his hat in greeting, then offered a winsome half smile. “Miss O’Connor. That’s a lovely bonnet. Is it new?”

A flush started at the roots of her hair and rushed through her entire body, down to the tips of her toes. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s quite becoming on you.”

“The price had been marked down.”

“An excellent bargain.”

Marked down? What was the matter with her? For some inexplicable and annoying reason, she lost the ability to speak in complete sentences when he turned his attention on her. He had the discomforting habit of focusing his concentration too closely. Even with all that was happening around them, his latent charm rose to the surface.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “About your father.”

Considering the late Mr. Blackwell’s feelings about her, she’d avoided the funeral.

“Thank you.” He ducked his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dillon’s coming back soon. He inherited half of the ranch. Thought you should know.”

Her conscience pricked at the somber subject, but at least they’d cleared the air. “I know.”

What did he expect her to do? Flee town rather than face the embarrassment? She’d tried that once. After Dillon left, she’d stayed for a few months with a friend, Helen, who’d moved to Butte after she married. When the school year started back up, Heather had returned. Valentine was her home. With Dillon absent, the gossip had died a natural death. Even Mrs. Dawson had tired of the old news by then.

The train whistle blew, and a burst of steam sent the pistons chugging.

Heather motioned toward the child. “Don’t forget about your special delivery, Sterling.”

“Gra!” the child declared.

A curtain of languid indifference descended over Sterling’s expression once more. “Someone has an awfully strange sense of humor. They’ll show their face soon enough.”

Passengers poked their noses through the half-drawn windows, eager for a glimpse of the commotion. The Wells Fargo man grasped the handrail and leaped onto the slow-moving train.

He shook his papers. “I have a schedule to keep. Since this man won’t sign for his delivery, I’m leaving the child with the unclaimed packages.”

Shocked silence descended over the spectators. Even Sterling had been stunned mute.

Heather gaped. “You’re abandoning her?”

“I’m treating her the same as any other delivery.” The young man saluted with a touch to his tidy gold-braided cap. “If she’s not claimed in three months, you can send her back.”

Anxiety quickened Heather’s pulse. This had gone beyond a simple prank. This was an actual living, breathing child.

“Somebody do something!” she demanded.

“Everyone just settle down here.” Otto waved a hand toward the departing train. “The wheels are rolling. We can’t load a child onto a moving train.”

“This is absurd!” Heather called to the Wells Fargo employee. “She’s little more than a baby. She’s not a—a packet of buttons that can sit on a shelf for three months.”

The bell clanged and the steam engine chugged.

“Don’t make me no never mind. I done my job.” The train jerked forward, and he clutched the handle. “If you send her back, don’t forget the return postage.”

His green cap disappeared inside the railcar, and the crowd exploded into shocked chatter. As the train picked up speed, the curious passengers inside lost interest. Windows slid shut and velvet curtains twitched into place to block the afternoon sun.

The postmaster snorted. “That boy don’t have a lick of sense.”

“What now?” Old Mrs. Dawson spoke, her shrill voice carrying over the prattle. “What are you going to do, Sterling?”

The spectators immediately turned their attention toward the tall man.

“Me?” Using his thumb, he eased his hat off his forehead. “I’m as baffled as the rest of you. I ordered the sheep, not the baby.”

The crowd laughed, and Heather smothered a grin. She’d forgotten all about the sheep. Since taking over the ranch, Sterling had cut back on cattle trading and had turned his attention toward sheep instead. He’d ordered four dozen from a ranch in Butte to supplement his growing herd. Mr. Carlyle at the feed lot had been vocally annoyed by their arrival. The animals kept escaping from beneath fence rails sized for cattle.

The rest of the town was almost equally divided over whether Sterling was crazy or inspired for supplementing his beef operation with wool.

“Well, someone has to do something.” Mrs. Dawson harrumphed. “That poor child is all alone, and we can all agree it’s your name on the manifest.”

“I’ll agree to one thing,” Sterling drawled in his cordial, dark-timbered voice. “This is all a big mistake.”

The crowd murmured and eyebrows lifted in speculation, but no one stepped forward to claim responsibility. Folks were certainly curious, but feet merely shuffled and no one quite met anyone else’s eye.

The child contently chewed her envelope and drooled.

Heather held one hand against the front of the child’s eyelet lace frock and cupped her fingers on the back of the bonnet. She really was a cute little thing. Her blue-green eyes were framed by thick lashes, and her plump cheeks begged for a pinching. Heather’s gaze snagged on the glimpse of scarlet curls peeking out from beneath the child’s bonnet. Too bad about the red hair.

Heather’s aunt and uncle had dubbed her a troublemaker simply because she’d been born with a certain color hair. She’d always had to be behave twice as well as other children to be thought of as half as obedient.

Mrs. Dawson waved her embroidered square, drawing Otto’s attention. “Maybe there’s something in that envelope. Has anyone checked?”

Two dozen heads rotated toward the baby. At the attention, the child cooed in delight and slapped one hand against her chubby thigh. Heather reached for the envelope and the child’s lower lip trembled.

“Maa!” she wailed. “Maa goo.”

“It’s all right,” Heather soothed. “Give me the envelope. I promise I’ll give it right back.”

The two engaged in a brief tug-of-war, which Heather easily won. The trembling lip grew more pronounced, revealing two lower teeth, and then the babe sucked in a deep breath. Tears threatened in her enormous blue-green eyes, and her face turned a brilliant shade of red. Thinking quickly, Heather yanked on her bonnet ribbons, then presented the distraction.

The child promptly crushed the brim with her damp hands while simultaneously gumming a silk rose. Heather grimaced. The bargain hat was all but ruined. At least she wouldn’t be reminded of Sterling’s offhand compliment and her awkward reply every time she donned it.

Sterling reached for the envelope, but Otto was closer and intercepted her grasp.

“Let’s get to the bottom of this,” the foreman declared. “I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”

“Those sheep aren’t going to shear themselves,” the postmaster joked, much to the crowd’s delight.

Something flashed in Otto’s eyes, a spark of anger or embarrassment, Heather couldn’t quite tell which. The foreman quickly masked the telling expression with one of his ready smiles.

“That they don’t!” he tossed over his shoulder.

Sterling lifted his eyes skyward. “You’ll all be thanking me this winter when you’re warm and cozy by the fire in your nice wool sweaters.”

“Enough about those sheep.” With a slight grimace on his beefy face, Otto plucked at the soggy paper using the tips of his fingers. “We’ve got a mystery to solve.”

Heather glanced askance and caught Sterling staring at her exposed hair. The fiery red color caught the afternoon rays, turning her head into an orange beacon.

This time his smile was tinged with pity, and she self-consciously smoothed the strands. Her infatuation with Dillon had been just that—an infatuation. Sterling’s brother had been quiet, almost brooding. There was a part of her that always wanted to fix things for people, and Dillon seemed to need her, at least for a time. She’d mistaken his gentlemanly kindness for interest. She knew better now.

“Ah-ha!” Otto declared, shaking out a wilted slip of paper. “This here is a Return of Birth.”

The crowd surged forward.

“What’s a Return of Birth?” Mr. Carlyle hollered.

“It’s the paperwork for when a baby is born,” the postmaster explained. “The Return of Birth is filed with the county seat. Since Montana is still a territory, Silver Bow is the only county I know of that requests any paperwork.”

“Stop wasting time.” Mrs. Dawson huffed. “What does it say?”

There hadn’t been any good scandals for months, and Mrs. Dawson was clearly chomping at the bit. She’d be holding court at the Sweetwater Café this afternoon with the rest of the ladies, relaying every minute of these events in exaggerated detail.

“Don’t rush me.” Otto squinted. “The lettering is real fancy. The child’s name is Grace.”

His eyes tracked the writing and paused. His jaw dropped, and his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.

“Well, um, uh,” he stuttered. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

“Let me see.” Mrs. Dawson snatched the Return. “You’re taking too long. I don’t have my spectacles but I can make out most of the lettering. A Christmas baby. She’ll turn two on December 25—that’s two months away. Place of birth is Butte. The child’s name is Grace. Otto got that right.”

“The parents,” the postmaster prodded. “Who are the parents?”

“The father’s name is listed as Sterling Blackwell.” Mrs. Dawson snorted.

The smile slipped from Sterling’s face, and a moment later all the color had drained away. “That can’t be.”

“Thank the stars your father isn’t around to see this scandal.”

Fighting back an unexpected tide of jealousy at the thought of Sterling fathering a child, Heather peered over the edge of the paper. She was unpardonably curious about the child’s parentage.