Building a Christmas

By Patricia Bond

2018 Raven Awards Winner - Best Holiday Romance by Uncaged Book Reviews magazine.

 

Colonel Nathaniel Walker has been ravaged by the Civil War nearly as much as his country has. Now he seeks the sanctuary of home, hoping to find solace from the dreams that haunt him most nights. Instead, he finds an orphanage for war orphans has sprung up next door. Now, his guilt has faces – fourteen of them. And the woman who cares for them. Melanie Treymont exhibits more courage under fire than any soldier he's ever seen. Is she the one who can help him rebuild his life and finally put his demons to rest?

Melanie Treymont hopes to make amends for her dead husband's actions by taking responsibility for fourteen war orphans. But facing eviction, she may have to give up her plans of building a life for them. Help comes from an unexpected source, as her neighbor, Colonel Nathaniel Walker, steps up to the challenge, despite fighting his own inner battles.

These two tormented souls unite for the children, working to build a life for them as well as themselves. They start by Building a Christmas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Bond
• Release date: Jun 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227921192

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

*****

Copyright   © 2013, 2024 by Patricia Bond

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without express permission in writing from the author.

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Cover design by Ace of Spades Design

Cover photo by Pixphoto

Building a

Christmas

Books by Patricia Bond

Contemporary Romance:

From My Balcony

(Balcony series #1)

Historical Romance

By Love’s Honor Bound

Building a Christmas (novella)

Arms of an Angel (novella)

Dedication

As always, this book is dedicated to my family, without whom none of this would have meaning.  And to my critique partners and beta readers for all their help and thoughtful insights. Special thanks to Jan, for reminding me of the power of community.

I also dedicate this book to all the children in the world orphaned by the ravages of war. I pray you all have a Melanie Treymont in your life.

And also, to the brave and selfless men and women who sacrifice so much to defend our country, and principles.

Though it didn’t have the name in 1865, PTSD was a reality even then.  As William Walker states:  There are all kinds of war wounds, some you don’t see but feel all the same. Healing takes time. Be patient with yourself."  Please know how much we appreciate your commitment to freedom and your dedication to your country.

A portion of the author’s proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to a disabled American veterans’ organization in the name of Patricia Bond’s Readers.

Chapter 1

The bodies flew past his head. Parts of organs lay strewn at his feet. The moans of the dying filled the air. An odd foot got up and walked past him, seeking its owner.

Colonel Nathaniel Walker awoke shaking, bathed in a fine, cold sweat.

If anyone had asked him, he would not have said he was an evil man, a bad man, or even an uncaring man. Yet he’d sent countless men, some so young they were nearly boys, to their deaths. Been responsible for even more.

It was what war did to you. It changed your very being.

Your soul.

Nathaniel wasn’t sure he had a soul anymore. What Antietam hadn’t taken of it, Gettysburg had. What he wanted to know was why God, in His perversity, had insisted on keeping him alive. He should have sent him to hell.

Maybe he already was there. Maybe this was a special kind of hell. One designed to torment him and only him.

He got up from his bed, shuffled to the window, looked out at the field behind the roadhouse. Twenty-eight years sat upon his shoulders with the weight of eighty-eight. Tomorrow, he would complete his journey and he would be home.

Home.

Why? He was useless now. Unable to think clearly. Unable to work. Unable to feel. Unable to do anything but see those whom he’d killed in one way or another. By bullet, bayonet, or order.

He splashed water long gone cold on his face, washing away the sweat and tears. The sun would come up soon. He could see the pink tinge on the edge of the sky.

Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. He wondered what kind of storm the day would bring, but decided it didn’t matter. It couldn’t possibly match the storm in his head.

He wouldn’t go back to bed. He would not sleep, wished he didn’t ever have to sleep again. If he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t dream. He put on his socks, ignoring the holes in them, and his boots, ignoring the holes in those, too, and, wrapping the thin blanket around his cold shoulders, sat in the chair and stared at the coming dawn.

And just sat.

Melanie Treymont rolled over, pulling the blanket up higher. It didn’t help. She was still freezing. Grumbling, she rubbed her feet together in a vain attempt to warm them. You’d think the landlord could have given her enough coal to last the night. It was the end of November, for God’s sake. Didn’t the man know it was cold outside? And inside.

Dawn was fighting its way past the horizon when she finally gave up the battle and rose to dress. At least her gown and boots would warm her a bit.

Downstairs, the roadhouse slowly came to life, the sounds of wood being brought in, the smell of cooking fires being lit drifting up to her room. Clanging pots told her cooks were beginning to make food, and...coffee? Oh God, was that coffee? Closing her eyes, she sighed and smiled in anticipation of a cup of blessedly hot coffee.

She stuffed her nightgown into her satchel and waited for what she hoped was a decent interval, then carried her bag down to the roadhouse’s main room. With any luck, she would have enough time to eat a breakfast and buy a cold lunch packet to eat on the road before having to board the coach. And drink a cup of coffee.

It would seem the other travelers spending the night at the roadhouse had the same idea she did. There was only one seat left in the main room. A lone man sat at a small table, the chair opposite him empty. Tall and taciturn, with dark hair curling over his collar, she assumed the Union soldier was returning home. He had shared the coach with her yesterday, spending the whole of the trip silently looking out the window with eyes, she’d wager, not registering anything he saw. She knew he wasn’t blind because he’d saluted her as though she were a general when he held the door for her. But he never uttered a word the entire day. His uniform’s worn green jacket seemed to provide scant protection from the weather and aside from his rifle, he carried only a small knapsack.

She caught his eye and smiled a greeting. He looked at her blankly before staring down into his cup of coffee. A bowl of porridge sat before him, seemingly untouched.

Undaunted, Melanie approached the table.

May I join you? she asked, smiling.

He looked up at her with a blank expression, as though she were speaking a foreign language he didn’t understand. She wondered for a moment if he was deaf, perhaps from standing too near cannon.

Finally, he shrugged. Suit yourself, he said, and cast his storm-cloud grey eyes down again at his untouched porridge.

Not the reception she’d hoped for, but then again, she was the intruder here. She murmured a thank you. Where are you going to? she asked, hoping to break the awkward silence.

He gave a huge sigh, looked up at her with something akin to scorn. Pittsburgh.

So am I. We shall be traveling companions again, it seems.

His level gaze bored into her.

How is the porridge?

He stared in silence again, then shoved the bowl to her. Here. Have it.

Oh, but I couldn’t take your breakfast, Melanie protested. I was just wondering if I should order it.

Nothing else to order, came the terse reply. Eat it or go hungry.

You needn’t be rude about it, she bristled.

He shrugged again, pulled the bowl back in front of him, picked up the spoon, then set it down again.

The owner’s wife came up to her and Melanie ordered her own porridge and coffee, then sat back and looked around the filled main room. It seems the landlord does a brisk business, does it not?

He raised his gaze to her. Look, if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon eat in quiet.

Well. That put it bluntly. Her brows raised. Then why don’t you? she asked.

His own brow furrowed in question.

Eat, she said. You say you want to eat in quiet, but you’ve yet to touch your food.

Are you my mother?

Do you need one? she shot back.

The faintest ghost of a smile flitted across his face, before he turned dour again. If I eat, will you be quiet?

Eat, and we’ll see, she answered in her best schoolmistress voice.

He picked up the spoon and took a mouthful, pulled a face that made her burst out laughing. It’s not funny, he snarled.

Oh, but it is. You look just like one of the babies the first time they try porridge, she said, trying in vain to curb her laughter.

I’ll wager theirs isn’t cold.

Sometimes, she admitted.

You’re not being quiet.

You’re not eating.

He made a rude noise, drank some coffee, and stood. Enjoy your breakfast, madam. He dropped a coin on the table, grabbed his knapsack and rifle from under his chair, spun about, and practically stomped out of the room.

Well, Melanie said to herself. That set me in my place. She dug into her own porridge and made a face she imagined was quite similar to his. It ought to be. Her food was cold as well.

They had started out with a full coach. After the third stop, Melanie rode alone with the soldier. He had been staring out the window again as he’d done yesterday, ignoring everything, including her attempts at conversation. After a while, it appeared he’d fallen asleep.

Melanie looked out the window. Brown grasses poked through the thin layer of snow. Grey skies outlining the dark skeletons of bare trees were punctuated every so often by evergreens weighted by the snow. Dull and drab and lifeless, although she knew life dwelled just under the surface.

She pulled out the packet of food she’d had the landlord make up for her. Cold sandwiches, fruit that had seen better days and some cheese. A royal repast. All right maybe not, but since there were no more scheduled stops until late afternoon when they would arrive at her destination, she would be grateful for what she had.

She munched a sandwich while thinking what she was going to tell the children. They’d all hung their hopes on the banker in Philadelphia, convincing themselves he could never say no to a loan for an orphanage.

It would seem the winter weather froze more than the crops. The man had exhibited no compunctions at all about refusing Melanie’s request. Perhaps she should have given in to little Jeb’s begging to accompany her. Maybe putting a face to her plea would have helped. Or maybe she should have taken Lorna’s suggestion and cried at his desk.

Her spine stiffened of its own accord at the thought. She had her pride. She just hoped the children wouldn’t be the ones to pay for her folly. And her pride.

The soldier began to stir on the seat across from her. His head lolled against the window frame and a faint moan escaped his lips. She didn’t blame him. The rutted road made the going tough and she’d long since had her fill of bouncing on the hard seat. With his head knocking against the frame, she had no doubt he would awaken with a devil of a headache. If it wasn’t so cold, she would have rolled up her shawl and made him a pillow.

He shouted out in his sleep. His feet shuffled as though trying to run and his hand reached out, grabbing the air.

Melanie wondered what dream held him in such thrall he didn’t awaken himself. His feet moved again. Running toward or away? And whom did he want to take hold of?  

He cried out once more and a tear crawled down his cheek. Then another. And another, until he was nearly sobbing as he slept.

She couldn’t watch it anymore. Setting aside her food, she moved to the other seat and laid her hand on his arm.

Sir, she said quietly.

No response.

Sir, she repeated a little louder, accompanying the word