A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “Yes, but at the school in Boston—”

  “Now you decide to follow the rules of the school in Boston? After you have chased away all the men who want to make you a wife?”

  “I’m trying to honor Papa. I know he wanted me to have a family of my own. Children. A husband.”

  “Pushing a man out the window will not get you a husband.”

  “That lamebrain had climbed up the rose trellis!”

  “You broke the other man’s nose with the bust of George Washington.”

  “You didn’t hear what he had suggested.”

  “What about that poor fellow in church? You stuck out your foot and tripped him!”

  “He had passed me a note saying he wanted us to marry and move to Cleveland, where he would buy a shoe factory with Papa’s money.”

  “Maybe you would have liked this Cleveland. These days all you do is make your lists and go to meetings. Even the Christmas tea you run like a big project at the brickyard or the silver mine.” She gave a sympathetic cluck. “What has happened to my happy Farolita? my little light?”

  Through the window over her desk, Fara studied the pine-dotted Gila Mountains with their gentle slopes and rounded peaks. Outside, soft snowflakes floated downward from the slate gray sky to the muddy street. At the Pinos Altos ranch, it would be snowing on Papa’s grave.

  The black-iron window mullions misted and blurred as Fara pondered the granite headstone beneath the large alligator juniper. This would be her first Christmas without her father. Though she had managed her own affairs—and many of his—for years now, she missed him. The house felt empty. The days were long. Even the prospect of the Christmas tea held little joy.

  A portly Santa Claus in his long red robe and snowy beard would not appear this year. Instead, the gifts of candy canes and sugarplums would lie beneath the tree. The miners’ children would ask for the jolly saint, and Fara would have to tell them he had already come—and gone away.

  When had life become so difficult? Where was the fun?

  In the mountains, that’s where. At the old ranch house at Pinos Altos. The stables. The long, low porch. The big fireplace.

  “Open the packet from California,” Manuela said. “Maybe it’s a Christmas present to make you smile again.”

  Fara broke the seal and turned the large envelope up on her lap. A stack of letters tied with twine slid out, followed by a folded note. She opened the sheet of crisp white paper and began to read.

  Sacramento, California

  Dear Miss Canaday:

  As evidenced by the enclosed correspondence, my late father, William Hyatt, was a close friend to your father, Jacob Canaday. I understand they once were gold-mining partners in a small mountain town called Pinos Altos. Perhaps you have heard of it. My father moved to California before the New Mexico silver strike of 1870—an event that proved to be of great benefit to your family.

  In compliance with my father’s wishes, I am traveling to Silver City to discuss with you possible business and personal mergers. I shall arrive in New Mexico two weeks before Christmas and will depart after the start of the new year.

  Cordially yours,

  Aaron Hyatt

  Fara crumpled the note. “Of all the pompous, arrogant, conceited, vain—”

  “What is it?” Manuela asked. “What does the letter say? Who is it from?”

  “Another complete stranger with the utter gall to impose himself on my hospitality at Christmastime! Another moneygrubbing attempt to get at my father’s fortune! Oh, I would like to wring this one’s ornery neck.” Fara stood and hurled the balled letter into the fire. “‘Possible business and personal mergers,’ he says! ‘Our fathers were close friends,’ he says! As if I would give such a man the satisfaction of calling on me. Manuela, I tell you, they’re all alike. They catch the faintest whiff of money, and they come wooing me with flowers and chocolates. Fawning all over me. Calling me darling and dearest. Proposing marriage left and right.”

  “Mrs. Ratherton next door is telling everyone you have run off seven men in the last two months.”

  “If Mrs. Ratherton and all her gossiping cronies would keep their snooty noses in their own affairs—”

  “There is a rumor in town, Farolita, that you will shoot the next man who tries to court you.”

  Fara pondered this. “Well . . . not through the heart.”

  “Señorita!”

  “If I thought even one of those men had the slightest warm feeling in his chest for me—for me, not my money—I’d listen to him.”

  “Would you?”

  “I want a family. I want children.” Fara’s shoulders sagged. Truth to tell, she was tired of having sole responsibility for the business. Tired of meetings and schedules and lists. Sometimes . . . sometimes she ached for a gentle word, a tender touch. Even a man’s kiss.

  “But you’ve seen all those scoundrels who come calling on me!” she exploded. “You know what they’re after as well as I do. Now here comes a con artist from California. Sniffing after silver. Trying to use these letters from my father to attach himself to me. Personal merger. Of all the ridiculous, scheming contrivances. And he’s coming all the way from the West Coast. He must be scraping the bottom of the barrel to be that desperate.”

  “When does he arrive?”

  Fara glanced at the ashes of what had been the man’s letter. “Two weeks before Christmas.”

  “Two weeks? But that’s now!”

  “I’m not going to see him.”

  “You’ll have to see him.” A small smile crept over Manuela’s lips. “It’s proper.”

  Fara crossed her arms. “I won’t see him. Even if he calls, I won’t speak to him.”

  “Maybe he will have a white calling card to put into the silver tray.”

  “I won’t come down. If I have to see one more fawning suitor in the drawing room, I’ll choke.”

  “How can you avoid him?”

  “I . . . I just won’t be here, that’s how. I’ll go away. I’ll go up to the old ranch house, Manuela. I’ve been wanting to visit Papa’s grave. I want to see it before Christmas. So I will.”

  “You can’t do that, niña! You have so much to do here. You have to plan the tea.”

  “Done.” Fara whisked the ink-stained list from her desk. “You take care of the details, Manuela. Put those etiquette lessons I gave you into practice. Decline my dinner invitations. Call off my meetings. Turn away my callers. Give me two weeks of rest, and I promise I’ll come back to Silver City in time for the children’s tea.”

  “But the brickyard meeting this afternoon—”

  “Cancel it.” Excited at the sudden prospect of escape, Fara picked up her skirts and marched out of the library. “I’m going to pack my bag. Tell Johnny to saddle the sorrel.”

  “But you will not have any food at the ranch house, Farolita!” Manuela puffed up the steps after Fara. “And what about firewood? You will freeze! You will starve!”

  “I can chop my own firewood. I’ll shoot a deer.”

  “Farolita! What would your poor papa say?”

  In the bedroom doorway, Fara swung around and took the housemaid by the shoulders. “He would say, ‘Good show, Filly, old girl! I taught you to chop wood, build a fire, and hunt for your food. Now, go to it!’ That’s what Papa would say—and you know he would.”

  “Sí, you are just like him. Just as stubborn . . . impatient . . . contrary . . . headstrong—”

  “Don’t worry. Old Longbones will be there. He’ll help me.”

  “That Apache? Ai-yai-yai!” Muttering to herself, Manuela went off to alert the household.

  Fara began stripping away the clothes that had confined her. She tossed petticoats, skirts, and the hated corset onto the bed. Then she rooted in her cedar chest until she found the buckskins given to her by the half-breed, Old Longbones.

  Often she wore the soft, buttery leather leggings under her skirts. But not so the warm moccasins and the beaded suede tunic. Now she slippe
d them on, reveling in the scent of wood smoke and musk that still clung to the warm garments. The cone-shaped silver ornaments that dangled on leather fringes clicked as she moved.

  After unpinning her bun, Fara wove her thick hair into a long golden braid that snaked down her back to her hips. Then she turned to the gilt-framed mirror that stood in one corner. The woman who looked back from the silvered glass was no longer the gangly teenager who had first worn the buckskins. This was no half-grown child. Angles had transformed into curves. Shapely arms and long legs now warranted the modest covering of skirts and bodices.

  The matrons at the Boston school for young ladies would swoon, Fara thought as she settled her favorite battered leather hat on her head. She stuffed a nightgown, a few simple dresses, her Bible, and the local newspaper into a traveling bag and left the room.

  As she walked toward the carriage house, Fara took note that the snow was coming down heavily now. Cotton puffs blanketed the piñon branches. White icing trimmed rooftops. Thin ice sheeted puddles on the path.

  Fara threw back her head and stared straight up at the swirling, dancing flakes. Father God! The prayer welled up inside her like a song. I praise You for snow, for fresh air . . . for hope! Take me away, Lord. Away to the mountains, to the pine trees. To Papa’s grave. Take me away from city streets and business meetings. Most of all, dear Lord, take me away from witless, greedy, coldhearted suitors. Amen and amen.

  Buoyed by the promise of freedom, Fara spread her arms wide and turned in giddy circles. Two weeks! Two weeks alone! Hallelujah!

  Old Longbones dozed in the rocking chair beside the roaring fire. He and Fara had made a feast of fiery tamales and Indian fry bread, washed down with hot apple cider. They had spent long hours reminiscing about the old days when Jacob Canaday was alive and silver fever filled the air. When the ranch house bustled with prospectors and miners. When mud caked the wooden floors and men swapped tales while fiddles played the night away.

  Fara was tired from the six-mile ride up the mountains to Pinos Altos, but she couldn’t remember when she’d felt so good. The spicy scent of piñon wood crackling in the big fireplace filled her heart with wonderful memories. Many involved her friend Old Longbones. In the passage of years, his face had grown leathery and wrinkled, and silver threads mingled in his long black hair. But the half-breed’s heart had not changed.

  Wounded in an Apache attack on the Pinos Altos settlement, he had been abandoned by his Indian comrades. His blue eyes, left-handedness, and tall frame—all inherited from his fur trapper father—made Longbones suspect in the mind of his own tribe. Though an enemy to the white miners, he had been taken in by Jacob Canaday and nursed back to health. During the 1861 raid of Pinos Altos by Cochise and Mangas Coloradas, the famous Apache warriors, Longbones had stood faithful to his adopted family. Now he lived alone in the big, empty ranch house—and Fara knew she could not be in better hands.

  She shut her eyes and drifted, disturbed only by the barking of her two dogs, Smoke and Fire, who had followed her horse up from Silver City. As she snuggled beneath a thick blanket in her chair, her white nightgown tucked around her toes, Fara listened as Old Longbones’s half-coyote joined the yapping. Then she heard the unmistakable howl of a wolf.

  She sat up straight.

  Old Longbones opened one blue eye. “They are down by the log cabin of Jacob Canaday. Maybe they have found a raccoon.”

  Fara knew no raccoon in its right mind would come out of hiding in the middle of a blizzard like this—and so did Old Longbones. If the animal wasn’t in its right mind . . . hydrophobia? Fara didn’t want to lose her dogs to that dreaded disease.

  “I’ll go check things out,” she said.

  “You will get cold in that dress.”

  Fara glanced down at her nightgown. “I’ll take my blanket.”

  “Better take the rifle, too, Filly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Since her father had died, Old Longbones was the only person who called Fara by her pet name. She smiled, realizing how typical it was of the Apache not to fret too much about Jacob Canaday’s daughter and her impulsive actions. He had watched her grow up. He knew she could take care of herself.

  Fara tugged on her boots and wrapped the big blanket tightly around her head and shoulders, allowing the hem to trail behind her. Then she took the rifle down from the rack over the door, lifted a lantern from its hook, and stepped outside. Snowflakes flew at her in a blinding white fury. Following the barks and howls, she walked across the porch and tromped down the familiar path toward the cabin.

  Jacob Canaday had built the little log house in 1837 when he was a young prospector and gold had just been discovered in Pinos Altos. Fara had been born in that cabin, and there her mama had died. After that, she and Papa had moved up to the big new ranch house. It wasn’t until the silver strike in 1870 that they started spending time in Silver City, and not until ’76 that they built the tall brick mansion. By then, Papa was already sick, and the business had begun to consume his only child.

  Despite the chill, Fara took a deep breath of snow-filled air. The lantern lit the tumbling flakes and cast a weak light across the virgin snow. She cradled the rifle as she approached the tiny snow-shrouded house. The commotion came from the front yard, and she peered around the cabin’s corner to see what sort of creature had disturbed the dogs and drawn a wolf.

  “Lord have mercy!” she gasped.

  It was a man. He lay prone in the snow, faceup, and spreadeagled as though a giant hand had dropped him from the sky.

  A pair of wolves circled him, yapping and snarling, held at bay only by the three dogs. Fara set the lantern down and cocked the rifle. Stepping into the open, she fired a single shot into the air. The animals started. The lead wolf crouched as if to spring at her. Fara moved first, leaping at the predators.

  “Hai! Hai!” She waved her arms, fanning the huge blanket around in the air. The dogs went wild, barking and snapping at the wolves. Fara reloaded, fumbling in the semidarkness. Her second shot—just over the wolves’ heads—scattered them. Breathing hard, she watched their silver forms melting into the thicket of pine trees, blending with the snow, vanishing to nothing.

  Tails wagging, the dogs bounded toward her. She gave each a quick pat as she strode forward to kneel at the fallen man’s side. Was he dead? She cupped his face in her bare hands and turned his head. Sightless, his blue eyes stared up into the falling snow.

  God rest his soul, she prayed. Fara dusted off her hands and assessed the situation. She couldn’t very well leave the body out in the blizzard. The wolves would be back. Maybe she could wrap it in the blanket and roll it under the cabin porch. When the snow melted a little, she and Old Longbones could bury the poor fellow.

  Shivering, Fara threw the blanket across the snow beside the body and gave the large shoulders a shove.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I never touch the stuff,” the corpse mumbled.

  Fara let out a squawk and sat down hard. “What?”

  “Six times three,” he muttered.

  Grabbing the lantern, she held it close to his face. The man’s blue-tinged lips moved, words barely forming on his thickened tongue. “Out of my way, buzzard-breath . . . the capital of South Carolina . . .”

  Fara shook her head. He was alive. Barely. Now what? She brushed the snow off the stranger’s cheeks and slipped her palm under the shock of thick brown hair that lay on his forehead. His skin was cold, clammy. She lifted his big hand and felt for a pulse. Sure enough, he had one.

  She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was spend her precious holiday looking after a big galoot who didn’t have sense enough to stay out of the weather. But if she left him in the snow, the cold would kill him in a couple of hours, though it would be a painless death. The man was delirious already.

  Fara ran the lantern light down the stranger. He must weigh two hundred pounds. All of it muscle. His left arm had been clumsily bandaged. She held the light closer. He’d been wounded. Looked li
ke a gunshot. Blood caked the white rag. She bent over and sniffed. Putrefaction. After caring for horses, dogs, and cattle all her life, she would know that odor anywhere.

  Even if she tended the man, he was likely too far gone to live long. Warmed up, he’d only suffer. Why make him go through the agony? Kinder to let him go. He was a stranger . . . probably a no-gooder . . . wounded . . . maybe even wanted by the law.

  By now, Old Longbones would be wondering where she was. She stood, turned, and took two steps toward the ranch house. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers. . . . I was a stranger, and ye took me in. . . . I was sick, and ye visited me. . . . Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

  “Confound it!” Fara stamped her foot. What a time for a bunch of Sunday school verses to come pouring into her head. She didn’t want to take care of the scoundrel. She gave her tithes at church, donated her old clothes to the charity closet, and hosted the Christmas tea for the miners’ children. Wasn’t that enough?

  “Which of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that fell among thieves? . . . He that shewed mercy on him. . . . Go, and do thou likewise.”

  Fara turned around and eyed the man in the snow. This was no poor innocent who had fallen among thieves—he’d been shot! And she was no Good Samaritan. She deserved her two-week rest. She had a right to some peace and quiet!

  “The capital of Missouri,” he muttered. “St. Louis.”

  “It’s Jefferson City, you cabbage head!” she snarled and stalked back across the snow to his side. Letting out a hot breath, she grabbed his big shoulders again and heaved them onto the blanket. Then she hooked her fingers into his belt loops and rolled his midsection over. Finally, she picked up his booted feet and flopped them to join the rest of him.

  “Filly?” Old Longbones’s voice echoed down from the ranch house porch. Belying the distance, his words carried clearly down the mountainside. “Filly, you okay?”