Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  As if on cue, Celia reentered the parlor, this time without her apron. “Supper’s ready,” she said, taking Aaron’s hand as she led the way into the dining room. When Mark had walked through here before, the table had been bare. Now it was covered with a cloth and laden with six place settings and three large platters of food.

  Once inside the room, Aaron scampered to the high chair on one side of the table. While his father helped him into it, Hiram walked to one of the two seats on the opposite side, leaving the one next to the high chair vacant for Jacob. Frank, however, stood in the doorway, staring at the table. As if she sensed his confusion, Celia moved to the foot of the table and nodded toward the empty seat between her and Hiram. “You’ll be in your usual spot, Frank. Mark, I’ve placed you at the other end.”

  “Harrumph.” Though Frank pulled out Celia’s chair, he made no effort to disguise his displeasure that Mark had been assigned the seat at the head of the table. Clearly Frank thought he deserved it. It was silly, really. Given the choice, Mark would have preferred to sit beside Celia rather than between Hiram and Jacob, but Frank had other ideas.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” Celia said when Frank had offered a blessing for the food. “I know you were expecting a hot meal, but Emma was very ill today, and I had no time to cook.” Though he had attributed no importance to it, Mark saw that the platters were of cold meats, cheeses, and breads. It might not be hot, but it appeared to be the best meal he’d had in a week.

  As he passed the cheeses to Mark, Hiram’s brown eyes radiated concern. “Is Emma all right now?”

  “Much better.” Celia gave her boarder a smile. “Doc Rudinski was gone, but Mr. Williams knew what to do. If it weren’t for him, Emma might not be alive.”

  Turning to Mark, Hiram nodded. “I reckon the good Lord sent you here at the right time.”

  Before Mark could tell him that he and the good Lord were not on speaking terms and that the only place God was likely to send him was considerably warmer than Wyoming Territory, Celia spoke. “That’s what I said.”

  “So, why did you come here?” It was Frank who asked the question, his voice holding a hint of belligerence and something that sounded like jealousy.

  Mark washed down a bite of meat with a drink of water. “I’m looking for a man—Abe Williams. Hiram said he doesn’t work at the mine now, but he thought you and Jacob might recognize the name.”

  At the other end of the table, Celia buttered a slice of bread, those deep blue eyes thoughtful. Jacob shook his head. “I’ve been here since the mine opened, and I can’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “He might have just been passing through.” Like me, Mark wanted to add. Since he’d left Ohio, the longest he’d stayed anywhere had been a month, and only then because he’d needed to earn enough money to get him to his next destination.

  “My memory’s sharper than most.” If he’d been a rooster, Frank would have puffed out his chest feathers. “I never heard of anybody by that name. Could be he used an assumed name, though. Some folks do.” Frank snagged another piece of roast beef. “What’s he look like?”

  The answer was easy. “Me. He’s my pa.”

  Though Mark had thought Aaron was so engrossed in creating meat and cheese balls to accompany the ones he’d constructed of bread that he had paid no attention to the conversation, the boy piped up. “How come your pa ain’t with you? My pa’s right here.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. Aaron had asked the question that had plagued Mark ever since he’d learned his father was still alive. There was no answer, so he said only, “Some pas are different.”

  “If I were you, I’d ask the parson.” Frank helped himself to another serving of cheese before reaching for the bread. “Reverend Pearson knows most everybody in the area, not just Easton.”

  As she sliced a pickle, Celia said, “Cedarville—that’s the next town—doesn’t have a minister of its own, so Reverend Pearson serves them too. If your father’s been here in the last twenty years, Reverend Pearson will know.”

  “I’ll visit him first thing in the morning.”

  When the men had finished eating, Celia cleared the plates, then stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a coffeepot in her hand. “Would you gentlemen like some cookies with your coffee? I have pepparkakor.”

  His mouth watering at the thought of the delicious sweets, Mark nodded. “They’re mighty tasty.”

  In unison, Frank’s and Jacob’s heads swiveled, and they glared at Mark, plainly annoyed that he had sampled the cookies before them. Their behavior was so juvenile that Mark almost laughed, and yet part of him understood. Though they might not have declared their intent, both men clearly had a romantic interest in Celia, and neither liked the idea of another man being near her, even if that man was only passing through. He couldn’t blame them. Celia was beautiful, a devoted mother, and, if the cookies and bread were any indication, an excellent cook. If Mark were the marrying kind, she would be the type of woman he would favor.

  If he were the marrying kind.

  Celia’s eyes fluttered open, and for the briefest of moments, she stared, bemused by the white light that seeped around the edges of the shades. Snow. There was no mistaking the way it changed the world, hiding the copper dust, replacing it with a blanket of white. As she rolled over to glance at the clock, she gasped. She’d overslept. Though Emma’s fever had subsided and the cough diminished, she had been restless for most of the night, and it had been late before Celia had fallen asleep. Now she was behind schedule. Hurriedly, she splashed water on her face and slipped into a morning gown, grateful that it did not require a corset. Once the men left, she would take the time to dress properly. In the meantime, she had breakfast to prepare.

  Unwilling to leave Emma, even though the child was sleeping peacefully, Celia lifted the basket and carried her daughter into the kitchen. And there she found the second surprise of the morning. The wood box was full, and a bucket of water sat on the counter next to the sink. Someone had taken care of the most pressing chores. Thanks to her Good Samaritan, she could have breakfast ready at the normal time.

  As she cracked eggs into a large bowl, Celia smiled. It had to be Mark who’d helped her. Hiram was a kind man, but it would never have occurred to him to do women’s work. When the eggs were scrambled and the bacon fried, Celia walked to the foot of the stairs and called the men. Mark descended first, his face still damp from his morning ablutions. Though he wore a clean shirt and pair of pants, both were so wrinkled that Celia resolved to do his laundry. It would be small recompense for all he’d given her and Emma.

  “I found fresh water and wood in the kitchen,” Celia said when Mark reached her side. “Do I have you to thank?”

  He shrugged, as if the effort were of no account. “I did it last night. I was afraid Emma might have a setback and we’d need it.”

  Celia wasn’t certain what warmed her heart more, Mark’s thoughtfulness or his use of the plural pronoun. “Again, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  When another shrug accompanied his words, Celia shook her head. “It was something to me. Thank you.”

  Half an hour later, the men were gone, Hiram headed for the mine, Mark to visit the parson. Celia had changed into the dark skirt and white shirtwaist that were her normal daytime attire and was back in the kitchen, washing dishes while she waited for Jacob to bring Aaron.

  “Good morning, Celia.” Bertha’s voice carried through the house. “What happened to your door?”

  Celia turned, startled by the unexpected question. “What do you mean?” she asked as her friend entered the kitchen.

  Though Bertha was clad in her normal somber gray, her face was reddened by the cold, and she chafed her hands to warm them. “Your door opened properly,” she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. “You know how it always sticks. Well, it didn’t this morning.”

  A rush of pleasure flooded Celia’s veins. “It must have been Mark, my temporary
boarder.”

  “Mark?” Surprise turned to disapproval, highlighted by Bertha’s raised eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit familiar?”

  Under ordinary circumstances Celia would have agreed, but yesterday had been anything but ordinary. “He asked me to address him that way,” she told Bertha, wishing she didn’t feel the need to explain. “Besides, he’s only going to be here for another day or so. He’s on his way to see the reverend right now.”

  Bertha took the chair Celia offered and nodded when she lifted the coffeepot. “What do you know about him?”

  “Other than the fact that he saved Emma’s life and is looking for his father, not much. Oh yes, he chopped wood for me, brought in water, and fixed my front door.” A hint of asperity tinged Celia’s words, but Bertha didn’t seem to notice. She focused on one part of Celia’s explanation.

  “Saved Emma’s life? What do you mean?”

  Celia explained, concluding with what seemed to be becoming a refrain. “I’m convinced the Lord sent him.”

  Bertha appeared less convinced. “That may be, but you need to be careful. A woman alone cannot be too vigilant.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Celia accompanied her words with a crooked smile, hoping to deflect Bertha’s attention. If not, she’d start her lecture about Emma needing a father and Celia needing a husband. Bertha meant well, but sometimes she could be like a robin with a worm, unwilling to give up once she started tugging. The truth was, Celia didn’t need a husband. Still, if she were putting in an order for one, she would ask for a man who’d love her and Emma so much that he’d chop wood, bring water, and fix the door, all without being asked. A man like Mark Williams.

  Mark found himself whistling as he headed south on Main Street. It was as close to a perfect day as he could recall. The snow sparkled like diamonds, the air was redolent with the smell of cedars and junipers, and his heart was filled with satisfaction. It had been a simple task to fix Celia’s front door, requiring little more time than oiling the pump had, and yet his sense of achievement at seeing the door open and close without sticking was out of all proportion to the effort he’d expended. Mark had assisted other women along his travels, but nothing had felt as good as helping Celia. She was a special woman, one of a kind.

  Mark knocked on the door to the simple log cabin that served as Easton’s parsonage. The man who opened the door was tall and thin almost to the point of being gaunt, his dark brown hair liberally threaded with gray, and yet his most distinguishing characteristic was his eyes. Chocolate brown, they appeared to see deep inside a man. It should have been a disconcerting experience, being on the receiving end of that gaze, but Mark found it oddly comforting, as if the parson were dispensing a sense of well-being while he scrutinized his visitor.

  “Reverend Pearson?” Mark asked.

  “I’m Andrew Pearson. How may I help you?” His voice was deep and resonant, what Mark had always called a preacher’s voice.

  Shaking the extended hand, he introduced himself. “I arrived in town yesterday and am staying with Mrs. Anderson.” He wouldn’t refer to her as Celia, not to this man who saw more than most.

  The minister ushered Mark into the front room and gestured toward one of the straight-backed chairs. “Ah yes. I heard we had a visitor.”

  Mark suspected he’d heard more than the simple fact of his arrival. Frank and Jacob hadn’t struck him as silent types, and it wouldn’t surprise him if one of them had paid a call on the minister. “You might have heard that I’m looking for my father, Abe Williams.”

  Rather than confirm Mark’s supposition, the reverend fixed him with another piercing gaze. “Abe Williams, you say.” He looked into the distance for a moment, and lines formed between his eyes. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard that name,” he said at length.

  “Have you seen this man? He’d be older now, of course.” Mark unwrapped the oilskin packet that held his only link to his father and pulled out his parents’ wedding portrait.

  Reverend Pearson studied it carefully before shaking his head. “It seems you’ve hit a dead end.”

  Disappointment speared Mark. Even though he’d thought it unlikely that his father had worked as a miner, ever since he’d entered Easton, he had hoped he was wrong. He had wanted this to be the place he found Abe Williams, the place where his journey ended. But it was nothing more than another dead end.

  “Where will you go now?” The parson seemed genuinely interested.

  “I’m not sure. This was my last lead. In the past, there was always someone who remembered my father and who knew where he planned to go next. Now . . . I don’t know what to do.” He’d lost count of the towns he’d visited, the leads he’d followed. It was enough that he’d kept track of the days he’d spent searching for his father. Each time there had been hope, but now there was none.

  His eyes filled with compassion, Reverend Pearson nodded slowly. “I’ll pray that you find your way. In the meantime, if you plan to stay in the area, Cedarville has a small hotel. You might be more comfortable there.”

  Though his voice was neutral, Mark suspected that the minister was encouraging him to leave Easton. “Thank you, but I’m comfortable here. I have no intention of leaving until the doctor says Emma is fully recovered. I’m concerned about her.”

  Reverend Pearson raised an eyebrow, as if questioning Mark’s veracity. “My concern is for her mother. Mrs. Anderson is a beautiful woman, but she’s also vulnerable. She doesn’t deserve to have anyone trifle with her affections.”

  It was Mark’s turn to nod. “I understand, sir.” He not only understood, he was reassured by the knowledge that Celia had such a staunch champion. The minister was being protective, and unlike Frank and Jacob, his feelings were paternal. Mark respected that. “I assure you, I’m no threat to her affections. I’m just passing through.”

  3

  “Heard you needed me, Miz Anderson.” Doctor Rudinski, whom most people in Easton simply called Doc, removed his hat, revealing sandy blond hair. “Hermit up in the hills had a bad spell. Took longer than I expected.” His light blue eyes catalogued Celia’s features. “’Pears you’ve recovered from whatever ailed you.”

  The doctor was noted for his direct, sometimes abbreviated speech. Though some in Easton considered him curt, Celia knew him to be a compassionate and competent physician. He’d tried his best to save Josef, but the runaway mine cart had crushed her husband’s body so badly that only a miracle could have saved him. There had been no miracles that day.

  “I wasn’t ill,” Celia said as she led the doctor into the kitchen where Emma and Aaron were playing. “It was Emma.”

  When she finished explaining what had happened, Doc nodded. “Sounds like the croup. Mighty dangerous.” He peered into Emma’s throat and listened to her heartbeat. “You were lucky, Miz Anderson. Quick thinking saved your daughter’s life.”

  That’s what she believed too. Having Mark appear when he had was as close to a miracle as Celia had experienced. “I didn’t do anything. You know how healthy Emma’s been.” Doc nodded. “I wasn’t prepared for something serious. The truth is, I was practically paralyzed with fear. Mr. Williams was the one who insisted that steam and vinegar were what Emma needed.”

  Doc raised an eyebrow. “Exactly right. Oughta get him to stay. I sure could use an assistant.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but Celia doubted Mark would agree. “I expect him to leave tomorrow or the next day. He claims he’s an itinerant carpenter, not a healer.”

  Doc took one final look at Emma before placing her back on the floor.

  “Be that as it may, I still want to meet him.”

  Celia looked outside, surprised when she saw no sign of Mark. “He went to visit Reverend Pearson. I thought he would have been back by now.”

  “Oh, well.” The doctor closed his medical bag and headed toward the door. “Another time.”

  It was midafternoon and Celia, who never sang, found herself singing to herself as she prepared dinner. The hen that woul
d become the foundation for tonight’s chicken and dumplings was stewing; bread was rising; and she had just taken two chess pies from the oven. As if the delicious aromas perfuming her kitchen weren’t enough reason to give thanks, soon after the doctor had left, Emma had sat up by herself, her face wreathed in a grin that said she was proud as could be of her accomplishment. Emma was sitting up again, watching Aaron as he made a tower of blocks. But the primary reason Celia was singing with joy was the sound of hammering and sawing that came from her storeroom.

  When he’d returned from visiting the minister, Mark had admitted that Reverend Pearson had been unable to help him. “I’ll be leaving soon,” he said, “but there’s something I want to do first.” Though it was clear that Mark was building something, he wouldn’t give Celia even a hint of what it was.

  “I want your gift to be a surprise,” he said, insisting she stay in the parlor while he brought in the materials. It was only when everything was secreted in the storage room and the door closed that Mark allowed Celia back in the kitchen. Even though she had protested that a present wasn’t necessary, she had smiled at the prospect of a surprise. There hadn’t been many of them in her life, at least not pleasant ones, so the anticipation was as much of a gift as the surprise itself would be.

  She was measuring out the ingredients for the dumplings when the sounds from the storeroom stopped and the door opened. Unable to contain her curiosity, Celia glanced in that direction and saw Mark carrying a bag out the back door. The clank of metal on metal suggested the contents were his tools. Only moments later, he strode into the kitchen.

  “Are you ready for your surprise?”

  Frowning at her flour-covered hands, Celia shook her head. “Give me a minute.” It took less than that to wash and dry her hands. “I’m ready now.” Ready and as excited as a child on Christmas morning.