Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

“What’s wrong?” The man who’d been smiling looked as if he’d lost his best friend. Perhaps he had.

  Lionel’s frown deepened. “I cain’t think about Santa Fe without rememberin’ how it all ended.” He cupped his hands around the mug and leaned forward. “Your pa just couldn’t pass up an adventure. When he heard tell about a box canyon so narrow a horse couldn’t hardly fit in it, there weren’t nothin’ gonna keep him away. The next thing I knew, he was dead.”

  Mark had ridden into a box canyon in New Mexico, admiring the steep walls and the way sunlight barely made it to the canyon floor. Had it been the same one where his father had died? “What happened?”

  “Seems like there was outlaws holed up in that canyon. They musta thought Abe was part of a posse. He didn’t have a chance. They gunned him down afore he could reach his rifle.” Lionel closed his eyes as he winced. “Worst day of my life. July 17 of ’72.”

  It made sense. The last letter had been dated in late June of that year. Mark nodded slowly. “Pa’s been dead for almost ten and a half years, and we never knew.” Though he hadn’t intended it, his words sounded vaguely accusatory.

  Lionel’s eyes flew open and he glared at Mark. “I wrote your ma a letter.” The glare faded as he said, “Musta gotten lost somehow.”

  “Ma might have burned it,” Mark admitted, “but I doubt that. As far as I can tell, she kept all of Pa’s letters.” And not one had mentioned his brother. Was that because Pa had known his wife didn’t care for Lionel? As he thought back to the places he’d stopped along the way, Mark realized that no one had mentioned that there were two men named Williams traveling together. Perhaps their memories had faded.

  Lionel stared at the door for a moment. “Reckon things woulda been different if you’d seen my letter. You wouldn’t have had to come all the way out here.”

  Nodding slowly, Mark considered his uncle’s words. It was true that his life would have been different if he’d known of his father’s death. In all likelihood, he would have remained in Ohio. Unbidden, Mark’s stomach clenched as he remembered Celia challenging him to find evidence of God’s plan. Was this part of it? If he hadn’t left home, Mark would not have come to Easton, he would not have met Celia, and he would not be thinking about how to give her roses for Christmas. His life would have been different, all right. But better? He doubted that.

  Celia noticed the change the instant Mark entered the house. Though his gait was the same, his smile for Emma as warm as ever, his eyes were different. The anger was gone, replaced by something she could not identify. It wasn’t sorrow, but it wasn’t peace, either. Though she wished he had returned early enough that she could ask him what had happened and whether the hermit was his father, Mark had arrived at the same time as Hiram and Jacob. She would have to wait until the other men left.

  And so Celia sat at the foot of the table, watching the fried chicken disappear as the platter made its way around the table and listening to the men discuss their work. When Frank crowed that business was better than ever, Jacob cited rumors of Christmas bonuses for all the miners. Both men seemed to think Celia should be impressed. Instead, her thoughts remained centered on the man at the opposite end of the table. Mark had been unusually quiet, lost in his own thoughts.

  “What are you planning to do about Thanksgiving?” Frank directed his question to Jacob, perhaps because they were the only two talking. Even Aaron, who normally contributed a word or two, seemed more interested in eating than in conversation.

  “What do you mean?” Jacob appeared perplexed. “My boy and I are gonna do the same thing we do every year. We’re gonna attend services, then eat the best food of the year.” Turning to Aaron, he raised an eyebrow. “Right, son?”

  “Right, Pa.” Aaron made a well in the middle of his mashed potatoes and waited for his father to fill it with gravy. “Mrs. Celia’s gonna bake pound cake.”

  “I’m also taking oyster pudding,” Celia said, giving Frank a little smile. Though he’d said nothing more, she imagined he was wondering when she would serve his gift.

  His light blue eyes sparkled as he nodded. “Well, that settles it. I sure don’t want to miss either of those.” Once again, he leaned forward slightly, addressing Jacob. “What do you say we all go together?”

  That wouldn’t guarantee that Frank received a serving of oyster pudding, for it, like all the other foods that Easton’s and Cedarville’s women were bringing, would be placed on the table when the hostesses decided it was the right time. Celia had heard that arguments had broken out in previous years when the first people in line had a choice of every dish, leaving those at the end with little variety. In response, the organizers had decided that specialty foods would be added to the serving table one or two at a time.

  Jacob shrugged. “I thought that was already decided. Folks go with their families, and we’re Celia’s family.”

  Celia tried not to bristle. Though Jacob had asked her to marry him, he was not her family. Not yet; probably not ever. Before she could speak, Hiram, who had been uncharacteristically silent, perhaps because fried chicken was his favorite meal, turned toward Celia. “Was that your plan?”

  It hadn’t been. Though she had assumed that Hiram and Mark, since they boarded with her, would accompany her and Emma to the celebration, Celia hadn’t thought about Jacob and Frank joining them. Still, there was merit to the idea, for it would keep Frank from fussing, and so she nodded. The truth was, she didn’t care who shared her Thanksgiving table. What mattered was what Mark had learned today.

  Apparently mollified by Celia’s agreement, Frank and Jacob did not linger after supper, and Hiram retired to his room earlier than normal. Celia said a silent prayer of thanks as she turned toward Mark. The dishes could wait. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  He nodded and followed her into the parlor. When he settled into the chair that she had begun to think of as his own, he looked solemn. “The day didn’t turn out the way I’d expected.”

  That sounded ominous. Perhaps it was the reason Celia had found his expression inscrutable. When Mark volunteered nothing more, she asked the question that had been foremost in her mind. “Is the hermit your father?”

  Mark shook his head. “His brother. Pa was killed over ten years ago.”

  Killed, not died. Celia’s heart welled with compassion as she thought of the pain that announcement must have caused. It was sad enough, watching a loved one die from illness as her parents had. Sudden death was more difficult, for there was no opportunity for farewells. But in either case, Mark had not been there. His dream of knowing his father would never be realized. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ seems inadequate.”

  Mark’s eyes darkened until they were almost black. “I should have figured it out when I saw that the letters stopped, but it was still a shock.” He ran a hand through his hair, as if in frustration. “I’ve spent two years searching, and what do I have to show for it? The thing that drove me, the hope of getting to know my father, is gone. Now I have nothing.”

  Anger might not have returned, but Celia heard the despair in Mark’s voice and knew that was equally painful. “You do have something, Mark. You have the truth. Now you know that you don’t have to search any longer. You can plan your future.” And maybe, just maybe, that future would include Easton.

  His eyes were bleak as he looked at Celia. “For a moment when I was in the hermit’s cabin—my uncle’s cabin,” he corrected himself, “I thought you were right and that maybe something good would come out of this, but as I rode home, the truth came crashing in. It was supposed to set me free, but I don’t feel that way. I feel as if I’ve lost my father.” Mark’s laugh held no mirth. “Isn’t that crazy? I never had him, so how could I lose him? But I have. I’ve lost everything.”

  Celia understood, for that was how she had felt when Josef had died. With both of her parents gone, she had been bereft of family, sustained only by the knowledge that she was expecting Josef’s child. Though Emma had n
ot yet been born, her presence had comforted Celia, reminding her that she was not alone. Mark might not recognize it, but he wasn’t alone either.

  “You’ve lost a lot,” Celia admitted, “but you’ve also gained something. You learned that you have an uncle. You’re not alone, Mark. He’s your family.”

  The knowledge appeared to bring no comfort.

  8

  “Why don’t you and Emma come with me? I’ve got the wagon hitched.”

  Mark stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching while Celia put the final jar into the basket she’d prepared. When she had heard about his uncle, she had volunteered to send a supply of home-cooked meals the next time Mark visited. Though she had wanted to help the older man, there had been another equally important reason for her offer: she wanted Mark to spend more time with his uncle. Perhaps he would realize that he was not alone and that something good had come from his search.

  Celia frowned as she looked down. Laden with two buckets of fried chicken, a pot of green beans simmered with bacon, several loaves of bread, and an assortment of jams and pickles, the basket was almost filled. All that remained was to top it with the now-cool pound cake. The food was ready. She was not. Though she’d thought of Lionel Williams frequently in the three days since Mark had told her of his existence, not once had Celia considered delivering the food to him.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said firmly. “There’s a reason your uncle lives alone.” It was one thing for his nephew to visit, quite another to bring an unknown woman and her child with him.

  Mark crooked an eyebrow as he regarded Celia. “Maybe the reason isn’t the one you think. Maybe he’s alone because of circumstances, not choice. Until I showed up at his cabin, he had no family.”

  Something in Mark’s voice told Celia he had invited her for another reason: he was reluctant to go alone. Whatever words had been exchanged—or perhaps it was the ones that had been left unspoken—Mark was not comfortable returning to his uncle’s home. He needed her help. Celia looked around the kitchen, considering. Aaron was spending the day with Bertha; supper would not require lengthy preparation; cleaning the house could wait until tomorrow. There was no reason not to go, and judging from Mark’s expression, at least one very good reason to bundle Emma into warm clothes, grab her own coat, and climb into the wagon he’d rented from the livery.

  “All right,” she said with a smile, “but if your uncle seems uncomfortable with Emma and me there, we’ll stay in the wagon.”

  Five minutes later, Celia was settled on the plank seat next to Mark, Emma perched on her lap. For once, her daughter was content to simply sit and stare at her surroundings. It was her first excursion in a wagon, and Emma seemed fascinated by both the horse and the speed with which they were moving. She gurgled and babbled, occasionally batting her fists against her legs. As Celia watched, she discovered that when Mark tugged on the reins, Emma tried to imitate him.

  “I think Emma wants to learn to handle a horse,” Celia told him. “Look how she follows your movements.” But Emma had lost interest, and her slowly closing eyes signaled she would soon be asleep. Celia hoped a long nap would mean that her daughter would not be cranky when they arrived, for it was unlikely that Mark’s uncle had much experience with infants.

  As Emma drifted off to sleep, Celia studied her surroundings. In the twelve years that she had lived in Easton, she had never been this far out of town. The trees were thicker here, encroaching on the track they followed, leaving the ground sun-dappled. The clumps of snow that decorated the tips of the evergreen boughs left no doubt that, though the calendar might disagree, winter had come to Wyoming. Wagon wheels crunched on the snow, while the horse whinnied occasionally. They were ordinary noises, as comforting as the soft sound of her daughter’s breathing. As a mantle of peace settled over her, Celia looked at the man who sat only inches away. He was not at peace, for the angle of his jaw and the way he clutched the reins betrayed his tension.

  “You don’t want to visit him, do you?” Celia kept her voice low, not wanting to disturb Emma.

  Mark’s eyes widened. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious, but you’re right. It’s silly, but I hardly slept last night for worrying about Lionel.”

  “It’s not silly. It’s normal. Your uncle gave you some very unwelcome news. It’s only natural to be reluctant to see him.”

  Mark nodded. “I’m not sure he wants to see me again. I’m not even sure I want to see him.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Celia’s gaze was caught by a flash among the trees, a deer or perhaps an antelope seeking shelter until the intruders had passed. At another time, she would have stopped, hoping to identify the animal. Now she cared only about helping Mark. There had to be some way to comfort him.

  As the image of Easton’s church flickered into her brain, Celia nodded. That was the answer. Giving Mark a small smile, she said, “You and your uncle are connected strangers. That’s always awkward at the beginning.” When Mark raised a questioning eyebrow, she continued. “You’ve just met and you don’t know much about each other, so you’re still strangers. At the same time, you’re connected by your father, and that makes you feel as if you ought to get to know each other, even though you might not have otherwise.” Mark’s nod encouraged Celia to continue. “You’re pulled apart by the fact that you’re strangers, but at the same time, the connection is drawing you together. The tug-of-war can be uncomfortable.”

  “You’re right about that,” Mark agreed. “It is uncomfortable. But how do you know about connected strangers? I’ve never heard that term.”

  “I hadn’t either until Reverend Pearson’s sermon last month. He said all of us in the congregation were strangers at one point. What brought us together and ultimately kept us together was that we were connected by our Father. Our heavenly Father, that is.”

  Though she hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly, Mark’s shoulders began to relax. “It’s an interesting idea,” he said. And, judging from his expression, one he found more appealing than their discussion of Romans 8:28.

  “The parson’s a wise man.” Hoping she had judged Mark’s mood correctly, Celia continued. “I wish you’d come to services with Hiram and me. No matter how worried I am, I always find peace there.”

  She had been mistaken. Though Mark nodded, his shoulders stiffened again. “I’m glad for you, Celia. Truly, I am, but church isn’t for me.” The finality of his tone left no doubt that he considered the discussion at an end.

  He gestured toward the right. “See the smoke?” A plume rose above the trees. “We’re almost there.”

  Moments later the wagon entered a small clearing. Celia stared at the source of the smoke, feeling the blood drain from her face as she saw the condition of Lionel Williams’s home. “I thought you said your uncle lived in a cabin.” She turned to Mark, wondering if the dilapidated building was part of the reason for his reluctance to return. “That’s a hut.”

  “It could use a few repairs,” he said with a wry smile. “That’s why I hired the wagon. I brought my tools and some materials. I hope Lionel will accept my help. He needs it, but he’s a stubborn, independent man.”

  Just like Mark.

  With the basket of food in his hand, Mark escorted Celia and Emma toward the cabin, calling out, “Lionel. Uncle Lionel.”

  Only seconds later the door opened, and a tall, gray-haired man stepped outside. “I ain’t deaf, boy. I heard you comin’.” Though the voice was harsher than Mark’s, there was no mistaking the resemblance. Even if she hadn’t been told his identity, Celia would have known this man was related to Mark. It appeared, however, that he lacked Mark’s carpentry skills, or he would have repaired his home.

  Apparently unconcerned by his surroundings, Lionel Williams turned his attention to Celia. “Now, who’s this? You didn’t tell me you had a wife and baby.”

  Celia felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but before she could correct him, Mark laid his free hand on her shoulde
r. “This is Mrs. Anderson and her daughter, Emma. Mrs. Anderson is my landlady,” he added.

  Lionel Williams’s face softened into what might have passed for a smile. “C’mon in, Miz Anderson. It ain’t often a purty gal visits me.” He held the door open and ushered Celia inside.

  At least it was clean, Celia realized as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. That was the best she could say about Mr. Williams’s abode. The condition of the interior was even worse than the exterior had led her to expect, with shafts of light from holes in the roof giving the floor a polka-dot pattern. Though the single room was warm, the stove would require frequent feeding to combat the cold coming through the missing chinks in the log walls, and she could feel a breeze from the window. It was no wonder Mark had come prepared for repairs.

  “Have a seat.” The older man gestured toward the table and its two chairs before dragging a crate to the other side of the table. “You can sit here, boy,” he told Mark.

  Mark gave Celia a brief nod but said nothing, leaving her to provide an explanation for their visit.

  “I thought you might enjoy not having to cook for a few days, so we brought you some food.” She stressed the plural pronoun, wanting the older man to include Mark in his thanks.

  But he did not. “Thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Williams gave her a smile as he removed the basket’s lid. His smile widened as the aromas of chicken and fresh bread filled the cabin. “That smells mighty good, ma’am. Doc brings me supplies when he comes, and I’m pretty good with a rifle, so I never go hungry. Truth is, though, I get tired of my own cookin’ and my company.”

  Celia caught Mark’s eye and nodded. He had been right. His uncle was solitary by circumstance, not design. “Have you thought about moving into town?” she asked. “There are a lot of friendly people there.”

  Before Mr. Williams could reply, Emma started to fuss. Since it was her “I’m tired of being held” fussing, Celia placed her on the floor and handed her the wooden spoon that was her favorite toy this week. Once again content, Emma began to coo and gurgle, apparently holding a conversation with her spoon.