“Wake up,” she heard her husband say. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he kissed her forehead. But that was unlikely. “We’re home.”
She sat up slowly, opening her eyes. It was dark, at least eight o’clock by the looks of things. With a sigh, she asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“A few hours. But you probably needed it. Are you feeling any better?” Ida could hear the rattle of mucus in her chest and knew she couldn’t expect wellness anytime soon.
“Yes, I believe sleep was all I needed.” Asher seemed relieved, believing the lie that had come to her so easily.
“Good. You should still go to bed, though. You need to rest so you’ll keep getting better. She smiled at the concern in his voice. Maybe he cared for her like she cared for him.
Though she would have normally protested, Ida let her husband help her out of the wagon and followed him into a small house with just a single room. Asher pulled back the covers on the bed in the corner, telling her to lie down before he went outside to bring in their things.
Gratefully, she did as told, quickly slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep. She wasn’t awake to see Asher make his bed on the floor, or the way he looked at her, a small, wistful smile on his face.
Silver Bell Arizona
December 1876
Asher had to cook his own supper the next night. It tasted beastly, but that was nothing compared to watching Ida suffer. He sat at the table, eating his poorly seasoned chicken while he watched her mindlessly turn the pages of one of her dime novels.
Finally, she set it on the floor beside the bed and just sat, staring at the wall. He could hear her struggling to breathe correctly, her lungs rattling. She knocked over one of her shoes with her foot, then kicked it away a bit.
There was something so sad about a person like Ida being still, being quiet. It was like watching a bird with a broken wing, or butterfly that had just been stepped on by an uncaring stranger. After a long while of trying and failing to go about eating his supper, Asher finally went over and sat beside her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. She leaned into him.
“Why did I have to be ill?” she asked him, her voice hoarse. “I was so looking forward to being outdoors and wandering around, free as a bird.”
Asher chuckled. “Well, you can be outdoors all you want when you’re well. It won’t be long. You’ll probably be back to your usual, active self in a week.”
“Just in time for Christmas,” she whispered, her eyes closing as she grew close to sleep. “Will you have Christmas with me, Asher?”
“Let’s make a deal, shall we?” She nodded. “Get well, and I'll celebrate Christmas every day, whenever you want.”
“What about in summer, when not a soul cares?”
“I’ll care because you do.” When Ida began to nod off, he stood, helping her lie down. “Remember your end of the deal. You have to get well.”
But she was already asleep. “God,” Asher whispered the beginning of the prayer, a now unfamiliar thing. “Please, make her well. If you’re there, if you can hear me, I just want her well again. Please.”
********
Nothing changed, and Asher watched Ida struggle more and more to breathe for three days. He prayed almost constantly, though he wasn’t sure if anyone heard. But on the fourth day, he woke to find his wife missing.
She wasn’t in bed, or in the house at all for that matter. He threw off his blanket, running outside without shoes. He found her in the barn, brushing one of the horses. When she turned to look at him, her face pink from the slight chill, he sighed in relief.
“What are you doing out here? You can hardly breathe.” She shrugged, setting the brush aside.
“I woke up before the sun, and I could breathe more easily. It still rattles, but I’m not coughing up pink anymore, and pneumonia takes a while to leave one's body.” The way she spoke about it was so casual, as though she hadn’t been coughing up blood.
“Ida, you shouldn’t be well.” She shrugged, heading for the house.
“It must be a miracle, then. Someone must have been praying for me.” Asher blushed, wondering if she’d heard him.
“But you can’t recover so quickly.”
“You said I would be well within a week, by Christmas.” Asher’s mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to gather his thoughts.
“I was just saying that to make both of us feel better!” He shut the door, and when he turned around, he was surprised to find himself being hugged.
“Asher, when you’re given a miracle, you ought to say thank you, not ask why.” He sighed, wrapping his arms around her. “And I do recall someone, namely Asher Blaine, promising to celebrate Christmas if I got well.”
“I suppose a deal is a deal.” Silently, he thanked God, who, beyond even Asher’s doubts, had a hand in this.
********
“I think we should bake some cookies.” Asher raised an eyebrow and Ida rolled her eyes. It was the day after she’d first begun to feel better, and she still didn’t feel entirely well, but she could feel herself healing.
“Are cookies necessary?”
“No, but they taste good.” He laughed as she went about gathering the right ingredients. “Will you pour some flour in the bowl?”
“Alright.” Asher shook one cup of flour in.
“I think we’ll need more,” Ida advised. He dumped more flour. “Good. Now we just dump things in until it’s a dough and tastes good.”
They went on like that for ten minutes, just dumping and pouring, hoping for the best. Ida enjoyed the faces Asher made whenever she asked him to try the incomplete dough. Finally, though, they succeeded, making cinnamon cookies, the recipe for which never had and never would be written. It was just one mistake after another, leading to an end that left both parties satisfied.
“So, Christmas is a lot of food,” Asher said when, hours later, they sat at the table eating cookies and drinking hot tea.
“No, it’s not a lot of food. You make the food because food is a blessing, a lot like Christmas itself. Well, that’s what my mother and father always said.” She laughed, remembering so many lovely things. “Pa always told me that, one day, I’d have to make my own memories, without him. I would never have guessed how soon.”
“I’m sorry about the way I’ve behaved, Ida.” Asher took her hand in his, both of them still covered in flour. “I’ve been selfish and angry, and from now on, I’ll be better.”
Giving his hand a squeeze, Ida said, “I forgive you. And we can both be better. Together.”
********
When Asher woke up on Christmas morning, the first thing he noticed was a sweet, cinnamon smell. He sat up from his spot on the floor, wondering what could be the cause of it. That’s when he heard singing.
“Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.”
He stood, catching sight of Ida, standing by the cookstove. Her voice was clear, not a hint of illness in it. And for once, there was no doubt in his mind that there was a God. Asher, in that one moment, knew several things; he was blessed, he would celebrate every Christmas he had, and that he loved Ida more than he’d ever loved anyone.
********
Ida’s mouth watered as she looked at her freshly baked pie. There wasn’t anything terribly extravagant by most standards. Just the one pie and a rabbit outside, waiting to be cooked. But she couldn’t help but feel as though she had everything.
“Good morning,” she heard from behind her. She turned, still holding the pie. Asher stood beside the tangled mess of his blankets, his hair sticking up from sleeping. His face had red lines from his pillow.
“Merry Christmas,” Ida said in a sing-song voice. She set the pie on the table, then went around it, giving Asher a hug. She took a deep breath. He smelled nice, like the rain somehow. “Did you sleep well?”
“Of course.” He looked over at the pie on the table. “What are we having for breakfast?”
Ida’s face bu
rned red. She’d forgotten. “Pie?”
Chuckling, Asher took her hand. “That sound perfect.” There was a pause, and his smile fell. His face reddened. “I have to tell you something.”
Ida nodded, noting the nervous excitement in his voice. He still hadn’t let go of her hand, and she was enjoying that.
“We got off to a poor start. The two of us have argued with each other almost constantly, only stopping when one of us was severely ill.” He cleared his throat. “The two of being together has been a lot of trouble for both of us. And I want you to know, it’s been well worth it and always will be.”
Again, Ida nodded, unsure what he was trying to say. Her heart beat quickened, though, as she began to get an idea of what it might be.
“You’ve taught me a lot since we’ve been together. And I’m a better person because of you.” He sighed. “What I mean to say is . . . I, um . . .”
Grinning, Ida said, “I love you?”
“Exactly. I love you, Ida Blaine, and nothing on this Earth will ever change that.” There was a long moment of silence in which Ida found herself unable to speak. She didn’t notice the anxious look on Asher’s face until he said, “Are you going to say something?”
“I thought you knew, but if you insist on hearing it,” She paused, kissing him, the first kiss she’d ever had. “I love you too.”
“You have no idea how good it is to hear that.” Ida shrugged, smiling up at her husband, her favorite Christmas miracle.
“I think I can imagine.”
It wasn’t a perfect Christmas that the young couple shared. There wasn’t a grand feast or any gift beyond that of having someone to be with. There wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground, and the fire in the woodstove made the house too hot.
But it can be promised that, in all of the years Ida and Asher Blaine would live, that Christmas wouldn’t be forgotten. It didn’t look perfect, but it felt just as it should, as though all was right. As though it were, well, Christmas.
And, after all, what really makes it Christmas?
*****
THE END.
Western Love
Mail Order Bride
CHRISTIAN MICHAEL
Chapter One: Run-ins
California, 1885
Constance Lowell allowed her father to help her from the carriage, lifting her skirts to keep them from the mud that lay along the roadways.
“Be careful pumpkin,” Mr. Robert Lowell said as he held his daughter’s arm to save her from slipping. “If you ruin that dress your mother will have my hide for certain.”
“I’ll be careful, papa.”
“Good,” he smiled. “So Rupert, tell us more about this clothing company.”
“Yes, sir,” Rupert Merchant said with a solemn nod of his head. “The Bethel Clothing Company was founded on a street corner during the Great California Gold Rush. With no more to work with than rags, the owner’s wife would sew them into worthwhile breeches for men to purchase at half the cost of buy them brand new. As time went on, she garnered enough sales to purchase new material. Still, she kept her prices low and business poured in. By the time the gold rush lost interest, Mr. and Mrs. Smitz had built up enough revenue to purchase this here building and the acreage that surrounds it. It’s in the process of being passed down to their son Jameson, but as he’s away in college, there’s no telling when the transition will actually happen.”
“Can we take a more detailed tour of the facility?” Constance asked, her green eyes clearly interested in how a clothing company ran from the inside.
“Absolutely, Miss Lowell.”
She followed her father inside and gasped at the intense heat inside the building. Almost immediately it became harder to breathe and she started to sweat. She brought out her fan and began fanning herself as she scanned the workers. For the most part they looked worn thin, their bodies adapted to the life of hard labor. But when her eyes fell on a child who couldn’t have been more than seven, pushing around a car to collect garments in, Constance felt an unspeakable rage rush through her. She marched up to the foreman, taking leave of her father and demanded. “Does Mr. Smitz condone letting children labor in a sweat shop like this?”
“Excuse me, Miss?”
“I asked if Mr. Smitz supports the idea of letting children work in a sweat shop, doing no doubt, work meant for an adult?”
“Mr. Smitz wants efficiency and there’s no better way to get it, than the way I’m doing it.”
“I demand to speak with him.”
“Constance,” Robert Lowell said, a grin on his face. “Leave the man alone. He’s got a business to run.”
“Absolutely not, father. I beg your pardon, but I cannot stand by and watch a child suffer under the constraints that are barely tolerated by full grown men and women. He’s seven, maybe. How is it fair to ask that of him?”
Constance knew she was making a scene, but rarely did she care about such things. Stopping the boy with a gentle hand on his shoulder, she kneeled down in front of him, smudging her new dress with dirt. “What’s your name?”
“Billy, ma’am,” the little boy said. His frail body made tears swell in Constance’s eyes and she worked hard to swallow them back.
“Won’t you come with me now, Billy?”
“But I have to work, ma’am. If I don’t work, Mr. Strickland won’t pay me and that’s all the money my mama has.” The boy’s plight nearly broken Constance in two as she took the boy’s hand.
“Mr. Strickland, from here on out Billy will go to school and will never set foot in this factory again.”
“Whatever lady,” The foreman replied. “Just so you know, though, when his mother is better she’ll be out of a job.”
“Constance Marie,” Robert said, catching up to his headstrong daughter. “You can’t just yank a boy out of his job. What does he do tomorrow when his mother has no money because you took his job away?”
“He’s going to school just as I said father.”
“And how will his mother survive, let alone provide for him?”
“I’m going to hire her while we’re here. Then, I’m going to talk to Mr. Smitz about the operation he’s running here and the deplorable conditions of his workers, let alone the atrocity I witnessed today.”
“Oh, I blame your mother for you streak of stubbornness. And thank you very much by the way, she’ll tear me a new hide for the stain on your new dress.”
“It couldn’t be avoided and I’ll pay to have it professionally laundered out of my allowance.”
“What are you going to hire Billy’s mother to do exactly?”
“She’s going to be my assistant as I’m going to make sure that the Bethel Clothing Company is strongly reprimanded for hiring children and working them to the bone as if they were full grown adults. Despicable practice,” she huffed, taking her seat when her father handed her up in the carriage.
***
Jameson Smitz sat in his office trying to finish the inventory he’d need to send in today if he wanted to continue to supply clothes for is branding line without interruption. Frustration kept the numbers from tallying and every time Jameson tried to make them, he just succeeded in making himself madder. Tossing his pencil on his desk, He stood up and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air.
“Thank you, Lord,” Jameson said, planting a smile on his face.
“It seems odd to see a man thank God when he can’t even abide by decent labor practices,” came a soft, feminine voice from behind him.
“Excuse me?” Jameson said, turning to see a beautiful, if young, woman standing with her hands on her hips.
“I said, you shouldn’t be thanking God when you can’t keep children from working themselves to the bone in your sweat shop.”
“And you are?” Jameson said, feeling a headache develop behind his eyes. Her blonde hair was done up in a way that drew his gaze to her angry face, and the fire that seemed to spit from her pretty green eyes. Jameson had the urge to g
rin at her, but given her current stance, he figured it’d probably get him a kick in the teeth rather than a polite smile in return.
“My name is Constance Lowell. My father Robert is here attending an advisory meeting at Stanford University and I’m visiting with him. We took a tour of your factory yesterday and I was beyond appalled by the presence of a seven years old boy name, Billy, who was pushing a garment cart around. His face was darkened by dirt and he looked slim enough to fit in the leg of one of the pairs of britches your factory makes. Are you so hard up for workers that you’d take on a boy who should be in school learning?”
“You’re saying that there was a little boy working in my factory yesterday?”
“Yes,” she huffed, making Jameson grin after all. She had some attitude going on that was for sure.
“It isn’t a common practice for Bethel Clothing Company to hire anyone under sixteen, ma’am,” Jameson said, his own eyes hard, focused, and serious. In fact, it is strictly against our hiring policy and I guarantee you that I will deal directly with the person who’s in charge of hiring for that particular job.”
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