A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  What looked like relief crossed Afton’s face. “Pray for Papa.”

  Lorna blinked and shifted her weight, the bed creaking beneath her. Harry pattered into the room, climbed onto the foot of Afton’s bed, and laid down.

  “Pray for Papa?”

  Afton nodded. “Ask God to send him home for Christmas.”

  Lorna could not find her voice. The candle grew heavy in her hand. Careful not to spill wax, she set the candle on the small table by her bed.

  “We talked about this, kitten, remember?” She brushed a tear from her lashes.

  Again Afton nodded. “You said Papa died.” The words fell easily, simply, from Afton’s lips into the space between them. Hearing them, helpless to make them not true, Lorna wanted to weep. She stroked Afton’s hand. “But Sissy told me,” Afton continued, “God can do miracles. ’Specially at Christmas. Couldn’t God bring Papa back? That’d be a miracle.”

  Another tear trickled alongside Lorna’s nose. On the table, the flame of the candle flickered, startled by a draft of air. Harry’s tail began to thump against the bed. Lorna had neither the breath nor the will to destroy the hope living on Afton’s face. Suddenly, violently, Lorna yearned to protect—to preserve—that hope. She raised Afton’s hand to her lips.

  “Of course we can pray, love.”

  Chapter 5

  December 8, 1830

  Lorna’s back ached from the jolts of the buckboard. Afton, wedged between Lorna and Sissy, didn’t seem to mind the incessant jouncing. Spring Wells offered only basic necessities—musket powder, flour, whiskey, tobacco, sugar. Lumber could only be found in Detroit, a city that seemed far away this morning as Lorna and Afton rose before the sun. Now the city surrounded them like a clapboard forest, but without birdsong. Lorna shifted, careful not to kick Iain’s musket on the floor, proud she had not forgotten to bring it. The noise of the city jarred her—clangor created by civilization. Strange, thin rivers, their water an oily gray, ran through the rutted street. Faces that turned toward her carried a wan, weathered look.

  At the mill, Sissy told Lorna and Afton, “Stay put,” though Lorna stood in the buckboard and stretched. An itch of guilt troubled Lorna as she watched Sissy haggle with the mill hand over the lumber. Lorna felt useless. Once they reached the mercantile, Afton’s hand gripped in hers, Lorna marched to the counter and informed a small, bespectacled man reading the Gazette Française that she needed nails. Slowly he laid down his newspaper and tilted his head. Sissy appeared beside Lorna and plunked a cut nail onto the countertop.

  “Nous avons besoin de plus des clous.”

  Lorna stared at Sissy and felt her jaw go slack. The man nodded, stood from his stool, and walked through a door to what Lorna assumed was a storeroom.

  “Wh–what did you say?”

  Sissy shrugged while pointing to the Gazette Française. “He speaks French.” She lifted the nail. “I said we need more nails.” Lorna looked at the nail, her laugh incredulous.

  “Why don’t you go where they speak English?”

  “Jacques is honest,” Sissy said.

  “And you speak French?”

  Sissy set the nail back down. “M’late husband was French Canadian.”

  Lorna, again, could only laugh. Any guilt she had felt at Sissy taking charge evaporated.

  “Can you teach me to say French?” Afton asked Sissy.

  “Speak French,” Lorna corrected.

  “Oui. Un jour,” Sissy nodded.

  The next morning, when the sky was pinked in expectation of the sun’s arrival but before the sun sent its first rays through the trees, Lorna gently woke Afton. Today they would finish the roof. The planks were stacked knee high against the side of the cabin. Lorna ran her hands across their length, feeling the prick of the splintery surface. She had seen Iain touch his hands to wood in much the same way. He always said, “Every piece of wood has potential for something.” Lorna pulled her coat tighter, pushing back the wind that fingered through her collar and scratched at her throat. She pulled Iain’s thick work gloves from her pocket and slid her hands into them, her fingers too small to fill the space where Iain’s hands had stretched the leather. She had found these in Goldie’s saddlebag. Afton, her red coat open and flapping like a cardinal taking flight, ran from the barn.

  “I need your help,” Lorna said. She reached down and buttoned Afton’s coat. “Can you hold the ladder steady?”

  Afton ran to the ladder propped against the cornice of the roof and clutched the sides in her small, eager hands. Lorna climbed onto the first rung, then the second and third. She paused as the ladder shuddered. Once Lorna’s head was above the roof, she peered back down at Afton, at the hard packed earth and the pile of lumber beneath her, the chopping block and ax several paces back. Hoisting the boards will be difficult, Lorna thought, feeling on her cheeks the first warm rays of morning sun. Above the roof ’s edge, first her head, then her shoulders rose.

  Before her the boughs that enclosed the roof were cluttered with leaves, wispy feathers, and abandoned bird nests. Lorna swung her leg over the ladder’s top rung and set her foot squarely on the roof. Hands on her hips, her toes pushing up into the tops of her shoes, she stood, a momentary conqueror. Afton, standing on the bottom rung of the ladder, stared up from below. Lorna knelt, steadied herself, and gripped the end of a pine branch. The knots of the wood jabbed her palm through the gloves. Hand over hand, she pulled the branch toward her. The branch resisted, its splayed fingers intertwined and held by other branches. A small portholelike opening appeared as Lorna wrenched the bough free. She dropped the branch to the ground, where it landed in a whorl of dry, spinning needles.

  Lorna looked at Afton. “I’m going to keep throwing down branches. I need you to drag them back beside the barn. Make a pile.”

  Afton grinned. “Come on, Harry!”

  For only a second, Lorna watched Afton wrestle with the branch then she gripped the next. The hole widened, more of their home laid bare. But the wound must be opened to be properly mended.

  After an hour, Lorna had cleared away all the branches. A pile had amassed on the ground as Lorna’s productivity outpaced Afton’s. Lorna pitched the last branch over the roof ’s edge. Afton, with Harry at her heels, came sauntering back from the barn. She grabbed ahold of another branch then yelped in pain. Lorna carefully climbed down and went to her daughter. Afton held up her hand for her mother’s inspection. A small spot of blood appeared in the center of her dirt-flecked palm where a branch had pierced the skin. With the hem of her skirt Lorna wiped the blood away and kissed the scratch.

  “Must be careful,” Lorna said, knowing her words were too late. Afton tearfully nodded. Lorna took off one of her gloves and handed it to her daughter. A one-dimpled smile appeared on Afton’s face.

  “This is Papa’s glove.”

  Lorna drew in a breath, held it, then released it. “It’ll keep your hand a wee bit safer.” She slid the glove over Afton’s hand, her child-sized fingers lost in the man-sized glove. Again Afton grasped the end of the pine bough and pulled it from the pile, then dragged it behind her as she plodded toward the barn. Lorna went in search of rope. The grass, thick with frost, crunched beneath her feet.

  The chimney was her ally. Lorna had backed Goldie around so that the horse faced away from the cabin. She tied the end of a length of rope to the saddle horn, slung the rope around the chimney, and attached the other end to a plank. She called to Afton, who stood atop the chopping block watching. Afton hopped to Lorna, who had ahold of Goldie’s bridle. The two of them led Goldie toward the barn, away from the cabin. The rope tensed. The leather of the saddle creaked. The whish of the rope against the stone of the chimney budded new hope in Lorna. Goldie pressed forward. The board lifted, wobbled, tilted, and began to stagger in the air.

  “Whoa!” Lorna said. Goldie halted, and Lorna handed the reins to Afton. “Keep her still.” Then she ran to the board and steadied it against the ladder. She nodded at Afton, who gave Goldie’s
reins a tug. Lorna watched the plank lift higher and higher; with each step of the mare, the roots of Lorna’s budding hope burrowed deeper, grew stronger.

  “That’ll do!” she called to Afton.

  “Whoa, Goldie!” Afton said, her voice singsongy. She turned to see the plank’s progress. “We did it!”

  Lorna raised her hands in the air, a celebration of this small victory.

  “Keep her still,” she reminded, pointing at Goldie. Then she climbed toward the piece of lumber hanging above her. Spreading her feet as wide as she could on the rung, Lorna lifted the board up over the uprights of the ladder. It clattered onto the rooftop.

  “Forward one more step!” She called down. Goldie moved. The board shifted higher on the roof. The roof felt steeper than when Lorna had torn away the thatching. She knelt and slid the board over the freshly opened hole. Untying the end of the rope, she threw it off the roof to be secured onto the next board and reached into her pocket for a nail. From her other pocket she retrieved the hammer, its handle protruding like a ladle in a pot. Then she began to pound. One nail. Then another. She struck her fingers several times and bent two nails, but still she hammered on. Occasionally Lorna glanced at Afton, who never moved. Goldie, next to her, flicked her tail. But Afton’s gaze was fixed to her mother. Lorna felt a surprising flourish of pride.

  Despite the cold, sweat beaded on Lorna’s forehead and dampened the back of her neck. She and Afton stopped only a short time for lunch then resumed their work. On her knees, Lorna pounded a final nail into the board. The breach in the roof was half covered, the lumber half consumed, the sun past its zenith. She stood, arched her back, and looked down. The pile of branches that Afton hadn’t hauled yet to the barn was spread below like the green ticking of a mattress. They should be moved once the roof was finished, hopefully by nightfall, Lorna thought. She exhaled in relief.

  “Back Goldie up!”

  She could hear Afton speaking to the mare. Keeping hold of the rope, Lorna climbed down the ladder. She knotted the rope around another plank. “Okay!” she called over her shoulder. Afton, with a funny clack of her tongue, led Goldie forward. The plank began its ascent. Once the plank lurched over the top of the ladder, Lorna stepped onto the roof and released the rope.

  “How does the inside of our cabin look from up there?” Afton called.

  Lorna again looked down through the chasm that was only about the span of her arms outspread. As she leaned forward, Lorna thought of what to say, how to describe what she saw as she looked through this peephole into a room so familiar yet unfamiliar from this vantage. A strong arm of wind swung from the hill. Lorna widened her stance to brace against its push. Her foot landed atop the head of the hammer. The hammer shifted. Her foot rolled, slid. Balance lost, Lorna flailed her arms but met only air. She stumbled against the top of the ladder, which, like a felled tree, tipped and calmly fell away from the roof. Just as Lorna, with a cry, fell back into the emptiness where the roof ended and the sky began.

  Lorna could hear Afton crying but could not find her through the darkness. Were her eyes open? Lorna couldn’t tell. Each breath brought a choking pain through her chest. Something warm touched her cheek, huffed air into her ear. Harry. No sooner did the thought appear than it vanished in the pain of her next breath. Afton’s cries were so close and sounded so desperate.

  Lorna found a shred of daylight, followed it, and pushed open heavy eyes. She tried to turn her head and couldn’t. The overwhelming urge to vomit held her still. She moved only her eyes toward the cries. Afton knelt, lifting Lorna’s hand, kissing it, shaking it. Tears streaked Afton’s face, dripped from her chin, and left damp dark patches on her red coat. Lorna breathed in to speak and moaned in agony. Afton’s face—nose running, cheeks wet and chapped—came so close Lorna felt her daughter’s breath on her face. Blinking, Lorna tried to clear her vision. She moved her head slightly, squinted. Her head throbbed. The earth rustled and crunched beneath her like brittle, autumn leaves. The branches, Lorna realized. She lay on the branches discarded from the roof. The sun was still in the sky but lower now. She had not been unconscious long. She heard Goldie whinny nearby.

  “The stick, Mama,” Afton whimpered.

  Lorna grimaced and tried to follow Afton’s gaze. The front of Lorna’s coat was thrown open. A sturdy branch, about the thickness of her thumb, pointed stiffly, defiantly at the sky, its tip red the color of Afton’s coat. Lorna’s hand trembled as she reached down and touched her side just below her ribs. The flesh puckered open through the torn fabric of her dress. A spreading stain of scarlet seeped through the faded green of her dress. Her pulse hammered in her ears. The world began to tilt as Lorna laid her head back down.

  “I’m going to get Mr. Edgar,” Afton said.

  Lorna raised her hand. “No,” she rasped. Afton grasped her hand.

  “Or Sissy?”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “Mama, we need help!” Afton’s grip on Lorna’s hand tightened. Lorna’s eyes closed, and she wasn’t sure she could open them again. She squeezed Afton’s hand.

  “No,” Lorna repeated. She swallowed. “Stay—with me.”

  She could hear Afton whispering, “Help, get help.” Was she praying? Or sending Harry on a mission that would end in chasing squirrels? Again Lorna pushed open her eyes to ward off the deep dark that lured her. The sky carried the amber of late afternoon. The cold, already biting, would come ravaging once the sun disappeared. Time was slipping.

  “My apron,” Lorna whispered. Afton disappeared, the sound of her running feet faded then returned.

  “Your apron,” Afton said, her breathing heavy.

  Lorna swallowed. “Put it on the—the—blood.”

  Afton wadded the apron, pressed it against Lorna’s side. Lorna drew in a shallow breath, her head screaming in pain and fear. God, what do I do?

  Keep hold a’ hope, Lorna heard Sissy say.

  “What next, Mama?” Dirty and tear-streaked, Afton’s face was stern, focused on her work. She stared hard at her own little hands. Blood stained her fingers. The composure of her daughter shocked Lorna—her child no longer a child. Lorna’s eyes burned.

  “We must—get inside.” Lorna’s hands shook at the thought of trying to move. She panted with the effort of speaking. “Can you help…me to stand?” Afton released the pressure from Lorna’s wound, which brought a ripping pain. Bile rose into Lorna’s throat. She swallowed it down. “Lift my—shoulders. Just a little.”

  Small hands slid beneath Lorna’s shoulder and arm. “Stop!” Lorna screamed in pain. Afton froze. The fragile sound of a stifled sob sounded near Lorna’s ear. Wheezing, Lorna pulled in as much breath as she could manage and braced herself. “Again,” she commanded. Afton pressed up against Lorna’s shoulder then against her back, lifting her. After what seemed an eternity of fractional movement and screams of pain, Lorna was halfway sitting. The sun was halfway hidden behind the hill. Keep breathing, Lorna told herself. Don’t let darkness take hold. Not yet.

  Goldie, still by the chopping block, stamped her hooves. Afton froze. Lorna held her breath. “Harry’s back.” Afton’s voice was near Lorna’s ear. Lorna heard both hope and alarm in her daughter’s voice. Weary, the darkness too unwavering, Lorna closed her eyes.

  “Someone’s coming,” Afton said. Lorna, through heavy fog, tried to listen. The world sounded submerged in water. Or maybe it was Lorna submerged.

  “Sissy?” Lorna’s head drooped against Afton’s shoulder.

  “No.” Afton brought her mouth next to Lorna’s ear. “The trapper.”

  Footsteps crunched over brittle grasses. Lorna felt the man’s presence. He said nothing—nothing she could hear—but she felt Afton move away as though following unspoken instructions. Lorna slumped against the branches. Pain, like rivulets of heat waves, volleyed through her, even into her fingertips. Her heart raced, pulsed behind her eyes. Then she felt a hand—no, an arm—around her shoulder. Another beneath her thighs. More bile burning t
he back of her throat as she was lifted, freed from the branches.

  “Be still,” came a voice above her. Her breath came in gasps. Noises echoed, hollow and far off. Heavy boots treading on the wooden floor rumbled, distant thunder in Lorna’s head. They were inside the cabin. The image of Afton’s bloodied hands and her whispered words, “We need help,” brought a weak sob from Lorna. Then a feeling of falling, sinking into the earth slowed her heart. Her throbbing head cradled in softness. The familiar scent of her pillow. The trapper pulled her arm free of her coat sleeve. Then he rolled Lorna onto her side, leaving her other, wounded side exposed. Lorna heard Afton’s scuffling steps draw near the bed.

  “I’ll need a needle. Some thread,” the trapper said. Lorna ignored the words. The cabin, Afton’s cries, the crackle of distant fire ebbed away. Her hand reached across, rested on the empty pillow beside her. The pain of her side—the ache in her heart—dissolved to nothing. The dark no longer fearsome.

  Chapter 6

  December 11, 1830

  Daylight blazed, even behind closed eyelids. Lorna resisted waking until her eyes, working without consent, lifted. White light blinded her then receded.

  “Wondered if you’d join us.” The voice sounded distant, muddled. Lorna worked to place it. The musk of tobacco hung in the air. The room eased into focus. She was in her bed. Sissy sat nearby, a cob pipe in her mouth.

  “Mama?” Afton stood at the foot of the bed, watching with worried brown eyes.

  “Afton,” Lorna whispered. She tried to smile, but her lips and tongue were thick and clumsy. She extended her hand, and Afton—quivering like an excited pup—crawled onto the bed next to her. Lorna shifted and sucked in her breath at the pain beneath her ribs. She fingered the place where, last she remembered, had been seeping blood.

  “When—did you come?” Lorna whispered.

  “Grayson fetched me. Said you’d been hurt,” Sissy said. “Didn’t know how bad till I arrived. You’ve been out two days.”