A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Lorna shoved her hands into her pockets. She walked to the front of the cabin, the threshold disintegrating underfoot. A tingling warmth emanated from the smoldering ruins. A few stones of the fireplace had broken free, but it appeared mostly intact. Lorna kicked some rubble aside and stooped to pull the iron cooking pot from the ash. It was empty. The remains of their dinner burnt to nothing. With scrubbing, the pot could still be used. Lorna shook her head to clear it. The eddying smoke brought a strange dizziness, a surreal headiness.

  Pot in hand, she walked from the cabin toward the stream, dragging her feet through the snow as she went. Movement was labored, but she needed a path. Her return would be easier for it. At the stream she pounded at the thin, newly formed layer of ice with the pot, smashing a hole to reach the water that rushed—as it always did—beneath the surface. Lorna filled the bottom of the pot, swished the water around, then dumped it. Rivulets spread and quickly froze, black flecks of charred debris marring the opaque ice. Even with Iain’s gloves, Lorna’s hands ached from cold. Her shoulders shook. The tears were upon her cheeks before she realize she shook from her cries.

  A stifling weight fell on Lorna. A weight she was helpless to throw off. Her eyes lifted to the hill, the same hill Harry would loll about on, where the tips of giant firs seemed to reach into the clouds. The hill where an empty grave sat and a placard memorialized the man she loved. The rising sun climbed behind her, the snow of the hill reflecting it with such intensity Lorna was forced to look away. Trust in the Lord, my sweet, Iain had said. She had trusted, but heartbreak had come. Three babies dead. Iain disappeared. Their home destroyed. Now Afton… Keep hold a hope, said Sissy. Lorna dropped the pot into the snow. She knelt, rocking back and forth, her tears unattended, unnoticed. He sees the sparrow. Lorna squinted at the sky. The unfettered sun shone on everything alike. She closed her eyes and understood her fear. Fear of finding that, in the end, God was not good. Was indifferent to her pain. Did not see the sparrow. Her fear suffocated more than the smoke that had choked her. Fear, a boulder, compressed her chest, her hope.

  The warble of birdsong trilled from the trees. Lorna stopped rocking. She opened her eyes, lifted her chin. Keep hold of hope.

  “I trust You.”

  The prickling wind and the burbling water beneath the ice smothered her words. She said it again, this time louder. Her chin rose higher. Breath came—in and out, in and out—more easily. And she understood for the first time freedom. The freedom born in trust. She grasped the handle of the pot, leaned forward, and again filled it. Two cardinals flapped from a nearby spruce and chased each other over the water, their crimson feathers creating red ribbons across the ice. Lorna paused to watch.

  A shadow passed across the sun. Then the sun burst free, seeming to shine all the brighter. Lorna stood. Two figures appeared on the hilltop. The beat of her heart quickened. Had Grayson found Afton? No, it was two men. She studied them as they began to descend the hill. They wore tanned buckskin, furs.

  Indians.

  They were halfway down the hill. Lorna’s hand tightened around the handle of the pot. She had no weapon—Iain’s musket lost to the fire. The snow made movement difficult, running impossible. One Indian with long black hair—she could see him now—lifted an arm. She knew she was spotted. Her stomach churned, heart hammered. She began to backtrack along the path she had plowed, back toward the table. Wincing, she tipped the table back on its side, leaned her weight on the black, grizzled leg until, with a crunching sound, it broke off into the snow. She could still fight.

  They would be here soon. The wind had died. The birds in the trees were silent. All Lorna could hear was the racketing of her own heart. Her side throbbed. Then she heard the shwa, shwa of footsteps through snow. The two Indians appeared round the woodpile between the house and barn. Lorna lifted her weapon—the table leg—above her head. Her eyes wide, focused.

  “Lorna?”

  Her heart pounded up near her throat. The second Indian with a thick black beard and fur cap raised a white hand. She blinked, lifted the table leg higher.

  “Lorna.”

  She shook her head, could feel her breath come in quick gasps. The man removed his hat, his dark hair thick and curling. He stepped toward her, and she instinctively pointed the leg of wood directly at him as if a loaded musket. He stopped. His brown eyes moist, watching her.

  “It cannot be,” she whispered through an erupting sob. “Iain?”

  Her legs refused to support her. She dropped to her knees, her weapon falling useless into the snow. Iain ran toward her, the snow parting like the waters of the Jordan. She felt his arms surround her. His breath in her hair. She pressed her face to his neck and breathed the scent of him. Lorna lifted her head. Her hands gripped the front of his coat in refusal to let go.

  “You’re alive.”

  “Ay,” Iain smiled. “Barely, but alive.”

  Lorna shook her head. “I saw the blood. So much”—her voice caught—“so much blood.”

  Again Iain nodded. “I felled the tree and did nae move away fast enough,” he said, pointing to the side of his head. The red line of a freshly healing wound ran from his forehead, along his temple, and down behind his ear. “I would have died, surely, but Lalawethika here”—he nodded at the Indian behind him—“found me. Carried me to his Shawnee village, tended to me. When it was time for them to move on, move south, they took me along. I wasn’t conscious of time or place for weeks.” Iain leaned forward, brushed his lips against Lorna’s. Lorna traced her fingers over her husband’s familiar face. Along his woolly jaw. His dimple hidden in the underbrush of beard. “When finally I woke, I tried to send word, but there was only wilderness. No settlements, trading posts. The only word I could send was to bring myself home.”

  Lorna’s hands, nose, and ears were numb. Her knees soaked through. But she could not bring herself to move for fear of Iain disappearing.

  “How far have you traveled?” she finally asked.

  “Eight days,” Iain replied. “We would have arrived sooner, but we lost our way in the storm.”

  Lorna turned toward the blackened skeleton of their home. “And now there is no home left.” She sniffed, wiped a sleeve beneath her nose. “The fire. It took it all. And now Afton—”

  Iain’s laugh startled her. “The fire saved us!” Iain’s smile was as bright as sun on snow. “Had we not seen the blaze, we would have frozen to death wandering in the forest. That fire led us through the storm.” Iain leaned forward, slowly, as though afraid Lorna might dissolve, and kissed her.

  “Papa!”

  Lorna leaped to her feet, wincing, pressing a hand to her side. Afton, holding tight to Grayson on the back of Goldie, wriggled and waved wildly. Harry, alongside, pounced through the snow. Iain and Lorna both pushed past the blackened table toward Afton. As Iain reached Goldie, Afton flung herself into his upheld arms.

  “That’s my wee lass!” he said, his voice muffled in Afton’s hair. Lorna wrapped her arms around the pair, emotion stealing her voice. Goldie shifted her weight, and Lorna looked up at Grayson. His eyes were closed, his face lifted to the sun.

  “Where have you been, my girl?” Iain asked.

  “Looking for Harry,” Afton replied as though it were nothing of consequence. “I found him. Then Mr. Grayson found me.”

  Iain, as though for the first time, noticed the man astride his own horse and extended his hand. “I thank you, sir.”

  “We have much to thank Mr. Grayson for,” Lorna said.

  A brusque “Halloo!” brought everyone looking down the lane as Sissy, astride one horse and leading another, rode into the clearing.

  “Sissy!” Afton squealed. “God brought Papa home! A Christmas miracle!”

  “Suppose it’s to my house for tea then,” Sissy called back.

  The journey to Sissy’s was slow. Iain had asked Lalawethika, whom Iain called simply Thika, to come with them, share a meal before his journey home. Thika shook his head. Iain said Lalawethik
a in Shawnee meant “he makes noise.” He seemed to understand what Iain was saying, but Thika never uttered a word. He must make noise elsewhere, Lorna thought. Thika shifted his shoulders, signaled with his head toward the hill. Iain extended his hand, and the Indian grasped it.

  “Thank you,” Iain said. With bobbing head, Thika turned and treaded back the way he came till he disappeared behind the hemlock on the hill where rested the memorial for Iain—now buried beneath the snow.

  Once the barn was battened tight, they rode—Lorna with Iain, Afton with Sissy. Grayson tied Nanny and his own donkey to his saddle horn, neither beast cooperative. They stopped once because Nanny had eaten through her rope, but the snow was too deep for her to run off. Harry waggled and bounded through the snow to keep up. Sissy’s cabin came in sight. The sun had lasted long enough for their arrival. Then it stowed its rays and slipped away to the sound of Iain and Afton singing Christmas carols. Grayson, Iain—and Afton, too, who wouldn’t leave her Papa’s side—walked to the barn to put up all the animals, while Sissy and Lorna tromped in to make an impromptu Christmas meal. Sissy hunkered in front of the fireplace, stoking the dormant coals. The fire leaped to life.

  “We’ve work to do,” Sissy said, dusting off her hands. They walked to where several jars of preserves sat on the table alongside a portion of smoked ham and a globe of dough for biscuits. Lorna attacked the dough while Sissy cut the ham into thick slices.

  “You’ll be needin’ a place to roost till spring,” Sissy said. She didn’t look up or stop the movement of her knife through the meat.

  Lorna paused, her fingers pressing holes—like rabbit burrows—into the dough.

  “I suppose we will,” she said.

  “If that husband of yours don’t mind bunkin’ with Grayson,” Sissy nodded, still studying the ham, “you’s are welcome here.”

  “Are you sure, Sissy?” Lorna knew they could find a room in Spring Wells—or even Detroit—if needed. She would feel like an imposition if they stayed here.

  Sissy snorted. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” She raised her eyes. “Be nice to have the rafters full again. Grayson said he might try his hand at farming, and my fields have been fallow long ’nough. Seems we’re all tired of lonely.”

  Lorna reached across the table and squeezed Sissy’s hand. “Sissy, I don’t recall ever hearing you talk this way. I do believe you’re fond of us.” Sissy snorted again and stabbed her knife into the ham.

  Soon they all sat round the table, fed and thankful. Lorna reached over to Iain sitting next to her and claimed his hand. He gave her a wink. Sissy retrieved her Bible from the mantel and handed it to Grayson, instructing him to read from the second chapter of the book of Luke, the story of the first Christmas. Grayson’s voice was quiet and expressive as he read of the journey of Joseph and Mary. Afton, next to Iain, squirmed in her seat. Iain lifted her from her chair and set her on his lap. Her head against Iain’s shoulder, Afton fingered the pearly buttons on her blue Christmas dress—now the only dress she possessed. Grayson read of the angels and the shepherds. The candles on the table flickered as though excited by the appearance of heavenly hosts.

  “ ‘And the shepherds returned,’ ” Grayson read, “ ‘glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.’ ” He closed the Bible, placed it on the table. No one spoke. Softly Iain started to sing a song from the Scottish psalter, an old song Lorna remembered singing while standing amid the pews of the stone parish church of her childhood:

  “Praise ye the Lord for it is good,

  Praise to our God to sing,

  For it is pleasant and to praise,

  It is a comely thing.”

  Iain’s sonorous tenor expanded, filling the room. He gave Lorna’s hand a squeeze. Lorna, warmth spreading through her, began to hum:

  “Those that are broken in their heart

  and grieved in their minds

  He healeth, and their painful wounds

  He tenderly up-binds.

  He counts the number of the stars;

  He names them every one.

  Great is our Lord, and of great pow’r;

  His wisdom search can none.”

  Sissy began to serve the tea. Lorna sipped from her rosebud teacup that Afton had carried through the snow to Sissy’s. Iain shifted Afton on his lap and spooned into his cup two lumps of sugar. Such extravagance, Lorna thought and smiled. She turned to the window—to the clear night, silent and spread with stars. The snow returned the starlight and set the world aglow.

  A Pony Express Christmas

  Margaret Brownley

  Dedication

  This story was written in memory of the brave young horsemen who risked life and limb to deliver the mail for the Pony Express.

  The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer;

  my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.

  Psalm 18:2

  Pony Express Rider Oath

  I,______, do hereby swear, before the Great and Living God, that during my engagement, and while I am an employee of Russell, Majors, and Waddell, I will, under no circumstances, use profane language, that I will drink no intoxicating liquors, that I will not quarrel or fight with any other employee of the firm, and that in every respect I will conduct myself honestly, be faithful to my duties, and so direct all my acts as to win the confidence of my employers, so help me God.

  WANTED

  Young, skinny, wiry fellows. Not over 18. Must be expert riders. Willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred.

  —California newspaper, 1860

  Chapter 1

  Nebraska Territory, 1862

  Are we there, yet?

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by Jimmy Watts, age eight

  Oh no you don’t!” Hands at her waist, Ellie-May Newman glared at the back of her fast-retreating trail guide. She’d paid the man good money to take her to Chimney Rock, but at the least sign of trouble, he’d taken off like a horse with his tail afire.

  Chasing after him, she stumbled over a rock. “Come back, you hear? Come back or I’ll—”

  By the time she scrambled to her feet, it was too late to follow through with her threats. Already the scrawny lad had leaped into his saddle and raced away.

  Sputtering, she marched back to her covered wagon and gave the broken wheel a good kick. It did nothing for the wagon and didn’t do much for her foot either, except make her want to scream.

  A fine pickle! Now she was stranded in the wilds of Nebraska Territory with two stubborn mules, a disabled wagon, and 190 miles still to go. All because her guide thought he saw a couple of…

  Indians!

  With a quick glance around, she choked back a cry and rushed to the wagon for her double-barrel shotgun. Weapon in hand, she turned slowly and scanned the nearby woods. A slight breeze rustled the trees and tugged at the hem of her knee-high skirt and bloomers.

  Betsy the mule perked her ears forward—not a good sign. Next to her, Josie flipped her skinny tail and turned her short thick head toward the thick growth of trees at the side of the rutted trail.

  Ellie-May followed the mule’s gaze, and her nerves tensed. After seeing nothing for days but brown prairie grass and prickly pear cactus, the tall cedars had been a welcome sight. But since her guide ran out of those very same woods looking like he’d seen a ghost, danger now seemed to lurk behind every moving shadow.

  Holding her shotgun as steady as trembling hands allowed, Ellie-May ducked under a low piney branch. Ever so softly, she stepped over a fallen tree trunk and crossed a dry gully. A twig snapped beneath her foot, and she jumped. She stopped and listened. Tom-toms! She was just about to turn and run when she realized that the thumps came from her fast-beating heart.

  Moistening her lips, she moved forward on what seemed like wooden limbs. The trees closed in overhead, blocking out the hazy sun. No bird call joined the chorus of whispering wind and pounding heart.

  She stepped into a
small clearing. Voices. Something moved, and she ducked behind a tree. Holding her breath, she peered ever so cautiously around the trunk. Two saddled horses were tied to a bush. Her fool guide was wrong; those weren’t Indian horses.

  Head low, she followed the sound of voices to where three men stood. Two had their backs turned. Only the top of the third man’s head was visible.

  She hesitated, but only because she didn’t want to interrupt what sounded like an argument. God, please don’t let them be robbers or murderers or…or worse.

  Gathering as much courage as she could muster, she called out, “H–hello there.”

  Two men swung around, and one reached to his side for his gun. After looking her up and down, he withdrew his hand with a smirk.

  She was used to people laughing at her bloomers, but this man had the nerve to leer. She kept her shotgun pointed straight at him. A woman alone couldn’t afford to take chances.

  “Well, what have we here?” He raked her up and down with bloodshot eyes; a toothless grin parted a scraggly beard.

  “I wonder if you would be kind enough to help—” She realized with a start that the middle man’s hands were tied and he had a rope around his neck. The other end of the rope was slung over a tree branch and tied to the saddle of one of the horses. Dumbstruck, she could only stare.