The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection

by Mary Connealy

  Harry, Lyman, and Ernest, the other tender, came in to fill their plates, and Polly took them a pitcher of water and the coffeepot.

  “Where’s Roberts tonight?” she asked.

  “Oh, he ain’t feeling up to snuff,” Ernest said.

  When Polly went back to the kitchen, she told her father.

  “I’ll see about that.” He shoved back his chair.

  “Oh, Russell, finish your food,” Ma said. “If the man is drunk, he’ll still be that way when you’re done.”

  “Yes, but the others will go back out there once they’ve had their cake and coffee. I’d rather speak to him alone.”

  Pa went out, and Polly looked at her mother. “Do you think it’s safe for him to confront Roberts alone?”

  “I expect so.” Ma frowned but continued eating as though nothing was wrong, so Polly did the same.

  About ten minutes later, to her relief, the front door opened, and Pa’s voice carried in from the dining room.

  “Boys, just so’s you know, I’m discharging Roberts. He’ll be going out with you Wednesday, Harry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said, as though he had expected this and it bothered him not at all.

  “And Towne?”

  “Yes, Mr. Winfield?” came the apprehensive response.

  “I shall report your actions to the division agent. It will be up to him whether to discipline you or not, but if you ever bring in liquor for any of the stage line’s employees again, you’ll be out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pa came into the kitchen. “You heard?” he asked.

  Ma nodded. “You can help Ernest with the teams until we get someone else.”

  “Yes, and Jacob will pitch in when he’s here. Probably Harry will, too.”

  Pa finished his supper, and the family spent a quieter evening than usual, even for Sunday. Polly finished knitting one of the wool socks she was making for her father. The difficulty in making the heel gave her second thoughts about knitting a pair for Jacob. She wanted to do something for him, since he was being so nice about the tree. Would socks be too personal a gift for a young man? She’d better ask Ma before she went ahead with that plan. Anyway, as soon as Pa’s socks were finished, she wanted to start making ornaments for her tree.

  The stagecoach arrived on time Sunday at the station near the fort, after a long, cold run from Winfields’. Jacob attended chapel at the fort and spent the rest of the day resting, reading, and talking to the other people at the Newton Station, which was his home on that end of the run. The drop in temperature overnight ruined his plans to search for Polly’s Christmas tree on Monday.

  “A man shouldn’t set out in this cold if he doesn’t have to,” Mr. Newton, the station agent, said. “In fact, I pity the drivers if they have to bring the stage along today.”

  “They won’t stop it, will they?” The thought that the line would be suspended early for the winter and he might never get back to the Winfields’ made Jacob unaccountably sad.

  “Not yet,” Mr. Newton said. “They’ll stop it when the snow gets deep but not before.”

  “Too bad we don’t have some of Mrs. Winfield’s soapstones here,” Billy Clyde said.

  “How’s that?” Jacob asked.

  “The passengers complained so much of the cold last year in the fall that she ordered half a dozen soapstones. She’ll heat ‘em and wrap ‘em in burlap and rent ‘em to passengers for two bits. It’ll be up to you to collect ‘em at the end of the stage and get ‘em back to her. Norm had that job last year. I think they only lost one, and Mrs. Winfield made a tidy sum. A little extry, she’d say.”

  Jacob smiled. “Sounds like a good investment. Does she give one to drivers?”

  “If the passengers don’t take ‘em all,” Billy Clyde said. “Of course, if you was on her good side—or Miss Polly’s—you might get special treatment.”

  Jacob laughed. He wouldn’t butter up Mrs. Winfield or flirt with her daughter to gain special favors, but maybe he could work something out to keep his feet warm. He had a little chat with Mr. Newton later that day.

  The mercury stayed close to zero during his whole layover at Newton’s home station, but only about three inches of snow fell. By the time the westbound stage pulled in on Tuesday, the road had been packed down enough so that they could travel at their usual pace most of the way, and the horses were eager to go. Jacob was glad to be heading for the Winfields’ again. He only wished he wasn’t going empty-handed.

  Mr. Newton came out as Billy Clyde loaded the last of the three passengers’ luggage. He handed Jacob two bundles.

  “What’s this?” Billy Clyde asked when he climbed up to the driver’s box beside Jacob.

  “Hot bricks wrapped in burlap sacks. They won’t stay hot as long as Mrs. Winfield’s soapstones, but it will help.”

  The warmth from the bricks did keep the soles of their boots warm for the first five miles or so. When they got to the next swing station, Jacob asked the agent to let him put them on top of his stove during the brief stop. They didn’t have time to heat thoroughly, but every bit of warmth helped on the two to three hours between stations.

  By the time they approached the third stop, Jacob’s fingers were nearly frozen inside his gloves. He could barely hold the reins. He could still feel his toes, though, thanks to the bricks. Even so, the extra warmth in them was long since sapped by the bitter cold.

  Jacob awkwardly took the reins in his right hand and put his left hand to his face so he could blow on his fingers through the gloves. He couldn’t wear mittens on this job, or he wouldn’t be able to handle the reins of the six-horse hitch properly.

  Billy Clyde, from beneath layers of the muffler wound around his neck and face, said, “I sure wish I’d ordered me a soapstone.”

  “I put in an order for two,” Jacob said. “Mr. Newton will send it with his supply order to St. Louis on the next eastbound.”

  “One for me?” Billy Clyde asked.

  “If you want to pay for it. Three dollars, with the shipping.”

  Billy Clyde blinked at him. “That’s a lot.”

  “If you don’t want to buy it, I’ll use one for my hands, too.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Billy Clyde said.

  Jacob would have smiled, but his lips felt frozen. He’d have to grease them with lard at the next station. Billy Clyde wasn’t known for saving his pay for anything. He spent it on whatever took his eye at the moment.

  “Polly’s gonna be disappointed,” Billy Clyde said a little later. He had his hands tucked under his arms and had stood his shotgun between his knees, pointing up. If they were held up, Billy Clyde would be sadly unprepared. Of course, most road agents wouldn’t be out in this cold to rob stagecoaches anyway.

  “I wish I could have gotten her that tree,” Jacob said.

  “Only one more run to their place before Christmas.”

  “I know.” Jacob concentrated on shifting the reins to his left hand so he could blow on the right. Two more miles to the next way station. The passengers weren’t complaining, but he was certain they would be glad when they got to Winfields’ and ate a fine hot meal and had the opportunity to rent a soapstone. A person had to be crazy to travel in this cold.

  Polly waited eagerly for the stage on Wednesday. Half a dozen times she went to the window between her tasks of setting up the dining room. Ma caught her at it when she brought in the butter and jelly for the biscuits.

  “They’ll be here,” Ma said, “but they won’t come any faster with you gawking out the window.”

  “It’s so cold.”

  “Not so cold as yesterday, and your father says the road is passable. They’ll be here.”

  The stage pulled in a half hour later than usual, a rare event on the line. The passengers hurried in and huddled around the stove. Billy Clyde and Jacob didn’t linger outside but gladly turned the team over to the tenders while the passengers moved to the table to get their meal down before Harry called them to board.
Jacob and Billy Clyde stepped closer to the stove and warmed themselves thoroughly.

  “The going was a little heavy in spots,” Jacob said, flexing his hands above the stove top, “and the creeks were frozen, but the horses broke through on some of the ice. It wasn’t deep, but the wheels tore it all up. That’s hard on the team.”

  “Looked like the off wheeler had a cut on his fetlock,” Billy Clyde said mournfully.

  Jacob nodded. “Soon’s they get the new team hitched and I can feel my fingers, I’m going out and check on them. Some of the horses might need some doctoring.”

  “The tenders will do it,” Billy Clyde said.

  Jacob shook his head. “I want to see to them myself.”

  One of the passengers called for more coffee, and Polly moved to get the coffeepot. “Pa’s been keeping the horses inside this week.”

  “That’s good,” Jacob said, “but I don’t envy Harry and Lyman going out on this next run.”

  Polly went about her duties. Ma came in while the three passengers ate dessert and offered to rent them a hot soapstone. The men willingly accepted her offer and thanked her fervently.

  “Just be sure you give them to the driver when you get out at his last stop,” Ma said. “He brings them back to me. I’m sorry you can’t get one at every station.”

  Ten minutes later, the coach pulled out with all three men aboard, and Harry Smith and Lyman Towne on the box with two of the extra soapstones. Pa came inside with his eyes glinting. Even though fewer passengers rode today, between the dinners and the stones, Ma was turning a profit.

  Not until the dishes were done and the dining room swept did Polly broach the subject of the Christmas tree. Pa had invited Jacob and Billy Clyde into the parlor, which was much warmer than their bunk room at the back of the house, and the checker game was in play once more, between Jacob and Billy Clyde. Pa sat on the settee, leafing through a newspaper that Billy Clyde had brought from the other end of the run.

  “What’s going on in the world, Pa?” Polly asked, taking a seat beside him.

  “Well, this is a month old, so it’s mostly election news.”

  “We already knew General Grant was elected,” Polly said.

  “Yes, but they have a lot of rhetoric about the new governors and congressmen, too,” Pa said, turning the page. “Looks like Spain has tossed out its queen, and she’ll be spending Christmas in France—in exile.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of them.” Polly looked at Jacob, who was studying the checkerboard. “Speaking of Christmas, I don’t suppose you were able to get me a tree, Jacob?”

  He looked so remorseful that she wished she hadn’t asked.

  “No, and I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t let it distress you,” she said quickly. “I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her father lowered the newspaper and gazed at Jacob. “Don’t look on it as a critical task, Tierney. No one expects you to freeze to death getting a Christmas tree.”

  “That’s right,” Polly said. “If it were a simple thing, Pa would have done it.”

  Her father harrumphed and went back to his reading.

  Polly reached for her workbag and took out her knitting. Likely she would have to do without her tree. If they got another snow, Jacob would probably not return.

  Jacob enjoyed the next two days, spent quietly with the family. The tree was not mentioned again, and he tried not to think about it. Mr. Winfield was right—it wouldn’t do any good to feel guilty about it. Meanwhile, he spent several pleasant interludes conversing with Polly, usually under the sharp eye of her mother.

  He and Billy Clyde ate their dinner early on Saturday and got their gear ready to leave. Jacob went to the barn and inspected the team himself. They all seemed in fine shape and ready for the road. The weather had turned, and the breeze was once more warm and inviting. The snow had melted on the road and shrunk down in other places. As long as the wind stayed light, the next run should not be too unpleasant.

  He wandered into the dining room. He had nothing to do until the stage arrived. Then he could grease the wheels. Some drivers let the tenders do that, but Jacob had learned from old Norm that it paid for the driver to do it himself and know it was done right.

  Polly was setting up the long table for the passengers. She always set it for eight after the family and crew had eaten, though often these days fewer travelers came on the coach.

  The stage pulled in on time, with Harry sounding a blast of his horn.

  Jacob sidled into a corner and watched six passengers come in. So, quite a few men were taking advantage of the break in the cold and hoping to get across the plains without too much discomfort.

  “What kind of place is this, that you don’t serve beer?” one man snarled at Polly as he unbuttoned his overcoat.

  “It’s a decent home where you’ll find a welcome and a good hot meal, sir,” she replied. “Let me bring you a glass of sweet cider with your dinner.”

  The man frowned but accepted the offer. Polly looked Jacob’s way as she turned away from the disgruntled man, and she smiled at him. Jacob smiled back and clapped his hat on his head. High time he tended to the grease pot.

  The Winfield Station was beginning to seem like home—the closest he’d had to a home for the last three years, anyway. Mrs. Winfield mothered him, while her husband treated him like a responsible man who was welcome in the family circle. And Polly made it extra special.

  Despite occasional moments when she seemed younger than her eighteen years, Jacob couldn’t think of her as a child. She helped her mother willingly, not in sulky obedience but as a work partner for the business, and she handled unhappy passengers with grace. Her request for a Christmas tree had amused him at first, but it meant a lot to her, and he knew it wasn’t just a childish whim. Having the tree would make her feel more settled in this wilderness.

  He still had one more run before Christmas—provided the weather didn’t turn nasty again. Mr. Winfield might think it frivolous, but Jacob determined as he mounted the driver’s box to get that tree and deliver it on time.

  Chapter 4

  The following Wednesday, Polly fidgeted more than usual. She and her mother prepared dinner for twelve, though they had no assurance the stage would come. Her father went out to the barn several times during the morning to help Ernest get everything ready. Each time he returned to the kitchen, his predictions were more dire.

  “The sky is low and black to the south and west, and the wind is picking up. I’m afraid we’ll see snow anytime now.”

  “But if it’s to the west, the stage will be ahead of it,” Ma said. “They’re coming from the east, so they should get this far all right.”

  Pa frowned and looked out the window. “They might not have sent the stage out. They don’t want the passengers to be stuck here for weeks. If they don’t think they can get all the way through, they might not set out.”

  So this is it, Polly thought. Jacob would not return. She wouldn’t get her Christmas tree, and the family would celebrate the holiday without him or Billy Clyde. Funny how her heart ached more to see Jacob than for her precious tree. Two weeks ago, she could think of hardly anything but that tree.

  The festive table would feel empty. Roberts was gone. They would invite Ernest, the lone tender remaining, to eat Christmas dinner with them. He wanted to leave for the winter, and he’d planned to go out on this week’s eastbound stage. Then it would be just the family here. Pa would have to tend the stock alone. If by some miracle the stagecoaches kept running, he would have to change the teams by himself. Polly supposed she could dress in her cold weather clothing and help him, and the drivers and shotgun riders would pitch in if needed, in an attempt to keep the schedule.

  “This is why Butterfield used the southern route,” Pa said glumly. “When people send mail out, they expect it to get through.”

  The stage company had a hard time making a profit on this line. The Winfields did everything they could to
ensure good service and keep the line running. After all, this was their livelihood.

  About eleven o’clock, the snow began. Small flakes plummeted down, so thick Polly couldn’t see to the barn.

  “This means business,” Pa said.

  They went on with the dinner preparations, but as noon approached they feared they would have no guests that day.

  Ernest came into the house and stamped his feet on the rag rug by the door. “The team’s all set—harnessed and ready to go—but I doubt they’ll be coming, Mr. Winfield.”

  Pa sighed. “I fear you’re right, Ernest. Let’s sit down and have our dinner.”

  Ma ladled out generous portions of the stew. Probably they would eat it for the next three days, since she had made much more than the four of them needed.

  “I held back on the biscuits,” she said. “If the stage comes in, I’ll throw more in the oven.”

  “I sure hope they’re not out there in this storm,” Ernest said a few minutes later.

  They’d all been thinking it, but nobody liked hearing the words.

  Polly stood. “I’ll start the dishes. Call me if they make it.”

  “They might surprise us,” Ma said. She got up and helped Polly clear and reset the table.

  In the kitchen, Polly filled the dishpan and put more water on the stove to heat. Ma went about putting away the food, but Polly noticed that she made a full pot of fresh coffee and set it on the stove top.

  They worked in silence. When Polly had washed all the tableware and begun to scrub the pans, she said, “You don’t think they’re out there in the snow somewhere, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Ma said. “If they left the fort last night, they’re probably holed up at one of the swing stations. I don’t know if Jacob has the experience for it, but Billy Clyde’s old enough to know when a storm is coming.”

  “He said once he can taste snow in the air before it falls,” Polly said. She would miss Billy Clyde this winter, too. “I made presents for them.”