Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River

by Fiction River

  Not that he was really there, she supposed. His wry voice and his constant teasing were part of how she remembered him. He had been her big brother, her tormentor, her protector. They were going to run the ranch together one day, when Pop got too tired, or when he and Mother moved into Missoula, where there was electricity and hot running water and neighbors you could visit without having to hitch up a wagon. Holland would marry Shireen Torgerson, and they would take Pop and Mother’s room. Madeleine would raise her goats and sell her hens’ eggs and play auntie to Holland’s children. She had never wanted anything else.

  “You’ll meet some handsome cowboy and run off,” Holland used to tease her.

  “No. Not a cowboy.”

  “A doctor, then.”

  “Oh, Holland! A doctor?”

  “Man of business. He’ll carry you off to live in the big city and wear nice dresses and high-heeled shoes.”

  “Why do I have to marry anyone?”

  “Don’t you want a husband and a family?”

  “Horses. Goats. Chickens. That’s what I want.”

  “You can change your mind, Maddie.”

  “I know. But I want to stay on the ranch, and I don’t think any man besides you would like that.”

  She had never meant to stay on the ranch alone, though. The possibility that they could all be gone, and all at once, had never occurred to her. Could she really live by herself out here on the prairie?

  In daylight hours, she convinced herself she could. Plenty of pioneer women, after all, had been alone in their sod huts for weeks on end. If they could manage it, so could she.

  But when night fell she recalled other stories, tragic ones, of women who had broken under the pressure, lost their minds to the relentless solitude. In the darkness, she understood them.

  This, she thought, was as bad as it could get. Alone on Christmas Eve. No tree, no songs, no decorations. Christmas dinner would be venison stew, shared with Hildy. She wondered how the dog would feel about fruitcake.

  She sniffled back tears, and the smell of baking flooded her senses. The familiar fragrance summoned memories from every corner, and made the empty house resound with the silenced voices of her loved ones.

  Holland was right. She shouldn’t have made the fruitcake. It would have been better to ignore Christmas altogether.

  ***

  Peter made himself move forward. Maybe whatever that was he thought he saw in the passenger seat of the Lizzy would disappear if he changed his perspective. He would get closer, and find it was just the pattern of falling snow, or steam from the cooling radiator. He took one laborious step, then another. The shape beyond the veil of snow didn’t change that he could see, but he pressed on, panting, hot under his coat and freezing where his face was exposed. He grasped the radiator cap on the front of the hood, gone cold now. The phantom was still there.

  He pushed on until he stood beside the driver’s seat. He pulled off an ice-crusted glove and rubbed his face before he looked again.

  It was more distinct than ever. It was a man, a soldier, wearing the doughboy’s overseas cap. Peter could make out the upright collar of his service coat. He leaned closer, though his mouth was dry and his heart seemed to thud in his throat.

  The soldier moved. He grinned, and touched his cap with two fingers.

  Peter pressed his bare fingers to his throat to feel his own pulse. Yep, still alive. Still on his feet. And seeing a damned spirit.

  The phantom’s lips moved, but made no sound.

  Peter pulled his glove back on with a shaking hand. He turned in a circle, looking for something, anything that would mean he didn’t have to deal with this—this thing. He was, of course, still utterly alone. He drew a ragged breath, set his teeth, and looked back.

  The ghost was out of the Lizzie, standing by the hood with one arm lifted, pointing to the fence line. He spoke again, soundlessly, and his smile widened.

  It should have been horrible, this man carved of smoke. Snowflakes drifted through his torso and fluttered behind his face. His grin should be terrible, the rictus of death Peter knew all too well.

  Instead, the phantom’s smile was merry and mobile. The pointing arm was not a threat, but an invitation. And when Peter took a step back toward the half-buried fence posts, the ghost—if that was what it was, and not simply the fantasy of a man on the point of freezing to death—nodded approval, and spoke more soundless words, as if they were having a conversation.

  Peter took another step, and another, wading through powder that now reached his thighs. He found the fence post again, and pressed on toward the next one. His companion, wispy and wavering, but persistent, moved ahead of him, looking back now and again, nodding, smiling.

  Sweat dripped down Peter’s ribs as he toiled through the snow. It was hard, lung-burning work, and though it kept him warm for the moment, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up. He followed the fence line, more or less, trusting more to his ghostly guide than the snow-blanketed road.

  When he caught sight of an ephemeral light in the distance, he blinked in surprise. Was it really there? He pushed ahead, panting. It was brighter now, more distinct. He gasped when it disappeared behind a veil of snow, then groaned in relief when it reappeared, like a star breaking through a ribbon of cloud.

  His guide faced him now, floating backward, eyebrows flying in encouragement. Peter paused once to pull up his scarf and to let his burning thighs rest. His guide—or his siren, because it was all too possible this spirit was leading him to his death—trembled before him, speaking coaxing words Peter couldn’t hear. When Peter resumed his slow progress, the wraith whirled, and danced ahead of him on its insubstantial feet.

  By the time the distant light grew into the unmistakable glow of an oil lamp, Peter was sobbing desperate breaths, nearly falling with every step. His eyebrows and eyelashes were heavy with snow, but his arms felt like lead. He couldn’t lift his hands to clear the crystals from his face.

  The spirit soared ahead, his silhouette gleaming with lamplight, until he twirled on the back doorstep of a tall, narrow house. The light, yellow and warm and inviting, shone through a small curtained window.

  With a last glance back at Peter, the grinning wraith faded, thinned to nothing, and disappeared through the wall.

  ***

  Madeleine was taking the fruitcake out of the oven, setting it to cool on an iron trivet. At her shoulder she heard, “Put the kettle on, Maddie.”

  “Holland, for God’s sake! You’re going to make me jump out my skin one of these days.”

  “Easier now than ever,” he said.

  “It was never that hard, was it?” She hung the oven mitts on their hooks, and put another log in the stove. She was sure the temperature was still dropping, but there was no point in checking the Rodgers Ginger Ales thermometer nailed to the outside wall. It only went to twenty below. In a blizzard like this, the temperature could drop twenty degrees below that. Even the idea made her shudder.

  Holland whispered, “Brought you someone.”

  She straightened. “What? Who?”

  “Didn’t catch the name.”

  “Not funny, Holland! I wish you wouldn’t scare me like this.”

  “Why I’m warning you. Going to knock in a minute . . . Oh! There you go.”

  This time Madeleine did jump. Every nerve blazed, like the time she had stepped on a rattlesnake. That was a hot summer day, in broad daylight, and the snake’s warning rattle had seemed as loud as a gunshot. Now, in the frigid darkness, with crystalline snowflakes rattling like buckshot against the house, the knock juddered in her bones.

  Hildegard had been curled peacefully in her apple box bed near the stove. At the double rap on the door the shepherd leaped to her feet, hackles bristling. She gave a long, rumbling growl. If Madeleine hadn’t already been terrified, that growl would have done it.

  She crossed the kitchen in three strides, and dug in the pocket of her coat for the Peacemaker. She held it, awkwardly, in both
hands, and stared at the door with her heart pounding. The knocks came again, two taps, and then a voice—a man’s voice. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  “Open!” Holland whispered.

  “No!” Madeleine whispered back. “How do I know who that is? What he wants?”

  “Wants to not freeze,” Holland said. There was no laughter now. “Maddie, open. Blizzard. Cold.”

  “Maybe I should get the rifle! I can’t shoot this thing.”

  “No need,” he said faintly, right beside her ear. “Trust me.”

  “Hello?” the man called. His voice—he sounded young, somehow—shook, and she thought of him out there in the blinding snow, the bone-numbing cold. But how had he gotten here?

  Hildegard scratched at the crack beneath the door, alternately growling and snuffling. Madeleine put her back to the wall beneath the coat hooks, wondering if she dared peek out the side window first. He—whoever he was—might see her. He would know she was alone, and a girl besides.

  She closed her eyes in an agony of indecision, compassion and anxiety doing battle in her breast.

  “Trust me,” Holland repeated. “Open.”

  “Damn it, Holland!” she whispered. He didn’t answer.

  She waited for another breath, as the man knocked again. The sound seemed weaker now, perhaps even lower on the door, and it only came once. She thought she heard a sob, or perhaps it was merely an indrawn breath through a throat aching with cold. He said, “Hello? Could I j-just . . .”

  “I have a gun!” she cried.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he groaned.

  She turned halfway, to speak through the closed door. “How did you get here?”

  “M-motorcar.”

  “You couldn’t have driven up the lane.”

  “W-walked up from the road.”

  “You can’t see this house from the road.”

  “It’s h-hard to explain . . .”

  Holland spoke so close to her ear that her earlobe tingled. “He’s frozen. Open the door.”

  Madeleine, her lower lip caught between her teeth, put a shaking hand on the latch and turned the bolt. She opened the door a slit, then a crack.

  Shivering on the back doorstep stood a young man with a face that might have been pleasant if it were not livid with cold. He wore some sort of military cap that left his ears and his red curls exposed, and his eyes were the blue of the Montana sky in summer.

  Madeleine opened the door a bit wider. The man waited until she said, “Come in,” before he took a single step into the warmth of the kitchen. Snow blew in with him, sifting around his boots.

  “One more step,” she said. He obeyed, and she shut the door against the blizzard.

  He stood still, eyeing her, waiting for her to make her judgment. Hildegard sniffed him, gave one final growl, then sat down, offering her own opinion that the visitor wasn’t a threat. Holland muttered, “Coat.”

  Madeleine saw the young man’s eyes flicker past her, as if he was looking for something. She shifted uneasily, letting the Peacemaker drop to her thighs, but still holding it in her two hands. The man’s gaze dropped to the pistol, then rose to her face. Madeleine said, “You can take your coat off.”

  He said, “It’s covered in snow.”

  “Just let it drop. Then move over by the stove. Warm yourself.”

  “Thanks.” He did as she told him, and she saw he was tall, taller than Holland had been, with high, square shoulders. He pulled off his gloves to reveal big, freckled hands. He put his back to the stove, and said wearily, “I wish you’d put away the gun, ma’am. I’ve had enough of guns to last me into eternity.”

  Holland whispered, “Me, too.”

  ***

  Peter couldn’t see her properly until the snow melted from his eyelashes, and then he had to squint through droplets running down his forehead. He tucked his gloves under his arm, and wiped his face with his palm.

  She stood almost as tall as the ghost that hovered behind her. She looked sturdy, but as if she hadn’t eaten much recently. She wore loose trousers, held up by a leather belt, and a man’s plaid shirt, everything too big. She had hair the color of straw, in a plait that hung over one shoulder, and eyes the color of good milk chocolate. Her wrists and forearms, extending from the sleeves of the shirt, were ridged with muscle, something that surprised and stirred him.

  She was young. Too young to be alone in this farmhouse, out here on the prairie. No wonder she carried a pistol, though it looked too heavy for a girl’s hands, even a strong girl like this one. Single-action, too. By the time she pulled that hammer back, an attacker could wrest it away from her.

  The heat from the stove was intense, and it carried with it the baked fruit-and-vanilla smell of Christmas. Both were so delicious Peter felt tears sting his eyes. Nothing seemed real, not even the handsome girl, especially not with a phantom at her shoulder. He cleared his throat. “I’m Peter,” he said. “Peter Banister.” When she didn’t answer right away, he blurted, “I thought I was going to die out there.”

  “Why are you here?” she said. “Middle of the night, middle of a blizzard?”

  “Model T broke down.” He pulled off his cap, and ran his hand through his hair. It felt greasy and unkempt, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “Where are you supposed to be?”

  He shrugged. “Missoula. Sandpoint. Seattle. I was just going to drive till I stopped.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re running away from something.”

  He put his hands behind his back and wiggled his fingers in the warmth. “You could say that.”

  “Police?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe. If my dad decides to report his Tin Lizzie stolen.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t have much truck with the police, though, and the Lizzie isn’t worth much. As I’ve discovered.”

  “Tell me how you found the house.”

  He looked away from her. “I can’t explain it,” he muttered. It was the truth, but he didn’t think that would help much.

  “Try.”

  He sighed. “Ma’am, I guess I—I guess I just got lucky.”

  ***

  Madeleine was beginning to wish she could put the Peacemaker down. Her wrists burned from its weight, but she wasn’t going to be fooled by a sweet face and a head of red curls. Or dimples. He couldn’t be too much older than she was herself, despite the bits of military gear. Holland had been just twenty when he died. This Peter Banister looked about the same. Still, she glared at him, this redhead appearing like a thief in the night, one of the many things she was afraid of. She kept the pistol at the ready, and waited.

  “There was—I thought I could see a light, in the distance.”

  “Pretty far distance.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, pretty far.”

  “So you left your motorcar and hiked off in the snow because maybe you saw a light.”

  He shifted, changing the position of his hands, his eyes flicking this way and that. “Look, ma’am—”

  “Madeleine. Madeleine Love.”

  “Madeleine Love. That’s pretty.” She didn’t answer, and he drew a noisy breath through his teeth. “I’m not crazy. No shell shock, nothing like that.”

  “No?”

  “I—the thing is, I—I thought I saw something. A man.”

  “In this storm? Not likely.”

  “I know. The whole evening is unlikely. In the extreme,” he added, and flashed his dimples.

  Holland murmured, “Maddie. Give the poor sod a break.”

  Madeleine released her breath, and hoisted the Peacemaker to lay it on the counter. In a low voice she said, “Holland, you’d better know what you’re doing.”

  “What?” Peter said.

  Holland chuckled, and she said, “Never mind. You might as well sit down, Peter Banister. There at the table. You could use something hot to drink.”

  ***

  They ate fruitcake for breakfast, though Madeleine said it was too fresh, that it really should r
est under a brandy-soaked towel for a while. When the slow dawn began to brighten the icy world outside, Peter helped Madeleine feed horses and goats, check hens’ nests for eggs, and scatter corn and scratch. They had to scoop snow off the water barrels, then break a layer of ice. While Madeleine filled water buckets for the stalls, Peter shoveled the path from the barn to the house, carving a walkway between four-foot walls of snow.

  Madeleine gathered a basketful of warm eggs and carried it to the house. Peter brought the snow shovel in case the path filled up again. He left it leaning beside the kitchen door while they went in to shed their coats and boots.

  Madeleine built up the fire in the stove while Peter worked the water pump. They wrapped up in quilts she brought down from upstairs, and dozed away Christmas Eve afternoon beside the stove. The phantom had disappeared, and Peter began to hope he had imagined it.

  Darkness closed in early. Madeleine got up and began fussing in the kitchen. She said, gazing out into the dusk, “This is when I start to get scared.”

  “You get scared at night?”

  “I hate the dark. I used to creep into my brother’s bedroom at night. He fixed up a bed on his floor for me.”

  “Nice brother,” Peter said.

  “The best.” She was peeling potatoes and carrots, dropping them into a big saucepan.

  “What happened to him?”

  She glanced up at him, then down again to her cutting board. “Killed at Belleau Wood.”

  He winced. “That was bad.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Couldn’t you have someone to help you out here?”

  “Pop didn’t leave much money. People have to be paid.” She took a canister of flour from a shelf, and poured some out onto the counter.