He spotted a pair of legs sticking out of the snow not two meters away. They were kicking wildly in an attempt to free the body trapped below. Chuck rushed to his father’s side and dug at the snow imprisoning his body. It wasn’t long before he had freed the man, who came up spitting clumps of snow and pine needles from his mouth.
“Pop, are you alright?”
“I think so,” Horace replied, checking himself. “What about Hickory?”
Hickory was nowhere to be seen. Chuck stood to look further afield. He saw the mountain man’s body lying amongst a small grouping of saplings.
“Mr. Jones,” Chuck called, but the body didn’t stir.
“Do you think he’s dead?” his father asked, standing up next to him.
“I don’t know, but we’d better find out.”
Chuck and Horace forged through the snow to Hickory’s body. Chuck was relieved to hear the man moaning, which meant he was still alive. However, even a cursory glance showed that his left leg was broken up pretty badly.
“Looks like a compound fracture,” Horace noted.
“We’d better make a splint,” Chuck said, wishing he had taken that refresher course in first aid training.
“Why don’t you attend to the sled while I take care of our friend here,” Horace suggested.
“You sure you can handle it?” Chuck asked.
One look at his father told him that he was doing it again.
“Right,” Chuck said before he trudged off leaving his father to deal with the fallen man.
The sled proved easy to set upright without the burden of supplies. The huskies sat and watched as Chuck labored. It was exhausting gathering all the parcels and bags and strapping them back onto the sled. While he was working he heard a scream from the woods and assumed that his father had set the fallen man’s leg. When Chuck was done repacking the supplies he found that he was sweating, a state that could be dangerous in freezing temperatures. He took a rest to recover himself, checked on the dogs who seemed fine, and then returned to see what his father had accomplished in his absence.
As he approached, he was surprised to find that his father had not only righted and splinted Hickory’s leg, but had built a small travois under him that they could use to drag him back to the sled. Hickory was unconscious, which was probably the best state to be in while dragged through the woods with a broken leg.
“Nice job,” Chuck commented.
“Thanks,” his father acknowledged.
Chuck grabbed one of the poles of the travois and Horace the other. With surprisingly little effort they had Hickory back at the sled where they were prepared to load him.
“Ever mushed a dogsled team before?” Horace asked Chuck.
“Nope. But I’ve always wanted to,” Chuck admitted.
The two men shared a smile.
“Well, go to it then,” Horace said.
“You’ve got it,” Chuck replied. “But first, let’s get Hickory loaded into your arms so that you can tend to him during the remainder of the journey.”
Chuck soon had Horace and Hickory bundled under an animal skin in the front of the sled. He began to walk to the rear of the sled, but paused before he made it there.
“Pop, before we go,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.”
“I know that,” his father said in exasperation. “Besides, there’s plenty of time for regret once we’ve arrived in McIntyre’s Gulch.”
There was a pause as the two men considered this response.
“I just did it again, didn’t I?” Horace asked.
Chuck mounted the sled and weighed anchor. He hoped he remembered the way, or if not that the dogs remembered the path home. He knew they must be close to the Gulch, so he chose to go forward rather than back.
“By the way, son.”
“Yeah, Pop?”
“I’m sorry too.”
Chuck gave the command to mush and with that the sled team, two weary men, and their charge were off into an uncertain dusk.
Chapter 7
My preference would have been to mope in bed all day but Max wouldn’t let me. It was Christmas! The smell of soon to be deep-fried goose was in the air. Given the sensitivity of his nose, he probably knew exactly how many pumpkin pies were waiting in the Lonesome Moose’s kitchen. Max wanted to be out and about, visiting friends and mooching food.
“Okay—okay!” I rolled out of bed and began pulling clothes over my long johns. My sweater was a festive amalgam of red and green stripes of various weights of yarn, my one completed knitting project before I abandoned the craft to my betters.
I wasn’t the first one to head for the pub, so it was easy to follow in my neighbor’s boot steps. Max preferred to gambol in the drifts and make his own way and I let him. It was fun watching him frisk about and he needed to burn off some energy before we went back inside.
It wasn’t snowing, but that didn’t matter now. The clearing had come twenty-four hours too late. I glared at the sky.
Determined not to be the one gloomy face at the celebration, I pasted a smile on my lips and entered the pub with shoulders back and head high.
“Nollaig chridheil!” everyone shouted.
“Agus bliadhna mhath ur!” I greeted back. English is the first language that we use because most people outside the Gulch don’t speak Gaelic. But on days when it is just us, especially if spirits are flowing—I am speaking of the kind that come in bottles but sometimes the other kind too—then we sometimes use the Gaelic. It had taken me a while to be comfortable speaking it, but the language has sort of crept in over the years and I am fluent in both Gaelic and English. My French is still a bit stilted, but we rarely had need of it since visitors are few.
I hung up my coat, left Max to make his rounds and settle in by the fire. I dutifully headed for the kitchen where the food smells overwhelmed the scent of Christmas greenery. Through the window I could see Big John setting up the fryer in a space he had shoveled clear of snow. I was relieved to see it was well away from the pub.
A second goose was in the large oven—a backup plan probably. In the smaller oven I could smell the lasagnas we had assembled yesterday, and on the stove top the Flowers was stirring what she calls Sloppy Bous. It’s basically a Sloppy Joe made with caribou meat. A mountain of rolls sat in a wicker basket. Madge was cutting them in half.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“I still need to make the whipped cream for the pie.”
“Done,” I said, reaching for an apron. It was a pity we hadn’t had them yesterday. My clothes were going to need washing to get all the spun sugar out of the wool fibers.
In the other room, Fiddling Thomas struck up a tune. It took a moment to place it. The song was a sixteenth-century French carol—“Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella.” I began humming while I fetched the cream and picked up the whisk.
I ate sparingly. Yesterday’s gluttony was still affecting my stomach and I just didn’t feel like feasting.
We had just brought out the pies when Whisky Jack appeared in the door where he swayed, breathless.
“Guess what!”
I thought, if he says it’s snowing again I might have to hurt him.
“A sled just pulled into town and it’s piled with surprises!”
We stared in consternation. The day had finally come. Alcohol had poisoned Whisky Jack’s brain and he was hallucinating. At least it was Santa Claus and not pink elephants.
Then we heard the dogs. Max jumped to his feet and answered with a wild ululation.
“What—?”
We hurried to the door. I had to elbow Whisky Jack out of the way but I was through it first.
“Butterscotch!” Chuck called, sounding joyous and looking like something out of a Christmas movie.
“Chuck!” I ran toward the sled that wasn’t slowing with Wendell and Madge beside me. They were racing to intercept the dogs. Apparently Chuck knew how to make them go but not
how to stop.
“Is the Bones here? Hickory’s got a broken leg.” Chuck jumped from the perch on the back of the sleigh and staggered toward me.
I grinned and hugged him. The Mountie had come through again.
We were surrounded then and there was a lot of laughter and back slapping. The Bones and Big John moved Hickory into the pub and took him to the sofa in the office. Wendell and Madge were seeing to the dogs. Others were unloading the sled.
“Hullo, Max!” Chuck said, sinking to one knee to greet my wolf.
I noticed an older man standing beside the sled, looking a bit bemused, and realized that this had to be Chuck’s father.
“Horace?” I asked, coming forward and offering my hand. His face was red with cold and he looked fatigued. “I’m Butterscotch Jones. Merry Christmas and welcome to McIntyre’s Gulch.”
“I’m sorry,” Chuck said, getting to his feet. “Pop, I’d like you to meet … everyone.”
We laughed.
“Yes, meet everyone,” I said. “But come inside out of the cold. We’ll get you some rum punch and something to eat. Good heavens, Chuck, tell us what happened! Last we heard you were stranded in Seven Forks.”
We all moved back inside and found Chuck and his father a place by the fire. While they told their story, the Flowers and I put together plates with a bit of everything. We were gratified to see both men attack them with gusto, though Horace’s eyes would occasionally go to the stuffed moose standing on the bar. It had been decorated with a wreath. That wasn’t what was bothering him though. Our moose is lonesome for his missing half. Someone would tell the story later.
Doc appeared and complimented the Mountie on the splint he had made. Chuck pointed at his father and said, “Dad learned first aid in the war. Hickory would have been in a bad way if Dad hadn’t been there to look after him while I drove the sled.”
“And we would never have made it if Chuck hadn’t known how to navigate the forest.”
They grinned at each other, clearly in a state of slightly dazed benevolence.
Horace wasn’t the only one feeling bemused. I was so happy to see Chuck, but also a little puzzled by his father. From what Chuck had said I had had the distinct impression that they didn’t get along that well, but father and son were both warm and complimentary of each other.
Maybe it was because of Christmas. It is the season of miracles after all.
I laid my head on Chuck’s shoulder and stopped thinking.
“Butterscotch,” Horace said a while later. “I am so glad that my son found you. He deserves to be happy and I can see why you are so important to him.”
I smiled mistily, succumbing to the lure of the fire and the rum and Chuck’s arm around me—and the glorious moment in general.
“Thank you. It’s lovely of you to say so. Horace, I have a present for you,” I said.
“Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Chuck said that you loved pfeffernuesse so I made some for you. It’s at the cabin but I can go and get it.”
Horace smiled, looking a lot like his son.
“Thank you. That will be a treat. I haven’t had pfeffernuesse since my wife passed.”
“Well, I haven’t had it ever, so I hope it’s okay. The first two batches went into the mulch pile.”
There was more laughter and then the Flowers began telling everyone about our making cotton candy. The story got more giggles than it probably deserved, but warmth is more important than wit when you are with your family.
“Merry Christmas, Chuck,” I said softly. “This is the best Christmas ever.”
“Merry Christmas, Butterscotch. This is my best Christmas too.”
About the Author
Melanie Jackson is the author of over 50 novels. If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at www.melaniejackson.com.
eBooks by Melanie Jackson:
The Chloe Boston Mystery Series:
Moving Violation
The Pumpkin Thief
Death in a TurkeyTown
Murder on Parade
Cupid’s Revenge
Viva Lost Vegas
Death of a Dumb Bunny
Red, White and a Dog Named Blue
Haunted
The Great Pumpkin Caper
Beast of a Feast
Snow Angel
The Butterscotch Jones Mystery Series
Due North
Big Bones
Gone South
Home Fires (Coming Soon)
The Wendover House Mystery Series
The Secret Staircase
Wildside Series
Outsiders
Courier
Still Life
The Book of Dreams Series:
The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian
The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny
Medicine Trilogy
Bad Medicine
Medicine Man
Knave of Hearts
Club Valhalla
Devil of Bodmin Moor
Devil of the Highlands
Devil in a Red Coat
Halloween
The Curiosity Shoppe (Sequel to A Curious Affair)
Timeless
Nevermore: The Last Divine Book
Home Fires (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 4) Page 4
