Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection

by Debra Holland

  Barbara glanced at the crate. “Oh, good. You brought the ornaments with you, Papa. You and Robert chose such a big tree, there’d be gaps otherwise.”

  “Not me.” Abe tugged on Silas’s earlobe and watched a grin break over his grandson’s freckled face. “Blame this one here. He had us searching the whole forest for the perfect tree.”

  Barbara stationed herself on one side of the tree, and Abe took the other. The children, except for Lou-Lou, who stayed upstairs with Sassy, ranged between them. Robert lounged in a wing-chair, occasionally calling out directions for placement.

  Alternating with the shiny ornaments from Germany, they hung handmade ones. A few times, Abe had to choke back tears, when he hung one that particularly reminded him of his lost loved ones—like the little cloth dolly in a tiny red dress Emmeline had made for their eldest daughter’s first Christmas tree. They never had a chance to celebrate the holiday, for the baby died December sixteenth. The presents for her from their families in the Midwest had arrived after her burial.

  Many days and nights over the holiday season and beyond, Abe had to hold his beloved wife in his arms as she sobbed out her grief. He was helpless to comfort her, or to heal the constant ache of his own pain.

  He didn’t like to think of that sad, broken-hearted Christmas when their firstborn lay in a cold grave. Holding the little dolly, no larger than his hand, brought the memories flooding back, and he hastily fastened it to a bough near the top of the tree.

  Abe picked up a shiny silver star, now a bit tarnished, the symbol of a happier time. The year after their daughter’s death came the joy of a newborn son. Jeremy just squeaked into life the day before the holiday. The star was Abe’s gift to his wife that Christmas. He smiled as he hung it on a branch.

  Two years passed before they had another baby to cherish at Christmas. Summer child Barbara had a personality as sunny as the season of her birth. They had to put the tree on the kitchen table because toddler Jeremy kept trying to climb on it, while his baby sister watched the light glint on the shiny baubles. Emmeline had made another tiny dolly, this one clothed in green for baby Barbara. Abe fished around in the box for the ornament and hung it on a branch.

  The next one Abe selected represented their youngest son, Edward. He’d always been army mad and had received the tin soldier ornament on his sixth Christmas. The boy had joined up as soon as he was old enough, and had steadily worked up the ladder of command. Edward remained a determined bachelor, and Abe despaired of ever seeing his youngest with a wife and children.

  Abe held up the little horse he’d carved for their second son, Michael, who’d died at age four. Another painful Christmas. But they’d tried to provide the other children an enjoyable holiday, while Michael lay in a small grave next to his sister. No days and nights of sobbing for Emmeline and Abe. The pain was so all encompassing that they’d been numb for months. They both tried to pretend for the children’s sake. He wasn’t sure they’d succeeded.

  The two of them had worked out an unspoken agreement. When one needed to cry, he or she went for a walk, while the other stayed with the children. Stealing away when there was a farm to run and a family to take care of only happened at times of great need. Even thirty years later, he could think of Michael at odd moments and have to hold back tears.

  He took comfort in knowing that Emmeline had reunited with their two lost children. He liked the idea of the three of them together in heaven, perhaps watching the rest of the family celebrate Christmas.

  Abe leaned around the side of the tree to check on his daughter. Barbara laughed as she dangled a tiny tin bear just above Silas’ reach. He jumped and grabbed the ornament from her hand.

  Maybe she doesn’t remember Marion and Michael. And, he often thanked God, she hadn’t lost a child, so had no need for melancholy on such a festive day. Please, God, may she never know that pain.

  ~ ~ ~

  The morning of Christmas Eve, Abe dressed warmly for a visit to Emmeline’s grave.

  When he asked Barbara to accompany him, she gave him a dismissive wave. “Not today, Papa. I have too much to do to get ready for Christmas. I still have to make a trip to the mercantile.”

  Frustrated, Abe stomped out the door, down the path, where the snow had mostly melted away, and out to the small barn in the back that contained the horses, their two cows, the buggy, his wagon, and the sleigh.

  Abe drove the sleigh to the old place. As always, he paused on the low rise and looked, just for a moment, at his former home. The snow blanketed the roof of the house and barn and covered some of the outbuildings. The farm looked the same as any other winter. Smoke curled out of the chimney, and he imagined inside felt warm and cozy.

  Abe knew he’d done the right thing by moving. Yet each time he came near his farm and saw the house he’d built, he couldn’t help feeling a pang for leaving. It seemed to him that he could walk home, open the door, and find Emmeline in the kitchen, probably cooking. He’d give her a big hug, one of those that lifted her off the ground—not an easy feat when your wife is taller than you. She’d probably whack him with the wooden spoon or swat him with a dishcloth, but when he set her down, her cheeks would be pink, and her gray eyes would sparkle.

  She’s not there waiting for me, he reminded himself with a shake of his head.

  He bet, though, that snug in the house, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were enjoying the holiday season. Whenever he saw the couple, they still had the newlywed glow, which hadn’t yet dimmed. He hoped it never would.

  That nephew of Mr. Gordon’s had begun to talk again, and now made up for lost time. David had even cornered him a time or two after church, talking about his doings with the puppy, and his horse, mule, cow, pigs, and the midget horse—one of the fancy Argentine Falabellas that had become the latest fashion for those who could afford to spend money on a useless, although appealing, critter. Abe was always right glad to hear the tales, especially since the cow, pigs, and puppy had once belonged to him.

  Abe bypassed the house and drove to a stand of cottonwoods, circling the family cemetery, where his wife and two children lay. Someday, his resting place would be there, too, although, God willing, not too soon. As much as he missed his Emmeline and anticipated joining her and the children in heaven, he still enjoyed life and wanted to see his grandchildren grow up.

  Over to the right of the small cemetery was a stone memorial marker for Emily Gordon, David’s mother. Ant Gordon had asked for permission to place it there, which Abe had granted. Often when he came, he saw flowers in front of the marker, and sometimes they also lay on the graves of his loved ones.

  He drew up the sleigh before the trees, parked, and climbed down. He swung two blankets over his shoulders and carried them over to Emmeline’s grave. The packed snow crunched under his boots. One or more of the Gordons had already worn a path to the graves, so he didn’t have to wade through knee-deep snow.

  Abe wiped the snow off the bench he’d made near Emmeline’s grave, resting on top of the spot where he’d lay someday. He folded up one blanket for a cushion and sat on the bench, draping the other blanket over his lap, and tucking it under his feet.

  Someone, probably Mrs. Gordon, had bound a few sprigs of holly with red yarn and stuck them in the snow in front of each headstone. Once again, he felt grateful that he’d sold the house to Ant Gordon and his young nephew. As far as he was concerned, the new Mrs. Gordon, the town schoolteacher, was an added bonus.

  Abe remained silent, gathering his thoughts and staring at the headstone, which had a cap of snow on the top.

  Emmeline McGuire

  Beloved Wife and Mother

  1830-1894

  “It’s Christmas, Emmeline, and you should see our Barbara. A regular whirlwind that girl. You’d be proud of her. But I just wish—”

  The neigh of a horse had him turning around, thinking one of the Gordons had ridden over. The schoolmarm, he figured, seeing the womanly figure in a divided riding skirt, bundled in a wool coat. But he blinked a
nd realized he beheld his daughter, rather than Harriet Gordon.

  Fear shot through him. With an exclamation, he rose to his feet and hurried over to her. “Is something wrong? The children?”

  Barbara shook her head. She wore a blue knitted cap that matched her eyes and had left her brown hair in a braid down her back. “Everyone is fine, Papa. After you left, I realized you were right, and I needed to spend some time with Mama.”

  He stepped back in shock and tried to gather together his scattered wits. “I thought you were going to the mercantile?”

  “I did. The peppermint sticks are in my pocket.” She handed over a rolled blanket she carried in front of her and dismounted. She tied the reins to the limb of a tree.

  He must have had a dumbfounded expression on his face because Barbara laughed. “Why are you looking at me like that, Papa?”

  Abe shook his head. “Long story.”

  Barbara took back the blanket and began to walk toward the graves.

  Still marveling at her presence, he fell into step with her.

  She stopped in front of the bench by the grave. “Quite a set-up you have here, Papa.”

  “I’m not responsible for the holly. That’s Mrs. Gordon’s doing.” He picked up the top blanket. “Have a seat, daughter.”

  She obeyed, taking one side of the bench.

  He wondered if Barbara wanted to be alone. “Would you like me to go?”

  With a shake of her head, she patted the bench. “Join me.”

  Abe sat down next to her. The fit on the bench was close, their shoulders pressed together. He spread the blanket over their knees, around them, and under their feet.

  With one hand, Barbara leaned over and smoothed the snow on top of Emmeline’s grave. “I think of Mama every day.”

  Abe almost fell off his end of the bench in astonishment.

  “I wish I could come here more often. Just sit and think about her. But the children and running the house keep me too busy to have time for myself. It’s hard to find a moment to read a book, and you know how much I like to read, much less drive all the way to the old homestead.”

  Abe made a noise of agreement.

  “Robert’s home today, though. He and Sassy can handle the children.”

  “But…” he sputtered. “But, I had no idea. You never talk about your mother.”

  Lips pressed into a thin line, she gave him a long look. “You took Mama’s death so hard. I was afraid I’d lose you, too. Then, when you moved in with us, you seemed so much better. I didn’t want to bring up Mama because I didn’t want to upset you.”

  He reached over and clasped her hand. “Not talking about your mother has upset me. I thought you’d finished mourning her loss. Were forgetting her.”

  “Oh, no! Never. Robert and I talk about her all the time.”

  “Barbara,” he said gently. “Talking about your mama might make me sad. But it also feels good because I want to … no, I need to share my memories of her with my family.”

  Barbara picked up the blanket she’d brought and unrolled it.

  In the folds nestled the ornaments he’d hung on the tree earlier—the dollies, the horse, the star, and the soldier. He gave her a questioning look, feeling a frown wrinkle his brow.

  “Tell me the stories of these, Papa. Like you used to.”

  He had to swallow the lump in his throat. He chose the tiny dolly in the red dress and held it up. “This was for your sister, Marion. Our firstborn. Your mother and I had counted down the days until her arrival, and we had her only four short months. Her eyes had changed from blue to gray, like your mother’s, like Emmy’s. She had a big smile that made my heart turn over. Lou-Lou smiles like that. Took me back, it did, the first time I saw it.”

  Barbara reached up and fingered the red dress. “I can’t imagine losing one of my children. The thought is unbearable.”

  “The losses of Marion and Michael were the hardest thing I’d ever experienced, even worse than your mother’s death. As much as I miss her, she lived a good life—a full one. It’s a different kind of grief.”

  Barbara pursed her lips, obviously thinking. “I can see that.”

  Abe lifted the horse with his other hand until it dangled side-by-side with the dolly. “That saying that God doesn’t give you more than you can bear…? It doesn’t seem true when you’re in the midst of the agony of losing a child. Those are unbearable dark times. Yet, here I am. So I guess it must be true.”

  Barbara cupped the horse. “Now Mama is in heaven with Marion and Michael. They’re together. I never thought of her death that way. Somehow, I find that comforting.”

  Abe lowered the ornaments to his lap surprised to hear his daughter echo his belief. “I think that, too.”

  She gave him a smile that chased away the sadness from her eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think of them, Papa. Of course, I didn’t know Marion… But I still remember how much I missed Michael when he died.”

  Surprise jolted him, and he stared at her. “I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s because we never talked about him.”

  He nodded. “We should have. I know that now.”

  “I feel so grateful for my children. Sometimes, when I’m about to lose my patience with one or all of them, I think of Marion or Michael and manage to hold on to my temper.”

  “I did that many a time too. But still your brother Jeremy could try my patience. I think he got more wuppins than the rest of you put together.”

  Barbara laughed. “He did plenty of mischief that you and mama never knew about too.”

  “I don’t think I want to know now, either,” Abe said in a wry tone.

  With a gentle stroke, Barbara touched the wooden horse. “Tell me about Michael.”

  Abe began to talk, first about Michael, then about Emmeline.

  Barbara chimed in with her own stories, and they shared favorite memories. At times, they wiped away tears. Like a victrola playing beautiful music, they finally wound down, sitting for a few quiet minutes in peaceful companionship.

  “I baked Mama’s cinnamon and dried apple cake today,” Barbara said. “I felt her presence as I added each ingredient. Heard her voice … felt the touch of her hand as I stirred the batter. I almost seasoned the cake with some salt tears, and at the same time, I felt so good to be close to her. As if she stood at my side.”

  “I’m sure she did. I know I’ve felt her too.”

  Barbara looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Is it just wishful thinking?”

  He smiled and watched for her responding one. “Does it matter? You felt her love, and that’s what’s important.” He shivered, realizing his body had chilled and his toes were numb. “We need to get going, child. We have a warm house waiting, and your family will be wondering where you are.”

  Barbara rose and gathered the blanket close.

  “Let’s leave your horse with the Gordons and take the sled. You’ll be warmer under the blankets. Robert can come get her later.”

  Barbara nodded her agreement.

  Sudden tears moistened Abe’s eyes. He rolled up the ornaments in the blanket and stood. All his muscles had stiffened, and Abe was conscious of his achy bones.

  “Let’s change traditions tonight, Papa. Instead of reading the children A Visit From Saint Nicholas … how about after supper, you tell the children the stories of these?” She held up the rolled blanket.

  Abe smiled at his daughter. “I’d like that.”

  “I left Mama’s Christmas cake baking in the oven. I hope Sassy remembered to take it out.”

  “I hope so, too.” Abe’s mouth watered at the memory of his wife’s cake.

  Barbara gave him a hug. “This visit was good for my soul, Papa. Now let’s go home and eat some of Mama’s cake.”

  Abe held onto his daughter for a little longer, before releasing her, his heart lighter than it had been for a long time. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  IRISH LUCK

  Sally O’Do
nnell finished off the end of the scarf, cut the yarn, and stuck her two knitting needles into the ball before setting them into an Indian basket at her feet. She gave the knitted weave an anxious glance. Is it good enough? “That’s the last one, Ma,” she said to her mother, who sat in a nearby chair, darning a stocking.

  The O’Donnell family had finished supper, and Sally and her parents had gathered in chairs around the stone fireplace. Three kerosene lamps burned in the room, giving flickering light that combined with the fire to push back the darkness. One glass lamp perched next to a pile of stockings on the little table between Sally and her mother. Her father mended a plowing harness by the light of another lantern hanging from a bracket on the wall, and the third glowed between her ten-year-old twin sisters, studying at the table. Across from them, her fourteen-year-old brother, Charlie, bent over his slate with a piece of chalk in his hand, scratching out the answers to arithmetic questions.

  Sally held up the scarf of undyed wool for her mother’s approval. “That’s number twelve.”

  Her mother reached over and fingered the weave of the scarf. “Well done, my dear.” She gave Sally an approving smile. “That will keep someone nice and warm.” She slipped the wooden darning egg out of a stocking she’d mended, and placed it on the table beside her.

  “I’ve enough of them now, Ma. Can I bring the scarves to town tomorrow?”

  Mrs. O’Donnell glanced at her husband for his opinion.

  Her father laid down the harness and gazed at Sally, concern in his eyes. The lines around his mouth deepened. “I do na like the idea of ye going into town in the winter,” he said in his Irish brogue. “It’s a two-hour ride, Sally. What if a storm blows up?”

  “I’ll take shelter in town. You know the Nortons will let me stay with them. Please, Da. There’s only three days until…” With a tilt of her head, she glanced at the younger children, not wanting to say more. But her parents were in on her secret plan to provide a special Christmas for her siblings.

  Her parents exchanged glances.

  Ma selected a new stocking, slipped the wooden egg inside, and turned it over to expose the hole in the heel. “Let the girl go, Rory.” She began to darn.