Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection

by Debra Holland

  As Marta sat alone on the steps, she let her imagination take her to the kingdom of the Snow Queen. Although Vati’s stories had made the ice castle a bad place, Marta longed to live there, isolated from everyone, her heart as frozen as the world around her. Then she wouldn’t feel the overwhelming grief for her father and the loneliness of being far from her home and friends.

  Marta imagined wearing a crown of ice crystals and a robe of ermine and standing on the balcony of the palace, looking over the snowy grounds. She saw a lavender-gray sky above, and below in the garden, a zoo of fantastical ice-sculpture animals kept her amused. In the distance glittered a frozen lake she could skate on. She pretended to soar over the ice, her robe flying behind her like a cape.

  The smack of a snowball hitting her face yanked Marta from her fantasy kingdom. The cold sting brought tears to her eyes.

  She jumped up. Blinded by tears and snow, she raced away, heading toward the bakery, only to collide with a solid body—a man who held her upright and said something in a gentle voice.

  Marta swiped an arm across her eyes. As her vision cleared, she saw a tall man, like her vati, but with brown hair and gray eyes, instead of blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. His shoulders were broad, not like her thin vati’s. But something about him made her relax, and forgetting he couldn’t understand, she blurted out what had happened in a torrent of words.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  That word she did know.

  A woman stepped from his side. Marta hadn’t noticed her before, but she gazed in awe at the most beautiful lady she’d ever seen, more lovely than the exquisite Snow Queen. Unlike the Snow Queen, with her white flowing hair, crystal eyes, and milky pale skin, this woman had vibrant beauty, from her bright auburn hair, to her kind blue eyes and even features. She had pale skin, too, but with pink in her cheeks and even the tip of her nose from cold. The Snow Queen never showed the affects of the cold.

  “Vas ist lose, mine herzchen?”

  The familiar endearment and the words asking what was wrong stunned Marta. She gazed up at the lady in wide-eyed astonishment. “Sprechen Sie deutsch?”

  The man looked at the woman with equal astonishment on his face. He must have said something nice, for her cheeks became even pinker, and she looked pleased.

  “Ich bin in Deutschland geboren,” the lady said, explaining that she was born and raised in Germany because her father worked for the American consulate. She went on to introduce herself and her husband as Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Then she asked Marta to show her the boy who’d thrown the snowball.

  Marta turned to see the children, still caught up in their snowball fight, and pointed to one of the boys who wore a brown coat.

  The Thompsons exchanged rueful glances. “Jack,” they said together.

  Mr. Thompson cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jack,” he shouted. “Get over here, now!”

  About to throw a snowball, Jack glanced over at them. Another boy, who looked just like Jack, although dressed in a blue coat, took advantage of his brother’s inattention and aimed for him. The snowball hit him on the side of the head.

  Marta could tell the Thompsons were amused. Mr. Thompson’s jaw clenched, as though to hide a laugh. Mrs. Thompson pursed her lips, but she, too, smiled with her eyes.

  With a belligerent set to his shoulders, the boy trudged over to where they stood. When he saw Marta, a sheepish look came over his face.

  Mr. Thompson dropped his gloved hand to Jack’s shoulder. “Marta wasn’t playing the game. It was wrong of you to hit her with the snowball.”

  Mrs. Thompson translated for Marta.

  Jack kicked at a clump of snow on the ground. “I know. I just couldn’t resist. She made a perfect target.”

  The man’s voice hardened. “A perfect target is one you can test your skill on, like a moving boy. A girl who’s sitting still, not paying attention… That’s not worthy of you, son.”

  He’s their son!

  Jack looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Marta.”

  “Say this, Jack.” His mother told him the German words.

  Jack’s stumbling attempt to repeat them made Marta smile.

  “Ah.” Mr. Thomson grinned at her. “That’s much better.”

  Mrs. Thompson ran a mittened finger over Marta’s cheeks, wiping away the frozen tears. “I think coming to a new country is hard. Leaving everyone behind,” she said in their shared language.

  Marta’s throat choked up at the woman’s compassionate words and kind expression. She gave a vigorous nod of agreement, wishing her mother would be more like this lady, instead of telling Marta she’d just have to make the best of it.

  Again, the Thompson’s exchanged glances. The woman gave a decisive nod. “Our Christine is about your age. She’s been home with a cold. But when she’s better….”

  Another woman trudged up to join them. She wore an elegant blue coat trimmed with fur. A matching fur hat covered her blond hair. She panted a little, as if the walk had tired her, and placed her hand on the curve of her stomach.

  Self-conscious, Marta tugged down her too-short sleeves.

  Mrs. Thompson’s face brightened. She rapidly said something to the other woman, gesturing at Marta. Then she turned to Marta and switched languages, asking if she liked to sing.

  Marta gave an eager nod, then remembered the lady at the store who’d sharply told her to hold her tongue if she couldn’t sing in proper English. Heat flushed her, and she looked down at her feet.

  A gentle hand lifted her chin, and she looked into Mrs. Thompson’s eyes. “What is it, child?” she asked in German.

  Haltingly, Marta explained.

  With an angry expression, Mrs. Thompson said something to the elegant woman.

  The other woman replied in a tone that had sharp edges. But Marta sensed the annoyance wasn’t directed at her.

  Mrs. Thompson introduced the elegant lady as Mrs. Sanders and told her about the children’s choir. Then she asked Marta if she wanted to join.

  Marta felt her eyes grow big. “Can ich wirklich?” she breathed.

  Her words must not have needed a translation for Mrs. Sanders laughed and nodded.

  “What Christmas carols do you know?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  Marta started down the list, “’Ihr Kinderlein Kommet,’ ‘Oh, Tannenbaum,’ ‘O Du Froeliche,’ ‘Stille Nacht.’”

  “Silent Night,” Mrs. Thompson said in a decisive tone, then said something to the other woman.

  Mrs. Sanders took her hand and tilted her head toward the church. “Come, Marta. Choir is about to start.”

  The children saw them walking toward the church and broke off their game to run over and join them. A few shot curious glances Marta’s way, but no one said anything.

  Mattias loped to her side, an anxious expression on his freckled face, and began questioning her in German.

  “Perfect,” Mrs. Sanders said. “Mattias, everything I say, you translate for Marta. Will you do that?”

  Her cousin nodded, repeating her words to Marta. As they headed toward the church, Mattias gave her a quick explanation about choir practice and promised to help her learn the words of the songs.

  Marta walked with a bounce in her step. I’ll be able to sing.

  “I’ll bet she gives you a solo,” Mattias said.

  Marta slowed. “But I don’t know English.”

  He gave her a wise smile that made him look like a man, not a boy. “Just sing from your heart, little cousin. The words won’t matter.”

  ~ ~ ~

  On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Elizabeth and her friends decorated the church and schoolhouse. Between the six of them, the work progressed quickly. Wreaths of pine and holly hung in the windows.

  Elizabeth discretely stretched, trying to loosen her sore muscles. The pain in her back that had bothered her for the last few months had grown stronger the longer she worked. Tonight, after everything was over, she would ask her husband to give her a massage. She suppressed a sigh, wi
shing she didn’t have to wait. Nick had such good hands.

  Standing next to her friends, Pamela Carter and Samantha Thompson, Elizabeth surveyed the church. In the corner on one side of the altar, the Christmas tree Nick and John Carter had brought inside rose tall enough for the tip to brush the ceiling. Pepe Sanchez had carved and painted the gold star perched on the top of the tree. The women had decorated the branches with bows and handmade ornaments donated by the townsfolk, as well as glass bulbs sent from Boston. They’d tucked small presents into the branches. There were so many, some too big for the branches, that the gifts wrapped in cloth or parcel paper and brightened with ribbons and holly piled around the bottom of the tree and overflowed almost to the first pew.

  The last shipment had arrived from Boston, and Elizabeth finally felt she had enough of the right kind of gifts. And some to spare if more people than they expected showed up.

  The fragrance of pine wafted through the room. On the other side of the altar, Phineas O’Reilly had made a small grandstand of three rows for the children’s choir to stand.

  Elizabeth planned to hold the party at the schoolhouse, where they could put the desks outside, except for the ones holding the food, and push the benches against the walls. Harriet Gordon and Mrs. Norton were in charge of arranging the food that had already been provided as well as the desserts that people would contribute. She’d stop by later to praise their efforts.

  Alice Cameron, the doctor’s wife, placed one more gift next to the tree by the wall. Then she strolled down the far aisle and joined the three women.

  Samantha let out a weary sigh. “Finished. And only an hour to spare. I’m glad we decided to stay in town and change here. I’m too tired to drive to the ranch and back.”

  “The church looks beautiful,” Elizabeth said with pride, her gaze encompassing the women she now counted as dear friends. “Everyone’s going to be so happy. I can hardly wait to see their faces.”

  “Especially the children,” Pamela chimed in. Her brown hair straggled out of her bun and dangled around her plump face.

  Elizabeth thought of some of the poorer families, whose children might not experience a holiday. She didn’t know all of them, but her mind ran over the ones that she’d met, most of them in the choir she’d formed, imagining the joy they’d feel tonight. “Wait until you hear them sing.”

  “Twill be heart-warmin’, I’m sure,” Alice said in her rich brogue.

  Samantha laughed. “I don’t know how you’ve taken the children and turned them into a choir. My Tim, of course, has a beautiful voice and I’m looking forward to hearing his solo.”

  “Wait until you hear Tim and Marta. They sing like angels. But the rest of them…”

  Elizabeth had banished parents from rehearsals, wanting to keep their pageant a surprise. But she couldn’t resist a hint about one of Samantha’s adopted sons. “Little Feather … I mean Hunter, has turned out to have a nice tenor.”

  His mother laughed. “Really? The way his voice has changed, I’m not sure what would emerge.”

  They joined her laugher.

  Samantha’s blue eyes danced. She shook her head. “The bigger miracle, though, is that you persuaded him to join the choir.”

  Pamela gave a sage nod. “Didn’t surprise me. I’ve seen Elizabeth use her charm far too often, starting at about age four with her nanny. She could get away with almost anything. When we grew up and joined our mothers’ charitable endeavors, the organizations benefited from the donations Beth coaxed from the most resistant people.”

  Elizabeth playfully swatted Pamela’s arm. “Stop giving away my secrets.”

  Samantha placed her arm around Elizabeth. “Sorry, my dear. It’s not a secret.” With her other hand, she waved toward the tree. “A testament to your persuasive powers.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze met Pamela’s. “And a whole lot of prayer.”

  “The Lord has truly blessed us this Christmas,” her best friend agreed.

  A sharp pain stabbed through Elizabeth’s abdomen. She gasped, gripped her middle, and bent over, as much as her extended stomach would allow.

  “Elizabeth!” Pamela grabbed for her. “What is it?”

  The pain passed. Elizabeth regained her breath and straightened.

  Alice Cameron narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth. “Have ya been havin’ any other pains?” she asked, her Scottish accent thickening. “Cramps?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “My backache has worsened.”

  “Ya may be in labor,” Alice said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Fear shot though Elizabeth. My baby! “I can’t be! It’s too early.”

  “I know,” Alice soothed. “But babies come early all the time, and they’re just fine.”

  None of the women mentioned how often an early baby died.

  “I’m going to find my husband,” Alice said in a firm voice. “Mrs. Carter, if you would hunt down Mr. Sanders from the livery.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth commanded. “I’m not having a baby and missing the Christmas pageant.”

  Pamela’s hand tightened on Elizabeth’s arm. “Beth, you don’t want to have the baby during the pageant.” She tried to lighten her tone. “Using the doll as baby Jesus is a much better plan.”

  Elizabeth’s heart pounded with fear. Knowing the ordeal in front of her, she wanted to cry about the timing. She looked at the women surrounding her. All but Alice had borne children. She and Pamela had talked about labor, as her friend tried to prepare her for what Elizabeth would experience. But in all Elizabeth’s thoughts and dreams, she’d purposefully skimmed over the painful ordeal and focused on the baby she’d hold in her arms afterward.

  “You can’t go home,” Alice said. “It’s too far. You’d best come to my house.”

  Elizabeth resigned herself. Her thoughts flew through the night’s preparations. “My music is on the piano already. It’s in order, Pamela. I know you haven’t practiced the songs, but can you at least play the first chords? The children will have to sing A Capella.”

  “Elizabeth,” Pamela said in a firm tone. “I’m going to be right at your side. You’re not going through this without me.”

  Samantha brushed her hand down Elizabeth’s arm, reassurance in her blue eyes. “Mrs. Norton can play for the choir. Not as beautifully as you do, of course. But the children will be fine.”

  “Pamela,” Elizabeth pleaded. “You told me that first confinements often last a long time. Promise me you’ll go to the pageant then come to me. Between those labor pains, I’ll want to hear all about it.”

  Her friend looked unconvinced.

  “Please, Pamela. If I can’t be there, I want to hear how it went. I’m sure I’ll need the distraction.”

  “All right. But it will be hard to focus and enjoy everything because I’ll be worrying about you.”

  Elizabeth reached out a hand and clasped her friend’s. “I’m going to have a Christmas baby,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.” But first, I have to face the ordeal of giving birth.

  ~ ~ ~

  Surely the angels joined the good people of Sweetwater Springs, filling the church on that cold Christmas Eve as the children sang the praises of the newborn Christ child. Peace on Earth and Good Will to All reigned over the town, at least for the holiday, especially since the three saloons had closed their doors for the pageant and party afterward.

  The bartenders and saloon girls, dressed to look respectable, blended into the crowd of cowboys and other solitary men at the back of the church. Families packed the pews and spilled into the aisles. The heat from everyone’s bodies blended with the warmth from the stove to keep the evening chill at bay.

  The fragrance of pine from the decorated tree and the wreaths at each window filled the room. Lit candles made the ornaments on the Christmas tree glow, although John Carter stood next to the tree, a bucket of water at his feet, keeping a sharp eye on the lights. It wouldn’t do to burn down the church during the pageant.

  The children packed
the risers in the front that ran from one end of the church to the other, ending when they reached an enormous pile of presents around the Christmas tree. The gaily-wrapped presents distracted the children, although most had settled down to the business of performing, and only occasionally sent longing glances toward the gifts.

  The littlest children stood in the front row, wearing their Christmas best, no matter how worn and patched. They looked like cherubs with their scrubbed, shining faces and wide-eyed stares.

  Five-year-old Lizzy Carter was so impressed with her new finery, a red-velvet dress that matched her older sister, Sara’s, that she lost her customary shyness. Clutching a fold of her dress in each hand, she spread her skirt wide and twirled back and forth, much to the consternation of her mother and amusement of her father.

  Reverend Norton, clad in his rusty black coat, his austere face alight with Christmas joy, said a prayer to start off the pageant. Mrs. Norton played the opening stanzas of “O Come All Ye Faithful,” and the congregation joined in the singing.

  Alice Cameron sat alone in the pew, saving a place on her right. Not that she thought her husband had any chance of making the pageant. Somehow every Christmas, someone needed the doctor’s services, often for delivering a baby. But perhaps Elizabeth Sanders would have an easy and quick confinement, and Dr. Cameron would walk over and catch the end of the service.

  Alice slid a hand over her stomach to the baby she was sure grew under her heart. As the strains of “Away in a Manger” floated about her, like Mary after the visit from the angel, Alice held close her joy. Next year, please God, I’ll sit in this pew, listening to the Christmas Pageant, and holding my wee one. After ten years of longing and empty arms, they’d finally have a child.

  Tomorrow, she’d tell her husband the news. Alice knew she couldn’t possibly give him a greater Christmas present.