An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  Meanwhile, Wyatt had changed from outdoorsman to student overnight. Most of the time he steadfastly resisted Shana’s attempts to lure him for a run behind the dogs. The one time, he did go with her, he kept pace with her easily, shouting medical questions at her between strides.

  “How do you splint a broken leg?” he bellowed. As soon as she answered, he fired another question at her. “What’s the treatment for pneumonia? Why does moldy bread cure infection? What’s the best relief for the pain of an abscessed tooth?”

  She answered his questions automatically, while her fascinated eyes watched the way his muscles covered the snowy ground so easily, his mind absorbing the new information. It seemed to her that she was watching him stride forward into manhood. And yet when he suddenly gave her a sideways shove, sending her sprawling into a snowbank, she was perversely relieved to see him lapse back into boyishness. Giggling, she struggled to her feet, pelting him with snowballs all the while.

  At last the long-awaited letter from Dr. Aldrich arrived. The Baldwins and Cliftons gathered before the fire in the living room at Nika Illahee. Arthur read:

  Dear Arthur,

  God is so good! I cannot stop thanking Him for the strange paths by which He accomplishes his purposes. Long ago when I first heard your stories of the need in the Hollow, I felt as called as Peter, Andrew, James, and John must have felt when Jesus quietly said, “Come. Follow Me.”

  My work here has not been easy. Fighting poverty, poor diet, and mountain superstitions means giving everything I have, knowing many times it will not be enough. Each time I lose a patient, a small part of me is buried along with the child, the mother, the bearded mountaineer who has “fotched” my mail. Or whose callused grip of my hand makes me fear for my bones. Or who has bestowed on me a rare smile of unconscious charm.

  I often think of the English preacher and poet John Donne’s immortal lines from his 1624 Devotions for Emergent Occasions:

  “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

  Think of it, Arthur! Three centuries have come and gone, yet Donne’s words are as relevant to life in this secluded Hollow as if the poet had been born and raised here. I know you in Tarnigan must share my feelings, the necessary interdependence of those who live far from so-called civilization.

  Forgive an old man’s ramblings. They come from an overflowing heart. I also felt the need to let Wyatt and Shoshana know that no matter how hard the tasks here in the Hollow, it is all worth it. My people join me in rejoicing at the coming of your son and your friend’s daughter. Don’t be concerned about Mrs. Grundy and her raised eyebrows. We’re too far back in the hills to slavishly follow her manners and morals. Besides, I have explained to those here the impossibility of Dr. Clifton leaving his work long enough to bring his daughter to the Hollow. These people accept the practicality of his appointing your son to act as her brother and protector. It is as natural as breathing for the older children in families here to look after the “least-’uns.” As a sop to conventions, Nurse Shana, as she will be called, will live with a young widow and her small child. Emmeline is a little older than Shoshana and highly respected. I once had hopes of training her as an assistant, but young love, early motherhood, and the loss of her husband interfered.

  Is Shoshana knowledgeable enough to pass state nursing exams? What about Wyatt? My people have great respect for my certificate. Mounting others on the wall of the whitewashed cabin I use for a clinic would raise esteem.

  My lamp is sputtering a warning the oil is nearly gone, and daylight nears. I look forward to spring and the coming of the two courageous young people. Their youth, strength, and dedication may be the salvation of the Hollow.

  Below the signature were a few scrawled words, punctuated with a heavy black exclamation mark:

  Wyatt and Shoshana won’t have to ride muleback into the Hollow, as you and I did, Arthur. A road of sorts now permits automobile travel. Advise day of arrival. I will make sure they are met!

  “What a grand person!” Shana exclaimed. A thrill of pure excitement flowed through her. “Dad, do I know enough to get my certificate?”

  Bern Clifton considered. “I don’t know why not. What do you think, Arthur?”

  The mischief in the blond doctor’s eyes made him look only a few years older than his son. “She might squeak by.”

  “Well, I like that!” The corners of Wyatt’s mouth turned down and he leaped to Shana’s defense. “Hasn’t she helped with every malady known to mankind? Didn’t she stitch up the trapper she found mangled by a wolverine when we were miles away from Tarnigan? Wouldn’t he have died if she’d run all ladylike and shrieking to get one of you?”

  Arthur’s eyes almost disappeared in laugh wrinkles. “Seems to me she did.” His merriment subsided. He turned to Shana, whose face shone with pleasure at Wyatt’s spirited support. “I’m only teasing. You will pass. Easily.”

  “Thanks to you and Dad, Mother, and Inga,” Shana murmured gratefully. She smiled at Wyatt. “If you study as hard between now and when we leave Alaska as you have been since Christmas, I won’t be the only highly trained assistant.”

  He flushed beneath her warm approval. “Thanks for the lollipop, pal. What I don’t learn here, you can pound into my head on the way to North Carolina.”

  Chapter 5

  Winter reluctantly loosened its grip. Streams and rivers freed from their icy prisons babbled with the ecstasy of being alive and free-flowing once more. At daybreak on a late spring morning, the two missionaries and an Indian guide set out on their long journey. Heads high and unafraid, eyes damp but shining, they faced whatever perils might arise between their points of departure and destination.

  “I won’t look back,” Shana promised herself. “Jesus said in the ninth chapter of Luke that he who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is not fit for the kingdom of God.” She bid farewell to family and friends as composed as though she would return by nightfall, then followed Wyatt and Mukee up from the valley floor.

  Alas for Shana’s good intentions. Kobuk broke free from Bern Clifton’s firm hold and caught up with the travelers atop the rise from which Shana had so often observed Tarnigan. She felt herself tremble when the dog flung himself on her with a joyous bark. She fought the urge to bury her face in his fur and never let him go. “Home,” she sharply ordered. “Home, sir!”

  The malamute trotted a few steps down the slope. He halted, looked back, and whined. His pricked ears and rigid stance showed puzzlement that his mistress did not follow.

  “Home,” Shana called again. Her voice sounded thin. “Kobuk, go home.”

  The dog threw back his magnificent head and howled. His desire to stay warred with years of training. Body drooping, he backed away a few steps and dropped to his haunches. His excited barks shattered the stillness.

  “Ko–buk.” Faint but clear, Dr. Bern Clifton’s voice rang in the morning air. Ko–buk echoed from the hills.

  With a look of reproach Shana knew she would never forget, her canine friend headed back to Tarnigan. Through blurred vision Shana saw Kobuk reach the group of miniature figures in front of Nika Illahee. A final mournful howl floated up to the three on the hill. Shana turned away. Mukee’s impassive face softened into kindliness. “Kobuk, he be all right.”

  Shana said nothing. Could a dog raised and loved as the malamute had been, adjust to the absence of the person he loved most on earth? She had heard of animals that sickened and died when separated from their masters. “Please, God, don’t let that happen to Kobuk,” she whispered. Child of the wild, she saw no incongruity in asking God’s protection for her dog. The One who knew when a sparrow fell would surely show compassion on a lonely, abandoned malamute.

  Wyatt’s face wrinkled in sympathy and he wordlessly held out his hand. Shana laid hers in it and felt strength
flow into her. Without another backward glance, they left the crest of the hill and began their arduous journey.

  To Shana’s relief, the trip itself brought a measure of healing. The wilderness grapevine had long since broadcast the news that son and daughter of the Tarnigan doctors would soon tread the Alaskan mountains and valleys. The trio found welcome in remote and unexpected places. Vaguely familiar French and Indian faces appeared, their owners grinning and chattering with delight when the nomads of the north arrived at cabin or village. Shana recognized former patients. Wyatt discovered trappers he had met while running his lines. All shared what they had, and the visitors gladly accepted the rude shelter and coarse but strengthening food offered.

  Other provision for their care had been made. In spite of knowing the uncanny way those who dwell far from civilization communicate, Shana and Wyatt found it hard to believe just how quickly word could travel. “How could they know?” they marveled when Mukee calmly pulled an overturned canoe from its shelter of bushes by the side of a rushing river.

  A rare smile blossomed on Mukee’s lined face. He grunted and his obsidian-like eyes shone. “Perhaps the birds of the air tell them daughter of Clifton and son of Baldwin come.” He motioned them into the canoe, picked up a paddle, and sent the craft flying over the water. When the stream changed course from the direction they needed to go, Mukee waited until his charges clambered out, then beached the canoe far back from the water’s edge.

  “There will be other streams and rivers,” Shana said. “Shouldn’t we carry it?”

  The corners of Mukee’s mouth twitched. “Other rivers, other canoes,” he said. “We use. We leave. Mukee bring back when he come again.”

  The guide’s prophecy proved accurate. Only once did they fail to find a canoe when needed, placed there by unseen hands. That time, two bronzed Indians awaited their coming and safely transported them on their way.

  “We be here when you come,” they told Mukee.

  “How will you know?” Wyatt demanded, fun dancing in his blue eyes. “It will be many days.”

  Shana covered her mouth to keep from giggling at the Indians’ scornful dismissal of Wyatt’s ignorance. “We know.”

  “Will they wait here?” Wyatt asked after the others left.

  Mukee shook his head, a mute reminder that people who dwelt in the wilderness had better things to do than stand by the side of a river or stream until he arrived. Time enough to go there when needed.

  At last the travelers, whose trek together had firmly cemented their friendship, reached Fairbanks. Mukee immediately replenished his supplies and turned back. Shana silently watched him go. She mentally reviewed the paths his moccasin-clad feet would retrace, each stretch of white water, every lonely mile. Only the excitement of purchasing tickets to Anchorage and boarding the Alaska Railroad could overcome the sadness of parting from their faithful guide.

  A new world opened to Shana and Wyatt. Eyes used to far distances and few people widened at the crowds in Fairbanks, and then at Anchorage, where they took passage on a steamer bound for Vancouver and Seattle. At dinner time, Shana slipped into the dark silk traveling dress her mother had made, the dress that had ridden from Tarnigan in pack and canoe. When she shook out the wrinkles, the exquisitely stitched garment had no need to hide in comparison with more glamorous gowns. Shana’s lovely face, velvety dark eyes and hair, and strong white throat rose above the dark silk like an exotic white flower growing in rich black earth. More than one man cast wistful glances at the girl. A few attempted to scrape an acquaintance but fell back from Wyatt’s black scowl, assuming he must be a relative.

  Unconscious of the power of her charm, Shana was more concerned with the unaccustomed sight of glaciers and heaving seas than with her clothing. She and Wyatt spent every daylight moment at the rail of the ship. The Inside Passage especially appealed to them, with its forested islands, fjordlike coast, tumbling waterfalls, and glimpses of wild animals.

  Seattle left them both confused and eager to leave. “Like squirrels in a cage,” Wyatt disgustedly labeled the inhabitants who hurried to and fro. Neither he nor Shana rested during their one-night stopover. They agreed the scream of fire engines, the rattle and rush of a city that seemed never to sleep, outweighed the beauty surrounding Seattle. Even distant Mount Rainier on one side and the snowcapped Olympic Mountains on the peninsula across blue Puget Sound couldn’t make up for “too many people in too small a place,” as Shana called it.

  The cross-country railroad trip brought more wonders. “Who’d have dreamed it would be like this?” Wyatt murmured, nose pressed to the window glass with the curiosity of an unselfconscious child. Shana, who rode facing him, did the same, much to the amusement of fellow passengers. “Alaska has a lot of different kinds of land but precious few cities and fewer villages. Here you can’t go more than a few miles without coming to a little town.”

  “Wait till you get to the desert and the plains,” the kindly man across the aisle advised. “You’ll travel many a mile ‘tween towns and more ‘tween mountains.”

  Shana turned brilliant eyes toward the weather-beaten speaker who said he’d be getting off in Denver. “If I had to live where I couldn’t see mountains, I think I’d die,” she told him.

  The man’s keen gaze bored into her. “Just how I feel, ma’am,” he said heartily. “That’s why I picked Colorado when I went to ranchin’. You say you’re from Alaska? Well I reckon Colorado comes ‘bout as close to matchin’ your home for mountains as anyplace I know.”

  Shana and Wyatt fervently agreed when they saw the mighty Rockies.

  They told their new friend good-bye in Denver. Before he left them, the rancher said, “The Great Smokies ain’t like our Alaska ’n’ Colorado mountains, but accordin’ to pictures, they’re mighty purty. Good luck with your doctorin’ and nursin’, young’uns. If you ever come back this way, look me up.” He smiled until his eyes almost disappeared in crow’s-feet, then ambled up the aisle and down the steps. The whistle shrieked a warning. The engine rumbled to life. The train chugged forward, gathering momentum with every turn of the wheels that carried Wyatt and Shana toward their new home.

  “I hope the people in the Hollow are as friendly as this man,” Shana soberly told Wyatt.

  “If they aren’t, we can always come back and look him up,” Wyatt drawled. “He’d probably give us a job punchin’ cows.”

  “Why would anyone want to punch a cow?” Shana demanded.

  Wyatt exploded into mirth, but lowered his voice. “Haven’t you ever read western novels? Men who work with cowherds are called cowboys, cowpokes, and cowpunchers.”

  “Who cares what a cow heard?” Shana grinned at him, but relented when he rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ve read western novels.” A little trill of laughter escaped her. “When I was fourteen I was madly in love with Gene Stewart in Zane Grey’s book The Light of Western Stars.”

  “You were!” Wyatt sat up as though she’d dumped an icicle down his back. “How come I didn’t know anything about it?”

  “My goodness, Wyatt. Don’t tell me you’d pry into the secrets of a fair young maiden’s heart.”

  “You bet I would!” His blue gaze brought an unwilling smile to her face. He grinned, gave a mock sigh, and placed one hand over his own heart in an exaggerated gesture. “Aw shucks, Shoshana Noelle. If I’d known years ago you had a yen for cowboys, I could have been one. Can’t you just hear me yelling yippy-ki-yi and herding caribou your way?” Awe crept into his laughing eyes. “All this time and I never knew how to make an impression.”

  He paused and added irrelevantly, “I never heard of North Carolina having an overabundance of cowboys, did you? Especially in the Hollow.”

  Shana felt warmth steal up from the collar of her dress. “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to the Hollow to catch a cowboy or any other man.”

  “Indeed, you shouldn’t be,” he pompously approved. “Not when you already have an outstanding specimen of Alaskan manhood biding his
time until you decide to say yes to his offer of hand and heart.”

  “I certainly am glad for your lack of conceit,” she mumbled.

  “Faint heart never won fair lady,” Wyatt reminded. He closed one eye in a wink. “I just want you to keep in mind that if a pore, lonely cowpoke wanders into the Hollow, I saw you first!” He yawned, stretched, and added, “We can’t get to North Carolina any too soon for me. These train seats weren’t meant for my legs.” He shifted them restlessly, trying to find a place to stretch out their length. Shana giggled at his frustration.

  Many a quiet laugh brightened the lengthy miles for Shana and Wyatt. Time after time those around them said things that tickled their funny bones. Such as calling trickles of water that wouldn’t make a respectable creek in Alaska “rivers.” Or pointing out “mountains” in the distance that rose no higher than the smallest Tarnigan foothills. Only their laughter kept their long journey from deflating their spirits.

  At last, after days of travel, they reached Asheville, jumping-off place for the Hollow. Shana’s heart pounded. Tarnigan, Kobuk, even her parents seemed part of a different lifetime.

  A stocky, silver-haired man with dark eyes stepped forward. He held out a gnarled hand. “Miss Clifton? Mr. Baldwin? I am Dr. Aldrich. Welcome.”

  Shana’s spirit soared. Time, hard work, and worry had bowed the doctor’s shoulders. The three robbers had been unable, however, to dim his unquenchable spirit. More important, Dr. Aldrich’s look of gratitude and compassion made the travel-stained, weary girl feel that somehow she had come home.

  Chapter 6

  The scenery is like a series of masterpieces painted by the matchless hand of God,” Shana breathed to Wyatt. Fascinated by her introduction to her new home, she forgot the jouncing of Dr. Aldrich’s old car over what he called “a road of sorts.” Loveliness surrounded them, the Great Smokies at their best. Mountain laurel crowded close to the trails, great treelike shrubs wearing glossy dark green leaves and pink or white flowers. Some wore purple markings.