The River Girl's Christmas (Texas Women of Spirit Book 4)

by Angela Castillo

  “Mmm hmmm.” Wylder spoke to his horse and the two riders moved off.

  After packing up the cookies and a couple of spare cloth diapers, Zillia carried Margo to Grandma Louise’s home with Orrie skipping beside her. The air was fresh and crisp, mild like most December afternoons. The coldest Texas weather seldom came until after New Year’s Day.

  Grandma Louise came to the door, wiping her hands on an old apron Zillia recognized as one her mother had made. “Come in. We’ve lots to do for the next three days. Figured the busier we are the less worried we’ll be.”

  The rich scent of pumpkin filled Zillia’s senses, along with mincemeat, cinnamon, and half a dozen other delightful holiday aromas.

  Orrie stood in the middle of the kitchen and gave appreciative sniffs until Grandma Louise smacked him with a flour sack. “Go help Henry and Will. They’re out back peeling apples.”

  “For pie? You bet!” Orrie ran through the back door.

  The Christmas tree now boasted ornaments, strings of popcorn, and picture postcards sent over the years from Grandma Louise and Grandpa Walt’s Swedish relatives. Grandpa Walt had set the tree in the same corner Zillia’s parents had placed their tree when she was a little girl. A lump rose in Zillia’s throat. Will the ache ever go away? I still miss them so, so much. It had made sense for Grandma and Grandpa to buy her parents’ home and larger piece of land and for her and Wylder to move to the smaller cabin when they were married, but it was still hard to come back sometimes, to see someone else’s keepsakes and furniture and pictures replace the ones belonging to her family.

  Even though really, we are all family now.

  Farm dogs barked outside. Zillia raised her eyebrows at Grandma Louise “Could they be home already?”

  “Dear Lord, please let it be!” Grandma hastily washed clumps of pie dough from her fingers.

  A knock sounded at the door. “None of them would knock,” Zillia sighed.

  Sure enough, when Grandma Louise opened the door, Mrs. Fowler stepped in, her graying brown locks perfectly arranged beneath a white straw bonnet. Though the wife of a Methodist preacher, she refused to wear the dowdy clothes considered fitting for a woman of her position. She’d been the subject of gossip circles when her husband had first taken the pulpit, but had soon won the cackling biddies over by her graciousness and willingness to serve.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.” Mrs. Fowler swept off a knitted shawl and hung it on a hook by the door. “I’m sorry to come by without notice, but I need help.” She must have noticed the concern on the women’s faces, because her eyes clouded with worry. “My goodness, whatever is the matter?”

  “We’re waiting for Soonie and her husband to get here.” Grandma Louse dipped out a cup of apple cider from a pot on the back of the stove and handed the fragile porcelain tea cup to the pastor’s wife. “They were supposed to arrive last night. Wylder and Walt went looking for them about an hour ago.”

  “Well, I hope they’re all right.” Mrs. Fowler blew on her cider and took a small sip.

  “I’m sure they will be,” said Zillia. “Go ahead and tell us your errand, Mrs. Fowler.” The Fowlers had stepped in for her and Orrie more than once when they had been in need, and she was willing to do just about anything in return.

  “I went to take Mrs. Barnes some food today, and saw the dreadful condition of the house.” Mrs. Fowler wrinkled her nose.

  “I was going to come to town later this afternoon and tell you about the situation,” said Zillia. “How is the little girl?”

  “She was crying when I got there, poor thing. Just a mite, and dirty as a pig farmer. I tried to rouse her grandma, but couldn’t wake her. I sent for the doctor. He said this sickness isn’t usually so serious if a body has the right care, but because of the conditions she might not pull through.”

  Zillia bowed her head. “I should have come back into town that night to let you know. Only Mrs. Barnes was so insistent that I leave. I wasn’t sure if she would accept our help. She was even angry about the food.”

  Mrs. Fowler patted her hand. “Don’t blame yourself, dear. Mrs. Barnes has always been a proud, stubborn old soul. But she’ll have to be helped now. We’ve moved her to a home in town and are using church funds to hire someone to be a nurse and housekeeper for the next few days to see if we can help the woman pull through. She isn’t well enough to travel all the way to Austin to a hospital.”

  “What about Patsy?” Zillia asked.

  “That’s why I’m here. Pastor Fowler and I would have been happy to take her in for a time, but as you know, my daughter and her family have come for the holidays from San Antonio. We simply don’t have anywhere for her to sleep. I realize you are expecting guests, Mrs. Eckhart. Zillia, perhaps she could stay with you and Wylder?”

  Another child to manage? At least she’s older, and can pretty much care for herself. I’d hate to say yes without asking Wylder, but I’m sure he’d never turn away someone in need. And I can’t turn her away, not after knowing what it’s like to be abandoned myself. Taking a deep breath, Zillia nodded. “She can sleep in Soonie’s old room, to the side. It’s tiny, but clean and cozy. It will certainly be better than where she lived before.”

  “All right then, it’s settled. I left her outside with the boys.” Mrs. Fowler set her now empty cider mug on the table and rose from her chair. “She’s had lunch.” She lowered her voice. “But she really needs a bath. And if you plan to stay here for the afternoon you will probably want to give her one before you take her home.”

  Zillia placed Margo on a blanket in the corner and gave her a spoon and a pan to play with. “I’ll heat up some water.”

  “I appreciate the help. I’ll let you know as soon as the old woman’s recovered. In the meantime, I will try to contact her mother.” Mrs. Fowler shook her head. “It’s hard to believe any parent could leave their child in that terrible situation.”

  Zillia pressed her lips in a thin line. Not when it’s happened to you.

  The back door creaked open and Orrie came in, leading Patsy. Despite the children being two years apart Patsy wasn’t much bigger than Orrie.

  “I told Patsy she could have some cookies, and I thought there might be one for me,” said Orrie, peeking under the towel covering the basket of baked goods Zillia had brought.

  “You’re right. Take these out to your cousins.” Zillia handed three cookies to Orrie. “Skedaddle. I need to talk to Patsy.”

  “O.k.” Orrie glanced over at Patsy. “Hurry up, though, you’re supposed to show us how to whistle on that blade of grass.”

  “Course I will.” Patsy smiled shyly.

  “Good.” Orrie ran back out the door with his precious cookies in his hands.

  “Patsy, it’s good to see you again,” said Zillia, handing the little girl two cookies. Patsy took them and nibbled tiny bites from the edges. She’d probably rather wolf them down, but doesn’t want to seem impolite. She’s been taught some manners, anyway.

  The girl met Zillia’s gaze with her blue, hollow eyes and Zillia looked away. Poor little girl, don’t want her to feel uneasy. She’d experienced her share of stares and sympathetic smiles in her difficult years.

  “I’m glad you two are already acquainted.” Mrs. Fowler came over to the table. “And Patsy, this is Mrs. Eckhart.”

  “Call me Grandma Louise. Everyone else does.”

  The pot on the stove was steaming now.

  “Patsy, how would you like to get cleaned up and have some fresh clothes to wear?” Zillia asked the little girl, who was picking the last few crumbs of cookie off the tablecloth.

  The pinched face brightened. “A bath? Oh, it’s been so long. Could I really have one today? Now?”

  “Of course. But you’ll have to wear boy’s clothes. Just until we get home, then I’ll get you something from the things I’ve put back for Margo when she’s older.”

  The little girl pushed her long, stringy hair out of her eyes. “I don’t mind at all. Wore Jimmy’s cloth
es more n’ once. Jimmy was my twin, you know, though I was older by an hour, my ma said.”

  “Where is Jimmy now?” asked Grandma Louise.

  “Ma says he’s in Heaven, but my older brother, Wade, said he’s just in the church cemetery, since we were all at the funeral and we didn’t see no angels coming down to take him to glory. Ma says they’re invisible, but Wade said even if the angels can’t be seen, we could see Jimmy right there, down in the coffin.”

  Patsy told this story in a cheerful tone, without a trace of sadness in her voice.

  “Goodness,” was all Zillia could think to say.

  “Well of course he’s in Heaven, dear,” said Mrs. Fowler. “The reason you didn’t see him go was because only his spirit went. A spirit is something human eyes can’t see.”

  “Hmmm.” Patsy looked doubtful.

  Zillia lifted the pan from the stove. “Missy, this water is nice and hot. Let’s get you back here and clean you up before supper.”

  Patsy followed her into the small wash-room, where a clean wash tub, scrub brushes and soap awaited.

  “I’ll pour in the hot, and then I’ll pump a bucket of cold to add in so it won’t scald you to ashes,” said Zillia.

  “All right.” Patsy stared down at the floor, and chewed the end of her braid.

  “We’re going to take care of you, don’t worry.” Zillia patted her shoulder.

  “It’s not that. I was just thinking about Jimmy. I’m not sure if I want him going up to glory. It was kinda nice to think of him close by, even if he was in the church yard. ‘Course, he’s in San Marcus and I’m all the way here now.”

  Zillia stroked the little girl’s smudged cheek. “My parents are up in Heaven, too,” she said softly. “But I like to think there’s a way for them to know what I’m up to. And sometimes, when I say my prayers, I ask God to give them messages.”

  Patsy’s eyes widened. “Do you think God could give Jimmy a message for me?”

  “You can always ask,” said Zillia. “I just bet He would.”

  6

  Refuge

  The skin on Soonie’s hands burned, and she set the travois down and examined them. Three fresh blisters. No, four, if you counted the one by her thumb. I can’t do this much longer. It’s still half a mile to the bridge, perhaps further since we are skirting away from the main road. She sat down beside the travois and held her canteen to Lone Warrior’s cracked lips. “You need more of this.”

  He swallowed once and lay back. “Soonie, you are a good, tough woman. But we both know this isn’t going to work. Just leave me here and get help. I’ll be fine.” Fresh red flowed through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder.

  Soonie closed her eyes. Lord, I can’t leave him here. But I know he’s right. I won’t be able to go on much longer. Please give me wisdom.

  Looking up, she noticed a solid sheet of color through the ripples of forest trees and dead brown leaves. A wall. Maybe a house. Fear gripped her and she fumbled for the travois. What if evil people live here as well?

  Hesitating, she studied the path. Bushes and briars grew out over the trail, and in some places she’d had to push past saplings the width of her thumb. Surely someone would have cleared this trail better if they came here recently?

  “Wait here for a moment. I’m going to check something.” She tucked her underskirt a little tighter around her husband’s shoulders.

  He closed his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.

  Soonie struggled through the bushes until she reached the battered wooden house. The single, cracked window visible to her was too dirty to see through. She tiptoed to a sagging front porch, listening at every step, but the property was quiet as a church on Saturday. No animal sounds came from the broken down shed a bit further on.

  A weather-warped door hung from one hinge. After a brief struggle, she pushed it open.

  Dust filled her senses as soon as she stepped inside the cabin, along with the pungent odor of must and mouse droppings. She held her sleeve over her nose and mouth. The room felt barren, like it hadn’t held a human spirit for many years. In the dim light trickling in from the windows, Soonie made out a brick hearth, a table with two rickety chairs, and a bed with a rotted straw tick. Mice scampered past her feet when she stepped forward, and the floor protested beneath her feet. In this desperate moment, the place seemed like a grand cathedral of refuge.

  How in the world am I going to get him in here? She went back out to the ancient porch, which seemed as though it could collapse with every step. I can’t leave him by himself for too long . . . it’s getting colder, and he needs shelter and rest.

  In front of the house sat the remains of a chicken coop. Rusted wire sagged to the ground, and rotted boards stuck up in the air like broken bones. Soonie picked her way through the brush and thorn bushes in the yard and pulled on a couple of the boards. Most were useless, but the termites had spared a few. She dragged these to the porch and laid them across the steps. Pushing against this makeshift ramp, she tested them with her full weight to make sure they would hold. This will work. This has to work.

  Lone Warrior lay where she’d left him, his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

  “My love, I have somewhere for you to stay. I just have to get you there.” She touched his face, her fingers light brown against his dark skin.

  He opened his eyes slowly, as though the effort pained him. His mouth turned up in a weak smile. “All right.”

  Pain shot through her fingers as she lifted the travois once more, but she gritted her teeth and moved forward. A little further. Just a little further. I can do this. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

  Once she reached the ramp, she stopped and checked to make sure he was still tied on to the travois. “Don’t want you slipping off,” she said.

  Lone Warrior gazed up at the porch roof with wide eyes. “Who owns this place?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to try to start a fire in the stove and boil some water. I have to at least clean your wound. I need to redress it . . . maybe find something for us to eat. Hold tight, this is going to be a little bit bumpy.”

  “All right.” Lone Warrior took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  “I love you so much. I hate to see you in pain.” A tear slipped down Soonie’s face and she bent to kiss her husband’s cheek.

  “Hey, none of that.” Lone Warrior wiped the tear with his thumb. “You need to be strong for both of us. Get me into that house and we’ll rest. Maybe you can go for help a little later this afternoon.”

  ‘Maybe.” She swallowed the rest of her tears and picked up the travois once more.

  Pulling with all her strength, she managed to drag the craft up the ramp and into the house. She placed it down with care, but the action still caused a cloud of dust to rise up around them.

  Lone Warrior coughed.

  “Sorry. I know it’s not the best place, but it’s better than being out in the open. Let’s get you off those sticks.” She considered moving him to the bed, but she wasn’t sure she could lift him up there, and anyway, the straw tic was disgusting. She sighed. The whole cabin was filthy, but it was still shelter from the weather, and protection from wild beasts if and when she went for help.

  She spread her underskirt over the worst of the grime and helped her husband roll onto the material. Rolling up his jacket, she tucked it under his head. After cutting the shawl free, she covered him over once again. “There you are. Snug as a baby in a sling. I have to figure out how to get a fire started.”

  “Clean the chimney first,” Lone Warrior murmured.

  “Right.” Soonie found an old broom in the corner and poked it up the fireplace. A shower of leaves, ashes and bird nests came down into the grate. She swept them out and to the side and kept poking until nothing else came down. “I think that’s done it.”

  The mantel was a thin frame that stuck out from the wall a few inches. When she ran her hand along the top, he
r fingers closed around a flint box. “Wonderful.” She showed it to Lone Warrior. “I’ll fetch some wood and be right back.”

  “And I will be here.”

  Wisps of grey cloud had crept over the blue while she brought the travois inside, and a new chill filled the air. Soonie shivered as she searched the cabin yard for dry wood. There was plenty now, but the air felt heavy and thick. Looks like we’re in for a storm. I’d better gather extra.

  Flashes of lightning jabbed the sky. She brought in several armloads of wood, stacking it by the wall closest to the fireplace.

  On the fourth load, thick drops of rain began to dot the ground. Her heart sank. I can’t go for help in the heavy rain. Perhaps it will let up soon.

  She rushed the last armload of wood inside, built a fire, and used a bit of hay from the old mattress as kindling. In a few moments, a cheerful little flame crackled in the grate.

  “The fire feels nice,” Lone Warrior murmured.

  A rusted bucket stood in the corner, and Soonie dumped the dust and grime out on the porch and went into the rain to fill it in the creek she’d noticed earlier. When she got back inside, she hung it over the fire. “Hopefully it will hold enough to boil the water.” She glanced over at Lone Warrior. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell in a deep rhythm. His skin was still clammy but looked better than it had out in woods.

  She felt his forehead. No fever. But when she pulled back the bandage to check his shoulder, the jagged wound was red and angry, though the bleeding had finally stopped.

  For a few moments, she knelt over him and prayed. Then, with tears on her eyelashes, she went back to work.

  As the rain stopped, darkness closed around the cabin like a glove covering a fist. Soonie boiled a handful of her jerky in some water and fed the broth to Lone Warrior a bit at a time.

  His swallows came with difficulty, and every few sips he rested his head back as though the effort was almost too much.

  Soonie smoothed the creases in his forehead. “Remember that time we heard the wolves?” she murmured.