Yuletide Treasure

by Jillian Hart

  “You’ll have to open it to find out.”

  Everyone watched as Louise opened the box and lifted out a hand-carved nutcracker. It stood at attention, the arm that was saluting the mechanism to work the jaw to crack the nuts. But instead of a soldier’s hat, he wore a black derby, and a gold-painted watch fob closed his red vest. Long pants, instead of lederhosen, and dress shoes, instead of boots, a contemporary gentleman. She held him up, her face wreathed in smiles. “And I know who made him.” She turned the figure upside down to show the initials LG and 1910 on the flat surface. “Thank you, Arley. I’m sure you had no idea that I had another with those initials from long ago.”

  Arley blushed crimson. “I did know, Grandmother. It was the one I fell on and broke, then had repaired by Mr. Gunderson. Someone told me a wood-carver had set up shop on the little road north of town, and I went to him to see if he could repair it.”

  “And I did,” Lawrence said. “And look what the Lord has caused to happen.” He spread his arms wide. He reached behind his chair and pulled out a box with holes in the sides. “This is for you, Arley.”

  A mew came from inside the box as Arley lifted off the lid. The gray kitten with white feet looked up at her. Her gaze flew to her grandmother, who nodded with not quite a smile. “He really is mine?” Arley asked.

  “He needs to go back to his mother for a few more weeks, but he really is yours.”

  Arley sat down with the kitten in her lap, stroking his head and back.

  “So, the rest of the gifts?” Louise whispered.

  “Oh, sorry,” Arley said with a smile.

  “I’ll pass them out,” Henny said. “You hold your kitten and think of a name for him.”

  Sometime later, when the wrappings were all folded and put in a box, the packets of gift money given out and the staff had cleared off the table and were in the kitchen preparing dinner, Arley turned from the kitten dozing on her lap and looked up to see Mr. Gunderson watching her.

  “Thank you,” she said, “if I forgot to say it before.”

  “You are welcome indeed. I had to do a bit of arm-twisting to get your grandmother to agree, but she really is soft at heart.”

  Arley didn’t bother to argue with him, although those had never been words she would have used to describe her grandmother. He’d probably been away too long to know the real Louise. But if the look of peace on her grandmother’s face was any indication, perhaps God had indeed worked a Christmas miracle.

  The doorbell had begun to ring as guests began arriving for dinner and the afternoon’s festivities. As usual, Arley acted as hostess, taking people’s coats and pointing them in the direction of the parlor, where some were gathering, and the sunroom, where others were.

  The bell chimed again and she answered a question over her shoulder as she opened it. “Please come—” Her voice froze. Nathan Gunderson stood on the steps, violin case under one arm and a carpet bag beside him.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “I was to be here earlier, but the train was late.”

  She stared into his eyes, no longer seeing the hurt and anger there, but a steady gaze that warmed her clear to her toes. “I…ah…won’t you, I mean…” She took a step back. “Please come in.” Surely he could hear her heart pounding.

  “You invited me to play, remember?”

  “But you never answered me.”

  “I knew I had to go talk with my father, and I wasn’t sure how it would go.”

  “I see,” she said, not seeing anything at all but the upward curve of his lips. He was truly smiling.

  “You missed the party.” She held out her arms for his cloak.

  “But I am here for this one.” He hung his hat on the hall tree. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “And my grandfather and your grandmother, are they, I mean, is everything all right?”

  She resisted the urge to touch his cheek. “They are like two magnets you cannot pull apart.”

  “So there is romance in the air?”

  “We shall see.” She led the way into the parlor where her grandmother was holding court. “Grandmother, I want you to meet Mr. Nathan Gunderson, the other Gunderson who worked so deftly on the dollhouse. Mr. Gunderson, my grandmother, Mrs. Dexter.”

  “Well, young man, I was beginning to have my doubts that you would make it.”

  “Had the train gone any slower, I would have gotten out and walked.” He bowed slightly over her hand.

  “Welcome and Merry Christmas.” She glanced at Arley and said quietly, “He did bring his violin, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Good.”

  Arley wished it could have been the one he made, but she knew that would take many coats of lacquer and hours of sanding before it would be ready to play. She’d read up on violin making in the encyclopedia in the library.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” When he shook his head, Louise continued, “There are appetizers in the other room to tide you over until dinner, which will be served in about an hour.”

  The doorbell rang again and Arley turned to answer it, but saw Henny hurrying down the hall in her place. So instead, she showed Nathan the way to the food table.

  “Is my grandfather not here?”

  “He took Gabriel back to the comfort of his family.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “My kitten.”

  “I see. I thought your grandmother…”

  “There have been many changes here in the past few days. Would you like hot cider, eggnog or coffee to drink?” Her fingers kept wanting to reach out and touch him, make sure he was real, but her mind was adamant. She would behave in a proper manner.

  The only remaining seat was the piano bench, so she sat him there and joined him when he patted the space beside him.

  “Do you play?”

  She nodded. “Adequately.”

  “We could play together?” His eyes spoke more eloquently than his words. Was she reading his language correctly? How could she know, for she’d never done this before. Only what she’d read in novels, but if this was drowning in his eyes, she’d better come up for air.

  “Arley, is it possible that you could care for a man who has terrible moods at times?”

  She gasped as his words struck her heart. She gathered her courage. “Is it possible that you could care for an outspoken woman?”

  “Indeed, yes. You are a part of the reason I told my father I was not coming back to work in the family business, and while he is not happy with that, I most certainly am.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Make violins, work for my grandfather. I will no longer be wealthy, but I have enough to live comfortably.” He gazed into her eyes again, this time touching the back of her hand with the tips of his fingers. “Shall I ask your grandmother if I may court you?”

  “I think that would be a very good idea.”

  “Perhaps we should build another dollhouse. So that I can see you every day.”

  She smiled back at him, turning her hand over so he could stroke her palm. The shivers running up her arm made her neck warm and then her cheeks. If this was indeed turning into love as she suspected, surely this was another Christmas miracle, a second for the house of Dexter. Nathan had come back, the finest gift for the finest Christmas.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Although Arley and Louise are both strong-willed women, who have each suffered loss and sorrow, they live their lives from different perspectives. What characteristics contribute to Arley’s compassion and Louise’s disdain?

  Do you think Arley was right to hide the dollhouse gift from her grandmother since it would be a public presentation rather than private? What was she hiding herself from?

  Nathan found healing through his music. What other areas of creativity in The Finest Gift contribute to healing? Which do you most identify with or wish you could do? Why?

  Nathan seemed to think there were only two opposite ways to settle the confl
ict with his father. What other ways could there be?

  Orphanages and other public institutions have undergone extensive changes since the early 1900s. Do you think the attitudes displayed in the story toward caring for the needy have changed, also, or are still just as mixed? What underlying premise determines choice?

  A BLESSED SEASON

  Jillian Hart

  The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying, I have loved you with an everlasting love: I have drawn you with loving-kindness.

  —Jeremiah 31:3

  Prologue

  Montana Territory, December 7, 1883

  Another job done, Rafe Jones thought with satisfaction as he tucked the bounty money he’d collected into his billfold. The bitter-cold streets of Helena were nearly deserted this time of evening. While he stood in darkness, lamplight shone from upstairs apartment windows and neat rows of houses.

  Hard to imagine what life might be like inside those homes. He took a moment to ponder it. The faint sound of jingle bells from the next street broke the oppressive quiet. It was nearly Christmas, and tonight most folks were with family and glad to be there. Rafe shook his head. He couldn’t imagine it. The only memories he had of family were best forgotten.

  He was just reaching to untie his gelding’s reins from the hitching post when he heard nearly silent footsteps on the frozen earth behind him. Trouble? It was hard to tell. There was no punch of warning in his gut. No rise of the hair at the back of his neck. He drew his gun, anyway. Better to be safe than sorry.

  But when he spun around on his boot heel, the street was bare, the night still. No one lurked in the dark. He scanned the hard-to-see place on the near side of the boardwalk. Huh. He was sure he’d sensed something. He could feel something—

  The edge of his jacket was tugged sharply. At the same time he heard a small intake of breath. He looked down and saw the top of a child’s head, which had been blocked from sight by his drawn weapon. So, he wasn’t alone.

  “M-mister?”

  He holstered his Colt and took a good look at the kid. A little girl with sleek fine hair shining platinum in the faint lamplight glow. Maybe ten years old. Hard for him to tell, since he wasn’t around kids much, not in his line of work. She looked bedraggled, even in the shadows, in a ragged wool coat a few sizes too big for her with half the buttons missing. The skirt of her dress, visible beneath the coat hem, had more patches than original calico.

  Poor thing. “You lost your ma?”

  “How did you know?” Her round eyes stared up at him in wonder. Pretty, light-colored eyes, which were too big for her heart-shaped face. “My name’s Holly and I heard you talkin’ to the sheriff when I was sweeping the boardwalk for the missus.”

  Had a child been outside sweeping when he’d arrived with his latest quarry? He hadn’t been paying any mind. He’d had business to tend to. “You’d best go home, little girl. It’s mighty cold out here. Feels like it’s fixin’ to snow.”

  “That’s why you gotta help me, mister. I wanna go h-home.” Her voice broke over that last word.

  Hard not to feel touched by that. He drew himself up straight, determined to do his best not to be. “The sheriff’s still in his office. You’d best go ask him to take you home.”

  “He can’t help me none. I already asked.” There were no tears, only stark sadness in those big eyes. “I heard the missus saying that you was the kind of man who found people who run off. Maybe you could find my ma.”

  “No.” The word was out of his mouth before he could even think it. “Sorry, kid. I don’t track missing parents. Likely as not, she took off for a reason. You don’t want a ma like that, anyway. I know from personal experience.”

  “But, mister, I been praying and praying for the angels to help me. I started when Pa first took sick and I didn’t stop, not when he died. Not even when I had to go to the home or when I got hired out to work for Missus Beams.” There was nothing but pain on her little face and honest innocence in her voice. “The angels musta heard me cuz they sent you.”

  A tight feeling hit him dead center. The next thing he felt was the punch of alarm in his gut and the quiver of the hair on the back of his neck.

  Yep, he was in a whole mess of trouble. The warning had come too late.

  Chapter One

  Angel Falls, December 16

  He was a poor excuse for a bounty hunter, yessir. Rafe flipped an extra nickel onto the scarred wooden bar, ignored the grit and cigar smoke thick in the roadhouse’s air and did his best not to think about what buying this sarsaparilla would do to his hard-won reputation.

  “No whiskey?” the barkeep grumbled around his plug of tobacco.

  “I’ll let you know when my tongue needs wettin’.” He wasn’t keen on liquor. It had been the downfall of his pa. He might not have much schoolin’, but he was at least smart enough to learn from his pa’s mistakes.

  He grabbed the glass and didn’t let the looks from the men at the bar bother him none. Then again, if having a little girl at his heels hadn’t damaged his reputation as the toughest gun in three Western territories, then a sarsaparilla wouldn’t have much effect.

  With her chin on her hands, Holly stared gloomily at a knot in the tabletop. Trouble, that was what he felt as he wove between the tables. He’d forked over cash to that horrible Mrs. Beams for the child, no questions asked, and ever since his responsibility for the orphan girl weighed on him.

  Lucky break that he was immune to soft feelings of any kind. He was especially immune to big blue eyes as pure as the great Montana sky and blond curls that framed a porcelain face. Even in orphanage castoffs, poorly fitted and so worn that the patches were patched, she didn’t tug at his feelings. Not a bit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rafe.” She sure looked happy. A treat like this she would never have had in any orphanage or working for that Beams woman. “My pa got me a sarsaparilla once a long time ago. I don’t hardly remember it.”

  He slid the drink onto the table in front of her and took his seat, kept a good watch on the men around him and put his back to the wall. The little girl gripped the glass with both hands and took a dainty sip.

  Rafe looked away. He couldn’t let in a single feeling. No good ever came from that. He thought of the fancy sewing kit made of pearl and gold that belonged to Holly’s ma. He was helping her in hopes of a finder’s fee, not because of big eyes that had more worry and vulnerability in them than he knew what to do with. Really.

  “I like it,” she said simply with a small smile. “It reminds me of my pa.”

  Yep, he had his heart set against her. The last thing he intended to do was get attached. He eased the chair back a ways from the table to give himself more space.

  “So, are we gonna find my ma now?” She studied him over the top of her glass as she sipped more of the drink.

  “We aren’t gonna do anything.” How many times had he told her that? “You’ll be staying at the hotel with the woman I’m payin’ to watch you. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  He scowled, not enough to scare her, but so she’d know not to start askin’ him a thousand questions. Again. He’d never come across a more talkative being. Conversing with her, why, it was the first step toward getting hooked. He was a loner and liked it that way.

  While the girl sipped—why didn’t she just gulp it down and be done with it?—he considered their surroundings. The roadhouse wasn’t much better than a saloon. Not a good place for a child, but it wasn’t as if he was welcome in the finer establishments in town. He knew that from personal experience, too.

  There were a few rough folk he intended to keep a close eye on. That gunslinger at the bar, for example. He looked like trouble. The man was lean and restless, wearing patched-up boots, homemade trousers and a tailored woolen jacket far too fine for the rest of his clothing.

  Stolen, no doubt. The polished, expensive Colt Peacemaker holstered at his hip, tied down securely to his belt and thigh with the safety snap free, said it all. That one
was lookin’ for trouble. Men with that attitude tended to find it. Rafe kept his eye on him, even when the cook brought them their food.

  The girl eyed the roast-beef sandwich and stew hungrily. The long ride over the mountain pass had been hard on her, and he regretted that. But since he had a whole Continental Divide of regrets, he could only knuckle back his hat and brace himself for what was coming next.

  She folded her hands together, bowed her head and peered at him through her lashes with a schoolmarm look, waiting for him to do the same. He obliged, although it had been a long time since he’d believed enough to bow his head.

  “Dear God, please bless this food,” she began in her high-noted voice. “And bless Mr. Rafe for takin’ me to find my ma. Please let her be prayin’ to see me, too. Amen.”

  His gut twisted up. He grabbed his sandwich and took a bite. “Remember what I told you?”

  “Not to get the cart in front of the horse?”

  “Yep. Or your high hopes might be in for a hard fall.” He couldn’t seem to find the words to say what else he was afraid of. How disappointment would drive the innocence out of her like a mean winter wind. In his work, he didn’t see the good side of life—or of people. He cleared his throat, which had started to ache. “You can start hopin’ when I tell you to.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rafe.” She sipped of her sarsaparilla, looking as if she didn’t believe him one bit.

  The rough at the bar eyed him with challenge. There was no mistaking it. Not in the mood, Rafe met his gaze and gave a growl. Seconds beat by before the troublemaker turned away. Backed down. Good.

  The girl had gone right on talking. “Do ya think we can find my ma before Christmas? Do you think she’s nice? She’s gotta be nice.”

  “There’s no telling what kind of woman she might be.” He wasn’t a gambling man, but if he was, he’d bet Miss Cora Sims might not be the pure and loving mama Holly made her out to be.