Downstairs, she drew her rocker close to the hearth and inventoried her yarn, pleased to find enough brown to make a scarf for Wil. The lovely warm color matched his dark hair.
Perhaps he would think of her on cold blustery days at his ranch.
Shaking off her melancholy once more, she took up Tay’s sage green cap, a fitting complement for his eyes.
Giving was her antidote against the crushing sense of loss that attended each Christmas. Giving and deliberate gratitude. It kept her mind from despair when she counted off her blessings—a kind and competent brother, a warm home, and food enough. A few friends at the small church, and children there to make up for those she would never have.
So each year, she threw herself into the festivities, as simple as they were. And the meal she and Tay shared with all who would come on Christmas Day. Each contributed something—a pie, preserves, sweet potatoes, starched linens, cider. She invited everyone she knew and a few she did not. Former patients, neighbors. The smithy.
Her neck and shoulders tightened. Such an invitation had begun the rift between them somehow. She still did not understand his harsh reaction, as if he hated Christmas and everything it stood for.
But in spite of Otto Bergman and his cold shoulder, life was not so bad. She could have lost the whole of it those twenty years ago rather than a few fingers.
Comfort slid around her like loving arms—providential provision, she knew. When I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me. Hadn’t Pastor Thornton mentioned that verse just last Sunday?
As her needles softly clicked, creating one stitch and then another, she thanked the Lord again for her odd approach to what other women took for granted. They might scoff at her unorthodox method, holding the left needle with thumb and forefinger and propping it against her stomach, working the yarn with her right hand. But she had produced many a cap over the years. Mittens, shawls, and socks too.
It warmed her to think that her labor would in turn keep warm the men for whom she cared the most.
~
Already the road to town was melting into muck, and Piney Hill’s Main Street looked like someone had poured a river of hot cocoa between the buildings.
But Wil had a new idea. Two, in fact, and both required a stop at the livery.
Doc stayed in the buggy again.
“Hallo, Wilhelm.” Otto met him halfway up the alleyway between stalls, gripping his hand like the smithy he was. “You are still in the cast.”
“And will be until after Christmas. But I need a couple of favors.”
“Ja?”
“First, a stump out by your hitch rail so I can climb up to the buggy seat when we leave. I’m not ridin’ on the back again in this soup.”
Otto peered out the door. “I can do this.”
“Next, I need to use your nippers. And a large empty tin, if you have one.”
Otto raised his chin and peered down his nose at Wil as if he’d lost his bearings.
“I’m making something for Miss Lena.”
At that, the big man whuffled like an old horse, but he went to his office and came back with a peach tin still sticky with juice.
“Danke,” Wil said, the old word spilling out without any forethought. “I’ll be back shortly to work on this.”
If Otto had hard feelings against the Carvers, particularly Lena, things might get ugly. Pa had always said blood was thicker than water, but as far as Wil could figure, Lena had cleaned up more of his blood than his uncle ever had.
He still owed the man, and he’d be sure to show respect. But he might have to find work elsewhere.
Wil trudged through the melting snow between the livery and the hitch rail and stopped next to Doc. “I’ll be gettin’ some clothes and meet you here in an hour.”
Surprise straightened Doc’s back, and he gave Wil a thorough once- or twice-over. “You could fall in this muck, with only one crutch.”
“And I could do just fine.”
Doc didn’t have much say in the matter since he couldn’t pick Wil up and plant him on the buggy box.
“Otto’s gettin’ me a step so I can climb up to the seat for the return trip. I’m not showin’ up at the house again all mud-splattered from ridin’ on that buggy box.”
Doc’s features cinched tight, but he conceded. Again, no choice.
He looked over his shoulder and pointed with his chin. “Two blocks back on this side. Owens’ Dry Goods. If they don’t have what you need, check at the mercantile across the street.”
Wil raised his hand to a hat brim that wasn’t there. Another item for his list.
“Is there a land office in town?”
Winnie stepped forward, out of sheer boredom, Wil figured.
Doc pulled her in. “Next block past Owens’.”
The sun told Wil he had more than two hours till noon. He needed only one. “What time is it?”
Doc checked his pocket watch. “Half past nine.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
Doc was right about more than the time. It was tough goin’ in the mud before Wil reached the boardwalk. Slick as snot through a tin horn. And he was sure he knew the origin of that old saw “stick in the mud.”
Owens’ Dry Goods had what he needed—trousers, two shirts, under riggin’s, and boots that would do for now. A stockman’s knife and a good John B. wide-brim, high-crown Stetson that set him back eight dollars. Razor and brush, and a blanket-lined canvas coat. He didn’t have immediate need for a rifle and slicker, so they could wait.
Owens’ daughter made sure Wil knew who she was as she wrapped his purchases in brown paper and string, mentioning Doc Carver’s name a half dozen times in the process. Wil could read sign. Didn’t take a genius to see who she’d set her cap for.
Good storekeep that she was, she didn’t even twitch when he pulled his old rolled-up sock from his boot top and paid with a Double Eagle.
He slapped on his new hat and headed for the land office, where news wasn’t as encouraging. Not as many sections for sale as he’d hoped. But a couple were worth checking out as soon as he could ride. Course, by then it’d be the dead of winter.
However, one thing Wil had going for him was worth more than all the money in his sock and all the land in Colorado.
Hope.
He hadn’t survived this whole mess to give up now. Plus he had a little more motivation than he did a month ago.
Doc was waiting when Wil made it back to the livery. So was a stump standing next to the hitch rail’s near post.
Wil handed up his parcels. “I’ve got one more thing to do. Can you wait?”
“Sure.” Doc cut a side glance toward the livery’s big double doors like he didn’t think too highly of the proprietor.
“I won’t be long.”
And he wasn’t. It didn’t take but a minute to cut the tin into three rounds, slice out the bottom, and file the edges smooth.
Otto watched him with sullen interest but said not a word.
When he finished, Wil tipped his hat. It felt good. “Obliged.”
Otto nodded and stoked his fire.
Wil turned for the alleyway, then stopped. “You goin’ to Christmas Eve at the church?”
Otto snorted louder than his billows. A dark glare Wil’s way was answer enough.
His guess must be right, but even so, his uncle had no cause to take it out on the Carvers.
At the buggy, he passed the tin pieces to Doc, then leaning on the crutch, stepped up on the stump. The buggy was close enough for Wil to plant the crutch, grab hold of the seat’s arm rail, and swing in.
“Miss Owens said to tell you howdy.”
Doc didn’t look at him, just shook the reins and got red in the face. Winnie sucked her hooves out of the mud and plodded ahead. Apparently, the mare didn’t enjoy the effort any more than Wil had.
As they approached the road that turned off toward the Carvers’ place, Wil threw the fat in the fire.
“If you don’t mind
my asking, Doc, how did you and Otto get cross-ways?”
CHAPTER 9
Wil dropped the tin pieces in his hat and set it lightly on. With Doc’s help, he got all his parcels out of the buggy and past the dining room door without Lena asking any questions.
After Doc left to tend to the buggy, Wil shoved a few things under his cot and pulled the blankets back. He unfolded and spread out his new clothes, then covered them with the blankets. No self-respecting cowboy wore creased britches, lookin’ like he’d just pulled ’em off a store shelf. Though he had.
With a winded heave, he collapsed on the cot. He’d done more in one morning than he had in a month, and his body didn’t mind telling his brain it wasn’t happy with him.
The dog trotted in and dropped down next to the cot with a similar grunt.
Not long after, quick footsteps on the staircase took Lena to her room and back down again. No footsteps at all meant she was tiptoeing to the surgery to check on him. For nursing or for other reasons, he wasn’t sure, but he’d take either.
The movement of her skirt gave her away, plus a whiff of cinnamon that had forever imprinted her in his mind. She stopped by his feet, her voice soft.
“Are you in pain? Or hungry?”
He couldn’t help himself. A smile broke out like measles, and he opened one eye. “Not much and always.”
She tipped her head in that way she had, tilting his heart with it. He pushed up on his elbows. Prettiest gal he’d ever known, but he didn’t think she knew it. How to tell her without runnin’ her off?
“I have some hot soup on the stove. Coffee too.”
“Cookies?”
That brought her hands to her hips and a snap to her eyes.
“You didn’t feed ’em all to the dog while I was gone, did you?”
It raised its head, and she glanced at it. “Now, there’s an idea.”
She whirled and her dark skirt fanned out, and he had a sudden vision of dancing across the room with her.
With his cast and crutch, there’d be no dancing anytime soon, and he laid back and tried not to think about it.
He must have dozed off, for at a strange sound, he came upright, braced for battle. She was setting a tray on the table next to him. Soup and coffee sloshed.
Her eyes were wide and dark as pine trees, not meadow soft. He’d frightened her again.
“Beg pardon, Lena. Don’t know why I’m jumpy as a jackrabbit.”
Using the folded napkin, she sopped the spill. “Maybe it has something to do with your injury.” She looked him up and down as if huntin’ clues. “Do you remember anything about what happened?”
“Wish I did. But after seein’ my saddle and stirrup at the livery, I think Duster must have dragged me a ways.”
She picked up the tray and transferred it to his lap. “Tay and I thought the same thing. When he brought you in, you looked like someone had plowed a field with you.”
“Felt like it too.” He spooned in the soup, eyeing a couple of cookie pieces on the backside of the teacup saucer.
“My ma made gingerbread men at Christmas. Just like these.”
“Broken?”
Tickled, he sputtered against his spoon.
“I’ll get you another napkin.”
“No.” He reached for her arm, then drew back. “I mean—stay. If you don’t mind.”
She blinked and fussed with her apron.
“You could sit with me while I eat.”
Avoiding his eyes, she slipped something from her apron pocket to the dog, then pulled the rocker closer and sat down, hiding her hands in her apron.
Steaming coffee, thick soup, and beautiful company. Maybe he’d died and made it to heaven after all.
She let him eat in silence, her hands fidgeting under the white fabric like they needed something to do. She didn’t jabber like some folks, and he imagined she could sit out by a campfire at night and enjoy the quiet as much as he did. He imagined—
“Did you get everything you needed in town?”
He laid his spoon aside and dunked a cookie in his coffee. “Not everything. But I will in time.”
She watched the broken ginger man travel from his coffee cup to his mouth.
“I suppose dunkin’ cookies isn’t proper here.”
Her laugh fluttered out, soft-like. “Oh, it’s not improper at our table. Maybe at the Christmas Eve party at church…”
She stalled and looked straight at him. “You are coming, aren’t you?”
Wild horses and real plows couldn’t keep him from it. “If you’ll have me.”
Bad choice of words.
“I mean, if it’s open to the public, yes, ma’am. I should be walkin’ on two legs by then.”
Her easy smile made him warm on the inside, and he couldn’t figure how he’d live after Christmas if she wasn’t with him.
“I’d best get to work.” She stood and picked up the tray.
He kept the coffee and raised the final cookie. “Do you make other shapes besides busted-up men?”
“Very funny.” She balanced the tray on her hip. “Stars and trees. Circles. Simple forms. I also make sugar cookies and popcorn balls, and we fill small bags for the children on Christmas Eve, enough for each child to take one home after the carol sing.”
“Does Otto come?” The question fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.
Her eyes dulled. “No. I invited him a few years ago, but he’s never attended. Something I said upset him, I think.”
Wil had stuck his neck out a couple times in the last few hours. Once more shouldn’t make any difference.
“I’d like to tell you something about my uncle.”
She sank to the rocker, open faced and listening, the tray on her lap.
“Otto is my pa’s older brother. When I was a sprout, his wife, Inga, made Engelszopf every Christmas. She gave it as gifts and brought it to family dinners and church socials until the winter she took sick and died.
“After the funeral, Otto found three braided loaves, covered and rising on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t noticed them before, and by then, it was too late to bake them and give them away. They were ruined.
“He never attended another family gathering or church event. Said God had stolen Inga from him, and he’d never forgive Him for it. Not long after, he pulled up and left.”
Lena had gone pale and sat staring across Wil’s cot as if watching the scene unfold on the papered wall.
“Such loss,” she finally whispered. “And at Christmastime.”
~
Lena set the tray on the kitchen table, where she returned the sugar and cream, then put Wil’s dishes in the wash pan. He might sleep through to supper, the way he looked. He must have traipsed all over town this morning.
A loud chock sounded behind the house.
She stiffened. Again, the sharp ring of steel splitting wood.
Through the kitchen curtains she saw Tay raise the ax with a two-handed swing and bring it down on the upright end of a pine log. Snap!
The wood box by the stove was almost empty, something he usually didn’t let happen. He‘d been preoccupied lately. Or vexed. Whatever it was seemed to power his efforts, and his hair bounced into his face with every blow of the ax.
Was he worried about one of his patients? Or had he seen Otto Bergman in town this morning? He’d taken the blacksmith’s rudeness more to heart than she’d expected. He needed to let it go. Besides, she didn’t need him bristling on her behalf at the remarks of ill-tempered old men.
Her heart squeezed again at Wil’s account. A hundred little pieces fell into place, like wood chips flying around the chopping block. But in her mind’s eye, they fell into the puzzle of a gruff old smithy’s life story. Of the wound he bore. Embittered and riven with resentment.
She’d had no idea the blacksmith carried painful memories of Christmas. Surely, turning his back on God had made them even harder to bear. No wonder he had rebuffed her.
Arms full,
Tay headed for the house.
She opened the door and stepped aside. “Thank you. I’ll be baking today, and a full wood box is exactly what I need.”
“Before I go, I’ll stack more on the porch so it’s out of the weather and easy to reach.”
“Go? Where are you going? What about dinner?”
He rubbed his shirt sleeve across his brow, perspiration shining there in spite of the cold. “I need to check on Mrs. Stanley. Her baby was a little colicky last time I was out to the house. And Joe Cooper’s arm is about healed up, but I want to make sure he’s well enough to return to work. He’s faunching at the bit like somebody else we know.”
Oh, she knew.
“While you’re stacking, I’ll pack sandwiches and cookies for you to take. I’d rather you returned before dark than spend daylight here eating dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cocked a stiff hand in salute as he left.
She followed him out. “And, Tay, don’t forget to stop by Owens’ Dry Goods and remind Rebecca and her father about the Christmas dinner.”
Exasperated, he waved her off without looking back.
She went back inside, chuckling,. Rebecca Owens needed no reminder about Christmas dinner or anything that had to do with Dr. Taylor Carver, for that matter. But Dr. Carver, on the other hand, was mule stubborn and deaf as a post if he didn’t know she had eyes only for him on Sunday mornings. She probably didn’t hear a thing Pastor Thornton said.
As fun as it was to torment Tay about the young woman, if Lena didn’t get serious about her baking and knitting, Christmas would be upon her before she knew it.
She sat down at the table and wrote out her plans for Christmas dinner.
Three turkeys or eight chickens if no one donated the birds, wild or otherwise
Ham - if the Taylors brought it
Corn bread dressing
Baked beans with side pork and molasses
Sweet potato mash with molasses
Yeast rolls and biscuits
Pumpkin and dried peach pies
Mashed potatoes, gravy
Cookies
Preserves
Fresh butter
Mulled cider
Coffee
Snow Angel: a romantic Christmas novella Page 7
