Wil sat with his hands in his lap rather than digging in to his meal.
“Coffee?” Of course he wanted coffee, but he was so quiet and still, it felt unnatural.
He nodded, a quirk teasing his lips.
She must not look at his lips.
After bringing two cups to the table, she took the chair across from him. Bold perhaps, but just as the hairs of her head were numbered, so were Wil’s days in the house.
“I have something for you.”
Her spoon paused above the sugar bowl. “You do?”
He reached across the table and laid that something on the cloth, his big hand hiding it.
Then he lifted his hand.
A tin figure lay before her, shaped along the lines of a gingerbread man cookie cutter. But instead of forming two legs, the bottom edge curved into one smooth line, turning up on each side toward the place where arms would be. And instead of short, narrow arms, the tin spread wing-like on each side, unfurling near the top with a round head between them.
She covered her mouth, attempting to cover a cry.
“Do you know what it is?”
Blinking futilely against tears, she nodded, afraid to speak.
His brows dipped. “Do you like it?”
Impulsively, she reached for his hand and he took hers in both of his.
“Yes. It’s perfect.”
Relief eased his shoulders. The muscles in his face relaxed, and his eyes warmed. “Like you.”
Lena had run short on many things in her life, but never words. And now, when she needed them most, all but two had vanished.
“Thank you.”
His smile said everything else.
CHAPTER 11
Christmas Eve came as quickly as Lena had feared. Her fretting had slowed it not one bit. But she was ready. And this year the children’s bags held more surprises than ever before, including one sugar-sprinkled angel cookie each.
As much as she delighted in them, she also grieved. Again Christmas had become an odd mix of joy and pain, bitter and sweet, up and down. Never would she look at that tin cutter and not think of the rough cowboy whose strong, capable hands had created such a delicate prize.
The night was clear and cold, sparkling like the angel cookies as everyone filed into the church. It seemed a larger crowd than before, and they pressed into the main room, filling the pews and standing along the back wall near a stately spruce. With barely contained childish anticipation lacing the atmosphere, Pastor Thornton wisely kept his message brief, ending with mention of Lena’s favorite carol.
“‘Silent night, holy night,’ the song writer penned. I suppose one out of two isn’t bad. Unless that blessed Infant was sleeping, I doubt it was a silent night in Bethlehem’s stable.”
A soft chuckle of agreement rippled through the parishioners.
After a Christmas blessing, the lamps were lowered, candles lit, and the lovely strains of “Silent Night” filled the room. Several more carols followed, until at last the back pews were moved forward, making room around the festooned spruce in the corner. The lamps were turned up and women offered bowls of hot cider from tables along the wall.
Paper chains and popcorn garland decorated the tree, all the work of little hands. And two dozen paper bags skirted beneath it, awaiting distribution among those young ones.
Lena served at one table, ladling cider into cups and wishing Christmas blessings to those who stopped to warm themselves. But her focus was never far from the tall cowboy across the room who warmed her heart, visiting with the men, one a stout old smithy with blackened fingers and a shy, soft look around his eyes.
A miracle, to her way of thinking.
Had Wil changed his uncle’s mind? Said something that turned the man’s heart from grief to grace and brought him to the service after all those years of pain? What a gift.
As families began to leave, each child took a paper bag on their way out. Lena noticed a little yellow-haired girl standing off by herself, no siblings or parents nearby. Perhaps a visitor, too shy to crowd the tree with the others.
A woman soon appeared with an infant in her arms and ushered the girl toward the door.
Lena’s heart stopped. She glanced at the tree, so gaily decorated yet missing all its paper bags. Not one was left, and the quiet little girl would leave empty-handed. How could Lena let that happen?
Frantically, she searched the room for someone she could generously rob, promising to make it up to them the next day. And then she saw him.
He stepped out from behind the men and walked calmly toward the little girl and her mother. Kneeling down before the child, he held out a paper bag. The girl beamed, as if he’d given her a gift most precious and hoped for. She thanked him and from the top of the bag plucked a soft blue yarn doll tied with a yellow ribbon.
Lena gripped the table’s edge to keep from falling. Wil must have noticed, for he was suddenly behind her, bracing her with a hand on each shoulder, steadying her with his quiet strength.
“It’s him,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“There. With the little girl and her mother.”
At that moment, the stranger straightened and faced them, his thick fur coat unfastened, a cap in his hand. Eyes the color of a blue winter sky.
He looked straight at Lena and smiled. Then he dipped his head toward Wil and walked to the door.
“Stop him.” She whirled and clutched Wil’s arms. “You must stop him. Please.”
Wil stepped sideways, preparing to comply in spite of his first trip without crutches or cast. “Did he take something?”
Peering into Wil’s worried eyes, she questioned how she could explain it to him, to anyone for that matter?
When next she looked, it was too late. The stranger had slipped out into the night.
~
Christmas Day dawned prior to sunup by a good half hour, but by the time Wil made it down to breakfast, he nearly didn’t get any.
Not that he was late. It was more of a fend-for-yourself affair.
He’d helped move furniture the night before, so the kitchen table and chairs had already been commandeered elsewhere. He’d also helped drape pine-bough garlands across the mantel and over the doorways. The whole house smelled fresh as a forest after rain.
A train of young’uns showed up early with juniper boughs, their dusty-blue berries boasting alongside little gold bells tied on with red ribbon. Lena laid them down the length of Doc’s table that she’d covered with a fancy cloth.
There wasn’t room left for a Christmas tree, except maybe in Wil’s room upstairs. But with all the rearranging, extra chairs, and greenery sprouting everywhere, it didn’t much matter.
The surgery door was closed, and Doc was in the parlor busy with a feather duster and a scowl that said if Wil snitched on him, he’d break his other leg.
Didn’t blame the fella, but he needed to talk to him. Now preferable to later.
Wil had assumed Doc and Lena would exchange gifts last night after the church service, but no such thing happened. Lena had been as distracted as he’d ever seen her, and Doc had kept Wil busy moving furniture.
Sensing opportunity might pass him by, he cornered Carver where he was, dusting the wood trim of a settee and a side table.
“I need to talk to you. Now, if you don’t mind.”
Doc paused his feathered frenzy, waiting for what he no doubt hoped was a quick comment.
Wil pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, careful not to dislodge a small paper-wrapped package. Anticipating Doc’s refusal along the lines of his uncle’s, Wil grabbed the man’s empty hand, slapped the roll in it, and spoke before Doc knew what he held.
“I figure that’s what I owe you for pasting me back together, feeding me for two months, and puttin’ up with my grumbling.”
“I—”
“If it’s not enough, let me know. Much obliged and Merry Christmas.”
“But where—”
“I may pre
fer whiskey to laudanum, but I’m not a drinking man, so I haven’t spent much over the years. Nor do I gamble. Other than one time on a good horse that nobody else believed in, and I come out just fine on that deal.
“Paying what I owe you won’t make a dent in the stake I saved for my ranch. Besides, I got a good deal with the previous owner when I showed him my coin.”
Doc dropped to the settee, short on words but long on appreciation, judging by the way he worked his jaw.
Feeling like he towered over the man he was about to ask the most important question of his life, Wil took the chair on the other side of the small table and turned it to face Angelina Carver’s older brother.
~
Lena’s faith was rewarded once again. Perhaps it was the spirit of giving that overtook everyone on Christmas. Guests were abundant, as was the food they brought, and her tables had overflowed with savory meats, sweet garnishes and preserves, and desserts of every kind imaginable. Mulled cider filled the house with a spicy aroma, layered against seasoned dressing, sugared ham, and strong coffee.
Nearly everyone from church showed up, thankfully in waves, rather than all at once, for that would have truly taken a miracle to fit them all into the house. Children found seats on the stairway and considered it a fine adventure, which left chairs for their parents and elders.
Rebecca Owens and her father brought mincemeat pies that captured Tay’s attention. At least that was what he tried to make everyone think.
The single disappointment of the day was the absence of Wil’s Uncle Otto. But he’d come to church the night before—a first that Lena could remember. Perhaps next year he would come for the feast.
To her great delight, everyone left happy and full, and well before dark. The perfect ending to a busy day.
Suddenly weary, not only from her labors but from weeks of anticipation, she untied her apron and draped it over a kitchen chair. Wil and Tay had returned all the furniture to its rightful places, and she had sent most of the food home with their guests, especially families with children.
As always, the aftermath left her melancholy, and she sought respite by the fire. If the men joined her, she would give them their gifts and then retire to her room.
And if she were truly fortunate, Wil would leave before she rose tomorrow morning, for she could not bear to tell him good-bye.
Pulling her shawl off the rocker, she tugged it around her shoulders, cold despite the fire’s warmth. Perhaps Tay had been right, and the dark-eyed cowboy had made a difference in her. But as far as that went, she would never know for sure.
With nothing to knit, she sat idly, tipping the rocker with the toe of her shoe.
He entered without a sound.
Standing quietly apart, he watched her, not smiling but neither frowning. His pensive expression held her, commanding her attention and drawing painfully upon her emotions.
“May I join you?”
Forever. “Of course.”
She indicated his usual seat. “Your chair awaits.” Across the hearth and miles from my heart.
He pulled it closer, centered it before the fire, and turned it slightly to face her as he sat, left leg habitually extended but close enough to brush her skirt.
Her pulse leaped.
A worried line pulled between his brows, and he turned a small package over in his hands. Then he looked right at her, into her heart, and his eyes caught the fire’s glow, shining as if from within.
“Before I broke my way into your Piney Hill home, my life was as dark and empty as my plundered saddlebags. But there you were, hidden inside, full of light and laughter, healing and comfort.”
Without her apron, her hands fumbled to hide themselves in her skirt, but he reached for her left one and cupped it in his strong, warm grasp. It was useless to pull away.
“I love you, Lena Carver.” His voice was river-deep, stunning her into disbelief as it swept her along.
“I never expected to say those words to any woman, but you changed my mind with your wit and your warmth. Your generosity and beauty.”
She was not beautiful. Had never been beautiful. She began to point that out, but he continued.
“Will you marry a cowboy with a bum leg, a measly section of land, and no cattle? Yet.”
He cleared his throat, then swallowed, and his thumb gently brushed the back of her hand. “Will you be my wife and help me build a life in this country, be the mistress of the Circle B Ranch and mother to our children?”
Time stopped, as did her heart and her lungs, and she silently ordered them to function as they should. Swooning upon the hearth would never do, especially if he had really said what she thought he said.
Had she heard right?
“I’ve spoken with your brother, and he gave his blessing, but it’s yours I want. I expect you’d like some time to think over your answer. At least I hope you’ll think it over and not turn me down flat.”
He considered the mysterious package for a moment, then offered it to her. “This is your Christmas gift. Now might not be the right time, but I didn’t see any other opportunity.”
She gently pulled free of him and immediately felt the loss, the absence of his warmth and strength, his silent promise of protection.
The crude wrapping bore evidence of a man’s attempt, quite unlike the wonderfully crafted cookie cutter he had made. She loosed the mercantile twine and unfolded the brown paper to reveal a delicate pair of embroidery scissors, decorated with tiny blossoms and perfect for snipping yarn.
Amazed once more by his keen perception of what was important to her, she pressed them against her heart. “Thank you.”
A dog barked.
Wil stiffened and looked over his shoulder.
She rose from her chair and went to the window. Daylight was fading, but she caught a figure crossing the field in front of the cabin.
The dog barked a second time.
And she knew. “It’s him.”
“Who?”
She ran down the hall and out into the evening without her cloak or gloves or scarf. Across the lane and into the field, she held her skirt high and followed a silvery dog that bounded over the snow.
Stumbling, she fell to her knees, catching herself with her hands. Wil was there, and he lifted her.
“There!” She pointed to the edge of the woods.
The man stopped and turned, catching the exuberant dog’s front paws against his heavy fur coat. He ruffled the dog’s ears, then lifted a hand to them. In two steps, he disappeared among the trees, the dog close behind.
Wil encircled her shoulders and pulled her close against his side. “Looks like you’ve lost your dog.”
Her dog? “I thought it was your dog.”
He stared down at her.
She shuddered. “No?”
He shook his head, then scooped her up and carried her back toward the house. Halfway across the field, he stopped.
Lifting her head from his shoulder, she followed his gaze to the untrodden blanket of white near the cabin.
The image lay pristine in the snow, legs swept in arching quarter circles, arms cresting high and wide, leaving the impression of wings. Lena wriggled from Wil’s arms and stood next to him, searching for a telltale sign, a footprint. Anything.
But there was nothing. Only the sparkling crystals of dry powdery snow swept into the shape of a child’s imagination. She rubbed her arms, the flesh goosing up.
Again she searched the edge of the woods where the stranger and his dog had disappeared. Then she looked into the eyes of the man she loved with all her heart. The man who believed her. Who loved her in return. Who wanted her to stand beside him the rest of her life—just as she was.
And for the first time she knew that having all the fingers on her left hand could not have made life any better than this.
He pulled her to him then and gently cradled her face with his hand. How deep his dark eyes, how full of promise and hope.
“Yes,” she whispered
into the blue-cold. “Yes, I will marry you, Wil Bergman, love of my life.” Her breath took flight and hovered between them.
Until smiling, he bent to warm her lips with his own.
~~~
Thank you for being an Inspirational Western Romance reader.
I hope you enjoyed Lena and Wil’s story as much as I enjoyed discovering it.
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Acknowledgements:
Thank you to all who aided and supported me in the telling of this angel story: my early readers Jill, Amanda, Donna, Nancy, and Susan; Anke Giegandt for her help with the German language; Ann Goldman and knitting crew for their “purls of wisdom;” my editor, Christy Distler of Avodah Editorial Services, and the Creator for His unlimited, surprise-filled, and inspiring creations.
About the author:
Bestselling author and winner of the Will Rogers Gold Medallion for Inspirational Western Fiction, Davalynn Spencer keeps busy #lovingthecowboy and writing heart-tugging romance with a Western flair. Learn more about her books at www.davalynnspencer.com.
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~ May all that you read be uplifting. ~
Snow Angel: a romantic Christmas novella Page 9
