Log Cabin Christmas

by Margaret Brownley

  Orange and yellow hues from a kerosene lantern sitting on a corner cabinet, along with coals from the fire, shed some light into the dusky room. While he tossed logs onto the grate, she stepped farther into the room and took in her surroundings.

  A buckshot rifle, identical to the one her pa had, hung high above the fireplace mantel. A wave of sadness washed over her. She never found her pa’s gun. It had been nowhere near his body. She wondered where it had gone. Something about her pa’s death had never set right with her, but she wouldn’t dwell on that right now. It hurt too much.

  She switched her focus to the open fireplace and the three slatted, straight-back rocking chairs in front of it. How she’d love to sit in one and rest a bit. Her muscles ached from traveling so far in the thick snow. Even sitting on the round top of the steamer trunk against the wall sounded good at this point.

  She lifted her gaze. The room appeared distant and moved like clouds pulled by the wind. Having very little to eat for several days was taking its toll on her. Before the light-headedness sent her to the floor, she needed to find a place to sit. She didn’t want to get in Amadeus’s or the boys’ way. Surely it would be all right to sit at the kitchen table in one of the knotty-pine chairs or on one of the benches. They looked mighty tempting. Mighty tempting indeed. Amadeus had told her to make herself at home. The decision was made.

  Blinking back the fog, she made her way to the closest kitchen chair and lowered herself onto its hard surface. Flames from the two lanterns on the table danced and twirled in her vision, making her dizzier. She pulled her attention from them, and within minutes her vision cleared.

  Heat from the nearby Glenwood cookstove worked its way into her bones, warming her and making her eyelids heavy, but she would not allow herself to be rude and fall asleep. She blinked twice, forcing her eyes to stay open, mentally making notes to keep herself awake. To the right of the stove stood a breadboard counter with drawers, cabinets, a pull-out flour bin, and gray-and-brown crocks that must hold baking powder, sugar, molasses, honey, spices, coffee, and tea.

  Her attention swayed as sleep dropped over her once again. She shook herself and forced her mind to continue the litany of kitchen items. Next to the breadboard counter stood a shelf with two blue, speckled dishpans. Hanging on the wall above it were towels, a knit dishcloth, and a bucket. Next to that stood an open-face cabinet filled with dishes.

  The boys headed toward her. One of the twins dropped his head and scurried past. From his earlier shy behavior that had to be Ethan. The other flashed her a wide smile with two front teeth missing. That boy had to be Jakob.

  She shifted in her chair. Balancing their toy buckets, they climbed the built-in ladder between the two bedrooms up to a loft. The only things she could see there were a single mattress, a trunk, and a few clothes on the wall.

  Butted up against the farthest bedroom wall were shelves loaded with bottles of tonics, jugs, lanterns, jars of canned fruits, vegetables, fish, and chicken.

  She’d never seen so much food and supplies in one place before. Her stomach growled just thinking about all that fare.

  “You warm now, fräulein?” Amadeus asked beside her.

  She looked up at him and nodded. “Yes. I am. Thank you. The heat feels nice.”

  “Das ist gut.” He smiled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. I forget sometimes. I say, that is good.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She smiled her understanding.

  With a half nod, he moved to the cookstove and raised the iron lid. After stirring the ashes, he added logs.

  When he finished, he turned and peered over her head. “Did you sleep well, Mama?”

  “Ja.”

  Awnya spun in her chair.

  A short woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a navy wool dress with an apron, ducked under the line of laundry and headed toward them. Isabella followed, her face scrunched as if she’d just eaten a sour apple.

  Awnya stood on weak legs.

  “Mama, this is, Fräulein Awnya O’Crean. Awnya, this is Louissa, my mama.”

  “Nice to meet you, Awnya. Such a beautiful name. Und such beautiful red hair.”

  “I think it’s ugly. It looks like marmalade jam,” Isabella’s whisper reached Awnya’s ears, but she pretended she hadn’t heard it. Her father didn’t though.

  “Isabella. What is wrong with you?” He glanced at Awnya. “Again, I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness.” He looked back to Isabella. “Apologize to our guest.”

  Isabella’s gaze lowered. “Sorry.”

  Even though she knew the girl didn’t mean it, it didn’t matter. Awnya would forgive her anyway. “It’s okay. I’ve always thought my hair looked like marmalade, too. I wish I had pretty hair like yours.”

  Isabella jolted her gaze to Awnya’s. She twirled a strand of her own hair around her finger.

  Awnya followed the movement around and around and around. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so good. The room appeared dimmer than it had a few minutes before, and even the glow from the kerosene lanterns had dimmed. She reached behind her and felt for the chair she’d been occupying but couldn’t find it. White dots pranced in the dark shadows around her. “I think I’m going to …”

  “Isabella, get water.” Amadeus carried Awnya’s limp body into his mama’s bedroom and laid her on the feather mattress.

  “Did I cause her to faint, Papa?” His daughter’s eyes, filled with fear, shifted between Awnya and himself.

  “Nein, nein, liebchen. Lack of food has made her weak. Go und get water now, please.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She fled the room and within seconds returned with a glass of water.

  “Will she be all right?”

  “Ja.” He took the water from Isabella, raised Awnya’s head, and laid the glass against her lips. “Come, Awnya, you must drink.” He let the water run into her mouth.

  She stirred as the liquid trailed down her chin. Her eyes opened. “What—what happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “Oh dear,” she whispered.

  Seeing Awnya faint had resurrected a heartbreaking memory, one Amadeus wanted to forget. The image of his wife slumping to the floor and never regaining consciousness crashed in on him. He forced the image from his mind, knowing there was nothing that could be done for Georgina, but for Awnya there was.

  Though he had just met her, she stirred something inside him he had not felt since Georgina’s death. His arms ached to hold Awnya, to explore his feelings toward her. But now was not that time. “Isabella, ask your grossmutter to bring Awnya food please.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Awnya sat up, but not without bouts of swaying, which she tried to hide. “Please don’t. I’m fine.”

  He hiked one brow then turned to his daughter. “Tell Oma we are ready to eat. Und help her set the table.”

  Isabella nodded and left the room.

  He faced Awnya. “I vill help you to the kitchen.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I’m fine. Really.”

  Not believing it for a moment, he stood, draped his arm securely around her shoulders, and led her to the kitchen table.

  She felt good tucked under his arm. A perfect fit.

  He missed having someone to talk with. To wake up to. To share his life with. Yes, he had his children and mother, but it was not the same. He wanted a companion. A wife. With Christmas only twelve days away, he silently prayed, Lord, for Christmas, the only gift I want is Awnya.

  Awnya bowed her head while Amadeus said grace. When his prayer ended, Louissa filled their bowls and passed them around. Braided bread came next. Each person tore off a chunk. When everyone had their food, they began to eat.

  When she took her first bite, chicken, carrots, celery, onions, and little clumps of dough similar to heavy dumplings melted in her mouth. “This is delicious, Mrs. Josef. What kind of soup is this?”

  “Please, call me Louissa. It’s chicken rivel soup.”

  “Rivel?
Is that what the little dough balls are?”

  “Ja. It was my Oma’s recipe. Meine mutter teach me to make it, und I teach Isabella.”

  Awnya looked at Isabella. “You made the soup?”

  “No. But I helped.”

  “Well, you did a very good job of helping. My mother used to make great soup, too, but this is one of the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  The little girl beamed. Then a shield of nonchalance fell over her.

  “You said ‘used to’.” Amadeus’s voice pulled her attention to him.

  “Yes. My mother died several years ago.”

  “Und your papa?”

  She put her spoon down and placed her hands in her lap. “He passed away, too.”

  “I am sorry for you, Awnya.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. No one.”

  “No one at all?” Ethan blurted.

  When she looked at him, he dipped his head.

  “If I do, they’re in Ireland, but my parents never mentioned anyone else.” She picked up her spoon and shoved soup into her mouth, hoping they would take the hint and move the conversation in a different direction.

  “Papa, Awnya could become part of our family. You could marry her, and she could become our mother.”

  Awnya gasped at Jakob’s boisterous suggestion. A vegetable chunk stuck in her throat. She coughed and hacked, trying to dislodge it.

  Amadeus rushed to her side and patted her back until her airway cleared. Then he leaned close and for her ears only said, “Sounds good to me.”

  Her gaze flew to his. She searched his eyes to see if he was serious; after all, they’d just met.

  Sincere blue eyes smiled at her, making her wonder if it might very well be possible.

  Chapter 3

  In the shadowed bedroom, Awnya stretched her arms under a tied, patchwork quilt. One of the taut ropes underneath the mattress pushed a chicken feather through the sheet, pricking her skin. She shoved it back through and tossed the blanket aside. “Brrr.” Cold air penetrated the flannel nightgown Louissa had lent her, the one an upset Isabella informed her was her mother’s.

  Awnya slid her legs over the wooden frame and stood. She leaned over and tossed the covers into place and then shoved her bed under the frame of the one above it, the one Louissa and Isabella had shared the night before.

  She rubbed her arms, hurried to the window, and pulled aside the quilt curtain. Very little light filtered into the room due to the heavy cloud cover.

  Snow swirled around the window, adding inches to the drift against the porch rail. Unless things changed, Awnya wouldn’t be going home today. She let the curtain fall back into place.

  She felt her navy and brown wool dress to make sure it was dry before getting dressed. At the bedroom door she paused, savoring the aroma of coffee and bacon that wafted from the room beyond.

  Isabella stopped talking to her father and scowled at Awnya.

  Amadeus turned toward her and stood. “Morning, Awnya.”

  “Morning.” Awnya focused on the pine knots in the floor.

  “Come. Join us.”

  She picked up her gaze.

  “Ja. I have a plate ready for you.” Louissa smiled, adding more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

  “Move over, boys, to let Awnya sit,” Amadeus said.

  Ethan offered her a small smile before lowering his gaze to his plate.

  Jakob’s bright face split into a wide grin. “Sit next to me.” He scooted over so fast and hard he almost knocked Ethan off the bench.

  Awnya’s heart warmed at his acceptance of her. She sat down. Syrup and plates of bacon, eggs, and some crumbly looking stuff in a bowl was placed before her.

  Awnya took two pieces of bacon, a scoop of scrambled eggs, and a small portion of the other stuff. What was the syrup for? She sneaked a peek at Jakob’s bowl. Syrup coated the crumbles. Ah, so that’s what it was for. She drizzled the warm liquid into her bowl and took a bite of the crisp yet chewy morsels. “This is wonderful. What is it?” she questioned Louissa.

  “Verhackertes.”

  “Far-hawk-tuss? What’s it made of?”

  “Flour, milk, egg, und a little salt.”

  “How did you get it into such tiny pieces?”

  Isabella huffed and took over for her grandmother. “You fry it in lard or oil and keep chopping away at it until the pieces are little. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Isabella. Your behavior is unacceptable. Apologize to Awnya. Jetzt!” Amadeus ordered sternly.

  Isabella turned narrowed eyes at Awnya. “Sorry.”

  Again, it was obvious the girl didn’t mean it. Awnya didn’t care. She only wished she knew why Isabella disliked her so.

  She nodded. “Thank you for telling me how it’s made.”

  “Welcome.”

  She knew Isabella didn’t mean that either.

  “Now finish your breakfast,” Amadeus said to his daughter.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  When everyone finished eating, Amadeus dressed for outside while Louissa and Isabella worked at clearing the table.

  Awnya rose to help, but Louissa stopped her. “Nein. We get this. You are guest.”

  “An uninvited guest,” Isabella murmured near her.

  Awnya sneaked a glance at Amadeus to see if he’d heard his daughter’s comment. He continued to dress for outdoors, so he must not have, which was fine with Awnya, as she could well forgo the insincere apologies.

  Unsure what she would do now, Awnya tugged at her lower lip, pondering her choices. One thing she didn’t want to do was stand around and watch Isabella glower at her. She’d rather face a raging blizzard than put up with the girl’s insolence.

  In that instant, the decision was made. In record time, she readied herself for outdoors, grabbed her pole, and reached for the door handle.

  Amadeus turned, shocked at what he saw. “What you doing?”

  “Going outside to help with chores.” Her eyes held hope. He did not blame her. Isabella’s disrespect had not gotten past him. But he had no idea how to handle his daughter. A talk would be good to find out why she was being rude to their guest.

  He nodded and opened the door. Cold and snow blasted his face. “You certain, Awnya?”

  She stepped past him onto the snow-covered porch.

  “Ja. I guess so.” He chuckled.

  Around the house and down the stairs, he shoveled a path for them to walk. While still not good, the visibility was much better than yesterday. He would not need to put up a rope to guide them.

  At the bottom of the stairs he asked, “You got animals to feed, Awnya?”

  “No. None.”

  He sighed with relief. He could not bear the thought of any animal going without food. But that also meant the woman was more destitute than he’d thought. She needed someone to take care of her. And he wanted to be that someone.

  His attention darted behind her. “Ah, there you are. I wondered where you were.”

  Awnya turned. She gasped and leaped backward.

  Amadeus chuckled and ran his hand over the deer’s neck. “Sorry she startled you. She is come for grain.”

  He left to get the doe’s feed, and when he came back, he shook his head and grinned.

  “Aren’t you the sweetest little thing ever?” Awnya cooed, scratching his pet behind the ears. “And to think I almost shot you. I’m so glad I didn’t.”

  “I bet she is, too, ja?”

  Awnya looked up and chortled. He joined her.

  They trekked through the snow to the shelter underneath his cabin. He motioned for her to go first. Then he ducked inside, keeping his head low so his hat would not scrape the ceiling.

  “I’m surprised the cows come in here. The ceiling’s so low. How tall is it?”

  “Six und a half feet.”

  “Why’d you make it so low when you’re so tall?”

  “Heat rises to the top, und a low ceiling makes le
ss space to heat.”

  “When you built the cabin above, why didn’t you make it low like this one then?”

  “Several reasons.” He counted them off. “With the roof sloped it helps to keep snow from accumulating und the roof from caving in. I did not wish to duck all the time. Plus the boys needed a room, und the loft provides that. I knew the heat from the animals would rise und help heat the cabin.”

  “I see.” Awnya stepped farther inside and looked down. “Is there a wood floor under all this dirt?”

  “Nein. No time. Winter come too soon.”

  One of the cows butted him, knocking him into Awnya. She stumbled, but he shot his arm out and caught her. Touching her made his heart race. The yearning to hold her came strong, but the restless cows needed to be fed and milked.

  Amadeus forced thoughts of holding Awnya from him. He secured the cows while she pulled the rope on the grain chute, filled the buckets, and fed each cow grain while he milked.

  “What do you do with all this milk?” She grabbed a stool and a bucket and started to milk the cow next to him. He hated seeing her work, but she had insisted on helping.

  “Most of it I sell. I transport it to the relay stage stop, und they haul it to the train depot. But today, the snow is too deep. The horses vill not make it. So Mama vill skim the cream und make butter. The rest, I vill store.”

  They finished the milking, and against his wishes, Awnya helped carry the buckets to the house.

  “Hi, Papa.” His children greeted him from around the kitchen table, where they were playing jackstraws.

  “Who is winning?”

  Isabella successfully removed one of the long thin sticks he had whittled. “I am.” She raised her chin.

  He had to ask.

  He and Awnya removed their outer garments then stood in front of the blazing fireplace. Awnya extended her hands toward the flames. Shadows of yellow and red danced across her beautiful face—a face he would not mind seeing every day.

  Awnya tilted her head, and her lips slowly curved. This time, she had caught him staring at her. But instead of looking away, he allowed his gaze to roam over her face, over the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and down to her rosebud lips.