A Creed Country Christmas

by Linda Lael Miller

  Lincoln turned his head then. Looked straight at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me, Wes?”

  “Ma asked me not to,” Wes replied with the solemnity of truth.

  Still, Lincoln had to challenge him. “Since when are you so all-fired concerned with doing what Ma wants?”

  Wes’s smile was thin, and a little on the self-disparaging side. “I chopped down a Christmas tree and hauled it out here on a mule’s back because she told me to, didn’t I?”

  “You did that for Gracie.”

  Wes sighed, stood in the stirrups for a moment, stretching his legs. “Mostly,” he admitted gruffly. Then, after a long time, he added, “Things weren’t always so sour between Ma and me, Lincoln. You remember how it was after Dawson died—she was half-mad with the sorrow. Doc Chaney had to dose her up with laudanum. I was pretty torn up myself—we all were—but I felt sorry for her. I wanted to do what I could to help, and God knew there wasn’t much.”

  Lincoln took that in without speaking. He remembered how his ma used to howl with grief some nights, during those first weeks after the shooting, and how his pa had slammed out of the house when she did.

  Saddle leather creaked as Wes fidgeted, leaning forward a little, looking earnest. “There was another reason I didn’t tell you,” he said, sounding reluctant and a little irritated.

  “What was that?” Lincoln bit out, in no frame of mind to make things easy for his brother. Whatever Wes’s reasons for keeping that secret, he, Lincoln, had had as much right to know as anybody.

  “You tend to hold on to things you ought to let go of,” Wes said, reining his horse around, toward the main house, looking back at Lincoln over one shoulder. “People, too.”

  “Beth.” Lincoln sighed the name.

  “Beth,” Wes agreed. Another silence fell between them, lengthy and punctuated only by snorts and hoof-shuffling from their horses and the chatter of the passing creek. “Of the four of us, Lincoln, you’re the most like Pa. Tougher than hell, and too smart for your own good or anybody else’s. You’ve held on to this ground, just like he did, and made it pay, in good times and bad. But you take after the old man in a few other ways, too. If I hauled off and swung a shovel at your head—and I’ve wanted to more than once—it would be the shovel that fractured, not your skull.”

  “That was quite a sermon, Wes.”

  “Don’t get out of your pew yet, because I’m not finished. Right now, because you’re still young, that stubborn streak serves you pretty well—you probably think of it as ‘determination.’ Trouble is, over time, it might just harden into something a lot less admirable.”

  As much as Lincoln would have liked to disregard the warning, he couldn’t. It made too much sense. He’d mourned Dawson in a normal way, but since Beth had died, he’d boarded over parts of himself, knowing it would hurt too much if he let himself care.

  “What do you suggest I do?” he asked moderately, just to get it over with. Wes was going to tell him anyhow; he’d worked himself up into a pretty good lather since talking with Tom.

  “You remember how different Pa was when we were little? How he’d haul one or another of us around on his shoulders, let us follow him practically every place he went? How he laughed all the time, even though he worked like a mule? Back then, he wouldn’t have believed it if somebody had told him he’d wind up turning his back on all of us, but he did. You know why, Lincoln? Because he decided to go right on loving a dead woman, when he had a living, breathing one right in front of him. It took a while, but that decision—that one bone-headed decision—poisoned his mind, and eventually, it poisoned his soul, too.” Wes paused for a few moments, remembering, maybe gathering more words. “Never mind Juliana. She’s prettier than Ma was, and she’s got a lot more spirit. She’ll be all right, even if you’re fool enough to keep your heart closed to her. But what about Gracie? She’s already got a mind of her own, and she’s only seven—what do you think she’ll be like at sixteen? Or eighteen? She’ll make a lot of choices along the way, and I guarantee you aren’t going to like some of them. You’re bound to butt heads—I suppose that’s normal—but if you aren’t careful, you might find yourself treating your daughter the same way Pa did us. Do you want that?”

  Lincoln’s throat had seized shut. He shook his head.

  Wes had finally run down, having reeled out what he had to say. He nudged at his horse’s sides with the heels of his boots and rode back toward the house to drop off the things stuffed into those bags tied behind his saddle and collect his mule.

  Conscious of the telegram in his pocket, Lincoln waited awhile before following.

  JULIANA WAS CROSSING THE YARD, returning from a brief visit to Rose-of-Sharon and baby Joshua, when she saw her brother-in-law leading his mule out of the barn. Tom, meanwhile, carried two burlap bags, stuffed full of something, toward the woodshed.

  Because she liked Weston Creed, she changed course, smiling, and went to greet him.

  His smile flashed, but his eyes were solemn, almost sad. “My brother,” he said, “is a lucky man.”

  Juliana blushed. She wasn’t used to compliments; schoolmarms didn’t get a whole lot of them. “We’ve got two big turkeys for Christmas dinner,” she told him, feeling self-conscious. “I hope you’ll join us.”

  He slipped a loop of rope around the mule’s neck and paused to look toward the house. “Is Kate welcome, too?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he moved to stand beside his horse and tied the other end of the rope loosely around the horn of the saddle.

  “Of course,” Juliana said.

  “Do you know anything about her?” Weston asked, and while the inquiry sounded almost idle, Juliana knew it wasn’t.

  “I suppose she’s your wife.”

  He chuckled, but it was a bitter sound, void of amusement. “Something like that,” he said. “Kate owns the Diamond Buckle Saloon. She and I have been living in sin for some time now.”

  “Oh,” Juliana said. She was intrigued at the prospect of meeting such a colorful personage, but perhaps she should have spoken to Lincoln before she’d issued the invitation.

  “Yes,” Weston said wryly. “Oh.”

  Juliana’s cheeks stung with embarrassment. When she’d asked Lincoln for permission to bathe Daisy and Billy-Moses the night before, he’d said the ranch house was her home, too, and she didn’t need his permission. She hoped that liberty extended to other things. “We’ll sit down to dinner around two o’clock,” she said. Since she wouldn’t be roasting the turkeys, the hour was a mere guess. “But whatever time you and Kate arrive, we’ll be glad to see you.”

  He rounded the horse to stand facing Juliana. His mouth, sensuous like Lincoln’s, twitched at one corner. “You do realize, Mrs. Creed, that the roof will surely fall in, either the instant Kate sets foot over the threshold or when my mother finds out?”

  Even without meeting the woman, Juliana was a little afraid of Cora Creed. Just the same, she wasn’t one to let fear stop her from doing anything she thought was right. Raising her chin a notch, she replied, “I guess we’ll have to take that chance.”

  Lincoln’s brother chuckled again, but this time, it sounded real. “Brave words,” he said. “But I think you might just mean them.”

  “I never say anything I don’t mean, Mr. Creed.”

  “Call me Wes,” he said, grinning now.

  “Only if you agree to call me Juliana,” she retorted.

  He leaned in, kissed her forehead. “Welcome to my brother’s life, Juliana,” he told her. “God knows, he needs you.”

  Something made her look up then. She saw Lincoln approaching on horseback, a distant speck, moving slowly. Her heart quickened at the sight. “What makes you say that?” she asked Wes.

  Wes sighed, and after glancing back over one shoulder, favored her with a sad smile. “He’s lost a lot in his life. Beth, of course, and two babies. Pa and our brother Dawson. He’s a good man, Lincoln is, but he’s—well, he’s mighty careful with his heart, a
s a general rule.”

  Juliana laid a hand to her chest; she had been too careful with her own heart, until Daisy and Billy-Moses and other special students had somehow gotten past the barriers.

  Wes turned, stuck a foot in one stirrup and mounted the horse. After glancing in Lincoln’s direction once more, he said, “I’ll be going now. We’ve had a few words, my brother and I, and there will be more if I stay.” He tapped at his horse’s sides with the heels of his boots, tightened the rope to urge the mule into motion. “Unless there’s another blizzard,” he added, “Kate and I will be here Christmas Day.”

  Juliana smiled, though she was a little troubled by talk of he and Lincoln “having words.” “Come early,” she said.

  Wes nodded and started off, the mule balking at first, then trotting obediently along behind his horse.

  Although it was sunny out, the weather was cold. Juliana huddled inside one of her mother-in-law’s cloaks, hastily borrowed, and waited for her husband.

  When he rode up to the barn, she approached, slowly at first, and then with faster steps.

  The confession burst out of her. “I’ve asked Wes and Kate to come for Christmas dinner,” she said, all on one breath.

  He swung down from the saddle, stood looking at her with amusement on his mouth and sadness in his eyes, just as Wes had done. “Did he accept the invite?” he asked.

  She took a breath, let it out and nodded quickly.

  He laughed then, and hooked one stirrup over the saddle horn, so he could unbuckle the cinch. “Well, Mrs. Creed,” he said, “you’ve succeeded where I failed, then. I’ve never been able to persuade Kate to set foot on this ranch, let alone sit down to Christmas dinner, and if she stays in town, so does Wes.”

  Juliana took a single step toward him, stopped herself, reading the set of his face. “Something is wrong,” she said. “What is it?”

  He went still for a long moment, then reached into his coat pocket and brought out a small yellow envelope.

  Seeing it, Juliana felt her blood run cold. She was suddenly paralyzed.

  Lincoln held out the envelope to her, and her hands trembled as she accepted it. Fumbled as she tried to unseal the flap.

  “Wes brought it out from town,” Lincoln said.

  Juliana began to shiver, finally shoving the telegram at Lincoln. “Please,” she whispered. “Read it.”

  Lincoln tugged off his gloves, opened the envelope and studied the page inside. “It’s from the Bureau of Indian Affairs,” he said. From his tone, it was clear that he’d known that all along. “‘Miss Mitchell. You are hereby—’” Lincoln paused, cleared his throat. “‘You are hereby dismissed. I will be in Stillwater Springs by the first of January at the latest. At that time, you will surrender any remaining students now in your custody for placement in appropriate institutions.’ It’s signed ‘R. Philbert.’”

  Juliana stood absolutely still, though on the inside, she felt as though she were set to bolt in a dozen different directions.

  Lincoln took hold of her shoulders, the telegram still in one hand, and steadied her. “Take a breath, Juliana,” he ordered, his voice low.

  She breathed. Once. Twice. A third time.

  “Listen to me,” Lincoln went on calmly. “We’re going to handle this, you and I. Together.”

  Juliana’s mind raced, but there was a painful clarity to her thoughts just the same. Mr. Philbert had effectively warned her by sending her a telegram announcing his intention to visit Stillwater Springs, which might mean he planned to come earlier, hoping to forestall any attempt she might make to flee with the children.

  “Wh-what are we going to do?” she faltered.

  “First, we’ve got to get Joseph and Theresa to Missoula, put them on a train east. As for Daisy and Bill—well—I’ve been thinking about what Gracie said yesterday. Now that we’re married, we could adopt them, and then they’d be Creeds. They could stay with us.”

  Juliana was grateful for his hold on her shoulders, because her knees wanted to buckle. “You’d do that?” she whispered, marveling. Surely there wasn’t another man on the face of the earth quite like this one.

  His eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat, but she saw a quiet willingness in them even before he answered. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “For them. For Gracie. Most of all, for you.” Gently, he turned her toward the house. Spoke close to her right ear, his breath warm against her skin. “Go on inside before you catch your death in this cold. I’ll be in as soon as I get this horse put up.”

  Juliana took a cautious step, found that her legs were still working.

  Inside, the children, having finished the day’s lessons, were pestering Tom to let them go out to play. Juliana gave her permission, with the stipulation that they must all bundle up as warmly as possible and not make noise near the Gainers’ cabin because Rose-of-Sharon and the baby needed peace and quiet.

  There was a flurry of coat-finding—Gracie was so excited, she could hardly stand still to let Juliana lay a woolen scarf over the top of her head and tie it beneath her chin. Tom found knitted caps for the other children, and they all raced for the front door.

  Once they were gone, Tom asked straight out, “You’re pale as a new snow, Juliana. What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  Haltingly, she told him about Mr. Philbert’s telegram.

  His face hardened as he listened. “What did Lincoln have to say about that?”

  “He wants to get Joseph and Theresa to the train in Missoula as soon as possible.” She didn’t mention the adoption; she still wasn’t sure she’d actually heard Lincoln correctly, where that was concerned.

  Tom nodded. “Missoula’s half a day’s ride from here, if the weather holds,” he said. “If it doesn’t, Philbert probably won’t make it to town until the roads are clear.”

  Lincoln came in just then, looked from Juliana to Tom without speaking, took off his hat and coat and hung them up the way he always did. His expression remained grim.

  “I’ll take Joseph and Theresa to Missoula,” Tom said. “Ride back to North Dakota with them to make sure they get there all right and folks are ready to take them in on the other end.”

  Sadness moved in Lincoln’s face, but he nodded. Looking distracted, he said, “I’ll be at my desk.” Pausing in the doorway to the front room, he turned around. “You’ll come back, won’t you, Tom?” he asked.

  Tom didn’t smile. “I’ll come back,” he said very quietly.

  Later, when the children had worn themselves out playing games in the front yard and returned to the house, bright-eyed and glowing from the cold, Juliana brewed up a batch of hot chocolate in a heavy cast-iron kettle and gave them each a cup. While they enjoyed the treat, she went in search of Lincoln.

  He was where he’d said he’d be, seated at his desk in a corner of the front room, surrounded by thick books, all of them open. As she approached, he dipped a pen in a bottle of ink and wrote something on a sheet of paper.

  Needing to be near him, she set a mug of hot chocolate beside him. “Thanks,” he said.

  Juliana’s fingers flexed; she wanted to work the tight muscles in Lincoln’s neck and shoulders, but refrained. Yes, he was her husband, but touching him, even in such an innocuous way seemed too familiar. Even a little brazen.

  Still, she could not bring herself to walk away, any more than she could have left a warm stove after walking through a blizzard.

  “If you’re going to linger, Juliana,” he said mildly, without looking up from the paper and the books, “please sit down.”

  She moved to a nearby armchair, sat down on its edge, knotted her fingers together. And waited.

  Lincoln finally sighed, shoved back his chair and turned to look at her. “Everything will be all right, Juliana,” he said.

  He didn’t know Mr. Philbert. “Today,” she ventured nervously, “out by the barn, I thought you said—”

  He waited.

  “I thought you said you wo
uld be willing to adopt Daisy and Billy-Moses.”

  Lincoln smiled. “I did say that, Juliana.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair. “How?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” he answered. He gestured toward the books on his desk. “I’m drawing up the papers right now.”

  “You didn’t mention that. Being a lawyer, I mean.”

  “There are a lot of things I haven’t gotten around to mentioning,” Lincoln said reasonably. “I haven’t had time.”

  She stood up, sat down again. “You could—you could get into trouble for sending Joseph and Theresa to North Dakota,” she fretted.

  “I’m no stranger to trouble,” Lincoln told her. “In fact, I like a challenge.”

  “I need something to do,” she confessed.

  Lincoln opened a drawer in his desk, brought out a second bottle of ink and a pen. Gave her several sheets of paper. “Write to your brother,” he said. “Tell him you’re married now, and if he doesn’t come here first, I’ll be paying him a visit one day soon.”

  The thought of Clay and Lincoln standing face-to-face unnerved her a little, but she accepted the pen and ink and paper, and went back to the kitchen. Tom and Joseph were gone, and Theresa, Gracie, Daisy and Billy-Moses sat in a circle on the floor, playing with a tattered deck of cards.

  She took a chair at the table, opened the ink bottle and awaited inspiration. After a quarter of an hour, all she’d written was “Dear Clay.” Finally, out of frustration, she stopped trying to choose her words carefully, dipped the pen, and began.

  As you have long wished me safely married, I am happy to inform you that yesterday, December 22, I entered into matrimony with Mr. Lincoln Creed, of Stillwater Springs, Montana—

  Juliana went on to describe Lincoln, Gracie, the house and what she’d seen of the ranch. She extended sincere felicitations for a happy Christmas and prosperous New Year. Why, it would be 1911 soon. Where had the time gone?

  The letter filled three pages by the time she’d finished.

  She closed with “Sincerely, Juliana Mitchell Creed,” and when the ink was dry, she carefully folded the letter, her earlier trepidation having given way to relief. She could not predict how Clay would respond to the missive, if he responded at all, but that took nothing away from her sense of having turned some kind of corner, found some new kind of freedom.