A Creed Country Christmas

by Linda Lael Miller

  Juliana appeared, still wearing her day dress, just as he was opening the door to go outside.

  “Wes and Kate are here,” he said.

  Juliana beamed, as happy at the prospect of company as any country woman would be. “I’ll start a pot of coffee.”

  Chapter Nine

  Christmas morning was joyful chaos, the younger kids tearing into their packages and squealing with delight at the contents. Juliana watched them with a smile, as did Lincoln and Tom, Wes and Kate. Ben and Rose-of-Sharon had joined them for breakfast with the baby, and so had the other ranch hands.

  Theresa opened her gifts slowly, while Joseph examined the first one—a set of watercolors Lincoln had given him—leaving the others unwrapped beside him on the floor.

  Juliana, quietly happy, paused often to admire the gold wedding band Lincoln had given her late the night before in their bedroom. They’d made love afterward—Lincoln had taken his time pleasuring her, and the wonder of it still reverberated through her, when she let herself remember, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

  There had been no pain, only a little soreness afterward. Juliana had been as voracious as Lincoln, reveling in eager surrender, but that hadn’t been the best part, nor had the ring.

  When they’d gone to their room, after several hours spent visiting with Wes and his shy but delightful Kate around the kitchen table, Lincoln had sat her down on the edge of the bed, knelt before her and taken her hands into his.

  He’d looked directly into her eyes, cleared his throat out of a nervousness she would always remember with tenderness, and said, “Juliana, I love you.”

  And she’d replied in kind. If she hadn’t already loved him, that declaration, and the way he made it, would have sealed the matter for sure.

  They were midway through dinner, Tom having roasted the two turkeys to perfection, when the inevitable happened.

  A buggy appeared in the side yard beyond the kitchen windows, and Mr. Philbert drew back hard on the reins.

  Juliana barely stifled a gasp.

  Laughing at a raucous story Wes had just told, no one else had seen or heard the buggy’s approach.

  Lincoln, catching sight of the look on Juliana’s face, turned in his chair and saw the small man alighting, righteous indignation apparent in his every move. “Is that him?” he asked.

  Juliana nodded, afraid she’d burst into tears if she spoke.

  Mr. Philbert had reached the back step. He pounded on the door, his fist still raised when Lincoln swung it open.

  Everyone fell silent, and Daisy and Billy-Moses both rushed to Juliana and scrambled onto her lap, clinging to her.

  The Indian agent wore an avidly righteous expression as he stepped past Lincoln, all his attention fastened on Juliana. Triumph sparked in his tiny eyes, behind the smudged lenses of his spectacles; he’d planned to arrive early all along, just as she’d feared, hoping to take her unawares, circumvent any steps she might take to avoid him. She had hoped to have Joseph and Theresa safely away from Stillwater Springs before he got there, but that was not to be.

  Tom and Wes both slid back their chairs to stand.

  Kate, sitting next to Theresa, slipped a protective arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  Philbert ignored them all, his gaze riveted on Juliana, trying to make her wilt. Jabbing an ink-stained index finger in her direction, he finally spoke. “I have half a mind to charge you with kidnapping!”

  “Watch what you say to my wife,” Lincoln said evenly.

  Wes stepped in, exuding charm and hospitality. “Sit down,” he told Mr. Philbert. “Have some of our Christmas dinner.”

  A silence fell. Clearly, Mr. Philbert had not expected the invitation.

  Wes found a clean plate and silverware. Gave up his own chair so the unwanted guest would have a place to sit.

  Looking baffled and taking in the spread of food with undisguised hunger, Mr. Philbert sat down.

  Lincoln, after exchanging glances with Wes, returned to his own chair. Reached for Juliana’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

  Tom took Mr. Philbert’s plate and filled it to overflowing with turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans and rolls still warm from the oven in the cookstove.

  Mr. Philbert hesitated, and then, to Juliana’s amazement, began to eat.

  “My wife and I intend to adopt Daisy and Bill,” Lincoln said after a few moments. “I’ve drawn up the papers, and I’ll see that they’re filed right after Christmas.”

  Both Daisy and Billy-Moses looked at Lincoln curiously, not understanding, but probably instinctively hopeful. Both of them adored Lincoln; he had a way of including them in the expansive warmth of his attention and affection without excluding Gracie.

  Juliana held the little ones tightly in both arms.

  His mouth full of mashed potatoes, Mr. Philbert couldn’t answer.

  Joseph spoke up. “I’m taking my sister home,” he said. “And if you try to stop us, we’ll just run off the first chance we get.”

  Mr. Philbert chewed, swallowed. He was red in the jowls, and his muttonchop whiskers bobbed. He waved a dismissive hand at Joseph. “Good riddance,” he said. “I’ve got all the problems I need as it is.”

  Juliana’s heart rose on a swell of relief, even though his attitude stung. Was that all any of the children whose lives and educations he oversaw were to him? Problems? Daisy and Billy-Moses huddled closer, and Gracie came to stand at her side, staring at Mr. Philbert.

  “You have a big nose,” the child remarked charitably.

  “Gracie,” Juliana said. “That will be enough.”

  “Well, he does. And it’s purple on the end.”

  “Gracie,” Lincoln admonished.

  Gracie subsided, leaning against Juliana now. She hadn’t been deliberately rude; there was no meanness in her. She’d merely been making an observation.

  Juliana shifted so she could wrap one arm around the little girl without sending Daisy toppling to the floor.

  “Children,” Mr. Philbert said with a long-suffering sigh. “They are such troublesome little creatures.”

  Juliana longed to refute that statement—there were a thousand things she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. It would not do to give the man a reason to dislike her even more than he already did.

  “Nevertheless,” he went on, taking clear and unflattering satisfaction in his power over all of them, “duty is duty. Adoption or none, I intend to take the little ones back to Missoula with me for the interim. I have to account for them, you know.”

  Tom’s face turned hard, and he started to rise.

  Wes, standing just behind him and to the side, having given up his chair to Mr. Philbert, laid a warning hand on Tom’s shoulder.

  “Now, why would you want to go to all the trouble to drag them all the way to Missoula?” Lincoln asked, with a sort of easy bewilderment. “They’re fine right here, part of a family.”

  Mr. Philbert reddened again, stabbed his fork into a slice of turkey. “According to the storekeeper in town, you and Mr. Creed are married now. Is that true, Juliana?”

  He’d spoken to Mr. Willand, Juliana concluded disconsolately. That was how he’d known about the marriage—the reverend had probably scattered the news far and wide—and where to find her and the children.

  “It’s true,” Juliana said.

  “Awfully convenient,” Mr. Philbert remarked, with an unpleasant smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Gracie took issue. “Don’t you talk to my mama in that tone of voice,” she warned.

  That time, neither Lincoln nor Juliana scolded her.

  Mr. Philbert raised his eyebrows, took the time to fork in, chew and swallow more turkey before responding. The law was on his side, as far as Juliana knew. He had the upper hand, and he wasn’t going to let anyone forget that.

  Daisy, uncomprehending and frightened nonetheless, turned her face into Juliana’s bodice and began to cry silently, her small shoulders trembling. Juliana kissed the top of h
er head, stroked her raven-black hair.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Indian cry before,” Mr. Philbert mused, sparing no notice for the child’s obvious grief and fear.

  Tom started to his feet again; Wes stopped him by putting that same hand to his shoulder and pressing him back down.

  “Daisy,” Lincoln said to Mr. Philbert, his voice measured, the voice of a lawyer in court, “is a child. She’s three years old. You’re scaring her, and that’s something that I won’t tolerate for any reason.”

  “I have legal authority—”

  “So do I,” Lincoln broke in evenly. “This is my house. This is my ranch. And if you want to take these children anywhere, you’re going to need a court order and half the United States Army to help you. Do you have a court order, Mr. Philbert?”

  Mr. Philbert sputtered a little. “Well, no, but—”

  “You’d better get one, then. Before you manage that, I’ll have been to Helena to file the petition and Daisy and Bill will be Creeds, as much my children in the eyes of the law as Gracie here.”

  Mr. Philbert considered that, gulped, then worked up a faltering smile and asked, “I don’t suppose there’s any pie?”

  An hour later, having topped off his meal with two slices of mincemeat pie, the agent handed Juliana a bank draft covering her last month’s salary, warned her that if she should ever apply for any teaching position, anywhere, she should not give his name as a reference.

  And then, blessedly, he was gone.

  TAKING NO CHANCES, LEST Mr. Philbert had a change of heart, Tom and Lincoln were up even earlier than usual the next morning. They hitched up the team and wagon while Juliana helped Joseph and Theresa pack for their journey. Once the two young people were on board a train east, with Tom to escort them, Lincoln would travel to Helena, stand before a judge and enter the petition to adopt Daisy and Billy-Moses.

  Juliana was afraid to hope the Bureau of Indian Affairs would not step in. At the same time, something within her sang a silent, swelling song of jubilation.

  Although she tried to keep up a good front, Juliana despaired as she watched Joseph and Theresa buttoning up the new coats Lincoln had given them for Christmas. They would miss her and the other children, she knew, but the joy of going home, of truly belonging somewhere, shone in their faces.

  Juliana hugged both of them, one and then the other, but avoided looking through the window after they’d gone out, unable to watch as they got into the wagon. There would be letters, at least from Theresa, but considering the distance, it was unlikely that she would ever see them again. Eventually, their correspondence would slow, however good everyone’s intentions were, and finally stop.

  Gracie, standing at Juliana’s side, took her hand. “Don’t be sad, Mama,” she said. “Please, don’t be sad.”

  But Juliana couldn’t help crying as she took Gracie into her arms.

  Lincoln returned to the house to say goodbye. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he said. “Ben and the others will look after the cattle and the chores. If Philbert comes back here, send somebody to town to fetch Wes.”

  Juliana nodded, barely able to absorb any of it. The parting from Lincoln was, in some ways, the hardest thing of all.

  He gave her a lingering kiss.

  Then he, too, was gone.

  Billy-Moses, who had sat quietly near the stove during all the farewells, stacking blocks, knocking them down and then stacking them again, suddenly hurtled toward the door, flinging himself at it, struggling with the latch and uttering long cries of angry sorrow. Juliana hurried to the child, knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms, stroking his hair, murmuring to him.

  He wailed for Theresa, for Joseph, for Lincoln, sobbing out each name in turn, between shrieks of despair. Weeping herself, while Gracie and Daisy looked on with forlorn expressions, each clasping the other’s hand, Juliana lifted Billy-Moses up and carried him to the rocking chair.

  He was a long time quieting down, but Juliana rocked him, holding him tightly long after he’d stopped struggling. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Gracie came to lean against the arm of the chair, her face earnest. “Doesn’t Billy want to be my brother? Doesn’t he want to be a Creed?”

  Juliana, more composed by then, smiled and tilted her head so it rested against Gracie’s. “Of course he does, sweetheart,” she said very quietly. “He misses Joseph and Theresa, that’s all. And your papa and Tom, too.”

  Gracie nodded solemnly, but quickly braced up. “Papa said he’d come back, and Papa always does what he says he’s going to do.”

  “Yes,” Juliana agreed, heartened. “He does.”

  The next day, Wes returned to the ranch, bringing a telegram from Lincoln, sent that morning from Missoula. Tom, Theresa and Joseph had boarded the train; they would be in North Dakota within the week.

  To keep busy, Juliana divided her time between giving Gracie reading, spelling and arithmetic lessons at the kitchen table, visiting Rose-of-Sharon and the baby, and poring over a collection of old cookery books she’d found in a pantry cabinet.

  Lincoln sent another telegram the following day when he reached Helena, promising that he’d be home soon.

  Determined to use the waiting time constructively, Juliana bravely assembled the ingredients to bake a batch of corn bread, followed the directions to the letter, and almost set the kitchen on fire by putting too much wood in the stove.

  On the third day, the previously mild weather turned nasty. Snow flew with such ferocity that, often, Juliana couldn’t see the barn from the kitchen window, even in broad daylight. She knew that Lincoln planned to return to Missoula from Helena by rail, once he’d completed his business in the state capital, reclaim his wagon and team from a local livery stable and drive back to the ranch. With what appeared to be a blizzard brewing, Juliana was worried.

  He could get lost in the storm, even freeze to death somewhere along the way.

  In an effort to distract herself from this worry, Juliana carefully removed all the decorations from the Christmas tree, packing them away in their boxes. When Ben Gainer brought a bucket of milk to the back door that evening, shivering with cold even in his warm coat, Juliana made him come inside and drink hot coffee.

  Somewhat restored after that, Ben dragged the big tree across the floor and out the front door. Later, it would be chopped up and burned.

  The storm continued through the night, and snow was still coming down at a furious rate in the morning, drifting up against the sides of the house, high enough that if she’d been able to open a window, Juliana could have scooped the stuff up in her hands.

  Ben brought more milk, and told Juliana he hoped the snow would let up soon, because he and the other two ranch hands were having a hard time getting the hay sled out to the range cattle, even with the big draft horses to pull it.

  One question thudded in the back of Juliana’s mind day and night like a drumbeat that never went silent.

  Where was Lincoln?

  She tried to be sensible. He’d probably had to stay in Missoula to wait out the storm, and sent another telegram informing her of that. Since the road between Stillwater Springs and the ranch was under at least three feet of snow, Wes wouldn’t be able to bring her the message, like he had the others.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  Juliana tried the corn bread recipe again, and even though it came out hard as a horseshoe, at least this time smoke didn’t pour out of the oven. Soaked in warm milk, the stuff was actually edible.

  The next day, Ben strung ropes from the house to the cabin and the cabin to the barn; it was the only way he could get from one place to the other without being lost in the blizzard. The draft horses knew the way to and from the cluster of trees where the herd had taken shelter; otherwise, the cattle would have gone hungry.

  On the fifth night, Juliana lingered in the kitchen, long after the children had gone to sleep, watching the clock and waiting.

  At first, she tho
ught she’d imagined the sound at the back door, but then the latch jiggled. She fairly leaped out of her chair, hurried across the room and hauled open the door.

  The icy wind was so strong that it made her bones ache, but she didn’t care. Lincoln was standing on the back step, coated in ice and snow, seemingly unable to move.

  Juliana cried out, used all her strength to pull him inside and managed to shut the door against the wind by leaning on it with the full weight of her body.

  “Lincoln?”

  He didn’t speak, didn’t move. How had he gotten home with the roads the way they were? Surely the team and wagon couldn’t have passed through snow that deep—it would have reached to the tops of the wheels.

  She had to pry his hat free of his head—it had frozen to his hair. Next, she peeled off the coat, tossed it aside.

  She thought of tugging him nearer the stove, but she recalled reading about frostbite somewhere; it was important that he warm up slowly.

  His clothes were stiff as laundry left to freeze on a clothesline. She ran for the bedrooms, snatching up all the blankets she could find that weren’t already in use and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Lincoln was still standing where she’d left him; his lips were blue, and his teeth had begun to chatter.

  “Whiskey,” he said in a raw whisper.

  Juliana rushed into the pantry, found the bottle he kept on a high shelf. Pouring some into a cup, she raised it to his mouth, holding it patiently while he sipped.

  A great shudder went through him, but he wasn’t so stiff now, and some of the color returned to his face.

  “Help me out of these clothes,” he ground out. “My fingers aren’t working.”

  She pulled off his gloves first, and was relieved to see no sign of frostbite. His toes could be affected, though, and even if they weren’t, the specter of pneumonia loomed in that kitchen like a third presence.

  She unbuttoned his shirt, helped him out of it, then pulled his woolen undershirt off over his head, too. She immediately wrapped him in one of the blankets. He managed to sit down in the chair she brought from the table, and she crouched to pull off his boots, strip away his socks.