by Danni Roan
“I did, it was so busy in the office. People sending last minute packages, Christmas cards, and letters.” She smiled brightly, the distress from a moment ago fading. “It was very festive.”
The main door opened again as Prissy stepped inside, spotted them, and joined the tiny group already at the table. “What a lovely day for shopping,” Prissy said, smiling. “Did you find anything nice?” she asked, her soft gray eyes cheerful. “I saw the cutest things. I believe we have one of the best mercantiles anywhere.”
Prissy always seemed to be able to find the bright side of things and her cheerful nature was often down-right contagious.
“Christmas is right around the corner,” Maud said. “It’s always such a special time of year.” She took her daughter’s hand, patting it gently, but Sara noted the worry lines around her eyes.
“I do hope Quil comes along soon,” Pricilla said, looking around the nearly empty café. “She can get lost in a book, that one,” she added, but her smile was sweet.
“Why don’t we order some tea while we wait?” Maud offered, raising her hand to catch a server’s eye.
“Should we, Mama?” Sara whispered.
“It will be like old times when we used to come to town for tea each week and meet with friends.”
Sara smiled, remembering. It had been like a fancy party to her when she was small, and even though she had to put on her best dress, she always enjoyed it. There had been no tea parties since her father had passed away five years ago.
A cool breath of air drifted across the room as Aquila entered, carrying a heavy bag in one hand. Prissy winked at Sara, who giggled. They all knew that Quil would buy books. She always did, after all.
“Oh, tea,” Aquila said., her voice rich and smoky.
“Yes, we’ll call it a Christmas treat,” Mrs. Adams said. “It’s been far too long.”
The tea and luncheon truly was festive as the four women chatted and discussed plans for the week. They would all be helping with the Christmas play and other community events and had much to do.
As their simple meal was served, Sara looked out the window and saw Rafe Dixon leaving the general store. She wondered if he’d forgotten something earlier and had to return. She also wondered when she might see the handsome cowboy next.
With the tensions between their two families, she and Rafe had lived their whole lives in the same town, but had barely ever seen each other. That was a real shame, to her way of thinking.
“Sara?” her mother’s voice brought her back from her musings and she blinked, wondering what she’d missed. “Is your meal alright?” her mother asked, looking at her with concern.
“Oh, yes,” she said, lifting a forkful of chicken to her lips. “It’s lovely.”
***
It was Sara’s week to wash dishes, so for the second day in a row she found herself staring out the window toward the trees. A bright red cardinal fluttered in, landing on a branch of one of the birch trees, its crimson feathers a riot of color in a white world.
Sara watched the bird, but also watched for a flash of a white tail or the tawny brown of a heavy coat, but she saw nothing. It was unrealistic for her to have hoped that Rafe might have found some time to call on her, but she’d still hoped.
Carefully she dried the dishes and put them away, replaying their earlier conversation in the store. He certainly was a handsome young man.
“Sara, what are you doing in there?” her mother’s voice carried from the small parlor on the other side of the door.
“I’m finishing up now,” she replied, turning away from the window as the little red bird fluttered away.
“Sara why don’t you make us some fudge?” Priscila’s voice bubbled from where she sat by a small fire, knitting.
“That would be lovely,” Maud said, smiling at her youngest. “We have everything we need for it.”
“Alright,” Sara giggled at their pleading. She’d found the recipe for the new confection in the newspaper several months before, and it had instantly become a favorite with her family.
Still in good spirits, she turned back to the wood-burning stove and added fuel, then pulled down a heavy sauce pan and measured out a cup of butter from the ice box. It wasn’t long until she had butter, milk and sugar boiling in the pan and added cocoa powder and heavy cream.
Her arms ached while she stirred as the thick, sweet concoction began to set and she quickly poured it into a buttered tin. She loved making fudge. It was her specialty.
“I’m going to put this out on the sill to cool,” she called to her mother, grabbing a heavy shawl and stepping out the door onto the porch. The pan was warm in her hands and she held it close, enjoying the contrasting cold and heat.
The sun was a thin line along the horizon as night’s icy fingers inched across the forest, turning the snow to blue and gold.
“Sara,” the gruff whisper drifted toward her on the crisp air.
“Rafe, is that you?” she answered, careful not to be heard by anyone in the cabin. She stepped into the snow, still holding the pan, looking for him. “Where are you?”
“Here,” he called, his voice full of teasing.
Sara walked further into the yard. To her right on the other side of the cabin, she could see the barn.
An icy hand grabbed her arm, and she bit down hard to stop a yelp of fright as he pulled her behind a stubby pine.
“What are you doing here?” Sara whispered, glancing back at the little cabin.
“There’s no livin’ with Pa tonight,” Rafe said with a scowl. “He’s raging around the house like a blue northern.”
Sara dropped her eyes. “Is it because he saw mother in town today?” she asked, her voice sad.
“I’m afraid so,” he offered softly, then placed his finger under her chin and lifted her eyes to his. “It’s not your fault, you know. This feud has been going on for a long time.”
“I know, but it is so unlike my mother to hold things against people.”
“My Pa’s not all bad, either,” he said, lightening his words with a smile. “He’s a tough business man, and a fierce worker, but he’s fair, even generous sometimes.
Sara’s eyes were wide with disbelief and Rafe used his finger to lift her chin, closing her mouth that now hung open.
“I know, it’s hard to believe,” he said. “When he gets like this, he’s impossible.”
“Do you have any idea why they despise each other so?” Sara asked. “I can’t understand.”
Rafe shook his head. “I have no idea and if you ask Pa, he goes off on a tangent about untrustworthy folks and double-crossing people.”
“You don’t really think that of my mother, do you?”
“I’ve never seen anything to make me think that of her,” he said, his voice soft, his hand warm on her face.
“I wish things could be different,” Sara sighed.
“At least we can be friends, can’t we?” Rafe purred.
Sara’s smile held the warmth of the sun and it raced through his veins. “I hope we can,” she said shyly.
Rafe leaned in, his dark eyes on hers as his lips inched closer. A sweet aroma drifted to him and he sniffed.
“You smell sweet,” he whispered.
“Oh, no,” Sara laughed, “that’s the fudge.” She held the pan out before her, widening the space between them. “See.”
Rafe looked down at the dark concoction in the small, square tin. “What is it?” he asked, taking a deep breath and sucking in the smell.
“Fudge, silly,” Sara said. “It’s a type of candy, haven’t you ever had it?”
“Nope, can’t say I have.”
“You have to try it sometime.”
“How about now?” he asked, craning his neck to see better.
“I don’t have a knife,” Sara said.
“I do.” His smile could be seen even in the growing darkness. Carefully, he pulled a slim pocket knife from his jeans and offered it to her.
“What will
I tell mother?” she asked, looking back at her log home.
“You won’t deny me this one sweet taste, will you?” Rafe pouted.
“No, I guess not,” she agreed, cutting a large square from the now set fudge.
“Mmm!” Rafe intoned. “This is heavenly.”
Sara giggled. “I’d better go in before mother comes looking for me.” She added, “Enjoy the fudge.”
Turning, she dashed away into the house.
“Is it ready?” Prissy’s voice met her as she entered the kitchen and slipped out of her heavy wrap.
“Yes,” she replied, cutting the rest of the pan in to squares.
“Why’s there a piece missing already?” her sister grumped, looking at her accusingly.
Sara Adams shrugged offering her best smile. “It needed testing,” she said, popping a whole piece in her mouth. “Make the coffee,” she mumbled around the rush of sugar.
Chapter 6
Christmas crept into the sleepy town of Biders Clump as snow skidded across the quiet streets and one by one swaths of greenery wound themselves around porch rails and hitching posts.
Bright tufts of red fluttered on doors or in windows as wreaths decked the entrances of every home and shop along the main street, shiny baubles or flimsy tinsel sparkling in the sun.
“Town sure is lookin’ pretty,” George Orson said, escorting Polly Esther along the path toward the pretty little church that sat on the rise at the entrance to town.
“I always liked Christmas,” Polly agreed. “Even grumpy people seem to lighten up a bit this time of year,” she said, noting the polished buggy of the Dixon’s parked outside the church.
“You think ol’ Harlan’s found Jesus again?” George asked.
“Only time will tell what Harlan has or hasn’t found,” Polly said, “but for now let’s enjoy the service and that special feeling of brotherly love we often get this time of year.”
George sighed, tucking her hand tighter into the crook of his elbow. “You always do believe the best of folks,” he commented, patting her hand. “Hope springs eternal, I reckon.”
Polly Esther smiled, her eyes crinkling with cheer around the corners as George reached out and pulled on the handle of one of the brightly painted red doors that marked the church’s front entrance.
It was warm inside the little white building with the tall steeple. Someone had been up early to stoke the wood stove in the corner of the building, and people huddled together on the straight-backed benches, creating a cozy atmosphere.
A general buzzing sound filled the building as neighbors visited, catching up on the events of the week, and children grouped together, discussing the upcoming nativity play and, of course, the eminent arrival of Saint Nicolas.
“Looks like the whole town’s here today,” George commented, escorting Polly to a pew.
Polly Esther scanned the crowd for the familiar stately figure of Harlan Dixon, spotting him at the front, his back ram-rod straight in his black jacket. Beside him, dressed in a white shirt and deep blue vest, sat his son, whose shoulders seemed to slump as he turned his hat in his hand.
Across the aisle, young Sara Adams’ eyes repeatedly wandered in the young man’s direction, making Polly smile and pinch George on the arm.
“Ouch!” he barked in a subtle whisper. “What’d you do that for?”
Polly tipped her head in the direction of the red-haired girl, and George grimaced.
“Best hope her Ma don’t notice,” he hissed. “There’d be real fireworks for sure.”
The first strains of piano music drifted into the air and parishioners scurried back to their seats, quieting in preparations for the morning prayer.
Charles Dalton rose to his feet on the small dais, straightened his frock coat over his slight paunch, and bowed his head as a hush fell over the congregation.
“Our Heavenly Father,” his rich tenor voice echoed toward the rafters, “we come before you today with thankful hearts and open ears.”
Polly hadn’t closed her eyes, and she noticed when the preacher opened one to assess his audience.
“We are humbled by your awesome grace and mighty power, and offer thanks at this special time of year for your gift of eternal love, hope, and forgiveness.” He paused as “Amens” drifted through the crowd. “We ask that we’ll find it in our own hearts to offer grace and forgiveness this season…”
This time Polly noted how the pastor’s eyes fell on Harlan Dixon, whose head was only partly bowed.
“…we know that if we will not forgive those who have sinned against us, that we cannot be forgiven,” the preacher continued. “Grant us the grace to know when we’re just bein’ pig-headed, and a heart to welcome all. Amen,” he finished in a flourish, looking down toward the little hymnal that rested before him as the pianist began to play Angels We Have Heard on High.
Rafe stood with the rest of the congregation as they began to sing, then turned to place his Stetson on his seat and catch a glimpse of Sara, where she stood beside her sisters, singing. She smiled slightly; he knew it was just for him and his heart soared.
It had taken every argument he could think of to get his father to agree to come to church. The fact that it was nearly Christmas and that a respected member of the community should be present to see that all was well in the little town seemed to finally sway Harlan, and together they’d driven to town.
Rafe wondered about the preacher’s prayer and its words of forgiveness. Had his father simply hardened his heart toward the Adams for some imagined slight, or did the problem go deeper? A plan started forming in his head even as his deep voice mingled with the others in worshipful song.
“Pa,” Rafe spoke, handing his father his hat as they exited the church. “I didn’t see the Adams’ buggy this morning, did you?” he asked softly.
“What business is that of yours?” his father barked gruffly.
“Well, we are their nearest neighbors, and I just thought it’d be neighborly like to offer them a lift home.”
Harlan turned on his son like a bulldog after a stray. “Them women got themselves here some way or another, and they can get themselves right back home the same way,” he spat.
At the bottom of the stairs, Maud Adams looked up as Harlan Dixon growled at his son. She didn’t know what the boy had done, but she knew that Harlan was the most vindictive, hard-hearted man that ever walked the earth and that Rafe would do well to find it out sooner rather than later.
“Nice ta see the preacher’s words did some good,” she said sarcastically, as together the men stepped into the light snow in the church yard.
“You never did know when to mind your own business, did you Maud?” Harlan’s gruff voice buffeted those around him.
“Ma’am,” Rafe offered politely, embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I was just tellin’ Pa we should offer you and your daughters a lift home.” His eyes fell on Sara and she sent him a slight smile.
“My daughters and I are perfectly able to see ourselves home, young man,” Maud stated coldly. “We most certainly do not need any charity from the likes of Harlan Demetrius Dixon.” She turned on her heel, her head high and back straight. “Come along, girls.”
One by one the three Adams daughters fell in behind their mother, but Rafe caught Sara’s soft glance as they trudged down the path toward home.
“Mama, that was rather rude, don’t you think?” Aquila questioned as they turned into the deeper path of the woods.
“It’s none of your business,” Maud’s voice was flat. “Best to let bygones be bygones.”
“But Mama?”
“Quil, Harlan Dixon is the meanest, most unforgiving man you’ll ever meet. Now leave it be. It’s best that boy of his learns it quick like, too, and we’ll all be better off for it.”
***
Sundays were always one of the nicest days of the week. Not only did they get to worship with others and catch up with friends, it was a general day of rest for all.
Im
mediately after dinner was done, Maud had excused herself, saying she had a headache and was going to lay down for a bit. Her eyes had been both angry and sad as she gazed at her daughters, and no one questioned her.
Prissy and Quil had each gone off to their rooms as well to work on projects of their own, or knowing Quil, read a book, leaving Sara on her own to do as she pleased.
Bundling up against the cold, she stepped out into the crisp, bright air of a sunny winter’s day. Above her a blue sky sparkled, turning the snow to shimmering brilliance.
Sara drew in a deep draft of the cold air and sighed. She’d always loved the outdoors. She never minded the changes of the season, or the sun, rain and snow. In fact, she preferred doing the outside chores to any others. She would have happily done all the milking, mucking, and planting if her mother hadn’t insisted that the girls take turns each week with all the chores.
Slowly she made her way toward the barn, pulling the door open and stepping into the dark interior. She blinked as her eyes became accustomed to the dimmer space. With practiced steps, she moved toward the stall that held the family's buggy horse.
The soft creak of door hinges told her that she was not alone and she turned, expecting to see one of her sisters step inside. Instead, the bright eyes of Rafe Dixon met hers.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” she questioned, her hand still resting on the stall door.
“I was out riding and saw you walk in here,” he said, pulling his hat from his head. “I’d hoped we could talk.”
“Of course,” she said, her heart going out to him. It was obvious that something was troubling him.
“My pa really laid into me when we got home,” Rafe began. “Told me to keep away from your family, that you were all no-good, conniving women.” His cheeks heated as he spoke the final words.
Sara’s eyes were wide at the accusation. “But why would he say that?”
“I don’t know,” Rafe offered with a shrug, “whatever happened between him and your family sure does go deep, though.” He raised his head, looking directly at her. “He told me I’m not to step foot on your land, and if he catches me here, he’ll disown me.”
