Small Favors

by Erin A. Craig

  “I thought all loggers were meant to call out ‘Timber!’ ”

  I turned to see Whitaker standing behind me, leaning against a tree as though he’d been watching me for quite some time.

  “You could have killed me,” he chastised lightly.

  “Hardly.”

  “Oh yes,” he continued, the corner of his lips raised in an endearing quirk. “If there’d been just a wee more breeze blowing this way rather than that, I’d be as flat as a flapjack.” He held up a wet finger as if proving his claim. “But luck was on my side today. And yours too, I suppose. I see you require some assistance with that?”

  “I can handle it,” I said, surprised how sharp my words sounded.

  What was wrong with me? I certainly couldn’t pick the tree up on my own, and Whitaker had done nothing to earn my ire.

  Not like Sam. The coward.

  I didn’t mean that.

  At least, I didn’t think I did.

  Since I’d stepped into the woods, the very worst facets of my being had suddenly sprung to the forefront—impatience, short-temperedness, and above all, a burning, primal rage—and I was helpless to push them back.

  “I’ve no doubt you could, Ellerie Downing,” he said, ignoring my barbed tone and stepping forward to help. “But if you have four hands, why use two?” He reached down and easily hoisted one end of the tree. “I’ll pull if you steer?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to voice an assent. Who knew what would come out?

  As we set off, I felt a shift inside me, layers of blushing reds and crimsons falling over the black, angry rage. My skin throbbed, my nerves were raw, and a sudden ache reached out from the center of my core, down my arms, and into my fingers until they itched to move in its bidding. My heart panged, overcome with a physical yearning, a hunger, a need.

  My breath felt impossibly heavy, and my chest heaved as if I’d run a sprinted race.

  When Whitaker turned back to offer an encouraging smile, all of the strange sensations came together to a sharp edge.

  Desire.

  Lust.

  I wanted him.

  I wanted to march right up and kiss him. I wanted to taste his lips, to rip open his shirt and feel his pounding heartbeat beneath my touch. I wanted his hands on me, pressed against my bare flesh, gripping and grasping. I wanted to feel the edge of his teeth rake down my neck, wanted to feel him suck at the hollow of my throat before moving lower, then lower still. It would be so easy to lose control in this forest, to give in to temptation, to bask and bathe in it.

  To drown.

  The sliver of me acknowledging how absurd these wild thoughts were felt very distant, as if it were watching through a spyglass, miles away and utterly powerless to extend reason.

  The sensation grew worse as we approached the tree line, as if the depraved thoughts overriding me knew we only had a short time to act. They rose up, droning in my mind until all I could hear was their horrible buzz, baiting and urging me on. Part of me wanted to reach out and caress Whitaker; the other wanted to take the axe and hurl it into his back.

  He’d never see it coming.

  As I pictured the split skin, the raw wound, the blood—so much blood—that tiny distant part of me, the real me, rushed back and slammed into the dark rage with all the force of a rockslide. The wickedness did not give up easily, shrieking its displeasure so loudly, it wasn’t until we’d stepped free of the pines’ shadows that I could even begin to pick up what was happening around me.

  I could tell from the looks of expectation on Sadie’s and Merry’s faces that someone had asked a question, but I’d been too wrapped in the struggle in my head to respond.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be honored to join your celebrations tomorrow,” Whitaker said, covering my moment of blankness. He blinked curiously at me, sensing that something was amiss.

  Tomorrow.

  Christmas.

  The girls had invited him for Christmas.

  With the sudden departure of the darkness, I felt hollowed, too thin, a mere shell of my usual self. Even trying to figure out the last of the conversation had taxed me to the point of exhaustion.

  “Yes, please,” I said, forcing a smile when one didn’t automatically form. “We’d love to have you for supper…if you’ve not made other plans already.”

  His eyes were warm and amber, happy and wholly unaware of all the exquisitely horrible things I’d dreamed up for him in the woods. “None whatsoever.”

  “Sadie, can you grab the butter for me?” I called, flipping over the potatoes. Their sizzling filled the cast-iron skillet with a happy sound, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation of the meal to come.

  “Whitaker’s here!” my little sister cried, racing down the stairs. Her pounding footsteps thundered through the house, and I hoped Ezra and Thomas—chatting with Samuel in the sitting room—didn’t think to compare Whitaker’s arrival with their own lukewarm reception.

  I pushed at a wayward lock of hair with the back of my hand. “That doesn’t…That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s not,” a warm voice agreed with me.

  I turned to see Whitaker leaning against the doorframe, the pot of butter in his hands.

  “Merry Christmas, Ellerie Downing.” His eyes trailed over me. “You look lovely.”

  “I look a mess,” I said, accepting the butter and turning to scoop some into the skillet. “I truly don’t know how Mama pulled these dinners off. She always had everything ready at the same time and would sit down with all of us to eat, not a hair out of place.”

  “An impressive feat, to be sure.”

  He leaned in from behind me to inspect the potatoes with an appreciative sniff. My shoulder blades brushed his chest, and a delicious thrill danced through me. It was such a wonderfully intimate, familiar gesture. I’d seen Papa do it many times before, and it always ended with a kiss pressed into the crook of Mama’s neck.

  I glanced at him. He was so close, our faces brushed against each other’s, and I caught the scent of him. It was intoxicating, drawing me closer still, and I was certain this was it.

  My first kiss.

  I couldn’t think of a better Christmas gift.

  He smiled as our eyes met, and my chest hitched, too happy to draw full breath.

  “Whitaker, I didn’t hear you come in.” Sam greeted him from the hallway, breaking the moment. “Come meet our uncle and cousin.”

  “Samuel,” Whitaker said, pulling away from me. “Merry Christmas.”

  “To you as well.” Sam gestured back to the sitting room. “Coming?”

  “Do you need any help in here?” Whitaker asked me.

  “I’m sure Ellerie has everything all covered. And look, there’s Merry,” Sam said as Merry ducked inside, carrying a basket full of kindling. “I was just about to tell Ezra and Thomas about my trek into the woods. Join us,” he beckoned.

  Whitaker tapped my nose, a playful twinkle in his eye. “To be continued later,” he promised.

  * * *

  “What a marvelous feast!” Ezra exclaimed, clutching the chair in front of him and staring down at the table in wonder.

  “Have a seat, please,” I said, setting the roasted chicken down with a flourish.

  Pride was a sin, but I couldn’t help but be pleased with the meal Merry and I had prepared. Mama might have been away, but it felt as though she were here, looking down the length of the table. We’d made all the Christmas favorites—roasted chicken, fried potatoes, green beans salted with butter and little onions. Biscuits and gravy. Cranberry sauce and stewed plums.

  My mouth watered as everyone gathered around the table and we bowed our heads for the blessing.

  Both Sam and Ezra started to speak at once, neither aware that the other felt the delivery belonged to them.

  �
�A thousand apologies,” Ezra said, ceding quickly. “I didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  Sam’s lips twisted into a scowl, and he rushed through a terse and somewhat bland Christmas prayer.

  “Amen,” we echoed as he finished.

  “So tell me, Mr. Price,” Ezra began, breaking the quiet that had descended over the table as we’d all begun filling our plates and passing the dishes and bowls. “Ellerie says you’re a trapper.”

  Whitaker finished spooning a drizzle of gravy across his chicken before glancing to my uncle. His eyebrows rose, as if waiting for a question to answer.

  “I’d be interested in seeing some of your pelts. I’ve a mind to make a new coat for myself.”

  “Is there anything in particular you’re interested in?” Whitaker asked, passing a tray of biscuits to Merry, at his left.

  “Fox, if you’ve got any at reasonable prices. I’ll need something warm for the collar. I plan to be spending a good amount of time out in the woods soon.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  I studied my uncle, curious myself. He had no homestead of his own to tend and no discernable trade. I wasn’t sure what he or Thomas did all day at the Buhrmans’. It seemed odd to not know, but odder still to come out and ask. I hadn’t wanted him to think we were busybodies.

  “Ah. I intend to write a book,” he declared, proudly adjusting his glasses.

  “A book?” Sam echoed. “On what?”

  “Amity Falls, of course! I’ve been fortunate enough to travel quite a bit throughout the West and always admired the field guides of the coast. They’re chockful of information on plants and animals native to the region. Watercolor illustrations and such. But there’s nothing like that for this area of the world. I thought I’d try my hand at creating one.”

  “You’re an artist, then?” I asked, slicing into a sliver of potato.

  He beamed.

  “And you?” Merry glanced at Thomas. “Do you like to paint as well?”

  “I mostly carry the supplies,” he said with a dry chuckle.

  “I even plan to include a few pages on the mutated animals. The wolf we came across. The stags. Frogs and fish. We’ve heard all sorts of stories around town. Mr. Fowler caught a pike ice fishing last week. It had two tails and a little set of legs between them. Curious, isn’t it?” He reached for the pepper shaker. “Have you seen any oddities in your travels, Mr. Price?”

  “Just ‘Whitaker,’ ” he corrected Thomas around a mouthful of beans. He swallowed. “I can’t say I have. I am awfully grateful to you and your son for taking out that wolf. I wouldn’t have wanted him to stumble across my campsite.”

  Ezra and Thomas nodded, diving into their meals.

  “There are more of them out there, though,” Sam said. “Wolves, or whatever they truly are.”

  My sisters and I exchanged looks with each other. We needed to turn the direction of the conversation, or Sam would spend all night brooding on the supply run.

  “Tell us more about your book, Uncle Ezra,” Sadie said. “And pass the beans?”

  Thomas obliged her, and we continued eating.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you want to head back into town now?” Samuel asked as Ezra wrapped a navy scarf about his neck.

  “So early?” Merry added.

  We’d just cleared away the dessert plates.

  “We promised Calvin and Violet to be back in time for a Christmas toast,” Ezra explained. “But thank you all, so much, for this lovely evening. Being with family on this day has…has truly meant the world.”

  Thomas nodded. “Happy Christmas, everyone.”

  After a round of hugs, they headed out to their wagon and disappeared into the purple twilight.

  “Happy Christmas?” Sadie repeated.

  “Some people say that,” I allowed, although I too had noted the peculiar phrasing.

  “The tree looks splendid,” Whitaker said as we stepped into the sitting room, and the matter was forgotten.

  He spun around, taking in the entire picture as his eyes sparkled with appreciation. Paper snowflakes twirled in midair, caught in tangles of baker’s string, and swags of holly branches—dark verdant leaves and glistening red berries—decorated the room.

  “The whole house does. You ladies truly pulled off a Christmas miracle.”

  “Sam hung all of that,” Sadie offered, throwing a loyal look to him as she pointed to the ivy. He’d been quiet all evening, seemingly cowed by the other men’s bold and boisterous presence. “None of us were tall enough.”

  Samuel waved aside her praise. “But it was your idea to string all the berries on the tree with the popcorn.”

  “If only we could have made gingerbread ornaments,” Merry said, squinting at the tree as if dreaming them into existence. “They make the house smell so good, and Mama always lets us pick them off the tree to eat whenever we want.”

  “They sound delicious, but it’s been the perfect day,” Whitaker reassured her. “I can’t imagine anything improving it.”

  “Presents,” said Sadie wistfully.

  “The baked apples Ellerie made were our presents,” Merry reminded her. “She used the last of the cinnamon on them.”

  “And they were very good,” my little sister allowed. “But it wasn’t as though we could stick them under the tree and unwrap them. Not like real presents.”

  “Sadie,” I said with a warning note. Her lower lip was poking dangerously close to a pout. “We talked about that. Not this year.”

  “I know. I just—”

  “Why don’t you go and look underneath the tree?” Whitaker cut off her whine. “You never know what you might find!”

  Dubiously Sadie knelt beside the pine and lifted a heavily needled branch. With a squeal, she removed a small parcel. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and twine, but Whitaker had stuck a sprig of ivy between the cording for a festive touch. An elaborate M was scrawled across the paper.

  “Merry, this is for you,” Sadie said, handing out the present with such authority that one would have thought she’d wrapped it herself.

  She dove back under the tree and retrieved two more gifts, each with an S. Sadie held them up to Whitaker, her eyebrows question marks.

  “The smaller one is Samuel’s; the bigger one is yours,” he said with a wink.

  Pleased, she gave Sam his gift, then turned back to the tree.

  “Actually, that’s all there is,” Whitaker said, catching her before she could scramble beneath the branches. “Time ran short, and I couldn’t wrap anything for Ellerie.” His eyes flickered over to mine. “I am sorry.”

  “You joining us for Christmas is all the gift I need.”

  He’d added a breath of life to the house today, keeping us from missing Mama and Papa too much.

  Even so, he smiled apologetically before turning to the rest of the group. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  With whoops of delight, Sadie and Sam tore into the paper coverings, ripping the string in two when the knots didn’t give way. Merry opened hers with a weighted thoughtfulness, carefully folding the wrapping and curling up the twine, undoubtedly to save for later use. I wanted to hug her for her resourcefulness.

  “Oh, pretty!” Sadie exclaimed, drawing my attention. She twirled a little wooden figure between her fingers. “It’s a princess!”

  “A fairy princess,” Whitaker corrected her. “See the wings?”

  “They’re maple seeds! Look, Ellerie!”

  She foisted the carved figure into my hands. The fairy’s full-skirted dress had a surprising amount of detail carved into it. Shooting stars fell around the hem, and she held a bouquet of tiny four-leaf clovers.

  “Did you carve this yourself?” I asked, glancing up at Whitaker. He nodded. “It’s lovely.”

  We tu
rned to see Merry, inspecting her gift curiously. It was a horseshoe, brand-new, without a trace of wear.

  “For luck,” Whitaker clarified.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen one so shiny before.” She looked up with a shy smile. “Thank you.”

  “Oh,” Samuel murmured. We all leaned in to see what it was.

  “A pocketknife,” Sadie announced, and immediately lost interest. She took her gift back to the tree and created a game where the figure had to traverse the branches, hopping up higher and higher each time.

  “It’s my pocketknife,” Sam said carefully. He held it out to me. “See the little initials on the body? Papa carved those in.”

  “I remember,” I said, examining the knife.

  “I lost it…during the supply run,” Sam continued, glancing up at Whitaker.

  “Ellerie mentioned that when she told me what happened. I was checking traps a few days ago and came across it on the forest floor. Thought you’d want it back.”

  “I…yes, thank you.”

  My twin stared at Whitaker for a long moment, his gaze dark and terrible.

  “We didn’t get you anything,” Sadie realized, her brow furrowing. Her bright tone pushed aside the strange tension threatening the room.

  “Are you in jest?” he asked, gallantly sweeping his arm about. “Look at everything you’ve done. If it wasn’t for the Downing family, I’d be spending a cold and lonely night back at my camp. This has been a wonderful evening. I can’t remember a better Christmas!”

  “Really?” Sadie asked, glancing about the room with suspicion. “But if you could have any Christmas wish—anything at all—what would you want?”

  Whitaker’s gaze fell on me, and my cheeks flushed under the warmth of his stare. Ever since our intimate moment in the kitchen, there’d been a charge between us. Every stare seemed weighted with an anticipation I wasn’t sure how to meet.

  “Is that a piano in the corner?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.