“Can we go back to Nan’s?” Clara asked. “Please, Daddy, say we can.”
“Of course you can,” Nan said, not waiting for Will to answer. “My feelings would be hurt if you stayed with anybody else.”
Clara looked straight at Nan. “We don’t know anybody else.”
“Only for one more night,” Will said. “Then we must be on our way. In fact, I ought to go to the train station to reserve our seats.”
Nan took Clara into the general store while her father went to the train station. Rows of shelves bowed with the weight of their contents were barely illuminated by the light from two small kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling.
Nan doubted that the potbellied stove turned out enough heat to keep molasses from freezing. She wasn’t surprised the store was empty. It was too cold to linger. Even the floorboards creaked in protest as she moved about. Hurrying to make her purchases, she found Clara staring at the brightly colored sticks of candy Mr. Whitehall kept behind a glass cover.
“Would you like one?” Nan asked.
“Yes, please,” Clara said.
“Is this the poor child of that man who’s been staying with you?” Mrs. Whitehall asked.
“Yes,” Nan answered, a little surprised at the way Paralee Whitehall had phrased her question and even more surprised by her judgmental attitude.
“When are they leaving?”
“They had planned to move to the inn today, but Wilmer’s still away. They’ll resume their journey tomorrow.”
“I saw him heading toward the train station just now. He looked plenty recovered to me.”
“I suppose that’s why people ask me about doctoring and you about pork bellies,” Nan said, a sting in her voice. “He’s still weak from the fever. Let’s go, Clara. We’ve got several other stops to make.”
Miserable old busybody, Nan mumbled under her breath. She’ll have to sing a different tune if she wants any cookies from me this Christmas.
“Why are you mad at that lady?” Clara asked.
Nan chastised herself for being so careless. She was so used to being alone that she had fallen into the habit of talking out loud to herself. That would never do around a curious child.
“Just annoyed. Now let’s hurry. I want to see if they managed to decorate the church.”
For the last seven years, Nan had been in charge of the Christmas decorations, but she had given it up this year. She just didn’t have the heart. But now she was anxious to make certain it was done right. The lessons and carols service on Christmas Eve was an important evening for the whole town. Everybody would be there, from tots to grandparents.
Will found them just as they came out of the church.
“What took you so long?” Nan asked.
“I was looking around town. I hadn’t seen anything of Beaker’s Bend. I didn’t realize it was this large.”
“We have nearly a thousand people,” Nan told him proudly. “We’re the biggest town in the whole valley.”
“I don’t understand why you put up with Whitehall’s mercantile,” Will said. “You can’t possibly find half the things you want in there.”
Nan opened her mouth to contradict him, but realized that she had made the same complaint not twenty minutes earlier. Grady and Paralee Whitehall didn’t make much attempt to cater to their customers. They stocked what Grady’s father used to stock, and the people of Beaker’s Bend were expected to make do with it.
“It is something of an irritation, but we can get anything we want sent in on the train.”
“But you ought to be able to get it right here,” Will insisted. “There’s no reason why…” He stopped, looking a little apologetic. “I didn’t mean to get wound up. That’s one of the difficulties of liking your work. You can’t stop thinking about it all the time.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with that as long as you don’t ignore the really important things.”
But he had already admitted he was unable to attend to the most important duty a man could have.
“I’m taking you to lunch,” Will announced. “Don’t worry, I already told Gertie. Where can we eat in this town?”
Nan laughed. She didn’t know why, but she did. “Do you always invite people to eat without knowing where to go?”
“Sure. They always know the best places.”
“The best place in Beaker’s Bend is the drugstore. It’s also the only place.”
“Lead the way,” Will said.
But they got sidetracked when Nan led him into the park in the center of town. A dozen trees, each more than a hundred years old, towered over numerous saplings of much more tender years. Through the center of this woodland glen a stream gurgled and splashed over a bed strewn with large stones. The creek took a sharp turn in the middle of the square and headed north toward the Shenandoah River.
“I’d been wondering how this town got its name,” Will said, as they traversed the wooden bridge across the icy water. “I assume this is Beaker’s Creek.”
Nan nodded.
“I used to go fishing in a stream very much like this. I never considered it a successful day if I didn’t come home with at least a half-dozen fish.”
“The creek passes through the farm,” Nan said. “Gideon used to go fishing all the time.”
“Your own mountains, your own valley, your own town, and now your own fishing stream. I can see why you don’t want to leave. I can’t say I blame you.”
They came out on the other side of the park to find another row of buildings facing them across a wide area that served as a road. It was sprinkled with enough trees to provide places for people to sit in the shade in summer.
“It gives the impression of the town being built in the middle of a forest,” Will said.
“Every few years, when the leaves are deep and the snow stays under the trees for weeks, we have people wanting to cut them down. But then we remember how cool and delightful this is during the summer, and we decide we can put up with the snow and leaves a little longer.”
They entered the drugstore and walked to one of the four wooden tables worn smooth with age and use. Six kerosene lamps made the interior bright and cheerful. A potbellied stove, glowing red, made it warm and cozy. On each side, rows of neatly shelved patent medicines rose to the ceiling. Pilfer-proof glass showcases contained jewelry, perfume, and enticing knickknacks.
“We’re lucky it’s Christmas and everybody has a house full of food to eat up. You can’t find a seat here the rest of the year.”
They sat down. A young girl in a starched, white apron set three bowls of steaming potato soup down before them. Pots of hot coffee and tea followed.
“Where’s the menu?” Will asked.
“There is no menu,” Nan told him. “Whatever Etta Mae cooks is what you get.”
“What a darling little girl.”
The booming voice caused Will to swallow his steaming soup too fast. He looked up through watering eyes to see a tall, blond woman towering over them. “Is this your daughter?” she asked Will.
“But of course she is,” Etta Mae answered herself. “Nan keeps refusing all the fine young men so she doesn’t have one of her own. I have something special for you, sugar, when you’re done with your dinner. This could be your little girl if you weren’t so picky,” Etta Mae said, turning to Nan. “You tell her, Mister. It’s not good for a woman to hide herself away on that farm.”
Nan nearly choked. “Etta Mae! Mr. Atkins doesn’t want to hear your opinions on what’s good for me. And I’ve heard them too often already.”
“Everybody agrees with me.”
“I’m sure they do, but it would be more to the point if you would tell us what we’re going to eat.”
But Etta Mae hadn’t said anything Will hadn’t already been thinking. Nan would make a perfect mother
for Clara. Already the child adored her, followed her around, quoted everything she said. She seemed to have a natural feeling for what to do and say to make Clara feel happy and secure. More than he did.
He knew Clara loved him, but sometimes he didn’t know what to do for her. He became impatient.
But he couldn’t think of Nan as Clara’s mother without also thinking of Nan as his wife. That thought shocked him. She wouldn’t fit into his life. Besides, he had never considered marrying again. He never expected to find a woman he could love after Louise. But Nan had shaken that assumption right down to the foundation.
Sitting across from her right now, nothing seemed more natural.
* * *
“Why are you taking so long over your prayers?” Will asked his daughter. The fires had been allowed to go out for the night, and the house was getting cold.
“Jake said it was going to snow,” Clara told him as she climbed in bed and let him pull the covers over her. “I wanted to remind God so he wouldn’t forget.”
“Why do you want snow so much?”
“Then we won’t have to leave Nan.”
It was some time before Will could get to sleep. He was haunted by the suspicion that in holding on to his attachment to Louise and his commitment to the future they had wanted, he had built a living tomb for himself, had locked himself in a past that was dry and empty.
He couldn’t shake the conviction that life and love were here, now, in the valley, with Nan.
Four
As he got dressed, Will watched the snow come down so thick outside his bedroom window that he could hardly see the well less than thirty feet away. He couldn’t see the barn or the smokehouse at all. He hadn’t seen it snow like this since he was a boy. If it kept up, he wouldn’t be able to leave today. If it snowed like this all night, the train wouldn’t make it to Beaker’s Bend inside a week.
He wasn’t certain whether he was glad or frustrated. If he had left a day ago, he would have had regrets but no confusion. Now he didn’t know what he felt, and he didn’t know what he wanted to do about it. The snowstorm was going to force him to come up with some answers.
* * *
“Jake has already been to town this morning,” Nan told Will when he entered the kitchen. “The passes to the north are closed. No trains in or out.” She finished setting the table and turned to check the coffee.
“Does that mean we can stay here?” Clara asked. She had fallen into the habit of getting up with Nan. She was seated at the table, politely waiting for Gertie to finish cooking breakfast.
“Yes,” Will said, giving his daughter a smile.
“Yippee!” Clara squealed. “Can we stay until Christmas?”
“I think you’ll have to,” Nan said.
Clara jumped up, ran over to Nan, grabbed her around the waist, and hugged her so hard that Nan grunted. Then she hugged her father. After that she hugged Gertie, which startled Gertie so much, she nearly spilled grits from the pot she was stirring.
“Sit down before you overturn something,” her father said.
“Let’s all sit down,” Nan said. She didn’t feel capable of standing much longer. The genuine warmth of Clara’s hug had been a delightful surprise. But it was the look in her father’s eye that made her feel weak in the knees.
She had been aware that since their lunch yesterday, he looked at her in a different manner. There was a new energy about him. Nan could almost feel it, as though something connected the two of them so that everything he felt touched her in some way.
Her skin burned. Her nerves seemed to be on end. The tension in the house had begun to escalate; she expected him to do or say something soul-shattering at any minute.
She was in love with Will Atkins, a man she knew virtually nothing about. Further, she didn’t approve of what she did know.
How could she be in love with a man who would give away his child? She must be losing her mind. But it wasn’t her alone. She could see something new in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in his presence.
He felt it, too.
Gertie broke in on her thoughts. “I guess you’ll have time to do your baking after all. With all this snow on the ground, you wouldn’t be able to do much else.”
“Yes,” Nan said, reining in her galloping imagination. “Set out the butter so it can get soft.”
“May I help?” Clara asked.
“Certainly.”
“Are you trying to leave me out again?” Will asked.
“Can Daddy help make cookies?”
“Sure,” Nan said, smiling, “if he thinks he can stand woman’s work.”
“It’s got to be better than chopping wood, which is what I suspect Jake will have me doing if I don’t luck into something easier.”
But there wasn’t enough to do for two extra people.
“The work would go twice as fast for half as many hands,” Gertie muttered when she stumbled over Will for the dozenth time.
“But it wouldn’t be half as much fun,” Nan said.
“I got my own work to do,” Gertie replied, wiping her hands. “I’ll be back later.” With that, she put on her coat and went out the back door.
“She does the Christmas cooking for her sister,” Nan explained to Will. “She’s never been very well, and she has seven children.”
“That might be why she’s never been very well,” Will replied.
They soon forgot about Gertie and her family. Clara broke the eggs into a bowl, and Will beat them. Nan blended the sugar and butter together, then let Will beat in the eggs as Clara spooned them into the bowl. Will added the flour; Nan mixed it in.
Nan laughed. “You’ve got flour all over you.”
Will looked down at the white dusting on his navy-blue vest. “So I have.”
“Here, let me put an apron on you.” Nan took a fresh apron out of a drawer. When Will bent down so she could loop it over his head, Nan almost froze. He was so close. His eyes. His lips. Her gaze locked on his mouth. She had never looked at him so closely before. His lips were full and firm, his chin slightly cleft, his nose chiseled and slightly rounded. Her gaze rose to his eyes. Deep brown. Wide and questioning.
Forcing herself to break eye contact, Nan looped the apron over his head and stepped behind him to tie the strings. When she reached around to take hold of the strings, Clara started to giggle.
“You’re hugging Daddy.”
Nan was glad Will couldn’t see the heat color her cheeks. She didn’t know whether she imagined it, but he seemed to stiffen. Nan tied the apron quickly, picked up her spoon, and gripped the bowl.
She felt safe now, from herself and from Will.
“I’d hate for you to ruin your clothes,” she said, choosing to ignore Clara’s remark and to avoid looking into Will’s eyes.
But the easy atmosphere was gone. As Will stood next to her, adding the flour a little at a time, she was intensely aware of his presence. She was relieved when he moved back to help Clara with the next batch of eggs. Nan took her time rolling out the dough. By the time she had finished, she felt more in control of her voice and body.
“Will, you can cut out the cookies. Clara, you decorate them. You can put a pecan half on each one, or a piece of red candy.”
“I want more colors.”
Nan set out everything she had. “There, do it any way you like.”
Quiet settled over the kitchen. Will cut out the cookies and arranged them on cookie sheets, and Clara decorated them in a manner all her own. Nan added her own flour this time.
“Nobody will believe you made these,” Will said, shaking his head over his daughter’s fanciful decorations.
“It doesn’t matter. If nobody wants them, I’ll give them to Clara to take with her.”
The thought of Clara and her father leaving was becoming more and more painful. In f
our days they had become a necessary part of Nan’s life. She couldn’t imagine having to face a day without them. Her mind told her that their presence was only temporary, that Will had to return to his business, that she would fall back into her old routine in just a few days.
But her heart would have none of it. The empty space deep inside her had been filled by this pair. She felt as close to them as to her brother.
Nan mixed the new batch of dough with more than her usual vigor. She had fallen in love with a man she expected to walk out of her life just as suddenly as he had walked into it. He might look at her as if she were his favorite cookie, but he had said nothing to indicate that his feelings were stronger than friendship.
She placed the dough on a marble-topped table and began to roll it out with a rolling pin.
This was silly. If Will’s work was so important that he didn’t have time for his daughter, he certainly wouldn’t have time for a wife. Nan wasn’t willing to give up one kind of loneliness for another. A life spent waiting for the man she loved to come home, knowing he could stay only a short time, would be worse than loneliness. It would be torture.
What if he had a normal job? Would she go with him wherever he went?
She didn’t know. She had lived her whole life in Beaker’s Bend. She knew the people. She had a place in the community. She wouldn’t know what to do in a city. Any city. Even the thought of moving to Charlottesville or Richmond scared her.
Besides, she didn’t know anything about being a mother to a five-year-old girl, and she wanted more children. She didn’t think Will would want more, not when he didn’t have time for the one he had.
“If you roll that dough any thinner, you’ll be able to see through it,” Will said.
His closeness shocked her. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen him move to her side. Close enough for their elbows to brush. Close enough for her to smell his shaving lotion. Close enough for her hands to shake. She gripped the rolling pin to steady them.
“I guess I was daydreaming,” Nan said. She rolled up the dough and started again. “Making cookies isn’t very taxing,” she said, petrified that he would ask what she’d been daydreaming about. “I’ve fallen into the habit of thinking over all sorts of plans.”
Longing for a Cowboy Christmas Page 5