Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  Perhaps that was what had drawn Abe here. Mark frowned as he dismounted. It was difficult to imagine his father choosing to spend days underground. In the years he’d spent searching for him, Mark had discovered that Abe Williams had worked on a barge plying the Mississippi. He’d herded cattle in Texas, panned for silver in Colorado, and farmed in Kansas. There had been a dozen other stops along the way. Different states and territories, different occupations. The one constant was that everything had involved being outdoors. The picture Mark had formed was of a man who loved adventure and who would try almost anything . . . except settling down or being cooped up indoors. If his father wouldn’t even work as a blacksmith, mining must be unbearable. Had desperation driven him here, or hadn’t he realized what copper mining entailed? By this time tomorrow, Mark would have his answers. He’d know whether Abe Williams was living in Easton. In the meantime, he needed to arrange for a room and board and get Charcoal settled in at the livery.

  After tying Charcoal to the front porch, Mark climbed the four steps and knocked on the door. No answer. “Mrs. Anderson?” His call elicited the same response: silence. Perhaps the proprietor had stepped out. Feeling more than a little awkward, Mark turned the knob and pushed the door open, frowning when he noticed that it had settled, causing it to stick. A minute with a plane would fix that.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” He took a few steps into what was obviously the parlor of a woman who liked roses. The walls were papered with a pattern of large overblown roses; someone had stitched a circlet of roses on the footstool, and the china vase that stood on a small table was decorated with a perfect red rosebud. No one was in the room. Remembering the empty street and store, Mark wondered if the women of the town might be engaged in a quilting bee or some other female pursuit.

  And then he heard it: a painful cough and an even more alarming shrill cry. Following the sounds through the dining room and kitchen, he found himself in a small room. The stacks of canned goods lining one wall would have made him call it a storage room, were it not for the presence of an oak rocking chair and a laundry basket lined with soft blankets. Bemused by the unexpected furnishings, Mark stared at the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen, a woman who was cradling a desperately ill child.

  He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties, perhaps a year or two less than his own twenty-six. With hair as golden as a ripe ear of corn and eyes as deep a blue as the Wyoming sky, her face would have been one to fuel a man’s dreams were it not for the panic that drained it of all color. Where was Widow Anderson, and why wasn’t she helping her boarder care for this child? The baby’s face was alarmingly red, and the cough that wracked its body tore at Mark’s heart.

  “Help me!” the woman cried, her eyes moving frantically from Mark to the child in her arms. “Help my baby! She can’t breathe.” Though the woman’s voice was shrill with fear, Mark detected a slight accent, as if English were her second language.

  “Where’s the doctor?” Mark had learned a thing or two about emergency care during his travels, but he was no substitute for a trained physician.

  “He’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”

  That left Mark, and judging from the baby’s labored breathing and the peculiar cough, there was no time to lose. “Where’s your vinegar?”

  The woman stared at him as if he’d lost his senses but gestured toward a jug on the floor.

  “Your daughter needs vinegar steam.” As he’d traveled, Mark had seen the difference humidity made. While some claimed that the desert cured many ailments, there were other problems, including coughs like this, that benefited from extremely moist environments. “I’m going to boil water and make a tent for you.”

  The mother appeared confused, as if she’d never heard of a steam tent. It didn’t matter. That was the only thing Mark knew to do when someone had trouble breathing. If his suppositions were correct and this was croup, the vinegar would relieve the congestion or whatever it was that was causing the horrible cough and the labored breathing. “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he promised. “Just hold your baby.”

  Though the woman’s lips moved, no sound came out, and Mark suspected she was praying. That couldn’t hurt, but a doctor would be better.

  He hurried back into the kitchen and looked around. Thank goodness the kettle was filled with water. He’d need more, but this would get them started. While he waited for the water to boil, he searched for a tub to hold it and something to serve as the tent. Though he’d hoped for blankets, the pile of sheets that he found on the floor in the laundry room would have to do. He’d use the kitchen worktable as his platform.

  “All right. Bring your daughter into the kitchen,” Mark said when he’d arranged everything. He pointed toward the stool he’d placed next to the table. “I want you to sit here and hold her over the water. Keep her face as close to the steam as you can.” When the woman was settled, he draped the sheet over her and the baby. Though the pungent smell of vinegar filled the room, he didn’t know whether he had added enough. Only time would tell. “I’ll start more water heating.”

  Mark lost count of the number of times he emptied the tub and refilled it with steaming water. Each time he worked the handle on the old pump, he hoped it would remain attached, for there was no time to repair it today. Each time he placed another piece of wood inside the stove, he hoped it would be the last one he needed, for the supply was dwindling. And each time he pulled back the sheets to empty and refill the tub, he looked at the child, searching for a sign that the treatment was working.

  It was odd. He ought to be tired. Even before he’d arrived in Easton, it had been a long day, for he’d left well before dawn and had ridden hard to reach the small town. But now he felt no fatigue, nothing but the sensation that he was more alive than he’d been in years, perhaps ever.

  Though the mother said little, Mark saw the lines on her face begin to ease as the afternoon passed. She had noticed what he had, that the coughing spells seemed less frequent and less intense. It was perhaps an hour later that the woman smiled. “She’s breathing normally,” she said, pushing the now-soggy sheets aside. She rose and held the child in her arms, this time cradling her rather than suspending her over the tub. The baby’s face was still rosy, but the alarming flush had faded. “I don’t know how to thank you,” the mother said, her voice husky with emotion. “You were the answer to prayer.”

  Mark blinked. It was the first time anyone had called him the answer to anything, especially prayer.

  “You saved my baby.” Celia’s arms shook so badly she could barely hold Emma. It wasn’t simply the strain of the hours she had spent keeping her suspended over the steaming tub that had taken its toll on her. Somehow the aftermath seemed worse, draining every ounce of strength from her, leaving her as limp as an overcooked carrot.

  The stranger looked at her with gray eyes that seemed to understand. “Here, let me hold her. Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured toward a chair on the opposite side of the table. Unlike the stool where she’d been perched for hours, it had a back to support her.

  As she sank onto the chair, Celia stared at the man who’d arrived at the exact moment she had needed him. She had always pictured angels as blond and cherubic, with plump cheeks and sweet smiles, but no one would have described this man as a cherub. He was tall, with hair so dark it was almost black and eyes the color of smoke. His angular face with its roughly chiseled features bore no resemblance to Celia’s mental image, and yet there was no doubt that he was the answer to her prayer, an angel in human form. “God sent you,” Celia said, marveling at the perfect timing.

  The way the stranger cleared his throat told her he was uncomfortable, although whether it was by her reference to God or the implied praise wasn’t clear. “I wouldn’t say that, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Emma rather than meeting Celia’s gaze. “I was just passing through town. I needed a place to stay, and the boy at the mercantile told me Widow Anderson might have a room.” This time he directed
his look at her. “Do you know where she is?”

  A bubble of laughter escaped from Celia’s mouth. This was no coincidence. God had definitely sent the man to her. She had prayed for another boarder, but he had sent something even better: a boarder who knew how to heal a child. “I’m Celia Anderson,” she said, “and my daughter is Emma.” It was strange. They had worked together, battling for Emma’s life, and yet she didn’t know the man’s name.

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” she told him. “In fact, I insist that you stay—rent free, of course. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for us, Mr. . . .” Celia let her voice trail off, hoping he’d complete the sentence.

  “Williams. Mark Williams. It’s true I need a room, but I don’t want to impose on you, especially today.” He looked down at Emma, who had fallen asleep, probably exhausted by her ordeal.

  “Nonsense. This is a boardinghouse, and I have plenty of room. There are six bedchambers upstairs, and only one is occupied.” Celia rose and took Emma from his arms. “Let me put her to bed, and then I’ll show you your room.”

  There was no question of which one she would give Mr. Williams. Five minutes later, Celia led him upstairs and opened the door to her largest guest chamber. Situated on the front corner above the dining room, it had windows on two sides, providing a view of both the street and the forest.

  Mr. Williams nodded as he looked around. “I’m much obliged, ma’am. This is nicer than anywhere I’ve slept in years.”

  And far less than he deserved. “Get yourself settled and then come downstairs. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee and some pepparkakor.”

  “Pepper what?”

  “Pepparkakor. I can tell you’re not Swedish. Those are the best spice cookies you’ll ever taste. Every woman in Sweden tries to outdo her neighbors, but no one’s recipe can compare to my grandmother’s.” Celia shook her head. “Here I am, bragging about cookies instead of making sure you’re comfortable.” She looked around, satisfying herself that she had left fresh towels on the bureau. She’d fill the pitcher later. “If there’s anything you need, Mr. Williams, just let me know.”

  “There is something,” he said, his eyes lightening as he smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Mark. Where I come from, we’re not set on formality.”

  The request was highly unconventional. Although she was on a first-name basis with the women in town and with her boarders, she referred to other men as “mister.” Still, Mr. Williams would be here only a day or two. What harm could it cause?

  “Certainly, Mark.” She gave him a small smile. “And you may call me Celia.”

  Ten minutes later, she heard his footsteps on the stairway and met him at the base. “Please, have a seat in the parlor.” It was her favorite room of the house, filled as it was with reminders of the flowers she had loved from early childhood. When they were both seated and she’d served him the coffee and cookies she had promised, Celia cleared her throat. She had to let him know how much she appreciated his actions. “I wish there were a way I could thank you for what you did this afternoon. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Yes, she did. She would have lost Emma. “You must have children of your own.”

  Mark’s eyebrows rose, and he shook his head. “’Fraid not. I’m a bachelor and likely to remain that way.”

  “Then you have younger siblings.”

  He shook his head again. “Nope. What makes you think I’ve been surrounded by children?”

  “The way you knew what to do and the ease with which you held Emma. Few men are that comfortable around babies.”

  Mark took a sip of coffee before he replied. “I’ve been traveling for the past two years, ever since Ma died. Along the way, I learned to do a lot of things, including caring for sick babies.”

  Celia wondered where he’d learned that particular skill, but she wouldn’t ask. If there was one lesson Mama had taught her, it was not to pry into others’ lives. She had already asked too many personal questions.

  Mark nodded when she offered him another cookie, then said, “I never saw croup before, but I’ve heard about it.”

  “Croup.” Remembering the tiny graves in the cemetery that Bertha claimed were the result of croup, Celia shuddered. Were it not for this man, her daughter might have died. “Are you sure you’re not a doctor?”

  “No doctor, just an itinerant carpenter.”

  2

  He had planned to start his inquiries as soon as he’d found a room, but he hadn’t wanted to leave Celia and Emma. Though he thought the crisis had passed, you could never be certain with an illness, and so Mark had decided to postpone his search. After more than two years, another day made no difference. The child was sleeping better now. She still coughed, but the alarming croaking had subsided, and Celia reported that her face was no longer flushed. There was nothing more for Mark to do, and so he sat in the parlor, trying not to wince at the rose motifs. It wasn’t that he disliked the flower. The ones Ma had in her garden had smelled better than any of the other plants. It was simply that there were so many of them in this room.

  When the front door opened and a middle-aged man entered the house, Mark felt a jolt of energy. Celia had told him to expect three men and a young boy for dinner but had said nothing more.

  “You a new boarder?” The man who tossed his jacket onto the coatrack was a couple inches shorter than Mark with brown eyes and what would probably be medium brown hair, once it dried. It and his face and hands had obviously just been washed, leaving Mark with the impression that the man was a miner who’d sought to wash off the telltale dust.

  Mark rose, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m just passing through. Name’s Mark Williams.”

  “Hiram Dinkel here.” The man gave him an appraising look. “Sure is a shame you’re not staying. Celia—that is, Mrs. Anderson—could use more boarders. I’m the only one.” He frowned slightly as he settled onto the horsehair chair that boasted a pillow embroidered with pink roses, but whether the frown was caused by the floral design or his thoughts wasn’t clear. “She don’t say much, but I reckon it’s been mighty hard on her, losin’ her man and then tryin’ to make a go of this place. Don’t know whether she told you, but she bought this place soon after Josef got killed. Folks figured she was crazy, tryin’ to make a livin’ by herself, but she’s a plucky one.”

  Mark nodded. Hiram’s story explained the boardinghouse’s lack of repairs. Celia probably couldn’t afford them, especially if she had only one boarder. “This looks like a nice town, but like I said, I’m just passing through.” Since the man appeared friendly, Mark decided to start his inquiry with him. “I’m looking for someone. You ever hear of Abe Williams?”

  Furrows formed between Hiram Dinkel’s eyes. “Williams, huh? Family?” When Mark nodded, he continued. “Can’t say as I recognize the name. There ain’t no one by that name at the mine, but you oughta ask the others. Could be they’ve met him. He mighta been here before I came. Frank or Jacob would know. They oughta be here any—”

  Before Hiram could complete the sentence, the door burst open and a boy Mark guessed to be no older than three launched himself into the room. “Mrs. Celia! Mrs. Celia! I found the ladies. I did just like you said.”

  Celia emerged from the kitchen, a voluminous white apron covering her dress. Mark noticed that she’d combed her hair since Emma’s ordeal, and tendrils no longer escaped from the coronet of braids. Her face was flushed, but he suspected that was the result of rushing around a warm kitchen rather than a sign of illness.

  Celia bent down to ruffle the boy’s hair as she said, “Thank you, Aaron. I knew I could count on you.” When the child grinned in pleasure, she turned her attention to the two men who’d followed him into the parlor. “Good evening, gentlemen. Have you met Mark Williams? He’ll be staying for a day or two. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish supper.”

  Mark looked at the two newcomers, both of whom were heavier than Hiram. The brown-haired man in ov
eralls, who merely nodded in greeting, bore a striking resemblance to Aaron and was presumably his father. The other man, heavy, blond-haired, and dressed in a suit, stepped forward. “You must be the stranger Daniel told me about. He said he’d sent you this way.” The look on the man’s face told Mark that, unlike Hiram, this man didn’t seem to think Celia needed another boarder, even for a short time. “I’m Frank Tyson,” he said. “That’s my mercantile you visited.” He thrust his shoulders back, as if asserting his importance in Easton, and the look he gave Mark was anything but friendly.

  “It looked like a fine establishment.” Mark knew the value of honeyed words in soothing an antagonist. “That’s good for me, because I need to stock up on a few things before I leave.”

  Apparently mollified, Frank nodded. “I’ve got most anything you could want. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”

  The other man stepped forward, bending slightly to place his hand on the boy’s head. “Welcome to Easton, Mr. Williams. I’m Jacob Bender. This here’s my son, Aaron.”

  “I help Mrs. Celia,” the child announced.

  The pride in his brown eyes reminded Mark of himself as a youngster, always trying to please his mother. “She’s lucky to have a big boy to help her.”