by Jillian Hart
“Merry Christmas, Sheriff,” Tom Farley called as he swept off the boardwalk in front of his mercantile. “Hear you’re a courtin’ man these days.”
“You heard wrong, my friend.”
“Well, the rumor is you’ve taken a sparking to the new gal your folks hired. She came into my store yesterday and picked up a few things. Nice as could be. It’s wise for a man to take his time when he’s courtin’. Marriage is a grave matter.”
Not at all in the mood to continue that conversation, he tipped his hat and kept walking. “Merry Christmas to you and your family, Tom.”
Now he’d have to live down the gossip that would probably go on for a good month, or at least until something more interesting came along.
It was to be expected. It was hard to keep secrets in a small town. And it wasn’t as if Tom had been wrong. He had taken a sparking to Carrie. She was good and decent and kind. She worked hard and with dignity. And she was the only woman who could make the places gone dead within him come to life.
Because that was what she’d done. He could no longer deny it. No longer lie to himself. What he’d thought was impossible had happened. He’d grieved Amelia long and true, and he would save her now if he could. But he no longer wanted to live like a condemned man. His heart yearned to be let loose from this guilt.
The trouble was that the only person who could forgive him was buried.
“Mac!” His ma jabbed open the bakery door. She must have been watching him come down the street. “Do you know what I noticed hanging on the hook at the house this morning? Your other coat.”
How was it that a mother’s voice didn’t need to rise in anger to carry the full weight of accusation? His step faltered. He spun toward the depot. Between the line of buildings at the intersection, he could clearly see the train loading up passengers from the platform.
Carrie would be in the crowd. And the thought of her seared his heart like noon sunlight on snow. It was too much, too intense, and he wanted to close up against the brightness.
“Mac.” Ma squinted at him, not fooled, and if a look could kill, hers would at least inflict a serious wound or two. “You love her.”
“No.” His denial came quick. Too quick. “Love her? I barely know her.”
“Love is about knowing…here.” His mother covered her heart. “Why are you letting her go? After losing Amelia, I would have thought you would know how rare it is to find true love.”
Across the way, the train gave two long blasts, a warning of its impending departure. Just let her go, man. He only had a few more minutes, and then life could go back to the way it was. The way he wanted it.
Except it’s never going to be the same, you know that. The instant he’d reached out to her in need, she had changed him. In loving her, she had changed his life. Healed him. And like the sun rising in the sky, more bright and bold with each incremental step, Mac could not pretend he lived in shadow. Not anymore.
He gazed at the train with longing. Wishing, just wishing he could hold on to her forever.
“Forgive yourself.” Ma pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Please. It’s not forsaking Amelia. Don’t you think that wherever she is, she would want you to be happy? That she doesn’t grieve over every day of life that you’re wasting?”
Maybe that’s why he could feel Amelia and the past so strongly lately, clinging to him like a damp fog. Was it her he had felt last night? Her kiss to his cheek, releasing him from his failure?
“Son, love is the greatest miracle. And it’s Christmas Eve, the very day of miracles. Forgive yourself, for Amelia’s sake. And grab hold of this new chance for love and a life with Carrie. It’s a Christmas gift from above.” Ma kissed his cheek again.
Go to her. It was not his mother’s words he heard. It was Amelia. It was forgiveness.
It was summer’s touch in the heart of winter.
The train’s long bellow called through town. As the wheels began to grind on the metal tracks, he took off at a dead run. He dodged horses and sleighs on Mountain Street and did not yield to the teamsters at the intersection.
Running like crazy, he leaped onto the boardwalk, circled a gaggle of women shoppers chatting and hiked up the steps two at a time until he was pushing past the crowd leaving the train.
He skidded to a stop. The last cars were pulling away from the end of the platform, leaving with a thick cloud of smoke behind.
And nothing else.
His heart fell as he watched the last car of the train’s procession speed away down the tracks. His heart, alive and beating full of love and hope, took another mortal blow.
She was gone. It was as if the sun overhead went out and would never shine again. The shadows in his soul seemed to thicken.
And then he heard the smallest sound, a woman’s voice, dulcet and low like a hymn on Sunday morning. Like forgiveness and second chances all rolled up into one perfect gift.
The smoke thinned and he saw the faint outline of a woman in a too-large coat, huddling in the crisp wind, with a small child at her side.
No, it can’t be her. He didn’t believe his eyes. The smoke had lifted more and she was there in full color, adorned with sunlight, tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Carrie.” She’d stayed. Joy exploded within him as she flew into his arms. He lifted her up, swirling her around, holding her close to his heart. Her love filled him like the first shards of sunlight so welcome and amazing, it blotted out all darkness, every shadow, every sadness.
“I saw you running to us from my window seat.” She swiped at her eyes and laughed as her feet touched back to board plank. “I was sitting there, so sad because we were leaving and you didn’t want me. And then there you were, running like a wild man down the street, and I thought maybe it was worth the risk of getting off the train while we could. Because I’ve never known this kind of love before.”
“You really love me?”
“Yes. More than I know how to say.” She glanced down at her daughter, who had sat on the satchel, watching with big, questioning eyes as if she knew, too, that so much depended on Mac’s answer. “What I don’t know is if you feel the same way for me.”
How could she even ask him that? Mac thought of last night, how desperately he’d needed her, and how at peace and whole he’d become after lovemaking. With every breath of his being, he needed her as his wife, his lover, his best friend. “You don’t know? You came like a miracle and breathed life into my heart. I love you with all that I am. Forever.”
“That’s how I love you.” Joy lifted her up like the clouds floating by. She knew exactly how lucky she was to have this man to love and cherish.
The brush of his lips to hers was like magic. A cold wind blew her into the shelter of his strong arms. His embrace was like coming home after a long journey to a place that was safe and warm and dear. And remembering that desperate night she’d first stepped foot on this platform, she gave thanks for the miracle of his love.
Tiny, crystal flakes sifted from a clear sky, brushing her cheek, as if with the sweetest answer.
Epilogue
Christmas Eve, one year later
“Would you like some eggnog, sweetheart?”
Carrie stirred from her thoughts to take the offered cup and smiled at her husband towering over her. Mac returned her smile, without shadows. Only with quiet, assured joy. It was a comforting sight, as always. Deciding to marry this man two months after meeting him was the best decision she had ever made. “Come sit with me, handsome.”
“I’d love to, beautiful.”
He glanced over his shoulder to check what the rest of his family were doing. His grandparents were playing chess in front of the fire. Ebea was with Ma and Pa, who were busy in the kitchen. His nephews were busy shoving each other beneath the tree, trying to count all their presents. And his sister was thumbing through sheet music at the piano.
Mac gave his beautiful wife a full-fledged kiss that came straight from his soul. The kind that he knew would cu
rl her toes and make them both anticipate hurrying home to their new house when the celebration here was through. They would put Ebea to bed and head down the hall to their room together.
“Making a Christmas wish?” Carrie was laughing, her face pink with pleasure. “Because I may be making the same wish.”
“Babe, that’s what I’m counting on.” He set his cup aside and knelt before her, the palm of his hand settling on her slightly rounded stomach. “Isn’t that how we got you into trouble?”
“I don’t think it’s trouble. It’s more of, well, proclaiming how in love we are. Have I told you lately how happy you’ve made me?”
“It couldn’t be as happy as you make me.” Reverently, he cupped the side of her face with the palm of his hand. Ten months ago he’d made her his wife, and each day of their marriage had been better than the last.
“Ma, look! I helped with these.” Ebea came running from the kitchen, for she was pretty much inseparable from her grandmother, and showed off the gingerbread man she’d decorated. “Pa, I made mine with a badge just like yours. The gingerbread village we’re makin’ needs a sheriff, too.”
“You’ve done a great job, sweetie.” Carrie beamed with pride. Her daughter had flourished over the last year here with a real extended family to love her and a father who took his job of providing for her and protecting her seriously. “Are you going to make more?”
“Yep!” Ebea ran off, and the ornaments on the tree swung at her passing, a few clinking together as they swayed.
The first notes of “Jingle Bells” pealed from the corner, a lively, skilled rendition of the cheerful song that seemed to send joy spiraling through the house. In the kitchen the oven door slammed. The boys stopped rummaging and wrestling beneath the tree and dashed to the piano to shove and push each other there. Ebea followed her grandparents from the kitchen out into the parlor.
“The ham is almost done,” Selma announced with holiday cheer. “Should we light the tree?”
“Yes! Yes!” Ebea clapped her hands and Fred lit the first candle.
Like magic the soft candlelight burnished the pine needles and graceful boughs. Light gleamed off crystal and sang off porcelain and filled the entire room with an angel’s solemn glow.
“Merry Christmas, my husband.” Carrie leaned into his touch. “May every Christmas find us happier than the last.”
“On my honor, my love.” He searched her lovely face, seeing clear into her soul, and then he kissed her, long and sweet.
THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS
Kate Bridges
Chapter One
British Columbia
December 19, 1887
Even from a distance too far to see his face, Maggie Greerson knew who he was. She recognized the swivel of the broad shoulders beneath the ten-pound, buffalo-fur coat, and the sheer strength of him as he gripped the lines of his husky dogs and urged the dogsled team to go faster. It figured he’d be out in a storm when everyone else in the town of Goldstrike was waiting for it to subside. He thrived on danger and sought solitude while Maggie did everything she could to avoid it.
“Look at that.” Maggie’s nine-year-old niece, Rebecca, pointed out the window of Maggie’s store, the Spice Shop. She stood on a wooden crate beside Maggie, peeling orange rinds for the citron basket. “It’s Saint Nicholas from the North Pole. He’s bringin’ Christmas gifts.”
“No, darling, it’s much too early for Saint Nicholas.”
It was near closing time and Maggie rushed to finish. Up until this point, it had been a wonderfully busy day. So busy that Maggie hadn’t had a chance to stop and think about what was missing in her life. But sooner or later, this time of year always brought out those sentiments.
Behind them, Maggie’s two sisters, their mother and five other nieces and nephews were rehearsing for Maggie’s busiest day of the year—December twenty-fourth. The children were softly laughing and singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
Maggie was looking forward to the twenty-fourth, when she’d have carolers in her store and mulled wine for the shoppers. They’d all pitch in to make charity boxes filled with food and firewood for the poorer families in the valley. Maggie was proud that her store was a neighborhood gathering place, packed with flavorings from the Orient, a place for women to exchange recipes and try her version of plum pudding.
Maggie hummed along to the children’s voices. Surrounded by customers and the fragrance of cinnamon sticks she was arranging at the front windows, she peered into the snowstorm. Red-velvet ribbons dangled off the curtains, framing her view. Ice, a quarter-inch thick, glazed the bottom lip of the windowpanes while a crackling fire kept everyone warm.
At first he appeared as a distant blur on the windswept horizon. Moving along the east bank of the Kootenay River, cradled by the jagged Rocky Mountains, he was a lone man racing behind his dogsled team.
James Fielder of the North-West Mounted Police.
Maggie often saw him dashing across the countryside. Now, as the team plodded closer and he loomed larger, she could see him pressing a gloved hand beneath a bulge in his fur coat. What was he carrying?
He’d probably been ice fishing or checking his traps or a dozen other reckless things that could have waited. And soon it would be dark. Already, the sun was sinking behind the western ridge, and long blue shadows crossed the snow.
Maggie tapped affectionately at one of Rebecca’s blond pigtails and tried to get into the spirit of ten lords a-leaping. “That’s Sergeant Fielder,” Maggie explained.
“I guess he’s going to the fort.”
“That’s likely right.”
The Spice Shop sat on the outskirts of town, sandwiched between the bootmaker and tinsmith shops, facing an open field with a good view of the athletic Mountie. Although the gold rush of twenty years ago had long since dried up, the town of Goldstrike remained a vital link for the lumber camps and coal mines farther north.
It would take several more minutes for James to pass Goldstrike on his way to Fort Steele, which was located a mile south in the smaller town of Galbraith’s Ferry. Because it was difficult to watch him without thinking about the past, Maggie went back to rearranging cinnamon sticks. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and shook the bowl of orange peels.
“Rebecca, you did a wonderful job with this orange peel. Would you please help your mother at the till, wrapping the packages, while I measure peppercorns for the schoolteacher?”
As slender as a stalk of growing corn, Rebecca gave her a wide smile and tore off while James barged back into Maggie’s thoughts. Five years ago on an afternoon as windy and stormy as this, he had laughingly sung her this very song, and then unexpectedly at five gold rings and four calling birds, he’d lowered his face and brushed his lips across hers.
It had lasted right through to the partridge in the pear tree.
But at that time she had been engaged to another man, and James had quickly backed off.
He’d enlisted with the Mounties and trained in Edmonton, returning only recently to serve in the temporary outpost of Fort Steele. The fort had been set up by the Mounties from Alberta district to peacefully settle tensions between white settlers and a band of Indians, which they’d accomplished. The company of roughly eighty men would likely return to Alberta in the coming year because British Columbia had set up their own police force. She wondered where James would go.
He had a nice singing voice, she recalled.
She tingled at the recollection of his kiss. Swallowing firmly, she slowly raised her chin to glance outside. She still couldn’t see his face but knew in these past five years, his looks hadn’t changed much. He was still as dark from the wind and sun, his black hair as thick as it had ever been, his jaw as resolute. He looked taller as he raced along the snow, but it was maybe because of his big boots and his massive proportion to the dogsled.
With a clap to her apron, Maggie walked behind the counter.
“Are you sure you should be letting the little one hand
le the vegetable peeler, Maggie? It’s sharp.” The schoolteacher, Mr. Furlow, adjusted his peak cap over his gray hair and watched Maggie scoop peppercorns into a burlap sack.
“Absolutely.” The pepper smelled sharp in Maggie’s nostrils. “Rebecca’s been handling it for a year now. Last year, she was cooking over that fire to help me fill my applesauce orders, and the year before, she could handle a knife to chop walnuts. You know, she’s been with me for the whole three years, and I don’t know what I’d do without my little nugget.”
“But the child…”
“Yes?”
“She’s flourished with you here, Maggie. That’s all I meant to say. Merry Christmas to you all.”
The gentle words of praise brought a flush of comfort to Maggie. Mr. Furlow tipped his hat and paid at the other counter where Maggie’s mother served him. Every year for the busy month of December, Maggie hired her family to help in the store. She loved their company and they loved helping. She smiled as her oldest sister, Tamara—Rebecca’s mother—held up a kissing ball.
It was made with two barrel hoops looped one inside the other and covered with evergreen branches and mistletoe. Tamara had been in charge of mistletoe at dances and get-togethers ever since Maggie could remember, and she was assembling this one for the twenty-fourth. They’d hang it in the corner near the fire, above the mulled wine. It always caused laughter and excitement in the store, from adolescents to grandparents.
Tamara was also seven months along, her skin as smooth as a ripe plum. Maggie’s other sister, Anna, graceful and the tallest of the three as she weighed coffee beans for the banker’s wife, was only three months along. If you looked real close, you could tell her waist was getting thicker.
Maggie’s heart trembled. The whole world was full of children, but she and Sheldon hadn’t been married long enough to have any.