by Jillian Hart
She turned to the wall and lit two lanterns. Still, she thought, pushing back the blond hair that had fallen loose from her braid, that was no reason to settle for just any other man to replace him, despite her sisters’ thrusting. No-settling Maggie had become her nickname in the family.
Maybe Maggie didn’t have children of her own, but she had her sisters’ little ones to love. Rebecca was Maggie’s best companion and permanent store helper. The soft-spoken girl had a knack for cooking and flavoring foods. She was dexterous with her hands and precise in her measuring, and such a happy girl.
Walking toward the door, Maggie fingered the loose threads of her skirt pocket. She wondered what had gotten into her this week. Perhaps the Christmas carols were making her reminisce.
“Fare well through the blizzard, Mr. Furlow.” She opened the door a crack and was nearly propelled backward by the onslaught of wind. She braced her shoulder to the door.
“Who on earth is that?” Mr. Furlow wrapped his woolen scarf around his hat and throat. “Sergeant Fielder?”
“I—I think so.” Maggie heard the huskies barking softly in the distance.
“I wonder what he’s got under his coat. He keeps checking on it.” Mr. Furlow left and she closed the door, but other customers had heard his comments and rushed to the windows.
“Look. He just passed the cutoff for the fort, which means he’s heading this way instead,” someone said.
Maggie let out a rush of warm breath. She slid to the window to watch, peering over the shorter heads into the purple shadows of nightfall.
James was a hundred yards away in the fields. His huskies, ranging in color from pure white to gray and speckled, pulled the sled across an icy patch. He was moving very slowly, as if exhausted.
What could he possibly want in her store? He had all the food he needed at the fort and never bought from her. The last time they’d spoken had been three months ago when they’d accidentally come across each other on the boardwalk. He had softly offered condolences on her husband’s unexpected death three years earlier. The complete kidney failure had come suddenly, Maggie had told him, although she’d known it was coming for a year. How could that be? It had been unexpected, yet she knew it was coming.
Maggie straightened the button on her lace blouse. “Sergeant Fielder’s probably headed to the tinsmith next door.”
“Maybe he needs something for his sled,” offered one of the boys.
“But what’s he got under his fur coat?” asked another child.
“Maybe he caught a fish.”
“He wouldn’t be carryin’ it under his coat.”
Their mother, Anna, spoke up. “Come along, it’s five o’clock, children, time to go. Supper needs to be prepared.” Anna rushed the children to the back hall to don their coats and hats. Their grandmother, permanently bent at the waist with old age, but still energetic enough to help the littlest ones, hushed their complaints.
Maggie hugged her mother goodbye. “Careful on the ice.”
“I’ll hold on to Anna,” said her mother. They slipped out the back door as Maggie watched. Their mother had been living with Anna, her husband and three children for over ten years now, ever since their father had passed on, and thankfully didn’t have far to travel in this weather because they lived across the street.
Maggie whirled around to watch the others. Tamara’s two youngest boys raced to Maggie, chasing around her long navy skirt. She laughed, trapped them both and kissed them. “Stay out of trouble.”
Maggie gave away handfuls of sweet raisins to the children as her older sister’s husband, Cliff, appeared at the back door. They had a bit farther to walk than her other sister—two blocks and over to get to their home.
“Will you be all right without our help for the next hour?” Tamara tugged her coat over her large belly.
“I’ll be fine with the last few customers. The storm has slowed the shoppers.”
An elderly couple, inspecting candles on display, glanced up and nodded from across the room.
“Cliff, I feel much safer now that you’ve arrived.” Maggie adjusted the little girl’s bonnet then wiped another child’s nose. “Please hold on to my sister tightly. We don’t want her to fall.”
Cliff smiled beneath his damp Stetson. “Don’t worry, I won’t let her go. And if the weather’s like this tomorrow, I’ll insist she stay home with me.”
“Thank you.”
They were about to leave, when the front door burst open. The bell above the door jingled rapidly.
With a kick to her heart just as rapid, Maggie wheeled around. There he stood. James Fielder.
Something was terribly wrong. Black soot stained his face. He hadn’t shaved for days. Blazes, he looked as if he hadn’t eaten. His lips were parched. The edges of his coat were streaked with dirt and ashes. And the storm had wet everything, including his fur hat, giving everything a muddy appearance.
Clawing at his coat to undo it, he quickly glanced around. He dominated the room with his massive coat, dark looks and probing brown eyes. His husky voice came in rapid fire. “I didn’t know where else to come. The fort’s so far and I don’t know if the doctor’s in. Your shop’s always full of women and children and I thought you’d…you’d know what to do.”
Stricken with fear, Maggie stepped forward. “What is it?”
James pulled hard on his coat and it fell open. Inside, guns were strapped around his lean hips, but above that, strapped to his wide chest in a makeshift harness was a moving bundle.
He pulled at the blankets and rushed the bundle to the counter. “It’s a baby, Maggie. And she’s having trouble breathing.”
Chapter Two
Shaking from exhaustion, James placed the little angel on the pine countertop, propping her up, blankets and all, to make her breathing easier. The five adults and three youngsters in the store crowded around him.
He thought it astounding that the baby’s entire chest fit into one of his soiled hands. She had short, soft black hair. He’d never been this close to a baby and her size scared him. She made grunting noises when she exhaled, as if struggling. Thank God she was pink and moving normally. Clenching her fist, she shoved it into her mouth, at the same time closing her eyes against the lantern’s glow and letting out a soft wail.
James’s deep voice crackled in the silence like a newly struck match. “If I lose her now after coming this far with her…please help.”
Maggie lifted the rasping baby into her arms. “Who is she and what happened to her?”
Others chimed in. “She looks to be around three to four months old, judging by the way she can hold up her head.”
Maggie cooed to the baby, and James, in a woozy fog and feeling weak, thought he heard the angel respond. The raspy groans subsided. Maybe the baby was just as stunned as he to be back in a safe, warm room. Maybe she thought Maggie looked like her mother, whoever that was.
Maggie opened the baby’s mouth and checked inside, but found no obvious obstruction to hinder breathing. She called for bottles and goat’s milk from the back storage room, and a pot of water to be hung over the fire. As she took over, his grip on the situation slackened. He’d made it here. Hallelujah, he’d made it.
Thank God for Maggie. She knew what to do.
The room’s warmth penetrated his face. The heat and the calm felt good after hours of frigid, pounding wind. His legs ached from running behind the sled. His biceps felt as if they’d been whipped, and his neck, from the weight of the angel, felt as tight as his fists.
He parted his dry lips. “I don’t know whose child she is. She was in a fire at High River Landing.”
Various gasps escaped the adults. He recognized Maggie’s sister, Tamara, and her lumberjack husband, Cliff Meese. There was also the elderly couple who gave grammar lessons across the street, the Billings.
Mrs. Billings, in a dainty lace collar, peered at the baby in Maggie’s arms. “Was she hurt in the fire?”
“No.”
&n
bsp; “Were you?” Maggie asked James.
He peered down into her soft face, the light streaks of hair that framed her arched brows and the warm brown eyes that glistened with concern. He hadn’t been this close to her since… A lantern behind her started to swim in his vision. He suddenly realized he must look frightful from the fire he’d escaped. Tamara’s two boys raced around the counter and were spying at him in scared silence.
James pulled off his fur cap. He ran his fingers along his forehead, trying to suppress the dizziness. “I’m all right. I saw the fire from a long way off. By the time I got there, the old barge house—the one they deserted when they built the bridge—had burned to the ground. I don’t know who was staying there…it was still smoldering. I found the baby in the shack that contained the spring pump. The burning house must have kept her warm.”
He took a deep breath and forced himself to finish. “I figured by the amount of crying she was doing, she’d been there for a few hours and she was hungry, but she hadn’t been there long enough to suffer. She was wrapped warmly in fox skins.”
“Who was she with and what happened to them?”
“I searched the charred logs but there was no evidence to speak of. A couple of minor things I’m still contemplating. There were faded tracks in the snow, but nothing I could recognize because the wind was covering it up fast.” He yanked off his fur coat. Wobbly on his feet, he meant to toss his coat on a corner rocking chair, but it slipped to the ground. Someone else picked it up.
“Has there been any word in Goldstrike about the fire?” James asked the group.
They looked at each other. “No,” everyone agreed.
Maggie pressed her ear to the baby’s chest and listened. “Her lungs sound clear on inhalation, but she’s definitely groaning when she breathes out. She feels warm enough. Maybe she’s just lacking fluids and needs something in her tummy. When’s the last time she drank milk?”
“I didn’t find any baby bottles in the shack, and never had any milk to give her. I had my canteens of water and soaked a rag with it, letting her suck the water through the rag.”
“Water? She needs more than water.”
“I know. I had some hard biscuits, so I softened them with water and gave them to the angel to suck on. The whole way here I was petrified she’d choke.”
“How long have you been with her?”
“Since noon today. But I was away from town for three days. I got trapped by the storm and tried to wait it out.”
“You’ve been going steady from High River Landing since noon?” From across the room, Cliff gently dipped the filled milk bottles into a warm cauldron of water. “That’s normally an eight-hour trip by sled. It took you less than six.”
James nodded. A wheeze escaped him. He slouched onto the counter. A moment or two must have passed, for the next time he looked up, Maggie had the bottle in the baby’s mouth. She was sucking on it and closing her eyes in sheer delight. She’d be fine, he could see it.
Every bit of tension melted from his body. He felt light-headed, but managed a smile. “If she were a kitten,” he said softly, “she’d be purring.”
Maggie’s lips parted into gentleness. Everything about kids had always come naturally to Maggie, and so unnaturally to him. She was the first one her sisters called for help in their own deliveries, and then the town doctor, James had once heard. Maggie took easily to the skills the doctor demonstrated.
Maggie’s cheeks glowed in the streaky light. “You saved her life.”
“I think you just did.”
Cliff put on his hat and spoke to his wife. “It’s safe and there’s plenty to eat here. If you’re okay with the kids for an hour and a half, I’ll go notify the doctor.”
“He’s not there,” said Mr. Billings. “He went to visit Chester Simpson yesterday on account of Chester’s heart ailment. Likely stayed where he was when he saw the storm kick up today.”
“We might not need a doctor in such haste,” said Maggie, burping the baby over her shoulder. “Her breathing’s relaxed. It could have been simple dehydration—a loss of fluids. Fluids are important to a child, much more than to an adult. They can’t last as long as we can without drinking something.”
It seemed to James that Maggie was right. The baby’s raspy breathing could no longer be heard.
Maggie’s niece, Rebecca, came around the other side of her. Maggie lowered herself into the corner rocking chair. “You see, Rebecca, the baby’s fine.”
“She’s fine,” Rebecca repeated.
James watched the girl hold the bottle, marveling at how much she’d grown since he’d last seen her. This was the girl everyone in town had called “slow,” the one the doctor had said would never be able to read or write, the one who’d failed the first grade twice before Maggie had insisted on homeschooling and training her in the store.
As the first grandchild in the family, Rebecca must have unknowingly brought great joy but also great concern to her family. Something was wrong. She got her numbers and letters all switched around and couldn’t seem to get them straight in her head. She’d never learn to read or write, but it was apparent to the whole town now, thanks to Maggie, that Rebecca was smart. While Maggie worked to make the child independent, her parents, Cliff and Tamara, seemed to be working on creating an army of brothers and sisters to love and protect Rebecca in her old age. Both plans were working.
Maggie had never, of course, explained her way of thinking to James, but he could see it. Maggie had shown everyone, including the doubting schoolteacher, Mr. Furlow, that Rebecca could indeed learn practical business procedures and with her talents in cooking and baking, help in the store. She wasn’t school-smart, but she was quick in other ways, and Lord help anyone in this town if they dismissed her as simple. They’d have Maggie to deal with.
Seeing Rebecca with Maggie now, feeding the baby, stirred him. He felt sorry for Maggie, not Rebecca. Her husband of two years had been taken from her before she’d been able to conceive. It was apparent to James how much she wanted children of her own. But life had a way of pulling the rug, rich or poor, deserving or not, and no matter what time of year it was.
The young girl looked up at James. “I thought you were Saint Nicholas.”
The others in the room chuckled, but James sighed. Still dizzy, he looked around. Christmas. He caught glimpses of it around the store, noticing details for the first time since entering. The scent of roasted chestnuts coming from the brick oven of the fireplace; red ribbons wired to the till; a wooden painting of Saint Nicholas displayed on the counter.
Why was the Christmas season so easy for some folks but so hard for him? Christmas had never filled him with a sense of magic, not even when he was little. Especially not when he was little. What he remembered about his Christmases was his mother crying for the lack of food, and his father begging for an extra shift at the mines. The year he’d turned thirteen, James had signed up to permanently work in the coal shafts alongside his father, hoping to contribute to the family’s Christmas that year, but he’d only made things worse.
“I’m sorry, James,” said Maggie, looking at him strangely. “We’ve all been so concerned about the baby we overlooked you. You must be hungry and thirsty.”
“Right,” he said, but the room began to tilt. Then spin. He felt himself sliding.
Someone thrust a chair underneath him. He sank onto firm wood.
“He’s been on the road for three days,” someone said. “He needs sleep.”
“Well, he can’t sleep here. Not alone with Maggie in the same house.”
“We can’t lift him and drag him out into a storm,” said Cliff. “He’s been through hell already. I could get—”
“No,” said Mr. Billings. “You’ve got to take your wife and children home. I’ll stay to chaperon. I’ll walk my wife home across the street, get a few things and come back. I’ll sleep in the back room and Maggie can take the baby upstairs with her. James can sleep in the parlor area of the store,
over there, by the woodstove.”
“We’ve got to notify the other Mounties. Someone’s got to know something about the baby’s folks. Where could they have gone in a storm?”
“I’ll help,” Maggie promised. “By looking after the baby. She can stay here with me till they’re found.”
James drifted off and the next thing he knew, he was sitting in the rocking chair trying to force his eyelids open.
He looked about. The front room of Maggie’s store was divided into two areas—the merchandise section with its shelving, bins and counter, and the sitting parlor with two sofas, upholstered chairs and woodstove, where Maggie’s family and customers could sip a cup of coffee. In the far corner stood a tall pine Christmas tree decorated with nuts, candles, dried fruit, glass ornaments and plaid bows. It smelled good, even from the distance where he sat. Several packages wrapped in brown paper tied with red ribbons lay beneath the tree.
He must have slept for hours, for the wind had stopped howling and the sky behind the windows was painted midnight black. The fire was scorching, the heat penetrating his tingling toes, and Maggie was crouched low beside his rocking chair, holding the baby in a swath of fresh blankets.
Maggie wore a night robe and James could hear someone—likely Mr. Billings—snoring loudly from the next room.
“You found her and brought her here,” Maggie whispered to him. “Do you believe in miracles?”
“No,” he murmured. “No such thing.”
Chapter Three
“Why would a man prefer to spend three days out there alone rather than in town, where it’s dry and warm and folks are celebrating the holidays?” Maggie asked the question of James as she stood at the storefront window thirty minutes later. She could hear him moving behind her, the tin plate she’d placed his rye sandwich on rattling on the pine table while he ate. Firewood snapped and popped in the blazing heat of the cast-iron stove.
Maggie cradled the sleeping baby in her arms and gazed over deserted countryside. The sky was thick with clouds, but occasionally the full moon slipped out. It scattered light across six-foot-high drifts. It would take men days to horse-plow the roads.