Woodland Christmas

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  Gabe stopped munching his apple and trained a scrutinizing gaze on her. “Did I say something to upset you?”

  Avoiding his piercing look, Bridget focused her attention on peeling the apple in her hand. “I–I’m afraid Mr. Krueger and I are not on the best of terms.”

  “And why is that?” Bridget never knew her grandfathers, but Gabe’s gentle tone sounded exactly as she imagined a grandfather’s would.

  She shrugged, suddenly feeling like an eight-year-old. Despite his kind coaxing, Bridget wasn’t prepared to share her feelings about Seth with Gabe. “There are just some things we don’t see eye to eye on, like … faith.” Sorrow weighted her voice. “Let’s just say I doubt Seth will be saying any prayers of thanksgiving at supper tomorrow.”

  Gabe nimbly plucked a dark seed from beside the apple’s core. He held it up to the slice of sunlight that had encroached farther onto the porch. “I’ve often thought it a great miracle that something so small, if planted and tended, can grow into a tree that bears its own fruit.” His voice held wonder as he gazed at the seed.

  He dropped the seed in the breast pocket of his faded blue chambray shirt and looked at Bridget. “The Lord tells us that the seed of His Word, if tended with love and watered with prayer, can grow to bear wonderful fruit. Remember that, Miss Bridget O’Keefe. And never forget that with Christ, all things are possible.”

  He rose slowly with a soft groan, tipped his hat, and ambled down the porch steps and toward the barn.

  Watching him disappear behind the barn, Bridget had no doubt Gabe’s comments had to do with Seth … and her. It was almost as if the old man had read her mind. She realized she’d become the latest recipient of one of the wood-carver’s sawdust sermons. She sighed. Though she liked to think her faith was strong, changing Seth’s hard heart would require a mighty miracle.

  “Miss O’Keefe, I …”

  At Seth’s voice, Bridget jerked around.

  He stood in front of the porch gripping the bound feet of two dead turkeys, their featherless gray heads and red wattles dangling past his knees.

  Heat flared in her cheeks, and she was sure he must hear her heart pounding.

  “I—” He cleared his throat, and his gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “I’m sorry for what I said to you last week. You know, in the barn.”

  Hope rose in Bridget’s chest. Maybe, like Gabe had said, the seeds she’d sown in Seth’s heart about God had actually taken root. She prayed that was true. Unless he changed his attitude toward God, they could never be more than acquaintances.

  “Of course I accept your apology, Mr. Krueger. If you are truly sorry—”

  “I just said so, didn’t I?” Irritation flashed in his blue eyes, but it disappeared quickly. “I just want you to know that it wasn’t you I was angry with.” The sharp edge left his voice, replaced by a tone of contrition.

  Bridget’s hope withered. “So who were you angry with, Mr. Krueger?” She forced her hands to go back to peeling the apple she was holding.

  He shrugged. “Nobody, I reckon. Just angry about how things are. I don’t know.”

  Bridget swallowed down a knot of tears. “You mean God, don’t you?”

  He blew out a long breath. “I didn’t come here to talk about God. Listen, I meant no offense to you, that’s all.” His hard tone smote Bridget’s heart, but she had to try again.

  She leaned forward over the crock of peeled apples. “I understand your anger, Seth. I was angry at God for a while, too, after my parents died—”

  For an instant, his blue eyes turned icy. “I said I don’t want to talk about God.” He huffed a breath. “I declare, tryin’ to say I’m sorry to you is harder’n tyin’ down a bobcat with a piece of string!”

  How could she get through to him if he wouldn’t even listen? Was his heart the hard soil unable to accept the seeds of God’s Word Jesus spoke of in the parable? Bridget knew that wasn’t true. She’d seen his heart. It was soft and sweet. Beneath his pain, Seth Krueger was a good, kind, and caring man. To someone who had not learned of God’s love from childhood as Bridget had, she could see how God might seem a malevolent power, a source of people’s pain.

  Seth shifted, his feathery burdens swaying. “So no hard feelings?”

  “No hard feelings.” She gave him a bright smile, and the tense lines on his face relaxed. “Looks like we’ll have plenty of turkey.” She eyed the two birds he was holding.

  Grinning, he glanced down at the turkeys. “I figured we’d need two to feed ten people.”

  “Eleven people.” Bridget slid the knife around another apple, divesting the fruit of its peel in one continuous spiral. “One of my pupils—Singing Bird—will be joining us.”

  Seth’s grin faded and his tanned face went from chalk white to blood red. His Adam’s apple moved with a hard swallow.

  “Then I won’t be there.”

  Chapter 6

  Heat marched up Seth’s neck as he entered the Bartons’ dining room. He was late. Mrs. B. had outdone herself. The long table spread with a fancy white cloth sparkled with Violet’s finest china, crystal, and silverware. The two turkeys Seth had shot were baked to golden perfection and now lay steaming on silver platters.

  He’d almost followed through with his threat to Bridget and stayed in the bunkhouse. But the thought of disappointing Violet and the surety of a tongue-lashing from Andrew had brought him to the dining room dressed in a starched white shirt, broadcloth coat and trousers, and a string tie.

  Taking the empty chair beside Tad, he murmured an apology to Violet and Andrew for his tardiness and offered cursory nods and greetings to the two logging bosses, their wives, and the old wood-carver, Noell.

  His gaze lit on Bridget, seated directly across the table from him, and his heart bucked hard against his chest. Dressed in a shiny palomino-colored frock, she looked like an angel. Her bright curls piled atop her head sparkled in the candle’s glow like a burnished copper halo.

  Clearing his tightening throat, he gave her an unsmiling nod but refused to focus on the Indian child beside her. “Miss O’Keefe,” he managed in a voice that didn’t sound like his.

  “Mr. Krueger.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “I don’t think you’ve met Singing Bird.” She looked down at the girl and back up to him, as if daring him to acknowledge the child.

  For one sweet moment yesterday, he’d recaptured the harmony between himself and Bridget—until she’d mentioned this little Comanche. He forced a glance to the doe-eyed girl and bobbed a quick, begrudging nod in her direction. “Miss.”

  Paying scant attention to Andrew’s long prayer of thanks, Seth instead used the opportunity to torture himself by feasting his eyes on Bridget and drinking in her beauty. He had no interest in thanking a God who seemed to enjoy giving just so He could snatch away the gift.

  After the prayer, Seth ate in silence, tasting little of the meal as conversations buzzed around him. Making a concerted effort to avoid looking directly at Bridget, he found his gaze drifting to the Comanche child. Apart from an occasional shy glance at those around the table, she, too, ate quietly, despite attempts by Bridget, Violet, and Gabe Noell to coax her into conversation. Her head down, she fidgeted in a too-big blue frock that bunched at the front and shoulders.

  Sympathy stabbed at Seth’s chest, surprising him. The kid’s probably scared half to death—

  “Well, Seth, have you found any more?” Andrew’s voice barged into Seth’s reverie.

  He snapped his head around to face Andrew Barton, who sat at the end of the table, wiping gravy from his graying handlebar mustache.

  “Sir?”

  “Cut fences, man. Haven’t you been listening? Ben Shelton here says his loggers found evidence last week of more poaching—field-dressed deer and bear on Barton land. I was just wonderin’ if you’d found any more cut fences.”

  “No, sir. Just those two lengths along the east string of the south pasture.” Thoughts of the cut fence brought back other memories of that afternoo
n—memories of holding Bridget in his arms, the sweet taste of her kiss …

  Bridget’s voice drew Seth’s attention to her, leaving Andrew to resume his conversation with the loggers.

  Bridget’s soft pink lips—Seth knew how soft, he knew how sweet—were smiling at Tad, who was explaining the finer points of breaking mustangs. Her green eyes glistening, she listened in rapt attention to the boy’s exaggerated exploits. Once, Tad even had the audacity to wink at her, earning him a kick in the ankle from Seth.

  By the time Mrs. B. and Sadie cleared away the supper dishes, Seth had had more than his fill of the Bartons’ nephew flirting with Bridget. Afraid he might do something he’d regret, Seth made his excuses and fled the house before dessert was served.

  Out on the porch, he hooked an arm around a support post and gazed into the star-flecked indigo sky. “Fine, Tad’s welcome to her.”

  The only answer to his growled words was the cadence of a distant barred owl’s call.

  He inhaled a lungful of cool night air tinged with the scent of pine and slowly blew it out again. Other words flew into his mind, words from another life, another time. Words far truer to how his heart really felt. “‘Thou art all fair, my love—’”

  “‘There is no spot in thee.’ Song of Solomon, chapter four, verse seven.”

  Gabe Noell’s quiet voice jerked Seth around. Since their first meeting, Seth had tried to avoid the old wood-carver. He didn’t want any sermons. Not from Bridget and definitely not from some old tramp.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, son.” Gabe stepped closer, his footfalls nearly soundless on the porch boards. Folding his arms over his white dress shirt—which appeared to be one of Mr. B.’s—he gazed into the deepening dusk. “It’s easy to imagine Solomon writing those words on a night much like this one.”

  Seth had no interest in getting roped into answering any questions about why he’d quoted words from the Bible—something he didn’t even understand himself—so he stretched and yawned. He gave the man a tepid smile. “Well, sir, reckon I’d best say good evenin’ and get myself to the bunkhouse. Got a full day of work tomorrow.”

  “I was hoping you could help me with something.” Gabe followed Seth off the porch. “It won’t take long.”

  Seth wished he were immune to the old gent’s disappointed tone. “Sure.”

  They walked together to the old tack shed behind the bunkhouse. Until Gabe arrived, the building hadn’t been used for years. Seth had to admit he was curious to see what the wood-carver had been up to.

  Gabe pulled a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the padlock securing the door. Inside, the smells of freshly cut pine and varnish greeted Seth. The old man took a kerosene lantern from a nail beside the door and lit it, casting a yellow glow over the space.

  Lantern in hand, Gabe walked to a long, canvas-covered object near one wall.

  He set the lantern on the floor and pulled back the canvas, revealing what looked like rectangular open box. “Mr. Barton commissioned me to make a breakfront cupboard as a Christmas present for Mrs. Barton. He wants it to be a surprise, so I’d be obliged if you kept this under your hat.”

  At least now Seth understood the secrecy, but what he saw didn’t look like anything he or Andrew couldn’t have put together. He shrugged. “Sure.” The sooner he accommodated the old coot, the sooner he could climb into his bunk and start contemplating the hardest, nastiest chores to assign to Tad tomorrow.

  Gabe lifted the lantern so its light shone directly on the box, and Seth moved closer for a better look. His eyes widened. An intricately carved design of flowers, leaves, and bunches of grapes decorated the top of the cupboard. Seth had never seen better woodworking.

  “You do good work, Mr. Noell.” Wonder filled Seth’s voice as he slowly drew his fingers over the extraordinary carving.

  Gabe smiled. “‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’ Ecclesiastes chapter nine, verse ten.”

  “I know.” The admission escaped Seth’s mouth before he could stop it.

  Gabe cocked his head at Seth, and one eyebrow shot up. “You surprise me, Mr. Krueger. I’d gotten the idea you were not a man of faith, yet a little while ago I heard you quoting scripture, and you just admitted you’re familiar with the verse I quoted from Ecclesiastes.”

  “I was raised Christian. My pa was Quaker and my ma Lutheran.”

  “But you’re no longer a man of faith?”

  “No.” Seth barked the word, hoping to discourage any further talk of religion. His tone turned icy. “What can I help you with?”

  Gabe nodded at the window on the other wall. “I need to move this under the window so I can get better daylight on my work. That is, if your thigh is not out of joint.”

  Irritation scampered up Seth’s spine. “My leg’s just fine, so let’s move this thing.” He picked up one end of the cupboard while Gabe picked up the other, and together they moved the piece with relative ease to a spot under the window.

  Though he wanted to ignore it, curiosity about the man’s comment got the better of Seth. “So what made you think I had a bum leg?”

  Gabe straightened with a soft groan. “Don’t you recall the story of how Jacob wrestled with an angel and the angel put his thigh out of joint?”

  “Yes, I remember.” When he was a child, it had been one of Seth’s favorite Bible stories, but he couldn’t see what it had to do with him now. “But I ain’t been wrestlin’ with anybody—’specially angels.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Gabe picked up a small piece of wood from the floor and settled himself on the head of an empty barrel. A part of Seth wanted to turn and leave the old man to his babblings, but something kept him rooted where he stood.

  Gabe took a little folding knife from his pocket and began whittling the wood. “Jacob wrestled with the angel to get God’s blessing, but I believe more often, people wrestle with angels to get away from God’s blessings. Why, much of the world even rejects God’s greatest gift, Christ.”

  “Like I said, I ain’t been wrestlin’ with any angels, and anything God’s given me with one hand, He’s took back with two.”

  Gabe gave a little shrug and blew shavings from the piece of wood he was whittling. “Sometimes we don’t recognize blessings. Or angels.” He narrowed a piercing gaze at Seth. “Never wrestle with God when He wants to give you a blessing.”

  Seth turned to leave. He’d heard enough about angels and blessings and God. He took two steps toward the door before Gabe’s next words stopped him.

  “I’m just curious. Have you told Miss O’Keefe you were raised Christian?”

  Seth stomped back to Gabe. The old man had gone past aggravating to meddling. His fists clenched, he glared down at the wood-carver. “And why do you think I should tell her?”

  Gabe rose and pressed the piece of whittled wood into Seth’s hand, then chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Because you are in love with her, son.”

  Chapter 7

  Bridget lifted her face to the cool wind nipping at her cheeks and tugged at her riding hat. She wouldn’t have imagined she could love horseback riding so much. After that first lesson with Seth, Violet had taken over as Bridget’s riding instructor, accompanying her on her daily treks to the orphanage. But this morning Violet was attending a meeting of the Women’s Missionary Union in Pinewood and had deemed Bridget accomplished enough to make the trip without her. Violet had assured her, though, that Gabe Noell would be doing some carpentry work on the orphanage today and would accompany Bridget back to the Circle B.

  Clad in her brown wool riding skirt, Bridget hugged her knees against the mare’s sides. Rocking with the gentle motion, she moved as one with the cantering horse. She thought of her first riding lesson, when Seth said she rode like she was born for it. Seth.

  Her heart throbbed with the familiar ache. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase him from her heart.

  Remembering his terse attitude toward Singing Bird at Th
anksgiving, aggravation shimmied up her spine like a gust of the cool December wind. Why couldn’t Seth see that by continuing to hate the Indians, he only hurt himself?

  The sound of a wagon rumbling behind her broke into Bridget’s musings. She smiled. Gabe must have decided to come out early to the orphanage. Did the wood-carver think he was her guardian angel?

  As she reined in Rosie and waited for Gabe to catch up, Bridget grinned. Gabriel was the name of an angel.

  When the wagon came up even with her, she turned toward it, ready to tease the kindly old fellow about taking his name too seriously. But instead of finding Gabe’s congenial smile, her gaze met the decayed-tooth grin of the one-eyed buffalo hunter. Her smile vanished as icy fingers of fear gripped her chest.

  “Mornin’, miss.” He lifted his battered black hat. “‘Member you from the gen’ral store some weeks back, but don’t b’lieve we was ever introduced properlike.” He raised and lowered his hat again. “I be Jake Tuley. And who might you be?”

  Her stomach roiling, Bridget turned her head to the fresh breeze, pretending to get better control of Rosie. The awful smell of the man’s unwashed body, fanned by the lifting of his hat, was almost unbearable.

  “Bridget O’Keefe. I teach at the Indian orphanage.” She immediately regretted the honest answer, fearing he would follow her. Forcing a weak smile, she tried to look everywhere but at his disgusting face.

  “The old McCallum place?”

  Bridget never answered. Her mind raced, trying to decide if she should kick the mare into a run toward the orphanage, still only a speck in the distance. But before she could make a move, he reached out a grimy hand and grasped Rosie’s bridle.

  “Whaddaya say we mosey over to that pine grove yonder and get to know each other better?” His mouth twisted in a salacious smirk.

  Panic rose in Bridget’s chest. She gripped the reins tighter. “Mr. and Mrs. Barton would not appreciate you—”

  “Right shame what happened to that Yankee couple.” His one bleary gray green eye turned dead cold. “Hate to see somethin’ like that happen to Barton and his missus. Or that towheaded foreman of theirs.”