Woodland Christmas

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  A sound at the top of the stairs drew his eyes upward, and the air left his lungs as if he’d been kicked in the gut by a mule. Even in her plain dark wool frock, Bridget’s beauty took his breath away. His gaze slid from her lovely features to her unadorned left hand slipping down the banister.

  Seth’s heart constricted. She should have my ring on her finger. She should be my wife. This ain’t right. This ain’t fair.

  God stood between them.

  He marked it as but one more cruelty God had visited on his life.

  As she neared, the longing inside him tightened his throat. He cleared it, then glanced at the worn floorboards before meeting her questioning gaze.

  “Seth.” Her voice sounded breathless.

  “Andrew said you wanted a tree cut.”

  “Y–yes.” Beyond her obvious surprise, Seth could not interpret the several other emotions flitting across her face. She turned her back just as he thought he glimpsed tears in her eyes.

  “I’ll gather the children. They will want to help choose the Christmas tree.” Her stiff, formal tone smacked painfully against Seth’s bruised heart.

  Hat in hand, he followed her to a large room awash in sunshine that streamed through three long, narrow windows. Torn and water-stained green paper covered the walls. The scuffed floorboards were bare except for several tattered rag rugs scattered over the floor’s center. There, eight children of varying ages sat cross-legged around a blackboard supported by two easels.

  Seth found eight pairs of curious dark eyes trained on him. But he felt no anger or unease, just a surprising pang of sympathy.

  Bridget walked to the chalkboard. “Children, this is Mr. Krueger. He has come to cut our Christmas tree. So get your wraps, and line up at the kitchen door behind Yellow Feather.”

  They all obeyed quietly. But the one called Singing Bird, who’d sat across from him at Thanksgiving supper, continued to gaze at him over her shoulder as she followed the others into the next room.

  Bridget turned back to Seth. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Andrew could have had one of the loggers cut the tree.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ve cut Christmas trees since I was a boy.” It was a cowardly response, but evading her meaning seemed easier at the moment.

  “You know what I mean.” Her green eyes studied his, and Seth cleared his drying throat.

  “Reckon I do.” He fiddled with his hat. “I couldn’t leave it like it was. I couldn’t leave us like we were….”

  She clasped her hand over his, sending his heart bucking again. Her eyes glistened and a sad smile curved her lips. “I’m glad you came.” Then she cocked her head and gave him a puzzled look. “I thought Quakers didn’t have Christmas trees, or even celebrate Christ’s birth.”

  Seth met her bewildered look with a grin. “My pa, bein’ a Quaker, was dead set against it. But Ma was raised German Lutheran and was determined to keep her Christmas traditions. Ma, my sister, Elisabeth, and I always decorated a little tree on a corner table while Pa found somethin’ he needed to do in the barn.” Seth chuckled at the memory. “We got to have our Christmas tree, and Pa just pretended it wasn’t there.”

  For one sweet moment they shared a smile, a fond gaze. If only it could last forever. But the next moment she turned. “Get your axe, and we’ll meet you in the backyard.”

  Seth nodded and headed for the front door with a much lighter heart than when he arrived.

  At the wagon, he flipped back the canvas tarp and lifted out the axe. A lump formed in his throat. How odd that something as simple as cutting down a tree could peel away the years, taking him back to a place he’d thought lost to him forever.

  He hefted the axe, feeling the soft, worn wood of the handle in his grip and the cold iron axe head against the top of his clenched hand. From the time he was old enough to swing an axe, he’d cut his mother’s little Christmas tree. He swallowed hard. How he would love to see his mother’s face again, smiling approval at a Weihnachtsbaum he cut.

  “You’re the man from the fancy dinner.”

  Batting moisture from his eyes, Seth jerked around to find Singing Bird beside him.

  “Shouldn’t you be with the other kids?” The child had obviously lost some of the shyness she displayed at Thanksgiving.

  “Teacher said I could come and tell you we found a good tree to cut.” She slipped her hand into his, and Seth’s arm stiffened at the unexpected touch then relaxed as her warm little fingers curled around his.

  As they made their way around the side of the house through knee-high johnson grass, Seth found himself slowing his steps to match Singing Bird’s shorter strides.

  She tipped a smile up at him. “Teacher said we could make an angel from wet paper to put on top of the tree.”

  “Not a star?” Seth grinned down at the girl. He no longer saw her as a Comanche, or even an Indian. She was just a child. A child who probably longed for a father.

  Singing Bird shook her head. “I like angels. Mr. Noell said we each have a special angel that watches over us. Do you have an angel, Mr. Krueger?”

  Seth thought of the wooden angel Gabe had given him, the angel he’d thrown away. A pang of guilt struck.

  “Not anymore.”

  Singing Bird frowned. Then seeing Bridget and the other children gathered near Sandy Creek, she let go of Seth’s hand and, lifting her calico skirt away from her feet, sprinted toward them.

  “I thought Christmas would get here before you two did.” Fun sparkled in Bridget’s green eyes. She glanced at a little red pine growing along the creek bank. “We’ve decided that this one is just perfect.”

  Seth had Bridget keep the children a safe distance away and commenced to fell the evergreen. A few sharp blows severed the little tree from its stump, and Seth enlisted the help of the largest boy—the one Bridget had called Yellow Feather—to help carry the tree back to the house.

  Suddenly a scream pierced the winter afternoon, followed by a loud splash.

  Chapter 10

  Bridget gazed incredulously at the girl flailing in the swollen stream. “Singing Bird!” The child’s name tore from her throat on a shriek. She instructed the other children who’d gathered near the bank—some hollering and some crying—to remain calm and stay back. She didn’t need any more children in the flooded creek.

  Though Bridget had never learned to swim and the swift, muddy water looked daunting, the sight of Singing Bird’s tenuous grasp on a protruding dead tree limb eclipsed Bridget’s fears for her own safety. She turned to start down the bank, but Seth grasped her arm, stopping her.

  “Stay here. I’ll get her. You get in that creek, and I’ll just have to drag you both out.” He pulled off his boots and stockings, as well as his wool shirt, and pitched them onto the bank. A chilly wind gusted, raising gooseflesh on his pale back.

  “Be careful.” Bridget’s anxiety mounted as his bare feet slipped down the muddy bank and into the rushing water. Now two people she cared about were in peril.

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “No different than pullin’ a calf out of a creek, and I’ve done that a hundred times.” The alarm in his eyes belied the false indifference of his tone.

  Singing Bird’s frightened whimpers squeezed Bridget’s heart.

  “Hang on, Singing Bird. I’m coming. Just hang on tight.” Seth’s calm, soothing voice—the same voice he’d used with his horse during the stampede—quieted the girl’s heart-wringing pleas. Seth glanced over his shoulder at Bridget. “There’s a rope in my wagon. Send the boy. He’ll run faster.”

  Keeping her gaze fixed on Seth and Singing Bird, Bridget sent Yellow Feather for the rope and two other children to the house for blankets.

  The brackish water swirled around Seth and Singing Bird as he inched closer to the panicked child. Twice, the girl’s head dipped beneath the rushing stream.

  Bridget gasped and sent up a desperate prayer. She couldn’t imagine how the slight girl, whose fingers must be numb with cold, m
anaged to retain her grip on the slippery branch.

  Dear Lord, keep them both safe. And please, hurry Yellow Feather with the rope!

  An instant after the prayer formed in her mind, she heard the tall grass whisper behind her. Yellow Feather handed her the coil of rope, and she moved as close to the rushing stream as she dared.

  To Bridget’s chagrin, Seth moved farther downstream instead of heading directly to Singing Bird. Suddenly the racing water tore the girl’s fingers from the tree limb and sucked her beneath its unforgiving torrent.

  Bridget gasped, then groaned in dismay. If he’d gone right to Singing Bird, he might have saved her.

  The next moment, Singing Bird’s head bobbed up. Seth reached out and snatched her from the water as the swift-flowing stream carried her past him. Now his actions became clear to Bridget.

  The chilly wind stung Bridget’s cheeks, turning her penitent tears to cold rivulets. Forgive my uncharitable thoughts, Lord.

  Bridget tossed the rope to Seth. With one arm, he clutched Singing Bird to his chest, and with the other, he grabbed the rope.

  Bridget ordered the children to line up behind her. Together they pulled on the rope while walking backward, towing Seth and Singing Bird through the rushing water and up the slippery gray brown mud of the creek bank.

  Once on solid land, Seth kept walking while Bridget struggled to wrap him and the half-drowned girl in one of the wool blankets.

  Seth glanced down at the drenched girl shivering in his arms and his stride quickened. “We’ve got to get her in the house and out of these wet clothes as soon as possible.”

  Back at the house, Ming Li took over. With a series of staccato orders in broken English, she sent the children to their specific tasks. Leaving a kettle whistling shrilly on the stove, she wrapped the blanket closer around Singing Bird. Then, spewing a string of Mandarin, she whisked the child away toward the girls’ bedrooms.

  “You should change, too.” Bridget looked at the water dripping from Seth’s soggy pants onto the kitchen floor.

  “Reckon it’ll have to wait.” He cleared his throat as a ruddy hue crept over his face. Turning his back to Bridget, he hurriedly shrugged on his wool shirt that one of the children had retrieved from the creek bank.

  “No, it won’t.” Bridget used her sternest teacher’s voice. “Travel three miles with wet pants in forty-degree weather? You’ll catch your death!” A grin pulled up the corner of his mouth, and her heart constricted. Why does he have to be so handsome?

  “Don’t see as I’ve got a choice.” He picked up his boots and socks someone had set near the kitchen door.

  “Yes, you do.” Bridget straightened her back and struggled to maintain a no-nonsense tone. “Van Taylor was about your size. His clothes are still in their bedroom upstairs.”

  Frowning, Seth fidgeted. “It don’t seem right somehow. I—I don’t know as I ought to….”

  “Nonsense. Van was a very caring person, full of Christian charity. He would want you to.” Bridget fought back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. Lord, he is such a good, decent man, and I love him so much! Please, in Jesus’ name, please touch his heart and turn him back to You.

  She watched him start up the stairs, his bare feet padding on the worn treads.

  “Seth.” Swallowing down a hard knot of tears, she managed a small smile. “Van also would have thanked you for saving Singing Bird, and so do I.”

  Pausing on the staircase, Seth answered with a sweet smile that ripped at Bridget’s heart.

  “First door to the left,” she murmured before tears drove her to the kitchen.

  Bridget pressed her hand hard against her mouth to muffle a sob. Clutching the washstand, she shook in silent agony as the tears that would not be denied flooded down her face.

  Chapter 11

  Bridget bent over Singing Bird’s bed and pressed the back of her hand against the child’s hot forehead. At first, the girl had displayed no ill effects from her dunking. But now, two days after the accident, she woke with a sore throat and fever.

  “Singing Bird must drink this.” With her quick, shuffling steps, Ming Li scooted to the bedside with another cup of aromatic tea.

  Frustration rose inside Bridget. Singing Bird needed real medicine. Not useless teas made from dried flowers, leaves, and herbs. The vision of an old woman from her tenement placing onions cut in half beneath her parents’ sickbed floated before Bridget’s eyes.

  “Drink, drink.” Ming Li slipped her arm behind Singing Bird’s back, helping her to sit up. She pressed the rim of the cup against the girl’s lips, plying her with the pungent liquid.

  A fit of coughing shook Singing Bird’s little body until she gasped for breath. Bridget could bear it no longer. Springing up from the chair, she started for the bedroom door. “I’m going to get her some real medicine.” Pinewood had no doctor, but the general store should have some kind of fever tonic—if the store was open on Christmas Eve, and if the storekeeper agreed to put the medicine on the Bartons’ tab.

  Ming Li scowled. “This real medicine. This medicine fix!”

  Ignoring Ming Li’s objections, Bridget headed out of the room. With Singing Bird’s life in peril, she couldn’t worry about insulting the housemother.

  Outside, she squinted at the sun, a yellow smudge hanging low in the pewter sky. It was already late afternoon. Please, Lord, I need a Christmas miracle.

  Less than a quarter of an hour later, Bridget pulled on the reins, bringing Rosie to a stop in front of the general store. She’d managed to get the bridle on the horse but had decided against trying to lift the heavy saddle. Instead she’d simply thrown the saddle blanket over Rosie’s back, climbed to the stall gate, and mounted the placid mare.

  As she slid from the horse’s back, Bridget sent up a prayer of thanks for her staid, dependable steed, then looked up and down the street, discouraged. She saw no one. Only a couple of other horses stood tethered to hitching posts along Main Street.

  Half expecting to find the door to the general store locked, she was surprised when it opened with a jingle. She tentatively stepped a foot inside the dark, dusty store. She hadn’t been in the place since her first day in Pinewood with Seth. The scents of leather, wood smoke, and tobacco dominated the dim space.

  “Sorry, I’m jist fixin’ to lock up.” A young man emerged from the back room carrying a broom. Seeing her, he swiped at the lock of greasy brown hair dangling across his left eye.

  Bridget made her way toward the counter, maneuvering between the potbellied stove and the pickle barrel. “I need medicine—fever powder. Please, I won’t be long.” She scanned the shelves behind the boy’s head. Her heart lifted. There between the bootblack and a bottle of horse liniment sat several brown paper packets marked DR. JAMES’S FEVER POWDER.

  The young man hesitated, scratching at his head with grimy fingernails. “I don’t know, my uncle Hiram done tallied up for the day. I’m jist supposed to sweep up and lock up.”

  Tears of frustration stung Bridget’s eyes. “Please, someone is very ill. Can’t you just add it on?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, ain’t you that schoolmarm from the Circle B?”

  “Yes.” Bridget had no interest in engaging the boy in conversation.

  “Somebody sick at the ranch?”

  “No, the orphanage.”

  “You mean them Injun brats at the old McCallum place?”

  Bridget dug her fingers into the folds of her wool skirt and fought to keep her voice steady as anger rippled through her. Picking a fight with this ignorant boy would not get Singing Bird her medicine. “Yes. One of the children there is sick. Very sick.”

  He resumed swiping the broom across the floor, his voice hardening. “Like I said, we’re done doin’ business for the day.”

  “Please, have you no charity? It’s Christmas!” Bridget hated the tears streaming down her face. She hated, too, having to beg this stupid boy for something no more than four feet in front of her.
/>   He had the grace to look ashamed before he plucked a packet of the medicine from the shelf and plopped it on the counter. “That’ll be one dollar.”

  Bridget expelled a relieved sigh and reached for the packet. “Just put it on the Bartons’ tab.”

  “Can’t do that.” He snatched the packet away. “Uncle Hiram said I could only do that for the Bartons or Seth Krueger.”

  Fury pulsed through Bridget. She wanted to go behind the counter, rip the life-saving medicine from his grimy fingers, and run. Her hand went to her throat and she gripped her mother’s cross necklace. Suddenly she could hear her mother’s voice in her head, whispering God’s will.

  “You don’t carry your faith in the Lord around your neck, Bridget. You carry it in your heart. Let the necklace go and save the child. “

  Somehow her trembling fingers managed to unhook the clasp, and she held the necklace out toward him. “Here, this is worth more than a dollar.”

  His eyes widened. “Reckon it is.”

  Grasping the packet of fever powder, Bridget fled the store. She stuffed the precious medicine into the pocket of her skirt and tried to push from her mind the vision of the boy’s dirty fist closing around her mother’s necklace.

  Outside the store, she mounted Rosie from the top of a horse trough and kicked the mare into a gallop. The blood red sun rode low on the horizon. Bridget’s wool shawl did little to fend off the icy wind. She pressed her face closer to Rosie’s mane for warmth.

  Suddenly she felt a jerk on the reins, and Rosie stopped so abruptly Bridget almost tumbled off.

  “If it ain’t Miss Bridget O’Keefe. We’re finally gonna get to have that little talk.” The sound of Jake Tuley’s voice sent terror shooting through Bridget.