Woodland Christmas

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  He brought his horse close. The stink of whiskey stung her nostrils. “You’ll be a right purdy Chris’mas present to unwrap.”

  “Please, Mr. Tuley, I have to get—Ahh!” He snatched her from Rosie’s back and threw her to the damp grass.

  Dear Lord, help me! Please help me!

  Sobbing, Bridget pounded her fists against him. She kicked at his shins to no avail. He responded with bawdy laughter. Despair washed over her. She gagged and fought nausea, pushing with all her might against the suffocating weight and stench of his body.

  Suddenly the offensive weight lifted off her. Bridget sat up, gratefully inhaling gulps of air as a miracle unfolded before her in the lengthening shadows.

  The crack of Seth’s fist against Jake’s jaw reverberated in the heavy evening air.

  “Seth.” She breathed his name like a benediction.

  Seth jerked Jake Tuley to his feet. “Now, get your filthy hide outta here!” He gave the man a hard shove toward his horse as Jake rubbed his assaulted jaw. “If I ever catch you on Barton land again or near Miss O’Keefe, I’ll beat you within an inch of your sorry life!”

  Bridget sat trembling as the hoofbeats of Tuley’s horse faded in the distance.

  Seth helped her to her feet and held her shaking body.

  “Shh, it’s all right now, my love. Thou art safe.”

  Wrapped in the sweet sanctuary of Seth’s arms, Bridget wept against his chest.

  At length, he gently pushed away and looked into her face. “Did—did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m just a little bruised, that’s all.”

  “What are you doin’ out here, anyway?”

  Bridget told him of Singing Bird’s illness and her desperate ride to the store. She reached into her pocket for the fever powder but found it empty. “It’s gone!”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The fever powder. Singing Bird’s medicine!” Frantic, Bridget beat at the tall grass with her hands, her eyes straining in the advancing darkness.

  Seth gripped her shoulder. “You’ll never find it in the dark. Shoot, even in the daylight you could look through this grass for days and never find it.”

  Bridget shrugged off his hand while tears flooded her eyes, further hampering her search. “I have to find it! God will help me find it!” She dropped to her knees, groping through the dewy grass. “Lord, please help me find it.”

  “Come away now.” Though she batted at his hands, he gently gripped her shoulders, pulling her to her feet.

  Exhausted, Bridget finally surrendered to Seth’s warm embrace.

  He retrieved her wool shawl from the grass and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Let’s go back. Maybe the girl is better.” He helped her onto his horse, tied Rosie’s reins to his horse’s bridle, and mounted behind Bridget.

  Drained of strength, Bridget lay limp against Seth’s strong chest. As they rode toward the purple, rose, and gold sunset smeared across the western sky, she prayed that Ming Li’s teas had finally worked to reduce Singing Bird’s fever.

  But when they reached Singing Bird’s bedside, they found she hadn’t improved.

  Singing Bird rolled her head on the pillow and faced Bridget, her eyes bright with fever. “Teacher. I dreamed you went away and didn’t come back.”

  Bridget bent over Singing Bird and brushed a lock of hair from her searing face. “I’ll stay right here beside you, Liebes Mädchen, I promise.”

  “What did you call her?”

  Bridget turned at the odd tone in Seth’s voice.

  He stood in the doorway, his chambray blue eyes large in his ashen face.

  “Liebes Mädchen,” Bridget repeated, wondering at his strange demeanor. “It’s the name she said her aunt had called her. I suppose it’s Comanche—”

  “No, it’s German.” Seth’s voice sounded tight. “It means ‘dear girl.’ It’s what my mother used to call my sister.”

  He stepped near the bed. “Singing Bird, was your aunt a white woman?”

  Singing Bird nodded, and Seth’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “What was her name?” He clenched his fists around his hat, crushing it.

  “Elisabeth Sky-Eyes,” Singing Bird said in a raspy voice.

  Seth’s eyes glistened in the lantern light.

  Bridget touched his arm. “Your sister?”

  He nodded. “Must have been.”

  Ming Li bustled into the midst of the quiet revelation, carrying a large cup of pungent tea. “Singing Bird need more tea. Tea fix.”

  Seth plopped his hat on his head. “I’m going to the general store for more medicine.”

  Bridget stood at his surprising declaration. “But they’re closed now, and it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Hiram will open for me.” He bent and kissed Singing Bird’s forehead, then turned and brushed a quick kiss across Bridget’s lips and disappeared through the bedroom door.

  Bridget jerked awake at the sound of quick boot steps echoing through the house, unsure how long she’d slept. The next moment, Seth appeared in the doorway, carrying a drawstring canvas bag.

  “How is she?” Worry lines etched his forehead.

  Bridget bent forward and touched Singing Bird’s face. Her fingertips met cool skin and relief washed through her. “Her fever has broken. She’s out of danger, praise God.”

  Seth blew out a long breath and set the bag down beside Bridget’s chair.

  Singing Bird stirred and opened her eyes. “Mr. Krueger. You are back.”

  Seth knelt beside the bed and drew the backs of his curled fingers across the girl’s cheek. “Yes, Liebes Mädchen, I’m back. And thee must call me Uncle Seth, because I’m your aunt’s brother. Are you feeling better?”

  Singing Bird swallowed and touched her throat. “My throat doesn’t hurt so much now.”

  Seth reached for the canvas bag. “I’m glad, because I brought you a present.” He opened the bag and pulled out a red-and-white-striped candy stick. “This was your aunt’s favorite Christmas treat when she was a girl.” He grinned at Singing Bird and Bridget. “And I bought enough for the other children, too.”

  Singing Bird’s eyes grew big and bright. Bridget’s misted as she sent up a grateful prayer, marveling at the change in Seth’s heart.

  Singing Bird’s expression turned serious. “I have a present for you, too, Mr…. Uncle Seth.” She drew her hand from beneath the covers and held out a little wooden doll to Seth. It had wings and a carved robe that hung in folds. Beneath its smiling face was an impression of little hands steepled in prayer. “You said you didn’t have an angel, so you can have this one I found.”

  For a long moment, Seth remained still, as if paralyzed. He finally took the doll and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Liebes Mädchen.” His voice snagged on the endearment. “But I think I was wrong. I think God has given me two angels.” He turned a tender look toward Bridget, and she swallowed down a sob.

  Seth rose and slipped the angel doll into his pocket, then bent and kissed Singing Bird’s forehead. “Thank you for the angel, little one. Now you must rest and get better. Tomorrow is Christmas, and Mr. and Mrs. Barton are coming to visit.” He shot a quick grin over his shoulder to Bridget. “And Santa Claus might come, too.”

  Bridget smiled, knowing Gabe Noell had agreed to don the red wool Santa suit stitched by the Women’s Missionary Union. She tucked the quilt under Singing Bird’s chin, turned down the lamp, and followed Seth out of the room.

  He slipped his arm around her waist as they walked to the front door. “Step out on the porch with me for a while, would thee?”

  Still trying to assimilate all that had transpired this evening, she nodded mutely and fetched her shawl from the peg by the door.

  The still, cold night met them outside where a full moon bathed the porch in a soft, pale glow. Bridget hugged the shawl around her while Seth leaned a shoulder against a porch post and looked up at the multitude of stars blinking down at them. “You know,” he said
at length, “my mother used to say if you’re really quiet on Christmas Eve, you can hear the angels sing.” He turned and drew Bridget to his side. “Because of you, I can hear them again.”

  “You’re not angry at God anymore?”

  “No.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the angel doll.

  Bridget shook her head. “It’s lovely. I wonder where she found it.”

  “Under the oak tree at the corner of the house, where I threw it.”

  Stunned, Bridget gaped at him. “But where did you get—” “It was given to me by a very wise man, who told me to never wrestle with God when He wants to give me a blessing.

  So I won’t.” He knelt and took Bridget’s hands in his. “I love thee, Bridget O’Keefe,” he said, lifting pleading eyes to hers.

  “Will thee be my wife?”

  A flood of joy cascaded down Bridget’s cheeks. “Yes.”

  Sobbing, she repeated her answer until he stood and silenced her with his kisses.

  “I do have one request,” he said at length. “I’d like us to adopt Singing Bird.”

  Bridget’s happiness bubbled out in a giggle. “I’d like that, too.”

  “I almost forgot.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out something shiny. “I bought this back from Hiram.”

  Bridget gasped. “My necklace! Oh, Seth, thank you.” She took the gold chain with trembling fingers and hugged her future husband’s neck.

  Her heart full to bursting, Bridget clung to her beloved, thanking God for blessings more numerous than stars in the Texas sky, not the least of which was an old wood-carver and his sawdust sermons. She had no doubt that God had used Gabe Noell to bring about this moment. Bridget was sure that for many years to come, Gabe’s little wooden angel would remind both Seth and her of God’s love and grace. And together, every Christmas Eve, they’d think of the old wood-carver while they listened for the angels’ song.

  Ramona K. Cecil is a wife, mother, grandmother, freelance poet, and award-winning inspirational romance writer. Now empty nesters, she and her husband make their home in Indiana. A member of American Christian Fiction Writers and American Christian Fiction Writers Indiana Chapter, her work has won awards in a number of inspirational writing contests. Over eighty of her inspirational verses have been published on a wide array of items for the Christian gift market. She enjoys a speaking ministry, sharing her journey to publication while encouraging aspiring writers. When not writing, her hobbies include reading, gardening, and visiting places of historical interest.

  THE FACE OF MARY

  by Darlene Franklin

  Dedication

  Seven months ago I moved to a new city and began the difficult process of starting over again. I dedicate The Face of Mary to the members of Draper Park Christian Church, who have been the hands and feet of our Lord to me in my hour of need.

  Prologue

  Breading, Texas, 1880

  Polly Jessup eyed the present she had wrapped for Jean Carpenter. Her friend fingered the pink ribbon, looking at Polly with a question in her eyes but didn’t say anything.

  Yes, it’s my hair ribbon. But I wanted something prettier than string. Polly reached up and patted her hair, dressed without adornment. Not that it ever looked nice these days without Mama to help her fix it.

  Jean untied the bow and set it to one side before unwrapping the present. When she saw the plain cardboard cover, she wrinkled her nose until she opened the book. “Why, you’ve copied all the verses we learned in Sunday school this year.” She turned a few pages. “And all of Psalm 119, with illustrations.” Her fingers traced the letters, and she oohed and aahed over the minuscule drawings Polly had added.

  “So you like it?”

  “I love it!” Jean read the first verse softly. “‘For God so loved the world….’ “

  “You said you wanted to win the new Bible they’re offering for a prize at the scripture memory contest, and anybody who can quote all of Psalm 119 is sure to win.”

  “Only because you’ve decided not to enter.” Jean flung her arms around Polly and hugged her. “You know so much more of the Bible than I do.” Jean started to slip the ribbon into the book but stopped. “You should keep this.”

  Polly’s pride wanted to refuse but she loved that ribbon. It evoked so many memories of her mother dressing her up. “Thanks.” To cover her embarrassment, she hurried on. “After I won the adult contest last year, it didn’t seem fair to keep competing. I’m practicing with Dolores, hoping she’ll place. You and Abe Mott can battle it out for first prize.” Polly grinned when Jean turned red at the mention of the young man’s name.

  “Did I hear something about Abe Mott?” a deep voice boomed behind them.

  Polly jumped in her seat. When had Jean’s brother Joey come into the room? Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she was sure her face turned the same dark shade as her friend’s.

  Joey took the book from Jean and opened it at random.

  “‘Let thy mercies come also unto me, O Lord, even thy salvation, according to thy word.’ Psalm 119. You even copied the letter Vau. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

  Polly squirmed. Joey had the best penmanship in the school. Everybody knew that, and he could draw anything he wanted.

  He smiled at the Liberty Bell she had painted in the margins, tracing the crack with his long index finger. “‘And I will walk at liberty: for I seek thy precepts.’ I wrote an essay about that verse once.”

  “I remember.” Jean giggled. “Isn’t it beautiful? Polly wants me to memorize the whole psalm for the Bible verse competition this year.”

  “Now that she’s retired from the memory contest, she wants you to win, huh?” Joey handed the book back to Jean and focused his brilliant blue eyes on Polly. “You’ve always amazed me with your love for God’s Word. Any girl who loves the law of the Lord like the psalmist did is a woman after my lawyer’s heart. If you don’t have a beau when I come home from college, I think I’ll marry you myself.” He smiled at the girls and left the room.

  Speechless, Polly stared after him. Did Jean’s handsome brother just say he might marry her someday?

  His words engraved themselves on her heart.

  Chapter 1

  November 1884

  Polly dallied longer than usual in the bedroom she shared with her two younger sisters. She wanted to look her best today. Not only was Jean Carpenter celebrating her engagement to Abraham Mott, but also Jean’s brother Joey had returned home after four years away.

  Polly pulled her dark hair away from her face, but it continued to fall into a center part. Should she wear it up? No, at seventeen she was too young to dress her locks in the style of an old married matron, even if she did feel that way some days. Taking care of four younger brothers and sisters did that to a girl. She teased her fringe across her forehead, hoping it might curl.

  Joey Carpenter. “I think I’ll marry you myself.” Her heart beat faster at the memory. How many times had she repeated his words when she learned a new verse from the Bible or studied something new? Even though she had retired from competition, she continued to hide God’s Word in her heart. She hungered for it almost as much as she hungered for food, and prayed to walk according to God’s law.

  Did Joey even remember what he had said to her all those years ago? Would he mention it when he saw her today? She blushed. He had probably forgotten long ago.

  “Hurry, Polly.” Little Hazel dashed into the room. “Dolores is burning the beans.”

  Polly swallowed a sigh. Sometimes she wondered if the family would starve if she wasn’t there to cook for them. Even when Dolores followed a recipe, things didn’t turn out the same. Jean said cooking was a gift, like singing or painting. But Polly didn’t think so. Mama hadn’t had time to teach the younger girls before she died, that was all.

  Polly doubted her cooking ability would impress Joey, however. After all, he’d become a lawyer. He probably hadn’t spared her a thought in four years, let alone whet
her or not she could cook.

  But oh, how she hoped he had.

  Joseph Carpenter considered the top hat on the shelf of his closet and decided against it. Such finery might have been de rigueur among his set in law school, but his Breading friends would laugh him out of town. He fingered the narrow brim, imagining Alice Johnson’s reaction to his big-city fashions. She might appreciate it—another reason why he enjoyed her company. With her style and class, she had a sense of life outside the small-town life where he had grown up. Her father, owner of the town’s only bank and its richest citizen, had made sure of that. A connection with Breading’s leading family wouldn’t hurt a man starting out his career.

  But he wouldn’t worry about that now, although he hoped Alice would enjoy the party. Today was about meeting old friends and celebrating Jean’s happiness. As long as their parents focused on marrying off his sister, they wouldn’t bother him about finding a suitable wife.

  A knock sounded at his door.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Me.” Jean opened the door with the word. “Are you ready yet? People are more eager to see you than me.”

  “I doubt that.” He looked his sister up and down. She was dressed in a sage-colored dress with beige lace at the throat. When had she grown up? Of course he had seen her only twice in the past four years: once when the family gathered for his grandfather’s funeral, and the second time when he graduated from school this past spring. He had spent the last few months closing his grandfather’s affairs and making the difficult decision to return to Breading. “It’s your special day.” He smiled at her. With her upswept hair, she looked like a fine young lady, not the little sister he used to tease mercilessly. “I’m just the backdrop to your happiness.”

  “You know the people of Breading. They love an excuse to party. My engagement to Abraham isn’t really news. People have been predicting this day since he broke my chalk on purpose back when we were in first grade.”