Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  “It must be Craig!” Forgetting etiquette, Ivy set the platter holding the tea pitcher down with a bang and rushed to the door, throwing it open. The snow didn’t swirl as heavily. The icy wind sucked the breath from her lungs, but its effect didn’t compare to the breathlessness she felt at the sight of a sleigh drawing closer.

  “Craig,” she whispered, clutching the doorframe.

  He awkwardly exited the conveyance and picked up a long bundle. As he drew closer, Ivy could see he carried a woman. Amy and two other children hurried behind them, bent over as the wind half blew them to the porch.

  “Hiya, B–Boston,” Craig said stiffly from between blue lips as he moved across the threshold. “Miss me?”

  The gripping emotion of wondering if he were dead, then seeing him alive—with a strange woman in his arms—was almost Ivy’s undoing. She couldn’t respond. She stared at him for a few quick heartbeats, then gave a short, abrupt nod and switched her focus to Amy and the two boys.

  Ivy helped to get the children out of their snow-encrusted coats, hats, and mufflers and noticed Bronwyn and Winifred doing the same for Craig. Ivy’s mother and Adella were tending to the woman, whom Ivy could now see clutched a baby to her chest. Mrs. Llewynn took the child. When Ivy felt she could face Craig again, she shifted her gaze to where he’d taken a seat in a chair nearby. He was wrapped in a quilt, and icy particles of snow still clung to his eyebrows, hair, and eyelashes. His skin looked pale, his brown eyes serious.

  “You really d–did miss me,” he said, his words still stilted from the cold. They didn’t contain any of their usual teasing but were filled with amazement.

  “Drink your tea,” she ordered, noticing that he held a cup someone had given him.

  As he lifted the steaming cup to his blue lips, Ivy decided to be honest with him. After her telling actions upon his arrival, she couldn’t very well pretend differently. Nor did she want to. “Yes, I did miss you. I was worried about you and continually prayed for you—and the others.”

  Craig frowned. “What others? The B–Bradfords?”

  Ivy nodded. “And the men who went searching.”

  Craig clumsily set his cup and saucer on the floor. “I must help them.”

  To his obvious amazement—and hers—Ivy pushed him back in the chair with one hand. “Oh no, you mustn’t! You might get lost again, out there all alone. Look at you! You resemble a walking snowman. And your teeth are still chattering. You must get warm before you can even think about going back out there. How ever did you find your way?” She switched the topic, hoping to detain him.

  He drained his tea. Winifred appeared, quickly refilled his cup, and moved away again to tend to the woman. Craig then related to Ivy what had happened and how he’d found the gypsy family. “When the wind stopped blowing so strong, I kn–knew I had to get Juanita to the doc.”

  “Juanita?”

  “Roberto’s mother. I prayed I was d–doing the right thing and took the risk once the storm died d–down, figuring out which direction to go from their s–soddy. I knew that town was to the w–west. While I was still a ways off, I saw a light and was sure God was leading me home. That was a smart thing you women did, putting those c–candles and lamps in the windows.”

  “It was Bronwyn’s idea.” Ivy hesitated. “Is Roberto’s father away? Is that why he didn’t come?”

  Craig took another large swig of tea. “He died on their journey West.”

  “Oh. Then Roberto’s mother is a widow.” Ivy glanced her way. The exotic-looking woman was wrapped in a colorful blanket and seated before the fire. The baby was nestled at her bosom. “She’s quite lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you.”

  Craig’s low words sped up Ivy’s heartbeat. She blinked his way. The steady look in his eyes sent warmth trickling through her, and suddenly she didn’t mind the cold so much.

  “Miss Ivy,” Amy said, walking up to her. She still trembled. “Are my m–ma and p–pa going to be okay? And my brothers and sisters?”

  Ivy hugged the girl close, rubbing her arm to help warm her. “We can pray that God will keep them safe, as we’ve been doing since this started.” Noticing the concern on Gwen’s and Crystin’s faces as they kept casting glances toward the door and window, Ivy came up with a plan.

  “Bronwyn, didn’t you tell me that one of your traditions is to put on a Christmas play?”

  “Yes, every year in the old country we hold a play of Christ’s birth.”

  “Then let’s have one now.” Ivy ignored the shocked looks sent her way by the rest of the women. She thought that if they engaged in such a play, it might help lighten the atmosphere as they waited for their men to return.

  Winifred looked at Ivy and nodded, lending her support. “Yes, this will be a good thing.”

  Ivy smiled her thanks at her stepfather’s sister. “Amy, you be Mary. And Crystin, you can be the angel. Gwen, you shall be the wise man, since you’re the eldest.”

  “Who will be Joseph?” Crystin asked.

  Amy pulled on the older boy’s arm. Ivy had noticed how he tried to edge out of the room during her announcement of the play. “Roberto can be Joseph—and we even have a baby to play Jesus!”

  “But Carmelita’s a girl!” Roberto protested.

  “That’s okay,” Ivy assured him. “No one will be able to tell. If it’s all right with you?” Ivy looked at Juanita for permission.

  Roberto spoke in rapid Spanish to his mother. The woman looked mystified but nodded. She handed the baby to Roberto, then with another uncertain nod accepted the tea Winifred handed her.

  “Perfect.” Ivy smiled at her small cast of characters. “We shall need costumes.”

  Winifred smiled. “I will help. I have dresses I can no longer wear.” She blushed, then hurried upstairs. Soon she returned, her arms full of ivory-, blue-, and peach-colored dresses, sheets, and a gold-topped walking stick that belonged to her husband. She handed the contributions to Ivy, then excused herself to make coffee.

  Roberto folded his arms across his thin chest and absolutely refused to wear a sheet for his costume. However, he did accept the fancy walking stick to use for a staff. Crystin looked adorable in a white satin dress, though it was much too big for her; Winifred was petite like her mother, yet the dresses still hung on the girls.

  Someone fashioned a “halo” from a ring of lace and set it atop Crystin’s dark curls. Amy’s thick, golden hair shone against the oversized, pale blue gown. The glow on her face and the brightness of her eyes as she stared at the baby in the manger—the cradle that would be used for Winifred’s child—made her appear peaceful and awed, much like the Virgin Mary must have been. Ivy noticed how often Roberto stared Amy’s way.

  “Are we ready to begin?” Crystin asked. “Shall I make my announcement to the shepherd now?” The shepherd was Paulo, and he looked lost wrapped up in a white sheet with only his nut-brown face showing.

  “Not quite,” Ivy said. “There’s one item we’ve overlooked.” She undid the velvet ribbon from around her throat that held the garnet brooch and approached Gwen. “Why don’t you wear this, since a king—or in this case a queen—would wear jewels?”

  Gwen’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Crystin gasped.

  “Here,” Ivy said, “I’ll fasten it around your neck.” Once she did, she stepped back to look. “Perfect.” She smiled.

  “Thank you,” Gwen whispered, awkwardly fingering the square jewel and seed pearls.

  The old irritation rose up, but Ivy squelched it. Her sister’s fingerprints couldn’t harm the brooch, nor could she hurt it if she squeezed the stone too hard. The truth was, Ivy had thought up that and any other ridiculous notion as an excuse to be selfish with her things. Dear God, forgive me for being so self-centered, she prayed when she saw Gwen’s joy at wearing the brooch. The genuine smile the girl sent Ivy did her heart good. Perhaps they really could be friends someday.

  The children began their rendition of Christ’s birth. Roberto walk
ed with Amy from the top of the stairs to the parlor to reenact the journey into Bethlehem. Carmelita gurgled from her place in the wooden cradle off to the side, awaiting her debut appearance.

  “I am tired and hungry, Joseph,” Amy said, putting one arm across her stomach and draping her other hand across her forehead. “I need rest.”

  “I will find us a chicken,” Roberto proclaimed.

  “That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” Amy hissed.

  Mrs. Llewynn raised her brows, and Craig leaned toward her. “I have something I need to tell you later,” he whispered, the effects of the cold no longer affecting his speech.

  “I think I know.” The woman looked at the skinny boys, then at their sickly mother wrapped in quilts and leaning weakly back against her chair. A smile replaced Mrs. Llewynn’s frown. “Never mind. I’m sure we can work this out to benefit everyone. I could use a strong boy like Roberto to help at the store. As you said, we will discuss this later.”

  Ivy decided that she also wished to discuss a matter with Mrs. Llewynn when she could get the woman alone—the purchase of a doll with a real china face for Crystin and of a leather-bound book of children’s stories for Gwen. She remembered seeing such items in the general store. Add to that the beautiful oak cradle she’d also noticed—a cast-off from a family who’d returned back East—that would make a perfect gift for a new baby sister or brother. She should have enough of her fifty dollars left over to buy several yards of material for both her and her mother to have spring dresses. And gloves. She simply must buy herself new gloves.

  Ivy mentally created her Christmas list. Hopefully the gifts would impart the message she wished to convey: that she now considered them all her family.

  “You look like the cat that got away with the mouse,” Craig whispered to Ivy as Gwen, the wise man, moved forward bearing a plate with an iced cookie and a piece of fruitcake to use as a gift for the baby. Roberto eyed the offerings hungrily.

  Ivy winced and glanced at Craig. “Please, don’t talk to me about mice,” she whispered. “Not after our failure with the pink Christmas mouse.”

  “That sounds like it could be an interesting story,” he mused. “A pink Christmas mouse? Still, I have to wonder what would cause your face to glow like that, as if you’d just swallowed one of those candles. Pleased with yourself and the play, maybe? A great success, by the way. The women’s minds are off their worries for the time being. And the children are having the time of their lives.”

  Ivy smiled. It was true. “I just came to the realization that this is where I belong. Being here finally feels right, as if I fit in now.”

  A couple of heartbeats passed before Craig spoke. “Ivy, look at me.” His tone was serious.

  She turned to stare into his steady brown eyes.

  “Are you telling me that you’ve decided to stay in Leaning Tree?”

  “Yes, Craig. This night has helped me to discover what’s truly important, as well as shown me how foolish I’ve been.”

  Before she could explain further, the door blew open. Four white-crusted figures stiffly clomped inside, followed by fifteen more shivering forms.

  “Ma!” Amy cried, abandoning her role when she caught sight of her mother. She almost tripped over the borrowed dress in her haste to get to her. The women jumped up from their chairs to embrace their frozen husbands and help them and the others out of icicle-laden coats and mufflers. Roberto dove for the slice of cake and crammed the entire thing into his mouth, his smile wide.

  “It w–was a miracle we f–found the p–place before we f–froze to death,” Ivy’s stepfather said, his teeth chattering. “Their w–wagon was stuck. W–we had to w–walk, and I th–thought all w–was lost when the s–storm started up again. Then, w–we saw that light in the w–window.”

  “Thank God you’re safe,” Ivy’s mother said, briskly rubbing on the blanket that she’d draped around his stocky form. “Come closer by the fire.”

  Mrs. Bradford hugged Amy, and her father put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Miss Ivy took care of me and helped us put on a play,” Amy enthused. “I’m Mary. Will you watch me, Ma? We can start over.”

  The woman’s grateful gaze met Ivy’s. The look in her pale green eyes said what words couldn’t. Ivy smiled and nodded in understanding. “I’ll just go and get some coffee for everyone.”

  “I’ll come with you.” With the quilt wrapped around his shoulders, Craig stood to his feet.

  Ivy darted a glance at the others as he walked on ahead of her. Everyone was so wrapped up in their loved ones’ return and getting them warm again that Ivy didn’t think she or Craig would be missed. Laughter, tears, and thanks filled the parlor, and she silently added her own prayer of gratitude. Strange as it might seem, this Christmas had been one of the best—and most challenging—she’d ever known.

  In the kitchen, a cookstove burned, and the coffeepot simmered. Sweet spice scents of cinnamon and cloves lingered in the air, along with the aroma of rich coffee beans.

  Craig abruptly turned Ivy’s way. She jerked in surprise, her skirts brushing the wall. Her heart began a lilting cadence at the intense look in his eyes.

  “Tell me again,” he said. “I’m not sure I heard right the first time. Do you plan on staying in Leaning Tree?”

  “Yes.”

  “For good?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised one brow. “Do I dare hope your decision might have something to do with me?”

  At least two-thirds of it does. “It might,” she said. It was one thing to be remorseful for needlessly slighting him in the past; it was quite another to throw herself at the man.

  A slow grin curled his mouth. “I’ve got enough money saved up to build a house come spring—the kind you like with wooden walls and floors and a roof. If you’d consent to be my wife, Ivy, you’d make me the happiest man in all of Nebraska.”

  “Craig Watson!” Exasperated, she shook her head, though her heart beat triple time at his words and she couldn’t prevent the smile that stretched her cheeks. “Before introducing the subject of marriage, don’t you think you should at least ask to court me properly?”

  “Would you agree?”

  A sudden case of shyness hit. “I might.”

  “To both?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Craig whooped in delight and cast the quilt from his shoulders. Sliding his large hands about her waist, he twirled her once around the confined space. She squealed when his leg knocked against the table. Dishes clattered, silverware clinked, and she laughingly protested that he put her down before someone came into the room and saw them. He set her gently on her feet, his brown eyes rich with amusement and warmth.

  “I’ll always love you, my proper Boston girl. I knew it from the first day I saw you stepping off that dusty wagon with your chin a mile high in the air.”

  Before she could think to be indignant about his teasing remark, Craig dipped his head and tenderly kissed her, and Ivy forgot all else but him.

  BOSTON’S LADYFINGERS

  Adapted from an old prairie cookbook, this recipe is for thin, biscuit-like chocolate-frosted cookies—perfect for a Christmas tea or small party.

  3 egg whites

  5 tablespoons powdered sugar

  2 egg yolks (well beaten)

  ½ teaspoon vanilla

  ½ cup flour

  ¼ teaspoon salt Powdered sugar for coating

  Beat egg whites until stiff. Add powdered sugar. In a separate bowl, beat yolks. Fold into mixture. Add vanilla. Fold in flour and salt until batter is well blended. Line a cookie sheet with waxed paper. Press the batter through a pastry bag and onto cookie sheet, forming strips approximately 4 inches long and 1 inch wide. (I use a plastic freezer bag with one tiny section snipped off at a bottom corner for a pastry bag.) Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes. Edges should be light golden brown. Remove from oven. After a minute, while cookies are still warm, slide spatula undern
eath to loosen them from waxed paper. Frost or dip in chocolate when cool. Makes approximately 24 cookies.

  CHOCOLATE FROSTING/SAUCE:

  Stir over low heat 1 cup powdered sugar, ½ cup semisweet chocolate chips, and ? cup water until rich and creamy. As it cools, it thickens and makes a sweet frosting to spread over cookies. Or put back on low heat and add several drops more water until thin enough to use as a dipping sauce.

  Image of Love

  by JoAnn A. Grote

  This is my commandment, That ye love one another,

  as I have loved you.

  JOHN 15:12

  Chapter 1

  Minnesota, 1869

  Mantie Clark stood at the schoolhouse door, smiling as she watched the children don their winter coats. She shivered and drew her green shawl more closely about her shoulders. Winter had arrived early this year, even by Minnesota standards. The wool coats and colorful mufflers and mittens were welcome against the bite in the air.

  The children’s chatter and laughter filled the cloakroom. Their energy contrasted sharply with the quiet discipline they portrayed in the schoolroom.

  She wished each child good-bye as they hurried through the doorway and into the chill outdoors. Each returned the farewell, most with a mittened wave, though their attention was on the freedom beyond the door.

  “See you at home, Jesse and Jenny.” Mantie patted her nine-year-old nephew and ten-year-old niece on their shoulders as they passed.

  A six-year-old girl with blond braids tugged at Mantie’s skirt and held up hands encased in black mittens. “My fingers don’t work. Will you tie my hat?”

  “Of course, Susannah.” Mantie smiled and knelt beside the banker’s daughter. Swiftly she secured the black knit hat. “There you go.”

  “Thanks, Teacher.”

  Five minutes after she dismissed school, only one child remained. Eight-year-old Nathan Powell stood silently beside her in the doorway, watching the street. He held his floppy brown felt hat in mittened hands, respectful of the rule not to wear hats inside.