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

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  Feeling her heart begin to pound, Rose swallowed hard. “What?”

  Ward stared down into her blue eyes as he traced a finger across Rose’s flaming cheek, his eyes dark and serious. “Rose, I think I’m in love with you.”

  He waited for her reaction, and a long moment passed as Rose tried to believe her ears.

  “What … what did you just say?” Her voice came out as little more than a croak. “I said that I think I’m in love with you. I guess I have been for some time, only I didn’t realize it.”

  Rose could only stare up at him, stunned into a lack of speech. Ward frowned.

  “Well, say something.”

  “I … I think I love you, too.”

  The frown eased from his features. “You’re not sure?”

  “You’re not, either?”

  Ward hesitated. “I’ve only had one experience with love, Rose, and it was nothing like this. I’m beginning to believe there are different kinds of loving between a man and a woman.”

  Rose could only nod.

  “I want to be with you,” he continued. “And when I’m not I find myself thinking about you. You’re kind and loving, stubborn and proud. You make me feel … strong.”

  Rose knew he was having trouble putting his thoughts into words. For Ward, actions would speak more loudly than any words he could ever hope to utter. She smiled in understanding and he kissed her softly on her lips.

  The moment his lips touched hers, Rose felt all her doubts vanish. She would gladly give her life for this man, and she knew without any more uncertainties that she loved him with her entire being.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she tried to show him of her love in the oldest way known to women.

  Christmas day dawned bright and clear. Much of the snow had disappeared from the area, blown by the ever-present winds.

  There was a spring in Rose’s step as she set about making the cabin ready for their guests. She and Ward had spent the last several days getting to know one another better, and her love for him grew daily. She didn’t think it was possible to love a man as much as she loved Ward. As they went about their duties, they found themselves eager to be together, to touch.

  Ward had been hunting and had brought home a deer for their Christmas dinner. Now it roasted over the open fire as Rose prepared the vegetables.

  Ward came in the door, his eyes searching for and quickly finding Rose. Setting down the crate that he carried, he smiled and held out his hand to her and she quickly went to him. He wrapped his arms about her and kissed her lightly on her nose.

  “Before company gets here, I have something for you. A Christmas present.” Surprised, Rose could only stammer. “You shouldn’t have. Oh, Ward, I didn’t get you anything.”

  “You’ve given me the greatest gift a man could ask for. Your love.”

  Rose wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “You say the nicest things.”

  His return smile was wry. “Not always.”

  Rose’s eyes began to glow. “What do you have for me?”

  “You mean besides me?”

  “Ward!”

  He grinned, turning her loose so that he could lift the crate and carry it to the table. Using his hammer, he pried the top from the box and then moved aside so Rose could see what was inside.

  Pushing back the paper, Rose found the crate filled with books. Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “Oh, Ward!”

  She pulled out the first book and turned it gently in her hands. “Charles Dickens. I love Dickens! How did you know?”

  “I think you can just about recite A Christmas Carol. I thought you might like something else.”

  “I’ve never read The Cricket on the Hearth, though I have heard of it.” She rummaged in the crate again. “Alexandre Dumas’ The Three Musketeers. You should like that,” she told him.

  “I will if you read it to me.”

  Rose wrinkled her nose at him, but her attention was more on the jewels she was uncovering in the crate. Not since her move from the city had she seen so many books. She pulled the last one from the box and set it with the others. “I heard about Louisa May Alcott before we left Boston. I don’t know where you were able to find all of these books, but I thank you with all of my heart.”

  Ward wrapped her back in his arms. “You’re welcome. Now thank me properly.”

  Grinning, Rose reached up and kissed his chin. Ward shook his head. “Nope, that won’t do it.” Reaching up again, Rose kissed his cheek.

  He shook his head again. “Nope. Wrong again. I guess I’ll just have to take the books back.”

  Rose tried to push away. “Never!”

  One dark eyebrow winged its way upward. “I’m waiting, then.” Rose sighed. “Well, if I must,” she teased.

  She would have given him a peck on the lips, but Ward captured her lips with his own and suddenly, all humor fled for Rose. She kissed him back with abandon, wondering at herself and her ability to lose her restraint with a man that just a few short weeks ago she hadn’t even thought she liked.

  Ward finally pulled away, his voice husky. “Enjoy your present, Rose. I’m glad it pleases you.”

  He took the now empty crate and made his way back outside to break it into kindling for the fire.

  Rose picked up the copy of Little Women and hugged it to her, her eyes sparkling. What a wonderful gift. If only she had something as nice to give Alice.

  She went to her chest and rummaged through it, sighing when she found nothing suitable to give as a gift. Her eyes lighted on the quilt, and she rubbed the cover softly, thinking how happy her papa and mama would be for her.

  With a determined sparkle in her eye, Rose quickly pulled the quilt from the trunk holding it up to the light. Firmly, she blanked her mind and refused the memories access as they tried to rush upon her.

  She took the paper that the books had been wrapped in and some string, and quickly wrapped the quilt and placed it with the other gifts under the tree.

  If only she had something she could give Ward. Remembering how he said he was happy with her love brought a flush to her face. Next year, maybe she could give Ward a son. The thought pleased her.

  The Comptons arrived shortly thereafter. The children oohed and aahed over the tree, their eyes growing large at the sight of the presents under it.

  Rose exclaimed over Alicia and Andrew’s coats. Alice’s face flooded with color. “I hope you don’t mind, Rose,” she stated quietly. “The coat you brought for Andrew was too big for him, so I took it and made it into two, one for Andrew and one for Alicia.”

  “What a good idea. And you’ve done it so beautifully. You must be a wonderful seamstress.”

  Alice shrugged, her head ducked shyly.

  After everyone was in the cabin it suddenly seemed a lot smaller, but no one seemed to mind. Children and adults alike were willing to overlook the cramped confines of the small structure just for the joy of being together.

  It was a happy time for everyone. The roast deer was devoured and pronounced a success. Squash, potatoes, corn cakes, boiled eggs, cake, and pie were consumed until everyone declared they hadn’t feasted so well in years.

  Ward announced that it was time for everyone to open their gifts, and Rose could see how relieved Alice was that she had been able to contribute. She handed Rose a small package wrapped in brown wrap.

  “Oh, Alice. You shouldn’t have.”

  Alice’s face filled with color and she dipped her head shyly. “It’s not much.”

  Rose exclaimed over the beauty of the fine stitching Alice had used to turn an old sheet into a beautiful tablecloth.

  Ward handed the twins their presents and with a small smile watched them rip them open.

  Alicia squealed with delight. “A baby! A baby, Mommy! Look!” Adam’s eyes found Rose’s and in their shimmering brown depths she read his thanks.

  “Wow!” Andrew pealed. “A gun! My very own gun!”

  “I hope it’s all right?” Ward questione
d Alice.

  She only nodded, her own eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

  Finally, Rose handed her package to Alice. “For you and Adam.”

  Ward glanced at Rose in surprise, watching as Alice unwrapped her gift. Alice sucked in her breath, her eyes going wide. She pulled the quilt from its wrap and Ward quickly rose to his feet, his protest checked on his lips.

  The tears in Rose’s eyes matched those of the other woman as both embraced. “Oh, thank you, Rose. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  The rest of the day was pleasant and Rose watched the Comptons climb into their wagon with a warm feeling of having done what was right. Papa would have wanted her to do just what she had done.

  After their guests drove away, Ward followed Rose into the cabin. He pulled her gently into his arms. “Why did you do it?”

  She sniffed into his chest. “Papa would have wanted it. The quilt was doing no one any good sitting in that chest. The Comptons needed it.”

  Ward rested his chin on her head, staring at the ceiling. “But your memories.”

  “I’ll always have my memories,” she told him. “And with you, I’ll start to make new memories.”

  Ward sighed and Rose finally pulled away.

  “Can we read the Christmas story now? That was always my favorite part of Christmas with Papa, when he would read the Christmas story from the Bible.”

  She handed Ward her Bible and waited while he settled himself in his chair. She curled up at his feet prepared to listen.

  At first, Ward’s voice came out hesitantly, but as the story progressed it grew stronger with the feelings the story inspired. Rose wiped the tears from her eyes when he finished.

  “I never get tired of hearing it. How God sent His only Son to die for people who openly mocked and ridiculed Him.”

  Ward was quiet for a long while. “He did it for the same reasons you gave the Comptons your special quilt. They needed it, and He loved them enough to sacrifice that which was most precious to Him. That’s what makes a true sacrifice.”

  Rose climbed up into Ward’s lap, laying her head on his shoulder.

  Ward’s voice was husky when he nuzzled her ear. “Just like you gave me a gift of your love, so God gave us a gift of His love. I’ve forgotten that. I’ve lived my life the last several years without Him, but not anymore.”

  He pulled her face back so he could look into her eyes. “When I saw the sacrifice you were willing to make, knowing how much that quilt meant to you, I wanted so much to say something. To take it back. But it wasn’t mine to deny.

  “Just like sometimes I wish I could take back God’s sacrifice. Make it never have happened. But then, the world would have been condemned to an eternity without God. I can’t imagine a life without God,” Rose told him.

  “I can’t imagine a life without you,” Ward answered back.

  Rose sighed. “I am so thankful that God brought you into my life.”

  “That makes two of us, because if not for your unshakable faith, I don’t know if I would have ever realized just how much I needed God. How much I needed you. I’ve been selfish.”

  He kissed her with all of the love stored in his heart and Rose returned the kiss in kind. For a long time the only sound in the cabin was the soft murmuring of the words of love.

  Later, Rose went with Ward to feed the animals. A million shimmering lights glimmered from the dark sky above. As they watched, hand in hand, a shooting star left a fiery path across the sky and disappeared in an instant.

  Just like that star so long ago had led the wise men to the Savior, so God had led Ward and Rose to each other.

  Rose continued to stare at the night sky. She had found unexpected happiness after adversity. She had lost one precious man and found another. She smiled slowly and Ward had to bend close to hear her say, “Thank You, Father. Thank you, Papa.”

  God Jul

  by Tracie Peterson

  Chapter 1

  OSTKAKA

  (Swedish Pudding)

  2 eggs

  1 cup cream

  ½ cup flour

  ¼ tsp. salt

  2 quarts milk

  ½ rennet tablet

  ½ cup sugar

  Beat eggs and ½ cup cream together, add flour and mix until smooth. Add salt. Heat milk to lukewarm and add mixture. Soften rennet tablet in a spoonful of water and add to mixture, stirring slowly until evenly mixed. Let stand for 10 minutes then bake in hot oven at 4000F for 30 minutes. Then turn oven down to 3500F and bake for 1 hour. Take out of oven and pour remaining ½ cup of cream and sugar over it and bake at 3500F for an additional 20 minutes. As the pudding is formed, the whey (milky liquid) may threaten to run over, so use a deep pan. Serve with sweetened berries.

  Lindsborg, Kansas

  Sigrid Larsson stared in stony silence at the pine casket. Inside, her mother’s body lay in final rest and even now as the pastor spoke of the resurrection to come, Sigrid felt a terrible loss. She had built her life around her mother’s needs and now she was gone, and at twenty-seven Sigrid felt she was far too old to start a new life.

  Even if I wanted to start over, she chided herself, what would I do? Who would have me, an old spinster with nothing to offer?

  She looked around the circle of mourners to find friends and family whom she cherished dearly. She was alone. They had each other. They were husbands and wives and children, and together they made up families. Her family had started out to include a mother, father, sister, and brother, but now they were gone. Father had died fifteen years ago in a railroad accident, and with that one stroke of fate, her life had changed. At twelve she had been forced into adulthood in many ways.

  “Let us close by singing together,” the pastor stated, then boomed out the words of a well-known hymn in a deep heavy bass.

  Sigrid mouthed the words, uncertain that she could actually sing. How could you sing when your heart was so heavy? She glanced up to find Erik Lindquist staring at her with a sympathetic, yet otherwise unreadable expression. His blue eyes were the same shade as her own, a rather pale, icy blue. His blond hair, straight as string as her mother would have said, was parted down the middle and slicked back on either side. He looked most uncomfortable in his “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes and Sigrid would have laughed had the circumstance not weighed so heavy on her heart.

  Erik had been her mother’s hired man for the last twelve years. He owned the property next to theirs and when he learned of the Larsson women’s struggles to survive and keep the farmstead running, he had gone to Bothilda Larsson, or Tilly, as most folks called her, and struck a deal. He would farm their land, as well as his own, and split the profits down the middle. Bothilda and Sigrid would care for the dairy cows, pigs, and chickens as was in keeping with Swedish traditions. American men might take the reins of caring for the animals, but Tilly thought it funny to see a Swedish man trying to milk a cow.

  The arrangement worked well for everyone, including Sigrid’s brother, Sven, who had a new family and land of his own to worry about. He seemed more than happy to turn over the responsibilities of his parents’ homestead to Erik. Sigrid had been the one to protest, but she knew it was of little use to argue. She couldn’t very well farm the land herself, yet she had resented the interference of an outsider. Even if that outsider was a rather nice-looking, young Swedish man.

  The singing had concluded and people were coming up to offer her their condolences.

  “Tilly will be missed for sure,” Mr. Anderson told her.

  “Ja, t’ings won’t be the same without her,” another man assured Sigrid.

  Mrs. Swanson and Mrs. Moberg both took hold of her hands at the same time and tearfully lamented the loss of their dear friend. Sigrid tried not to notice that her mother’s casket was slowly being lowered into the ground.

  “Come along,” yet another of her mother’s friends announced, “we’ve laid food at your house, Sigrid.”

  Sigrid nodded and allowed the women to herd her along to
the awaiting carriage. She thought it funny that she should ride when so often she had walked the distance from church to home. But the women insisted she ride, in spite of her own longing to be left alone. Grief and mourning make folks do strange things to offer comfort, she thought.

  The Larsson farmstead was situated on the east side of Lindsborg, just far enough away to make a walk into town a good stretch of the limbs. Her father had managed to secure a prime tract of land when they’d first come to the area in 1869, and in her entire life, Sigrid had never ventured any farther than a ten-mile radius from the tiny town.

  She loved her home, and her heart swelled with pride as they approached the narrow drive that marked the property. Sigrid stared at the white clapboard house and felt a real sense of peace. Her mother might be gone from her in a physical sense, but she would live on in this house and in the things that surrounded Sigrid. She would simply remain here the rest of her days, living as best she could, and always she would remember the good times she’d known when her family had all been together.

  The carriage came to a halt and before she actually realized what was happening, Erik Lindquist had appeared to help her down. She felt small beside his six-foot-two frame. He towered over her by nearly a foot and his big, callused hands betrayed signs of hard work. Farming in Kansas was at worst a practice in futility, and at best a labor of love. Her mother used to say that Job’s patience had never been tested to the extent of trying to grow crops in Kansas. Sigrid smiled at the thought and Erik seemed taken aback.

  “Someone tell a joke?” he asked, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

  She startled at the warmth of his breath on her neck. “No, I was just remembering something Moder used to say.”

  “If you were remembering Tilly’s words then I’m sure I understand.”

  He offered her a gentle smile and stepped away just as Sven approached.

  “Sigrid, Ina and I want to talk to you.”