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

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  2½ cups sifted flour

  ½ cup water

  ½ to 1 cup chopped walnuts

  3/4 to 1 cup dried fruit

  1 cup chocolate chips (optional)

  Extra brown sugar for topping, about ½ cup

  Grease and flour a 9x13-inch pan.

  Cream together the first four ingredients. Mix in the applesauce. Add the baking soda, salt, and spices. Blend in the flour and then the water. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Sprinkle additional brown sugar on the top.

  Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes, or until the cake tests done.

  Colder Than Ice

  by Jill Stengl

  Dedication

  With love to my daughter and toughest writing critic,

  Anne Elisabeth Stengl,

  and to my sister, Paula Ciccotti,

  who introduced me to prairie life in Iowa.

  Chapter 1

  Coon’s Hollow, Iowa—1885

  Hello! Sir, hello!”

  As Frank Nelson jogged his horse past the Coon’s Hollow train station, he noticed a strange woman waving a handkerchief from the sunbaked platform. At first he thought she must be beckoning to someone else, but a quick glance around ended that hope. “Ma’am?” He reined Powder in and halted near the steps.

  Clad in black from her bonnet to her boots, the woman twisted the handkerchief between her gloved hands. A large trunk waited beside the empty depot office, and two carpetbags sat on the bench. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but can you deliver a message for me?”

  “Deliver it where?” After a sleepless night, he was in no mood to serve as messenger boy. He squinted, thinking she looked vaguely familiar. “Who are you?”

  She drew herself up and stared at him down her long, narrow nose. Hot, gusty wind sent her bonnet flapping around her gaunt cheeks and ballooned her ruffled skirts. Soot streaked her forehead, and dust grayed her garments. “If you would ask someone from the hotel to collect my luggage, I shall be grateful.”

  That incisive voice rang a bell. “Have we met?”

  “Never.”

  Squinting against the wind, he studied her face. Shadowed eyes, sharp chin, and prominent cheekbones. “Are you related to Paul Truman?” Certainty filled him. “You must be his sister from Wisconsin. What are you doing here?”

  “I cannot see that it is your business,” she began, then informed him, “I have been offered employment in the area.”

  “That was months ago.”

  “And how would you know?” Queen Victoria herself could be no more imperious.

  “I’m Frank Nelson, the pastor. I offered you the job, Miss Truman. I hope you at least informed Paul and Susan that you were coming.”

  “You are the minister?” Chin tucked, she looked him up and down. Her shoulders squared. “Has the position been filled?”

  “No.”

  He was tempted to tell her he no longer needed a secretary. Let the harpy go back to the big city and terrorize small children there. Coon’s Hollow held its quota of odd characters. And he definitely didn’t need another eccentric spinster in his life.

  “Why don’t you come with me to the parsonage, cool off in the shade, and have some lemonade, and I’ll send someone to Trumans’ with a message from you. It’s only going to get hotter on that platform.” His shepherd calling wouldn’t allow him to leave even an ornery ewe to the mercy of the elements. She would be in no danger from wolves, that was certain.

  She blinked. “Very well.”

  Frank dismounted, leaped up the steps, and grabbed her carpetbags. “They’re planning a new depot with a covered waiting area, but it won’t happen this year. Have you been here long?” She must have arrived on the morning train.

  “What about my trunk?”

  “It’ll be safe here until Paul comes for it. The parsonage is just around the corner.” He hopped down and swung the two bags up onto Powder’s saddle. When he turned around, Miss Truman had descended the steps. She was tall, he noticed. And thin. Truly spindly.

  “Miss Truman?” He extended his arm. She curled her gloved fingers around his forearm and fell into step along the dusty street. Powder followed behind, led by one loose rein. Now that Frank had offered lemonade, he remembered drinking the last of it yesterday afternoon.

  He tried to recall details about Miss Truman. Upon hearing of their mother’s death, Paul had offered his only sister a home with his family, adding the further incentive of a job as the minister’s secretary. “Taking her into my home is the Christian thing to do,” Paul had said with the air of a martyr. “And she could be a great help to you if she doesn’t drive you to an early grave.”

  Frank gave the woman a side glance. She appeared more underfed and exhausted than dangerous. “Why did you decide to come to Iowa after all? When Paul had no reply from you, he assumed you weren’t coming.”

  “My circumstances became … insupportable,” she said in a flat voice. “If you no longer require my services, I shall find employment elsewhere.”

  “What did Paul tell you about me?” He felt awkward asking.

  “He told me that you are attempting to write a book and need someone to transcribe it for you. Is your office in your home or at the church?”

  “At the parsonage.”

  “I assume your wife will act as chaperone.”

  As if this woman would require one. “My housekeeper will chaperone; my wife died eight years ago.”

  “You have no family?”

  “Not living with me. My daughter, Amy, is married and living in Des Moines. My son, David, recently bought a farm near your brother’s and is fixing up the farmhouse. He is betrothed to your niece, Margie. They are to marry Christmas Eve, so you and I shall soon be related in a way.”

  “I see.”

  “Here we are.” Frank wrapped Powder’s rein around the post and pushed open the picket gate. Seeing Miss Truman examine his home, he scanned it himself. A riot of perennials overflowed the garden fence, invaded the weedy lawn, and sneaked across the walkway. Morning glories strangled the hitching posts and attempted to bind the picket gate shut.

  A wide veranda wrapped around most of the house, offering shade and a breeze. Beyond the stable out back, cornfields stretched as far as the eye could see. A windmill squeaked out its rusty rhythm. Water trickled from its base into a huge tub. A swaybacked horse plunged its nose into the sparkling water and playfully dumped waves over the tub’s far rim.

  “The Harlan Coon family donated this house and the stable to the church twenty years ago. Those are Coon cornfields, but Bess there is mine. She’s too old to work, but I keep her as company for Powder.” A handy excuse for keeping an oversized pet. “The church is a good stretch of the legs up the road from here, but the walk gives me exercise.”

  The woman said nothing. These long silences seemed uncanny from a female. Perhaps she was tired. “Have a seat here, Miss Truman, and I’ll find you something to drink. Mary should be around somewhere.” It occurred to him that the simplest course of action would be to hitch up his own buggy and take the lady to Paul’s house.

  The screen door squealed, and Mary Bilge stumped onto the porch. An unlit cigar dangled from her lips. “Who’s this?”

  “Miss Truman, newly arrived from Wisconsin. Miss Truman, this is Miss Bilge, my housekeeper.” He watched the two women eye each other and shake hands. “Miss Truman has agreed to assist me with preparing my manuscript for publication.”

  Mary’s dark gaze pinned him. “How’s the Dixons’ baby?”

  “Better, the doctor says.”

  “Humph. I’ll bake them a raisin loaf.”

  He would believe that when he saw it. “Uh, do we have any of that lemonade left, Mary?”

  “You oughta know, seein’ as how you drank the last of it.” She disappeared back into the house, letting the screen door slam. Frank avoided Miss Truman’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “May I enter your kitchen?”

  “Certainly.” He opened t
he screen door and beckoned her inside. She peeled off her gloves, surveying the room, the largest in his house. To his surprise, she opened the firebox and added two sticks of wood, picked up the kettle, and nodded. “I can make tea, if you have any.”

  “Help yourself. I don’t know what I have. People give me food sometimes. Like the lemonade Mrs. Wilkins brought over.”

  Miss Truman searched through cupboards, canisters, and the icebox, producing a tin of tea, a sack of white sugar, and a small pitcher of cream. Frank watched her brew tea in an old china teapot. Whenever she glanced his way, he found himself standing straight and holding in his gut.

  “You may summon Miss Bilge.” The lady located cookies in the jar and laid them on a plate, loaded the waiting tray, and carried it out to the porch before Frank could stop her.

  “Come and have tea on the veranda with us, Mary,” he called, uncertain where she might be. “Then I need to hitch up Powder and take Miss Truman home.”

  He heard Mary thumping and muttering on the cellar stairs. What had she been doing down there? He didn’t dare ask.

  “Tea on a day like this? La-de-da! Give me coffee.”

  “But Miss Truman brewed tea.”

  “Coffee’s good enough for me. Got some left from breakfast.”

  Frank grimaced at the idea, but Mary poured herself a cup and shuffled outside. In hot or cold weather, she always wore the same man’s overcoat over a sacklike gown, heavy boots, and a broad-brimmed hat. She seemed about as wide as she was tall. Slumped into a rocking chair, she seared Miss Truman with her stare.

  Serenely composed, Miss Truman perched in another chair, prepared to pour the tea. “Cream and sugar, Reverend Nelson?”

  “Thank you.” After pulling up a third rocking chair, he watched her prepare his tea and accepted the cup. Her remote gaze caught his once more. “Reverend Nelson, when do you wish me to begin work?”

  He sipped the tea. Sweet, creamy—better than he had expected. “How about Monday? That should give you time to settle in at Paul and Susan’s. I warn you, my papers are a disaster.”

  “Huh,” Mary said, cradling her grimy coffee cup against her chest.

  Frank started to grin but stopped when his lips quivered. He took a handful of cookies.

  Silence lengthened. Frank wondered if the women could hear him chewing. No telling how long those cookies had been in the jar. Since spring maybe.

  A large black cat strolled across the veranda, gave Mary wide berth, oozed between Frank’s boots, and sat in front of Miss Truman. The lady moved her teacup to one side, and the cat flowed into her lap, curled up, and disappeared against the shiny black fabric.

  “Dirty critter,” Mary muttered.

  Miss Truman stroked the cat, and Frank heard a rumbling purr. Again he met Miss Truman’s gaze and, for the first time, saw in her pale eyes a fleeting emotion. “I like cats,” she said.

  Frank gulped down the last of his tea. “We have several roaming about the place. Belle is the queen cat and the best mouser. We used to have a dog, but he died a few years back of old age.”

  Miss Truman watched the cat as she petted it, and Frank watched her long hands caress its glossy fur. Abruptly she took a sip of tea. The cup rattled in the saucer when she replaced it, and Frank suddenly noticed the slump of her shoulders. The poor woman must be exhausted almost beyond bearing, yet he’d kept her drinking tea on his veranda and talking business. He hopped up, leaving his chair rocking wildly. “We’d best be off, Miss Truman. If you’d like to rest awhile longer, I’ll take the buckboard to the station for your trunk first and return for you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Reverend Nelson.” Rising, she gathered up the tea things and carried them inside. The screen door closed quietly behind her.

  “You’re gonna hire that woman? She’s gonna be here every day?” Mary glowered.

  “I’m hiring her as secretary, not replacement housekeeper. Your place is secure.”

  Scowl lines deepened between Mary’s brushy brows. With another grunt, she set her empty coffee cup on the floor and rose. Nose high, she stumped down the porch steps and headed toward her little house across the road.

  When Frank drove through town with Estelle Truman at his side, he encountered curious glances from townspeople. She shaded her face with a black silk parasol and sat erect on the bench seat. Polished boot toes emerged from beneath her gown’s dusty ruffles. For the first time, he noticed the worn seams on her sleeves and a rip in the skirt, repaired with tiny stitches.

  “We’ll have you home in no time,” he promised as they left the schoolhouse and one last barking dog behind. “So, Miss Truman, you have lived in Madison all your life until now?”

  “I have. Reverend Nelson, I do not wish to confide my life story in you during this drive to my brother’s farmhouse. I’m sure you will understand.”

  He deflated. “Of course.”

  “I overheard your conversation with Miss Bilge today—something about the illness of a baby?” She spoke quietly.

  “Ben and Althea Dixon’s first child. Only nine months old. He took ill last week. The doctor thought he would die, but he rallied during the night and seemed almost back to normal. I was on my way home from their house when I met you at the station.”

  “Were you with the family all night?”

  “Yes. They asked me to come and pray, and this time God chose to restore little Benjamin’s health. We lose a lot of children here. Paul and Susan’s daughter, Jessamine, died of typhoid a year ago, and they nearly lost Joe, too.”

  “Paul never wrote of their daughter’s death.”

  “Jessamine was sixteen. I believe the sorrow and strain have drained Susan’s strength, yet her spirit is stronger than ever.”

  Miss Truman’s chin tipped up. “I shall not increase Susan’s burden. She will find me useful around the house.”

  “I pray you’ll also find time to assist me in preparing my book for publication. I often fear I should abandon the project and turn my mind to more practical pursuits, but then I feel as if God is pressing this work upon my heart and I must keep writing it.” He looked down at her marble profile and wondered if she could make any difference.

  “I shall assist you to the best of my ability, Reverend Nelson, commensurate with my pay.”

  Rather than respond to that baffling remark, he pointed. “Ahead is Paul’s farm. All this corn around us is his. He also raises hogs. He’s a good man. Good farmer. Good friend. I’m honored to have my son marry his daughter.” He turned in at the Trumans’ drive, wondering how the family would react to this maiden aunt’s arrival.

  The barn and the white farmhouse looked insignificant in the vast expanse of surrounding prairie. One large tree shaded the house. Chickens ran clucking from the buckboard as it rolled up the drive, and a cow bawled. Frank glanced at Miss Truman. Her expression revealed nothing.

  “Hello, Frank. Who’s that with—” The question cut off sharply. Paul jogged across the farmyard, his eyes locked with his sister’s. “Estelle!”

  “Hello, Paul. I came.”

  He stopped beside the buckboard, still staring. “I can’t believe it.”

  “If you have changed your mind, I can take a room in town.”

  He seemed to start back to reality. “No, no. Here, let me help you down.” He offered her a hand, and while she climbed to the ground, he turned his head to shout over one shoulder. “Josh. Alvin. Joe. Get out here now!

  “I just can’t believe it. You haven’t changed much, Stell.” Paul gave her a quick hug.

  Frank saw her lips quiver before she stepped back to straighten her bonnet. “Twenty years, Paulie.”

  One after another, Paul’s three sons appeared from barn and fields. Frank saw little Flora poke her head out the kitchen door, then duck back inside, probably to inform her mother about their visitors. Eliza, the farm dog, came running, tail wagging as she sniffed around Miss Truman’s shoes. To Frank’s surprise, the woman held out one hand to the dog and ga
ve her a pat.

  While Paul introduced his sister to the boys, Frank unloaded her trunk and bags from his wagon. She spoke to the boys politely and shook their hands. Frank caught an exchange of uncertain glances between Al and Joe. Josh unobtrusively punched the younger boy when he made a comment behind one hand.

  Susan and her daughters emerged from the house, and Frank felt himself relax. A welcoming smile wreathed Susan’s face, and her daughters were beaming. “Estelle! This is a wonderful surprise. My dear, please come inside out of this heat. The men will bring your things in. You can share Margie’s room until she marries.” Amid a spate of further instructions and welcomes, Susan took Miss Truman’s hand in hers and led her toward the house. The three boys picked up the luggage and followed.

  Paul met Frank’s gaze. “I can’t believe it,” he repeated. “What are we going to do?”

  “You invited her here,” Frank said. “She came. Susan doesn’t seem to mind. Why should you? She’s your sister.”

  Paul still looked dazed. “How did you meet her?”

  Frank related the scene at the depot. Paul kept shaking his head until Frank wanted to shake him. Miss Truman might be haughty and reserved, but she was no monster. “She agreed to start working for me on Monday, so she won’t be around your house all day. I assume you thought of transportation.”

  “She can use the dogcart.”

  “She told me she won’t be a burden to Susan.”

  Paul let out a huff. “Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You don’t understand. Stell and I were good buddies as children. But she changed during the war. When I came home … trust me: That woman has a block of ice in place of a heart. I won’t let her destroy my home like an encroaching glacier.”

  “Do you want me to stay around this evening?” Frank offered. “Just for a while?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll manage.” Paul gave Frank a sidelong glance. “But I’d surely appreciate your prayers.”

  Chapter 2