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

by Prairie Christmas Collection

  When he returned, she was pouring tea. Lamplight turned her eyes to fire as she glanced up. “I hope Susan doesn’t worry.”

  “I told her I would find you. She won’t worry.” He accepted his teacup and pulled two chairs close to the stove. “Wrap this blanket around your shoulders and soak up that warmth. We can’t stay long, you’re right, but I want to feel heat in your hands before we head home.”

  She nodded and obeyed, huddled beside him beneath a quilt. “I shall consider what we discussed at the church,” she said. “I plan to read the Bible while looking for the principles you laid out in your book. Until tonight I thought them mere dogma, intellectual pursuits, and I privately mocked your insistence upon applying scripture to everyday life.”

  He sipped his tea to conceal his reaction to the affront.

  “I shall pray for insight as I read.” She laid her hand on his arm and peered up into his face. “Reverend Nelson, I must thank you for taking time to hear my tale and offer your sage advice. I understand why your parishioners seek your counsel. You are a man of many gifts that were not immediately evident to me.”

  He swallowed the last of his tea and stood up. “We must be off. Wrap up in that quilt, and I’ll bring another for your feet.” She had met and exceeded his one criterion—warm hands. The imprint of her hand would burn on his arm for hours to come.

  “Thanks for bringing Estelle home, Frank,” Paul said while Susan poured hot coffee. The four sat near the glowing oven in Susan’s kitchen. “You can sleep on the sofa tonight. I already told Josh to stable your horse. It’s no night to be on the road.”

  “I appreciate the shelter.” Frank studied Estelle in concern while speaking to Paul. “That wind held an awful bite. Wouldn’t be surprised to see snow on the ground come morning.” Would she take ill from exposure? He had tried to protect her from the wind, but she still looked pale.

  Paul frowned. “Estelle won’t be returning to the parsonage. You can bring work here for her. From all I’ve heard, the book is nearly ready to submit to a publisher.”

  Estelle’s head snapped around. “I most certainly will be working at the parsonage. I need access to the files. Why should Reverend Nelson have to bring my work here?”

  “Because your situation has changed. Frank is courting you; therefore, it is no longer appropriate for you to work in his house. A minister must observe proprieties, perhaps even more carefully than most people do.”

  Frank barely concealed his surprise and dismay. He had interpreted Paul’s earlier discouraging comments as a refusal of his courtship request. When had the story changed?

  Estelle met Frank’s gaze across the table. “But what will you eat?” As soon as the words left her lips, she flushed and looked away.

  “Eat?” Paul said, glowering at Frank. “Is my sister a secretary or a cook? I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Now, Paul, I’m certain they have behaved properly,” Susan inserted gently as she handed out steaming cups of coffee. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  Embarrassment and frustration built in Frank’s chest. “Thank you, Susan. You can rest assured that nothing untoward occurred while Miss Truman worked at the parsonage, but I respect Paul’s decision. I don’t mind bringing work here until the book is complete. I can drop by each morning before I make calls, and we can discuss progress and objectives then. I’ll still pay her to complete the job.”

  Later that night, Frank wedged his frame into the confines of the hard horsehair sofa. Between the effect of strong coffee and the discomfort of a chilly parlor, he knew sleep would be long in coming, so he prayed. Lord, I know now why I had no peace about proposing to Estelle. I was wrong to blurt out my feelings today, but at least we had our first meaningful discussion of You, and I know where she stands. I can’t say I’m happy with the situation, but knowing is better than living in the dark.

  He rolled to his side, pulled a quilt over his shoulders, and felt a draft on his feet. Much though I would like to, I can’t blame my present dilemma on Paul. Today I, a minister of the gospel, declared my love to an unbeliever, and now we are officially courting. Calling myself all kinds of a fool also leaves the problem unsolved. What can I do? If I withdraw my offer of love, I’ll be one more person letting her down. If I don’t, she’ll be expecting me to court her….

  Chapter 6

  Weeks passed, and Estelle’s life again settled into a routine. Frank stopped by the Truman farm each day before beginning his round of calls or planning his sermons. He behaved like a pastor and friend; no hint of the ardent lover reappeared. Estelle began to wonder if he had changed his mind about courting her. Not that she intended to marry the man, of course. But as revisions on the book neared completion, she realized how much she would miss seeing Frank each day when he no longer had a reason to call.

  Thanksgiving Day arrived. David joined the Truman family, but Frank traveled to Des Moines to visit his daughter, Amy, and her husband. Estelle helped prepare the Truman feast and took part in the family celebration, struggling to conceal her loneliness. When had Frank’s presence become essential to her contentment? This need for him alarmed her. She needed to make a complete break if she was to maintain emotional independence.

  One morning in mid-December, Frank dropped by as usual. Shaking snow from his overcoat, he let Estelle take his hat. “I brought out the cutter this morning. Winter is here to stay. Which reminds me, will you join me for the Christmas sleigh ride this year?”

  Estelle hung his hat over his scarf. “Christmas sleigh ride?”

  “You haven’t heard about it? The sleigh ride is a Coon’s Hollow tradition—when we have enough snow, that is. It’s an unofficial event; people ride up and down the main streets and out into the countryside. Some of the young fellows have races, but us older folks prefer a decorous pace. My little cutter carries two in close comfort. I’ll bundle you up with robes and hot bricks, and we’ll put Powder through his paces.” He looked into her eyes and smiled.

  Despite the pastor’s flushed face and disheveled hair, Estelle found him appealing. For the moment, her emotional independence diminished in value. “I shall be honored to join you.”

  His dimples deepened, and his eyes sparkled. He caught her hand and squeezed gently. “Soon we need to have another serious talk, Estelle.” He glanced around, and Estelle became aware of Joe and Flora chatting in the kitchen. “Privacy is scarce these days.”

  Tightness built in Estelle’s chest. Desperate to escape its demands, she pulled her hand from Frank’s warm grasp and focused on the portfolio beneath his arm. “Did you make revisions on the final chapter?”

  He blinked, and the sparkle faded. “I did. This next week I plan to read through the entire thing, and if no major flaws turn up, I’ll mail it off to Chicago. My brother, who pastors a large church there, spoke with an editor who happens to attend his church. It seems this editor is eager to see the manuscript. I didn’t seek these connections, but apparently God has been making them for me.”

  Hours later, Estelle lifted her pen and stared at the final page, revised as Frank had requested. After just over three months of work, the book was complete. She laid the paper atop her stack, selected a clean sheet, and dipped her pen again. The concluding chapter contained a scripture passage and application she wanted to keep for her own study. Reading Frank’s words was the next best thing to hearing his sermons, and writing them down fixed them into her memory. Lately his explanations of Bible passages seemed clearer, though she still often found herself perplexed.

  Eliza, lying across Estelle’s feet beneath the table, moaned in her sleep and twitched as if chasing a dream rabbit. Estelle rubbed the dog’s white belly with the toe of her shoe.

  She paused to flex her fingers and stare through the kitchen window. Where green lawn had once met her gaze, blindingly white snow now drifted in gentle waves. She imagined skimming over the snow in a cutter, snuggled close to Frank beneath warm robes, and a smile teased her lips. Often lately she
sensed a hazy, tantalizing possibility, as if someone offered a future of beauty and hope but kept it always slightly out of her view.

  Rapid footsteps entered the kitchen. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Auntie Stell?” Margie offered. “How is the book coming?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Estelle said. “My fingers need a rest. Have you finished sewing on the seed pearls?”

  “Almost. They are perfect on the headpiece. I still can’t believe you gave them to me.”

  “I removed them from your great-grandmother’s wedding gown years ago after moths spoiled it.” Estelle gave her niece a fond look. “I can imagine no better use for them.”

  “A few weeks ago I despaired of finishing my gown in time, but now I believe we’ll make it. Only two weeks until my wedding!”

  “Fifteen days until Christmas. Flora’s gown is ready, and mine needs only the buttonholes.”

  Margie left the teapot to give her aunt a hug. “You were wonderful to sew Flora’s gown, and I can’t express how excited I am that you will come out of mourning for my wedding.”

  Estelle patted Margie’s hand on her shoulder. “It has been more than six months since my mother’s death.”

  “Yes, but—” Margie stopped and returned to preparing the tea.

  “You’ve heard that I’ve worn mourning since my fiancé’s death twenty years ago?”

  The girl nodded hesitantly.

  Estelle pursed her lips and flexed her fingers. “I no longer believe it necessary.” Abruptly she picked up her pen and began to write again. “Here’s your tea, Auntie.”

  Estelle accepted the cup and saucer, meeting her niece’s worried gaze. “Thank you, Marjorie.”

  “You’re welcome. Why are you frowning? Did I offend you?” Margie sat across from Estelle and stirred her tea. “I’m sorry if I did.”

  “No, child. I was preoccupied.”

  “Thinking about Pastor Nelson?” Margie clinked her teacup into its saucer and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm and her elbow on the table. “So are you going to marry him? David told me about his courting you. Pa doesn’t seem to think you ought to marry him, but I think it would be wonderful! You’d be my mother-in-law, sort of. David says he’s been afraid Pastor would let Mary Bilge bully him into marrying her, so he would be thrilled to have you as a stepmother instead.”

  “Mary Bilge?” Estelle nearly choked. “I hardly think so.”

  Margie covered her mouth. Her hazel eyes twinkled above the napkin.

  “She must be several years his senior.” The idea turned Estelle’s stomach. “Do you think he might marry her if I turn him down?”

  “I hope not! But David says she has turned into a decent cook and bought herself some new clothes. He suspects she’s hunting for a husband, and her sights are set on Pastor. Have you seen her at church recently?”

  “No. I am usually at the piano before and after services.”

  “She comes late and leaves early. But no matter how well she cooks or how much better she looks, she’s not the woman for Pastor. I think she scares him.”

  Recalling how he had overlooked Mary’s shoddy work, Estelle was inclined to agree. “I taught her to clean and cook,” she said, staring blankly at the table. “I felt sorry for her. She resented me, but I had no idea …”

  “You had no idea he would fall in love with you,” Margie said.

  Estelle knew her cheeks were flushing. “Nonsense.”

  Margie chuckled. “And I think you’re in love with him, too, though you don’t know it yet. How sweet!”

  Estelle gathered up her papers and stacked them. “With your wedding date approaching, you are in a romantic state of mind. Reverend Nelson considers remarriage for purely practical reasons.”

  Smirking, Margie picked up the empty teacups and carried them to the sink.

  Falling snow sparkled in the light of Frank’s lantern as he hiked home from church one evening humming a Christmas carol. Snug beneath its white blanket, the parsonage welcomed him with a warm glow. He climbed over the buried gate and slogged to the front door. The path would require shoveling come morning, but not even that prospect could dim his joy.

  Ever since Estelle had agreed to join him for the sleigh ride, his hopes had been high. Although he seldom spoke with her in private, her questions about his manuscript told him she was seeking God’s truth. He needed only to be patient.

  Smiling, he burst into song as he stepped into the entryway. “Glory to the newborn King. Peace on earth and—”

  “Take off your boots. You’re messing up my clean floor.” Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping both hands on her apron.

  “Oh, you’re still here?” He stated the obvious.

  “I baked you a chicken, and it ain’t done yet,” Mary said and pointed at his feet. “The boots.”

  After hanging up his coat and hat, he obediently used the bootjack, but his mind rebelled. It was time, past time, to put Mary back in her proper place. Lately she had taken to spending entire days in the parsonage, rearranging and …

  He didn’t know what else she did all day, but he knew it wasn’t cleaning. The woman behaved as if she regarded his house as her domain.

  He set his jaw and padded into the kitchen. Mary was removing a pan from the oven. As she straightened, he observed pleats across the expansive waist of her white apron. Navy skirts swept the floor, and iron-gray fluff surrounded her head. “What happened to your coat?”

  Lines deepened around her mouth. “Got myself two new gowns and warshed my hair nigh on a month ago, and you just now noticed?” Her dark eyes skewered him with a glance.

  He floundered for a proper response. “You look cleaner. Quite unobjectionable.” She grunted, sliced meat from the chicken, and slapped it on his plate. “Want preserves on your bread?”

  “Please.”

  She jerked her head toward the cellar door. “Down cellar.”

  He blinked, then picked up a lamp, lifted the latch on the door, and descended into the clammy hole. Canned fruits and vegetables, gifts from parishioners, lined the wooden shelves protruding from the frozen sod walls. He found a jar of peach preserves and climbed back upstairs. After placing the jar on the table, he folded his arms. “Mary Bilge, it’s past time you and I had a talk.”

  A wave of feminine emotion flitted across her face. She reached up to pat her hair into place. “Yes, Preacher?”

  The quick changes in her attitude and expression confused Frank. One moment she was a bad-tempered harridan; the next moment she became an amiable woman.

  “I pay you to fix my meals and clean my house, not to tell me what to do. I don’t expect a slave, but I do require respect. If my future wife decides to retain your services around the house, you will need to give her the same measure of respect.”

  Only her trembling jowls revealed life.

  “Mary, I don’t want to seem ungrateful….”

  She turned around, picked up the pan holding the roast chicken, and dumped it upside down into the sink. Brandishing a wooden spoon, she approached Frank. He looked down into eyes like sparking flints.

  “Next time I see that skinny icicle woman, I’ll break her in half.” With a loud crack, she snapped the spoon in two over her knee.

  Stunned, Frank watched as Mary Bilge hauled on her tattered coat, hat, and overshoes and stumped outside through the kitchen door, leaving a rush of icy air in her wake.

  Satin gowns in varied shades of blue were draped over armchairs around the parlor. Margie’s gown enveloped the sofa, shimmering in snowy splendor. Susan stepped back and reviewed the finery once more. “We’ll curl our hair before we leave home and hope the curl lasts until the ceremony. Estelle, I truly don’t know how we would have managed without you.”

  Estelle rested in a rocking chair near the fireplace. “These months since I arrived in Iowa have been the best of my life. I’m grateful to be part of this family.”

  “My gown is glorious,” Margie said, clasping her hands at he
r breast and closing her eyes. “I can scarcely wait until David sees me in it tomorrow!”

  “And I can scarcely wait to see Auntie Stell in her new gown,” Flora added. “We’ll be twins.” The girl wrapped one arm around Estelle’s neck and leaned close. “And we’ll be ever so beautiful.”

  Estelle kissed the child’s soft cheek. “Beautiful we shall be, my dear. And humble, too.”

  Flora giggled. Tapping all ten fingers on a side table, she pretended to play the piano. “Wish I could play the wedding march tomorrow. I can play it really good. Can’t I, Auntie Stell?”

  “Indeed you do play well,” Estelle said. “Your progress has been remarkable.”

  Susan smiled. “I imagine someday you’ll play piano for many weddings, but not this one. Now off to bed, Flora. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  “And the next day is Christmas!” Flora exclaimed. “I hope it snows more and more. Joshua promised I could ride with him for the Christmas sleigh ride this year.”

  “Oh, did he?” Susan accepted her daughter’s good-night kiss. “He says this year I’m his best girl, and I’m light, so he’ll win all the races.”

  “Ah, the truth comes out.” Margie laughed. “Josh is determined to beat Abel Coon this year.”

  Flora skipped into the hall and thumped upstairs.

  Paul entered through the front door in a gust of frigid wind, brushing fresh snow from his shoulders. His ladies shooed him away from the satin.

  “I hope it doesn’t storm tomorrow,” Margie said, her face clouding. “Any other year I would be thrilled at the prospect of snow for Christmas Eve, but not now. People might not be able to come to my wedding if the weather is bad.”

  “All you really need is a minister and a groom.”

  “Papa!” Margie protested.

  Paul chuckled. “Last night at home for our girl.” He hugged Margie, blinked hard, and cleared his throat. “Best get some sleep, all of you. I’m heading up to bed.”

  “You’re right, Papa. Good night, Mama. Good night, Auntie Stell.” Margie followed her sister and her father upstairs.