“Where do I sleep?” Sam asked, eyeing the two beds.
“You can pick,” Beryl replied.
“Where’s the mattress?”
She chuckled. “You lie on the canvas without any mattress. If you don’t like it, we can fetch your little featherbed when the weather’s not so bad.” Beryl glanced at James and his mother. They were both smiling. Maybe this arrangement would be good for all of them and they would enjoy having a child in the house.
During the summer and fall, Wolf had accepted several mules and ox teams in trade from emigrants and hoped to sell them next summer at a profit. James often took Sam with him to the barn and the corrals to care for them. The four-year-old asked questions that kept James thinking while he worked, but more than that, Sam made him laugh.
They spent the greater part of the long, cold days inside with James’s mother and Beryl in the close confinement of the family’s kitchen-sitting room and the storage and trading rooms. James got to know Beryl more slowly than Sam, but he liked what he found in her.
Before Christmas, he and Sam came in from their morning chores to find the two women hard at work in the storage room. His mother counted items in the stockpiled merchandise, and Beryl wrote down her totals.
“Taking inventory without me?” James asked, stooping to undo Sam’s coat buttons for him.
“I thought I might as well start,” Ma said. “Beryl offered to help, and I couldn’t say no.”
“My hands prickle,” Sam said.
Beryl turned to him with a frown. “You’ll be all right in a few minutes, but it may hurt for a while. That happens when you get very cold.”
“I’ll help him.” James led Sam into the kitchen and sat him down on a low stool just out of reach of the ticking stove.
“Ma’s got hot water in the kettle. Would you like some tea and sugar?”
Sam nodded eagerly. James warmed his own hands for a minute and then set about preparing a pot of hot tea. He wished they had milk to put in it for the boy, but their only milk cow had gone dry a week earlier, and she wouldn’t produce again until she calved in the spring. But Sam seemed healthy enough, and he stayed active as much as possible under the circumstances.
James set Sam’s tin cup before him. “Easy now. That’s pretty hot.” He slid his own mug before his chair and sat down.
“Will your ma read to us tonight?” Sam asked, gazing at him wistfully over the rim of his steaming cup.
“Probably. One of us usually reads from the Bible in the evening.”
“My ma used to read to us, too.”
“You remember that?” James asked. He had thought the boy was too young to have much memory of his mother.
Sam nodded soberly. “And Ruby and Pearl.”
“Who are they?”
“My sisters.” Sam’s features drooped.
“I’m sorry,” James said. “Beryl told me you had sisters who died.”
Sam’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Aw, Sammy, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“It’s not your fault,” Beryl said from the doorway. She walked over and placed her hand lovingly on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we both get mournful when we think about Ma and the girls, and now Pa.”
“That’s understandable,” James said.
His mother came in behind Beryl, carrying the inventory list and smiling. “Well, there. We’ve done all along the west wall. It’s a good start.”
“Would you like some tea?” James asked, rising. “I made a whole pot, and Sam and I haven’t drunk half of it.”
The ladies sat down, and James brought cups for them.
“Such whimsical names,” his mother said. “Ruby, Pearl, and Beryl.”
“Our mother’s name was Coral,” Beryl said with a chuckle. “Pa used to tease her and say that if Sam had been a girl, she’d have named him Emerald.”
Sam made a face. “I’m sure glad I’m not a jewel.”
They all laughed.
“Sam has requested that we read tonight,” James said.
His mother smiled at the boy. “A fitting occupation on a winter’s evening. And James, with Christmas so close, perhaps after our scripture reading, you might get out the Dickens?”
Sam’s eyes widened, and James chuckled.
“She’s talking about a writer, Sam. Charles Dickens. Ever hear of him?”
Sam shook his head.
“He’s an English gent, and he wrote a very nice Christmas story a few years back.”
His mother turned to Beryl. “Are you familiar with the story?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never had the pleasure of reading it.”
“It’s a moral tale, but it does have ghosts in it. Of course, they could be dreams. But it’s all very uplifting. I don’t think it would be too scary for Samuel.”
Beryl hesitated then said, “I’ll leave it to your judgment, since you know the tale.”
That evening they all settled by the open hearth for their time of devotion. Afterward Ma sat at her quilting frame, and Beryl took the chair on the other side to help her.
“This is a lovely pattern.” Beryl gazed at the multicolored pieces of calico that formed an intricate geometric design. “I’ve never started a project so ambitious, but maybe once we’re settled … somewhere.”
“I started this last winter,” Ma said. “I appreciate you helping me get it done. I’ll be glad when it’s finished, and I expect James will be happy not to have to walk around the frame for a while.”
“I don’t mind,” James said. He lifted the slender volume by Dickens from the shelf of three dozen books his parents had collected.
“We haven’t many books, but you’re welcome to borrow any you please,” he said to Beryl.
“Thank you! The only one we brought with us is the Bible. Pa said books were too heavy to haul over the mountains.”
“Most of ours came from settlers looking to lighten their loads,” Ma said.
James sat down on the settee with Sam, and the boy crowded close, looking on eagerly as James opened the book. He turned to the first page and began to read as the women continued their stitching.
Sam’s interest was immediately caught by the tale. James wondered if he understood it all, but he didn’t pause to make explanations. After a few minutes, Sam leaned against his arm. James wondered if he’d fallen asleep, but when he paused a few minutes later, the boy said softly, “Don’t stop.”
James realized he was far from asleep. However, the story was a long one, and he wondered if he could get through it all in one sitting.
A half hour later, he stopped reading at the end of a section and looked down at Sam. The boy was still wide awake.
“I was thinking we ought to continue this tomorrow evening,” James said. “I’m going hoarse.”
“Oh, please,” Sam cried. “I need to know what happens to Tiny Tim.”
Beryl smiled. “I could take over the reading if you don’t mind, James. I’m afraid I wouldn’t sleep either, not knowing the outcome.”
James turned the book over to her and let Sam curl up in the curve of his arm. The boy was yawning and his eyes drooping when Beryl at last finished the story.
“It’s very late,” Ma said gently, sliding her needle into the fabric where she could leave it safely for the night. “This was a wonderful evening, but I fear we’ll all sleep late in the morning.”
“Does it matter?” James asked.
Ma chuckled. “I suppose not. Last time I looked outside, it was snowing. I don’t think we’ll have any early callers.”
Chapter 4
Beryl still felt a bit awkward in the household, as though she and Samuel had forced themselves on the Lassens, but Mrs. Lassen and James made an effort to bring them into the family circle. In return, Beryl helped with the meals, cleaning, and finishing the inventory of supplies. In the evenings, they continued to quilt.
James kept working on the added storeroom, and Samuel spent many hours helpi
ng him. A week before Christmas, the room was closed in, and James was finishing the inside. Beryl appreciated the patience he showed her brother as he assigned him small tasks and showed him how to use tools correctly.
At supper one evening, Beryl watched Sam for signs of fatigue. He had helped James for several hours, including an expedition to the barn and corrals. Although the temperatures were slightly milder now, the boy looked worn-out.
“I think it’s early to bed with you tonight, Sam,” she said as she helped Mrs. Lassen clear the table.
“No, I want to read to you,” Sam said.
Beryl eyed him closely. While she had taught Sam his letters and some rudimentary arithmetic on their journey over the summer, she knew that he couldn’t read. What was he thinking?
“What are you going to read?” James asked.
“A Christmas Carol.”
“I see.” James looked at Beryl, his light brown eyebrows arched. “Well, let’s get the dishes done, and we’ll hear you.”
“I’ll help your mother,” Beryl said. “You two go on. We’ll only be a few minutes.”
When she and Clara had put away the last plate, James and Sam were seated on the settee with the book resting on Sam’s lap. Beryl and Clara sat down in their chairs. The quilt was finished, and they each took handwork from their workbags.
Sam said solemnly, “Are you ready?”
“I am,” Clara said.
“Oh yes,” Beryl replied.
James nodded. “And I can hardly wait.”
Sam carefully turned the pages to the opening of the story.
“ ‘Marley was dead, to begin with,’ ” he said gravely in his sweet, childish tones. “ ‘There was no doubt about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it, and Scrooge’s name was good for anything he put his hand to. Old Marley was dead as a doornail.’ ”
“Why, that’s amazing,” Mrs. Lassen said. “Samuel, I had no idea you could read so well.”
“Me either,” James said. “He did miss a few words, but still …”
“Such advanced material for one so young,” his mother added.
Beryl smiled. “‘Fess up, Sammy.” She had noted that Sam did keep his eyes on the words, and he had indeed skipped over a couple of bits.
Sam’s impish mouth quirked upward. “I did good though, didn’t I?”
“You did very well.” Beryl looked at James and his mother. “Sam has an extraordinary memory. I’ve no doubt he could recite the whole thing, though he might miss some details here and there. Why don’t you ‘read’ a bit more, Sam?”
He grinned and continued with the story. When he had recited a few paragraphs, James nudged him.
“Turn the page now.”
Sam carefully turned one leaf in the book without stopping his recitation. When he reached the end of another paragraph, James touched his shoulder, and the boy paused.
“It’s like with the tools,” James said slowly. “He never forgot any instructions I gave him. And I only needed to show him once where to fetch an item for the customers, and he would always go right to it after that.”
Beryl nodded. “Yes, it’s remarkable. Pa said it was a gift from God. But he’s not truly reading.”
“Any boy with a memory like that could learn to read in no time,” Mrs. Lassen said, pausing in her knitting and eyeing Sam with wonder.
“You’re right,” Beryl said. “This winter may be the perfect time to attend to Sam’s lessons. He can already recite the alphabet.”
James shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. He heard the story only once, yet he sounds as smooth as any adult reading it.”
Beryl chuckled. “It may interest you to know that over the past few weeks, Sam has related several stories to me—ones you told him.”
“Really?” James shot the boy a glance and turned back to her.
“Oh yes,” Beryl said. “There were several about King Arthur and his knights, and a couple of fairy tales, and one about your grandfather the sea captain that I particularly liked.”
James smiled in delight. “He told you all that?”
“Yes. When we were staying in the cabin and I tended Pa all day, Sam would come back from working with you and tell me everything he’d done that day, and probably every word you spoke to him.”
“That’s disconcerting,” James said. “I shall have to be careful what I say.”
Beryl laughed and said to his mother, “I can attest to the fact that your son has never said a cross word to Sam or let any unsavory word fall from his lips in Sam’s hearing.”
“That’s a comfort for any mother to hear,” Mrs. Lassen said.
“It was a comfort to me, too,” Beryl said. “All those long, anxious days, sitting with Pa and waiting for the inevitable, Sam’s stories—your stories, James—gave me something new to think about. Stories I can carry with me for the rest of my life and think of again. I thank you for that.”
James nodded and looked away, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’ve enjoyed telling them and having Sam with me.”
Beryl decided to drop the subject. She hadn’t intended to embarrass him. She suspected the young man felt a bit of reserve that he apparently dropped when with Sam. That was another gift they had received here—friendship.
“So now what?” James asked. “Shall we continue with the tale?”
“I really think Sam ought to retire,” Beryl said. “He was up late last night, and he worked hard with you today.” She caught Sam in the act of yawning as she spoke, and she rose. “Come, Sam. Say good night.”
Without hesitation, Sam reached up to hug James, who caught the book that slid precariously off the boy’s lap. James returned the squeeze and set Sam on the floor.
“There you go, pard. Say good night to Ma now.”
Sam toddled over to Mrs. Lassen’s chair. “Good night, ma’am.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Sam. Thank you for the story.”
Sam beamed and took Beryl’s hand.
The next evening, James didn’t read to them but immersed himself in his father’s business ledgers. Each winter, after the inventory was taken, he totaled the year’s accounts and wrote a report for his father so that Wolf could see at a glance on his return how the trading post was doing.
Beryl and his mother sat once more doing their needlework by lamplight, while Sam played on the rag rug with the small wooden figures his father had carved.
“When we lived in St. Louis, we made more of Christmas,” Ma said.
Beryl looked up from her mending. “We always had a tree.”
“I should have asked James to get one.”
“It would take quite an effort to get one in this spot, wouldn’t it?” Beryl had seen few trees during her final weeks on the wagon train, and most of those had been willows or cottonwoods. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen an evergreen.
James’s pencil was getting dull, and he took his penknife from his pocket to sharpen it. Sam came over and stood at his knee, watching. James proceeded, being careful not to cut toward Sam. When the pencil had a sufficiently sharp point, he put the knife away and looked over at the ladies.
“It’s a bit late now—tomorrow is Christmas Day. I wish we’d thought of it earlier.”
“It was so cold,” his mother said.
“Yes, and I doubt Sam even remembers the tree,” Beryl added. “We didn’t have one last year, after Ma and the girls had died. We weren’t feeling much like celebrating.
James reflected that Sam would have been two and a half the Christmas before that.
“How about it, Sam?” he asked. “Do you recall having a Christmas tree at your house?”
Sam nodded slowly. “There were snowflakes Mama made.”
“Snowflakes?” James glanced at Beryl.
She smiled and her eyes misted. “That’s right. My mother crocheted them from twine. I packed them in a box, since
they didn’t take much space. Thirty of them, I counted. Sam, when we get to Oregon—or back to New York—we’ll get them out again.”
“Aren’t we going to Oregon?” Sam trotted to his sister’s side and stared at her earnestly. “Pa said we were going to Oregon.”
“I know.” Beryl put her arm around his shoulders. “That was our plan, but we had Pa with us then, and he would have built us a house in Oregon or found one to buy. I’m not sure what we’ll do now.”
The little boy gazed at her for a long moment. “Does God know?”
Beryl smiled. “Of course He does. God knows everything, including where we will spend Christmas next year. Every day I ask Him to make me wise and show me what we should do.”
“I’ll pray, too.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
He seemed satisfied and went back to his toy animals. James watched him for a moment. If only he could accept hard things in life as easily as Sam did. Was it only his youth? The boy was so innocent he couldn’t understand the agony of the decision for Beryl. Yet James felt it was more than that.
He turned back to the ledger and sat for a moment, staring at, but not seeing, the neat columns of figures.
Father in heaven, he prayed silently, give me the trust that Sam has. In that moment, he realized something else. Every year, he and Ma had to trust God to bring his father safely back to them. That was an understood part of his life. But Sam and Beryl’s future was a new concern. How he would miss them when they left! Sam, his faithful little helper, the winsome boy with the uncanny memory …
He gazed across the room at Beryl. Patiently she wove her needle in and out as she mended the heel of a small sock. She was lovely, but he had learned that she was also beautiful inside. He had observed her gentleness, her loyalty, and her diligence. James was beginning to think of her presence in his home as right and normal. Come spring, whether she headed east or west, he would be bereft.
Chapter 5
On Christmas Day, Beryl rose long before Sam awoke and went to the kitchen. James’s mother was building up the fire in the range.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Lassen.”
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 10