He turned in the saddle to look back. At this distance, the roof of the trading post stood in faint contrast to the blue sky. He should go back soon. Since the trappers’ visit ten days ago, he never stayed away long.
When he looked back up the trail, his heart leapt. A team of mules appeared around the base of a distant hill. One pair, two, three, four … He waited until ten spans of mules rounded the bend and the billowing top of a massive freight wagon came into sight. That was all he needed. He pivoted his horse and galloped for home.
“He’s coming!” James leapt from the saddle and ran inside. “Ma, he’s coming! I saw the first wagon. It’s got to be him.”
“I had a feeling.” Ma smiled as she pulled an oatmeal cake from the oven and plunked the pan on her worktable. “Let me get my apron off. You didn’t ride out to meet him?”
“No, I didn’t want to leave you.”
“Well go, Son! We’ll be fine.”
Sam hopped off his stool and ran to James. “Can I go?”
“Sure.” James hurried him outside. He lifted Sam onto the saddle and swung up behind him. “Hold on now.” His horse sprang eagerly toward the trail.
Both women waited outside the trading post, shading their eyes against the sun. Clara looked beautiful in her eagerness to see her husband, despite the lines etched into her face.
At last the five big wagons rolled into view, and James rode back toward them, the sun making his light brown hair look almost blond. Sam sat in front of him, clutching the saddle horn.
Something wasn’t right. James’s mouth was a grim line, and he didn’t race up to them. He trotted his horse into the yard and dismounted slowly, as though he were bone tired. He reached up and pulled Sam down. Up close, James’s face frightened Beryl.
“What’s wrong?” Clara asked. “That’s not your father?”
“It’s his wagons,” James said, “but Pa’s not with them.”
“Why not?” Clara reached a hand toward him.
“He’s dead, Ma.”
“No!”
James put an arm around her to steady her. “He paid the men in advance to bring the wagons out, but he died in St. Louis.”
“How …?” Clara shook her head, her eyes blank.
“There’s a letter from the doctor who attended him.” James reached inside his shirt and drew it out. “Let’s go inside and sit down while I read it to you.”
“The teamsters …” Clara looked vaguely toward the trail.
“Don’t worry about them,” James said. “They’ll unhitch the teams and tend to them. I told them they can sleep in the cabin tonight. Pa promised them each one of the mules to ride back and one pack mule among them.”
Clara nodded, still with an absent air. “They’ll want to eat.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Beryl said. “Sam, come with me. You can help me get dinner ready for the men.”
“They’ll want lots of coffee,” Clara said.
Beryl nodded and pulled Sam inside with her.
In the kitchen, Sam tugged at her skirt. She crouched down to his eye level.
“What is it, Sam?”
“Is Mr. Wolf dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Like Pa?”
Beryl nodded.
Tears filled Sam’s eyes. “Poor James and Mrs. Lassen.”
“Yes. We must do all we can to help them now. Can you fill the wood box?”
Sam pulled in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I can do whatever you need, Beryl.”
She hugged him for a moment. “Good boy. Thank you.”
“What do I tell James?” Sam’s watery gaze brought a new ache to Beryl’s heart.
“Later on, when it’s quiet, just tell him how sorry you are about his pa. That’s what he needs now—friends who understand.”
“We understand,” Sam said.
Beryl nodded. “We surely do.”
That evening, James took Sam to the barn with him to tend the livestock. The teamsters were having a lively card game, but their laughter broke off when James and the boy entered.
“Don’t stop on my account,” James said. “Sam and I have only come to milk the cow and feed the horses.”
“We’re sorry about Mr. Lassen,” the lead teamster, Dunbar, said.
“Thank you.” James managed a smile and guided Sam toward the feed bin.
“James, are you going to leave here?” Sam asked as James dipped out oats for the saddle horses.
“No, this is our home. Ma and I will get by, even without Pa, I expect.”
“Who will go to St. Louis next winter for the stuff you’ll need?”
“That’s some mighty far-reaching thoughts for a boy your age,” James said. “I plan to talk to Mr. Dunbar before they leave. He might be willing to let me send him my order next fall and bring the supplies out in the spring. He seems a trustworthy man.”
“Was your pa sick a long time like mine was?” Sam asked, his eyes clouded with sorrow.
“Not so long,” James said. “The doctor says his heart failed, but he had time to dictate his last words to Ma and me and to give Mr. Dunbar instructions for the wagons. He lived two days after his heart trouble began.”
“What made his heart bad?”
James shook his head. “Nobody knows. It just happens sometimes.”
Sam looked up at him for a long moment. His bottom lip trembled. “Will you die?”
James set down the bucket he’d been holding and swept Sam into a warm hug. “No, Sam. I’m planning to be here a long time. But you know, accidents and things do happen. We have to trust God to keep us safe.”
Sam clung to him for a moment. “I don’t want to go away from you, James.”
James’s throat tightened. The first of the season’s emigrant trains would come through soon, and more freighters and soldiers. Would the travelers who brought his family sustenance take Sam and Beryl away from him?
“Have you read all the stories in your book yet?” he whispered in Sam’s ear.
Sam shook his head. “There’s one left for this Sunday.”
“Read it tonight.” As soon as the words left his lips, James wondered if he had been wise. If Sam knew his thoughts, and his dream failed to materialize, would that totally break the boy’s spirit? Still, he couldn’t help feeling that his story would encourage Sam. Knowing they had the same dream would strengthen James, too, when he made his hopes known.
The next two days kept everyone busy. The teamsters unloaded the wagons while the mules grazed in the pasture on the new grass. Beryl helped tick off the merchandise on the bills of lading as the men carried the crates and barrels into the storeroom and the new addition. James arranged the new stock in the back rooms, while Clara replenished the display shelves behind the counter in the trading room. Sam’s lessons were neglected as he scurried about, helping James.
“Your brother’s good with the animals for one so wee,” one of the teamsters remarked to Beryl on the second day.
“I think when he’s big enough to control them, he’ll make a good driver, or maybe a post rider,” she said with a chuckle. “He loves to ride about with James on his horse.”
“So, are you and James …” The teamster eyed her speculatively. He was the youngest of the lot, not five-and-twenty, Beryl guessed, and when he’d shaved off his trail beard, she realized he was good-looking, with thoughtful gray eyes and reddish hair that curled slightly over his brow.
She felt her cheeks flush and looked away. “No. We were on a wagon train. My father died last fall, and Sam and I stopped here for the winter.”
“I see. Are you wanting to go back East? We’ll be heading out for St. Louis in a couple of days. James wants us to take the freight wagons back. You could put your things in one of them.”
Beryl’s heart pounded. She couldn’t consider traveling all that way with a crew of teamsters and no other women. Besides, the thought of leaving Chiswell Rock brought with it a dismay that startled her.
For six months and more, she had known she would leave in the spring, but now that the time was here, it terrified her. She couldn’t leave Clara, who had become like a second mother to her. And James! Could she leave him and not leave a piece of her heart?
“I’m not sure what my plans are yet. I … I’m still considering taking my brother to Oregon.”
The teamster nodded. “Let me know if you change your mind. We’d be delighted to have your company, and you’d be safe with us, Miss Jenner.”
“Thank you.” She believed for a moment that he would keep her safe, or at least do all he could to that end. But it still wouldn’t be proper. And it would take her away from James.
Why should she think that would matter? Perhaps James would be glad to be free of the responsibility of looking after her and Sam. But it would matter to her.
“Beryl,” Sam said that evening when she tucked him into his cot, “I read my last story.”
“Oh? It’s only Friday.”
“I know. I read ahead.”
She smiled. “It’s all right. Was it a good story?”
He nodded soberly. “It’s another Christmas story. Like A Christmas Carol, only here instead of in London.”
“That sounds interesting.” She sat down on the edge of the cot. “Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s about a man who runs a trading post with his wife and little boy.”
For a moment, Beryl wondered if James had written about Wolf and Clara and himself, but she knew they hadn’t been here that long. Then Sam said, “The grandparents live with them, too.”
“Oh.” An imaginary family. Beryl settled her mind to focus on the tale.
“It’s called ‘A Frontier Christmas Tale.’ One snowy Christmas, they see strange lights in the hills,” Sam said. “They take a sleigh and drive out there. They find four families from one of the last wagon trains of the year. Sickness had run through their train, and they’re the only ones who didn’t die from it.”
“How sad,” Beryl murmured.
“Yeah. They tried to get back to a town, but their oxen were too weak and couldn’t make it. They didn’t know how close they were to the trading post. So the family brings them in and arranges for them to stay nearby until help comes in the spring.”
She smiled. “That sounds familiar.”
“Uh-huh. The man and his wife were happy to help those people, and the wagon train folks said they were like angels coming to rescue them on Christmas Day.”
“That’s a nice story,” Beryl said.
“The little boy in the story was named Samuel. Like me.”
“Oh!” Beryl eyed him cautiously. Again she thought of the Lassen family—but with Wolf still alive and herself added as a wife for James, and with Sam as his son. Was it possible James had flirted with the thought way back at Christmastime when he’d written the story? Or was she reading too much into it? Unexpected tears burned her eyes. Whether he consciously framed the story to fit their situation or not, James was too dear to leave. Though she couldn’t say so, she longed to be the wife in Sam’s Christmas story, to be here at Chiswell Rock when the next Christmas came.
“Time for your prayers,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, she left Sam and went into the kitchen. Clara pored over her lists at the table, but she looked up and smiled. She had donned a black dress that morning, and her eyes were red-rimmed, but those were the only concessions to her bereavement that she let others see.
“James is in the storeroom, sorting hardware. I couldn’t get him to quit, and I suppose it’s distracting him from thoughts of his father.”
“It will take some getting used to,” Beryl said. “You do plan to stay and run the post, then?”
“Yes. We’ve talked it over, and we can’t see a better course of action. James will do fine. We may have to hire an extra person to help us though. There’s talk of a regular stagecoach line going through, and James hopes he can get a contract for a way station.”
“That would mean more work.”
“Yes, but it would mean a steadier flow of income as well.”
“I’ll do all I can while I’m here,” Beryl said.
Clara nodded. “I know you will, dear. You’re a tremendous help. Perhaps you’d take James a cup of coffee? If he’s going to keep working all evening, he could probably use it.”
Beryl poured coffee into the mug James liked. The cow had freshened a fortnight ago, and she added a generous dollop of cream, as she’d seen James do at the breakfast table. A little voice inside her head seemed to scold her. You know him so well! You care for him, and he cares for you. How can you think of leaving now?
He looked up as Beryl entered the storage room.
“Hello. Oh, just what I need.” He reached for the steaming mug, smiling.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“All right.” He took a sip of the coffee. “Mmm. Thank you. That new coffee is so good, especially with the fresh cream in it.”
“It’s wonderful to have new supplies, isn’t it?” She looked around at the chaotic piles of crates and barrels. “Can I do anything to help you?”
“I’m just puttering.” He took another drink and set the mug on a pile of boxes. “Pa seems to have sent us a lot of canned goods this time—more than we had last year.
Maybe we won’t run out before all the trains have gone through this time around.”
“Good. I hope he sent extra sugar, too. You had already run out for the customers when I got here.”
James smiled ruefully. “Yes, Ma had a time reserving what she thought we would need for the winter, and after you and Samuel arrived, she wished she’d saved more.”
“She’s fed us very well, I must say.” Beryl sat down on a keg of nails. “James, Sam has finished reading his storybook.”
“I hope he enjoyed it.”
“He did. Tremendously.”
“Perhaps I can think up a few more.”
“I know he’d like that.” She hesitated, and for some reason her pulse seemed to quicken and her corset felt tighter than usual. “He was especially taken with the last one.”
“I’m glad.” James didn’t meet her gaze. He reached for the pry bar he used to open crates. “I have to admit, I made that one up.”
“I thought perhaps …”
“What?” He glanced her way, and Beryl thought his cheeks held a little extra color.
“That you’d based it on your own family.”
“I did. Of course, I thought Pa would come back.”
She frowned, thinking about the family in the story. “You weren’t the little boy, were you? Sam said he was named Samuel. I think he may have thought—”
“I couldn’t imagine you and Sam not being here with us another Christmas,” James said in a rush.
Beryl caught her breath. She forced herself to fold her hands and give at least a picture of serenity, though her heart now thundered.
“It’s hard for me to imagine, too.” She dared to glance up at him.
James stood with the bar in his hand and his head cocked to one side, studying her. “Do you think you could live happily in this isolated spot?”
Beryl chuckled. “It’s only isolated five or six months of the year. In summer, you tell me it’s hectic, and the rest of the time it’s just … cozy.”
“Yes.” James laid down the pry bar. “Beryl, if I thought …”
“What, James?” She gazed up at him, hardly daring to hope.
“Would you … would you consider marriage? To me, I mean. We could have that family here at the post. I love you, Beryl. You could make me so happy.” He reached for her hands.
“I believe you could make me happy, too.” She let him draw her to her feet.
“Do you mean it?” His eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “I don’t know when there’ll be a preacher through here, but there’s bound to be one on one of the wagon trains. Or perhaps an army chaplain will ride by.”
“Yes.” She
reached up and touched his cheek. “Either of those would be fine.”
James bent down to kiss her, and after the first jolt of joy, Beryl slid her hands around his neck.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“We’ll ask the first one who comes along, then.” James pulled her close and kissed her again.
The Reluctant Runaway
by Melanie Dobson
Chapter 1
Omaha, Nebraska
December 1889
Lavinia Starr twisted her embroidered kid gloves in her lap as she waited for the morning train to depart Union Station. Once Patrick discovered her missing, he would search all over Omaha for her. She’d never be able to hide from her stepbrother in this city, but she could hide in New York.
Even though it was still two hours before daylight, the platform was crowded with travelers. A pine tree glowed with white candles inside the depot, and below her windowed seat, she watched a small family hurry through the crowd toward the back of the train. A familiar ache tugged at her heart. Every Christmas she longed for her mother and her father.
Years ago, when she was a girl, she remembered holding the hand of her father when they’d boarded a train for New York City, but she hadn’t been away from Omaha since she was eleven, and she’d certainly never traveled on her own.
Her fingers brushed over the emerald and diamonds adorning her right hand. Her father had given her the ring more than two years ago, for her sixteenth birthday. She never could have imagined what the months after her birthday would hold for their little family.
In the aisle across from her sat a portly middle-aged man who’d already introduced himself as Mr. Barkley, the proprietor of Barkley’s Billiards in the Sporting District. She hadn’t told the man her name nor did she plan to. Eventually, her stepbrother would offer a reward for her return, and a gambling man wouldn’t hesitate to wire a telegram back to Omaha to receive it.
Mr. Barkley leaned toward her, eyeing her ring. She slipped her fingers back into her leather gloves.
Then he pointed toward a rack. “Would you like me to hang your coat?”
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 13