A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  The weather worsened with every turn of the wheels. Driving snow wiped out the road, and Noela wondered how Hiram kept the horse on track. Pulling her scarf over her face, she gripped his arm. “This is dreadful. Shouldn’t we turn back?”

  Hiram sat rigid and tense, his worried gaze fixed straight ahead. “It’s too late. We’re halfway to Vine House.”

  She moaned. “We should never have left.”

  He glanced back, guilt shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. All I could think of was getting you home.”

  “No, Hiram. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who—”

  The horse stumbled, and the wagon dipped. Noela screamed and slid forward on the seat, grasping for a hold on Hiram’s sleeve.

  “Hang on!” he cried, clinging to the reins.

  The mare fought to regain her footing. With painstaking strides, she hauled forward, pulling them up out of a deep coulee and back onto the road.

  On level ground, Hiram pulled back on the reins and set the brake. Gripping Noela’s arms, his frantic gaze swept over her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Wait here. I’ll go see about the horse.”

  Noela sat alone within the terrifying gale, wishing Hiram would hurry back to her. When he climbed up beside her at last, she trembled with relief.

  “The mare can’t go any farther. She’s come up lame.”

  Stunned, Noela groped for words. “That can’t be. We’re miles from home.”

  Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he bundled her close. “Don’t worry. I think we passed the Rowley farm less than a quarter mile back.”

  Fear swirled in her belly. “It might as well be ten miles in this blizzard.”

  A strong gust caught the wagon in its teeth and shook it. Driving snow pelted Noela’s head, stinging through her hat and scarf. Once the shrill whistle of the wind subsided, she tugged on Hiram’s sleeve. “There are blankets under the seat. We could wrap up tight and wait it out right here. The storm will die down before long.”

  He raised his face to the overhead sky. “This squall is just getting started. We have to find shelter.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Suppose we get lost? I’ve heard stories of poor souls wandering blindly in their own yards, freezing to death ten feet from the door. What if we—”

  Hiram spun her around to face him, his eyes dark hollows in the waning light. “We have to try, Noela. Otherwise, they’ll find us right here in the morning.”

  Her feverish mind filled in the rest. She gulped, her throat raw from the frigid air, and nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  Hiram wrapped the lap blanket around her shoulders and jumped to the ground. “Wait there,” he shouted over the howling wind. “I want to free the horse.”

  Noela leaned over the rail. “Why? You said she’s lame.”

  “Her leg’s too weak to bear a load, but I think she can walk. Her senses are keener than ours. She’ll guide us to John Rowley’s place.”

  “Why would she go there?”

  “She won’t. She’ll head straight home. But Rowley’s is in her path.”

  He returned leading the skittish mare. Her nostrils flared, and she jerked against her restraints, clearly eager to be away.

  Noela felt her angst.

  Hiram offered his arm, and she clambered off the rig.

  Wheeling, the horse picked her way through the drift at the side of the road and baled in the direction Hiram predicted.

  Hiram clung to the reins with one hand. The other held Noela’s wrist so tightly her flesh stung.

  She kept up the best she could, tripping and stumbling behind him. “Can’t you slow her down?”

  “I’m trying,” he shouted back. “If I lose you, stay put. I’ll pull her around and find you again.”

  Noela shuddered and picked up the pace. She couldn’t imagine anything coaxing the single-minded animal to turn. She seemed well set on a destination.

  The mare faltered repeatedly, and Noela prayed she wouldn’t go down—for the animal’s sake as well as theirs. If she fell, they’d have to leave her to her fate. Then what would become of them?

  An eternity passed in a frigid blur, the horse’s labored breaths the only sound. Staggering forward at Hiram’s insistent bidding, Noela tried to call out, but the wind took her breath.

  Her body had gone numb beneath her, burning lungs and the pinch of Hiram’s determined grip the only sensations left.

  A drowsy fog descended on her mind, and she longed to lie down. She imagined breaking free of Hiram’s grip and falling away, sinking into the mounded snow and giving way to blissful sleep.

  “Whoa! Whoa there!” Hiram’s frantic shout roused her from her daze. The horse had bolted, pulling ahead. Hiram held on until the last inch of the reins slid out of his hand, dragging him to the ground.

  Noela cried out and made her way to him. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, pushing to his knees in the snow. “But I’m afraid we’re on our own.”

  She helped him to his feet. “Did something spook her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “If she can keep to her feet, she’ll find her way to our barn. Otherwise—”

  He stilled and shaded his eyes against the snow. “Did you see that?”

  Noela stared in the direction he pointed. A relentless wall of white blinded her. “How can you see anything in this?”

  He held her fast. “Keep watching.”

  In a faint lull between the punishing gusts, the barest flicker appeared in the distance. Her heart surged. “Is it far?”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s go.”

  He drew her close, and she trudged on beneath the shelter of his arm. Hope chased away the urge to sleep, and all she could think of was warming her hands by a fire. Each time Hiram lost his sense of direction, he’d stop and wait for a glimpse of the light. They stumbled onto the weathered barn sooner than Noela expected, and she shed thankful tears.

  Hiram found the side door and pushed his way in, pulling her in behind him. Instantly, miraculously, they exchanged brutal cold for warmth, a blinding white tempest for yellow straw and a lantern’s soft glow.

  On the other side of a corral, a large animal stirred and gave a low moan. Two men kneeling beside it stood up and stared dumbly over the rail.

  “John? It’s Hiram McGregor. I have a friend with me.”

  The older man scratched the side of his face. “Hiram? What are you folks doing out on a night like this?”

  “Our horse came up lame.”

  “You walked from the road, boy?”

  Hiram nodded. “Across your field.”

  “You’re lucky you made it.”

  Hiram glanced at Noela. “Yes, and we’re grateful.” He placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “Gentlemen, this is Miss Nancarrow. Her pa is Jonathan, the fellow homesteading Vine House.”

  John nodded. “I’ve seen them around town.”

  “Noela, meet John Rowley and his son, Jake.”

  They tipped their hats. “Glad to know you, ma’am,” young Jake said.

  “Likewise,” she managed through chattering teeth. Somewhere along the way, probably when Hiram fell to the ground, Noela had lost the lap blanket from around her shoulders.

  Hiram tightened the scarf around her neck. “John, the lady’s freezing. Do you mind if we wait out the storm with you?”

  John pointed to the hulking black cow at his feet. “We’re not going anywhere for a while. Old Trudy here is trying to birth a calf. Not having an easy time of it, I fear.”

  The cow sprawled on the hay-strewn floor, her abdomen swollen and her sides heaving from exertion. A birthing pain seized her, and she raised her head and bawled in protest.

  Hiram studied the poor creature. “Reckon it’s turned?”

  Jake shook his
head. “Doesn’t feel like it. It’s her first calf, is all.” He gave a shy smile. “Nothing time won’t cure.”

  John pointed to a corner of the barn. “Hiram, dig out a hollow in that pile of straw for Miss Nancarrow. Try to keep her warm until we can do better by her.”

  Hiram led her to the spot and dug out a cozy burrow just big enough for her. He helped her lie down and then covered her with handfuls of hay. Her mind leaped to the mice, snakes, and insects she’d kept company with of late and wondered how many of their relatives might be sharing her nest.

  Hiram fussed over her like a protective parent. “Are you all right? Warm enough?”

  She struggled to control her chattering teeth and nodded.

  He took off his heavy coat and prepared to place it over her, but she held up her hand. “It’s still too cold in here for that. Put it on again, please. I’m starting to warm up.”

  He hesitated but only briefly. Already he’d started to shiver. “All right, but promise to call me if you need it.”

  “I promise.”

  With a wink, he scurried back to the Rowley men and their birthing cow.

  Noela snuggled down and tried to relax. Her thoughts drifted to the party at the chateau, and her cheeks flamed. What must they think of her?

  And now her frantic behavior and rude departure had been for naught. Her desperation to return home had failed to get her there.

  Father would be so worried. She pictured him walking the splintered floor of the soddie, watching at the windows and running his hands through his hair.

  Suppose he saddled Mollie and set out in the blizzard to search for her? Please God…don’t let that happen.

  With sudden insight, she realized her father spent most of his evenings brooding and pacing the floor. She’d failed to notice because she’d been blind to anyone’s suffering but her own.

  One bad decision, perhaps driven by greed, had lost them everything and landed them in this harsh land. But he’d paid for his mistake with hard work and grief from the moment they came to Medora.

  In a rush of tenderness, Noela forgave him. Choking on bitter tears, she vowed never again to hold it against him. She only hoped he and Beatrice could forgive her for wallowing in self-pity.

  She groaned inside. And for cheating them out of Christmas.

  “I’m so sorry, God,” she whispered past the flickers of light on the ceiling. “Give me the chance to make it up to them.”

  At her confession, blessed peace swept over her soul. The urgency to rush home melted into drowsy contentment. She yawned and closed her eyes, basking in a strong sense of assurance.

  Startled awake by the men’s excited voices, Noela turned her head and peered toward the dusky light at the window. Sometime in the night, the snow had stopped.

  “We’ve got a young bull!” Mr. Rowley cried.

  Past the slats of the corral, the mother cow rose to her feet and began licking her baby to clean him. In the faint glow of the lantern, the little newborn fought to gain his feet.

  The three men stood over the animals, their bodies casting tall shadows on the wall. They reminded Noela of the wise men and another hushed birth in a distant manger. Another baby born in a faraway place and time.

  Jesus came to earth in humble circumstances and lived a modest life. He once said of himself, “Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head.” In comparison, Vine House seemed like the Chateau de Mores, and Noela couldn’t wait to get home.

  “Hiram?”

  Smiling, he left the corral and came to kneel at her side. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  “Wonderful. It’s Christmas morning.”

  He grinned. “Yes it is. Merry Christmas.”

  “I need you to take me home right away. I have a celebration meal to prepare, worthy of Bea’s expectations and Father’s sacrifice.”

  “Is that so?” He seemed bursting with pride.

  “I’ve wasted enough time, don’t you think?”

  Joy transformed his weary face. “Do you realize you called her Bea?”

  Noela grinned. “Yes, but you must never tell her.”

  His hearty laugh echoed in the rafters. “If you’re serious about that meal, I know a couple of fellows who wouldn’t turn down an invitation.” He raised his brow and sweetened the deal. “I’ll throw in a pair of fat prairie chickens.”

  She propped up on her elbows. “I just remembered. You told the marquise you were cooking for me today.”

  He shot her a sheepish grin. “I’ll keep my word, too, if you’ll settle for bacon and flapjacks. It’s all I know how to cook.”

  They laughed until Noela’s stomach ached; then she sat up and reached for his hand. “Oh Hiram, I want more than anything to see Vine House succeed.”

  He turned her arm over. Sliding her glove halfway down, he dropped soft kisses on her wrist. “There’s only one way to assure your father’s success,” he murmured.

  With an effort, she pulled her attention from the delicious warmth of his lips. “What is it? I’ll do anything.”

  He glanced up, a smile stealing over his face. “Do you mean it? Because what he needs is an able-bodied son-in-law who knows how to farm this land.”

  At her sharp intake of breath, Hiram lifted his head and carefully searched her eyes. “I love you, little Australian girl. I want you for my bride.”

  Noela slid into his arms, caressing his face with her fingertips the way she’d longed to do. “I won’t need to open any more presents. God has granted me the best gift of my life.”

  His eyes glowed as he hugged her close. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  This time, when she rose to meet him, he didn’t push her away. His searching mouth found hers, their eager press a vow of his heartfelt commitment.

  Bea’s voice echoed in her head. Christmas is Christmas wherever you are. From this day forward, it would be where Hiram was as well.

  He held her at arms’ length. “I do have one question, honey. Who is Julian Van der Berg?”

  Laugher bubbled up in her chest. “No one important, love. Absolutely no one at all.”

  Buckskin Bride

  Vickie McDonough

  Chapter 1

  Oklahoma Territory

  December 1889

  Mattie Carson stared at the thin dirt trail that wound through the trees and veered out of sight. Three weeks had passed since her father left on that same path, and he’d never been gone this long before. Where was he?

  Birds overhead sang a cheerful tune that did little to lift her sagging spirits. She sensed something awful had happened to her papa. Was she strong enough—wise enough—to keep her two sisters safe if he never returned?

  “Watching that path won’t bring Papa home any sooner.”

  Mattie spun around and glared at her twin sister, Milly. “At least I haven’t given up hope that he will return.”

  Milly’s expression softened. “I haven’t lost hope, but maybe I’m being more realistic than you. In the nine years since Mama died, he’s never been gone longer than a week. Not once.” She glanced over to where their younger sister, Jess, sat, cracking pecans between two rocks. Milly leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “I fear something dreadful has happened to Papa.”

  Mattie nodded. “Me, too.” And that meant she was now in charge, even though Milly was the oldest by five minutes.

  “What will we do?” Milly grabbed hold of one of her long braids and held the end of it to her lips, as she always did when she worried.

  “We’ll stay here as long as we can. If Papa is still alive, this is where he will come.” Please come. Though her father had told her she was born a leader in spite of her birth order, she didn’t want the responsibility. But there was no one else. Milly didn’t have the gumption needed to protect them, and hunting turned her stomach. If they wanted to eat, it was up to Mattie to find game.

  Milly nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. I best
get to work on our supper.” She walked a few steps then turned back. “When will you skin the deer you shot this morning?”

  “Soon, but I want to check on the horses first.”

  “The skin will make a nice pair of pants for Jess.”

  Milly headed toward their tipi, and Mattie swung around to check on their horses. After a short walk down the trail, she stepped through the trees into a small clearing and found both bays grazing. To her right, a creek burbled along a rocky bed, creating a peaceful setting. She wished they could set up the tipi closer to the water, but her father had always instructed them to place it somewhere that it was hidden by the trees and not out in the open. That wasn’t always an easy task, especially on the prairie they’d been traveling through. This land was called the Oklahoma Territory. Her papa had told her Oklahoma was a Choctaw Indian word that meant “red people,” and that was a fitting name since this area was where many of the country’s Indians had been relegated to live after they were moved off their homelands.

  A twig snapped in the trees to her left, and Mattie froze. She scanned the area but saw no one. A horse whinnied, and she darted back into the trees. She ran, careful not to make a noise, like her father had taught her. She paused, peering through the trees, and saw a man on a horse. What could he want?

  She backed toward camp, trying to watch the man. He turned in her direction, and she froze. Had he heard her? Seen her?

  He sat atop his horse, looking around. She hoped he didn’t ride in the other direction—he would discover their horses.

  Mattie had to warn her sisters. She crept through the brush until she caught a glimpse of their camp. Then she whistled the hey, sweetie sound of a chickadee’s call.

  Milly spun around and stared into the trees for a brief moment then grabbed Jess’s hand, hauling her to her feet. She helped the nine-year-old shinny up the tree she’d been leaning against and then followed her up.

  With her sisters safe, Mattie crept back to where she could watch the intruder. She hid behind the trunk of a downed tree surrounded by tall prairie grass. The man wove his horse through the trees, looking at the ground for a time, and then he stopped and scanned the area again.