by Mistletoe
Catherine soon took the reins, leaving Mr. Goodman free to dig in his sacks for the right gift for the next house, and she did not feel the cold. They worked in silent concert, anticipating the needs and movements of each other. The hours of the night seemed to stretch into infinity, even as they flew by. It should not have been possible to make as many stops as they did, Catherine knew, yet somehow there was always time for one more, until the sacks were empty and the first faint light of dawn reached into the sky.
With dawn turning quickly to morning, she handed the reins to Mr. Goodman and lie drove her back to her house. He helped her down from the sleigh, and led her up the walk to her front steps. During the night they had said nothing of what was in their hearts, and yet Catherine felt that an understanding had been silently reached, that dining their early morning ride a bond had been formed between them that was meant to last a lifetime.
"Mr. Goodman," she said softly, looking up at him, as he paused with her atop the steps.
Silence held them, and Catherine felt a magnetic pull as he looked at her, the comers of his eyes crinkling, the soft blue loving and accepting her exactly as she was. He bent his head down and his lips gently took hers. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his kiss move though her. His mouth moved over hers, nipping and caressing, and she happily answered with caresses of her own, her arms going around his neck as he in turn held her close, exploring her mouth, her cheeks, her brow.
She did not know how many ages had passed when she came to her senses, her face tucked into his neck as he held her, his cheek resting atop her head. She blinked and pulled back, still slightly dazed. He had the hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"Mistletoe," he said.
She blinked at him, and he nodded upward. She followed his gaze, to the ball of mistletoe she had forgotten, hanging above the steps.
"I should have brought you here sooner," she said. Will smiled, watching the snow settle on Catherine's hair, still not quite believing that he had won her heart.
"Just what did you leave for us?" she asked, bending down to pick up the packages he had left in front of her door. "One for Amy, I see, and look here," she said, grinning mischievously, "one for me."
"You can open it now, if you like." It was a small, portable set of watercolors meant for use outdoors. Amy had once told him that Catherine liked to paint, and he knew she'd done the touching portrait of her grandmother, in the parlor.
She tore the paper off, revealing a flat box covered in pale, silvery-blue silk. She froze for a moment, then touched the silk and glanced up at him with a knowing look.
He was too stunned to speak. that was not the box he had wrapped yesterday afternoon. He had never seen it before, and yet that had been his wrapping paper, and his handwriting addressing the box to Miss Linwood.
She lifted off the lid, and there in the center of a bed of white satin sat a platinum ring. "Oh, Mr. Goodman/1 she sighed, and lifted the ring from its bed. It was studded randomly with tiny diamonds. "Snowflakes/' she said, and there were tears shimmering in her eyes.
He bent closer, and saw that indeed there were small snowflakes etched into the surface of the platinum, between the glittering diamonds. It was a ring he would have chosen for her if he had had the chance, after their magical sleigh ride tonight.
She pulled the glove off her left hand, and then held out her hand, fingers parted. He stared at that white hand, and at the ring she held in the other. There seemed only one thing to say, only one thing to do.
"Will you marry me, Miss Linwood?" he asked, his voice gone suddenly hoarse.
"Do you love me?"
"Beyond words."
"Then yes, Mr. Goodman, I will marry you," she said, and a tear like crystal ran down her cheek. "For l love you,too."
He took the ring and placed it upon her finger as the snow continued to fall, soft and pure as the feathers from an angel's wings. She threw her arms around him, and he closed his eyes in thanksgiving to whatever heavenly force had put that blue box and ring inside his wrapping paper.
He held her, and in the distance he heard the faint, magical jingling of sleigh bells.
Angels We Have Heard
Amy Elizabeth Saunders
To my grandmother, Dorothy Hood, who tried to expose Santa Clans, and paid the price. Thank you for letting me tell your story in chapter six. I was blessed to be born into a family of fine storytellers. Merry Christmas to all.
Chapter One
Black Diamond, Washington 1889
Rose Shanahan stood on the front steps, watching her children as they ran toward her from the schoolhouse, as if they were trying to outrun the early December wind rushing down from the mountain. It seemed to blow her children toward her, down the narrow road where the mud was turning solid with ice, past the row of little miners' company houses, all identical to her own, past the general store and false fronted hotel, the saloon and the bakery, and down to the little train depot,
Mount Rainier loomed above the tiny town, magnificent in the cold sun of the afternoon. It rose, a huge dome of snow and ice beyond the smoky gray line of hills, beyond the ancient green forests, and it felt to Rose that the wind was the very breath of the mountain, blowing December to them in a snow-and pine-scented gust. Behind the shining snow of the mountain, dark clouds gathered, moving toward them.
She pulled the worn fabric of Jamie's old coat tighter around her swollen stomach, smiling as the children grew closer. She felt a quick ache in her heart at the sight of Danny's threadbare sweater, and the way Katie's too-short dress blew above her knees, with no more hem to be let out. But 110 help for that, now. At least they were strong and healthy, and that was something you couldn't buy in the company store, or in all the world beyond, for that matter.
"It smells like snow," Katie cried out, as soon as she was within earshot. "Do you smell it?"
"I do," Rose said, allowing herself to share in the happy anticipation of the six-year-old. Katie leaped the two front steps in one motion, her little aims wrapping tightly around her mother's great belly.
The baby inside her moved energetically, almost as if he could hear the sound of his sister's voice.
"It doesn't smell like snow," Danny contradicted, with the surly superiority of his eleven years. "It smells like air. Cold air. That's all."
Rose watched him as he pushed past, banging the shanty door behind him. He had Jamie's face, handsome and dimpled and fair beneath shiny dark curls, but none of the dreaminess and laughter in the dark eyes, more like her own. Well, perhaps that was a good thing.
"It smells like snow," Katie repeated softly, snuggling closer to her mother.
Rose pulled her tightly against her, stroking the wind reddened cheeks with the back of her work-roughened fingers, blistered by never-ending gallons of hot water and lye soap and scrubbing against washboards. She had the hands of a laundress, red and rough.
"Are you done working today?" Katie asked, and Rose marveled at how the child seemed to follow her thoughts.
"All done. Forever. Mr. Svenson and Mr. Batinovich will pick up their clothes tomorrow, and then all that's left is to pack the trunk and go to the train."
Katie's dark eyes brightened with excitement at the idea of the train ride down the mountains to the Green River Valley, and then to a new life in the city beyond.
"In Seattle," she said. "Perhaps you can find a fine job, in a beautiful house. things will be lovely there."
"Perhaps," Rose agreed, trying not to show the fear that pinched her heart. Who would hire her, eight months huge with child and tired and clumsy? After the train fare was paid, and the money she owed to the store for food, she would have about seven dollars left in the shabby little purse hidden beneath her mattress.
That was all. Seven dollars standing between her beautiful children and the harsh world, until she was able to work again.
"Mama."
Kate had her little face turned up to her, the dark eyes glowing warm and brown, the face s
till with a touch of babyish softness around the chin
"What is it, wee Kate?"
"Today at recess, I went to my secret place in the forest, and I prayed to the angels to make everything better. And do you know what?"
"Tell me." Angels, this week. Last week, it had been stories of fairies and elves.
"I heard one. Her name is Emily, and she had violets in her hair, and silver wings with frost on them."
"Silver wings, was it?" Rose repeated lightly. Oh, Jamie, Jamie, couldn't you have left your child something a little more substantial than your gift for story-telling, the wild imagination that carried us from one place to another on nothing more than dreams?
"And she said she has a fine house for us, all ready. For a Christmas gift. A carpet on the floor, and flowers on my walls, and a big kitchen for you with a rocking chair, and—"
"No mention of new boots for your brother, I suppose," Rose interrupted, throwing the cold water of practicality onto the story.
Katie laughed, and Rose tugged the child's dark braids playfully.
"Whoever heard of angels speaking of boots?" Katie demanded.
"Whoever heard an angel speaking of rocking chairs?" Rose returned. "Get into the house, now, before this wind freezes the last of your good sense out of you."The child smiled up at her with an odd resignation, as if she knew that her stories were disturbing to her mother, but also knew better than to stop sharing them. "Yes, Mama. Are you coming in?"
"No, not yet. I'm going to say good night to ny mountain."
She wished that the dark clouds weren't shawling around the beautiful white and blue heights. She would have liked to have seen one last sunset with the mountain glowing pink and gold in the twilight.
But that was life. Sometimes you asked for pink and gold sunsets and got heavy gray clouds with snow blowing in.
Sometimes you married laughing men with brilliant dreams, and ended up with consumptive drunkards, coughing away part of their lives and drinking away the rest, until you were left alone in the cold wind, with nothing to help you but your own two hands, aching and tired.
And a little hope, Rose reminded herself. And a little hard-earned wisdom. And two beautiful children… no, three, soon.
Far up the road, the whistle of the Black Diamond Coal Company pierced the twilight, through the ancient pine forests. It was caught and carried on the mountain wind, through the little row of houses, past the tiny town and store and train depot, past the little graveyard where tomorrow she would leave James Shanahan forever.
But hadn't she really left him years before, in her heart? the laughing, bright-eyed young man who had charmed her so long ago had changed into a pathetic reflection of himself, dragging her and her baby, then two babies, from job to job, town after town. Silver mines under hot desert winds, copper mines in the Utah mountains, a gold mine in California where there was no gold at all except what the saloon owners lined their pockets with.
And finally, the last stop, here in Washington, the coal mines. They had arrived in the spring, the mountains intoxicating with their perfume of grass and pine and wildflowers, and the mountain sparkling and breathtaking above them, looking so close.
"There you are," Jamie had cried, his breath, even then, coming in gasps. "Look at that, Danny. Look at that, wee Kate. Here we are, up so high you can almost hear the angels singing."
Rose took a final look at the mountain as the sooty sky obscured it.
"I hope you hear those angels singing now, James Shanahan," she whispered, with the mixture of sorrow and resentment his memory always brought her. "Lucky for you that the Lord is more forgiving than I."
It was a queer, angry farewell to the man who had been her husband, she knew. But that was that. She could no more help the way she felt than she could help having dark hair or a sharp tongue. People were just what they were, and she had greater worries on her mind than that.
* * *
They ate their meager dinner of bacon and beans at the small, rough table that had been in the one-room shanty the day they had arrived. Drying laundry hung from lines criss-crossing the ceiling, making little curtained corridors that they ducked through and around.
Rose had already packed their few belongings. Her sad little iron was heating on the tiny stove, and as soon as the table was cleared she could press Mr. Svenson's giant Sunday-best shirt, and Mr. Batinovich's little tiny one, and that would be the end of her employment to the miners of Black Diamond.
And good riddance. No more tubs of coal-blackened work clothes, no more struggling with the great copper bottomed boiler, no more stinging handfuls of lye soap.
"Your face might freeze like that, Danny," she commented, as she reached past him to take Kate's plate to the wash pan. "All long and sour. And that bottom lip stuck out so far that someone might take it for a table, and try to put their plate on it."
Kate giggled, but Danny rolled his eyes.
"Stop sulking, and put some coal in the stove for me. What did you learn in school today?"
"Nothin' much," was the surly reply.
^Nothin'?" Rose echoed. "Not even where the missing G went? I'm certain that there was a G on the end of 'nothing,' last time I looked."
Danny didn't answer, just bent over the stove with the coal hod. He was thin, too thin for a growing boy. She could count his ribs through the worn cotton of his school shirt.
"Perhaps," Rose went on, trying to tease a smile from him. "You used it up on growling Or grumbling Or…"
"Grouchy," suggested Kate, her smile bright.
"Is this all the coal?" Danny demanded, turning without a smile.
Rose nodded.
"It's not enough. Not enough for tonight and tomorrow."
"It'll have to do. Wash up now, and if you get cold, put a quilt on." She didn't mean to snap, but she was tired. Tired and frightened, and the baby was making her back ache.
"It's not fair!" he exclaimed, dropping the bucket with a heavy bang. "We shouldn't have to leave. It's our house—"
"It's not our house," Rose corrected. "It's the company's house. It belongs to Mr. Asher, and he needs it for a working miner. They let us stay a good year, Danny, even when your father was too sick to work, and a good eight months beyond that, out of charity…"
"And so they should have," the boy shot back, angry color staining his cheeks. "They owe us that much. What does old Asher need our house for? He's got a big, fancy one that he hardly ever uses."
"But he owns it, all the same." Rose threw a clean sheet over the table, and spread the shirts out to be ironed.
"It was his mine that killed Dad! And now he's throwing us out. And why should we be cold even one more night, when that old snake has a mine full of coal? I hate him!"
The fear and grief in the boy's voice took the anger out of Rose's answer.
"Danny, Danny. It wasn't the mine that killed your father, it was consumption. He had it long before we got here." And drink, she added to herself, but the children didn't need to hear that.
"Nobody forced your father to work in a coal mine; he chose to. And we've been lucky to be allowed to stay here as long as we have, and that's enough."
"No, it's not," Danny muttered.
Rose straightened up, one hand on her back, and glared. "I said that's enough. I'm tired to the bone, and we need a little less grief in this house. You're old enough to show your mother respect and understanding. Now fetch me that iron while it's hot, and let's have no more talk of hating anyone."
"I hate old Joshua Asher," Danny repeated, defiant. "I saw him going into his fancy house with his fancy rig and fancy horses, and I hate him."
"Then you're a fool," Rose snapped, her patience at an end. "Hating someone is like letting the person you hate live in your house, free room and board. You keep them with you all the time. Now, I said that's enough, and I mean what I say."
Danny slammed the door of the stove, and said nothing.
Rose sighed, and took up the weight of the sad iron in
her hand.
The silence in the room was dark and angry. A cold wind shook the little house, stirring the drying laundry.
"It's snow," Kate said softly.
Rose went to the window and pushed back the calico curtain made from her old blue dress. Across the dark road the Gilhooleys' window shone yellow into the night. True enough, white flakes were sparkling past it, thick and fast.
Both children stood behind her, the anger in the room disappearing into the magic of the first snowfall of the year.
"Can we go out into it?" Kate asked softly, her tiny hand creeping into her mother's,
"What, in the dark of night? Into the cold?"
"Just to see the white? It's pretty."
"Why not?" Rose replied after a moment. "Why not? the cold won't kill us."
And the house might seem wrmer, she reasoned to herself, when they came back in. But already, the little shanty house was growing colder. She stopped Danny as he moved toward the stove.
"Save that last bit of coal," she said. "We'll certainly need it in the morning."
She finished ironing the shirts, and bundled Kate against the cold as best she could, hating the sight of the thin, darned stockings, the fraying sweater pulled over the child's dress, sighing at the sight of the missing buttons on the worn boots.
Everything looked tired and worn out, not strong enough to hold out much longer.
"Like me," she thought, then banished the thought. She would hold out. She had lived through longer, hungrier, more hopeless days. At least she would be directing their lives now, not following Jamie from dream to drink. She would survive, and the children with her.
But the fear of not knowing what tomorrow would bring was cold and deep within her, and she wished with all her heart that she, like little Kate, had faith in angels.