“For your Christmas cookies and pound cake, I’ll do without an egg all week.”
Her mother laughed. “I don’t think it’ll come to that.”
Annabelle took off her coat and put the eggs away. Lilly sat in the corner on her pallet, banging her spoon against the pan and squealing with delight. Annabelle smiled as she tied an apron around her waist. “Where is everybody?”
“They went to the gristmill.” Her mother put the dough in a pan, covered it with a piece of cheesecloth, and set it to the side. “I was glad to see them go. With school out, they’ve been like a pack of wild coyotes. I told Hiram that when they get back, I want him to put the boys to work cleaning out the barn.”
Before long, the kitchen smelled of baking bread, sugar cookies, and the pot of vegetable soup simmering on the stove for the noon meal. Annabelle went to the well and brought in a fresh pail of water, relieved that Lilly had stopped her banging.
She washed her hands, reached for a kitchen towel, and removed a sheet of cookies from the oven. The fresh-baked aroma of butter mingled with sugar made her mouth water. “Maybe we’ll get all these cookies out of sight before Papa and the boys get back. Otherwise, there won’t be any left for Christmas.”
“Why do you think I sent them all to town this morning?” Her mother laughed as she rolled more dough, her hands covered in flour. She jerked her head toward the hall. “Check on Lilly, if you don’t mind. She slipped out a few minutes ago while you were outside.”
“Lilly?” Annabelle stepped into the hallway, calling for her baby sister. The family room was empty and the door to the small room where her father prayed and planned his sermons was shut. Her heart lurched as her gaze jerked to the stairs that led to the attic rooms the boys slept in. Had Lilly managed to climb the stairs?
“Lilly? Where are you, sweetie?”
The door to the room she shared with Sally was ajar, and relief filled her when she heard a rustling inside. She found her little sister seated in the middle of the room, Samuel’s present clasped in her chubby little hands.
Lilly grinned at Annabelle, patting the present. “Mine.”
“No, Lilly.” Annabelle laughed, plucked her sister up, and examined the torn paper.
“Mine,” Lilly repeated.
“No, you little scamp. It’s not yours.”
Lilly giggled again and lunged for the present, her grasping hands tearing the wrapping paper even more before Annabelle could get it away from her. She propped her sister on her hip and cradled the package in the other hand, the half-torn paper revealing the top of a canning jar. She frowned.
A canning jar?
Samuel had given her a canning jar for Christmas?
Unable to contain her curiosity, she pulled back the paper to peek at the contents. She gasped, letting Lilly slide to the floor. Lilly happily plopped down and played with the discarded paper. Annabelle held the jar, mesmerized by the miniature scene inside.
A tiny carved church, complete with steeple, lay submerged in water, a winding trail leading down and around as if following the curve of a hill. She turned the jar to see the next scene. Her heart lurched as she spotted what looked like the sawmill, with a lean-to tacked on the side. Miniature carved trees, painted green, pointed straight and tall toward the sky, looking lifelike behind and around the buildings. Another rotation and the schoolhouse came into view, nestled among a stand of evergreens.
She held the jar up to the light streaming in the bedroom window. Sawdust shavings covered the base of the carving like a dusting of snow. Annabelle’s breath caught as she saw the tiny flakes swirling in the water as if kicked up by a gentle wind.
Mesmerized, she gently turned the jar upside down, and the sawdust floated to the top of the water. When she turned it right side up, the tiny flakes fell slowly, landing softly on the trees, the church, the sawmill, coating the entire scene just like a cascade of falling snow.
She blinked back tears as she cradled the jar in both hands. Samuel had given her a white Christmas, right here in the evergreen forest in the heart of Mississippi.
Chapter 16
The door to the sawmill creaked open and Samuel turned from putting the finishing touches on Mrs. Denson’s rocking chair. “Forget something?”
But it wasn’t Jack who stood in the doorway. Annabelle stood there, the sun that had just dipped below the tips of the evergreen trees casting a red and gold aura around her. She moved toward him, the canning jar in her hands, and he could only stand still and wait.
She moved closer, away from the sun that blocked her face from his view, and he saw the smile on her lips and the way her green eyes shone with joy.
A physical ache tugged at him when she looked away, held the canning jar aloft, flipped it, then righted it, letting the sawdust flutter in the small container. Her smile widened, and he swallowed, remembering how soft her lips had felt when he’d kissed her, wondering how she felt about that kiss now. Surely if she hated him for it, she wouldn’t have come, would she?
Her gaze left the tiny scene in the jar and captured his. “You made this for me? Why?”
Why?
To bring you back to me.
He settled for something less risky. “To give you something to remember home by.”
“It’s lovely.” She cradled the jar and smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And, just so you know, I didn’t open it early. Lilly found it in my room.” Her look was apologetic. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I could never be disappointed in you, Annabelle.”
She dipped her head and asked shyly, “Why didn’t you say something?”
Samuel’s heart pounded. “About what?”
“About us. About my trip.” Her face flamed, and she ran a finger along the back of a chair. “Even when—when … you kissed me, you didn’t say anything.”
“Ah, Annabelle, you’d had your heart set on that trip to Illinois for so long. That’s all you’ve ever wanted, was to have a white Christmas.”
“So, you wanted me to go?”
“Well, not exactly.” He choked back a laugh. “But it was what you wanted.”
“What if it’s not what I want anymore?”
His heart thudded against his ribcage as her eyes met and held his. He closed the distance between them, his gaze flickering to her lips and back again. He cupped her face with the palm of his hand. “What do you want, Annabelle?”
She reached out a hand and rested it against his shirtfront, and he thought his heart would pound right out of his chest.
“I don’t know what I want, but maybe”—tears shimmered in her beautiful green eyes, but she held his gaze, searching, looking—“maybe between the two of us we can figure it out.”
Samuel lowered his lips to hers and did a bit of figuring of his own.
Epilogue
One Year Later
The whistle blew as the train passed through another small, sleepy town on its journey north. Annabelle smiled at Samuel, slumbering beside her. The train rocked on through the night, a hint of dawn peeping through the drawn curtains. Come daylight, they’d be in Illinois, spending their first Christmas as a married couple with Lucy and her family.
Samuel stirred, and her heart fluttered. She smoothed back his dark hair, desperately in need of a trim, and then ran one finger down his cheek, rough with day-old stubble. Not much opportunity to shave on the train. But she liked the hint of whiskers on his face. His lips quirked, and she jerked her gaze upward and found him watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Morning, Mrs. Frazier.”
Her stomach dipped at the gravelly sound of his voice, roughened by sleep. “Mr. Frazier.”
“Happy?” He wrapped his arms around her, and she laid her head on his rumpled shirt.
“Very.” Annabelle smiled. She was more than happy. She was content. Very, very content.
They lay still, the rocking motion of the train lulling Ann
abelle back into half-wakeful, half-asleep slumber. The past year had been like a dream. Samuel had courted her in his quiet, determined way all through spring while helping Jack build a house. Jack and Maggie had married as soon as their house was finished, a stone’s throw from the sawmill.
Come June, Annabelle had walked down the aisle and become Samuel’s bride, and they’d moved into their own home built from lumber cut from the mill. Money was tight, but the business was flourishing, and they were blissfully happy. And then Samuel had announced they were going to Illinois for Christmas.
Annabelle smiled, listening to the steady thrum of her husband’s heartbeat. Yes, she was excited about the trip, and yes, she wanted to see her cousin, but she didn’t need a white Christmas anymore.
She’d always be Samuel’s evergreen bride, her hopes and dreams forever planted in the pine forest way down in the heart of Mississippi.
About the Author
Pam Hillman was born and raised on a dairy farm in Mississippi and spent her teenage years perched on the seat of a tractor, raking hay. In those days, her daddy couldn’t afford two cab tractors with air conditioning and a radio, so Pam drove an old Allis Chalmers 110. When her daddy asked her if she wanted to bale hay, she told him she didn’t mind raking. Raking hay doesn’t take much thought, so Pam spent her time working on her tan and making up stories in her head. Please visit Pam at www.pamhillman.com.
The Gift-Wrapped Bride
by Maureen Lang
Chapter 1
Chicago, Illinois
November 1848
Boom! Snap! Pop, pop, pop!
Sophie’s scream echoed the sudden whinny of horses startled by shots exploding on the busy Chicago street. Despite her grip on the wagon’s seat carrying her parents, the moment the vehicle bounced off the ground, she was thrown to the narrow floorboard behind her. It was the only spot of unused space between the many belongings they’d safely toted all the way from Ohio. One of her drawing pads fell from the perch where she’d left it, a stiff corner striking her on the back of her head.
Her thirteen-year-old brother, Gordy, landed on top of her, the heel of his boot smacking her shinbone. She didn’t mean to shove him away, but the wagon hit another rock or rut and she plummeted toward him, her elbow smashing into his shoulder. This time they landed side by side, just beneath the seat still miraculously holding both of her parents.
Frantic, she grappled toward the bench again, adding the new pain of a splinter to her bruises. The terror on her mother’s face was plain to see, just as the sinews of her father’s strong forearms stood out while he fought the reins connected to the runaway horses.
“Whoa! Dink! Acer!” The horses ignored her father’s desperate call. They bounded ahead, both sets of ears pressed back, Dink’s mane flying, Acer’s powerful neck straining against the pull of the reins.
Suddenly from beside the wagon a new shadow joined theirs, nearly flying alongside on a road littered with other horses, wagons, even pedestrians. Anything in their path parted like a terrified Red Sea to make way for their plunge farther into town.
The shadow to Sophie’s right overtook the wagon itself. It was a man on horseback, his hat flying off as he jumped from his mount and onto Dink, the strong young colt Father had been so proud to drive this far. The man leaned down just as mud spattered up in all directions. He then pulled on both horses’ reins, Acer not nearly as fast as Dink but twice as strong and brave. Still, reined with Dink, he hadn’t any choice except to keep up with the other horse’s frenzied pace that was only now coming under control.
With the shots silenced and the added weight of a rider on his back, Dink slowed at last. Or perhaps it was the drag of mud beneath them doing the job.
“Whoa there, Dink,” called her father, his voice smoother than it had been a moment ago. “Good boy, Acer. That’s it. Slow him down now.”
“Goodness!” said Mother, righting her bonnet, which would have flown with the wind alongside their rescuer’s hat had it not been for the string tied under her chin. “What in the world caused the ruckus setting them off?”
The man on Dink glanced over his shoulder once the pair of horses came to a full stop, a stop made more secure now that they were decidedly listing to one side. Sophie felt the wagon tilt. No broken wheel or axle this time; it was a slow, rather soft slide of the wagon’s entire right edge.
“Ground rats, ma’am.”
“Rats! Was someone shooting at them?”
“No, ma’am. Ground rats are firecrackers. They pop and sizzle and go every which way. A few landed right under your horses’ hooves.”
He jumped off, his own landing no doubt cushioned by the mud, but he didn’t seem to mind as he patted Dink with one hand and waved a greeting to them with the other.
“Welcome to—” He stopped himself suddenly. Sophie’s parents were likely the only two he’d noticed, since she was kneeling behind them and Gordy was behind her. “Mr. and Mrs. Stewart! Welcome to Chicago!”
“Look, Frank!” cried Mother. “It’s Noah Jackson!”
Sophie dared another peek, her heart that still thudded from near death now pounding anew. Noah Jackson. Of all the people to greet them, why did it have to be him? That bully.
Nonetheless, she peered out, wondering if her brother Arthur might be with him. That would make the trouble that had come with their arrival worth it. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Father jumped down then moved to help Mother. Sophie watched both of them hug that wretched boy—well, she supposed he was a man now, since he certainly looked the part, with a few days of beard on his face, what she could see of it between dollops of mud. They thanked and praised him for his courage as Sophie began wondering just how convenient it was to have him play the rescuer. He’d always liked her parents, even though he treated nearly everyone else shabbily. Perhaps he’d set off a firecracker or two just to provide himself an opportunity to show off.
Knowing she must greet him, too, especially since Gordy was already scrambling over her to get out of the wagon, she sighed heavily as Noah’s face lit again with another hearty reception.
“Ha! Who’s this? Not Gordy!” He slapped her little brother on the back, and to her surprise, Gordy didn’t seem to mind the contact. If someone had hit her that way, she’d have called it a smack. “Maybe you’re a Gordon now, little man, nearly all grown up.”
“Gordy’s fine. Not sure I’ll answer to anything else.”
Then Noah’s gaze left her family as if in search of the only missing member. Her. She was still peering over the seat when he spotted her.
“Sophie?”
No sense putting it off, even though he was the last person she ever wanted to greet. Here was the boy who had single-handedly humiliated her—not just once but on countless occasions. Tripping her in the middle of the schoolroom so her skirts went flying, petticoats and all, right up into her face for everyone to see. He was the boy who had tossed a spider onto her spelling test to make her scream. And who was punished for disrupting the class? Not him, even though she’d tattled on him. But she hadn’t seen him do it and the teacher hadn’t accepted her accusation against him, especially when he claimed innocence. So she’d gone alone to stand in the corner and had to stay after school to finish her test.
Noah Jackson had even put a frog in her lunch pail. She’d gone hungry that day, refusing to eat something that had no doubt been kissed by a frog.
She’d been sorry when her brother Arthur had left Toledo to come to Chicago for a job five years ago, but she hadn’t been one little bit sorry when Noah announced he was going as well. Not a single member of his own large family protested his departure, although he’d been only sixteen at the time.
Clearing her throat, smoothing back her hair that had come loose from the braid barely tied at the nape of her neck, she ran a hand over her skirt, determined that both the skirt and petticoat would stay in place when she must jump off this wagon. She stood to her full height.
; There was some measure of satisfaction to see Noah’s eyes follow her from the height nearer what he likely remembered her to be all the way up to her current five-foot-three stature. His brows rose, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she even saw a hint of appreciation in those eyes that had always been so filled with mischief.
Carefully, she climbed over the seat, choosing each movement ahead so that by the time she hopped gracefully from the step onto the only dry space nearby, she was sure he would see her for what she was. All grown up and not to be teased.
“You’ve grown some, Sophie,” he whispered.
Mother laughed just as Father had to reach up to put a hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“So have you, son.”
The changes in Noah made her wonder how much Arthur had grown, too. Hadn’t Mother sent him trousers on several occasions because the ones he left with had become too short?
Not wanting to give—or receive—any more attention to or from Noah, Sophie turned to see if the wagons that had been traveling behind them had caught up yet. She saw them ambling down the busy, mud-pocked road, a wave exchanged between Father and Mr. Hobson easing their neighbor’s features from concerned to his usual placid face.
In the same sweep, Sophie also took in the sights of the street. It was just as cluttered as it had been before clearing the way for their wild ride, but Arthur was nowhere to be seen along the string of shops. Although this street offered mostly wooden storefronts and uneven boardwalks, she had to admit this town was larger than Toledo. Not that it was better—she smelled the unmistakable odor of livestock—but at least they wouldn’t have to live in that wagon anymore. The past four weeks of that had been enough.
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