Enchanted Christmas

by Craig, Emma

  Mac looked like a benevolent troll, taking in everything and grinning at them all, presiding over the table and directing the conversation with the ease of a master. Noah always got the impression Mac knew the answers to everybody’s questions, and was keeping them to himself.

  Damn it all to hell and back again. Noah wished to heaven the old man would share. He needed some answers bad.

  After Thanksgiving dinner, replete and sleepy, they sang songs in front of the fireplace. Gus Spalding turned out to have a rich, albeit untrained, tenor voice that blended well with Grace’s soprano. Maddie, fingering her locket and smiling at Noah, said she wished they had a piano so that Mr. Noah could play it. Noah pretended to enjoy himself.

  # # #

  “Are you mad at Mr. Noah, Mommy?”

  Grace looked up from the cinnamon stick she was twisting. Maddie liked them curly. The dried-apple pie baking in the oven filled the kitchen with tantalizing aromas which the fragrance of cinnamon enhanced. Her stomach growled in anticipation. Turkey sandwiches and apple pie for supper. Life could get a lot worse than this, she guessed. She couldn’t account for why she’d felt so sad ever since her last argument with Noah.

  “No,” she lied. “I’m not mad at Mr. Partridge.”

  “How come you don’t talk to him anymore?”

  Grace realized her mouth had tightened into a flat line of frustration and made herself relax it. None of this was Maddie’s fault. “We still talk, dear.” Left-over indignation at Noah made her add, “I guess we just don’t have much to say to each other, is all.”

  Maddie scowled as her little fingers—scrubbed with plenty of lye soap—patted out her own piece of pie dough. She planned to cut pumpkins from the dough when it was flat enough, in honor of her mother’s tales of autumns back east. Grace realized with something of a shock that Maddie had no personal experience with the oranges and golds of autumn foliage, with trees baring their branches to the season, with the crunch of dried leaves underfoot and the smell of loamy soil, of squirrels scurrying to hide nuts and acorns in preparation for winter.

  Had Maddie ever even seen a real tree? Once or twice, perhaps, when they’d trekked up to Lincoln and Capitan, in the mountains to the southwest of Rio Hondo. How long ago had their last trip been? She couldn’t recall, but she knew it had been before Frank died. Maddie probably didn’t even remember it now.

  Tears burned Grace’s eyes. Was she depriving her daughter of a happy childhood? Of fall harvest festivals and Hallowe’ens and Christmases full of laughter and food and fun and relatives? That one spindly pumpkin vine growing on a mound in back of Mac’s house and its crop of skinny pumpkins seemed pathetic compared to Grace’s memories of autumns back home when Thanksgiving had truly been a festival of God’s bounty. She thought President Lincoln had done a good deed when he’d declared a national day of thanks back in sixty-three.

  The land was so hard out here, it took mountains of soil amendments and hours of back-breaking labor to grow so much as a tiny crop of carrots. At least they had access to scads of manure—which was a good thing, since they had to use it for fuel sometimes.

  Life was a perilously makeshift affair in the territory, where everything was just shy of the edge of disaster Oh, dear. Suddenly Grace missed her family with such fierceness, she almost cried out with pain.

  “Well, I like Mr. Noah,” Maddie said with resolution. “And I’m gonna give him one of my punkins.”

  “I’m sure he’ll like that, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll put extra cimmon and sugar on his, ‘cause he needs to sweeten up.”

  In spite of the turmoil raging in her heart, Grace laughed. “He does, does he?” She agreed, although she’d never say so to Maddie.

  Maddie nodded. When she did that her shiny braids bounced up and down. Grace pulled one for fun, and Maddie giggled.

  “As soon as we put your pumpkins in the oven to bake, why don’t you go and fetch Mac and Mr. Partridge for supper, Maddie.”

  “All right!”

  So the apple pie came out of the oven, and the pumpkins and cinnamon sticks went in, and Maddie skipped outside to do her chore. Grace stared after her, her heart heavy.

  # # #

  The wind shrieked like a soul in torment across the plains outside Mac’s small house. It reminded Noah of himself. The weather had turned cold again, but it wasn’t like the cold of the winters with which Noah was familiar. This was a hard, dry cold that sliced through a fellow and made him wish for things that could never be. Like sanity, for instance. Or a few moments of comfort in Grace Richardson’s arms.

  Noah frowned at his hot apple pie, and silently called himself fifty kinds of fool. He’d already eaten his cinnamon-and-sugar-covered pumpkin and pronounced it delicious. Maddie had been pleased.

  “Ye’re lookin’ a little peaky, Grace. You feeling all right?”

  Noah, who’d been trying to stay out of supper-table conversations lately because he didn’t want Grace any more mad at him than she already was, looked up from his plate.

  Damn; she did looked peaked. His heart gave a sudden twinge. There was no reason for him to feel anything in the least proprietary about Grace Richardson. If she was sick, however, he’d ride to hell and back to fetch a doctor. When had that happened? What did it mean? He shook his head and returned his attention to his pie. It didn’t matter when it happened, and it mean crap, unless it was another symptom of his overall madness.

  “I’m fine, Mac, thank you,” Grace said with one of her usual smiles, the ones she reserved for the people she liked. Noah hadn’t received one since the last time he’d asked her to sell him her land. When she smiled at him these days, usually because Maddie was watching, her smiles were brittle travesties of the ones she gave to her friends.

  Noah sighed.

  “Everything all right back home?”

  Back home? Noah glanced up again.

  “Mommy got a letter from my Grandma Baxter,” Maddie explained in her piping voice. “That’s my mommy’s mommy.”

  At least Maddie still liked him. Of course, that might change if she knew he wanted her mother’s land. He gave himself a mental shake and told himself to snap out of it.

  “Oh, everything’s fine back in Chicago.”

  In spite of her words, which she took pains to speak gaily, Grace looked troubled. Noah experienced a fierce urge to take her burdens away. Jeeze, he really was a lunatic!

  Mac chuckled. “Let me guess. Your mother’s askin’ ye to go back home again, eh?”

  “You guessed it, Mac.” Grace heaved a huge sigh, and speared an apple slice out of her pie. “She just doesn’t understand.”

  Before he could stop himself, Noah asked, “What doesn’t she understand?” He cursed himself as a jackass when Grace turned her head and peered at him with an expression colder than the weather.

  “She doesn’t understand my determination to make a life for Maddie and myself out here in the territory. Not unlike some other people I could name.”

  Right. No subtlety there. Feeling defeated, Noah nevertheless pursued the matter. “Well, ma’am, she’s probably read about how hard a life it is for settlers in this part of the country.”

  Mac nodded and grinned. It didn’t look like agreement to Noah, but as if he were enjoying the show. It figured. Ever since he’d ridden into Mac’s wagon yard, Noah had felt like a specimen under a microscope of Mac’s design and operation. Every now and then, it could be a damned uncomfortable feeling.

  “Yes, I know all about your opinion of women who try to make a go of their lives without the help of men.” Grace sniffed with immense hauteur.

  “It’s not that I don’t think women are as smart as men,” Noah explained patiently.

  Grace grunted and stabbed another apple slice. Noah had a feeling she’d rather be stabbing him.

  “It’s just that men are stronger than women. Physically.” Definitely not mentally, although he’d not say so. “Out here, it takes a lot of brute strength to wrestl
e the land into submission.”

  She eyed him coldly. “You’ve made a study of it, I suppose.”

  “Well—” He thought about lying, then decided to hell with it. “Yes, ma’am. I read up about all the territories and newly developed lands out west when I decided to move away from Virginia. I chose New Mexico Territory because it was harder than any of the others.”

  “And so are you.” It was an accusation. She obviously thought she’d said something that would cut him. As if he were still capable of being hurt by words.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am.” And I don’t give up, either. He spared her that part. She’d find out. Hell, if he were a quitter, he’d have been dead years ago. He’d probably be better off, but he was stuck with himself now and that was that.

  “Well, neither you nor my family back in Chicago are going to make me give up my land, Mr. Partridge.”

  “Yes’m,” he said meekly. He hadn’t received an answer to his wire yet, and was through arguing with her about that land for the time being. Depending on what the territorial government said, he might try again. Fighting Grace Richardson made him sad, though, and he’d just as soon not if he could avoid it.

  This time it was Mac who sighed. “You two,” he said, and shook his head.

  Maddie looked merely puzzled.

  After supper, stuffed with good food and feeling lazy, Noah joined Mac for a chat in the parlor. He’d begun to anticipate these evenings before Mac’s fire with something akin to pleasure. It had been so long since Noah had taken pleasure in anything that it took him a while to recognize the sensation.

  One of the reasons he enjoyed these evening visits so much was that Mac didn’t make him talk. Hell, half the time he didn’t even make him listen. They both just sat there, Mac in his easy chair, Noah on a stool in front of the fire, and they stared into the flames.

  Sometimes he imagined he could see things in the fire. Once, he could have sworn he saw a whole circus parade, with elephants and lion tamers and ladies in fancy costumes riding high-stepping horses. He knew that was merely a manifestation of his craziness. He might well see things like that in a simple after-supper fire. Still, he liked to watch it, and his fireplace visions didn’t trouble him.

  Almost hypnotized by the flames, he would allow his mind to wander undirected. More often than not, it wandered of its own accord to Grace Richardson.

  It did so tonight.

  “She’s worried about ye, lad,” Mac said, his soft voice obtruding so gently into Noah’s consciousness that it had begun to travel down Noah’s mind’s path before he was even aware of it.

  “I didn’t mean to make her worry,” he said, lulled into honesty by the spell of Mac’s parlor. “But I feel a powerful attraction to that land of hers.”

  “Aye, lad. So does she.”

  “Yes. I know.” Noah was unhappy about it too. It seemed like, whatever happened, either Grace or he would be wounded.

  “It’s magic, that land of hers.”

  “Magic?” Noah smiled, finding Mac’s assessment pretty funny.

  “Aye.” The old man chuckled as if he found the whole thing funny too. “‘Tis magic, all right. There’s a lot of enchantment in these wild plains.”

  “Is there?”

  “Oh, aye. The Indians knew that.”

  “I expect.” He’d heard stuff like that before. Noah was reserving judgment on the issue. He didn’t expect Indians were any more or less human than any of the rest of the paltry creatures who lived and died on this earth, and the magic in the land sure as hell hadn’t helped them any.

  “Takes a certain kind of person to tame the magic and use it.”

  “It does, does it?”

  “Aye. Grace—well, now, she has it.”

  Noah glanced at Mac. The old man appeared dreamy as he sat there, holding his pipe to his lips and gazing into the fire. His eyes were bright, though. Mac’s eyes were always bright. They were the twinkliest blue Noah had ever seen. Not gray-blue like Grace and Maddie’s eyes, but a bright, robin’s-egg blue. Grace and Maddie’s eyes might be serene—when Grace wasn’t wishing Noah dead. Mac’s eyes were anything but.

  “But, Mac, how does she, a woman alone and without a husband, expect to be able to use that land of hers?”

  “I don’t know, lad. But she’s got the spirit for it.”

  Noah shook his head. “I wish I’d seen another plot of land I liked as well. I really don’t want to take her land away from her. But it doesn’t make sense that she’s so set on keeping it when she can’t use it.”

  “Oh, lad, anything can happen in this wonderful life. Who’s to say what a body can or can’t do in it?”

  “But . . .” Noah didn’t know what to say.

  Mac chuckled again. “I think the two o’ ye ought to go out alone and look at that plot of land together. Tell each other what ye’d do with it if you could do anything you wanted. Who knows? Maybe ye’ll come up wi’ a plan for it between you.”

  Noah frowned, troubled. He didn’t want to be alone with Grace Richardson. He didn’t trust himself. Even his dreams—the ones unplagued by rotten memories of the war—had begun to feature her. “Well . . .”

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mac.”

  Noah jerked his head up and saw Grace standing in the doorway. She was staring straight at him and scowling fit to kill. Damn.

  “Why not?” Mac shared his grin equally between Noah and Grace. “It’ll give ye both a chance to see what the other finds so appealin’ in that one parcel of land that ye’re willin’ to hate each other over it. Maybe ye’ll both decide it’s not worth hanging onto and fighting over.”

  Hate each other? Noah only wished he could hate Grace Richardson.

  Grace’s lips pinched up tight. Noah could tell she felt both angry and betrayed by Mac’s sensible suggestion. He guessed she’d expected more loyalty than this from her old friend. Truth to tell, Noah was kind of surprised himself. On the other hand, Mac was probably subtly implying that Noah himself should back off.

  Well, hell, maybe the old man was right. Maybe Noah’d made more of that land than was really there. Maybe he only wanted it because he couldn’t have it. He wouldn’t put it past his brain to pull a mean stunt like that.

  “Actually,” he found himself saying. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  Grace stiffened up like a spike. “It sounds like a terrible idea to me.”

  Mac laughed. Noah rose from his stool. “I promise not to pester you about selling it, Mrs. Richardson. But maybe Mac’s right. Maybe if we went out there together and looked it over, we might come up with some kind of compromise.”

  Off hand, he couldn’t think of one. He didn’t want the parcel divided. He wanted the whole thing. He’d gone out there by himself and ridden the perimeter. It was perfect for what he had in mind for his life.

  Still, he didn’t think a trip to the Pecos with Grace would hurt. Might even help, especially if he could get her talking about how she planned to do whatever she planned to do. Maybe if she said it out loud, she’d finally understand how stupid she was to believe she could make anything out there by herself.

  Of course, the experience might just drive her into the arms of the young Gus Spalding. Noah would bet his last dollar that Gus wanted to marry her, although Grace seemed to be determined to remain true to her damned dead husband, the sainted Frank. Still, Noah was willing to take a chance that the trip would open her eyes to the futility of her dreams.

  Noah’s dreams were infinitely simpler than Grace’s. All he wanted was to get away from everything. And stay there.

  “I don’t see what purpose it would serve,” Grace said, obviously nettled. “Besides, we can’t just ride out for the day and leave Maddie alone and Mac with no one to tend the store.”

  “Och, lass, I’d watch Miss Maddie for ye. And there’s no one to visit the store. Everybody in the area stocked up before Thanksgiving, and won’t be back until Christmas.”

  Grace di
dn’t look at all pleased to have these truths pointed out to her. She huffed indignantly, sat in a fluff of calico and petticoats, yanked her embroidery out of the basket that sat beside her rocking chair, and began stabbing her needle into the cloth trapped in the embroidery ring. Again Noah got the impression she’d rather be stabbing him. He remained undeterred. Suddenly Mac’s proposed trip seemed like the only solution to a tricky problem.

  “Please, ma’am? I’ll renew my promise not to badger you about buying the land. I just want to see it, to look at it through your eyes. I’d like to hear what your plans for it are.” If she had any; he doubted it. “And I’ll tell you mine.” Why the hell had he said that? There was no way he’d confess to being so sick of life that he wanted to hide away from it, to lose himself out there on the prairie, where nobody could ever get at him again.

  She looked up from her embroidery, squinting at him as if she didn’t trust him an inch. Noah fought his impulse to take exception to her skepticism. He guessed she deserved to be skeptical.

  “You really mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it!”

  Noah didn’t appreciate it when Mac laughed again.

  “Oh, very well.”

  Noah stood and held his hat in front of him. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I’ll pack us a lunch. I don’t care to starve while we’re pursuing this foolish nonsense.”

  She sounded less gracious than Noah had ever heard her, even when she was screaming mad at him. He did his best to remain humble. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She gave him another harrumph. Noah figured not much had changed. It seemed that no matter how reasonable he tried to be, the females in his life always turned on him.

  # # #

  Nevertheless, when he saddled Fargo and Grace’s mare the next morning, he discovered he was anticipating their upcoming ride together with satisfaction. Even if Grace hated him, he couldn’t find it in his heart to dislike her—no matter how stubborn she was, and how inconvenient that stubbornness was to him.