Sweetwater Springs Scrooge: A Montana Sky Holiday Short Story (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  He stared back at the shopkeeper, his face impassive. In thirty-five years, he hadn’t allowed Hortense Cobb to get his goat, and he wasn’t about to start today.

  With a harrumph, she turned her attention back to the boy who was carefully counting out coins on the counter next to a vase he apparently wanted to purchase.

  That looks like the one I gave Marian. His attention caught, Elias edged closer. Yep, similar fluted shape, although this one had pink roses in addition to the purple violets dotting the sides.

  He looked away, not wanting to be reminded of the old memory—of how for weeks he’d planned to ask Marian to marry him, plotting and discarding various ways and means. But in the glow of impulsively buying her the vase, seeing the sparkle in her blue eyes, how her happy smile had lit up her face, he’d blurted out a proposal right then and there in the dirt street in front of this same mercantile.

  When she accepted, he’d picked her up and twirled her around, scandalizing the busybodies who watched. But, lost in their bliss, neither had cared.

  Her mother did. In fact, Elias suspected Martha Hutchinson of thrusting a stick in the spoke of his courtship wheel every time she had a chance.

  He shook his head. The last weeks of lying sick in bed had given him time to reflect on the past. Truth be told, I had only myself to blame.

  The boy glanced over at Elias before bending back to his task, sliding a copper penny across the surface to join the pile in front of the shopkeeper. He had a heart-shaped face with curly black hair, pale skin, a snub nose, and translucent blue eyes.

  Seeing the child—the spittin’ image of Marian—made Elias’s stomach tighten. Surely, the boy must be related.

  Mrs. Cobb’s eyebrows pulled together. She sent the boy a disapproving glance from her close-set brown eyes. “Stop dawdling, Noah Turner.”

  Turner. Hadn’t Marian’s daughter married a man named Turner? Then they’d moved to Crenshaw.

  “I don’t have all day.” Mrs. Cobb prodded sharply.

  Neither did Elias, but for once he wasn’t impatient to finish shopping and retreat home. Instead, unusual curiosity kept him rooted to the boy’s side, staring over his shoulder at the tableau on the counter.

  Noah slid over his last coin.

  Even without knowing the price of the vase, Elias guessed the boy didn’t have enough money to cover the cost.

  Mrs. Cobb scowled and shoved back the stack of money. “The vase costs more that that, boy.”

  The child’s shoulders slumped, and he picked up the coins and put them in a small sack. He turned to leave, glancing up at Elias as he did so.

  Those eyes! The sadness in the blue depths took Elias back thirty years, to a similar pained expression, the eyes of his beloved brimming with tears.

  “Why are you buying that vase, boy?” The question burst out of Elias’s mouth before he could think, shocking him. Not sure what came over him, he began to set his purchases on the counter, attempting to appear nonchalant.

  Mrs. Cobb fluttered her hands at hearing Elias voluntarily string seven words together.

  He couldn’t help a spurt of amusement at her reaction. He never spoken more than necessary words to her. But today his nature was somehow different. After all, I did set out intending on a little human interaction, and I just accomplished that.

  “No need to look so,” Elias told the stricken boy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several crumpled bills, sliding them across the counter.

  Mrs. Cobb gasped. Her hand shot out to claim the money, as if she thought he’d change his mind.

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  Bemused by his need to intervene on Noah’s behalf, Elias didn’t bother to bargain with the shopkeeper. “Add that to young Mr. Turner’s account.” What in tarnation has come over me? I haven’t been so impulsive in thirty years.

  The woman’s close-set brown eyes narrowed in speculation.

  Elias could almost see the gossip about to spill out of her mouth, probably to the next customer to darken the doors of the mercantile. “And not a word about this transaction, Mrs. Cobb. It’s Christmas time, after all. Presents. Secrets.”

  The woman’s lips pressed together. She gave him a nod, stiff with reluctance.

  But he knew she’d keep her agreement. As much as the shopkeeper liked to gossip—the more malicious the better—Mrs. Cobb knew if she didn’t exercise discretion, people would stop using her store, instead ordering from catalogues and such.

  Hope sparked in the depths of the boy’s eyes. “Really, Mister? You’ll help me buy Grandmother a vase? I broke her other one.”

  “It’s a loan, you hear,” Elias said sternly to cover up the pang that went through him at hearing about the broken vase. As if I hadn’t shattered our relationship so many years ago. “I expect you to work off the debt. You can start by helping me haul wood.” Not that he needed any more wood. He was set for the rest of the winter. But that task was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment. “You come over to my house—I’m two lots over from the Adler’s stone house—on Monday after school.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  The boy’s fervent tone sent an unexpected surge of pleasure through him, and Elias couldn’t resist a smile back at Noah, albeit his mouth felt a little rusty at the unexpected movement. He reached over and picked up the vase. “We’ll keep this at my house until you pay me back.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After school the next day, with the weather crisp despite the sun, they worked on the woodpile together. Elias split some logs he’d sawed last summer into stove-length pieces, which Noah gathered and stacked in the woodshed. The sun’s rays sparkled off the snow, making him squint. The air was crisp and frosty, but exertion soon heated him, and Elias took off his outer coat, walked over to the nearby clothesline, and draped it over the rope.

  On this side of Sweetwater Springs, close to the forest, the lots were divided into square acre parcels. His land was screened on all sides by trees his parents had planted along the property line when they’d first built here. The row of mature trees, a mixture of evergreens, maples, and silver birch enclosed the yard. The apple orchard further hid his home from his neighbors and the street. But even the tallest trees couldn’t block the sight of gray clouds billowing over the snow-covered mountains, heralding a coming snowstorm.

  Elias returned to the woodpile. Normally he detested chopping wood, an arduous but necessary chore. But today with Noah keeping him company, he stopped work every time the boy came near. For safety, he told himself, but really because the child fascinated him.

  Much like his grandmother, the boy didn’t have a silent bone in his body. He chattered away without needing input from Elias, talking about his friends, his teacher, what he learned in school, each of the townsfolk whose path he’d crossed that day, the cardinal flitting through the trees, and a deer he spotted on the edge of the forest.

  And Elias, who’d spent years in solitude, found he didn’t mind a bit. In fact, his ears sharpened each time Noah dropped a tidbit of information about his grandmother.

  He learned Marian had baked a peach pie and, according to Noah, the dessert sure was tasty. For the second day in a row, she’d taken soup to Widow Murphy. Noah let on that he suspected his grandmother didn’t even like the woman, not that she’d ever said so. But Mrs. Murphy had been mean to Noah one day, and Grandmother had given her the cold edge of her tongue. The boy said the latter to Elias, squaring his shoulders with obvious satisfaction.

  Elias had to grin at that. Marian was as even tempered a woman as you could find until you riled her, usually by crossing someone or something she held dear, and then look out. His grin slid away as he remembered their last argument.

  As if reading his thoughts, Noah asked, “Why didn’t you marry Grandma?” The boy looked up at him.

  The curiosity in those eyes that looked so much like Marian’s made it seem almost as if she’d asked Elias the question. He shot the boy a sharp look.
“Where did you hear that?” He rested the axe head on top of a log and waited for the answer.

  Noah shrugged. “Talk here and there.”

  Ah, little pitchers have big ears. Elias leaned on the axe handle and decided to admit the truth. “My fool pride. My fool, stubborn pride,” he corrected. “Well, that’s what kept us apart. But what drove us there….” He’d had long years to ponder that very subject. “Your grandmother was frivolous and flighty and flirtatious.” Yet even as he said the words, meaning them as condemnation, he could feel a smile lift the corners of his mouth just thinking of young Marian. He hastily smoothed out his expression. “We argued about—”

  Noah’s brows pulled together.

  Elias belatedly recalled he was talking about the boy’s only kin and broke off his sentence. “Let’s just say, your grandmother had a tender heart. She was right generous with those in need, but also quick to waste money on ribbons and lace and…pets.”

  “Pets?” Noah rattled on without waiting for an answer. “Our cat died last month. Zephaniah, his name was.” His mouth turned down. “Grandmother cried.”

  His heart clenched at the thought of Marian being in pain, even over a cat. But then again, she had much to grieve over—a cat not the least of her losses. “Your grandmother was always partial to animals…cats.” And he hadn’t minded…much. Cats served their purpose in keeping down the vermin population if they lived in the barn. “Her cat wasn’t the problem. The lamb was.”

  Noah’s eyes gleamed. “Grandma had a lamb?”

  “Yes, and I thought Marian was foolish for how she doted on that creature.” Elias moved the axe and sank down on the log so he could be eye-to-eye with Noah. He took a breath, inhaling the scent of wood chips. “I made the mistake of siding with Marian’s father when he wanted to turn her lamb into company dinner.” The memory stung.

  Noah gazed at him, his expression solemn. For a few seconds, his eyes held ancient wisdom. “Maybe you need to give my grandma a lamb for Christmas.”

  Elias froze, staring at the boy, struck by the idea. To go back in time, to make amends…to court Marian again. Is it even possible?

  He must have uttered the words aloud for Noah answered, his tone matter of fact. “Of course, it’s possible. Grandmother says anything’s possible at Christmas time.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When Marian took barley and rabbit soup to the still-ailing Mrs. Murphy who was confined to her bed, she learned the widow had heard Noah was spending time after school with Elias Masters.

  With a smirk unbecoming to her hatchet-face, the widow waited with an avid gleam in her eyes for Marian’s reaction.

  Marian couldn’t believe her ears. How could a woman who’d been bedridden for a week learn something about Noah that his own grandmother didn’t know? As much as she wished to throw the soup bowl at the widow, she restrained herself, presenting a serene expression. She cut her visit short and hurried home to question her grandson, her stomach churning the whole way.

  Marian had to wait for Noah to come home, but this time, if Widow Murphy was to be believed, she knew he wasn’t playing with his friends until dark as she’d supposed. When the boy had first come to live with her, she couldn’t help feeling over-protective, and she’d closely questioned his activities each day. Noah was all the family she had left. But as he’d made friends, she’d forced herself to relax her vigilance, grateful he seemed to be putting down roots in his new community.

  But how had he become acquainted with Elias?

  She began preparing dinner, her hands moving through the familiar tasks, while her mind wondered what Noah was up to. As darkness descended, Marian kept glancing out the window, impatient for her grandson’s return.

  This was the most difficult time of her day. Even after almost two years, sometimes she found herself listening for the sound of her husband’s footsteps before remembering he and her daughter were gone. Once again, grief would hit.

  Earlier in the day, she could busy herself with household tasks. Later in the evening, she would settle into a book. Marian had never found time for the luxury of reading when she was a wife and mother, but now, thankfully, that pleasure took her away from her circumstances and thus brought comfort.

  Always at dusk, her grief returned as she waited—waited in vain. Until Noah came to live with me.

  But as much as her grandson filled her with joy and distracted her from her grief, Noah couldn’t take the part of a companion, and loneliness lay heavy on her. The setting of the sun and the darkening outside her window reflected the shadows in her heart.

  Finally, Noah rushed through the kitchen door, barely slowing enough on the way to his room to toss her a greeting.

  “Noah Michael Turner, you stop right there!” Marian placed her hands on her hips, preparing to launch the inquisition.

  With a huff, he paused, unwinding his scarf. “But, Grandma, I’m hungry.”

  “Very well.” Resigned to waiting for information, Marian made a shooing motion. “Supper is ready.”

  “Yippee!” Noah pulled off his stocking cap, flung it at the hat rack, and missed. He stooped to scoop up the hat and shoved it on the hook. His scarf and coat quickly followed. He moved to the basin and did a scanty wash up.

  “Soap your hands,” Marian instructed, wondering at what age boys finally learned to keep themselves clean. Judging from some men she’d seen, the answer was never.

  She dished up their food and set the plates on the table. After they said grace, she allowed Noah a few moments before casually mentioning, “I’ve heard you’ve been spending time with Elias Masters.”

  Noah wrinkled his nose. An innocent expression slid across his face. “Mr. Masters is my friend, and I’m helping him out.”

  “Helping Mr. Masters?”

  Noah nodded, stuffing such a big bite into his mouth that he couldn’t answer.

  “Manners, Noah!” Raising a boy child is certainly different than bringing up a girl!

  He didn’t respond, but his next forkful was slightly smaller. He applied himself to his meal so thoroughly that Marian had to wonder if Noah was truly hungry or just trying to avoid the topic of Elias Masters.

  Probably both, she thought skeptically.

  Over roast beef, mashed potatoes, slices of thick dark bread and butter, and pickled cucumber salad, the boy started to open up and became his usual talkative self. “I’m helping Mr. Masters clean out and repair his stable.”

  “My word!” Marian exclaimed in shock. “Elias doesn’t have a horse. Why, that man hasn’t used his stable for almost thirty years. He sold his horse after—” She cut off the rest of the sentence. After I broke our engagement and married Harold three weeks later.

  Noah gave her a wide-eyed gaze. “Mr. Masters said he was tired of having the stable fall to rack and ruin.”

  “Why now, when he hasn’t attended to the place for so long?”

  Noah just shrugged and turned his attention to his mashed potatoes.

  Marian’s appetite fled. She stared at the flowered wallpaper of the dining room, her gaze unfocused. Unbidden, a memory returned—the two of them sneaking into the stable and climbing the ladder to the hayloft. Elias had spread out saddle blankets, and they’d lain together in the fragrant hay, hands clasped, talking about their future. Until Elias kissed her, thus putting a stop to all conversation.

  Marian touched her lips, remembering. She couldn’t believe after twenty-eight years of marriage to Harold that she could still feel Elias’s mouth on hers—the shape of his lips, his tongue, his scent, or the contours of his body—broader shoulders, harder arms…. After her marriage, the contrasts between Harold and Elias were stark and foreign. Once she wed and adjusted to her husband, Marian had willed herself to forget her first love and had thought she’d succeeded.

  Until Noah broke my vase.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following afternoon, Marian sat in the kitchen knitting. She was taking advantage of Noah’s absence to make mittens to put in his Ch
ristmas stocking. From time to time, she rose to stir the stew in a pot on the stove.

  Normally knitting at this time of year was a placid task, as she watched the dark descend outside her window, heard the howl of the wind, and knew she was safe and warm inside her cozy home. Usually, she’d be making presents and anticipating Christmas and the journey she and Harold would make to Crenshaw to stay with Juliana and her family for the holidays.

  Last year, Marian had still taken the train to the city to spend Christmas with Noah and his father—a muted time of painful mourning that they’d struggled through—the two adults, who didn’t particularly like each other, trying to give the boy they both loved a good holiday. They’d barely succeeded.

  Christmas will never be the same without my girl.

  Memories flashed through her mind: her daughter, just three and staring big-eyed at the Christmas tree; each year, how Juliana would up-end her stocking, pouring everything out at once instead of removing the items one by one; the time she’d danced around the room cradling her new doll and laughing with delight.

  Marian sighed. Juliana had always been an impetuous child—a trait she hadn’t grown out of—too like her mother that way. We both rushed into marriage. Although Marian found contentment with Harold, she suspected Juliana hadn’t experienced the same comfort with Edward. Not that her daughter ever complained. She’d adopted her mother’s philosophy—you made your bed, now lie in it.

  Oh, Juliana, I miss you so!

  The sharp ache of grief brought tears to her eyes, and Marian pressed her lips together to hold back a sob. She couldn’t allow Noah to discover her weeping. And now to add to her grief and concerns about the approaching holiday, she had her grandson’s inexplicable involvement with Elias to contend with.

  She heard the clatter of Noah’s boots on the back stairs and whisked away the mittens, tucking them behind jars of pickles on a shelf in the pantry.

  The door flew open, and Noah burst into the kitchen, his expression more animated than she’d seen since he’d come to live with her. He held up a round basket covered by a towel. “Look what Mr. Masters gave us, Grandma! A present.” With a flick of his hand, he whipped the towel off the basket.