A Hartmann Ranch Christmas

by Samantha St. Claire

  The fox was her favorite, and she added an entire family scampering in and out of grasses and around tree trunks. She made a game of the scene, revealing a paw here and a black tail there, partial images to invite one to study the paintings with care, creating a story for the viewer’s imagination to explore.

  Occasionally, Lena would step quietly into the room and watch, only commenting on something that amused her. Jessie came a few times a day and took measurements or offered her a cup of tea and a sample of a sweet pastry she was experimenting with for the Christmas party. Less frequently, Mr. Kincaid slipped into the room to take a measurement. His visits were as silent as the owl’s.

  On the third day of their collective project, the weather took a turn, and a chilling north wind blew down the long valley of the Wood River. A light dusting of snow made the trip back into town that evening a winter wonderland of sparkling white. If she’d been with anyone else, she’d have commented on the beauty.

  But the dampening effect of the snow-covered road softening the sound of the horse’s steps, made the silence between them more apparent. Glad for the blanket Lena had given her as they departed, Clara pulled it tight to her neck and covering her ears.

  “You want my jacket? The wool lining might help keep the chill off.”

  Breaking the silence so abruptly, Clara jumped at Kincaid’s voice. She glanced at him in the dark, moonlight glimmering in his eyes. She clamped her teeth on her trembling lips before attempting a reply that would not give away her discomfort. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Pardon my saying, but you look less than fine.”

  Clara turned her face to the snowy banks of the river. “Will the water freeze this winter?” Her lips trembled, betraying the lie of her earlier statement.

  “Probably not. At least not in the main course of it. The edges, yes.”

  She squeezed her arms tight to her body, but it didn’t stop her shaking.

  The buggy slowed, then came to a stop. Clara turned back to see Kincaid removing his jacket. He handed it to her, his expression uncompromising. “Trade you. Give me the blanket.”

  She accepted it without comment, giving him the blanket in exchange. Quickly driving her shaking limbs into the plush woolen lining, she pulled the collar high on her neck. It smelled of earth and lambs’ wool and all she associated with the shepherd beside her. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, but unfamiliar and even foreign.

  When her trembling had lessened, and she thought she could trust her lips to work again, she asked, “How did you become a shepherd?”

  Wrapped in the wool blanket, with his hat pulled low on his brow, he looked like one of the Shoshone she’d seen in town. She realized with some shock that the life he lived for all those months was more akin to their lifestyle than those of the ranch hands. They were both nomads of a kind.

  “At my father’s side. I learned as a boy back home.”

  “He was a shepherd like you?”

  “He was a shepherd,” he said.

  It seemed an odd statement, not quite an affirmation of hers. “You had a farm in Scotland?” Clara had nothing to draw upon to even imagine such a life. She’d traveled abroad once, but only as far as France, where she’d seen farmland and the quaint villages dotted across the landscape. It was alluring and romantic from a distance, but she wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was an easy life.

  “Like most, we were crofters.” He hesitated, then added, “Crofters aren’t land owners.” Even in the ambient light, she saw the firm set of his jaw. This meant something to him, something unpleasant. She waited for him to continue, but his usual reticence seemed to have retaken its grip on his tongue.

  Her curiosity brought questions to tickle her tongue, but something warned her to not allow them to pass her lips. The man’s stiff posture warned her there’d be no further discussion. So, they returned to town in the manner of the previous two days and finished the ride in silence. But she sensed that something had changed, some subtle shift of awareness of the other.

  “Do you know what a crofter is?” Clara displayed only a casual interest when she put the question to Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds that night over dinner. “I heard the term today, but it’s unfamiliar to me.”

  Dr. Reynolds looked thoughtful before saying, “A fellow medical student from Scotland explained the system to me years ago. It was a system devised to divide the land into farming shares, but oddly enough, not intended to support a family.”

  Maddie frowned and commented, “That seems unfair.”

  Dr. Reynolds nodded. “You aren’t alone in your opinion. But I’m sure you know such notions of class distinction have been at the foundation of British way of life for generations. In Scotland, wealthy landowners make the rules. They expect the crofters to work in another industry as well as farming their few acres. To the ruling class it’s a fair exchange.”

  Clara pushed a slice of cooked apple to the center of her plate, studying it for a while as though it was a piece of the puzzle. “I suppose that’s why Mr. Kincaid developed his woodworking skills.”

  “My understanding was that because many of these farms were along the coastline, the crofters took up fishing and worked in the kelp industry. I can’t speak for Mr. Kincaid’s experience, but he might have lived near a larger town that could support such carpentry work.” He shook his head, looking uncharacteristically solemn. “Graham Kincaid was born before the potato famine that devastated Ireland and Scotland, but I’m sure it affected his family. It forced many to immigrate. My classmate’s family moved to Canada. Do you know if Mr. Kincaid came here directly from Scotland?”

  Maddie tilted her head for a moment. “I thought he did.”

  Clara tried to recall her brief exchanges, then any information she might have had in conversations with Mrs. Hartmann. “I know he brought his dog with him.”

  Refilling her husband’s glass with water, Maddie remarked, “It seems we know very little about the man.” She directed her next statement to Dr. Reynolds. “We don’t even know if he’s married or single, do we?”

  Dr. Reynolds gave a hearty laugh. “Now, leave it to you to take the question of the man’s past to issues of the heart.”

  Maddie frowned at him. “Well, the marital status of a man says something significant. Maybe he has a wife in Scotland and he’s saving his earnings to bring her here. That’s possible, isn’t it?” Maddie’s eyes darted in Clara’s direction.

  Clara fumbled for her cup, fervently wishing she’d not brought Mr. Kincaid into the conversation at all.

  Dr. Reynolds chewed with thoughtful intensity. The creases fanning from his eyes still held a suggestion that he found the conversation entertaining. “On that subject, I believe I can offer some enlightenment. He was married.”

  “He was?” his wife asked, obviously surprised at this.

  He nodded as he helped himself to a side dish of beans. “His wife passed some years ago before he immigrated.”

  Maddie’s eyes widened. “He told you?”

  The doctor shook his head and stabbed at a potato. “No. Jessie told me.”

  “Jessie?”

  “Yes, she asked him.”

  Chapter Ten

  DECEMBER 9, 1891

  With Christmas only a few weeks away, the bookshop bustled with shoppers searching for gifts. Clara took great delight in answering the questions prompted by the window display. Maddie predicted that all their copies of A Christmas Carol would be sold by the end of the week.

  As interesting as the morning was, Clara fretted about the afternoon ride to the ranch sitting beside the silent shepherd with the mysterious past. After learning that he was a widower, her anger toward him had abated. While she still resented his unsolicited opinions, she wondered if his wife’s influence had prompted his remarks. Perhaps his convictions about what a child desires were based in more personal experience than he admitted to.

  Dressed in warmer attire than the previous day and better prepared for the chilly ride to
the ranch, Clara waited for Mr. Kincaid in the children’s section with Daisy. As inexperienced as she was with such things, even Clara could see evidence of her dog’s condition. She ran her hand lightly across the dog’s extended abdomen, pausing when she felt movement. “Oh, my. Was that the puppy?”

  “Looks like she might have those pups in a week or so.” Graham Kincaid leaned against the book case, his arms folded over his chest.

  How could he appear so detached from this travesty? The flash of anger warmed her cheeks. Daisy’s condition was still his fault, at least indirectly. Then she processed what he’d just said. A week? She dropped her gaze to her dog. “That soon?”

  Kincaid took a step closer and squatted on the other side of the dog’s bed. He ran a hand along her side. “Sooner, maybe.” He stroked the collie’s head and crooned to her. “Good girl. You’ll be bringing into the world some fine pups.”

  She was struck by his gentle manner. But this must be routine for him. The sheep in his care gave birth in the summer range, and he’d be the only one there to help them.

  The man was still looking at Daisy when he asked, “What do you think you’ll be doing with her pups? She might have four or five, you know.”

  How could she possibly know? She’d never had a pet before Daisy. What had he said? Surely, she’d misunderstood. “Five?” she asked weakly.

  “Aye. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Clara glanced across at the man, a smile touching his lips. He was enjoying this. She gripped the fabric of her skirt in tight fists, glaring at him. “Your dog did this to her!”

  Kincaid’s lifted his gaze to her and nodded with calm admission. “Aye, I’ve no doubt.”

  She raised her voice, a half-octave above her normal range. “What are you going to do about it?”

  A woman peered at them through an open space on the shelf between Shelley and Keats, a shocked, rather scandalized expression on her face.

  Kincaid rubbed a hand across his mouth. She was uncertain if it was his attempt to assemble an answer or disguise a smile, either way she found it irritating. “Well, I can help her with the birth if she’s in need. I could also buy the pups from you if you were willing to sell them.”

  “Sell them?” Clara jumped to her feet. This was too much. She made a grab for her coat and turned for the door. “I think we should be going now.”

  Kincaid rose and gestured for her to precede him. “After you.”

  Refusing to look at him, she started for the front door. But she remembered she hadn’t said goodbye to Daisy. She turned back and patted the dog’s head. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Taking a deep sigh, Clara marched to the door. The only way she was to get through the next few days was to paint quickly and ignore the man as much as possible.

  Graham stared at the number he’d written ten minutes ago, shook his head, and measured the board a fourth time. Something wasn’t lining up. He looked about the barn for another length of lumber to cut.

  Bart started in again on whatever it was he was trying to say for the past quarter of an hour. “But it’s like I said before, the woman can push me so hard I want to pull out my hair from all her jabbering and the next minute I can’t wait to kiss her.”

  If the man could just get to the point. Graham stuck the pencil over his ear and folded his arms, staring hard at the red-headed foreman of the Hartmann ranch. Maybe if Graham could focus on what he was saying, Bart would be done with it and leave him in peace to finish.

  “And that’s just it, isn’t it?” Bart seemed to have finished his monologue, but when Graham didn’t answer the hanging question he added, “Some days I feel I can scarcely live with her, but I know I can’t live without her.” He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as though he was standing on a bed of coals.

  “Are ‘ya looking for advice, Bart?” Graham asked after several awkward moments passed. “I mean, it’s good to hear you’ve got yourself a fine wife and all, but is there a point to this?”

  Bart pulled off his hat and smacked it against his leg, sending a cloud of dust flying. “Tarnation! You see? She’s got me doing something a man just oughtn’t to do.”

  “What are you talking about?” Graham stared at the man sputtering before him like a steam engine spinning its wheels on a greased track.

  “Jessie! And you! And that young lady, Miss Webster.” His face was coming close to matching the color of his neckerchief as he slapped the hat against his leg once more. “She’s pulled me into her schemes again.”

  Realization dawned on Graham with the brilliance of a summer sunrise in the mountains.

  Bart wailed, “I’m sorry, Graham. Men ain’t suited to matchmaking.”

  Graham tucked his thumbs in his front pants’ pockets and leaned back against the workbench. “That’s for certain sure.” Although he wasn’t pleased with the idea that the women had conspired against him, for that’s how he saw it, he wasn’t about to rage at the poor man before him, wringing his hands. “Relax. It’s just women doing what they do so well—meddling with a man’s life.”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “That it is.” Graham folded his arms and cocked his head to one side, considering the matter with greater interest. “So, what was it you were tasked to do? Talk me into the notion that a wife would make my life complete?”

  Bart blew out a long puff of air, just like that steam engine. “So, you know.” His cheeks reddened, and Graham surmised his natural complexion couldn’t prevent the flush from revealing his discomfort. “I wasn’t lying. Jessie has improved my life. I’m a better man because of her. The fact is, if a man stays in the mountains too long by himself, he’s missing out on a whole lot of the good things the Lord has provided.”

  Graham tugged at his bottom lip, studying the man’s earnest face. Even if he disagreed with Bart’s mission, he felt a mite of empathy for him. He didn’t dispute what the man was saying, not for a moment. Graham had known the gentling power of a woman. He knew the changes that could soften and at the same time strengthen a man’s heart.

  To marry again just to warm his bed was unthinkable. Even if Clara Webster was pert and pretty, a woman so insensible to the needs of her dog would most certainly be equally blind to the needs of a man.

  Chapter Eleven

  DECEMBER 9, 1891

  Lena tapped a finger against her lips as she stared at the new table Mr. Kincaid had constructed. “Let’s move the this.” Without waiting for help, she lifted one side of the table. “I think the window is a perfect place for it. There’s all this lovely light.”

  Clara balanced her paint brush on the edge of the plate she was using as a palette, and trotted across the room to help. After repositioning the table a few times, Lena let out a heavy sigh and collapsed onto the stuffed chair. “I was hoping to finish the braided rug today.” She sighed again and chuckled. “But I may take a nap instead.”

  Clara noted the dark circles under the woman’s eyes, wondering if she was sleeping well. Her uneasiness would be understandable, considering all that must be going through her head. “Would you like me to bring you some tea? And Jessie said she was baking muffins. I could bring one to you.”

  Before she could act on her own suggestion, Jessie stepped through the door carrying a tray with just the nourishment she’d mentioned. “Here you go, ladies. Gotta keep your strength up. Trust a lady with twins. You better rest now before your little girl comes.” Jessie placed the tray on the table and poured a cup for Lena. “Drink that before you lift a finger to do anything else.” She stepped back, folding her arms over her waist, resolute in posture.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lena said. “I wouldn’t think of arguing with someone of your unquestionable experience. Besides, I live here too and I’ve seen first-hand what you mean. I’m certainly hoping Rebecca’s energy is less than Tommy’s. I’m exhausted and she isn’t even here yet.”

  In the assertive voice she used with the twins, Jessie said, “You need to take a bre
ak, Lena. Clara and I can put up the drapes while you take a nap. I won’t hear any arguments on the subject.”

  Lena frowned. “But I want to finish the rug, and there are— “

  “No excuses! Get!” Jessie took the woman’s arm and led her from the room. “Go lay down.”

  Lena called back as she moved down the hallway. “All right. I’ll rest for just a few minutes.”

  “Don’t come back here for at least an hour. I mean it, Lena.” Jessie closed the door and took a step back, her forehead creased with concern.

  It wasn’t really her place, but Clara asked anyway, “Is something wrong?”

  Jessie waved a hand, like shooing away a fly. “Probably nothing more than me being a worry wort.” She pulled up a smile and looked at the drapes folded on the chair. “I can’t help right now since I have bread in the oven, but I can come back later and give you a hand. Is that all right?”

  “Of course. I have more work to finish on the painting.” Clara picked up her brush and dropped to her knees to add final touches to the fox she’d nearly completed.

  “I think I’ll try to convince her to go visit Dr. Reynolds.”

  Clara swung her head around to see Jessie still standing at the door. “Mrs. Hartmann?”

  “It’s just that she seems tired all the time, and I can’t get her to eat more than my little girl.” Jessie shrugged. She made a face and gave a light laugh. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing more than me worrying like I usually do. I guess I’d be a bundle of nerves too.”

  By the time Clara finished cleaning her brushes, Jessie had not returned to help her with the drapes. She’d heard the sounds of twins thundering in the hall, and men’s voices drifting in from the dining room. Jessie was either distracted or had simply forgotten with all the frantic pace of running the kitchen and keeping an eye on her children. That might be something she could do to help.