The men talked while she carried the plates and serving dishes to the kitchen to set on the table. Three kinds of pie waited there. Amethyst rubbed her midsection. Full as she was already, the pie didn’t even look appetizing. She moved the coffeepot to the hotter part of the stove after checking the firebox. Even if it wasn’t her kitchen, it felt good to be in one. Never would she have thought she’d feel that way. She glanced around at the white cupboards lining the light blue walls. Yellow-and-white-checked curtains matched the tablecloth. One door led to the pantry, where the temperature dropped due to the pie safe in the window. Should she whip the cream? Instead, she set a pan on the stove, filled it with hot water from the reservoir, and shaved soap into the water from the bar she found on a shelf behind the stove. After scraping the plates, she set them in the dishpan.
“You didn’t need to do all that.” Pearl, baby on her shoulder, returned to the kitchen. “But I appreciate it. I need to feed this young man, and then I’ll serve the pie.”
“The coffee is heating. How about if I pour the men some and promise them pie later? You feed the baby, and maybe Carly would like to help me by drying the silverware?” Amethyst smiled down at the little girl who peeked out from behind her mother’s skirt.
Carly nodded, eyes wide.
“You be careful, then,” her mother admonished.
“Carly, you can use the bench. We’ll put a towel down on it.” Amethyst motioned toward a bench pushed under the edge of the table. “You have the most practical kitchen I have ever seen.”
“My Carl watched me work and then figured out how to make things easier for me, what with cooking for guests so often.”
“He did wonders for a kitchen.” Amethyst thought of her kitchen at home. Almost everything was done on the old oak table. While there were shelves in the pantry, there were not nearly enough in the kitchen itself. When she got home, she aimed to remedy that. Pa wasn’t the only one who could saw a board or drive a nail.
The steam coming from the coffeepot spout said it was hot enough, so she looked around for towels to fold as potholders. Instead she saw squares of gingham, several layers thick, hanging by loops from hooks on the wall. “That what you use for holding hot things?” Amethyst inclined her head.
“Yes. Aprons and towels were never thick enough. I got tired of burning my hands, so I made those.” Pearl sat in a rocking chair near the stove, baby nursing sounds coming from under a flannel blanket she’d thrown over her shoulder.
“How old is the baby?”
“He’s almost seven months old, growing faster than a thistle in summer.” She lifted the blanket to check on her son.
‘ Carly leaned against her mother’s knee. “Tree?”
“Soon.”
“I’ll pour the coffee.” Amethyst took the pot and headed for the dining room. She poured coffee for each of the men. “You’re welcome,” she answered to their thanks and returned to the kitchen. What was it about that man? Most probably he still wore the air of command of an officer. In fact, he seemed to fill the room. But the twinkle in his one eye belied the idea that he was suffering from his wounds, though the limp and the flinch she’d caught when he wasn’t looking told her otherwise. He was a gifted storyteller, although her mother had always drilled into her that you do not ever listen to another’s conversations. But without any effort she could hear him talking at the dining room table. It wasn’t that she had her ear to a crack in the door, something she and Patrick had done as children.
The thought of Patrick whisked her back to Pennsylvania. What was the weather like there? Most likely there was snow on the ground, but not like here with the fences covered with snowdrifts.
“Miss.” A small hand tugged at her skirt.
“Yes, Carly?” Amethyst looked around. Here she was, daydreaming in the midst of washing dishes. “Sorry.” She quickly lifted the silverware from the rinsing pan and set it all on the towel on the bench.
The little girl pointed to the silver, dried and on the table. “Spoons?”
“You are a good dryer, Carly.”
“Yes.”
“Say thank you,” her mother prompted.
“Tank you.” She turned to her mother.
Amethyst chuckled. Ah, how she had missed Joel. She hadn’t realized how much until now that there was a real chance she would see him in the next day or so. Then they could buy his ticket and return to the East—and home.
Pearl fastened her bodice and set her son on her lap, rubbing his back. A hefty burp made Carly giggle and run to her mother’s knee to pat her brother’s back.
“Such a good helper you are.” Amethyst turned to Pearl. “What do you do with the dishwater?”
“In the summer I water my garden with it. Now I just throw it out the back door. We’ll use the rinse water for the next washing.”
“Just like home.”
“Tell me about your home.”
Amethyst shuddered from the icy blast when she threw the water out the back door. She wiped out the pan and hung it on a hook behind the stove. “We live on a small farm a couple of miles from Smithville. The farm used to be larger, but Pa gave part of the land to my brother Patrick, and now someone else lives there. Pa sold it after Patrick died and his wife disappeared.”
“You never mention your mother.”
“She died five years ago.” Of overwork and mistreatment. She died far before her time.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must miss her greatly.”
“Every day. So I take care of the farm and my father.”
“Is he not well?”
Amethyst wanted to turn and run. He’s as well as he wants to be. He likes his liquor a little too well. He’s well-versed in getting out of work. Instead of answering, she shrugged.
Pearl laid her son on a pad on the floor with some toys and retied her apron. “Carly, please play with Joseph. There’s a good girl.” Turning to Amethyst she continued, “I’ll whip the cream, and you cut the pie and put the slices on the plates.”
“Shall I ask them what kind they want?”
“No, we’ll have the pumpkin now, the apple later tonight, and keep the mincemeat in case someone comes by. Usually we would have church tonight but not with this weather. Nor most likely tomorrow either. In years past on Christmas Day our friends and neighbors took out their sleighs and went house to house visiting one another. Ah, the songs of the bells, the laughter. I love Christmas in Medora. Actually, I just love living in Medora and the Dakotah Territory.”
“You came from somewhere else?”
“Oh yes. From Chicago. One day I’ll tell you the tale.” She whipped even harder to get the cream to stiffen. “Whew, this reminds me of why we don’t have whipped cream very often.”
“Let me help.” Amethyst reached for the bowl and the egg beater. Finally the cream began to stiffen, and within a minute they added the sugar and a dash of powdered vanilla.
Pearl plopped a spoonful on each pie wedge and nodded to the coffeepot. “We better bring that too.”
A short while later the family, with the exception of Joseph, who’d fallen asleep and been put to bed, gathered in the front parlor. Pearl sat down at the piano and let her fingers wander over the keyboard until she segued into “O Tannenbaum.” Carly stared at her father as he lit the candles on the tree that stood proudly in front of the window. It was decked with carved wooden ornaments, popcorn chains, and dainty crocheted bells, wreaths, and snowflakes starched to hold rigid shapes.
Amethyst felt just like the little girl. Never had she seen such a lovely tree or floated on such thrilling music. While there was a piano in the church at home, those who played it never showed the skill and love of music that poured forth in this room.
“Ooh.” Carly turned to smile at Amethyst. “Pretty.”
“Pretty is right.”
One by one Carl lit each of the candles fastened to the branches of the tree. He nodded to Jeremiah McHenry. “Would you read the Christmas story to us? The Bib
le is open to the correct page.”
“Of course.” McHenry picked up the Bible and leaned closer to the kerosene lamp. “‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed…. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem….”’
The words flowed over Amethyst, bathing her in memories of when she was a child and Pa would read aloud. Even though he wasn’t the best reader, he had memorized the words and brought the Christmas story alive. Those were the years before he needed so much outside help to get through the days. When had he started drinking? Most likely the years he made moonshine, but then, maybe he made moonshine because he wanted a cheap drink.
Had he run out of firewood? She’d made sure plenty was split and stacked before she left. But she hadn’t planned on being gone so long.
“‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”’ McHenry’s voice sent shivers up her back.
She’d been sore afraid when she was so sick on the train. Thank God for Mrs. Grant. She fulfilled a female version of the good Samaritan.
All the while McHenry read the age-old story, Pearl played softly, rippling from one Christmas carol to another.
When they were finished, one would have thought they’d spent hours rehearsing. Both she and Carly applauded. Carl joined in.
“That was mighty fine,” he said. “Thanks to both of you. Now we better blow out these candles before they catch the tree on fire. You want to help me, Carly?”
The little girl slid off her chair and ran to his arms to be lifted up to blow out the higher ones. Her pa pinched each candlewick after she blew it out to make sure there would be no spark.
“I’ve never seen such a lovely tree before,” Amethyst whispered, as if speaking aloud would break the feeling of peace that had settled in the room.
With the quiet, one could hear the wind outside, but even it sounded less fierce than earlier, as though the birth of the Christ child calmed even the mighty storm, as only Jesus’ words could do.
“I thought we might sing the carols, but I think instead we’ll have our dessert and sing tomorrow in place of church. How does that sound?”
“Lovely.” Amethyst trapped a yawn before it embarrassed her. Perhaps she would see Joel tomorrow. What a Christmas present that would be.
CHAPTER TEN
After more pie and coffee Jeremiah excused himself. “Thank you for the delicious meal and perfect evening.”
“You are welcome.” Pearl nodded and smiled. “We’re glad you are here with us for Christmas.”
“I’ll bid you all good night, then.” McHenry stood and headed for the stairs. Be careful, he reminded himself. But even so his boot caught on the first tread, and he pitched forward.
“Oh, sir,” Amethyst said from right behind him. “Can I help you?”
“No! I’m fine,” he barked, as if ordering a platoon of new recruits who didn’t know right from left. Tell her you’re sorry, man. He glanced back to see a look of—was it fright or just shock on her face? She took a step backward, her face flushing.
He straightened his shoulders. “Pardon me. Oh, er…I’m sorry.” Sorry is right. You are one sorry excuse for a gentleman, Jeremiah McHenry. He ignored the inner reprimand and continued up the stairs, forcing himself to slow down and make sure he raised each foot plenty high enough. To cover his embarrassment, he admired the turned spindles of the stairs and the carved railing. While others would have just had a smoothed rail or board, this work of art felt like satin to the fingers, and the wood glowed with the finish. If I ever have a two-story house that needs a staircase, I know who to go to. In fact, think I’ll ask him to make me some chairs and a table. Maybe a rocking chair—a leather rocking chair. If he started now, he might have them done by the time I have a place to put them.
Jeremiah thought back to the homeplace where he grew up. Surely there was extra furniture there if he wanted to write and ask for some. Not that he would. His sister would demand he come back for a visit and then would insist he stay.
The idea of living under all the strictures of civilization made him shudder. Give him the badlands of Dakotah Territory any day. A low log house just like Rand’s would be more than adequate. Although he might have to go back east to find a wife. There were few women out here. Carl had told him about the death of Ward Robertson. Might Mrs. Robertson be interested in marrying again? His memory of her was of a rather comely hen with all her female chicks around her. After chastising himself for thinking about her ranch in conjunction with her good cooking, he shook his head. How would he adjust to living around civilians again? He’d left that kind of life a boy, and now he was an old man. Some days, when the pain was bad, feeling older than others. Or when he tripped again.
Shame Miss O’Shaunasy wasn’t planning on staying. Where had that thought come from? Not that she’d ever speak to him again after his oafish behavior. And the others had heard it too. What must they think of him? He shook his head as he slid between the sheets, warmed by two rocks near where his feet would be. His years in Arizona had made him forget Dakotah winters. That was one good thing about the southern territory—warm winters. However, the summers there were killers.
Remember to tell Mrs. Hegland thank you for that extra courtesy in the morning and apologize, he reminded himself as he drifted off to sleep without writing in his journal, something he had been faithful about for the last years.
His throbbing leg woke him long before he wanted to wake. He rubbed his thigh, the hole where the bullet entered still tender to the touch. The cratered flesh and accompanying scar were not a pretty sight. He left the warmth of his bed and dug his flask out of his carpetbag. A couple of good swallows would ease the pain rather quickly and help him get back to sleep.
Though he did fall asleep again, he was up long before dawn and writing in his journal by lamplight. He left off to watch as light streaked a thin line on the horizon, chased the cobalt away, blew out the stars, and woke up the rooster, who even in winter took seriously his job of announcing the sun. After painting the clouds in pinks, the heavenly artist added reds and oranges, outlined in gold, and soon a rim showed above the dark horizon. Like a prairie dog first testing the breeze, then showing his head, the sun popped up, and the land dazzled a welcome diamond-dusted white.
“Ahh,” Jeremiah breathed in delight. “I am home. Storms or not, Dakotah does sunrises and sunsets like no other place on earth.” He thought a moment. “Not that I’ve seen too much of the earth, but at least of what I have seen of this country.”
He heard the clank of stove lids, the murmur of voices, one female, one male. Glancing at his pocket watch, Jeremiah realized he was missing something. Reveille, that’s what it was—the bugler announcing the new day with the clear notes of reveille. The rooster came in a close second. Jeremiah noted in his journal that he would most likely find more than the bugle to miss about his army life, which had been most of his life—from age seventeen until less than a month ago.
The back door slammed. Carl must be going out to milk. I need to get out there and take care of Kentucky. If I leave him in that stall without walking around, he might get permanently stove-up. Maybe for his sake I should have waited out the winter in a warmer climate, as the general said. Possibly for both our sakes, he thought as he put his weight on the bad leg while putting on his pants. But rarely one for looking back, McHenry finished dressing and headed down the stairs. He’d lived his life with his mother’s motto, “You do the best you can and let God handle the rest.” Lord, please give me the words I need.
“Well, good morning, Mr. McHenry.” Pearl finished tying her apron as she spoke.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hegland. Please forgive my churlish behavior last night. I don’t see right—” He gestured to his eye patch.
“I understand. You’re forgiven.”
He breathed
a sigh of relief.
She continued, “And I’ll tell the others.”
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hegland.” His words were more heartfelt for her graciousness. “And thank you for opening your home to me. I cannot begin to tell you how I enjoyed the room, the bed, including the hot rocks, the quiet—” “You didn’t hear the baby in the night? I didn’t want him to disturb our guests.”
“I heard him and lay there thinking how long it had been since I’d heard a baby cry in the night. What a warm sound of a home and love within it.”
“Perhaps you’ll have one of your own one day.”
“I doubt it. Getting kinda late in life to have a baby.” He sighed. Was that another thing to miss? “Better get on out and take care of my horse. I’ve got hay at the station that we can bring out here if I can use the sledge. If you have one, that is.”
“Oh yes. Carl outfitted our wagon with runners for the winter. Hay is going to be at a premium if the weather doesn’t let up some.” She took out crockery bowls and wooden spoons as she talked. “Breakfast will be ready in about an hour. Thank God the blizzard blew itself out.”
“Ma?”
“Excuse me, Mr. McHenry. Yes, Carly?”
McHenry shrugged into his sheepskin coat, a remnant of his years stationed here in Dakotah Territory, and after watching the doorsill, he shut the door securely behind him. As soon as he stepped past the shelter of the back porch, the cold attacked with his first breath like broken glass slashing and burning its way down his lungs.
He flipped the end of his scarf over his lower face and pulled his broad-brimmed felt hat down more securely on his head. Even with no wind to speak of, the cold penetrated the wool of his pants and long johns, reminding him he didn’t want to stay out in this weather any longer than necessary. Even though the sun was shining, it held little warmth for the land. He followed the path of Carl’s boot prints and entered the barn through the smaller door in the shed side of the hip-roofed structure. Barns smelled like no other place on earth: oats, corn, hay dust, horse, cow, and dung. He sniffed again. Surely there was a pig here somewhere, and the chicken house took up a good part of the other shed side. With one more sniff, he was a boy on his way to milk the two cows and feed the rest of the stock. As the eldest, much of the chores had fallen to him until his brother grew old enough to take over while he helped his father with the fieldwork. To think that he’d dreamed of the glory of army life, barely passing his seventeenth birthday before enlisting, so afraid was he that the war would be over before he got in.
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