Maila’s eyes glowed. Not the glow from a mirror, reflecting him in a still pool. But the glow from a deep well of love he wanted to dip into and taste. She tilted her head to let him reach the rest of the pins holding up the thick chignon. “Then if I want to go back to nursing, you wouldn’t stand in my way?”
“Never. I’m proud of you. The world needs the ministrations of your hands.” He looked at her as he smoothed shiny chestnut waves down her shoulder. “And so do I.”
Maila blushed. In a husky voice, she asked, “Do you want to practice kissing me?”
“More than you can even imagine.” He dropped the pins into his shirt pocket. “Would you give me just a minute?”
“A minute?” The confusion rolled across her face.
“Just a second and I’ll show you.” Burton held her gaze with his as he backed into the room. He held up an index finger, signaling her to wait, and closed the door.
“Rose, I will always love and remember you.” He picked up the frame and looked at the beauty that once was his. “Always. But it’s time for me to love and live until we meet again.” He opened the wardrobe, moved aside his suit coats, and gently faced the oval glassed portrait toward the back of the cabinet. Maybe one day he and Maila would be comfortable adding her picture to a family wall. One day.
“Lord, into Your hands I commend Rose. Thank You for the blessing she’s been in my life. May we meet again in paradise.” He closed the wooden door. “Now please turn my heart to the gift of this new wife and the life You’ve given us together. Bless me with the ability to show Maila every day that I love her.”
He opened the door and invited Maila in by sweeping her up in his arms. “My bride deserves tradition. But even more, she deserves a husband who promises to love and cherish her.”
Maila leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I promise to love you, too.” She peeked up at him. “And to practice kissing my husband every chance I get.”
Burton laughed. “We might get pretty good at this marriage thing.” He kicked the door shut behind him as he dipped his head to taste the sweetness of her kiss.
Chapter 7
One Year Later
The pains came hard and fast, with mother guiding daughter as the next generation emerged. The infant’s squall whooshed through the parsonage like the month of March—a little lion entering and then quieting into a sleeping lamb.
After sixteen hours, Maila finally held her beautiful son. She tickled the tufts of freshly washed dark hair sprinkling the newborn’s tiny head. “Och, you’re beautiful,” she whispered and then kissed the tiniest ear she’d ever seen.
“Mama, he’s so precious.” Maila held her newborn son tight to her chest. “I could never send him away.” She caught her mother’s hand as she tucked in the fresh sheets. “Why, Mama? Why did you do it?” If Maila could understand, then maybe she’d be able to put the sense of being unwanted to rest even as the swell of maternal protection sang in her heart.
“Do what, mine lilla flicka?”
The shocked expression on her mother’s face surprised Maila. “Mama, you gave me this pitcher.” She gestured at the amethyst water pitcher on the nightstand. “You told me it was my inheritance, that you had too many mouths to feed, and I must make my way in the world. And then you sent me away from you.”
“You are so wrong. How could you think it so?”
Maila looked down at the peaceful babe, his eyelids fluttering in sleep. She pressed on. She had to find a way to forgive her mother. “How could I not feel abandoned? You sent me away, but you kept everyone else.” Never would she allow that to happen to her child. Never!
Mama threw a hand across her heart. “Nej, lilla flicka. Nej!” She crossed herself then, before continuing, “That Gud would strike me down before I would send you so.” Tears brimmed and spilled over her mother’s round cheeks, finding rivulets in the crinkles baked into her skin by farming in the sun.
“Then help me understand why you threw me into the wild.”
“Oh, that all of mine children were so smart. That I could give them the same chance I wanted for you.” She picked up the purple tumbler, filled it with clean water from the ornate pitcher, and handed it to Maila. “Drink, you need to make milk.”
Maila drank, if only to fill her mouth with something other than accusations. Sweet water that would help her body nourish this child of her prayers.
Mama took the cup and set it back on the stand. “Maila, I gave you this inheritance to sell. I never expect you keep it. But to hjälpa you pay for the school you wanted.”
“School?”
“I know it’s very valuable. My mama bring it from the Old Country.” She fingered the toll painting, tracing the little white flowers above the blue floral and curlicue design. “It was all I had. I want you become this nurse you talk so much about.” She sighed and splayed a hand toward the handblown glassware. “But here it is.”
“You didn’t tell me.” The tears coursed down her face now, too. “Mama, how could I know?”
“I had no more words.” Mama bowed her head. “It was too hard to let you go. I watched you walk down the road. When you disappeared, I stayed at mine door. I wait. Maybe she comes back, I said. Maybe she changes her mind, I said.” A tiny tremor shook her shoulders. “But not mine Maila. Not mine lilla flicka who is smart as she is so stubborn. Such a girl can be something more than a farmwife like her mama, ja? I’d have been an artist, if I could.”
Maila gasped. Her mother wanted to be more than a farmwife? The beautiful decorations in their home were handmade. But Maila had taken those for granted. They’d just always been there. Mama had sent her daughter away in order to give her the chance she didn’t have? “Mama, you were willing to give up the last thing you had from your mother? Why?”
Mama looked squarely into Maila’s eyes. “There is no thing more important than your Gud-given dreams. Ja?” Her eyes radiated a sacrificial wisdom. “It could not be in my life, but I could do this for you.” She raised both hands in dismay. “Who would think a girl would carry such a thing all over? You always do things the hard way, daughter. Always.” She stroked the baby’s cheek and then laid her palm against Maila’s cheek. “I give it to you and think.” She tapped her temple. “You know inheritance is to hjälpa you. But you don’t think to sell?”
Maila smiled through misty eyes as if seeing the sunshine on the other side of a waterfall. Her mother hadn’t thrown her away. She’d been trying to support her dream but didn’t have the words to say it. “Oh Mama.” She raised an arm to invite a hug while balancing her newborn against her shoulder. “It helped me so much. It helped me remember the people I love and to value my heritage. No, I never thought to sell it.”
“Oh well, maybe I was wrong on the smart part.” Mama lifted an eyebrow and delivered the line with a deadpan shrug. Then her lips twitched.
A laugh started deep in Maila’s soul, rolling out of her like bells peeling in the belfry. “Yes,” she chortled. “Evidently. Luckily, Dr. Baker thinks I am.”
“I’m proud of you, daughter. You did it. You are a nurse.” She hugged Maila. “And now a mama, too. I think you will soon understand wanting to give your son all you have, ja?”
“Ja, Mama.” Maila curled her arms around the little boy. “What do you suppose he will be?”
“Smart like his mama and a good man like his papa. Anything else is for Gud to show when the time comes.”
Burton pushed the door a smidgeon farther open. “Is it safe for a father to see his wife and son?”
“Ja, ja. Komma hit.” The new grandmother waved him over. The bed creaked as she stood. “Now, you two, when do we baptize this mite at the church?”
Maila held out her hand for Burton. “We’ll be sending you an invitation to the christening over at our church soon.”
“But it is our tradition—”
“I realize now that I’m a follower of Christ, regardless of the building I’m in.” Maila tugged her husband down be
side her. “I choose to be in agreement with Burton and to raise our children living out our faith.”
“Mama Holmes, I promise that as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” Burton leaned toward Maila for a kiss. Then he touched the tip of his son’s nose. “You’re a dream come true, little man.”
Epilogue
Christmas 1949
The Christmas tree blazed all evening with giant blue bulbs while Maila and Burton hosted their annual family decorating party. Their two sons and daughter came each Christmas Eve with spouses and children.
Maila returned from the big kitchen and put the candy canes in the crystal dish. The steaming cocoa, buttered toast, and marshmallows waited for the family to gather.
The last silver tinsel floated from petite fingers as William lifted his youngest daughter to finish the decorations.
William balanced his daughter’s feet on his thighs, took one hand at a time until she stood tall and trusting like an acrobat. “Flip.”
Rosa Lee grabbed tight, giggled as she jumped, and rolled in a ball until she unfolded safely on the rug with crinolines flouncing down around her.
All the family cheered and clapped at her gymnastics.
“Can I have cocoa with marshmallows?” Rosa Lee yanked on her daddy’s pants leg. “Grammy says it’s tradition. She said it all started during the Great Suppression!”
William laughed. “Depression, honey. It was a time when money was tight, sugar was hard to find, and we all gathered over toast and cocoa for our big feast. Grammy had just enough sugar to make cocoa for us for our Christmas present because her patient paid her in sugar that day when she did a house call.” He swung her up in his arms. “Your grammy was a really good nurse. And you know what? We liked that treat so much we decided to keep on having it every year.”
“Komma hit! I have it ready,” Maila called, soaking in the home full of people and love. Burton waited in the living room, looking at the family wall. At Rose.
Maila slipped her hand into Burton’s and laid her cheek against his shoulder. He wasn’t as steady as he once had been, but then, she sighed to herself, they’d had quite a life.
“Maila, it’s been fifty years since she went to be with the Lord.” His voice sounded a little muffled. “Fifty years today.”
She patted his chest. “I know, love. I know.”
“I still miss her.” Burton tilted his head to touch Maila’s. “But I wouldn’t trade the life we’ve had together, either.”
Maila smiled. “We’ll celebrate with her one day soon.”
Burton turned and took his wife in his arms. “But we have our fifty years to celebrate first.” His glasses slipped down his nose. “Mrs. Rutherford, would you do me the honor of renewing our vows for our anniversary?”
Maila slid his glasses back up into place and touched her nose to his. “What? You don’t remember them?”
He laughed. “I thought you might like to hear them again, but this time because I mean every word from the bottom of my heart.”
“Mr. Rutherford.” Maila placed her hands on his cheeks. “I’ve known you meant every word every day of our lives. You’ve lived them for me.” She pulled his face to hers. “But I don’t think that was a proper proposal if you want me to say yes to it. A man is supposed to be down on one knee.”
“Woman, if I got down there I couldn’t get up again.” He took her hands and laced them around his neck. “But I promise to keep loving you till the day I die.”
“Just don’t make that anytime too soon.” And she flounced away, as only a grandmother can, leaving a glint of a grin in her wake.
William captured his mother by the waist before she reached the dining room. Walking her back to the Christmas tree, he called his father over as well. “We need a picture for that anniversary announcement.”
With the tree on one side and their portraits on either side of the mantel clock, William snapped the photo with his Kodak. “There, we have then and now.”
“Burton, do you remember little James tugging Inga up the aisle on our wedding day?” Maila’s eyes crinkled into fans of humor.
“I only had eyes for my bride.” He placed a tender kiss on her temple.
Maila patted Burton’s cheek as she accepted his affection. “Oh Rosa Lee, you remind me of your Grand-Auntie Inga.”
“Grammy? Who’s that pretty lady by Grandpa’s picture?” Rosa Lee asked as she pointed to an ornate, antique portrait in sepia tones. “I see Mommy, Auntie Mary, and that’s even me.” She grinned in the way only a seven-year-old could at seeing her own photo on the family wall. “But I don’t know that lady.”
Maila looked at the beauty softly smiling from behind the oval glass. She’d graced the family wall for nearly fifty years. She belonged there. They all did. Because they held a place in memories and hearts and family stories.
“That’s Rose, my lilla flicka. Och, such an accomplished musician, she was.” Maila gestured for the little girl to come sit by her on the sofa. “Bring your cocoa here and let me tell you about my cousin, the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I wanted to be like her, but God made me to be just who I am….”
Angela Breidenbach is a descendent of Swedish, Scotch/Irish/English roots who loves genealogy and writing fictionalized versions of family stories. Yes, her grandparents really did marry because of town gossip! As the captivating host of Grace Under Pressure Radio on iTunes, Angela teaches how to become a woman of confidence, courage, and candor. Angela is the Christian Author Network’s president, a bestselling author of Christian romances, a professional book judge, and she’s half of the comedy duo, Muse and Writer, though her fe-lion, Muse, gets all the fan mail. Find her online at www.AngelaBreidenbach.com or in iTunes.
Mule Dazed
by Lisa Carter
Chapter 1
Montana Territory, 1885
Step away from the mule and get your hands in the air.”
The little feller stiffened. But keeping his back to Brax, he continued to unknot the lead that tethered the dun-coated mule to the railing outside the general store.
“You’ve caused the owners and me a pack of trouble this afternoon by setting the mules loose from the corral.”
Ignoring Brax, the small guy’s girlish fingers wrestled with the knot.
Brax—Sheriff Braxton Cashel—clenched his jaw. “I told you once. I don’t aim to say it again…” He jacked the hammer with his thumb.
At the metallic crack of the gun cocking, the little feller froze.
“Hands where I can see them and turn around. Slowly.”
The delicate hands convulsed around the loosed reins. “You sure you want me to raise my hands?”
High-pitched for a guy’s voice. This varmint was about to get on Brax’s last nerve. New to sheriffing, he’d never actually had to shoot anyone in peaceful Hitching Post, Montana. Yet.
But he might make an exception with this lightweight. The wiry figure in the too-large coat and ragged jeans tucked into black boots probably didn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Brax could take this dude down with one hand tied behind his back. “As sheriff, I’m ordering you to let go of the mule. Now.”
Underneath the wide-brimmed straw hat, Little Feller squared his shoulders. “Whatever you say, Sheriff. Just remember this was your idea.”
Brax started forward but too late. Little Feller slapped the reins against the mule’s hindquarters.
Kicking free, the favored contender for this year’s Mule Days Grand Champion careened down Main Street. Lining the boardwalk, women in their best bonnets screamed as the mule set off a chain reaction among the other mollys and jacks, wrenching free of their owners. Children cheered. Shopkeepers dashed out of storefronts. Men struggled to hold their prize mules in check. To no avail.
Dust billowed as the mules stampeded out of town. As the dust dissipated, all eyes swerved toward Brax. Waiting to see what he’d do. Expecting him to screw up again?
His eyes hardened as the shoulders under
the little feller’s bulky jacket bunched. In laughter.
Nobody disrespected the law in his town and got away with it. He—Braxton Caldwell Cashel—was the law. And it was high time people understood that.
Brax’s finger tightened on the trigger. He’d been made to look a fool in front of the townspeople again. And by this whippersnapper no bigger than a tadpole. “I ought to plug you one just for practice.”
Little Feller stopped laughing.
“If you don’t turn around with your hands up this instant, you’re going to have a sudden need for the doc. Maybe the undertaker, too.”
With exquisite care, Little Feller pivoted, hands in the air.
Chocolate-brown eyes glared at Brax. Then widened. Petal pink lips parted into a gasp.
With equal shock, Brax’s mouth fell open. “Crazy Hair, is that you?”
Why did he always call her that? Hattie wasn’t the same ten-year-old little girl with the wild, frizzy curls who constantly got into trouble. Trouble then fourteen-year-old Braxton Cashel had to rescue her from at the schoolhouse not far from her family’s Wyoming ranch.
But now an ominous silence reigned the length of Main, broken by the distant thundering of fifty hooves headed for Canada. She closed her eyes. It couldn’t possibly be him. Hoping—praying—the startlingly handsome young sheriff was a mirage of her fevered imagination. Hattie’s eyes flew open.
He wasn’t. She sighed. The square, lantern jaw. Those piercing sky-blue eyes rimmed in a darker indigo. The same tall, broad-shouldered boy she remembered.
Only no longer a boy. More broad shouldered. And more handsome, if possible. The former, somewhat lanky, boy who’d filled out in all the right muscular places. Her stomach did a curious flutter-flip.
Brax pointed the pistol at the ground. “Harriet from the Bronco B?”
The only one, besides her long-dead pa, who ever called her Harriet.
“Is it really you, Crazy Hair?”
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 12