by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
“Ja.” Mrs. Freimont waved for her to go up into the loft where Marlene’s bed reposed. Rosalind guessed that her friend had been up there since they’d come back from the diner.
“Marlene!” she called out in a hearty voice as she ascended the ladder. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing this afternoon.” She poked her head over the ladder to find Marlene sitting atop her bed, evidence of recent tears staining her white pillowcase.
Not a good sign, Rosalind inventoried, though she’s not crying now. That’s more hopeful. Oh, unless she’s cried so much she can’t cry anymore. And I thought some blue candles would help?
“Don’t stand on the ladder all day,” Marlene sniffed. “Come on up.” She patted the mattress beside her and gave a ghost of a smile. “I promise I won’t say anything awful.”
“Hush.” Rosalind stooped into the loft and sat beside Marlene. “I brought you a little something.” She passed over the candles.
“They’re purple! No, blue?” Marlene squinted in an attempt to determine. “Whatever did you put in the wax for color?”
“Mam added blueberry juice, and I thought they were a little more blue than purple, though I wouldn’t argue wi’ you on the matter.” Rosalind took a deep breath. “Smell them.”
“Mmm…” Marlene inhaled a few times before she put the candles down. “They make me want to eat some blueberries.”
“ ’Tis almost the same thing as what I said!” Rosalind laughed. “Still, I think ’twas a marvelous idea. Think of all the different things we could use! Raspberries for summer, apples for fall—and the berries at least would turn the whole batch pink.”
“Custom candles,” Marlene said. “Think of it—candles to match the color of your quilt or curtains, whichever you like.”
“What would you use for green or yellow?” Rosalind tried to think of anything that would work. “I can only think of green beans or such, and I wouldn’t want that scent all the time.”
“Nor I.” Marlene thought a moment. “We could stir pumpkin juice with a stick of cinnamon and see how that turns out.”
“Maybe. That would give us something like yellow. But I don’t like the smell of raw pumpkin o’ermuch—just baked.”
“That’s what the cinnamon is for, Rose.” Marlene leaned back on her elbows and stared up at the ceiling rafters. “I can’t believe he’s already gone. Here yesterday, and today—”
“Working to save up for your wedding,” Rosalind broke in. “And we both know your da would say you’re too young to wed for a while yet. Johnny’s doing what’s best for your future, Marlene. He’ll come back.”
“Do you really think so?” Marlene plucked at a loose string on her quilt. “He won’t meet some other girl before then?”
“Not one who could cast you from his memory. God made you special, and none can compare.” Rosalind’s heart ached at her friend’s forlorn look. “He’ll be back afore you know it.”
“I’ll know it the second my Johnny walks back into town,” Marlene declared with her old confidence. “I know it will take a year or two before our home is ready—it takes so long to clear land, raise a house, and start a farm—but at least he’ll be with me then. For now, I’ll just have to think about something else.” She looked at Rosalind with a speculative gaze. “So, how do you plan to get Ewan to propose?”
Chapter 12
No, not like that.” Grandmam shooed Rosalind away from the stuffed goose. “You keep it in the juices so it stays moist.”
“I’d thought to add flour and such to make a bit o’ gravy.” Rosalind shrugged and slid a loaf of pumpkin spice bread from the old niche at the hearth. When Mam and Da first built the house, they’d not had a stove to call their own. Now, for Thanksgiving Day, every cooking contraption had been called into service.
“You make it right,” Mam sided against Rosalind, “and there’s no need for gravy.”
“Da likes it for his potatoes and dressing,” Rosalind pointed out. “ ’Tis no insult to the bird.”
“Aye.” Grandmam’s shoulders relaxed. “My Cade loved a dribble of thick gravy on his mashed potatoes, too. But you wait until the last possible moment—not until after the Thanksgiving Meeting.”
“Right.” Rosalind pinned an errant curl behind her ear. “I should hae remembered that. When did I become such a muddled miss?”
“Oh”—Mam gave her a sideways look—“I’d say about the same time Ewan decided to stay through the lonely winter.”
“Mam!” Rosalind shook her head but smiled at the truth in her mother’s words. “ ’Tis happy I am we’ve so much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving Day.”
“And you want it to come off just right”—Grandmam shuffled back to her rocker—“and make sure you show Ewan he’s made a sound decision, that’s what ’tis.”
“I hope I’m never so ungrateful as to o’erlook the others I’m blessed with.” Rosalind walked over to give the old woman a hug. “Ewan’s not the only one I thank God for.”
“Aye.” Mam came by to join the embrace. “Rose has the right o’ it.”
“All the same”—Grandmam settled back more comfortably after the moment passed—“I’ve the notion you ought to wear your best blue dress for the festivities today, Rose. It draws attention to your sparkling eyes.”
“I’d already planned to,” she admitted. “After all, Thanksgiving is a time when we thank the Lord by putting forth our best efforts!”
“Aye.” Da stepped into the warmth of the house, trailed by Luke. “ ’Tis glad I am to hear my women speak such humble thoughts.”
Rosalind raised her eyebrows toward Mam and Grandmam—they had, after all, just been discussing a sort of vanity. Neither gave the slightest hint of amusement but carried on as though Da had the right of it.
It brought to mind Grandmam’s old lesson: A still tongue gathers praise when a busy one catches naught but air.
“Luke!” Rosalind gently slapped his hand away from one of the carefully arranged platters of food. “You know that’s for the community dinner!”
“But picnic eggs are my favorite!” His brown eyes pled for a wee taste.
“Just one.” Rosalind handed him one of the boiled eggs, hollowed and refilled with a mashed mix of yolk, lard, pickle brine, and salt. They happened to be a favorite of hers, too. She popped one into her own mouth as she rearranged the platter to cover the empty spaces they’d made.
“We’ll change into our Sunday best and make our way to the Freimonts’ for the special Thanksgiving service.” Da’s declaration was the cue for everyone to fly into action, readying themselves to leave.
Rosalind helped prepare the dishes she, Mam, and Grandmam had worked on since the day before for carrying to Delana’s kitchen. This Thanksgiving would bring a feast the likes of which Saddleback had never seen before!
With the work done, Rosalind slipped into her blue cotton dress, straightening the crisp white collar that framed her face with starched purity. She smoothed her hair one last time and pulled on her cloak and gloves.
“Is everyone ready?” Da turned to check, and Ma plunked the platter bearing the stuffed goose into his open arms.
Everyone else took up a dish or two before stepping outside, and Rosalind found Ewan about to knock on their door. She favored him with a smile as he took the basket of biscuits from her and offered her his arm.
“Thank you.” She slipped her hand into the warm crook of his elbow and set off.
“My pleasure.” He took care to shorten his stride, going slowly so she wouldn’t have to rush to keep alongside him.
Such a thoughtful man. She peeked up at him. And such a handsome one. The Lord had outdone Himself the day He fashioned Ewan Gailbraith, and she meant to give thanks for it. After all, it wasn’t every day a girl walked before the town in her best dress, on the arm of a kind, handsome suitor as they prepared to praise God for another wonderful year. No, days just didn’t get any better than this.
The wide Montana sky stretch
ed before them, clear as could be. The air crisped with the nip of winter’s cold, but the sunshine chased thoughts of snow away. They reached the Freimonts’ home in a few moments—far too soon, to Rosalind’s way of thinking. She reluctantly slipped her hand from Ewan’s arm, taking back the biscuits and following the women into Delana’s kitchen.
The warm fragrance of baked apples wrapped itself around her like a welcome as she set the basket on one of two already-too-full tables. Pies, loaves of flavored breads, biscuits, muffins, corn cake, and maple sweeties vied for space between roasted chicken, turkey, and goose. Dishes of mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing, coleslaw, and Rosalind’s deviled eggs crowded in alongside. She’d never seen such a feast—the women of the town had really outdone themselves this year. But though the kitchen seemed full of busy women, several of them were missing.
Rosalind took a swift tally. Jakob and Isaac Albright’s mail-order brides bustled back and forth importantly as Delana and Marlene worked furiously over the red-hot stove. Mam, having made sure all the dishes were deposited in the warmth of the kitchen, was bundling Grandmam into a chair in the corner. A glance out the window showed the Twadley girls, along with the Hornton and Preston women, hovering close by, fingering each others’ woolen capes and laughing in the spirit of the day. The men plunked benches into neat rows, preparing for the Thanksgiving service.
Rosalind gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. All present and accounted for. By God’s grace, everyone in the entire community had gathered to give thanks.
Rosalind’s gaze drifted past the chatting women to where Ewan held a serious conversation with the Freimont men. The earnestness of his gaze grabbed her heart, and his sudden smile brought a matching one to her own face.
This Thanksgiving, no one has more to be grateful for than I do. Thank You, Jesus, for bringing Ewan into my life. ’Tis more than I’d dared hope for.
Ewan looked up from his discussion with Dustin Freimont and spied Rosalind peeking at him through the window. At his quick wave, she grinned and ducked out of sight.
Ah, Lord, thank You for my precious Rosalind. Has it really only been a matter of mere weeks since You brought her into my life? He paused for a moment, considering the fact that he’d arrived in her hometown. Or rather, You led me to her? Either way, the result is the same—we’re together. For that, I’ll be forever grateful, Father. Though the winter ahead may seem long and at times lonely when we’re snowed in, apart from one another, the knowledge that she’s nearby and safe will be a treasure I cherish. The only thing that could make this day—nay, this entire season—better would be if Johnny were here to share his joy wi’ Marlene as I am able to share my happiness wi’ my Rosalind. Father, keep an eye on the lad as he works through this winter. I’ve the notion You’ll see him work harder than ever before. You’ve given him a new motivation in little Marlene. Thank You, Father.
At that final word, a cloud passed over Ewan’s bright day, and he frowned in sudden sorrow. And Lord, please watch o’er my own da, wherever he may be this day.
Ewan looked up to see the townspeople taking their seats upon the rough benches that served as pews. He scanned the crowd to find Rosalind’s family before wending his way toward them and settling himself beside her. As the light fragrance of rosewater reached his senses, he smiled once more.
Dustin Freimont stood before the congregation in lieu of the circuit riding preacher. The man cleared his throat, a last minute call for the attention of those still shifting about. When all were watching, he spoke. “We all know that today is the day of Thanksgiving, where we show our gratitude to the Lord above for the blessings He’s given us, and we remind our loved ones how we appreciate them.” He stopped to shoot a glance at the pretty, older blond woman Ewan recalled as Dustin’s wife, Delana. “I’d like to start the day with a hymn. I believe we all know ‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’ ”
Ewan sat back and let the song wash over him, joining in as the half-forgotten melody grew full with the voices of many.
“For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies;
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.”
How fitting, Lord. Wi’ the beauty of the glorious skies above us and the rich earth beneath our feet, we are truly surrounded by Your love.
“For the joy of human love,
brother, sister, parent, child;
friends on earth and friends above;
for all gentle thoughts and mild:
Lord of all, to Thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.”
And this. When for the first time in years I am wi’ people I love as I would family. And wi’ Rosalind, who I bear husbandly affection for although we are not yet wed. This is fitting, for ’tis the people of Saddleback who are its greatest lure, and their souls Your greatest treasure.
The hymn came to an end all too quickly, but Ewan listened closely as Dustin began to speak once again, his Bible open to the passage he and Ewan had been discussing scant moments before. “Ewan Gailbraith, a newcomer to Saddleback, saw me rifling through the pages of my Bible in search of Psalm 65 this morning. And, while it is a wonderful passage advocating that we thank the Lord for His bounty, I seem to recall reading the same chapter and verse last year. But the Word of Christ”—he held up the Bible—“is full of wisdom, and Mr. Gailbraith directed my attention to the book of Deuteronomy. I’ll be reading from chapter 8 this morning.” With a nod to Ewan, he took a breath as though to begin. But no words came for a moment.
“Actually”—Mr. Freimont pinned him with an intense gaze before continuing—“I, for one, would be glad to have you do the honors.”
Ewan blinked as the other man gestured for him to come up. Several others were nodding, and Rosalind went so far as to give him an encouraging nudge. He got to his feet and made his way before the congregation before accepting Mr. Freimont’s Bible.
“This is irregular,” Dustin Freimont admitted. “But it seems to me that the verse is fitting, and it’s equally fitting to have the man who chose it be the one to speak on it.” With this, he went to sit beside his wife, leaving Ewan alone before the population of Saddleback.
“Well,”—Ewan cleared his throat—“I can’t say I’ve ever filled in for a preacher before, so I apologize in advance for my inexperience. That being said, this is a verse I keep dear to my heart, and I hope you’ll do the same.
“Deuteronomy, chapter 8, verses 7 through 10: ‘For the Lord thy God bringeth thee into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills; a land of wheat, and barley, and vines, and fig trees, and pomegranates; a land of oil olive, and honey; a land wherein thou shalt eat bread without scarceness, thou shalt not lack any thing in it; a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig brass. When thou hast eaten and art full, then thou shalt bless the Lord thy God for the good land which he hath given thee.’ ”
Ewan paused to let the words sink in. “Now, I hadn’t thought to speak on this passage, but a few things do come to my mind. First is that the Lord our God has brought us all into a good land, a land of brooks of water, valleys and hills, and wheat…. Those words weren’t written about the Montana Territory, but they certainly do an excellent job of describing nature’s bounty in this area.” Several people were nodding, and he warmed to his speech.
“And when I see the good folk who’ve settled here, sensing that God has been welcomed into this community—and smell the food in the kitchen—it seems to me that we don’t lack any good thing. And how appropriate ’tis that verse 10 speaks of eating and being physically full of the things God has given us in His care for our souls, that we may bless Him for all He’s given us.” He looked around, giving just one more comment. “So it seems to me, we should get to that eating so we can bless Him with full hearts and
bellies!”
The men chortled their approval and everyone clapped, nodding their agreement with Ewan’s assessment.
“Before we sit down to enjoy the fruits of our labors and the skills of our women’s hands, I’d like to lead us in a simple praise—an old favorite.” Ewan tilted back his head and sang the verse, singing it again as the townspeople joined in:
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow;
praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.”
As they all sat down to the best spread Ewan had ever seen in his life, he looked over at Rosalind, and the words of praise echoed in his mind once again.
Your blessings hae flowed upon me, Jesus. I praise You above all others, and thank You for Your loving grace. Amen.
Chapter 13
After being uninhabited for so long, this place needs a bit o’ upkeep, Ewan mused after a night spent trying to bundle up against chill drafts. I’ll see if I can get some pitch to fill in those gaps.
He gulped his too-hot coffee in an attempt to warm up and ate his fried eggs straight from the pan. No sense making extra dishes to wash when no one’s around to quibble about niceties.
Then he went to the firmly shut curtains and thrust them aside, eager to see the glow of the sun—and the warmth it promised. After working a forge for so many years, heat was more natural to him than cold would ever be.
He blinked at the view before him. Snow! A blanket of white covered the ground, coated tree branches, and dusted his windowpane. No wonder ’twas so cold—a snowstorm blew in o’ernight. Ewan pulled on an extra pair of socks, then struggled to jam his boots over them. He took his coat from the peg by the door and slid it over his shoulders before plunking on his seldom-used hat and mittens. Blacksmiths rarely had use for the things.
Girding himself for a cold wind, he opened the door and stepped outside. Before he so much as drew a breath of fresh air, something whizzed over to plunk on his jacket.