by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
Jesus, You are so good to us. You sacrificed Your splendor to be born a man, and we did not appreciate it. The Prince of Heaven offered a manger. Each time I hear the words, I marvel at Your greatness—the most powerful of all brought to us as a helpless babe. I struggle with pride, yet Your example shows the meaning of true humility. Thank You for Your loving grace, which brings us such undeserved joy.
Her tears stopped, and she found Ewan watching her, his own face shining with the light of love.
“We’ve so many blessings to be thankful for this Christmas,” he said. “Christ’s own love is mirrored at this hearth. ’Tis been many a year since I took part in such a celebration.”
“We’re glad to have you, Ewan.” Rosalind stood and walked over to place a hand on his shoulder. His joy had been mixed with such wistfulness, she wanted to brush away the sorrow. “Shall we sing a few Christmas carols?”
“ ’Tis been too long since I heard the Irish Christmas Carol.” Ewan looked around hopefully. “Do you all know it?”
“Of course!” Luke hummed the tune. “ ’Tis Grandmam’s favorite.”
“Aye, ’tis.” Grandmam rocked back, smiling in remembrance and anticipation. “Why don’t you start it for us, Mr. Gailbraith?”
“I’d be honored.” Ewan cleared his throat and broke into the melody, his rich baritone flowing over the words as everyone joined in.
“Christmas day is come; let’s all prepare for mirth,
Which fills the heav’ns and earth at this amazing birth.
Through both the joyous angels in strife and hurry fly,
with glory and hosannas, All Holy’ do they cry…”
Rosalind closed her eyes and let the song wash over her. My family is well, Ewan is wi’ us, and we’re celebrating the Lord’s birth. What could be better?
When the final note quavered in the air, she opened her eyes. “Any other favorites?”
And so they praised the night away, singing beloved hymns such as “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Angels, from the Realms of Glory,” and “Joy to the World.”
When the candles guttered, eyelids drooped, and stomachs groaned with satisfaction, Ewan rose from the settle. “Will you walk wi’ me a wee while?”
Rosalind looked to Da for permission. At his short nod, she swirled her thick cloak over her shoulders and stepped into the night with Ewan. Only a single candle and the light from the heavens illuminated their path. Rosalind could see her breaths coming in little white puffs of the frigid night air as he pulled her close.
“Ewan, why are we stopping?” Rosalind stamped her feet to warm them as he set the candle on a sturdy log and took both her hands in his own. A curious warmth suddenly took away the chill.
“Rosalind,” he began, “there is an old Irish marriage blessing. Do you know it?”
“Nay.” Rosalind fixed her gaze upon him, understanding his purpose in bringing her outside. They were alone, under the stars, and he spoke of marriage!
She didn’t dare breathe as he recited the blessing:
“May God be wi’ you and bless you.
May you see your children’s children.
May you be poor in misfortunes
and rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward.”
He paused, giving her time to savor the sweetness of the words. “Rosalind, God has blessed me simply by letting me know you.” He sank to his knees, still clasping her hands. “I love you. Will you make me rich in His blessings and bring me even more happiness by saying you’ll wed me?”
Tears streaked down her face as Rosalind let out the breath she’d been holding to kneel in front of him. “Yes, Ewan. Oh yes!” She threw her arms around him and sank into his warm embrace as his lips sought her own.
He pulled away a short while later and fumbled in his coat pocket. “Here.” He held up a small, carved box, dwarfed by his palm.
Rosalind took it and opened the lid to find a simple gold band inside. She gasped as he drew it out and slid it onto her left ring finger.
“ ’Twas my mother’s.” His hoarse whisper made her realize his eyes shone with unshed tears. “ ’Tis all I hae left o’ her, and I know she’d smile to see the beautiful bride I’ve given it to.”
“And I’m proud to wear it,” she whispered. “I love you, Ewan Gailbraith.”
Chapter 17
Still no word as to when the circuit rider will pass through?” Ewan worked to clear underbrush and rotten logs from around the bases of the sugar maples.
“None. ’Twas a harsh winter, so ’tisn’t surprising.” Arthur grinned. “Probably settled in somewhere to wait it out. Don’t worry. Now that ’tis warm enough for the sap to run, he’ll turn up.”
“Good.” Ewan carried a load of dead brush over to where they’d have the boiling place.
Lord, winter begins to change to spring, and still Rosalind is naught but my intended! Close to three months now, I’ve waited as patiently as I can. I’m anxious to make her my bride in truth, though I see the wisdom in Your timing. I’ve yet to determine where I’ll set up household wi’ my Rosalind. If I stay, I’ll take Arthur’s livelihood. Should I go, I separate her from the family I’ve come to love as well.
“Hold a moment, son.” Arthur put a hand on Ewan’s forearm, halting him. “I wanted a word wi’ you. I know you want to be wed, and we’ve both been praying o’er where you’ll settle. But I was wondering whether you’re any closer to a decision?”
“I don’t want to take Rosalind away from Saddleback,” Ewan stated flatly before softening. “To tell the truth, I don’t want to leave, myself. And yet, should I stay…” He let the thought hang, unable to speak of the harsh reality to the man who’d been so kind.
“You’re worried you’ll take away my customers.” Arthur nodded. “I surmised as much when you asked my blessing. Hae you any solution to the problem?”
Ewan straightened his shoulders. “I’ve thought I might turn my hand to farming. I’ve a solid bit of money tucked away, more than I’d need for a good while. ’Twould do to seed a new spread, and I’m used to working wi’ my hands.”
“You’re a blacksmith, son.” Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, frowning. “ ’Twouldn’t do to try to change who you are.”
For the first time, Ewan noted how the fine lines about the older man’s mouth and eyes had deepened. Was it merely the strain of winter, or something else?
“I’m not a young man anymore.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’m starting to feel my age. The cold brings a stiffness to my fingers and a tightness to my chest.”
“I see.” And Ewan could see what it cost the great man to admit it. “Wi’ spring coming, that ’twill ease.”
“Aye, for a while. But each year the stiffness hae lingered a bit longer, and the twinges hae turned to steady aches.” Arthur looked ruefully at his strong hands. “I’ve seen forty-five years, Ewan. At this age, I’d thought to have a son beside me at the forge, taking on the lion’s share o’ the work.”
Ewan glanced back to where Luke snapped dead branches a ways off. He looked back to Arthur. They both knew Luke wouldn’t be the help to his father’s business that Arthur had hoped for.
“Aye, you see what I’m saying. Kaitlin and I lost two babes between Rose and Luke—one too soon to tell whether the child was a lad or lassie, and one boy. Our James didna live to see his second year.” Arthur’s eyes burned with a fierce light. “And we both know Luke isna fit for smithing, and I won’t hae him risking his life to try. I’ll not lose my son to pride.”
Not knowing what to say, Ewan simply nodded. He waited and listened, fighting not to compare Arthur with his own father. He’d begun to see where Arthur was heading with this conversation.
“Now the Lord hae seen fit to bring a fine man to my doorstep, who’s won my Rosey’s heart and hae proven himself a man of his word.” Arthur paused. “And he’s a blacksmith wi’ no forge to call his own an
d loathe to take my daughter far from our family. ’Tis no stretch to see God’s hand in this.
“I make a good living here, and wi’ the railroad tracks laid, more business will be passing through than a lone old man can handle. Ewan, I’d be honored if you’d work by my side at the forge.”
For a moment, Ewan couldn’t speak, choked by an avalanche of thoughts. I knew ’twas my lot to ever bear the burden of my poor decision. My da turned his back on me when I’d not yet reached the age o’ sixteen. In all the years since he went to America, I’ve not laid eyes on the man, though I’ve tried to track him down.
Now here’s a man not bound to me by blood, calling me “son” and asking me to stand alongside him.
“I’m the one who’s honored, Arthur.” Ewan embraced his father-in-law-to-be with a hearty slap on the back. “Though you’re no old man yet. You’ve a need for grandchildren before you claim that title.”
“And that’s another joy you’ll be bringing me.” Arthur stepped back. “I’ve high expectations,” he warned.
Ewan grinned. “I plan to meet every one.”
“Do you know what you’ll do when the circuit riding preacher finally does arrive?” Marlene drove a spike into one of the sugar maples. “Or has Ewan still said nothing about whether you’ll stay in Saddleback or not? I pray you’ll stay!”
“He’s mentioned trying his hand at farming,” Rosalind answered. “I think he fears taking away Da’s business if he opens his smithy here, but neither of us wants to move very far.”
“What happened to all your great dreams of travel?” Marlene stepped back as Rosalind pushed a trough into place beneath the hollow tube. “You’ve always said you want to see the world beyond our small corner of it. Not that I’m complaining if you’re choosing to stay here with us, mind.”
“I still do.” Rosalind moved to the next tree with a cleared base. “Wi’ the railroad tracks already laid, trains will start passing through. Ewan and I will hae the freedom to hop aboard whenever—and to wherever—we please and be back more quickly than I ever dreamed. Besides”—she gave a small smile—“I’m thinking marriage might be enough of an adventure to last a short while, at least. My own house will offer quite a change.”
“Most likely,” Marlene agreed. “I know I can’t wait for mine! With spring upon us, my Johnny should be coming back any day.” She peered about as though half expecting to see him pop out from behind the tree she just finished tapping.
“Or it could be a month,” Rosalind gently reminded. Seeing the shadow creeping over her friend’s face, she quickly changed the subject. “And what of Johnny? Will Da have to expect competition from your beau?” She said it lightly but couldn’t hide the tinge of concern she felt. Da, Ewan, and Johnny? ’Tis two too many blacksmiths for a single town, even wi’ the railroad trade.
“Oh no.” Marlene brushed her concerns aside and tripped over to the next tree. “Johnny doesn’t actually like smithing. Says it’s hot, dirty, and loud. He’d prefer to be a wainwright, just working on wheels. I’m glad I won’t be washing soot from his shirts every week! Does that put your mind at ease?”
“Yes.” Rosalind didn’t pretend not to know what Marlene meant. “Mayhap Da will be the blacksmith, Ewan the farrier, and Johnny the wainwright as Saddleback grows larger. The railroad will bring people. Our skilled menfolk will keep them nearby.”
“That’s a thought.” Marlene handed the auger to Rosalind. “Of course, Johnny needs to come back and the preacher needs to show up before any of those plans will bear fruit!”
“Parson Burchill always had a fondness for maple sweeties.” Rosalind moved on to the final tree in the immediate area. “Wi’ the lure of those along wi’ the welcome of warmer days, he’ll turn up soon.” She stepped back to survey her work. “I hope.”
Talk turned to their hope chests as the girls made their way back to the sugaring-off shelter. They found everyone congregated there, waiting for the wooden troughs to fill.
The Twadleys, Horntons, and Prestons would be tapping trees nearer to home, so only a few households were represented out here. The MacLeans; Ewan; Marlene’s parents; Brent, of course; and Marlene’s uncles, Jakob and Isaac Albright, with their mail-order brides; made up the work crew. Grandmam sat bundled by the boiling fire, overseeing everything to her heart’s content. Fourteen neighbors welcoming spring and greeting each other after a long winter of snowy solitude—the sugar they’d make this day only sweetened the cheerful meeting.
They snacked on cold biscuits and cheese, chatting about anything and everything until it was time to get to work. The sap ran from the trunks in thick, gooey streams. As the hollowed troughs filled, everyone took care to replace them with empty ones and pour the bounty into buckets. The first troughs filled always made the very best sugar, so they boiled separately.
“Amazing how the ants always appear, isn’t it?” Marlene brushed a few of the insects away, saving them from drowning in the sap. “And they never learn that the sap will kill them.”
“Don’t worry. You know the milk foam will bring all the bugs and bits o’ bark to the top, and we’ll skim it out,” Rosalind teased. She knew that was Marlene’s least favorite part of the sugaring.
“I remember,” her friend spoke flatly. “Better out with the foam than floating in my syrup, though.” She gave a shudder.
They hauled full buckets back to the boiling fire, handing them off to their mothers and Luke, who watched the sap boil with eagle eyes as it separated into syrup and sugar. A smaller pot hung with the other large ones, promising a special treat.
Everyone took turns emptying troughs, filling buckets, watching the boiling sap, and shooing away greedy squirrels and dogs that crept close enough to pose a threat. Humans weren’t the only ones who had a taste for something sweet every now and again.
“ ’Tis hard work,” Ewan commented. “Though the rewards will be sweet enough to merit it. I’d not thought the animals would cause problems. Shouldn’t the fire and noise scare them away?”
“You’d think.” Rosalind walked with him to the farthest sugar maples to check the troughs. “But there’re actually stories about livestock trying to steal a taste.” She caught his disbelieving look. “Really! There’s an old tale about a prize bull named Prince who popped his head into one of his owner’s tins of hot sugar. The heat shocked him so that he ran off wi’ the best of the batch stuck all around his muzzle, and the cows followed!”
“There’s a yarn, to be sure.” Ewan shook his head. “Though I don’t doubt you believe ’tis the truth, Rosalind.”
“What?” She stopped dead in her tracks. “You think that I’m easily taken in by false stories, do you now, Ewan Gailbraith?”
“No.” He held up his hands in mute apology. “I just meant that you wouldn’t knowingly pass on an untruth. You’ve too strong a character for something like that. ’Twas a compliment!”
“From the man who tells stories of conductors wi’ bears and three-man-hunts for a solitary lost railroad spike.” She shook her head. “They’re naught but tales told to teach us.”
“And what is the story of the bull and the maple sugar supposed to teach us?” Ewan folded his arms across his chest.
“To keep close watch o’er the things we value,” Rosalind explained, “lest someone more daring come and take it away.”
“In that case”—laughing, he swept her into his arms—“I suppose I should just keep a tight hold on you. Even though it seems Brent has accepted our engagement, I’d rather be careful.”
“Ewan!” She reluctantly pushed away. “We’ve work to be doing. Now isn’t the time to be stealing kisses—wi’ half the town only paces away!” She moved to pick up the dropped bucket.
“Seems like the perfect time.” He stepped close once more. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “After all, we’re harvesting sweets today.” With that, he pressed his lips to hers in a fleeting caress before swiping the bucket from her.
“You’
re incorrigible,” she said, the sting of the reprimand stolen by her flushed cheeks and gentle smile.
“I’m in love,” he corrected, sweeping her hand into his. “And in the mood to celebrate. Your da has asked me to work alongside him at the smithy. I’ll not need to forsake my trade to turn my hands to a plow nor move us from Saddleback.”
“Oh Ewan!” This time she threw her arms around him. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? This is wonderful news—just perfect!”
“And so”—he planted a swift peck on her nose—“are you.”
“I hate to disappoint,” she warned, “but no one’s perfect.”
Chapter 18
I hate to say it, Rosalind, but you were right.” Ewan sat heavily on a log placed by the fire for that purpose. “You’re not quite perfect, after all.” He shook his head.
“I know,” she responded, looking puzzled. “But what, in particular, has made you change your mind so very quickly?”
“How can you like this better than the corn husking?” He winked. “I happen to have some very fond memories of that day.” His roundabout mention of their first kiss made her blush that delightful pink shade he’d come to be so fond of.
“ ’Tis harder work than the corn husking,” she admitted, not taking the bait. “And ’tis far colder, too, but my favorite part of the day is coming up now. You’ll change your mind back soon.”
“I look forward to it.” He gave a mighty stretch.
“You’ll need this.” She handed him a small wooden spoon with a rather long handle. “And you’ll want to follow me.” He watched as she took the last pot left on the fire—the smaller one that’s sap had boiled down to a sludge-like syrup—and walked around the shanty and out of sight.
He hurried to his feet and followed, finding everyone eagerly crowding around Rosalind and her still-hot pot—each of them brandishing one of the curious wooden spoons like his. He watched as she set the pot on a sturdy old tree stump and backed away until she stood beside him.