A Log Cabin Christmas Collection

by Margaret Brownley; Jane Kirkpatrick; Kelly Eileen Hake; Liz Johnson; Liz Tolsma; Michelle Ule; Debra Ullrick; Erica Vetsch Wanda E. Brunstetter

  “Didn’t mean to be the bearer of bad tidings.” He cleared his throat. “I need this list filled.” He handed her a page torn from a ledger book. “I can help you pull things,” he said. “Make it go faster. I know you keep your molasses on the top shelf.”

  “No, no. That’s my job,” Mary assured him. She wiped her hands on her apron, smelled the lavender she put into the soap when she washed, and remembered Dale again. He’d loved the scent of lavender. “I’m not so old and decrepit that I can’t fulfill my duties to the good citizens of Brownsville,” she told Laird. “Why don’t you tend to your other business and come back in about an hour?” She didn’t want to be stuck with him hovering over her as she put lantern oil, salt, cone sugar, safety matches (she imported them from Sweden), seeds, needles, molasses, and a dozen other items into the wooden box he’d brought in for her to fill. “It shouldn’t take too long,” she said cheerfully. “I thank you for your business.”

  He nodded then sauntered out, his eyes scanning the room as he left.

  Checking on my inventory, she thought. He always had suggestions for new things she should be carrying or ways to display her wares, but she liked to keep it the way she and Dale had arranged it.

  She returned to finish counting her buttons. The act of counting and the idea of giving them away brought comfort to her restless soul. “Give and ye shall receive” scripture told her. “Fifty. Just right.” The ivory, shell, and tin buttons looked festive through the clear, thin apothecary glass jar. She decided not to tie a ribbon around it so it would look more like a leaving, something left behind, and not an actual gift. The widow could likely use the jar later for something else if she wished. When little Jennifer came in for her hard candy, Mary planned to send the buttons home with her with a note asking that the widow “take them off her hands.” She set the jar on the plank counter.

  Now she tended to Mr. Lawson’s order so if he came back early she’d already have his bill posted and wouldn’t have him in her store when other customers came in. As she worked, she kept Dale’s spirit with her, letting the logs wrap their thick round arms around her for comfort. She checked off each of the items on Mr. Lawson’s list and then set the box aside, finished. She noted that he hadn’t ordered any large, more expensive items like a new axhead or a scythe. She supposed he was buying the more costly equipment at Cooley’s or the new Smith store. He did request a needle case, and she happened to have an ivory one. She hoped he’d not think it too expensive.

  Once again the door bell jangled. Back already? Mary lifted her eyes but notto Laird Lawson. Instead, it was a man wearing top boots, his pants tucked neatly inside, and a leather vest over a shirt with a collar. He stared at her with one brown and one blue eye. His smile would smooth wrinkles from a well-worn dress.

  She brushed her hands on her apron. She rarely saw top boots in these parts. Men here mostly wore brogans to resist the snow and mud. And those eyes… “May I help you?” Mary asked.

  “You may not,” the man said. “But the proprietor of this fine establishment can.” He looked around. “I love cat-and-clay chimneys and puncheon floors.” His eyes gazed at the ceiling. Mary wondered what he thought of the cobwebs she hadn’t broomed away.

  “My husband and I built this store together,” she said. “Found the logs, dragged them with horses and prayers, and with our neighbors raised it up.”

  “It’s a fine store,” he said, and then turned back to face her and added, “My name is Richard Taylor, of the New England Taylors, at your service.” He swept his bowler hat from a head of hair as yellow as sunflowers. Soft curls nestled at his neck, but he was otherwise clean-shaven with close-cropped sideburns. The curl behind his ear reminded her of a small child’s just before a first haircut. He stood erect in his pants and vest, though his collar looked to need starching. A well-portioned man. Good confirmation, Dale would say if he were here and the man a horse. Mary blinked. What am I thinking?

  “I represent the Barbour Brothers,” he continued. “Thomas, Robert, and Samuel, formerly of Ireland and now of Patterson, New Jersey, where last year they built a flax mill and where they produce this fine, fine line of thread.” He carried a leather case and set it on the counter, pushing the jar of buttons aside. He reached into the satchel and then stopped. “But I’m ahead of myself. Will you secure your husband so I may make his day as well as yours and not repeat myself nor waste the time of such busy folks?”

  “I’m the owner of this store, my husband being deceased. Mrs. Bishop.” She introduced herself. She noticed the softening of his eyes at the mention of Dale’s death, eyes that warmed like late-night coal ready for stoking.

  “Ah, my mistake, my terrible mistake.” He lowered his eyes to where he saw Lacy staring up at him. “Will your mistress forgive me?” he said, his hands out as if pleading. Lacy’s tail began to wag. “Your dog has a forgiving heart,” he said as he looked at Mary. He gave her one of those puppy-dog looks that follow a broken cup just knocked off of the table.

  His expression of exaggerated remorse made Mary smile. “At least you didn’t ask to see my son, the owner,” she said fluffing the white bun at the nape of her neck. Now why did I bring up my age and draw attention to my white hair?

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” he said. “But I surely meant no disrespect by suggesting you weren’t capable of being the owner. I rarely see female proprietors. Here, let me show you what I’ve brought that will delight you.” His eyes stopped at the button jar. “I see you have a fine selection of shell and ivory.”

  “Those are for a friend,” she said, “who cuts all the buttons off her children’s clothing before running the shirts and pants through the labor-saving washer device her husband gave her for Christmas shortly before he died. The ringer breaks the buttons, you see. Then she sews them back on before Sunday church.”

  “What people do for love,” he mused. “And what a generous spirit you have to cut down some of her time. How many children does she have?” Mary held up eight fingers. “Ah,” he said. He looked at her as though he might say something further, but instead he took from his leather bag a large cone of thread and tore off the white paper protecting it, revealing the most brilliant ruby color Mary had ever seen. “Named Rosa Red,” he said. “Names are important, don’t you think? A name sets your mind free to imagine. It’s yours for a pittance; I assure you.”

  If Dale had been here, he’d have kept any smile from his face and begun to bargain. But Mary was taken by that red thread or maybe by this man’s savory voice, his stunning eyes. She held the cone in her hand, fingered the smooth flax. It was beautiful. She could see her quilting customers liking this brilliant color. “I’ll take three spools.”

  “Three?” Mr. Taylor blinked those colorful eyes. “Well, that’s wonderful indeed, but wouldn’t you like to look at the other colors first? Maybe you’ll want one of each, Mrs. Bishop.”

  “Please. Call me Mary,” she said. She felt her face grow warm with her boldness, giving a stranger her given name. “But I’m partial to red.”

  “Why thank you. And you must call me Richard, if you please. You must be quite a seamstress,” he said, digging for what Mary supposed was his order form. Firm arms flexed beneath his white cotton shirt as he pushed things around in the satchel. “Such a good eye for quality.”

  “For my customers,” Mary said. “I don’t actually sew myself except for buttons, of course.”

  Richard’s hand stopped, and he looked at her. “A woman who doesn’t sew? Rare indeed”—he looked around—“without a maid.”

  “I’ve no maid,” she said. She found herself moving from his brown eye to his blue, wondering at the unusual coloring. “My husband taught me to sew on buttons.” She didn’t tell him that as a child growing up in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, servants in their estate overlooking the Wisconsin River did suchmundane things for her. Her mother had died when Mary was born, and the servants and her indulgent father had been her family, until Dale. Da
le had been a little shocked when he’d realized she had few domestic skills, though she assured him she was “quite trainable.” He set about doing that as they made the wagon trip west, their marriage beginning a new and glorious chapter of her life and a new skill at button sewing.

  “A man after my own heart,” Mr. Taylor said. He stepped back as if surveying this unusual creature. “I do adore a woman who sews,” he continued, “but then, finding one who services those who do is almost as good … for a salesman like me.” He unfurled another cone of thread and then dug deeper into his bag, taking out pyramids of deep blue, sunflower yellow, and of course, snowy white. These would be samples. She’d have to order and wait for them to arrive, but Mary knew that. “Let me show you other necessities for the seamstresses of the region.” He set out ivory thread barrels carved with delicate flowers. “Chinese,” he said. “Look at these bead containers, netting rollers, and ratchets, and of course if you buy the cones, you’ll want these ivory thread winders for the skeins and hanks. I can make quite a good deal for you on all this.” He showed her several more items and then a catalog with even more choices.

  He was a good salesman, Mary decided. Earnest with a few rough edges but honest, she thought, not monitoring every word for its sales affect. And he made her smile, telling stories of his travels and even one of tangled thread when he tangled a skein of yarn he showed her. He created distinctive yet respectful images of the Barbour brothers and the proprietors he’d met in the valley. He appeared to be a good observer of humanity and kindly disposed toward people.

  “They’re lovely,” Mary said finally as she fingered the ivory winders that looked as delicate as snowflakes. She wondered just how much they might cost, but instead of asking, she returned to the thread cones. “I don’t really need the white cone.” She had to show some discipline, after all. She wasn’t sure she needed any thread at all, now that she considered. Though the war in the East had been over for a time, people still weren’t buying much. And with Smith’s store open, she’d have even more competition for people wanting Rosa Red thread.

  “I’ll throw the white in if you take one of each of the spools,” he said, “and of course three of the red, as you indicated earlier. I can telegraph the order to the Barbours, and it will be here within two weeks. You’ll find them and me, their agent, quite reliable and most professional.” He snapped his top boot heels together and bowed at his waist.

  She tapped her index finger to her lips. “I … I’m sorry. I really have no needfor so much Rosa Red. I’m not sure what I was thinking,” Mary said. “If I invest at all in something new, it would be my plan—” She stopped herself. “My husband used to say that my optimism sometimes bordered on lunacy.”

  “It sometimes takes lunacy to spread ones wares wide and far. The Barbours weren’t sure that sending me west was a good investment, but here I am. Lunacy in person.”

  Mary smiled. “And I’m sure you will sell far and wide, Mr. Taylor—”

  “Richard,” he corrected.

  “But—”

  “The quality will attract new customers for you, provide reasons for them to come to your store. From wide and far, they’ll arrive.”

  Wide and far. Mary stared at Richard Taylor, whose dual-colored eyes looked anxious as he awaited her final order. Could he be the detail God provided? Why, he might be just the man to implement her plan to expand her sagging sales wide and far. Doing so could mean her very survival. Is this what I should do? she prayed. Richard Taylor might just have provided her the sustenance she needed sandwiched between two other stores. She breathed a prayer of thanks and asked the newcomer to take a cup of tea with her. Lunacy or faith reigned. She’d soon find out which.

  Chapter 2

  Richard Taylor chastised himself. Why hadn’t he just taken the woman’s original order of three spools of red? Why did he have to push for just a little more? And then he’d said she was “almost as good” as someone who sewed? One should never insult a woman or worse a woman in a position to buy one’s products. He needed this sale. Life hadn’t been all that easy since he’d come west following the war. His few sales had at least convinced the Barbour Brothers to give him a little more time before they recalled him and gave him his walking papers. Stores were few and far between in this region, and other salesmen already covered the high population cities like Portland and Salem and many of those stores—even Cooley & Company down the street—traveled to San Francisco to fill their orders. He hoped to make inroads at the smaller establishments in the territory with his charm and his steady horse and good products. It was his philosophy that every product needed, first, to be of great quality and, second, to have a story. If the product had quality, people could buy it anywhere; if he had a good story to go with it, they’d look forward to buying it from him. He hadn’t convinced Cooley & Company or Smith of many sales; he hoped for more from this lovely older woman.

  “I assure you the quality is of the best,” he told her as he followed her into the back room of the log store. “I sold several spools at the Aurora Colony north of here. They’re known for their fine tailoring, I’m told. Dr. Keil himself made the purchase for the colony store and the outsider’s establishment. They have quite a grand selection.”

  I’m a wreck, he thought, praising her competition that wasn’t all that far down the road.

  “A woman who knows the needs of her neighbors surely makes wise choices,” Richard said, in an effort to recover. “Perhaps the three spools of thread will be just what they need.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  Something had changed in her demeanor, Richard noticed. He wondered what he’d said or done. She’d been sweet, almost flirtatious, when he’d first showed her the Rosa Red, asking to call her by her given name. Now she was looking all, well, professional. He wondered how old she was. Her skin was the shade of sunrise, all pink and smooth. A few lines marked her eyes, but her white hair reminded him of his dear old mother, God rest her soul.

  “Mr. Taylor,” Mary said. “Are you declining my invitation to tea?”

  She’d invited him to tea? He’d been so busy chastising himself he hadn’t heard her. Maybe his hearing was going, a sad state for a man of only twenty-seven years.

  “There’s a proposition I’d like to discuss with you before I finalize my purchases.”

  “Tea? Why yes, certainly. Tea would be good.”

  Praise God and his mother’s prayers. She was inviting him into her private quarters to discuss business.

  Mary Bishop led him through a storage area into a small back room of the log store, where she swung a pot hung over the coals at the fireplace. It was a cozy room with Ocean Waves—the quilt pattern he noted on the bed just beyond a screen. A checkered tablecloth matched pillows on the four chairs set around the square table.

  Mary Bishop left the door to the store open so she could hear the bell jangle, he imagined, or for modesty’s sake. The little dog lay in the doorway between the two rooms, head on paws stretched out. Richard didn’t see many animals inside the stores he sold to. He kind of liked the comfort the little rust-and-white spaniel brought.

  “I realize this may be somewhat presumptuous on my part,” Mary said as she set the tea cozy and pot of loose tea on the table. “For a while now, I’ve had this idea but haven’t known how to implement it. I’m not sure if your employers, the Barbour Brothers, will allow it, but I do think you have the means and ability to do what I’m thinking.”

  “It’s nothing … illegal you’d be asking of me now, is it?” There I go again! Richard thought. Why can’t I just wait things out!

  Mary frowned. “Oh no, nothing illegal at all. It was your working for more than one employer at a time that I wondered over. Let me explain.”

  She used her apron to pick up the handle of the hot pot and poured steaming water over the tea leaves in his mug. “We’ll let that steep a bit,” she told him, putting the pot back. She sat across from him at the table, brushed at absent crumbs
, her eyes on the tablecloth. She had the most graceful hands.

  “Here’s what I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “I do a fair business in this store, but I’m dependent upon people coming to me for their purchases. Where I came from, back in Wisconsin, my father ran a store. The Indians and local people bought there, but when my father decided to service outposts, taking his wares up the streams to the Indians and others living along the creeks andrivers, his business improved. He no longer needed to wait for people to come to him; he went to them.”

  “Very resourceful,” Richard said. And it was.

  She stood to finish the tea, straining it, dumping the tea leaves into a separate tin possibly to be used again. She’s a frugal one. “It may be a little strong for you,” she said. “Dale, my husband, always resisted tepid.”

  “Never liked tepid myself,” he assured her. Her smile lit her face, those violet-blue eyes. They stared at each other for a moment until she looked away. This woman certainly wasn’t tepid! Had he embarrassed her?

  “So where was I?” she said.

  “Your story of your resourceful father.” Richard took a sip. He longed to wipe his nose but had forgotten his handkerchief, so he sniffed.

  She sat back down and took a drink of her tea. The moisture from the cup brought a fine mist to her upper lip. She was quite a lovely woman, he decided. Perfectly arched brown eyebrows. Luminescent skin lacking blemishes or brown spots, which was rare for someone of her age, which must be close to forty, maybe even fifty with such pure white hair. She combed it folded softly over her ears into a thick bun at the back of her neck. He’d seen lovely ivory combs holding the bun when he’d followed her into the back room.

  “My father taught me to look for other options in business, that one always had to be either the very best at something, be the biggest, or provide added value for one’s customers,” Mary told him. “He chose the latter of those three, and that’s what I want to do, too. So here’s my plan. What if you were to not only visit local establishments to sell your thread, but were to also sell to individual homes along the way, showing skeins or hanks, offering new thread barrels? I could make up more convenient skeins from the thread I purchase from you, which you could sell. Along with books of cloth, thimbles, lace, ribbon—the sorts of things women are always needing but must wait for until they come in to town or send their fathers or husbands in here, never being certain if what their men bring home will really be what they wanted.”