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

  With her left hand, she turned the key, and Lacy trotted beside her as she boarded the ferry, crossed the Calapooia, and headed toward the church.

  “Good morning, Pastor Blaine,” she said when she found him setting out flowers in window boxes. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is. April’s my favorite time.” He pulled on his bushy mustache,which hung like a lazy caterpillar over his lip. “Love to see the daffodils popping up.”

  “That’s the very reason I stopped by,” Mary said. “I want to place a sign to let the good people of Brownsville know that I have newly arrived flower seeds,” she said.

  “Do you now? Well, that’s interesting, as Mr. Smith just asked the same thing of me.”

  “He did? Mr. Smith is a Presbyterian?”

  “You didn’t see him in church on Sunday last?”

  “I guess I didn’t recognize him,” she said.

  “Well he’s got access to nurseries in the East with actual starts of marigolds and daisies not to mention a dozen more varieties.”

  “Actual starts. When will they arrive, do you know?”

  “Already have, and I can tell you that the ladies of the congregation are quite excited about it.”

  “I imagine they are.”

  “Surprised me. Most of the time people get sent seeds from home. Makes them feel well, like they have a little of what they left behind planted in their yards. But things change.” He pontificated now. “There’s a time to weep and—”

  “A time to laugh,” Mary finished though she didn’t feel much like laughing. Instead she walked away. Smith had starts, the pastor said. The blooms would be much further along than on any plants produced by customers planting Mary’s seeds.

  She walked to Smith’s store to see what he did have. She wished she hadn’t. The scent of new lumber filled her head as she slowly turned around, her eyes taking in the rich wares finely displayed. Maybe there was something to a clapboard establishment without the logs to remind one of earlier days. This was progress; even she could see that. Near the window were petunias and dahlias growing inside squash halves as though they’d been started a month ago. The seeds may have come from back East, but it was clear Mr. Smith had planted them and had gotten them going right here in Brownsville. His customers wouldn’t care; they’d just be pleased to see them nearly ready to line their paths and fill their window boxes.

  But of greatest interest was Smith’s inventory of furniture! Bedsteads and lamps and harvest tables with carved legs stately stood next to parlor tables and copper-lined tobacco stands. People wouldn’t have to imagine what a new dresser would look like when they perused a catalog; they’d be able to see what their purchase would look like, maybe even buy it right off the store floor! She didn’t see much in the way of cloth books or thread, so perhaps she’d be all right, especially with Richard selling far and wide.

  A few customers nodded to Mary, the women asking about her hand while looking a little guilty that they were enjoying this newest establishment. Why, Smith was even serving cinnamon rolls. He’d attract women with his flowers and the men with his food. What did that leave her?

  Mary had no answer to that question as she rode the ferry across the Calapooia to her comforting log store.

  “I told people to come back in a little bit,” Jennifer Mason told Mary. The child waited outside on the log bench, her short legs swinging and bobbing her braids at the same time.

  “Thank you for that,” Mary said as she pulled the heavy iron key from the leather cord around her neck. She fumbled with her left hand, and Jennifer jumped up to assist. “My ma is sure happy for those buttons you sent over,” Jennifer said. “And the molasses, too. I thought I’d come by to save Mr. Lawson the trouble of delivering your leavings.” The child was missing her two front teeth, so Lawson came out as Lawthon. “I’m not so sure he likes children.”

  “Oh, he just hasn’t been around them much,” Mary said.

  “You haven’t either, but you don’t frown when the baby smacks her messy hand on your forehead.”

  The image and Jennifer’s toothless words made Mary smile. “It’s something new to him. Give him a little time,” Mary said. “Thanks for your help with the key. And for advising customers to return. I knew that might happen when I closed.” The thought reminded her of Smith’s foray into flowers, and she got addled all over again.

  “Ma told me I’m to help you while your hand is so bad.”

  Mary looked at the wiry child and wondered if she could even drag a bag of rice from the storeroom, let alone lift it to fill the pottery. “Tell your mama that’s very kind, but I’m doing fine.”

  “I know I don’t look strong, but I am.” The girl flexed her thin arms, showing a bump little larger than a mosquito bite beneath thin calico. “And Ma says you give a gift when you let people help you.”

  “But can you drag a fifty-pound sack of rice or flour from the back room?” Mary asked.

  The girl stood thoughtful. “No, ma’am. But I can carry it here a bucket at a time. I can keep it filled just fine.”

  “How old are you, Jennifer?”

  “Eight and a half. How old are you?”

  “Thirty,” Mary said.

  “That’s a lot of miles,” Jennifer said without smiling.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Tell your Mama I accept her offer of your help, Jennifer. You’ve a fine mind and just the right amount of muscle.”

  “I can start by getting rid of that old hard candy, Mrs. Bishop.” Mary smiled at the child’s Mithus Bithop as she handed her the striped candy the girl pointed at. She and Jennifer would fill a wooden box lined with cheesecloth they could fold over to keep the spiders from dropping in the rice, and that would free up the large stoneware pot for pickles. She could serve pickles with the best of them. When Richard Taylor returned, she’d have him build a bin with a cover for the rice. Or maybe with her direction, she and Jennifer could build it together. She had no idea whether Richard Taylor knew one end of a hammer from the other, but he did know his needles and thread. Right now, that was a detail and a gift from heaven.

  Chapter 4

  After Richard’s first circular route, he reported back about his sales. They were excellent! Mary could barely contain her glee at his success. At least she thought her heart started beating faster with the ledger results and not when his top boots first stepped through the door.

  “It’s your doing,” he said. “You carry the right materials. That brass stencil you added at the last minute, the one for inking calling cards, it sold right away. We’ll need to get a few more of those ordered in.” They sat at Mary’s table, tasting of tea.

  “I’m just so surprised that you’re in need of additional whole-color cloth,” Mary said. “So many of the women quilt from their scraps using popular dress prints. I expected you to sell Prussian blues, the double pinks, and everyday calicos and ginghams, but solid red and some of silk? That chintz? And so much wool. Those are expensive European imports,” Mary reminded him. “I’m just stunned that we need to order more. How did you do it?”

  “Just my charm,” he said. He grinned at her, and Mary felt a familiar flutter inside her stomach. She hoped she was just hungry. She needed to be hungry and not anything else. He showed absolutely no interest in her, she realized; and she didn’t need to embarrass herself by allowing her feelings to ride on a fast horse only to take a tumble later.

  They worked well together, and Mary loved his stories of his encounters with her neighbors. A few new families had moved into the region, and he brought them to life. His stories captured the essence of the men and women populating this new state. John Carpenter’s wife, Adele, for example, sported a snaggletooth, but she made a black bean soup that he’d “crawl across glass to get another bowl of.” Richard continued, “She bought up the cast-iron pot with the glass lid you had only one of. Seemed happy indeed to have a new pot for that soup.”

  Richard’s left eye, the blue one, d
rooped just a bit. He looked tired. They’d reloaded the cart, and soon he’d be heading out. Mary offered him supper before he returned to his boarding room, and he accepted. He continued to tell stories as she prepared the grouse Laird had brought by.

  “You’re a superb cook, Mary,” Richard said. “If things go sour with the store, you could always open up a boardinghouse.”

  Mary frowned.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean they will. My mother, rest her soul, always said my foot was attracted more to my mouth than my shoes. I’m sure the mercantile will do well.” He stuffed dressing into his mouth, shaking his head.

  Mary guessed that at least he was sensitive to a sour look on her face and did his best to recover.

  “I almost had a request for corn seed,” Richard told her. “But instead Mrs. Miner—yes, she’s new—and her family told me that she’d brought just a half cup of corn seed with her from Iowa. She planted the seeds carefully only to discover that her rooster had come along behind her and gobbled up each seed.”

  “Oh,” Mary said. “How awfully discouraging to have brought those seeds all that way and then lose them to the rooster.”

  “Not for Mrs. Miner. When she realized it, she killed the rooster, cleaned out his crop of the corn seeds, and kept on planting. They had the rooster for supper.”

  Mary laughed. She’d missed laughing with a man across her table. “Mrs. Miner is a major gardener!”

  After supper they shared a coffee, and Richard saved his last stories about the women who bought cloth. “Your selection is the best of any stores in the region. You should just specialize in selling fine fabrics.”

  “The competition is stiff. Cooley & Company sells to farmers, and Smith is obviously targeting the household furnishing market along with his flower seeds.” She heard the grumble in her own voice and didn’t like it. “But I can’t afford to limit myself to women’s things; it’s the men who come in and authorize the sales.”

  “Women who quilt will figure out a way to get their menfolk to buy,” he assured her. “They’ll keep at it through thick and thin, those women. Making things for the families while indulging in beauty for its own sake. I love a committed quilter,” he added.

  Mary sighed inwardly. A committed quilter she was not.

  Weeks passed, and Mary found herself remembering looks and words of Richard Taylor. She daydreamed about what a favorite color of his might be or when his birthday was. At first she felt disloyal to Dale, but she thought that Richard and Dale would have been friends if Dale had lived, and that eased her fears. She told herself she simply looked forward to Richard’s return and his stories. But then she ordered a new face powder and tried a rose scent for her soaps because he’d mentioned once liking wild yellow roses.

  They ended each restocking of the cart with a dinner and sitting outside the log cabin, watching the sun set.

  “Nelia Williams, now there’s a seamstress,” Richard said. They sat outside the store on the bench on a hot July evening. The cart was loaded, and tomorrow Richard would leave again.

  “Didn’t I tell you that?” Mary chided. She’d almost lost count of the number of trips he’d made, and Mary admitted to herself that she was sad at the prospect of his leaving. She liked cooking supper for him before he headed to the boardinghouse, and she enjoyed his early-morning arrival where he was willing to take Lacy for a walk while Mary cooked up bacon and eggs and fried eggplant for their shared breakfast.

  “Miss Williams and her sister, Ruthie, are working on a quilt together, Adam and Eve. Quite a production. Ruthie said they’ll appliqué Eve in pink and give her a hoopskirt for modesty.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mary said.

  “Apparently so.”

  They laughed.

  “But they also took the Bible quilt-block pattern book, so I suspect they’ll be working on a new quilt now.” He sipped a sarsaparilla. “The wedding-dress maker … what was her name?”

  “Matilda Kaliska?”

  Richard nodded, and Mary was secretly pleased he hadn’t been able to remember Matilda’s name.

  “That’s the one. Cute as a button, and she does know her silks. Wanted taffeta, too. I told her we’d bring that on the next run. And Bessie Thompson bought a pair of glasses. Did I tell you that?”

  “Did she?”

  “I told her you’d said she made the finest stitches in the West and marveled at that close work.”

  “And that made her want to buy glasses?”

  “Well, I told her I was personally partial to a woman confident enough to wear glasses so she could excel at her God-given talents.”

  Mary adjusted her spectacles on her nose. She wondered if he could see her blush, and then she scoffed at herself.

  “What?” he said.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just such a perfect salesman thing to say,” she said. “And it worked.”

  “It did.” But then he turned to look directly at Mary. “It worked because it’s true. I do admire a woman who takes advantage of such things as glasses,knowing it will help her, and not letting wags talk her out of it because it might not be in fashion. A woman like you, Mary. I admire a woman like you.”

  “Oh,” Mary said, and she found that flutter starting in her stomach, tingling at the healed stitches in her palm and making her breath come just a little shorter than she liked. “Well. Yes. My father made me admirable by insisting I wear glasses as a child.”

  “But as a grown woman you’ve continued because you knew it was a good thing. You chose for yourself, which is what admirable women do.”

  His tone and his gaze unnerved Mary, made her think he spoke of something more than glasses.

  “Yes, Mary, you remind me of my mother in that way.”

  The mention of his mother brought her to reality. He sees me as an older woman. At least it was nice to know he admired his mother, but it was time she stopped daydreaming about Richard Taylor, making up stories that could only have disappointing endings.

  “It’s time I turned in,” she said, standing.

  “Must you?” He sounded disappointed. “I hope I didn’t say anything to offend you. I’m terrible that way, my mother always said.”

  “Yes, your foot not fitting your mouth. But you’re fine, Mr. Taylor. Your mother would be proud. Come along, Lacy. You enjoy the sunset. We’ll get you sent off in the morning.”

  As the months went by, and despite her admonition to not think of Richard as other than a business partner, Mary still found she anticipated Richard’s return not just for his stories. It was pleasant to have a man around to talk with about politics, business, and the weather. She’d missed the presence of a deep, male voice, the way Richard devoured her food, making pleasing sounds as he consumed her blue kidney potato pie. She liked the sound of boots stomping on the doorstep and looked forward to September when oysters came available, as she hoped to soothe his palate with her oyster pie. She was just being … neighborly, that was all—though dreams of Richard Taylor eased into her sleep.

  His skills as a salesman were unequaled, and Mary felt quite proud of herself for having gone into partnership with the man all those months before. She’d counted up her figures for the summer months and had expected things to slack off come autumn, but they’d continued to sell well from the cart. Her in-store sales had increased, as well, and little Jennifer had proven to be of fine help even after Mary got the use of her hand back.

  In September while she spoke with the Knight brothers, who would bring oysters from the Willapa Bay area of Washington Territory, she was surprised bythe arrival of the Williams sisters at the store. Both Nelia and Ruthie swirled in with their hoopskirts bouncing long after they’d stopped walking. Mary was pleased the walls of her log cabin store were smooth as taffeta and didn’t catch the fabric of skirts as wide as wagons that hugged the edges as the women pushed through the door.

  “How good to see you,” Mary told them as she sent the Knight brothers on their way. “Mr. Taylor tells me you�
��ve been stitching up a storm.”

  “Oh, we have, we have.” Nelia giggled.

  “I certainly appreciate your business,” Mary said. “What with the new store and Cooleys, too, it hasn’t been an easy year, but your purchases have helped immensely.”

  “Well, Mr. Taylor—Richard—has made buying so easy,” Ruthie said. She wore her hair in a tight bun usually, but this day curls floated out from behind her black bonnet. “And because of him, Nelia and I have found working together on a project to be much more fun than each of us staying in our own lane, so to speak.”

  “Yes,” Nelia added. “For the first time since Papa died, we’ve found something we both love. Ruthie always did the outside work, while I was the inside girl.”

  “We thought we’d come by and see what you had for wedding-dress material,” Ruthie said.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Mary said. “One of you is getting married?”

  “Well, it’s not official yet,” Ruthie said, leaning in toward Mary. She whispered, “But one can’t be too prepared now, can one? A wedding dress can take a long time to make. And then we have our quilt to finish, of course.”

  “Adam and Eve?” Mary asked.

  “Oh, we finished that one. No, this is a special one, from the Bible quilt book we purchased. Job’s Tears.”

  “Oh, right. I remember Mr. Taylor saying you’d bought that book.”

  “We are each making the blocks and so hoping ours will meet the test.”

  “Test?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing official.” Ruthie chastised her sister. “We just have a surmising,”