“We best remember that,” Tom said.
“Yep,” Slater chuckled.
Johnny opened the gift and smiled as he lifted the black bib shirt adorned with brass buttons up to study it more closely. “Oh, thank you, Miss Lark!” the boy exclaimed. “Thank you. It looks just like the ones the cowboys in town wear!”
“You’re welcome,” Lark giggled. “And I really do hope you like it, Johnny.”
Lark saw the moisture fresh in Johnny’s eyes. The boy was truly touched by her gift. Yet she didn’t want him to let a tear escape over his cheek and feel foolish in front of the men, so she quickly snatched Charlie’s gift from under the tree.
“Here you go, Charlie,” Lark said. “I-I hope it’s not too…well, I hope you’re not too big a boy to enjoy this.”
“I ain’t,” Charlie said, even though he was still unwrapping the package.
Lark held her breath. Of all the gifts she’d made, she was most worried about Charlie’s.
Charlie unfolded the quilt Lark had made. He was silent for a moment, studying it carefully a moment. “I know this!” the little boy exclaimed then. “Mama, I know this!”
Lark still hadn’t taken a comfortable breath. Yet as Charlie’s face lit up like the sun, she sighed.
“Look, Mama!” Charlie squealed, “It’s Daddy!”
“What?” Katherine gasped.
“It’s Daddy’s blue shirt. I remember him wearin’ this shirt, Mama! Oh, it’s Daddy!” Charlie turned the quilt around—smoothed it out on the parlor rug. “You see, Mama?” the little boy asked.
“I do see,” Katherine breathed. “I do indeed.” She looked to Lark a moment before letting her hand travel over the top of the quilt—the quilt with John Thornquist’s shirt stitched to it.
Just after she’d arrived, Lark had been helping Katherine unpack her trunks and get settled into the house. Katherine had kept all of her husband’s shirts. She said she planned to cut them down for Johnny to wear—or maybe, because he was growing so fast, he’d grow into them before she had the chance to rework them. Then, when it became obvious that little Charlie was having trouble sleeping—and that the reason was most likely insecurities brought on by the loss of his father—Lark had had a moment of inspiration.
“That’s why you asked me for the shirt, Lark,” Katherine whispered, running her hands over the front of her husband’s shirt that was now securely stitched to the top of Charlie’s quilt. She looked to Lark, tears brimming in her eyes. “I thought you planned on cuttin’ it down for Johnny.” Katherine shook her head. “But, oh, Lark…what a wonderful gift.”
“You see, Charlie,” Lark said, taking the quilt from him, “this way your daddy can always hold you in his arms at night when you’re worried or afraid.” She wrapped the quilt around him so that the sleeves of his father’s shirt folded over his arms. “And I made the other side nice and warm too. Isn’t it soft?”
“It’s the softest thing I ever felt,” Charlie told her. “It feels like…it feels just like…”
“Your Uncle Slater’s old drawers?” Lark prodded.
“What?” Slater exclaimed.
“Yes!” Charlie giggled. “That’s what it is! It’s so warm. It makes me feel happy!” Lark watched as the little boy softly caressed his father’s shirtsleeves, wrapped the quilt tightly around him, and smiled. “It’s right cozy, Miss Lark,” he giggled, rubbing his face against the underside of the quilt made from Slater’s old underwear.
Lizzy giggled. “Oh, Charlie, it’s perfect! Now you’ll always have Daddy and Uncle Slater to snuggle you at night!”
Charlie’s smile broadened, and he nodded with newfound comfort.
“Well, that’s why my fanny is always hangin’ outta my drawers,” Slater mumbled to Tom. “She’s stitchin’ quilts out of my good pairs.”
Katherine brushed the tears from her cheeks, wrapped her arms around Lark’s neck, and whispered, “Oh, Lark! What a treasure you are. Thank you. Oh, thank you!”
“I hope it helps comfort him…even if it’s just a little,” Lark whispered as the woman cried against her shoulder for a moment.
Slater bit the inside of his cheek to keep the tears that were welling in his eyes from running down his cheeks. He heard Tom sniffle and had to fight even harder to keep his emotions in line. He gazed at Lark a moment—barely able to keep from going over, picking her up, and carrying her up to his bedroom to have his fill of her. The gifts she’d made for Katherine and the children—especially Charlie—they were true gifts from the heart, gifts made of love and long, long hours of sewing by lamplight. God had dropped an angel off on his and Tom’s porch that day a few months back—that was all there was to it.
He studied her for a moment—her soft hair braided so loosely and laying over one shoulder, her pretty white nightgown, beneath which he was certain she hadn’t taken time to put a corset. Her cheeks were rosy with joy, her lips as soft and inviting as a summer berry on the vine. He had to have her—had to own her! Suddenly, the thought of Lark leaving—of her being anywhere that was away from him—caused a sort of desperate panic to wash through him. He’d come to depend on her smile as a way of finding beauty in each day, to depend on her voice to soothe his worries and temper. He couldn’t do without her, but he couldn’t have her either. He wouldn’t have her. He thought of the old buzzard he’d seen picking at a dead rabbit a month or two before. A pretty meadowlark had been sitting on a fencepost nearby and flew away when the buzzard flapped its wings and barked a caw. Lark deserved a young, strong falcon—not a weathered old buzzard.
In those moments, Slater Evans wished he’d never left home to cowboy—wished he’d never spent ten years doing what he’d done after cowboying. In that moment, Slater Evans wished he hadn’t lived such a hard life—wished he hadn’t been weathered too young.
“Keep a handle on it, Slater,” Tom chuckled quietly. “Christmas mornin’ with children in the room ain’t no place to grab hold of a woman and—”
“I’m fine,” Slater growled. “And what’re you goin’ on about anyway?”
Tom was still smiling, however. “I’m just sayin’…”
“Well, you say too much,” Slater grumbled.
Tom chuckled, leaned closer to Slater, and whispered, “You’re droolin’ like a dog lookin’ at a hambone, Slater.”
“Shut your mouth before I shut it for ya, Tom.”
Tom chuckled again, and Slater willed himself to keep from pouncing on the sweet little hambone sitting by the Christmas tree.
“I know it’s not much, but I just wanted—” Lark began to explain.
“Oh, Lark! You do too much and take too little praise.” Katherine’s eyes were still moist with emotion, and Lark felt self-conscious—for she’d realized Slater and Tom were watching the exchange.
“I have something for you,” Katherine said then.
“Oh no…no, really,” Lark said, shaking her head. She’d never been good at receiving gifts. She only liked to give them. Receiving them always made her far too uncomfortable.
“It isn’t as nice as the gloves, but I hope you’ll like it.”
Glancing to where Slater and Tom sat on the sofa, Lark blushed and accepted the gift Katherine offered to her. “Katie, really,” she began, “I-I…”
“Oh, go on!” Katherine giggled. “It’s Christmas.”
Taking a deep breath, Lark untied the ribbon and removed the paper that concealed the gift. Inside lay two pair of silk stockings. Lark had never owned a pair of silk stockings. In fact, the only women she’d ever known to own them before were the saloon girls in the previous town she’d labored in. She knew that silk stockings were a luxury, afforded by few—especially women like herself—cooks, housekeepers, laborers.
“Oh, Katherine!” she breathed. “I can’t possibly…however did you come by these?”
“Oh, that’s my little secret,” Katherine said, winking at Tom.
“Try ’em on, baby,” Slater teased with a wink. “We don’
t mind.”
“Slater Evans!” Katherine scolded. “Now you just hush. We’re having our Christmas!”
Slater chuckled and turned his attention to Charlie, who was still wrapped in his quilt and busily setting up wooden soldiers.
Tom raised himself from the sofa, sauntered over to the tree, and pulled two gifts out from under it. He smiled, handing one gift to Katherine and the other to Lark.
“These are from me,” he proudly announced. “Picked ’em out myself.”
Lark smiled and began to open her gift from Tom. “Oh, Tom!” Lark exclaimed as she held up the new dress. It was a lovely dress—lavender with white lace. Lark had never owned anything like it! “It’s so…so beautiful!”
“Tom! How lovely,” Katherine exclaimed, holding up a peacock-blue dress as well. “You’ve spoiled us!”
“Thank you, Tom,” Lark said, feeling suddenly very sheepish about her gift to him. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Try it on!” Slater teased from the sofa.
“You best behave,” Katherine said to him, pointing a scolding finger in his direction.
“I have something for you, Tom,” Lark said, though she was not nearly as excited about giving her gift to him as she had been a moment before. Yet she was completely caught up in the excitement of the morning, taking two gifts from beneath the tree and handing one to Tom.
Tom tore into the package with as much zeal as the children had torn into theirs. “Well, will you look at that,” he said, drawing the neatly stitched white shirt and monogrammed handkerchiefs out of the paper. “That there is the whitest shirt I ever seen!” he exclaimed. “And look at that stitchin’! Mrs. Jenkins best not find out you do work this good, honey.”
“I know it’s not so fancy or nice as the dress…” Lark began.
“Look here,” Tom said to Slater. “My initials is on the cuffs…and the collar…on the handkerchiefs too.” He shook his head in awe. “Little darlin’…you are somethin’ else!”
Lark smiled as Tom bent and kissed her on the forehead. “I know you must think it’s, well…impractical to say the least, but—” Lark began.
“It’s wonderful, darlin’,” Tom said. “Truly.” He held the shirt up to inspect it once more. “I might have to take myself into town soon…just to send the ladies to swoonin’.”
Lark turned, handing the other package to Slater. “I’m sure you can guess what it is,” she said quietly. “At least, part of it, anyway.”
“Well, it’s too big to be a new button for my trapdoor,” he chuckled as she handed him his gift. She smiled and watched as he opened the package.
“The shirt is a different pattern than Tom’s,” she explained as he held his white shirt up for inspection. “Yours is an offset bib shirt. I hope…I hope it’s all right.”
Slater smiled, but she wasn’t sure whether he was pleased. “I monogrammed yours too,” she offered. “On the cuff and the collar.”
“It’s perfect,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “I mean it, Lark. It’s perfect.”
“And I didn’t make you any handkerchiefs,” she said, reaching into the paper in his lap and withdrawing the rest of her gift to him. “But…I did make this for you.” Lark offered the thing to him—smiled when his brow puckered.
“Well, thank you, baby,” he said, accepting the gift—a long, slender pillow made out of an old flour sack, filled with dry rice and dried lavender and thyme leaves.
Lark giggled. “It’s for your shoulder,” she explained. “See?” she said, draping it over his shoulder. “You heat it up by the fire on the stove for a while, until the rice kernels inside warm up and hold the heat. The warmth will soothe the ache in your shoulder…and the fragrance of the lavender and thyme will soothe you.”
Slater smiled, and Lark began to feel more confident in her gift.
“I set it by the fire before we started opening our gifts,” she told him. “So the rice is still warm, isn’t it?”
Slater nodded, pressing the rice-filled pillow more firmly against his shoulder. “You’re quite the little Christmas angel, ain’t ya?” he asked. His eyes narrowed, and Lark’s heart began to beat more quickly, for she recognized the expression on his face—desire!
“Here, Johnny,” Slater said, snapping his fingers to get the boy’s attention. “Hand me that gift under the tree…the one from me to Lark…would ya, please?”
Johnny nodded, handing the awkwardly wrapped gift to Slater.
“Thank ya, boy,” Slater said.
Lark glanced over as Tom exclaimed, having opened the new razor Katherine had given him.
“Here ya go,” Slater said, handing the gift to Lark.
“I really wasn’t expecting gifts,” Lark mumbled. “I really only meant to show my appreciation for—”
“I promise…it ain’t nothin’ so nice as a fine shirt or shoulder-soother,” he said.
She smiled, delighted by his obvious appreciation of her gifts.
“It ain’t even a pretty dress. I almost didn’t want to give it to ya after I seen what Kate and Tom had for ya.” He shrugged, looking boyish and entirely adorable. “Honest. It ain’t much…not compared.”
But Lark felt differently. Slater Evans could’ve given her a rock he’d picked up somewhere, and she would’ve loved it. A gift from Slater? She could hardly believe it. Her hands trembled as she untied the twine securing the paper.
Instantly, she felt her heart begin to race—felt her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at what Slater had given her. There, resting in her lap, were two beautiful and very new books! Beautifully bound in embellished, dark green covers, flourishes of gold for titles and author names—even so fancy as to have gold-gilded pages—a beautiful copy of Jane Eyre, perfectly complemented by a copy of The Complete Works of Tennyson.
“Slater!” she exclaimed in a whisper.
“Oh,” he said, however. “And then there’s this.” Reaching out to her, he opened the copy of Tennyson’s works and removed a silver bookmark. “I figured you needed a way to remember where you were last readin’ when ya have to leave off all of a sudden.”
Lark accepted the bookmark as he handed it to her—a solid silver bookmark. The bookmark was a thin piece of silver, with a detailed etching of a bird on it—and her name engraved at the bottom.
“Do you like it?” Slater asked.
She glanced up to him—astonished to see that he looked as concerned about his gift to her as she’d felt about hers to him.
“I do,” she managed. “Thank you, Slater.” She couldn’t keep the tears from brimming in her eyes, for she knew then that he must think of her—for this was a gift that took preparation and planning.
He smiled at her, reached out, and brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand. “I still can’t believe you used my drawers to make a quilt for that baby boy,” he said.
Lark smiled and laughed. “Well, even as raggedy as your underwear is sometimes…it’s still good for something.”
“You think I might could break in this saddle somehow, Uncle Slater?” Johnny asked then.
Slater winked at Lark. “I do think so, Johnny,” Slater told him. “If this weather clears up tomorrow, we’ll see which horse fits it best. All right?”
“Yes, sir!” Johnny exclaimed.
Katherine squealed with delight then and rushed to Slater, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Slater!” she cried, brushing tears from her cheeks. “How did you ever…I can’t…oh, darlin’, thank you!”
Lark looked to see that Katherine held a large silver locket and chain in one hand. She opened the locket, and for the first time Lark saw the image of John Thornquist. Somehow—somewhere—Slater had found a photograph of John and had it put in the locket under glass.
Leaning forward, Lark quickly kissed Slater on the cheek. “You really are Saint Nicholas, I think,” she whispered.
Late that night, after everyone else had
retired, Lark propped herself up in bed, turned the flame in the lamp a little higher, and opened her new copy of The Complete Works of Tennyson. She put her face near the book, inhaling the wonderful aroma of paper and leather. She turned the cover page and smiled, delicious warmth filling her bosom when she saw an inscription. There, sprawled in Slater’s nearly illegible handwriting, was:
Merry Christmas, Lark…
Slater
Lark touched the dried ink—the words written by Slater’s own hand. She smiled and began reading.
2
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Though winter was cold and fierce, the vigor with which it shivered and blew proved too exhausting for it to linger long. Yet winter had been merciless, having kept the children inside most every day from Christmas through late February. Lark and Katherine had been quite hard-pressed to find ways to keep them from whining with boredom—especially Charlie. Johnny was old enough to often help Slater and Tom with outdoor chores or to ride out with the cowboys to check fences and repair windbreaks. Lizzy was fairly content to practice her stitching, to draw, or to play with her dolls. Yet Charlie—Charlie was entirely too pent in. Forever racing through the house or finding his way to mischief, it was Charlie who suffered most from the brutal winter—however short-lived it was.
Still, even for all of Charlie’s bottled-up liveliness, he had begun to sleep through the night once more. Katherine credited Lark’s quilt. Slater did too, often expressing his gratitude to Lark—for he slept through the night again, as well.
Yet by mid-March, as most days were filled with contented rain or warm sunshine, it was Lark who had begun to sleep fitfully. Christmas had been resplendent! The exchange of thoughtful gifts had touched Lark’s heart as nothing she’d ever known. Each night she read from one of the books Slater had gifted her. Even after she’d read them both through from front to back, she still read an excerpt or two from one of them before drifting off to sleep. She treasured the books—treasured his signature and inscription to her inside them—treasured the lovely silver bookmark he’d had her name engraved upon. Still, as spring approached, it was Christmas Eve that lingered most vivid in Lark’s thoughts—Christmas Eve and Slater’s kiss beneath the mistletoe.
Weathered Too Young Page 21