Christmas Kringle (Tales From Biders Clump Book 1)

by Danni Roan

  Even though Mr. Adams had been gone for nearly five years, his absence was keenly felt, and never more than at the holidays.

  Not wanting to follow Pricilla into the store when she was doing her Christmas shopping, Sara turned down the street, looking in windows as she moved through town.

  “Mornin’,” a soft, husky voice called as Sara approached the boarding house.

  “Good morning, Miss Polly Esther,” Sara said with a smile.

  “In ta do the Chris’mas shoppin’ I see,” the older woman spoke from her rocking chair on the porch of the boarding house.

  “Yes,” Sara replied, while the woman’s keen blue eyes assessed her.

  “I was sorry to hear of your troubles this fall,” Polly Esther, one of the town’s oldest matrons, said. her voice holding no pity or censure.

  “Thank you,” Sara replied, unsure what to say. Miss Polly was a fixture in Biders Clump and if she wasn’t bustling about in her kitchen, working at the church, or tending to her guests, she could usually be found sitting in her old, bent wood rocker by her door.

  “Where’s Mr. George today?” Sara asked, trying to avoid her family’s most recent embarrassment.

  “Out back choppin’ wood.” The old woman smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears as her sharp, blue eyes softened. “He keeps busy most days,” she added with a slight smile.

  “I’m surprised to see you out here on such a cold morning,” Sara said, grinning at Polly. She wondered what it would be like to be married to the same man for forty years and still twinkle at the mere thought of him.

  A vision of a lean, sandy-haired cowboy on a spotted horse came to mind, and her cheeks flushed.

  “There goes that Bruno,” Polly Esther’s words caught Sara by surprise, and she turned to see the dark-haired young man trailing along behind Janine Williams.

  “That boy follows her around like a lost pup and she ain’t got the sense to see him for what he is.”

  “What is he?” Sara asked, suddenly curious.

  Polly’s whole face lit up and she offered a sideways wink. “Mostly a silly boy in love with a silly girl,” she answered, “but mark my words, that boy will be something someday. He’s got notions.”

  “Like what?” Sara was truly curious now.

  “Oh, never you mind about that. For now, you just keep your eyes pealed to see what happens. That Janine Williams is full of herself, what with her pa being the banker and all, but the chit hasn’t got the sense God gave a goose, and I mean no disrespect to the goose.” She wobbled her head, making her white-gold hair bobble.

  “Who you jawin’ with?” A man’s deep voice came around the side of the two-story building followed by George, his arms full of wood.

  “Good morning, Mr. George,” Sara said, offering the man a bright smile.

  “Mornin’ Sara,” The older man grinned. His dark hair, streaked with white, was damp from his morning work. “You in ta do yer Christmas shoppin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was tellin’ young Sara here ta keep an eye on Bruno,” Polly said, nodding toward where the man in cowboy boots and a ragged coat trailed behind the girl with the chestnut hair.

  “That girl ain’t got no sense at all,” George echoed what Polly had said only moments ago.

  “You mark my words now, George,” Polly said with a grin, “he’ll marry her anyway.”

  “If you say so,” George agreed, offering a wink with a hooded brown eye. “I don’t suppose you could help me with a few mornin’ chores could ya?” the boarding house proprietor asked. “These cold mornin’s is kinda hard on my lumbago,” he added, looking at Sara.

  “Oh, yes,” Sara agreed, “I’d be glad to help. What can I do?”

  George smiled brightly. “Let’s start with cleaning up the wood pile a bit,” he said, stacking what he had in his arms at the door and turning down the alley toward the back yard.

  Sara was surprised at the piles and piles of wood George had stacked along the small barn at the back of the property. A large chopping stump stood nearby with an axe stuck in it and she suddenly hoped she wouldn’t need to chop the large pieces she saw before her.

  “Here, ya better put this on,” the old man offered, handing her a heavy apron. “Now if you’ll fetch that pail and start pickin’ up the splits and kindling,’ I’d be much obliged. I don’t like all that bendin’ and stooping,” he added, placing a foot on the stump and pulling the axe free with one hand.

  “Of course,” Sara agreed, then set about collecting the twigs, bark and branches that had flown about the yard.

  The steady thwack, thwack of the axe falling filled the small space as she worked. Mr. George seemed quite strong for his age.

  “That looks pretty good,” he called several minutes later as her bucket began to fill. “You carry that on into the kitchen and put it in the tinder box.” He hefted several split logs and turned toward the door at the back of the house.

  Inside, George began stacking the wood in a small alcove near a large cook stove. “Just put it right in there,” he said. The small wooden box stood to the other side of the stove and carefully Sara began arranging the slivers of wood so they’d be within easy reach.

  Finally emptying her bucket, she turned toward the door to see a heavy coat hanging on a peg. It was bright blue with big buttons on the sleeves and dangling from each sleeve, by a pretty ribbon, was a bright red mitten.

  “You like Polly’s extra coat?” George asked with a chuckle.

  “I was noticing the mittens,” Sara replied honestly.

  “My Polly Esther is a wonderful woman,” George began. “She’s a fantastic cook, a loving wife and a superb mother,” he said, “but she can’t keep track of her gloves to save her life. I’ve worried too many years about frost bite, so’s a few years ago I sewed them mittens up with ribbon and stitched ‘em to her sleeves.” He chuckled. “Now she’s snug as a bug in a rug when she goes out on really cold days.”

  Sara smiled. It was sweet to see the older man taking such care of his wife.

  “Now what’a I owe ya for yer help today?” he asked.

  “That’s alright,” Sara said flushing. “I’m glad to help.”

  “Nonsense,” the old man scoffed, “a workman is worthy of his hire.” He pulled a shiny silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to her. She gasped as she snatched it from the air, surprised she had caught it.

  “Now you run along and finish up that Christmas shopping,” George said with a wink, and shooed her out the door.

  Chapter 4

  The little bell over the door of the mercantile tinkled - there always seemed to be a little bell - as Sara stepped into the warm, aromatic depth of the local store.

  “Mornin’ Miss Sara,” Mr. Bentley called as he dusted off a shelf at the back of the room. “Prissy was in a minute ago, are you looking for her?” he asked solicitously.

  “No, I’m in to do some shopping of my own,” she replied, running her hand along the table with the brightly colored fabrics on their long skeins.

  “Ah, Christmas,” he said knowingly, laying a finger along his nose. “I’ve got some lovely new parcels, arrived this morning.”

  “I think I’ll look around a bit,” Sara offered, turning and walking toward the tall shelves where on a previous occasion she’d seen a writing set her oldest sister had admired. The small, pink box near the top of the shelf was wrapped with a satin ribbon and contained paper, pen and ink.

  The bell on the door tinkled again as she stretched up to get a finger under the box. She hated to make Mr. Bentley leave his other customer. A large hand shifted over her head, grasped the box, then lowered it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said brightly, turning to see who’d been kind enough to help. Her smile widened as she looked up into the handsome face of Rafe Dixon.

  “Ma’am,” he drawled, tipping his hat with two fingers.

  “I came in to pick up Pa’s order,” he offered in way of explanation to h
is presence, but didn’t step back from where he stood gazing down at her.

  Sara dropped her eyes and studied the small box in her hand.

  “It’s mighty pretty,” Rafe offered, his eyes still on her face.

  “I was thinking of getting it for my sister,” Sara said. “She likes to write and helps keep the books for the ranch.” She smiled shyly, realizing he probably didn’t care about the box or the books.

  “You here for that order your Pa placed, Rafe?” Mr. Bentley called from where he was busy laying out items on the long counter.

  “Yes, sir,” Rafe replied politely, turning to address the shop keeper. “Is it ready?” He couldn’t help but feel disgruntled at the interruption.

  “I’ll have it for you in a jiffy.” Mr. Bentley pushed his glasses up his aquiline nose and reached for several items on the shelf behind him.

  “No rush,” Rafe said with a grin.

  “Mr. Bentley,” Sara called softly, once again studying the pretty box. “How much is this writing set?”

  “That’d be two-dollars, Ms. Sara,” the clerk replied, glancing over his shoulder before returning to his work.

  Rafe watched as the young woman flushed prettily, then turned to put the box back on the shelf. “I’m not sure Quil would like pink,” she said absently.

  Rafe took the box from her hands and lifted it back up to the spot on the shelf from where he’d removed it only moments ago.

  “What kind of things does your sister like?” he asked, following as Sara began perusing the shelves once more.

  “Books mostly,” Sara said softly. “We all enjoy reading, but Quil will buy each of us a book this year,” she added. "She buys us a book every year," she finished with a grin.

  Her hand traced along the soft, brightly colored calicos and chintzes as she passed the fabrics table again. She wished she could afford a few yards for her mother, but this year money was entirely too tight.

  Rafe studied Ms. Adams with interest, suddenly noticing the frayed hem of her skirt and the rough edge on the toe of her sensible boots as they peeked out from under her faded dress. Her coat, though well-cleaned, also showed signs of wear.

  “My Ma always liked trinkets,” he mused, taking the girl’s elbow and ushering her to another shelf. “One time when I was small, I found this box of stamps and bought her one.”

  From the very bottom shelf at the far end of the room, he pulled out a square, wooden box with small carved objects scattered haphazardly inside. He reached in and pulled one out. It looked tiny between his thick square fingers. “See.”

  Turning the object, he showed the flat bottom where a simple image had been etched into a rubber pad. “You roll them in ink and then you can make a mark on any paper.”

  Sara smiled, seeing how the little objects worked. “What kind of pictures do they have?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement as she began digging through the box.

  “All sorts of things,” he said, lifting them one at a time and examining the simple pictures. “Pa thought they were silly, but Ma loved them.” His smile widened as he turned the handle over on one stamp, showing her the image.

  “It’s a quill,” she squealed, taking it from his hands and holding it to the light. A long shaggy feather had been carved into the brown rubber which had been glued to the short wooden shaft. “It’s perfect,” she gushed.

  Rafe had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. His whole heart seemed to be trying to crawl out of his chest in delight at Sara’s enthusiasm.

  “Mr. Bentley?” Sara called, dashing to the front of the store. “How much for this stamp?”

  “Those silly old things?” the man blinked, adjusting his glasses to look at them. “Twenty-cents apiece,” he said. “I’m lettin’ em go at cost. Silliest things the missus ever picked up, if you ask me."

  “I’ll have this one,” Sara enthused. “It’s perfect.”

  “Your order's ready,” Mr. Bentley directed at Rafe as he shook his head at the girl’s choice. “This all you’re gettin’?” he asked Sara, who flushed anew.

  “Oh my, no,” she said, giggling at her own distraction. “I still need to find something for Ma and Pricilla.”

  “Prissy was sure eyeing that set of ribbons over there,” Mr. Bentley offered, pointing toward another table.

  Sara turned to look at the ribbons, bumping into Rafe where he’d walked up behind her. She giggled, not feeling the slightest bit embarrassed at the contact. “I’m sorry,” she said politely, though.

  “I’m not.” Rafe’s words barely reached her ears and she gasped at his forwardness.

  “Here ya go, Mr. Dixon,” the shopkeeper said, wresting two heavy sacks onto the table.

  “Thank you,” Rafe said, unenthusiastically stepping away from Sara and hefting the bags before turning for the door. “Merry Christmas,” he added, setting the bell to chime as he exited.

  After Rafe left the store, Sara picked out a few ribbons for Pricilla and a pair of soft gloves for her mother, but with her final silver dollar she purchased several strings of finished leather, tucking them into her pocket silently as she left to meet her family.

  Rafe stood in the stable door, watching as Sara Adams hustled across the chilly street toward the Grist Mill Café. She held three small packaged wrapped in brown paper and string and he wondered what her Christmas would be like.

  His eyes followed her as she stepped onto the porch of the small restaurant. He had the sudden urge for a cup of coffee, but instead strapped his supplies to his horse’s saddle, thinking.

  “Ain’t no Santa Clause left no more,” Byron Breaks’ voice filtered into the barn from his small office at the front of the hostelry.

  “That’s just ain’t so,” another voice argued. “I seen him myself.”

  Rafe chuckled. Leave it to George to say such a thing.

  “Ain’t nobody ever seen Santa Claus,” Byron grumbled. “He’s on’y one of them fairy tales folks tell their kids.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” George said reasonably, “but that ain’t what I mean. It’s your turn, by the way.”

  “Don’t rush me.” Byron’s voice was gruff as he studied the checkerboard Rafe was sure sat before them. “An’ what’a ya mean that ain’t what ya mean.”

  “We tell our youngin’s about Santa and his presents, but it’s more than that,” George answered patiently. “It’s about givin’, or it should be anyway.”

  “People are plain silly,” Byron grouched again.

  “People are people,” George said. “Tellin’ children there is a Santa is a little bit of fiction that teaches them about giving and that this world can be beautiful, wonderful, and magical if we really look.”

  “Fiction hey? Kina’ like some of them tall tales Polly Esther likes ta tell,” Byron chortled, but there was no heat in his words.

  “I reckon that’s Polly’s way of bringin’ a little cheer into our world. You ever seen her tellin’ the kids stories?” he asked, his voice full of pride. “Why them little ones at Sun’y School is practically spell-bound and them stories teach youngin’s how to behave and do what’s right.”

  “She sure can spin a yarn,” Byron admitted.

  “I reckon Santa’s like tha, too.” George must have leaned back in his chair because it squeaked and protested under his bulk. “It gives us someone else ta blame for our good deeds. We can go ‘round spreading Christmas cheer with impunity.”

  “What’s that mean?” Byron barked. “It don’t sound healthy.”

  “It’s when folks don’t know you done something, but you do,” George said. “Now you gonna play or not?”

  Rafe draped the reins of his spotted horse around a post, patted the animal on the neck and strode away down the street. The bell above the mercantile door jangled loudly as he entered for the second time, never seeing the two white heads that peeped out of the stable office door grinning widely.

  Chapter 5

  “Maud Adams,” Harlan Dixon dra
wled, his voice high and nasally as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. “What brings you to town?” he asked, pulling a silver watch from his brocade vest pocket.

  “Mr. Dixon,” the older woman said tersely, “it’s nice to see you well.” If her tone of voice was any indication, her feelings on the matter were a complete opposite to her words.

  “Dinning out, Maud?” The man looked down his nose. “I’m surprised that with your little problem recently that you can afford it.”

  Maud Adams lifted her napkin from her place setting and spread it carefully across her lap. “We manage, Harlan,” she said stiffly. “Do have a good day.” Her words were an obvious dismissal, but the man ignored them.

  “Why don’t you sell me that ramshackle place you call a ranch?” he snapped. “I’ll even pay top dollar for the crow-bait creatures you call cows.” His dark eyes gleamed menacingly.

  Sara walked into the small dining room of the Grist Mill to see her mother talking to Harlan Dixon. She could see by the red flush on her mother’s face that the conversation was not going well. It seemed that almost every time the two of them crossed paths, sparks flew.

  “My home is not for sale, Mr. Dixon,” Maud barked, her dark blue eyes flashing with anger. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. You would think a man of your breeding and education would be able to grasp such a simple concept.” Her icy expression chilled the room.

  Mr. Dixon bridled, jerking his long, black coat straight with an irritated tug. “You always were a stubborn woman, Maude,” he snapped, then turned on his heel and stepped through the door, never even acknowledging Sara’s presence.

  “Mama?” Sara hurried to her mother and slipped into a chair next to her. She could see the tears building in the deep blue depths of the eyes that had only ever shown her love.

  “It’s alright,” Maude said, dabbing at her eyes. “That man is still the most odious creature I’ve ever met.” She forced a smile for her youngest child. “Did you finish your shopping?”

  “Yes,” Sara said, thinking about her encounter with Rafe and deciding that there were some things that her mother didn’t need to know. “Did you post your letters?”