A Creed Country Christmas (10 page)

He took her back to his room—a slight, wicked thrill flickered through her at the realization—and put her into his bed.

She began to weep, with weariness and with relief, because, out in the little cabin, sorrow had drawn so near and then passed on. For now.

Lincoln sat down on the edge of the mattress. Kicked off his boots. In the next moment, he was under the covers with her, fully clothed, holding her close. Just then, Juliana knew only two things: she’d be ruined for sure, and she’d die if he let her go.

He did not let her go—several times during the night, she awakened, gradually growing more coherent, and felt his arms around her, felt his chest warm beneath her cheek.

When she opened her eyes the next time, all weariness gone, she found herself looking straight into Lincoln’s face. By the thinning darkness, she knew dawn would be breaking soon.

“Since we just spent the night in the same bed,” Lincoln said reasonably, as though they’d been discussing the subject for hours and now he was putting his foot down, “I think we’d better get married.”

Juliana stared at him, her eyes widening until they hurt. “Married?”

He merely smiled.

She swallowed. “But—surely—”

The door creaked open. “Papa?” Gracie’s voice chimed. “Theresa can’t find Miss Mitchell and—”

Juliana wanted to pull the covers up over her head, hide, but it was too late. Gracie, fleet as a fairy, was beside the bed now.

“Oh,” she said, in a tone of merry innocence, “
there
you are!”

“Gracie—” Lincoln began.

But she cut him off by shouting, “Theresa! I found Miss Mitchell! She’s right here in Papa’s bed!”

Juliana groaned.

Lincoln laughed. “Miss Mitchell has something to tell you, Gracie,” he said.

“What?” Gracie asked curiously.

Juliana drew a very deep breath, let it out slowly. “Your father and I are getting married,” she said.

“I’m going to have a mama?” Gracie enthused. “That’s even better than a
dictionary!
”

“You go on back to bed now,” Lincoln told his daughter.

She obeyed with surprising alacrity, fairly dancing through the shadows toward the door.

“That,” Juliana told Lincoln, in a righteous whisper, “was a
very
underhanded thing to do.”

He sat up, clothes rumpled, swung his legs over the side of the bed, then leaned to pull his boots back on. He was humming under his breath, a sound like muted laughter, or creek water burbling along under a spring sky.

“Soon as the snow melts off a little,” he said, as though she hadn’t spoken at all, “I’ll send for somebody to marry us. Probably be the justice of the peace, since the circuit preacher only comes through when the spirit moves him.”

She could have protested, but for some reason, she didn’t.

Lincoln added wood to the hearth fire and got it crack
ling again. “You might as well go back to sleep,” he said. “Rest up a little.”

Juliana lay there, the covers pulled up to her chin, and reviewed what had just happened. She’d accepted a proposal of marriage—of sorts. It was as unlike what she’d imagined, both as a girl and as a grown woman, as it could possibly have been.

It was all wrong.

It was wildly
un
romantic.

Why, then, did she feel this peculiar, taut-string excitement, this desire to sing?

Sleeping proved impossible. The children were up; she could hear their voices and footsteps. Besides, she was rested.

She must get dressed, do something with her hair, put on her cloak and go out to the cabin to look in on Rose-of-Sharon and the baby. Suppose the fire had gone out and they took a chill?

Rising, she realized that yesterday’s calico, no doubt beyond salvaging anyhow, had disappeared. A pretty blue woolen frock with black piping lay across the foot of the bed—Lincoln’s doing, she reflected with a blush. A garment his wife must have owned, since it did not look
matronly enough to belong to his mother, as the oversize nightgown probably did.

For a moment, she considered her remaining dresses, both frayed at the seams and oft-mended, both worn threadbare. Both inadequate for winter weather.

She put on the lovely blue woolen, buttoned it up the front. Except at the bosom, where it was a little too tight, it fit remarkably well.

The children, she soon discovered, had assembled in the kitchen. Seated around the table, they all stared at her as though she’d grown horns during the night. Lincoln was making breakfast—eggs and hotcakes—and Tom was just stepping through the back door, stomping snow off his boots.

Juliana forgot her embarrassment. “Rose-of-Sharon?” she asked, her breath catching. “How is she? How is the baby?”

Tom’s smile flashed, bright as sunshine on snow. “She’s just fine, and so is the little man,” he said. “I don’t reckon she’d mind some female company, though.”

Juliana nodded, looking back at the children. “No lessons today,” she said. With the exception of Gracie,
they looked delighted. “And I expect you all to behave yourselves.”

They all nodded solemnly, from Joseph right on down to Billy-Moses and Daisy. Their eyes were huge, though whether that was due to the blue dress or the fact that she’d spent the night in Lincoln Creed’s bedroom and everyone in the household seemed to know it, she could not begin to say.

She looked about for her cloak, realized that it had probably been hopelessly stained, like her dress.

“Take my coat,” Lincoln said.

Juliana hesitated, then lifted the long and surprisingly heavy black coat from its peg and put it on, nearly enveloped by it. With one hand, she held up the hem, so she wouldn’t trip or drag the cloth on the ground.

She stepped outside into the first timorous light of day, and immediately noticed that the eaves were dripping. The snow was slushy beneath her feet.

Would Lincoln ride to town and fetch back the justice of the peace, now that the weather was changing? A quivery, delicious dread overtook her as she hurried toward the Gainers’ cabin. Light glowed in the single window, and smoke curled from the stovepipe chimney.

She
could
refuse to marry Lincoln, of course—even though she’d slept in his room, in his
bed
, nothing untoward had taken place. Why, he hadn’t even kissed her.

She blushed furiously and walked faster, remembering the bath, trying to outdistance the recollection. He’d undressed her, seen her naked flesh,
washed
her. At the time, she had been too dazed by exhaustion and the delivery of Rose-of-Sharon’s baby to protest. The experience hadn’t seemed—well—
real
.

Now
, however, she felt the slickness of the soap, the heat of the water, the tender touch of Lincoln’s hand, just as if it were all happening right then. She quickened her steps again, but the sensations kept up with her.

It was a relief when Ben Gainer opened the cabin door to greet her, smiling from ear to ear.

“Rose-of-Sharon’s been asking for you,” he said.

Juliana hurried inside so the door could be closed against the soggy chill of the morning. A fire crackled in the stove, and the cabin was cozy, scented with fresh coffee and just-baked biscuits. Even the pitiful little Christmas tree had taken on a certain scruffy splendor. Rose-of-Sharon sat up in bed, pillows plumped behind her back, nursing her baby behind a draped blanket.

The girl’s face shone with a light all her own, and Juliana felt a swift pang of pure envy.

Ben took Lincoln’s coat from Juliana’s shoulders and told her to help herself to coffee and biscuits, explaining that Tom had done the baking.

“I’ll be back as soon as we’ve fed those cattle,” he added, putting on his own coat and hat and leaving the cabin.

Ravenous, Juliana poured coffee into a mug, took a steaming biscuit from the covered pan on top of the stove. She sat beside the bed, in last night’s chair, while she ate.

When she’d finished nursing the baby, Rose-of-Sharon righted her nightgown and lowered the quilt to show Juliana her son. He was wrapped in a pretty crocheted blanket.

He seemed impossibly small, frighteningly delicate. His skin was very nearly translucent.

“Do you want to hold him?” Rose-of-Sharon asked when Juliana had finished the biscuit and brushed fallen crumbs from the skirt of the blue dress.

The only thing greater than Juliana’s trepidation was her desire to take that baby into her arms. Carefully, she did so, her heart beating a little faster.

“My mama sent that blanket,” Rose-of-Sharon said.
“All the way from Cheyenne. Ben says he’ll take me and the baby home to Wyoming for a visit come spring so we can show him off to the family.”

The baby gave an infinitesimal hiccup. He weighed no more than a feather. “Have you given him a name?”

Rose-of-Sharon smiled. “I wanted to call him Benjamin, for his daddy, but Ben’ll have none of it. Never liked the name much. So we picked one out of the Good Book—Joshua.”

“Joshua,” Juliana repeated softly. She pictured the walls of Jericho tumbling down. “That’s a fine, strong name.”

“Joshua Thomas Gainer,” Rose-of-Sharon said.

Juliana looked up.

“Yes,” Rose-of-Sharon told her. “For Tom Dancingstar. Did Ben tell you I didn’t want him looking after me, because it ain’t proper for an Indian to tend a white woman?”

Juliana didn’t speak. She did shake her head, though. Ben hadn’t told her, and she was glad.

“If Joshua had been a girl,” Rose-of-Sharon went on, more softly now, holding out her arms for the baby again, “I’d have chosen your name.” She wrinkled her brow curiously, and Juliana, surrendering Joshua with some reluctance, thought of Angelique, wondered if she
and Blue Johnston had gotten married. “What
is
your name, anyhow?”

She laughed. “Juliana.”

“That’s right pretty.”

“Thank you. So is Rose-of-Sharon.”

Rose-of-Sharon blushed a little. “I’m obliged to you,” she said. “The hardest thing about having a baby was being so far from Mama—or at least that’s what I thought until it started hurting.”

Juliana smiled, tucked the blankets in more snugly around both Rose-of-Sharon and the baby. “You’ll forget the pain with time,” she said.

“I ain’t yet,” Rose-of-Sharon said devoutly, and with a little shudder for emphasis. She yawned, and her eyelids drooped a little. “I’m plum worn down to a nubbin,” she added.

“Get some rest,” Juliana urged gently.

“What if I roll over on Joshua while I’m sleeping?” Rose-of-Sharon fretted. “He’s such a little thing.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t,” Juliana promised. There was no cradle, but she spotted a small chest of drawers in a corner of the cabin. Removing one drawer, she lined it with a folded quilt, set it next to the bed where Rose-
of-Sharon could see and reach, and carefully placed the baby inside.

With no more quilts or blankets on hand, Juliana used several of Ben’s heavy flannel shirts to cover little Joshua.

Satisfied that her baby was safe, Rose-of-Sharon slept.

Juliana sat quietly through the morning, her mood introspective.

At half past one that afternoon, the men returned, chilled and red-faced from the brisk wind, and Ben took over the care of his wife and son.

Juliana wore Lincoln’s coat, and as they stood in front of the cabin door, he carefully did up the buttons, his gloved hands, smelling of hay, lingering on the collar, close against her face.

“Tom will ride to town and ask after the justice of the peace,” he said, “if you’re agreeable to that.”

Juliana gazed up at him. She had not had time to fall in love with this man—he certainly hadn’t swept her off her feet, not in the romantic sense, anyway—but she respected him. She
liked
him.

Was that enough?

It seemed that someone else spoke up in her place. “I’m agreeable,” she said.

His smile was so sudden, so dazzling, that it nearly knocked her back on her heels. “Good,” he said huskily. “That’s good.”

A cloud crossed an inner sun. “This—this dress—”

“Beth’s mother sent crates full of them, every so often,” he told her, his eyes gentle, perceptive. “She never got around to wearing it.”

Juliana absorbed that, nodded.

Lincoln took her hand. “Let’s get that Christmas tree set up,” he said with a laugh, “before Gracie pesters me into an early grave.”

Minutes later, while Juliana and the children took boxes of delicate ornaments from the shelves of a small storage room off the parlor, Lincoln went to the woodshed to get the tree, Joseph right on his heels.

It was so big that it took both of them to wrestle it through the front door, its branches exuding the piney scent Juliana had always associated with Christmas.

Billy-Moses and Daisy stared at the tree in wonder, huddled so close together that their shoulders touched, and holding hands. Juliana remembered Mr. Philbert, and knew in a flash of certainty that he would come for them one day soon.