Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection (6 page)

He reached over and clasped her hand. “
Not
talking about your mother has upset me. I thought you’d finished mourning her loss. Were forgetting her.”

“Oh, no! Never. Robert and I talk about her all the time.”

“Barbara,” he said gently. “Talking about your mama might make me sad. But it also feels good because I want to … no, I
need
to share my memories of her with my family.”

Barbara picked up the blanket she’d brought and unrolled it.

In the folds nestled the ornaments he’d hung on the tree earlier—the dollies, the horse, the star, and the soldier. He gave her a questioning look, feeling a frown wrinkle his brow.

“Tell me the stories of these, Papa. Like you used to.”

He had to swallow the lump in his throat. He chose the tiny dolly in the red dress and held it up. “This was for your sister, Marion. Our firstborn. Your mother and I had counted down the days until her arrival, and we had her only four short months. Her eyes had changed from blue to gray, like your mother’s, like Emmy’s. She had a big smile that made my heart turn over. Lou-Lou smiles like that. Took me back, it did, the first time I saw it.”

Barbara reached up and fingered the red dress. “I can’t imagine losing one of my children. The thought is unbearable.”
 

“The losses of Marion and Michael were the hardest thing I’d ever experienced, even worse than your mother’s death. As much as I miss her, she lived a good life—a full one. It’s a different kind of grief.”

Barbara pursed her lips, obviously thinking. “I can see that.”

Abe lifted the horse with his other hand until it dangled side-by-side with the dolly. “That saying that God doesn’t give you more than you can bear…? It doesn’t seem true when you’re in the midst of the agony of losing a child. Those are unbearable dark times. Yet, here I am. So I guess it must be true.”

Barbara cupped the horse. “Now Mama is in heaven with Marion and Michael. They’re together. I never thought of her death that way. Somehow, I find that comforting.”

Abe lowered the ornaments to his lap surprised to hear his daughter echo his belief. “I think that, too.”

She gave him a smile that chased away the sadness from her eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think of them, Papa. Of course, I didn’t know Marion… But I still remember how much I missed Michael when he died.”

Surprise jolted him, and he stared at her. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s because we never talked about him.”

He nodded. “We should have. I know that now.”

“I feel so grateful for my children. Sometimes, when I’m about to lose my patience with one or all of them, I think of Marion or Michael and manage to hold on to my temper.”

“I did that many a time too. But still your brother Jeremy could try my patience. I think he got more wuppins than the rest of you put together.”

Barbara laughed. “He did plenty of mischief that you and mama never knew about too.”

“I don’t think I want to know now, either,” Abe said in a wry tone.

With a gentle stroke, Barbara touched the wooden horse. “Tell me about Michael.”

Abe began to talk, first about Michael, then about Emmeline.

Barbara chimed in with her own stories, and they shared favorite memories. At times, they wiped away tears. Like a victrola playing beautiful music, they finally wound down, sitting for a few quiet minutes in peaceful companionship.

“I baked Mama’s cinnamon and dried apple cake today,” Barbara said. “I felt her presence as I added each ingredient. Heard her voice … felt the touch of her hand as I stirred the batter. I almost seasoned the cake with some salt tears, and at the same time, I felt so good to be close to her. As if she stood at my side.”

“I’m sure she did. I know I’ve felt her too.”

Barbara looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Is it just wishful thinking?”

He smiled and watched for her responding one. “Does it matter? You felt her love, and that’s what’s important.” He shivered, realizing his body had chilled and his toes were numb. “We need to get going, child. We have a warm house waiting, and your family will be wondering where you are.”

Barbara rose and gathered the blanket close.

“Let’s leave your horse with the Gordons and take the sled. You’ll be warmer under the blankets. Robert can come get her later.”

Barbara nodded her agreement.

Sudden tears moistened Abe’s eyes. He rolled up the ornaments in the blanket and stood. All his muscles had stiffened, and Abe was conscious of his achy bones.

“Let’s change traditions tonight, Papa. Instead of reading the children
A Visit From Saint Nicholas
… how about after supper, you tell the children the stories of these?” She held up the rolled blanket.

Abe smiled at his daughter. “I’d like that.”

“I left Mama’s Christmas cake baking in the oven. I hope Sassy remembered to take it out.”

“I hope so, too.” Abe’s mouth watered at the memory of his wife’s cake.
 

Barbara gave him a hug. “This visit was good for my soul, Papa. Now let’s go home and eat some of Mama’s cake.”

Abe held onto his daughter for a little longer, before releasing her, his heart lighter than it had been for a long time. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

IRISH LUCK

Sally O’Donnell finished off the end of the scarf, cut the yarn, and stuck her two knitting needles into the ball before setting them into an Indian basket at her feet. She gave the knitted weave an anxious glance.
Is it good enough?
“That’s the last one, Ma,” she said to her mother, who sat in a nearby chair, darning a stocking.

The O’Donnell family had finished supper, and Sally and her parents had gathered in chairs around the stone fireplace. Three kerosene lamps burned in the room, giving flickering light that combined with the fire to push back the darkness. One glass lamp perched next to a pile of stockings on the little table between Sally and her mother. Her father mended a plowing harness by the light of another lantern hanging from a bracket on the wall, and the third glowed between her ten-year-old twin sisters, studying at the table. Across from them, her fourteen-year-old brother, Charlie, bent over his slate with a piece of chalk in his hand, scratching out the answers to arithmetic questions.

Sally held up the scarf of undyed wool for her mother’s approval. “That’s number twelve.”

Her mother reached over and fingered the weave of the scarf. “Well done, my dear.” She gave Sally an approving smile. “That will keep someone nice and warm.” She slipped the wooden darning egg out of a stocking she’d mended, and placed it on the table beside her.

“I’ve enough of them now, Ma. Can I bring the scarves to town tomorrow?”

Mrs. O’Donnell glanced at her husband for his opinion.

Her father laid down the harness and gazed at Sally, concern in his eyes. The lines around his mouth deepened. “I do na like the idea of ye going into town in the winter,” he said in his Irish brogue. “It’s a two-hour ride, Sally. What if a storm blows up?”

“I’ll take shelter in town. You know the Nortons will let me stay with them. Please, Da. There’s only three days until…” With a tilt of her head, she glanced at the younger children, not wanting to say more. But her parents were in on her secret plan to provide a special Christmas for her siblings.
 

Her parents exchanged glances.

Ma selected a new stocking, slipped the wooden egg inside, and turned it over to expose the hole in the heel. “Let the girl go, Rory.” She began to darn.

Her father stared into the fire, mulling over the idea.

Sally was wise enough to let him be. He’d come to a conclusion, and that would be that. There’d be no hurrying him, no matter how she begged. But she studied his face to see if she could glean his thoughts.
 

The minutes passed. Although her mother placidly continued her handwork, she kept giving her husband quick glances. The firelight glinted off her auburn hair, and when she gave Sally a reassuring smile, she looked too young to have a grown-up daughter.

Not for the first time, Sally wished she’d inherited her mother’s beautiful hair color. All the O’Donnell children had their Da’s dark hair and navy-blue eyes, but luckily for them, not his angled features. They each had their mother’s oval face and refined nose.

At eighteen, Sally was old enough to recall the holidays when they lived in Virginia, and the whole family gathered at her grandparents’ home. She remembered the rambunctious games with her cousins, as well as the food, the candy, the stockings filled with nuts, rare oranges, coins, and small presents, and most of all, the decorated Christmas tree with the presents underneath.

But since the O’Donnells had traveled to Montana to homestead their own land, life had been hard and money scarce. At the most, Christmas meant Ma baking a cake or a pie and knitting new stockings or mittens or a cap, a reading of the Biblical story about the birth of Jesus, and singing carols after dinner. A special day. One they all looked forward to. But the meager festivities didn’t match Sally’s memories.

Sally wanted her sisters and brother to have the lavish Christmases she’d experienced in Virginia, or at least as close to them as possible, given the family’s limited means. This year, her parents had agreed.

Da was going to cut down a tree. Ma had saved sugar and white flour for a treat, although she wouldn’t tell Sally what she was going to make, saying that something needed to be a surprise for her. But there still wasn’t money for presents beyond the wool stockings Ma knitted after the children had gone to bed.

So Sally had come up with a plan to take her scarves to the mercantile and trade them for candy, nuts, and three oranges. Maybe if she possessed some Irish luck, there’d be enough for some fine cotton to make handkerchiefs for her mother and father. They’d be so surprised. She could barely sit still in her seat just thinking about how wonderful Christmas would be this year.

Finally, her father spoke up. “We’ll see the weather in the morning,
mavoreen
. If the sky is clear, ye can go.”

“Oh, thank you, Da.” She clasped the scarf she was holding to her chest. “Thank you!”

He held up an admonishing finger. “Ye just be careful.”

“I will, Da. You know I will.”

“That I do, daughter. Ye are a good, dependable girl. And proud I am that ye are doing this—“ he glanced at the children engrossed in their work “—when ye could be using the money for yerself. I know ye need a new dress.”

“That doesn’t matter, Da. This one’s fine. It’s not as if I go anywhere, anyway.”

Just saying the words made Sally remember her occasional restlessness, an odd longing that came sometimes despite the closeness of her family. Like usual, she dismissed the feeling.

Da sighed. “I know. And that’s na right either. Ye are almost nineteen now. Maybe this summer we’ll try harder to get to town for church and such. See if ye find a man you fancy.”

“I don’t need a husband, Da.” Sally looked around the room and smiled. “I have everyone I love right here.”

~ ~ ~

The next day, riding the mule, Sally reached the town of Sweetwater Springs. With one hand, she held the reins, and the other was placed protectively over the scarves wrapped in a clean pillowcase and tied to the pommel of the saddle. The brisk wind stung her nose, and her hands and feet ached from the cold. Even her mittens and two pairs of woolen socks weren’t enough to protect her from the December chill.

In spite of the frosty temperature, the sun sparkled off the snow. As she anticipated the shopping she’d be able to do, her heart filled with warmth. For weeks, she’d daydreamed about the children’s reactions to Christmas morning. Now she was one step closer to making those dreams come true.

She drew near to the town, relishing the sight of color after so many hours of white snow—the rusty brick of the mercantile, the brown train station, with the unexpected yellow trim, the faded green of a saloon. Even the white clapboard church and the schoolhouse stood out because both buildings sported black doors and window trim.

Sally pulled up to the mercantile, slid off the mule, and tied the reins to the hitching pole. The reins of a Pinto, with a shaggy winter coat, wrapped around the rail on the left side of the door. She wondered who owned the animal. Even though she had few acquaintances in town, she would enjoy seeing some other people. Maybe even someone she knew—Mrs. Norton, the minister’s wife, perhaps. Or Doctor Cameron’s wife. Just the idea of exchanging pleasantries with another woman excited her.
Maybe Da’s right about us needing to get to town more often.

Once off the mule, Sally took a few tottering steps, feeling the ache in her legs. It had been a long time since she’d ridden the mule past the boundaries of their one hundred sixty-acre homestead.

Stiffly, she mounted the stairs to the store and pushed open the door. Welcome warmth from the stove near the counter enveloped her. She sniffed the air, redolent with odors of vinegary pickles and spicy cinnamon.

“Close the door, girl,” Mrs. Cobb scolded. The shopkeeper sat behind the counter at the back of the store. “You’re letting in the cold air.”