The Christmas Brides (8 page)

The little boy, Jack, like Brennan and Carson, had fallen asleep.

The peddler spoke in a low voice, after making sure he wouldn't be overheard. “You think they'll find us in time?”

Morgan shoved a hand through his hair. “I don't know,” he said honestly.

“You know anything about Miss Lizzie's people?”

Morgan frowned. “Not much. I met her uncle, Kade, down in Tucson.”

“I've heard of Angus McKettrick,” Christian confided, his gaze drifting briefly to Whitley Carson's prone and senseless form before swinging back to Morgan. “That's Miss Lizzie's grandpa. Tough as an army mule on spare rations, that old man. The McKettricks have money. They have land and cattle, too. But there's one thing that's more important to them than all that, from what I've been told, and that's kinfolks. They'll come, just like Miss Lizzie says they will. They'll come because
she's here—you can be sure of that. I'm just hoping we'll all be alive and kicking when they show up.”

Morgan had no answer for that. There were no guarantees, and plenty of dangers—starvation, for one. Exposure, for another. And the strong likelihood of a second, much more devastating, avalanche.

“You figure one of us ought to try hiking out of here?”

Morgan looked at Carson. “
He
didn't fare so well,” he said.

“He's a greenhorn and we both know it,” the peddler replied.

“How far do you think we are from Indian Rock?”

“We're closer to Stone Creek than Indian Rock,” Christian said. “Tracks turn toward it about five miles back. It's another ten miles into Stone Creek from there. Probably twenty or more to Indian Rock from where we sit.”

Morgan nodded. “If they're not here by morning,” he said, “I'll try to get to Stone Creek.”

“You're needed here, Doc,” the peddler said. “I'm not as young as I used to be, but I've still got some grit and a good pair of legs. Know this country pretty well, too—and you don't.”

Lizzie, Mrs. Halifax and Ellen returned, shivering. Lizzie struggled to shut the caboose door against a rising wind.

Morgan and the peddler let the subject drop.

They extinguished the lamp soon after that, ate ham and “bony” bean soup in the dark.

Everyone found a place to sleep.

And when Morgan opened his eyes the next morning,
at first light, he knew the snow had stopped. He sat up, looked around, found Lizzie first. She was still sleeping, sitting upright on the bench seat, bundled in a blanket. John Brennan hadn't wakened, and neither had Mrs. Halifax and her children. Whitley Carson, a book in his hands, stared across the car at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“The peddler's gone,” he told Morgan. “He left before dawn.”

L
IZZIE DREAMED SHE WAS HOME
,
waking up in her own room, hearing the dear, familiar sounds of a ranch house morning: stove lids clattering downstairs in the kitchen; the murmur of familiar voices, planning the day. She smelled strong coffee brewing, and wood smoke, and the beeswax Lorelei used to polish the furniture.

Christmas Eve was special in the McKettrick household, but the chores still had to be done. The cattle and horses needed hay and water, the cows required milking, the wood waited to be chopped and carried in, and there were always eggs to be gathered from the henhouse. Behind the tightly closed doors of Papa's study, she knew, a giant evergreen tree stood in secret, shimmering with tinsel strands and happy secrets. The luscious scent of pine rose through the very floorboards to perfume the second floor.

Throughout the day, the uncles and aunts and cousins would come, by sleigh or, if the roads happened to be clear, by team and wagon and on horseback. There would be exchanges of food, small gifts, laughter and stories. In the evening, after attending church services in town, they would all gather at the main house, where Lizzie's grandfather Angus would read aloud, his voice deep and resonant, from the Gospel of Luke.

And there were in the same fields, shepherds, guarding their flocks by night…

Tears moistened Lizzie's lashes, because she knew she was dreaming. Knew she wasn't on the Triple M, where she belonged, but trapped in a stranded train on a high, treacherous ridge.

The smell of coffee was real, though. That heartened her. Gave her the strength to open her eyes.

Her hair must have looked a sight, that was her immediate thought, and she needed to go outside. Her gaze found Morgan first, like a compass needle swinging north. He stood near the stove, looking rumpled from sleep, pouring coffee into a mug.

He crossed to her, handed her the cup.

The small courtesy seemed profound to Lizzie, rather than mundane.

“Today,” she said, “is Christmas Eve.”

“So it is,” Morgan agreed, smiling wanly.

Whitley, resting with his broken leg propped on the bench seat, caught her eye. “Good morning, Lizzie-bet,” he said.

She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, embarrassed by the nickname, and sipped at her coffee. Evidently, Whitley's apology the day before had been a sincere one. He was on his best behavior. She discovered that she did not have an opinion on that, one way or the other.

“Where is Mr. Christian?” she asked Morgan, having scanned the company and noticed he was missing. The caboose was chilly, despite the efforts of the little stove. “Has he gone looking for firewood?”

A glance passed between Morgan and Whitley. Whitley raised both eyebrows, but didn't speak.

“He's on his way to Stone Creek,” Morgan said, sounding resigned.

Lizzie sat up straighter, nearly spilling her coffee. “
Stone Creek?
That's miles from here—” She paused, confounded. “And you just
let him go?
”

Whitley finally deigned to contribute to the conversation. “He left before Dr. Shane woke up, Lizzie. And his mind was made up. Nobody could have stopped him.”

Lizzie absorbed that. She thought of the tinkling music box and the tins of goose liver pâté and wondered if any of them would ever see Mr. Christian again.

“I'm going forward to the engine, for coal,” Morgan said, taking up a bucket.

Lizzie thought of the conductor and engineer, lying frozen where they'd died. She thought of Mr. Christian, bravely making his way through snow that would be up to his waist in some places, over his head in others. The last, tattered joy of her Christmas dream faded away.

She simply nodded, and concentrated on drinking her coffee.

“Lizzie,” Whitley said, when Morgan had gone, “come and sit here beside me.”

The others were still sleeping. After a moment's hesitation, Lizzie crossed the caboose to join Whitley.

“Have you forgiven me?” Whitley asked, very quietly. His hazel eyes glowed with earnest affection; he really
was
a good person, Lizzie knew.

“I guess you were just scared,” she said.

“I acted like a fool,” Whitley told her.

Lizzie said nothing.

Shyly he took her hand. Squeezed it. “Now I've got to start the courtship all over again, don't I? I've botched things that badly.”

“C-courtship?” Lizzie had looked forward to Whitley's proposal for months, dreamed of it, rehearsed the experience in her imagination, practiced her response. How many, many ways there were to say “yes.” Now, something had changed, forever, and she knew it had far more to do with meeting Dr. Morgan Shane than anything Whitley had said or done since the avalanche. It wouldn't be fair, or kind, to pretend otherwise.

“Tell me I haven't lost you for good, Lizzie,” Whitley said, tightening his grip on her hand as he read her face. “Please.”

Just then, John Brennan began to cough so violently that Lizzie bolted off the seat and rushed across the caboose to help him sit up. The fit eased a little, but Lizzie felt desperately helpless, standing there patting the man's back while he struggled to breathe.

Whitley, meanwhile, got to his feet and stumped over to offer his flask. “It's just water,” he said, when Lizzie looked at it askance, recalling all the whiskey he'd consumed from the vessel earlier.

She took the flask, opened it, held it to John's gray lips until he'd taken a few sips. After several tense moments, he seemed nominally better. Lizzie tested his fore head for fever, using the back of her hand as she'd seen Lorelei do so many times, and found it blazing hot.

Despair threatened Lizzie again. She swayed slightly on her feet, and Whitley caught hold of her arm just
as Morgan returned, on a rush of cold wind, lugging a scuttle full of coal.

Time seemed to stop, just for a moment, as abruptly as the train had stopped when the avalanche struck.

Morgan carried the coal to the stove, crouched and tossed a few handfuls in on top of the last of the dry firewood.

Then the children woke up, and baby Nellie Anne began to wail for her breakfast. Whitley made his slow way back to the other side of the caboose, lowered himself onto the seat. Lizzie performed what ablutions she could, brushing her hair and pinning it up again, then grooming Ellen's hair, too. Mrs. Thaddings took Wood row out of his cage so he could perch on her shoulder, ruffling his feathers and muttering bird prattle.

“Where's Mr. Christmas?” Jack asked, very seriously, as they all made a breakfast of leftover soup, crackers and goose liver pâté. Mrs. Halifax, clearly regaining her strength, had melted snow to wash her children's hands and faces, and they looked scrubbed and damp. “He said he'd teach me and Ellen to play five-card stud.”

“He'll do no such thing,” Mrs. Halifax said, but she smiled. Then she turned questioningly to Morgan. “Where
is
Mr. Christian?” she asked.

“He's making for Stone Creek,” Whitley said, before Morgan could reply. “He should have stayed here.”

Both Lizzie and Morgan gave him ironic looks—he'd broken his leg on a similar errand, after all—and he subsided, at least briefly.

Lizzie glanced at the windows overlooking the broad valley, hundreds of feet below the train's precarious
perch on the mountainside. “At least the snow has stopped,” she mused. “The traveling won't be any easier, but he'll be able to see where he's going.”

Once the improvised meal was over, time seemed to crawl.

Mrs. Thaddings introduced Ellen and Jack to Woodrow, and they stared at him in fascination.

“If he was a homing pigeon,” Ellen observed, bright child that she was, “he could go for help.”

“We might have to eat him,” Jack said solemnly, “if we run out of food.”

Mr. Thaddings, who hadn't said much up until then, chuckled and shook his head. “He'd be pretty stringy,” he told the boy.

“Stringy,” Woodrow affirmed, spreading his wings and squawking once for emphasis.

Amused, Lizzie busied herself tending to John Brennan, while Morgan paced the center of the car and Mrs. Halifax discreetly nursed the baby, her back to everyone. Presently, when Woodrow retired to his cage for a nap, Jack and Ellen shyly approached Whitley, and sat themselves on either side of him.

He sighed, met Lizzie's gaze for a long moment, then flipped back to the front of the book he'd nearly finished, and began reading aloud. “‘It was the best of times—'”

And so the morning passed.

At midafternoon, a knock sounded at the door of the caboose.

Hope surged in Lizzie's heart—her father and uncles had come at last—but even before she opened the door, she knew they wouldn't have bothered to knock. They'd have busted down the door to get in.

Mr. Christian stood on the small platform, frost in his eyebrows, his whiskers, his lashes. He clutched a very small pine tree in one hand and gazed into Lizzie's face without apparent recognition, more statue than man.

Morgan immediately moved her aside, took hold of the peddler by the arms, and pulled him in out of the cold.

“Tracks are blocked,” Mr. Christian said woodenly, as Morgan took the tree from him and set it aside. “I had to turn back—”

Morgan began peeling off the man's coat, which appeared to be frozen and made a crackling sound as the fabric bent. Mr. Thaddings helped with the task, while Mrs. Thaddings rushed to fill a mug with coffee. Mr. Christian still seemed baffled, as though surprised to find himself where he was. Perhaps he wondered if he was in the caboose at all, or in the midst of some cold-induced reverie.

“Frostbite,” Morgan said, examining the peddler's hands. “Lizzie, get me snow. Lots of snow.”

Confounded, Lizzie obeyed just the same. She hurried out, filled the front of her skirt with as much snow as she could carry, returned to find that Morgan had settled Mr. Christian on the bench seat, as far from the stove as possible. She watched as Morgan took the snow she'd brought in, packed it around the peddler's hands and feet.

The process was repeated several more times, though when Mr. Thaddings saw that Lizzie's dress was wet, he took over the task, using the coal scuttle.

Mr. Christian lay on the train seat, shivering, wearing only his long johns by then, staring mutely up at the roof of the car. He still did not seem precisely certain
where he was, or what was happening to him, and Lizzie counted that as a mercy. She was relieved when Morgan finally gave the poor man an injection of morphine and stopped packing his extremities in snow.

“The children,” Mr. Christian murmured once. “The children ought to have some kind of Christmas.”

Tears scalded Lizzie's eyes. She had to turn away, and while Morgan was monitoring the patient's heartbeat, she sneaked out of the car, unnoticed by everyone but Whitley.

He started to raise an alarm, but at one pleading glance from Lizzie, he changed his mind.

She made her way to the baggage car and, after some lugging and maneuvering, began opening trunks until she'd found what she sought. Her fine woolen coat, the paint set she'd brought all this way to give to John Henry, shawls and stockings. A pipe she'd bought for her father. A book for her grandfather. A pocket watch she'd intended to give to Whitley. Next, she looted Whitley's trunk, helped herself to his heavy overcoat, more stockings and warm underwear. When a tiny velvet box toppled from the pocket of the coat, Lizzie's heart nearly stopped.

She bent, picked up the box, opened it slowly. A shining diamond ring winked inside. More tears came; so Whitley
had
intended to propose marriage over the holidays. Lizzie tucked her old dreams inside that box with the ring, closed it, set it carefully back in Whitley's trunk.

When she'd taken a few moments to recover, she bundled the things she'd gathered into Whitley's coat
and made her way outside again, along the side of the train, into the caboose.

Her return, like her departure, caused no particular stir.

She set her burden aside and went to stand in front of the stove, trying to dry the front of her dress. John Brennan was already down with pneumonia, Whitley's leg was in splints, Mrs. Halifax sported a sling, and now poor Mr. Christian was nearly dead of frostbite. It wouldn't do if she added to their problems by taking sick herself.

Everyone settled into sort of a stupor after that.

Lizzie, now dry, turned to gaze out the windows. The sun was setting, and there was no sign of an approaching rescue party. She drew a deep breath.

It was still Christmas Eve, whatever the circumstances, and Lizzie was determined to celebrate in some way.

Soon the sky was peppered with stars, each one shining as brightly as the diamond ring Whitley had meant to place on her finger. The snow glittered, deep and pristine, under those spilling stars, and the scent of the little pine tree Mr. Christian had somehow cut and brought back spiced the air.

Morgan looted the freight car again, and returned with a stack of new blankets and the spectacular Christmas ham they'd all agreed not to eat, just the day before. He fetched more coal and built up the fire, and they feasted—even John Brennan and Mr. Christian managed a few bites.

As the moon rose, spilling shimmering silver over the snow, Morgan stuck the trunk of the tiny tree between the slats of Mr. Christian's empty crate, and Whitley donated his watch chain for a decoration. Lizzie
contributed several hair ribbons from her handbag, along with a small mirror that seemed to catch the starlight. Mrs. Thaddings contributed her ear bobs.

They sang, Lizzie starting first, Mrs. Halifax picking up the words next, her voice faltering, then John and Whitley and the children. Even Woodrow joined in.

“‘O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…'”

“We ain't gettin' our oranges,” Jack announced stoically, as his mother tucked him and Ellen into the quilt bed, after many more carols had been sung. “There's no stockings to hang, and St. Nicholas won't find us way out here.”