[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm (18 page)

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Authors: Janette Oke

BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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No one in the house that night got much sleep. The woman did go to bed, but Henry was sure with all the extra people and commotion in her kitchen she couldn’t have rested well. She had shared some of the blankets from her bed with her unexpected guests. Even through the walls of the little farm home, the coldness of the wind could be felt.
Henry took it upon himself to keep the fires going. He hoped there was plenty of wood stacked up outside. If the storm continued much longer ...
He must have dozed off, and he awoke with a start. He quickly rose to check on the three accident victims. The man with the cuts appeared to be sleeping without too much trouble, but the other two seemed restless.
To Henry’s great relief, the sun’s rays woke him the next morning. Snow still whirled about in the gusts of wind, but the storm itself had subsided. Now they had to get the injured to the hospital. It might take a long time with the roads being drifted over. They would likely have to shovel their way along.
He hoped everyone would be able to stand the trip.
The farmer and his son went with them, shovels in hand, to dig out the police vehicle. With four of them, it didn’t take too long to clear a path. But the motor that had sat out in the storm refused to start.
“I’ve got a good team and a sleigh,” offered their host.
Henry nodded. It would be slow—far too slow. But at least it might get them to where they could find other help.
The man harnessed the team while Henry prepared the injured for travel. They would be taking two to the hospital. The man with the cuts insisted he would heal up on his own. Henry did not argue for long. The fellow looked much better after the blood was washed from his face.
Laray forked hay onto the sleigh to make a bed of sorts. They covered the men with borrowed blankets and spread more hay over the top. If at all possible, they hoped to keep the motionless limbs free of frostbite.
They had been on the road for less than an hour when they met a truck. Henry flagged the driver down and explained their situation. He offered to transport the men to the town hospital. The men, hay, and blankets were transferred to the truck bed. The farmer returned on home with his team, carrying words of deep gratitude to his family.
They had to shovel their way through drifts a good many times, and Henry was more than glad to see the buildings of the town appear on the horizon. It was an enormous relief to turn the injured over to the doctor’s care. They had done what they could. Henry prayed silently that it might be enough.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
“I hear you’re going to give us a real Christmas,” Mr. Kingsley remarked as Christine laid a sheaf of papers on his desk.
She nodded, smiling.
“I can’t tell you how excited Boyd is about it.”
I wish my mother was,
thought Christine with a little inward pang. Elizabeth had been quiet on the phone when Christine had discussed her plan. The girl knew her mother was keenly disappointed that she wouldn’t be with her own family, especially when Henry wouldn’t be there either....
“So what do you need?” Mr. Kingsley’s question intruded on her thoughts.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I assume real Christmases cost money. How much do you need?”
“Oh no,” Christine hurried to explain. “It’s not about money.” Then she quickly realized that, yes, it was—in a way. She flushed slightly. “Well ... you’re right ... of course. There will be some things—”
“Like?”
“Well ... a tree. We need a tree. Our family always just trekked out and cut one. I’ve no idea what you do here in the city.”
“Don’t think the neighbor will take too kindly to us cutting down one of his,” joked the big man. “What else?”
“Well ... decorations. We always made our own, but I have seen some lovely ones in the stores.”
“And...?”
Christine felt her cheeks flaming. It was sounding like she really wouldn’t be doing the boss and his son a favor by imposing her idea of Christmas on them.
“Look—we don’t need to do this if ...”
“No, no.” With a wave of his hand he motioned her to continue. “Boyd is excited about it. He doesn’t even remember a Christmas. I never bothered with one—except the gift thing. I always gave him a gift.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Well, there’s the meal ... but I’ll—”
“No, you won’t. I happen to know what you earn. You can’t afford to go buying turkey and trimmings. Tell you what. You make out a list, and I’ll take you shopping. How’s that?”
Christine smiled.
“We’ll get the doodads for that tree at the same time. How’s Saturday afternoon?”
“Saturday is fine. Just fine.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up—no, you catch the streetcar. I’ll meet you at the Hudson’s Bay Company store. Two o’clock. Agreed?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll see you at two. At the west entrance.”
Christine nodded.
Mr. Kingsley was more than generous. He purchased so many fancy decorations for the tree that Christine wondered if they could find one with enough branches to hold them all. All the while he kept making remarks like, “I think Boyd would like that,” or “Boyd’s favorite color,” or “Do you think Boyd would think this pretty?” Christine got over her nervousness and threw herself into the shopping, adding garlands and wreaths to the fast-growing stack. After all, it was not for her—it was for Boyd. Mr. Kingsley was used to spending money to keep his boy happy.
At the grocer’s, Christine’s list was soon completed, and more items kept appearing on the counter. “Wouldn’t this taste good with turkey?” Mr. Kingsley would ask and stack something else on the pile.
We’ll never get all this home on the streetcar,
Christine cautioned silently, but when it came time to settle the bill, the man simply said, “Deliver it to this address,” and they left the store.
Christine debated whether to have everything done to greet Boyd when he arrived or to wait and let him get in on the fun of decorating. She decided to wait. She was sure he’d love to be involved. She carefully stacked all the bags and boxes of ornaments and longingly eyed the large tree that Mr. Kingsley had brought in. It would be hard to wait. But then—it was hard to wait for Boyd to arrive home anyway.
He arrived late Thursday night. Christine did not see him until after work on Friday. He’d slept all day, he admitted with a chuckle. He was absolutely tired out.
“When are you moving over?” he soon asked.
“Moving over? What do you mean?”
“Well—you can’t do everything from here.”
Christine had not even thought of changing her residence. “Oh, I’m sure I can. All I need to do is decorate and cook.”
“That doesn’t sound like a real Christmas,” he grouched. “A cook coming in for a couple of hours.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d see it that way.”
He was going to sulk again.
“I thought we were going to be ... like family.”
She took his hand. “We will. I’ll spend most of Christmas Day with you. I won’t only be cooking.”
He still didn’t cheer up. Christine had learned that it was no use trying to talk him out of one of his moods. “Look,” she finally said, “you likely need some more sleep. We have all Christmas vacation to catch up. And we have that tree to decorate tomorrow.”
He shrugged.
“I’ll see you then. It’ll be fun.” She stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss on his cheek.
And by the next morning, all was sunshine and warmth again. They did have fun. Boyd, going from serious and artsy to playful and ridiculous, hung decorations all over the front hall and living room. “We need more for the dining room,” he exclaimed. “The store’s still open. Let’s run uptown and get some.”
Christine laughed. “We nearly bought out the store on our first trip.”
But they went for more. Christine had to admit that the house did look wonderful. Boyd had rearranged a few pieces he had hung to get a laugh and now put them in more appropriate places. Christine was pleasantly surprised to learn that he had an artistic bent. Their tree looked glorious, to Christine’s thinking, because of Boyd. He tucked this in here, adjusted that ornament there, and put ribbons and streamers in all the right places.
“You’re good at this,” Christine complimented.
“Had you any doubt, madame?” was his response as he cocked his head to one side and swept out an arm.
From his favorite chair by the crackling fire, Mr. Kingsley chuckled between sips of the hot cocoa Christine had prepared. They had spent Sunday afternoon and evening together, and she knew Boyd’s father was more than pleased to have his son home.
“Oh my.” Christine’s smile quickly disappeared as she noticed the clock. “I have to get home. Mrs. Green will be locking the door.”
The joy of the evening evaporated in an instant. She could read it in Boyd’s face. Could sense it in the stirring of the big man in the chair. “This is so stupid,” Boyd grumbled and threw the last bit of garland he was holding into a corner.
He turned to her, his expression stiff and cold. “You don’t have to let Mrs.—Whoever run your life.”
Please, thought Christine, begging him silently.
Not now. Not here in front of your father.
She turned and went for the coat she had left in the closet off the kitchen. If he was not prepared to drive her, she’d take the streetcar. But she knew that would make her late. The streetcar, with its many stops, was much slower than Boyd’s auto.
It was Mr. Kingsley who followed her out. It was Mr. Kingsley who drove her home. He made no comment about the situation, for which Christine was thankful. She was not ready either to accuse or excuse Boyd for his behavior.
The next morning a beautiful poinsettia was on her desk. The card read simply,
Merry Christmas. Love, Boyd.
Christine knew from experience this was his way of saying he was willing to forget all about the little incident. She guessed she was too. After all, wasn’t one supposed to forgive and forget? She could not expect Boyd to be perfect.
The office stayed open until noon on the twenty-fourth. Christine’s head was buzzing with things that needed to be done in preparation for Christmas Day. She hurried home, changed her office dress, and caught the streetcar to the big house. She had been busily working for almost an hour when Boyd made an appearance. “I see the cook has arrived,” he said with a yawn. With his hair mussed and face unshaven, he looked as if he had just crawled out of bed.
“Do you have any juice—or anything?”
Christine nodded, wiped her hands on her apron, and found him some orange juice.
He took the glass and sat on a stool at the counter. Reaching up to run a hand through his hair, he swore under his breath. Christine realized he used such language, but rarely did he speak those kinds of words in front of her. She felt shock and deep disappointment.
He drained the juice in one long gulp. “So what’s for dinner ? I’m starved,” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Dinner is tomorrow.” Christine gave the piecrust she was working a firm thump.

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