Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection (4 page)

Underneath his teasing tone, Louisa could tell she’d hurt him, although manlike, he’d probably deny it. She reached over and squeezed his arm. “I’m not saying no. I appreciate you giving me time. Just let me catch my breath, Red Macalister, and think. You’ve tipped my teapot handle over spout.”

He held up a hand in an acquiescing motion.

Louisa ran her mind through her scanty possessions. She could pack what she needed for the next few days, and they could always return before the end of the month for her furniture. She smoothed down the folds of her dress. “I won’t be married in black. It’s bad luck.”

Red gave her a relieved grin. “Whatever you like, my darlin’”

As the logs caught fire, the stove let out a toasty heat. She hovered her hands over the surface, feeling her fingers absorb the warmth.

Red placed his hand in his pocket. “I have something to show you. Put your hand out.”

Louisa obeyed.

Red dropped a small square of red knitting into her hand, the ends unraveling, although held together with clumsy stitches of thread.
 

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“The Christmas I was sixteen, my ma and I were poorer than church mice. My pa died when I was two, taking her heart with him.” A smile curved his lips. “She could have remarried for a more comfortable life. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. We were happy, though, her and I. Just when I was getting old enough to do odd jobs, bring in some money to make her life easier, she got sick. I stayed home to nurse her. She had no strength left. But somehow she’d scraped together the last of her red yarn and made me a pair of stockings. My Christmas gift that year.”

Sensing his thoughts lingered in the past, Louisa brushed a finger over the scrap in her palm.

“She died several weeks later.”

Louisa caught her breath, aching for the pain of that young man.
 

“I took a lot of ribbing for wearing red stockings. But I didn’t give them up, even when I could afford to. I felt like they kept my ma close. Like she was with me.”

Tears welled up in Louisa’s eyes. One dripped over.

He caught the drop on the tip of his finger. “They brought me luck.”

Ah! “That’s why you’re called Red. I wondered.”

“Real name’s Rossiter.”

“Rossiter. I like that. Do you mind if I call you Rossiter?”

“No one has since my ma. Sounds real good when you say it.”

Louisa reached up and smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead. “Then what happened?”

 
“Found a good job on a ranch. Learned how to be a cowboy. Became friends with two of the other hands, and we scrounged up enough to buy a few head of cattle. The boss let us run them with his. We saved enough between the three of us to buy a small ranch. And I’ve worn red stockings ever since.” He gave her a mock frown. “Then the last pair wore out. Mrs. Dean’s too old to darn them, so I rode into town. No red stockings at the mercantile. When I saw your flyer, I thought I’d pay you to make me a pair or two.”

Louisa laughed through her tears. “So, you didn’t come for lessons.” She made it a statement rather than a question.

“No. Was horrified when you thought so. Then I realized that lessons would give me a chance to spend time with my pretty teacher.” He shrugged, his eyes dancing. “You know the rest.”

Louisa curled her hand around the scrap of stocking, before handing it back to him. “Your mother brought us together,” she said softly.

He tucked the scrap into his pocket. “That she did. Guess I won’t need those red stockings anymore.” He drew her to him and kissed her forehead. “I have a feeling that having you by my side will be all the luck I need.”

Louisa rested her head against his shoulder. She inhaled a happy breath and allowed herself to relax and let the connection between them seep into her body. In a minute, she’d rush to her room, change into her best dress, and pack up her things. In an hour she’d be a married woman. But for now she wanted to savor the strength of Rossiter’s arms around her and feel the freedom from the worry that had plagued her every waking minute since her brother left and her mother died.

Her gaze drifted to the basket of yarn on the table. In the flurry of preparations, she’d have to remember to sneak a few balls of red yarn into her satchel. For soon, she’d have a husband who needed red stockings for Christmas.

GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

Abe McGuire stomped up the steps to the side door of the fancy Victorian house that lorded over Sweetwater Springs. His son-in-law owned the place, a roomy gray-and-white clapboard, although it wasn’t anywhere near as imposing as Banker Livingston’s mansion or the Queen Anne that had seemed to sprout overnight on the Sanders Ranch. Still the house was far grander than the simple square-timbered home where Abe had spent his married life. Even though he’d lived with his daughter’s family for almost six months, he wondered if he’d ever quite feel comfortable here—like he was home.

Abe hoped today would be the day his daughter, Barbara, would finally ask him where he’d been. If she did, he’d tell her about his visit to the small family cemetery where he’d spent some time at her mother’s grave.

He kicked his feet against the doorframe to rid his boots of clinging snow—no sense earning a scolding for tracking in puddles—opened the door, and stepped into the big kitchen. The warmth from the stove hit him, along with the fragrance of chicken and dumplings and soapy laundry. He gave his boots a further wipe on the rag rug inside the door.

Barbara finished adding wood to a mammoth cast-iron stove and sent him a welcoming smile that lit up her plump, pretty face. “It’s cold outside, Papa. Come in and warm up.”

Lou-Lou, the baby, crawled toward Abe. His six-year-old granddaughter, Emmy, sat at the long oval table, drawing on her slate. She held it up and cried, “Grandpa, come see my picture.”
 

From the other room, he could hear the sounds of the two older boys engaged in one of their perpetual squabbles.
Ah, life as usual
.
My new life
, Abe amended. He basked in the feeling of being with his family. Every day, Abe gave thanks for the passel of grandchildren Barbara had given him.

Abe liked to ponder the way bits and pieces of him and Emmeline ended up in their children and grandchildren. How Barbara, with her rounded body, was the spitting image of him—although, thank the Lord, a prettier version—while their oldest son, Jeremy, had Emmeline’s long limbs and gray eyes. Then there was his little Emmy, named after her grandmother and as like her as two peas—Emmeline the big one in the middle of the pod, and Emmy the tiny one at the tip.

The laundry draped over a line tied from corner to corner of the room, dripping puddles on the linoleum. He avoided the wet spots, sat in a ladder-back chair set against the wall, and pulled off his boots. Since he was already halfway down, and Lou-Lou was scooting straight for the biggest puddle, he picked up a towel near the door, creakily lowered to his knees, and began to mop up the water.

“Papa, get up,” Barbara ordered, from the pump at the sink. “One of the boys will do that.”
 

Abe flashed her a quick smile and continued to do just as he pleased. He wasn’t too old that he couldn’t crawl around on the floor. He ignored the pain in his knees and dried the floor just in time to keep the baby’s hands and legs dry. Lou-Lou reached him, and he bent even further to kiss the top of her head. Wispy blond curls tickled his nose.

The baby chortled and lifted one hand to pull on his beard.

Laughing, Abe evaded her. He tried to stand, but had to grab the table.
A farmer’s life takes a toll on the joints.

Barbara rushed over, scolding in the way women do when they love their menfolk and think they know what’s best for them. From long practice, he let her words sail over his head. She hooked her hand under his arm and hefted him to his feet. He had to suppress a groan as he straightened, so as not to give her the satisfaction of being right.

His daughter shook her head, an exasperated expression on her face. But a twinkle lurked in her blue eyes, and she pursed her lips lest she smile at him.

He couldn’t help grinning.

With another shake of her head, Barbara turned back to spoon dough into the pot on the stove.

Following the death of his wife, his daughter had urged him to sell his house and move in with her family. But he’d balked at giving up his farm. He’d put his heart and back into that acreage. Built the house, worked the land for potatoes and other root crops, tended the milk cows, and lived a fulfilling family life, raising three children to adulthood. He hadn’t wanted to leave his memories. A year of loneliness and growing apathy passed before he’d given in—a good decision, for his memories had traveled with him.

Once again, disappointment caused by his daughter’s silence weighed Abe down. He was fairly sure she knew where he’d gone, because he mentioned it to his oldest grandson before he left, and the boy was quite a talker. If Silas knew something, everyone would find out soon enough.

Abe picked up the baby, gave her another kiss and a squeeze, and set her back down. Walking over to the table, he admired the scratches on the slate that Emmy claimed was a Christmas tree. He then headed for his room at the back of the house.

Still feeling hurt, Abe walked into his room, closing the door, and ran a hand over the iron bedstead spread with a patchwork quilt he and Emmeline had shared for many years. Abe supposed he’d adjusted to sleeping alone, although on a cold night, he still missed his wife’s warm body lying beside his. He reckoned he always would. And to have her presence eased out of their family’s memories… well, it stung.

He hung his cap and scarf on the coat rack next to the door and immediately felt the chill. His red scarf looked bright against the forest green walls. His daughter had wanted to put up wallpaper, but he preferred simple.
A plain room for a plain man.

Stooping, Abe lit a match to the kindling already laid underneath the wood in the fireplace. The flame curled up around the edge of the logs, sending a whiff of smoke into the room. He stood and sent a loving glance at the photograph of Emmeline on the mantle.

Abe shed his heavy wool coat, sat on the bed, and slid on the slippers his wife had made for him the last Christmas of her life. She’d embroidered his monogram on the uppers, and had teased him that his feet looked elegant. He’d replied that too bad the rest of him didn’t match, and they both laughed.

Abe sighed. Melancholy always hung heavy upon him after he returned from a visit to Emmeline’s grave. His grief weighed more as another holiday approached that he’d spend without her. Yet, even so, his pain seemed to ease some when he sat and talked with her for a while, sharing the stories about their children and grandchildren that he stored up. He usually had plenty to tell.

Why won’t Barbara talk about her mother? Even if she doesn’t want to share with me, the children have a right to those memories.

The question ate at him. After the first months, when the two of them had often cried together, his daughter no longer mentioned her mother—not to him and not, as far as he could tell, to her children. He didn’t want to bring up the topic, remind her of old grief; yet he had a powerful need to talk about his wife. So he’d settled for slipping any possible mention of her into conversations with friends and acquaintances. Wasn’t quite the same, though, as talking to kin.

His grandchildren had taken to following their mother’s example. He was fairly certain the older boys remembered their grandmother, but the younger children wouldn’t, and the baby had been born after Emmeline’s death. He fretted that they wouldn’t learn about their grandma … know how special she was, and how very much she’d loved them.

He stood, feeling his joints ache.
When I’m gone, will they forget me so soon, too?
 

A knock sounded at the door and a sweet voice piped. “Grandpa, can I come in?”

Emmy
. He called for her to enter.

The girl peered around the door and threw him a gap-toothed smile. She sidled into the room and shut the door behind her. “Tell me a story, Grandpa.”

The child always seemed to sense his sadness. She often tried, in her own way, to ease his pain, showing a kindness so like her grandmother’s.

Abe settled on the bed with his granddaughter and tucked the crazy quilt her grandma had made around them. He thought for a while, debating which of the Grimm’s fairytales he’d choose. Before starting a story, he needed to think it through and purge any element that would upset softhearted Emmy. No stories of Bluebeard for her. Sometimes, he even changed the endings.

But now as he gazed down at his granddaughter’s expectant face turned up to his, and saw his beloved wife’s eyes reflected back at him, something inside him rebelled.
No brothers Grimm today.

He tucked her closer against his side. “One day when I was a whippersnapper your brother Silas’ age, I met this little girl named Emmeline. Well, actually not so little. Even though she was a tad younger than me, she was taller than me by a hand.” He spanned the air with his hands to show the distance.
 

Emmy giggled. “Grandma?”