A Log Cabin Christmas (3 page)

Donovan nodded for Brandon’s sake, though in reality it seemed like a lie. Some protector. He hadn’t been able to save his family three years earlier in December from the scourges of smallpox, and he certainly had no control over the weather. Worse, now he had to spend the night at the schoolhouse that was decorated from the floor to the rafters for Christmas—a holiday he’d sooner forget.

At least he didn’t have to look at the Christmas tree anymore. That was a relief. All it did was remind him of his loss. The last happy memory of his family was decorating a tree with strings of popcorn and cranberries and little paper angels cut from packages of Arbuckles’ coffee. Days later his wife, son, and unborn child were dead. Still, had he stopped to consider that the pupils made the ornaments, he would have been slower to toss it.

The children did a decent job of chinking the cracks between the lower logs. But they couldn’t reach the high logs, and he didn’t want anyone falling and getting hurt. That was all he needed.

He dragged a pew to one side of the cabin and stood on it, ducking his headbeneath a string of red-and-green paper chains. The cabin was booby-trapped. Practically every wall was covered with pictures torn out of magazines or pupil essays written on brown paper or pieces of flour sack. He had to give the schoolmarm credit. She’d done wonders with what little she had to work with.

He slapped a handful of wet clay against a corner crack. The place should have been condemned long ago. The fire that had destroyed most of the town and part of the woods had failed to reach this cabin and others like it. What a pity. And whatever happened to the old miner who once lived here? One day the man just up and disappeared.

Saying the cabin was poorly built was a mite too generous. The logs were round and bark covered, and not one wall intersected at a right angle. At least the miner hadn’t skimped on the stone foundation. The foundations of most log cabins in the area measured eighteen inches from the ground. That was higher than any termite could climb, or so the locals believed. This one was twice the norm. How strange that the miner would overbuild the foundation and skimp on the rest. Either he overestimated termites or got carried away.

While Donovan worked, Miss Parker gathered the children around her to sing carols. Just what he needed. Another reminder of Christmas.

Jimmy tried to outsing Sophie, but that little Brandon fellow didn’t open his mouth. The boy was about the age that his son, Jeffrey, would have been had he lived.

Donovan slapped his hand hard against the wet clay. The clay stopped the unwelcome cold air from blowing inside, but not the memories. Nothing could stop those.

“‘Let heaven and nature sing….’ “

He tried to ignore the singing, but he couldn’t help but notice that Miss Parker had a nice voice. It was soft and clear and reminded him of spring. He shook the thought away. The cold had definitely affected his thinking.

He didn’t realize he was staring until her gaze locked with his. The flickering light of the fire turned her blond hair into liquid gold. She wore it in a tight bun, but enough wisps escaped to hint that perhaps she wasn’t quite as stiff and unbending as she seemed. He could almost envision her hair tumbling down her back. Would her hair feel as silky as it looked? As soft?

Shaken by the thought, he quickly refocused on the crack between the logs, and that’s where his attention would have remained had Miss Parker not lifted her skirt to step over a pew, revealing a slender ankle below a lace-trimmed petticoat.

He quickly averted his gaze. Annoying woman. It wasn’t bad enough that she had caused him so much trouble. Now she was making him think things he didn’t want to think. Maybe even feel things he didn’t want to feel.

First thing in the morning, he would escort the pupils and Miss Parker home, and he’d avoid all the cheerfulness of Christmas just as he has done every year since his family’s death.

After that, he would have as little to do with Miss Parker as possible.

Miss Parker’s Class

The three wise men brought Jesus francis and mirth for his birthday, but he really wanted tin soldiers.
Robert, age 9

M
addie couldn’t sleep. The floor was hard, and the howling of the wind sounded louder without the children’s chatter to drown it out. Sheriff Donovan kept the fire ablaze, but she was still cold. Though she’d covered herself with her cloak, the floor felt like a layer of ice.

Brandon was curled up next to her, his breathing soft. Sophie slept on the other side of Brandon. She muttered in her sleep much as she complained during the day. No doubt somebody had broken a rule in her dreams.

It had been a fight getting the children to bed down, mainly because Sophie insisted Brandon sleep on the “boys’ side” with Jimmy and the sheriff. Brandon was adamant about sleeping next to Maddie. Sophie finally relented but not without threatening to report Brandon to her father.

Maddie yawned. Just about to fall asleep again, a thud at the front door made her jump. Sitting up carefully so as not to disturb Brandon, she called to the sheriff in a soft voice.

“Sheriff, I heard something.”

Donovan groaned and rolled over. “What?”

“I don’t know what. Something. Maybe the bear is back.”

He reached for his pocket watch, holding it up so he could read it in the light of the fire.

“It’s 2:00 a.m.,” he said as if the time were relevant in some way.

“I don’t think bears can tell time,” she said. She whispered so as not to wake the children, and he whispered back.

“Only in grisly situations.”

His unexpected pun made her smile. The grim-faced sheriff had a sense of humor, after all. Or did he?

“I can’t bear the thought,” she said, unable to resist.

“And I can’t bear to be awakened in the middle of the night. Turn over, and go to sleep.”

The last was delivered in his usual brusque manner. Sighing, Maddie turned over.

She was on the way home for Christmas, the carriage swaying back and forth. She could almost smell the roast beef and gravy. The carriage suddenly hit a bumpy road, and it was all she could do to hold on
.

Maddie opened her eyes and was disappointed to find that she wasn’t in a carriage on the way home for the holidays. Instead, she lay on the floor of a drafty old log cabin. Brandon leaned over and shook her.

“I have to go.”

She groaned. The sheriff had rigged a private place in a corner by leaning two pews against the wall, but it required walking near the fireplace, which Brandon refused to do unaided. He initially refused to use the tin bucket altogether, but need eventually overcame reluctance.

Hand on her sore back, she stood, her legs stiff. She felt like she’d been battered by a bull.

Predictably, Jimmy was a restless sleeper. Sometime during the night he’d managed to travel the length of the cabin and now slept on the “girls’ side.”

While Brandon took care of his business, she tossed a piece of oak into the fire. She hated burning up a perfectly good pew, but it was better than freezing to death. Let the sheriff handle the church elders.

She yawned and stretched her back. She had no idea what time it was. What she wouldn’t give to be in her own bed. She reached for a second length of wood.

An ear-piercing scream sent the tiny schoolhouse into a panic. Maddie spun around, wielding the plank like a weapon. Sheriff Donovan jumped up, gun in hand. Brandon shot out from behind the pews, and Jimmy sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The scream had come from Sophie, who stood pointing at Jimmy. “You’re on the girls’ side,” she shrieked. She then glared at her teacher. “And you’re on the boys’ side.”

Donovan slid his gun back into its holster. “Some people just don’t know their places,” he said, sounding surprisingly pleasant given the early morning hour.

Maddie dropped the wood. “And I suppose you do.” She pointed to his hat, which was clearly on the wrong side of the yarn barrier Sophie had stretched down the middle of the cabin to divide the girls from the boys.

“Hats have free rein.” He settled back on the floor as if he had every intention of getting more shut-eye.

Hands at her waist, Maddie stared at him in disbelief. Obviously the sheriff had little experience with children. Already Jimmy was jumping from pew to pew, slingshot in hand. Sophie checked the school rules posted on the wall, and Brandon tossed a rubber ball up and down. Sleep was out of the question—even for the sheriff.

The moment daylight broke, Donovan went outside to assess the weather. He returned moments later looking grim. “The drifts are at least ten feet high, and it’s still snowing. It looks like we’re stuck here for at least another day.”

Maddie’s heart sank. “We’re almost out of food.”

He tossed a nod toward the young ones. “Give it to them. I’m going to see if I can dig through the woodpile.”

After he left, Maddie broke half the jerky into small pieces. She made the children wash their hands and faces in melted snow heated by the fire before divvying up the portions.

“Is that it?” Sophie complained. “We’ll starve to death.”

“I’m sure that we’ll be rescued before that happens,” Maddie said. “Eat slowly and—”

The food disappeared before she completed her sentence, and an argument broke out between Jimmy and Sophie as to who got more.

“Your piece of jerky was bigger,” Sophie insisted. “And that’s not fair.”

Nerves on end, Maddie reached for her Bible. She started each school day with a Bible lesson and prayer. This wasn’t a normal day, but she decided to keep the same routine.

“Let’s pray,” she said loud enough to gain everyone’s attention. She waited for the three children to join her and bow their heads. “Dear heavenly Father, please protect us as we wait for rescue. Guide us in deed and thoughts, and keep us all safe.”

“And send food,” Jimmy added.

“And send food,” Maddie repeated. “Amen.”

Sophie pointed her finger at Brandon. “He didn’t close his eyes. You have to close your eyes when you pray. That’s the rule. Even if you’re mad at God.”

Brandon never bowed his head or closed his eyes during morning prayer, but Maddie hadn’t made an issue of it. “Why do you think Brandon’s mad at God?”

“Because God took his pa away,” Sophie said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“God didn’t take his pa away. The fire did that.” Maddie took Brandon’s cold hands in hers, rubbing them until they were warm.

“God would never take away people we care about because He loves us.” She tried to think how to explain it in terms Brandon could understand. “It’s like when you fall and hurt yourself and run to your mother. What does she do?”

“She takes care of you,” Sophie replied.

“Yes, that’s right,” Maddie said. “God greeted your pa with open arms and is taking good care of him. Like He takes care of all His hurting people.” She squeezed Brandon’s hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Brandon stared at her but said nothing. She was suddenly aware of a terrible blast of cold air. Donovan had returned and stood by the door watching them, his arms empty. Apparently, he still hadn’t found the woodpile. He studied her for a moment before slamming the door shut and shaking snow off his duster and hat.

“Is your horse all right?” she asked.

He nodded. “The chimney keeps the lean-to fairly warm.”

“That’s good,” she said.

For the rest of the morning the blizzard raged outside, and tempers flared inside. The sheriff didn’t help matters. He was distant and barely spoke except when absolutely necessary. At times she caught him watching her, but his thoughts remained hidden behind the gloomy mask of his face. No doubt he blamed her for the situation. As if she were responsible for the weather or remoteness of the cabin.

Now he knelt by the fireplace, breaking up the last of a church pew with blows of a well-aimed ax.

Sophie punched Jimmy in the arm. “He won’t leave me alone,” she whined for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Come along, children,” Maddie said, feigning a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve, and something magical always happens then.”

At least it always did in Boston. The day before Christmas was when friends and relatives arrived bearing presents and food to share. There was always plenty of roast beef, potatoes, and fruitcake to go around—and what would Christmas be without oysters? Sighing, she pushed such thoughts away. She was homesick enough without making herself more miserable. If only the wind would stop.

“What about the Christmas program?” Sophie asked. “What if no one can come to see it?”

“We’ll just have to wait for another day,” Maddie said. “Perhaps after Christmas.”

“We should do it at the Fourth of July picnic,” Jimmy said, crawling beneath a pew to retrieve chips of wood. “We’ll have Christmas in July.”

“That’s not funny,” Sophie stormed. “Christmas plays should be at Christmastime. That’s the rule.”

“I tell you what,” Maddie said. “Let’s play charades.” Whenever she’d suggested playing the game in the past, her pupils had responded with raised hands and loud shouts of “Me first.” Today her suggestion was met with stony-faced indifference.

“I’m hungry,” Sophie complained.

“Me, too,” Jimmy said.

“It’s nice to hear that you two agree on something. See? Already we have a Christmas miracle.” She reached into her supply box for the last of the beef jerky and broke it into three small pieces.

While handing a piece to Brandon, she inadvertently knocked against Donovan’s arm. The cabin was small, and the ironing-board desk and the remainder of the long, narrow pews took up most of the space, leaving little room for its occupants. It seemed like she could hardly move without bumping into the sheriff, rubbing against his arm, brushing him with the flared hem of her skirt. Earlier they even reached for the poker at the same moment, her hand meeting his on the brass handle.

Now she quickly pulled away and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. She glanced at him to see if he’d noticed but was unable to tell by his expression. He simply donned his duster and walked outside, presumably to check his horse or the weather. Again.

Maddie didn’t need to go outside to know that the storm hadn’t let up. Not even Jimmy and Sophie’s shouting match could mute the wind that threatened at times to carry away the roof if not the whole cabin.

She reached into her supply box, where she kept her special stationery. She used it for progress reports home to parents. It was expensive paper, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I want you to draw a special picture for Christmas,” she said, passing a sheet of foolscap paper to each child, along with a well-sharpened graphite lead pencil. Even Jimmy brightened at the prospect of drawing on real paper rather than on odd pieces of feed sack or whatever cardboard she could find.

While the three of them drew, she knelt by the fire, enjoying the relative quiet that had descended inside the cabin. Donovan returned and dumped an armload of chopped wood on the hearth and pulled off his duster and hat.

“You found the woodpile,” she exclaimed.

He gave a curt nod. The silver star on his leather vest looked bright and cheery in the light of the fire, an odd contrast to his serious demeanor.

“You could try to be a little more pleasant for the children’s sake,” she said, keeping her voice low.

He met her gaze. “I don’t like Christmas.”

“That’s a surprise. I thought it was me you didn’t like.” When he failed to comment, she ventured to ask, “Why don’t you like Christmas?” Christmas was her favorite holiday—or it had been before coming to Texas.

He took so long to answer she had almost given up hope that he would. “My wife and son died on Christmas Day three years ago,” he said at last.

She sat back on her heels. “I–I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

She’d lived in Maverick for only two months and didn’t have much time to socialize. As a result she knew very little about its citizens. Widow Hancock had been kind enough to let her board in her home. The woman couldn’t hear worth a bat’s wing, so chitchatting was out of the question. Due to the number of complaints about her lenient teaching methods, she stayed away from the townsfolk as much as possible, except to go to church. Even then, she felt like an outsider and left the moment the service was over, not socializing like the rest of the congregation.