The Gift of Seeds (A Montana Sky Christmas Novella)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

AUTUMN

St. Louis, 1896

T he lull between meals when Mrs. Ransome napped was Hester’s time to herself. She worked in the garden—the gardener didn’t mind her intruding on his domain—or retreated to her small room under the eaves to rest or read. Sometimes, she opened her trunk and sorted through the contents, imagining each piece soon finding the perfect place in the log cabin Jimmy built for them in Sweetwater Springs, Montana.

Today, she’d finished her library book, so Hester knelt and touched the keyhole of her trunk. Finally, finally , she was close to giving Mrs. Ransome notice. Just six more months.

On that long-ago day when she and Jimmy pledged to make a home together, she hadn’t anticipated twenty-three years would pass before they could make their dreams come true. She hadn’t accounted for Jimmy’s stubborn insistence on a real home—one built by him and owned by them, not the bank. Nor that a broken leg—his—and two bouts of influenza—hers—would render them unable to work for several months and add doctors’ bills to their expenses.

That naive, young girl couldn’t have known how little five dollars a month covered, especially when she was still growing and needed to replace her Sunday clothes and buy a warm, well-fitting coat. She also made sure Jimmy had more than just the hand-me-down clothing the orphanage provided.

Who knew that her brother would grow so tall, necessitating frequent new clothes? Before he’d left for Montana, Jimmy towered over her. After several years as a logger, his frame had filled out. His latest measurements, requested by her so she could make him a new shirt for Christmas, proved how broad his shoulders had become.

Luckily, through the years, as she progressed from maid-of-all-work to housekeeper, Mrs. Ransome had increased her salary to reflect her new position and then raised her wages several more times. Not out of generosity, but because some of her friends hinted about what a good cook and manager Hester was, and how they wished she worked for them. Her employer had no desire to lose a stellar servant to a rival.

Now, as the housekeeper, Hester earned the grand sum of twenty-five dollars a month, for which she was grateful. But the future beckoned—her eventual move to the wilds of Montana and the list of household possessions and supplies she first needed to acquire. So, she still stretched every penny as if she were pulling taffy.

Through the canted open window, the afternoon sun shone on the lid of her trunk—the first indulgence she saved for at this job, and the repository for her dreams. Unlike most women who desired a husband and family, she hadn’t stitched a trousseau. No lacey nightgowns were folded inside. She would only outfit herself in some new outer clothing before she departed. Indeed, she had a winter dress pinned to a pattern and already cut out.

Except for one embroidered apron with real lace trim, the contents were only for her future home. Sheets, both linen and flannel, pillowcases, towels, a quilt and an afghan, lace curtains, one red-and-white-checked tablecloth for everyday and one embroidered tablecloth with crocheted lace trim and matching napkins for fancy meals.

The tablecloths wrapped around a peach-colored glass lamp, to provide a cushion. The twin sat on the little table next to Hester’s bed, and, when lit at night, bathed that side of the room in a soft glow. At the very bottom of the trunk, she’d packed a cast iron frying pan, a wooden bread trough, cutlery, and her favorite items—three and a half place settings of china. She just needed a cup and saucer to round out the service to four.

Hester touched the beautiful rose pattern. After my next payday….

She could dip into her savings and buy everything she needed now. But her frugality wouldn’t allow her to deplete her hoarded funds. After so many years of anticipation, she could wait six more months.

Even more important to her were the little packets of seeds and pits, with their contents labeled in her neat copperplate, tucked among the linens. In this past year, she’d been collecting from Mrs. Ransome’s garden, as well as from Lovie’s.

That reminded her. She had autumn flower seeds to collect—columbines, her favorite, along with marigolds and mums. She rose, her leg muscles protesting from her cramped position on the floor.

Wasting time daydreaming , Matron Holtz would have scolded her. But without her daydreams, life, with the endless servitude, would be far too bleak.

After hauling buckets of water for the plants in his garden needing more moisture and spending all afternoon chopping wood, Dale Marsden finally allowed himself to retreat to the kitchen in the back of his home in Sweetwater Springs. His arms ached, but he felt satisfied his winter preparations were well in hand.

Through the windows on three sides, golden autumn light flooded the room. Quietly, Dale hummed a nonsense tune while arranging his mums, marigolds, and the fall leaves he’d gathered into arrangements. He tucked the flowers and leaves into two Mason jars and a crystal vase he’d inherited from his paternal great-grandmother. She’d bequeathed the heirloom to him, along with most of her small fortune, rather than his female relatives because she knew how much he enjoyed flowers and, from a young age, encouraged his love of gardening. Using Great-Grandma Ada’s vase always brought fond memories of her gentle guidance, so different from the rest of the domineering women in his family.

Here and there, Dale snipped off a leaf or prodded a flower into a different space. His hum changed to the tune of ‘She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.’ Realizing what he was doing, he stopped, his stomach tightening, only to relax and remind himself that his mother wasn’t here to chide him using her I’m-holding-onto-my patience-for-having-to-remind-him-to-be-quiet-for-the-hundredth-time voice, along with her don’t-make-me-get-out-my-whip expression.

He let out a deep breath, took another inhale, and then resumed humming, although at a purposely louder volume, enjoying the freedom to just act as he wanted. Feeling quite in charity with himself, he stepped back to admire the arrangements, and then reached out to tweak one leafy twig and switch the places of two different sized mums.

A knock at the front door chased away Dale’s sense of well-being. Who could that possibly be? His stomach tightened, and he took a deep breath, reminding himself that his family wouldn’t travel for days to show up unannounced to visit their most scorned member. I left home twenty-three years ago, and the unexpected thought of facing them still unnerves me.

He hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall, opening the door to find Reverend Joshua Norton and his father-in-law, Andre Bellaire, both looking solemn. The men wore fine black coats and bowlers, appearing too elegantly dressed for a normal call. Behind them on the street, he could see the Bellaire coach, with their Negro driver, Sam, perched on the seat.

At least, they aren’t my family. The thought made the tension in Dale’s stomach ease somewhat. “Reverend Joshua, Mr. Bellaire, what a surprise,” he stammered.

“Mr. Marsden,” Reverend Joshua said in a formal tone. “If we could impose on your time for a few minutes?”

“Is everything all right in town?” he asked anxiously, referring to the robbery which happened two weeks ago at the Harvest Festival and the posse who’d ridden after them. Dale had overheard the gossip on his latest trip to the mercantile.

“Fine, Fine.” Mr. Bellaire waved in a reassuring motion. “The wicked fiends are captured. Two of our men wounded, but—” his voice thickened “—the Good Lord be thanked, they will make a complete recovery. Everyone else has returned to a heroes’ welcome.”

“Or heroine, in the case of our Sheriff Granger,” Reverend Joshua teased. “Who, by the way, is newly married to our town blacksmith.”

Dale had only exchanged an occasional nod with Sheriff Granger. The penetrating glances from her cool gray eyes made him uneasy. Stepping back to open the door wider, he allowed them inside.

He knew these two men better than anyone else in Sweetwater Springs except for Joshua’s parents, the elder Reverend Norton and his wife. The latter couple dutifully paid him a yearly pastoral visit, despite having seen him in church for years. While they sipped tea and ate the cookies Mary Norton brought, the three would make stilted conversation, until Dale relaxed in the couple’s gentle warmth and their discussion flowed—or flowed as much as his shyness allowed.

The men entered, removing their bowlers. Their expensive, well-cut black suits made him feel positively shabby. Although he liked Reverend Joshua, whose vivid blue eyes and ascetic features echoed his father’s, Dale felt more comfortable in the presence of the elder Reverend Norton. The older minister’s clothing—at least, prior to Joshua moving to Sweetwater Springs—had been shabbier than Dale’s.

After years of his mother forcing him to dress the way she wanted, Dale relished comfort instead of style. Although he had plenty of good clothes, while at home, he preferred to wear soft garments worn from years of use and many washings.

Andre Bellaire, a wealthy Southerner and newer resident of the town, had graying auburn hair. His hazel eyes were often alight with whatever person or plan caught his interest. Several times, he’d persuaded Dale to visit his conservatory to see his roses. The two discussed the plans the philanthropist had for the expansive garden of his new mansion, as well as the land he’d bought for a park that would surround a yet-to-be-built library.

Dale gestured toward the open door of the parlor. “Would you like tea?” He silently gave thanks that he’d recently resupplied his stash of tea, sugar, and milk.

“No need to bother. We’ll only be a moment.” Reverend Joshua strode into the room, followed by his father-in-law. Still standing, he glanced out the side window where, next door, James Smith’s log cabin could be seen. “Now, I’m afraid, for the distressing news we’ve come to impart.” He took a breath. “Your neighbor, Mr. Smith, was killed yesterday in a logging accident.”

Dale stepped back as if struck. He didn’t know the man well, since Smith lived at the logging camp a majority of the time. But they’d been neighbors for ten years.

He’d given Smith an apple sapling that would bear sweet, crisp fruit in the years to come. The man had let out a rare chuckle and promised him a pie in return, although he said his sister would do the baking when she came to live with him, else the dessert would be inedible.

Just last spring after the ground thawed and both were digging up their garden plots, they’d worked together to add six inches to the low rock wall between their properties.

As the exertion warmed their bodies, their mutual reserve began to melt, and they’d chatted a bit about what they were planting. But Smith, who wouldn’t be home long enough to tend a garden, only dug in root vegetables.

Greatly daring, Dale had spoken up, encouraging Smith to plant more and volunteering to water while the man was away at the logging camp, as well as pull the worst of the weeds. But Smith hadn’t wanted his neighbor to feel obligated, and Dale couldn’t find the right words to tell the younger man that he’d enjoy the endeavor. Next year , he’d told himself. Next year, I’ll explain.

Remorse swept over him. Now next year will never come. “Mr. Smith was a good man—a good neighbor,” Dale said sparingly, not sure his shock and guilt would allow him to say more.

“We’ll be having a gravesite service tomorrow if you’d like to attend.”

Dale wouldn’t like to attend. But I must do my final duty for my neighbor.

“Our wives won’t be there,” Reverend Joshua assured him with a knowing look in his eye. He was familiar with Dale’s discomfort around people—especially women. “They have a previously scheduled meeting with several others to start a Ladies’ Aid Society.”

Dale let out a breath, knowing a male gathering would be far more comfortable. He nodded his acquiescence.

“Probably a small gathering,” Reverend Joshua said with a sad sigh. “I think, even if we waited a few days, the loggers couldn’t come. The camp is too far away, and they are busy at this time of year. Mr. Smith seemed to have little interaction with the townsfolk.”

Dale remembered Smith’s talk of a sister—his only relative—who loved to garden. From time to time, he’d mention her, dropping a comment into their silence, usually prefaced by, “My sister intends,” or “My sister will,” giving Dale the impression of a domineering woman much like the females in his family.

Still Miss Smith needed to be informed of her brother’s death. “His sister,” Dale said the words almost in a question. “They seemed quite close.”

“Before coming to inform you, I sent Miss Smith a letter and invited her to move here to live—” Reverend Joshua gestured toward the window where the Smith cabin could be seen “—rather than waiting for spring, when, from what Mr. Smith mentioned, she planned to join him. After all, she has inherited Mr. Smith’s home and worldly goods.”

“And to add some incentive to the pot,” Mr. Bellaire tugged on his lapels. “I purchased a train ticket for Miss Smith. She will arrive on the twenty-third.”

“Or so we hope.” With a small smile, Reverend Joshua shook his head at his father-in-law. “We wanted to give you advance notice to prepare…. I’m sure you will make your new neighbor welcome.”

Oh, no. Dale shrank back in his chair, the idea of talking to a lady he didn’t know overwhelming. He pictured a cruel, overbearing woman like his mother, and not just his mother, but his maternal grandmother, his aunts, his sisters, and his cousins. His new neighbor was sure to cut up his peace. No, no, no! He’d moved all the way from Illinois to the wilds of Montana to escape those women.

Dale strove to keep his expression deadpan. “It’s good that the house won’t be sitting empty,” was the best he could say in response.

While he’d be polite, of course, as a gentleman should be, he certainly wouldn’t go out of his way to make Miss Smith welcome. Then, lest the men notice his lack of future neighborliness, he stood, looking from one to the other. “I’ve just made some flower arrangements. I’d be honored if you took one to use at the burial.”

Without waiting for a response, Dale hurried from the parlor and into the kitchen. Grabbing the arrangement in the crystal vase, he poured out some of the water into the sink and rejoined his company, although not without a pang at relinquishing his cherished vase.

Seeing the flowers made Mr. Bellaire’s eyes light up. “What a clever and beautiful arrangement.” He waved toward the window overlooking the front yard. “Upon seeing your flowers, I must admit my garden is lacking anything but dirt.” He let out an audible sigh. “I keep reminding myself that designing and planting the gardens around a new home takes time. Next year, hopefully….” He gently touched one purple bloom.

“I’ll give you some seeds,” Dale interrupted, eager to see his visitors gone.

“I would enjoy that, indeed, especially these marvelous purple mums.”

Reverend Joshua reached for the vase. “My wife will be delighted with these. You’re saving her from having to scrounge up some sort of bouquet.”

“From our non-existent garden,” Mr. Bellaire added.

The minister tucked the arrangement into the crook of his arm. “We’ll return the vase in a week or so.”

While Dale was relieved to know he’d get his vase back, he hoped the “we” would be Reverend Joshua and Mr. Bellaire, and not Reverend Joshua and his wife, Delia. Not that the younger minister’s wife had been anything but kind to him. Yet, her beauty and expensive elegance, so like the women in his family, always rendered him wary and monosyllabic.

James Smith’s burial was as sparsely attended as Reverend Joshua had predicted. Aside from Dale, only the two ministers and Andre Bellaire were present. All the men wore black suits, but unlike the others’, Dale’s was at least ten years old. He’d figured Smith, too, appreciated comfort over stylishness and would have forgiven him for not showing up more fashionably dressed.

They stood in the graveyard behind the church and parsonage, where the plain wooden casket already resided in the dirt hole. Dale’s vase with his flower arrangement sat on a small mound where a headstone might eventually be placed.

Before walking to town, Dale gathered a few more flowers to toss into the grave, including the marigolds he’d picked from Smith’s yard. Even now, the spicy scent wafted on the air.

A few years ago, he’d scattered some seed heads on the other side of the rock wall between his and Smith’s properties, knowing that while his neighbor enjoyed flowers, he never took the chance to cultivate his own. This past summer, Dale did the same with columbine seeds, thinking Smith would appreciate the surprise when the flowers appeared. With a clench of his heart, he thought of how the man would never see them. The columbines will be a gift to his sister, I suppose.

But just as the elder Reverend Norton was about to start the service, Dr. Fergus Cameron, his red curls disheveled, pockets of his black frock coat sagging, hurried up to join them. “Sorry,” he muttered in a Scottish brogue. “Had to stitch up a wee laddie’s cut.”

Reverend Norton’s understanding smile lent warmth to his white-bearded, ascetic face. “The needs of the living take precedence over the needs of the dead.”

Standing next to the vase of flowers, the minister opened the prayer book. Across from him, the three men shifted to space themselves around the grave, clasped their hands in front of them, and bowed their heads.

Without looking down at his prayerbook, Reverend Norton began the service. “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.’”

From John, Chapter Eleven, Dale knew, mentally following along with the Biblical words.

“‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”

As the minister continued the service, Dale’s mind wandered.

Although he felt some sadness for James’s death, he couldn’t help thinking of his own burial, hopefully many years in the future. He suspected the same men would attend, perhaps with their wives, so the occasion would be almost as sparse. None would have a deep connection with him. Their observance of mourning would be dutiful, rather than heartfelt.

The stark image made him uncomfortable, almost empty. Is it right that I’ll make so little impact on the world, then slip away without much notice?

I’m a man of quiet habits. He couldn’t imagine taking any action that would change his future.

Still, to banish the melancholy thought, Dale mentally scolded himself, sounding very much like his mother. I’ll be dead and gone, so who attends my burial won’t matter.

Yet, the emptiness in his heart didn’t ease.