The Gift of Seeds (A Montana Sky Christmas Novella)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

T he next day, having left Lucy in the back yard with the bone, Hester walked to town at an unhurried pace. The better to view my new surroundings , she told herself. But really to postpone the time when she’d have to deal with the Cobbs.

She moved past several foursquare houses, shaded by trees starting to cast their glowing leaves to the ground, and then she turned up the road that ran perpendicular to Main Street.

A large, broad-shouldered man and a blonde woman carrying a basket, the handle looped over her arm, strolled from the opposite direction. As they came closer, Hester could see a small child atop his shoulders, blond curls bouncing, and the slight swell of the woman’s belly.

The couple, so tall and handsome, made Hester feel child-size, even though the woman really was only a few inches above her in height.

The expectant mother gave her a big smile and hurried forward a few steps, her blue eyes shining. She stopped in front of Hester. “Miss Smith?”

Hester nodded, wondering how these strangers knew who she was. Was everyone here familiar with all the town’s inhabitants, so a newcomer stood out? She didn’t like the idea.

Her husband took two long steps to stand by her side. Under his broad-brimmed hat, his brown hair waved to his shoulders. His blue eyes gave her a warm glance.

“We are Frey and Grace Foster, and this—” the pretty blonde reached up to pat the child’s leg “—is Braga. We live on the same street as you, just in the opposite direction.”

Braga? I’ve never heard such a name.

Frey reached out to take Hester’s hand with the biggest hand she’d ever grasped.

Not that I’ve clasped hands with many men to compare.

He gently squeezed. “Miss Smith, welcome to Sweetwater Springs.”

Hester gave the couple a tight smile and pulled back her arm, her face heating with embarrassment and shyness. “Lovely to meet you.”

The boy played with his father’s hat. He knocked it to the side, making a happy crowing sound.

Frey reached up to straighten the brim. “We’re very sorry for your loss. Your brother was a good man.”

She couldn’t recall Jimmy writing about the Fosters and hoped they’d tell her how they knew her brother.

With a jiggle of the boy, Frey gave her a concerned look. “I’m only sorry we can’t be more hospitable. But we’re leaving tomorrow for an extended visit with my family in Minnesota and will be gone until after the New Year.”

Grace patted her stomach. “Any later, and I won’t be able to comfortably and safely travel.”

Frey flashed Hester a charming grin. “I’ve finally given in to my mother’s begging to see her grandchild and, of course, have my family meet my beautiful wife.” He smiled lovingly down at Grace.

Grace beamed up at him, their bond obvious, before turning her attention back to Hester. “And I’m to meet my husband’s Viking-sized parents and brothers and sisters, all, if you can believe it, Miss Smith, with Norse names.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Frey tells me there’s no longboat on the lake. But I will keep hoping.”

Ah, that explains Braga.

Frey winked at Hester. “Right strappin’ Minnesota men and women every one.” His expression became solemn. “We won’t be here to help you settle in and that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Why would they feel the need to help me? Her confusion must have shown on her face, Grace chuckled. As you will come to find, Miss Smith, in this town, we help each other out. Why, when Frey was in Crenshaw, overseeing the building of a house he’d designed?—”

“A stay that extended far longer than I’d planned,” Frey interjected with a frown, apparently still bothered by having left his wife alone for so long.

“Mr. Smith was kind enough to help me dig up the garden, without my even asking. Actually, there was no “helping me,” at all. He insisted I give my attention to the baby and allow him to do the labor.”

“You see,” Frey elaborated, “I’d asked Mr. Smith to keep an eye on my family while I was gone. I never had a chance to repay your brother for the favor.”

Anxiously, Hester raised her hand a bit and waved back and forth. “My brother would never have thought of repayment.” She managed to overcome her nervousness enough to reassured him. “Nor do I. Please, don’t give it another thought.”

“We will give it some thoughts when we return.” Frey’s firm tone brooked no argument. He reached up to settle his squirming offspring.

Grace let out a sigh and tilted her head up at her child. “Can you imagine this one on a long train ride? I pity our fellow passengers. I wish we could chat more, Miss Smith, but I’m afraid we must be off. So much still to do before we leave.”

Miss Smith. Hester wondered if she should tell them to call her by her given name. But I’m an old spinster. They’d probably feel uncomfortable with taking such liberties. “I wish you safe travels.”

Frey tipped his hat to her. “Until the New Year, then.”

“Yes.” She forced a smile and moved on, wondering if they’d thought her unfriendly.

Perhaps, I’m being too hard on myself. Lovie often said so. After all, I did challenge myself to talk to some people, and now I’ve participated in a conversation. Yet, Hester knew the truth. She wouldn’t have spoken a word unless the Fosters initiated the introduction.

She made herself walk on past a rundown log cabin, and then a few open lots. As she approached Main Street, on the right, Hester spied a false-fronted building. A bathhouse, she could tell by the sign, painted brown with green trim like her cabin. A couple of cowboys with dusty faces sat on the edge of the narrow porch, perhaps awaiting their turn.

Turning her head away, Hester quickened her footsteps, lest they think she was interested in stopping and chatting. Then she had to hold her breath as she passed the noxious outhouses of a saloon. Even at this time of day, she could hear raucous laughter and tinny piano music coming from the building.

Reaching Main Street, she slowed, reluctance building inside, causing her heartbeat to quicken. Walking the noisy streets of St. Louis with people all around and none of them noticing her was far easier than strolling down the quiet dirt road.

She paused for a moment to breathe and watched an older man ride past, followed by a woman and her half-grown daughter in shabby coats and carrying baskets strolling arm-in-arm.

A surrey with mud-crusted wheels, kicked up dust. The red-headed driver nodded politely at Hester. That must be one of the doctors Cameron. Jimmy had described them as redheads. The doctor was beyond her before Hester could gather her scattered wits and nod back.

A petite older woman, graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, paused, studied Hester, and then gave her a gentle smile, which crinkled the wrinkles on her face. Her clothing was simple and made of good fabric. She hastened over and held out a hand. “You must be Miss Smith. I’m Mary Norton. My son, Joshua, told me about your arrival.”

“Oh, yes, I….” Uncertainty stopped her.

The woman’s handclasp was as warm as her smile, making Hester relax somewhat and extend a smile of her own. “Reverend Joshua and his wife and dear Micah and Sam were kind enough to welcome me. Mrs. Joshua Norton said it was all right to address her as Delia,” Hester rushed out, her tone awkward and uneven.

“Reverend Norton and I are so blessed to have my son and his wife to aid in the ministry to our community. As you’ll come to see, we are not so formal in Sweetwater Springs.” She apparently checked herself. “At least, most of us aren’t.”

“So I’ve been informed,” Hester said in a wry tone.

“But calling two ministers’ wives as Mrs. Norton is one too many. Dear Delia doesn’t take using her given name at all amiss. She is, indeed, the most accommodating of ladies. We are blessed to have her in our family.”

Hester thought back to the exchange of smiles between Reverend Norton and his bride. Delia Norton seemed very happy with her lot.

“As couples, we seem to be described by most as ‘the elder Nortons’ and ‘the younger Nortons.’” Mrs. Norton’s blue eyes conveyed a youthful gleam, which then turned compassionate. She patted Hester’s arm. “I want to offer my condolences on the death of your brother. We don’t see much of the loggers, given that the camp is too far away for them to make it to church on Sundays. Unless on the off season, of course.”

“I-I do understand. My brother wrote to me….”

“He so looked forward to your arrival, my dear. I spoke with Mr. Smith a few times, although not long conversations, of course, given his obvious shyness. But he did tell me he observed the Sabbath at the camp with reading his Bible and in prayer. Sometimes, when the weather was good, a few of the men gathered together in the woods, and one would read from a book of sermons, and they’d sing a few hymns.”

Hester remembered a similar description from one of Jimmy’s letters. “They’d sit on tree stumps—” she said eager to talk to someone who’d known her dear brother “—and each man would pick a hymn.” She smiled at the recollection. “As you observed, my brother wasn’t one for talking. Nor am I. But he did love to sing. He had a beautiful tenor.” Her throat closed on her reminisces, realizing she’d never again hear his voice raised in song.

Seeming to sense Hester’s reluctance to share further, Mrs. Norton glanced toward the mercantile. “Are you going to the mercantile?”

Hester let out a sigh. “I must. Even with what Jimmy already stocked in the cellar and the generosity of your son and daughter-in-law, I must lay in more supplies. Apples, for example. I do love applesauce and dried apples.”

“Oh, perfect time, my dear Miss Smith, for the apples have just started coming in. We already have so many that they are practically spilling out of the rectory windows.”

“You have an orchard?”

“Oh, my, no. But plenty of our parishioners have trees and some have orchards. They customarily give us the fruits of their labor, both for us to use and to pass on to those less fortunate. You should see my pantry! I have more jars of food than the two of us could use in five years. I’d be delighted to share.”

Pride rose up, along with an instinctive need to reject the woman’s offer.

Mrs. Norton patted Hester’s arm. “Not to imply that you lack financial means, Miss Smith. But you are a new arrival in town and coping with an aching loss. There’s so little we can offer in the way of comfort to one newly bereaved and the act of giving food, along with our prayers, of course, does make us feel a little less helpless.”

As Mrs. Norton explained more, Hester allowed herself to receive the gift of comfort, generously given. “I’d love to accept some apples.” She made a note to purchase cinnamon and repay the Nortons’ generosity with an apple pie. The rest of the ingredients were already on her shopping list.

Then Hester remembered what else she might be able to contribute. “Mrs. Norton, do you know of any family with a man about my brother’s size in need of clothing and boots? Jimmy didn’t have much. But I’ll make sure anything I donate will be clean and mended.”

Mrs. Norton pursed her lips before letting out a sigh. “The need isn’t the problem so much as getting people to accept what they perceive as charity , which hurts their pride.”

Given that just a few minutes ago, Hester had almost refused the offer of apples for the same reason, she could understand.

“However, Reverend Norton and I will gladly accept whatever of Mr. Smith’s you choose to donate. We keep a closet stocked with all kinds of clothing for when someone comes to us for help. Also, we can often get people to accept handouts for the sake of their children. So, if there’s a young man in a family or they can cut down clothing to make something new for a younger one…especially if they want something decent for a son to wear to school or church, why, I accept.”

“I think Jimmy would have liked that. He has—” Grief made her throat close.

Mrs. Norton waited patiently, her eyes understanding.

Hester took a breath. “He had one shirt that is simply too worn in places to donate, but the rest should be fine.”

“Well, if there are any pieces of the shirt that are in good condition, you could use them in a quilt. An extra quilt is always useful when winter comes.”

The suggestion sent a spurt of excitement through her. “Oh, I like that idea.”

“If you need any more scraps of fabric, I certainly have plenty. You can come sort through them at any time.”

Hester clasped her hands to her chest. “It’s done my heart good to talk to you, Mrs. Norton.” She spoke with impulsive candor unlike her. “Thank you for coming up to me, because most likely, I wouldn’t have initiated an introduction. Shall I bring Jimmy’s things with me on Sunday? Reverend Joshua and his family are to drive me to church.”

“So, I’ve heard. That would be wonderful. I can send you home with the apples.” Her eyes twinkled. “And some jars of jam and pickles, and…”

This time, Hester’s pride forced her to speak up. “You’re so kind. But there’s no need.”

“There is every need,” Mrs. Norton said with mock sternness. “If I don’t make room in the pantry for the supplies we are still being given, we’ll have to use Reverend Norton’s office for storage.”

Who knew a minister’s wife could have a sense of humor?

“I’ve caught you out,” Hester teased back. “Jimmy wrote of the kindness of both of you. He thought your husband the most tolerant of men.”

The twinkle was back. “He is, indeed, for all that he can be so absentminded when pacing, thinking about his sermon, that he’ll stumble over boxes and bushels on the floor of his office. You wouldn’t want him injured, would you, Miss Smith?”

Crafty woman! Playfully, Hester waved up a hand to stop her. “Heaven forbid I cause the minister any harm.” She hadn’t ever engaged in a bantering conversation except with Lovie. She quite enjoyed the experience. “I can see I won’t win and therefore must surrender to having my cellar stocked. I will do you the favor of making some space in your pantry.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Norton gestured toward the mercantile. “Come along. I’ll introduce you to Hortense Cobb. I’ve no doubt you’ve heard…well, to brace yourself around her. But you should be safe in my presence.”

Just as they reached the door, a very pregnant young woman rushed up to Mrs. Norton, practically throwing herself at the minister’s wife, taking her arm, pulling her aside a few steps, and speaking in an urgent, low tone.

Hester gestured for Mrs. Norton to remain with the young woman. Setting her shoulders back and lifting her chin, she opened the door to brave the Cobbs.

Alerted by a sad howl from the dog next door, Dale stopped dusting the mantel of the parlor and moved to the window to look out, just in time to see Miss Smith pass by, heading toward town and carrying the burlap bags. She moved slowly, as if tired. Or perhaps she experienced the same reluctance he did to leave his safe sanctuary and venture into town.

This morning, while carrying an armful of wood into the kitchen to fill the wood box next to the stove, it occurred to him that the stack of James Smith’s wood pile was too small to last the winter. Smith had dragged home several sections of fir and ash logs and left them to dry over the summer. The rounds were overdue to be split into stove-and-fireplace-sized pieces. The fir, especially, would be harder to split when it was wet and maybe frozen later in the year.

Since he hadn’t heard sounds of chopping, he surmised Miss Smith hadn’t startled to tackle the project or, indeed, if she even knew she needed to. He remembered the woman’s petite size and figured she wouldn’t get very far in the attempt. Ever since, worry about her firewood kept popping into his mind, and a sense of wrongness lingered in his stomach, making him queasy.

He’d just dug the dust rag into a curlicue carving on the corner of the mantel when the solution came to him. Half hour for her to walk into town. Maybe twenty minutes to shop, more if she got caught up in a conversation. Half hour back. He probably had an hour and a half, well an hour and twenty minutes to be on the safe side, before she returned home.

He waited until Miss Smith was out of sight, tossed the dust rag onto a marble-topped side table, and hurried from the room to trot up upstairs to his bedroom, where his gold pocket watch lay on the nightstand next to his bed. Scooping up the watch, he popped open the outer case to check the time and shut the lid. Then he dropped the timepiece into the pocket of his worn denim trousers.

Once downstairs in the kitchen, he hurried over to the cast iron stove, where the scrambled eggs and bacon he’d cooked for breakfast remained in the frying pan. With his uneasy stomach, he’d only forked a few bites straight from the pan and left the rest, thinking he’d try eating after he’d done some household chores.

Carrying the frying pan outside, he stopped at his small garden shed to fetch his steel mallet, wedge, and his deerskin gloves, and then moved across the back yard to the rock wall bordering his property from Miss Smith’s.

The dog was curled up on a blanket near the house, her head resting on her paws. Lucy, her name was. Dale had heard Miss Smith call to her several times.

After setting the breakfast pan, mallet, and wedge on the top of the stone fence, he put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. The sound took him back to his childhood when he’d reveled in attempting the loudest piercing noises he could. That is until the day his mother stormed out of the house, carrying a whip and angry with him for making such an ungentlemanly sound and disturbing her nap. She beat his backside until he was too bruised to sit without a pillow for two days.

The dog lifted her head and gazed at him.

Just to spite the memory of his mother, Dale whistled again, and then called to the dog in a high-pitched, friendly tone, “Lucy, come here, girl.”

The dog loped over, still rib-sticking skinny but shiny clean.

Dale picked up a crisp strip of bacon and leaned over. “Look what I have for you.”

Lucy daintily took the piece and then crunched it in two bites. Tail wagging, she looked to him for more.

He swung one leg over and gave her another piece, finally pulling over his other leg to perch on the fence. This time, he tossed her some scrambled egg, which she caught in midair.

“Here you go, Lucy girl.” He placed the pan on the ground. “I’m going to do work for your mistress.”

The dog gave him one glance before digging into the food.

While she was busy, Dale carried the mallet and wedge over where the rounds of tree trunks squatted on some planks near the covered wood stack. As he walked, dried weeds crunched under his feet. Coming to a stop, he eyed the trunk discs and figured he could manage chopping two, perhaps three rounds in the time he had, depending on the stubbornness of the wood.

He shifted one round from the planks to the dirt-mixed-with-woodchips ground. He set the second round on top of the first, bent to look for cracks, and maneuvered the tip of his wedge into the most likely one, pounding the head several times, driving it deeper to stay without his holding it in place.

Then he stepped back a bit, making sure Lucy was safely at a distance, set one foot forward, and in a familiar rocking motion, lifted the mallet and started pounding the wedge, settling into a steady cadence. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface. Still, the round proved stubborn, and he put a little more power into his swings, enough so his breath became audible, until a piece split off from the round.

Dale bent to toss aside the chunk, breathing in the resin scent of fir, and then moved his wedge and repeated the process, over and over. With the first round finished, he wiped an arm across his sweaty forehead. Pulling out the watch, he checked the time.

Yes, he could fit in breaking up three before he needed to stack the woodpile, putting older wood on top to disguise the newly split pieces. He grinned and wondered if Miss Smith would notice and what her thoughts would be if she did.

His stomach grumbled, wanted to be filled. Dale smiled. He was no longer troubled by thoughts of Miss Smith’s wood lasting through the winter. Because I’ll make sure her supply does.

As Dale strode to the wall, grabbing up his licked-clean frying pan, he realized, for the first time since he’d learned of James’s death, he felt good—in a peaceful way. He hadn’t known directly —albeit secretly—that helping someone in need could feel this way. Something to ponder after I’ve eaten a second breakfast.

You should be safe, Mrs. Norton had said. Hester didn’t feel unsafe when she stepped into the mercantile. After all, she wasn’t really entering into the cave of a dragon. But she didn’t precisely feel welcomed by the stout woman across the room, who stood behind the counter and assessed her through narrowed eyes. Well…maybe she is a dragon.

Hester was used to respectful treatment when she had to shop. All the proprietors knew she worked for the well-to-do Mrs. Ransome. And she always paid on time and treated everyone from the owners down to the sweepers with respect—something she’d observed wasn’t always the case with other customers.

Mrs. Cobb made no effort to hide her scrutiny of Hester’s apparel. She sniffed, fingering the gold bar brooch pinning a froth of lace to her collar under her double chin, and smoothed down the fine brown wool of her dress.

Hester knew she looked neat and presentable in her second-best black uniform, softened by the lace collar and cuffs she’d tatted while still at the orphanage and carefully preserved ever since. Growing up as an orphan, Hester endured plenty of those judgmental looks about her shabby clothing.

But, as Mrs. Holtz often reminded them, the orphans were warmly clad and clean, which was all a body needed to be. The matron would go on to say they should hold their heads high, remembering many children who had families weren’t so lucky. Their families were poor, their clothes threadbare and often soiled. Sometimes, they didn’t even wear shoes except in the harshest months of winter.

With Mrs. Holtz’s voice in her head, Hester took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of brine from the pickle barrel near the door. She held her head high and slowly moved forward, trying to soften her footsteps on the polished wooden floor. She spared a glance for the array of baked goods on a rack against the wall and the first row of freestanding shelves on her other side.

Speaking with the Fosters and Mrs. Norton had boosted her confidence. Even though she quaked inside, Hester forced herself to venture all the way toward the counter and give Mrs. Cobb a smile. “I’m Hester Smith. James….” She swallowed hard. “The late James Smith’s sister, newly come to establish myself in Sweetwater Springs.”

Mrs. Cobb’s expression smoothed from judgmental to one of professional solemnity. “I’m sorry for your loss. Mr. Smith was always a good customer. Polite. Never became annoyed because I didn’t stock items he wanted or complained about the prices. Always paid on time.”

Hester was so desperate for any information about her brother that she grasped on to those meager words. “Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.” The gratitude in her tone was quite genuine.

Mrs. Cobb looked surprised by Hester’s response and nodded in acknowledgment. “Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

Hester pulled her list from one of the burlap bags and handed it over.

As Mrs. Cobb perused the paper, one plump hand clamped on the edges of her record book. “Was Mr. Smith your older or younger brother?” she asked in a seemingly idle tone.

“Five years younger.”

“I had a younger brother named James. We called him Jimmy.”

“Yes,” Hester said, almost eagerly. “My brother was Jimmy to me.”

The shopkeeper lowered the list, and for a second her eyes looked haunted. “My brother will perpetually remain five.”

Hester’s breath caught. As bad as Jimmy’s death was now , she couldn’t imagine not having experienced all the years she’d known him. In that moment, a strange sense of empathy engulfed her. “Thank you for telling me.” She reached across the counter. Daringly, she lightly touched the back of the shopkeeper’s clenched hand. “I imagine that’s a pain that never quite goes away.”

The woman’s face briefly softened. “That is true.” She released her grip on the record book only to fiddle with the corner. Then, as if retreating to her regular self, she sniffed. “Let me show you where the items on your list are located.”

As the shopkeeper bustled around the counter, Hester let out a slow breath. She’d bearded the dragon in her cave and found that Mrs. Cobb’s fire didn’t burn as harshly as she’d feared.

With pride in her step, Hester followed the woman on a tour through the store.