The Gift of Seeds (A Montana Sky Christmas Novella)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

December 23rd

I n the month of December, Hester flung herself into holiday preparations. She cleaned almost every inch of the house, baked oatmeal cookies, gathered pine boughs to line the windowsills, made several fat candles, spiced with cinnamon to set around the living area, and even nerved herself up to go far enough—about one hundred feet—into the forest to find a fir tree small enough for her to chop down with Jimmy’s axe and set into a bucket of water.

She’d popped corn and threaded the puffy kernels into a long chain, winding it around the branches. She tried to hum carols, while adding her other decorations. But her throat closed up, and, in silence, she added the three precious glass ornaments given to her over the years by Lovie, as well as the straw stars made by her children. In the sparse patches, she’d tied red ribbon into bows around spindly limbs.

She’d thought having her very own tree would bring her pleasure, not more sorrow. But the single present under the tree, a brown paper parcel from Lovie, served as a reminder. For the first time in her adult life, no package from Jimmy sat next to her friend’s gift.

With the extra time on her hands from only having to fend for herself in a house a fourth of the size of Mrs. Ransome’s, Hester had resurrected some of the old skills she’d learned at the orphanage, including quilting and tatting, finding a quiet fulfillment in creating. She’d sent off a package to Lovie with lace collars for herself and her two daughters and hemmed monogrammed handkerchiefs for Hiram and their sons. She took pride in imagining the family gathered around the tree and opening her gifts on Christmas.

As Christmas Eve approached, in anticipation of attending church for the festive service, Hester hung up her best winter outfit near the back door to air out the smell of mothballs. She’d never had a dress so fine and was glad she’d finished sewing the gown before she left St. Louis.

From time to time, she cast admiring glances at her dress—navy blue wool with the faintest of green plaid threaded though. The sleeves weren’t puffed like the height of fashion, but she’d made them a little fuller than usual. Now, with all her preparations finished, time hung heavy on her hands.

I’ve gotten what I always wanted — my own home — where I’m not at anyone’s beck and call. But I never imagined I’d be so bitterly lonely.

As if sensing her low mood, Lucy rose from her blanket near the fireplace, stretched, and sauntered over, placing her head on Hester’s leg.

She stroked the dog’s forehead, feeling grateful for her sweet companion, no longer skinny and now looking the picture of doggy health.

Lucy made the little whining sound that meant she needed to go out.

“How ’bout we go outside for a romp?” Yes, a romp was just what she needed to shake the dismals away. Lucy’s presence had proven contrary to Hester’s belief that she’d never laugh again. The dog’s playful antics had coaxed smiles, giggles, and, memorably, a few burst-out-loud laughs.

“Only for a short time, girl. It’s freezing cold out there.”

Lucy was eager to accommodate her, wagging her tail and then dashing to the side door, back to Hester, and then to the door again.

She stood and followed, taking her outerwear from the wall pegs, bundling herself into a heavy coat, a knitted cap for her head, a shawl to tie over that, a scarf, and mittens. Under her dress, she already wore a quilted petticoat and thick knitted stockings. She pulled on footless stockings to go over the tops of her boots and up to her knees, where she tied them tight with the crocheted strings she’d used to gather them tight.

As soon as Hester opened the door, Lucy ran out. She picked up the short stick leaning in the corner that she’d smoothed with Jimmy’s whittling knife, shoved the end into her coat pocket, and hurried out after her pup.

She strode past the water pump in the barrel and then the outhouse and into the main part of the yard, to see the dog racing around the perimeter, where her prior repetitions had carved a track in the snow.

Dark clouds hung heavy on the horizon. Even through her warm clothes, the cold wind chilled her. She sniffed the damp, heavy air. We’ll have more snow this evening. She wrapped her arms around her upper body. Hurry up, Lucy.

Supposedly having ascertained that no danger threatened her territory in the form of squirrels, birds, or any other creature needing to be chased off, the dog made another, slower perambulation to sniff every interesting spot. Having completed her routine, she found the perfect place to do her business.

Once finished, she kicked some snow over the mess and scampered straight to Hester along another path she’d worn in the snow. With a doggie grin and wagging tail, she did a play bow.

Today, though, Hester couldn’t muster a customary return smile. Still, she couldn’t deny her faithful companion the pleasure. She pulled the throwing stick from her pocket and tossed it into a pile of snow.

With a happy yelp, Lucy scampered after the stick, digging into a mound. Snow flew around her. She grabbed the stick and returned to Hester, her face bearded white, a sight that always made Hester laugh.

But not today.

This time, she threw the stick toward the back edge of her property line. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Marsden watching from his window. She didn’t turn her head to look, knowing from experience that he’d duck out of sight.

Not that I can blame him when I do the same.

Lucy returned with the stick, ready for another throw.

“Sorry, girl. Too cold.”

Hester turned to go into the house, and then realized she should stock up on firewood. God only knows how long the storm will last.

Bringing in wood, although necessary, was Hester’s most disliked household task. Imagining spiders and mice and other creepy-crawlies living in the pile made her so nervous, she always squinted her eyes to narrow slits to see as little as possible and grabbed whatever she needed from on top.

Today, though, something about the placement of the wood caught Hester’s attention, and she paused to figure out what bothered her. She realized that the height of the stack hadn’t varied, which, after living here for two months, should be considerably diminished.

What? Who? How? Her thoughts flitted over her scant acquaintances. If Frey Foster wasn’t in Minnesota with Grace and Braga, he’d be the suspect on the top of her list. Mr. Bellaire or any of the Nortons or Sam would have knocked on the door and told her about the wood delivery.

Too curious to allow the cold to drive her inside, Hester walked over to where she vaguely remembered seeing fat, round sections of tree trunks resting on planks. She frowned at the space. Even, mostly buried under snow, she knew more should be there.

Someone is chopping them for me.

She quarter-turned to peer at the house next door but saw no sign of a watcher in the windows. Somehow, Mr. Marsden must have found a way, probably sneaking over when she went to town.

Hester glanced down at Lucy, who gave her a conspiratorial doggy grin and proud tail wag. “Some watchdog you are.”

She looked back at the Marsden house, not knowing if she wanted to see the man or not.

“Well,” she said aloud. “Well, I never!” Never what? Never had anyone who was practically a stranger do something so kind? Never thought that her neighbor would bestir himself? Never thought that I’d feel beholden to someone I’ve pretty much shunned?

Shame flushed through her. And here I’ve been faulting him for not being more neighborly. Yet, what kind of neighbor have I been? I could have been friendlier instead of holding myself back.

In St. Louis, she’d always had Lovie and her family and hadn’t needed anyone else. Her duties and her dreams of a future with her brother blinded her to the loneliness of the present. And when she had the opportunity to start over, she’d clung to her reserve instead of meeting the challenge.

The people in this town have been nothing but kind and welcoming, and I’ve repaid them with distance. My loneliness is my own fault.

I must do better.

By way of thanks, Hester knew she could drop off a plate of oatmeal cookies next door. Lovie’s menfolk devoured her desserts, so Mr. Marsden should enjoy them.

But cookies didn’t seem like enough to acknowledge the great service he’d rendered.

A whiff of an apple-scented memory surfaced. How about the apfelstrudel? Under Mrs. Holtz’s supervision, the orphans made the Christmas confection for themselves and to give the long, rolled pastries to their benefactors as presents. Suddenly, she could taste the thin, flakey, outer crust wrapped around the sweet, spiced apple and raisin filling and cloaked in paper-thin layers of pastry.

Thinking through the list of needed ingredients, Hester realized she’d have to make a quick visit to town. She’d almost used up her stores of sugar and cinnamon. She didn’t have golden raisins because they were more expensive than the brown ones.

Glancing up at the purpling sky on the horizon, Hester could tell, if she hurried, she’d have time to get there and back. Best warm up first and heat the two stone handwarmers for my pockets. She hesitated, knowing she’d fight the bitter cold the whole way there and back.

Hester squared her shoulders. No more feeling sorry for myself.

Dale thought himself ten times a fool for braving the trip into town on such a freezing day. But once a year at Christmas time, in memory of his beloved great-grandmother, he shopped at Sugarplum Dreams for two boxes of petit fours —her favorite sweets.

He would drop off a large box at the parsonage as his contribution to the Christmas Eve party held at the hotel, which he never attended. And he’d take one box of four squares home with him. He’d eat two of the treats after the Christmas Eve service, and the other two on Christmas day, blessing the memory of the only woman in his family who’d ever loved and been kind to him.

Entering the sweetshop, he relished the warmth inside and inhaled the sweet scent of candy and baked goods, with a hint of pine from the small tree on a table in front of the window and the boughs on the windowsills, threaded with gold and red ribbons. The six tables were empty of patrons. But a line of adults and children, their excitement palpable, stood in front of the glass counter, which displayed an array of temptations.

Julia Ritter stood behind the counter, a cheerful smile on her round face, green eyes sparkling, her black hair mostly covered by a head scarf. A white apron embroidered with holly leaves and berries covered her serviceable brown dress. Greeting the patrons, she chatted with them about their Christmas plans, while her hands deftly wrapped or boxed their orders.

In the corner, a round, ceramic stove appeared somewhat like a white wedding cake with green trim and copper doors for the fireboxes. The stove looked European, and he didn’t recall seeing it last year. But the contraption sure putout a lot of heat, making him wonder if he should buy one for upstairs.

After loosening his scarf and unbuttoning his coat, Dale pulled the stones, cool now, from his pockets, unwrapped the rags encasing them, and strode over to set them on the high circular stove lip, next to a row of others. He stuffed the rags back into his pockets.

His gaze on the pastry selection, Dale joined the line before he realized a gaggle of girl children of stair-stepping ages waited before him. Blonde ones, he could tell by the braids spilling from underneath their knitted hats, like his sisters. His stomach tightened in old fear.

They’d obviously just come from school, for the oldest carried several books bound by a leather strap.

Mrs. Ritter looked up and saw him, flashing a quick smile and nod before giving her attention back to the next customer.

Too late to sneak away. Dale caught the ridiculous thought and straightened. He wasn’t an abused child, needing to hide to keep himself safe. Shoving down the dark memories, he looked away from the children. But he couldn’t help hearing their conversation as they debated which treats to buy and feeling drawn to sneak wary glances their way.

One favored peppermint sticks, another chocolate fudge, and a third the petite custard pies. The oldest seemed set on gingerbread, and he had a feeling she’d win. From listening, he soon figured out their names in age order: Inga, Elsabe, Krista, Marta.

Their voices were as sweet as the scent of the treats. Happy, chiming, giggling, they worked toward cohesion, sounding as unlike his sisters as could be. Of course, he hadn’t known his sisters when they were small. But he doubted they had such closeness and innocent happiness when purchasing goodies—if they ever did. Desserts and candy had always been plentiful in their home.

Dale barely glanced at the two young men who left with full brown paper bags. He shifted sideways to give them a path toward the door.

The movement caused the smallest girl, probably around age six, to turn around. She gave him a sweet smile. “Hello, I’m Marta. I don’t know you.” She watched him with curiosity in delphinium-blue eyes.

Hearing her talking, the others shifted to see him. Sisters, definitely. All pretty with their blue eyes framed in long golden lashes and cheeks pink from the cold. Like his sisters, they could be described as angelic looking. Old pain stabbed. But then he noticed these girls were thinner, shabbier, and something about their open expressions….

Marta patted his arm. “What’s your name?”

“Marta!” The oldest—Inga—hissed.

The reprimand brought back many bad memories of his sisters’ annoyed corrections, and he instinctively stepped back.

Inga gave Dale a mortified look. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re still working on her manners.”

She shook her head at Marta. “To think you used to be the quiet one.” She bent closer to look into Marta’s face. “We should first be introduced to a stranger by another adult,” she said, her voice kind. “We don’t introduce ourselves to adults. We shouldn’t talk or ask questions unless the gentleman speaks to us.” She lightly placed a finger on the younger girl’s lips in a shushing gesture. “Remember, many people think children should be seen and not heard.”

The tender way the elder girl corrected the youngest, the patience she showed in explaining, astonished Dale. Until the trite ‘seen and not heard’ comment made anger burn in his throat—a reaction he remembered well from all the times he wanted to protest at the injustice in his life but didn’t dare, for fear of worse punishment.

Marta gave her sister a solemn nod before looking up at him, her eyes wide in an irresistible appeal.

He wondered if the child faced the same dilemma young Dale had with his family. If he apologized, he was often chastened for speaking when he shouldn’t “be heard.” If he kept quiet, he could be punished for the lack of an apology. The inability to know which choice to make—inevitably the wrong one—usually paralyzed him.

Just remembering made his body stiff, and his throat close up. Without being obvious, he took a breath, tried to shake off the tightness in his muscles, and cleared his throat. “I’m not so rigid.”

They crowded closer. Four pairs of expectant eyes watched him, apparently waiting for more words.

“I mean… I believe children should be heard. At least, good children, intelligent children like you four.”

Marta clapped her hands, crowing in obvious victory. “See, Inga! The gentleman wants us to talk to him.”

I wouldn’t go that far.

She lowered her hands and squished her face in apparent puzzlement. “Does that mean we can introduce ourselves?”

Krista, the next youngest, gave Marta a slight shove with her elbow. “The man needs to say his name first,” she said in a loud whisper.

The girls’ interest in speaking with him felt so much better than the disdain, annoyance, and indifference he’d usually experienced from his family, and he couldn’t bring himself to withdraw. But he didn’t know what to say, either. Perhaps start with my name. “I’m Dale Marsden.”

The couple at the front of the line peeled away with their box of candies and left the store.

Marta pulled a penny from underneath her mitten and held up the coin. “Mrs. Gordon gave us each a penny,” she said in awe.

Krista chimed in, “We helped clean the classroom before the Christmas holiday.”

Marta nodded with seeming self-importance. “And get everything ready for the New Year.” She leaned forward as if imparting an important secret. “We want to buy gingerbread men for Pa and Olaf, he’s our baby brother, and gingerbread ladies for Ma and Maria. We’ll have a penny left over to put in Pa’s stocking. He never buys anything for himself, even when Ma wants him to.” She giggled. “Now, he’ll have to.”

Their innocent candor, their generosity and concern for their family, the way they trusted him enough to confide in him, their sweet smiles, all bedazzled Dale.

Inga shifted her stack of books to her other arm. “Ma almost didn’t let us come to town today.”

“But we begged and begged—” Elsabe spoke at a quieter volume than her sisters “—cuz we didn’t want to miss the Christmas party at school.”

“Luckily for us, Mr. Canfield, our down-the-mountain neighbor, stopped by and told Ma and Pa he was going to town to do Christmas shopping and see Miss Bailey before she goes to stay with her family. He’s courting Miss Bailey, you see.”

Dazed as he was, Dale still nodded as if he understood.

“Mr. Canfield wanted to know if he could bring back anything for us,” Elsabe added. “Pa got all…” She straightened so tall she stood on tiptoe, thrust back her shoulders, and raised her chin. “But Ma nudged him with her elbow and asked if Marta could ride with him. He said he’d do her three girls better , because he planned to bring his second horse to carry what he needed. Marta could ride in front of him, and I’m behind him. Inga and Krista rode the other one.”

Krista pouted. “Inga didn’t let me hold the reins.”

Inga ignored her sister and, from one of her books, pulled out four cards decorated with Christmas scenes, fanned them out, and held them up for him to see. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Yes, they are.”

She carefully replaced them between the pages of her book. “Mrs. Gordon gave them to us. She had one for every student.”

Dale glanced out the window. Dusk approached. “Is Mr. Canfield taking you home?

“He’s outside walking the horses, so they don’t get too cold.”

Their genuine charm made him want to continue the conversation. “What are you hoping Saint Nicolas will bring you?”

Krista wrinkled her nose. “St. Nicolas doesn’t come to our house. Ma says we’re too high up the mountain for him, even with the reindeers pulling his sleigh in the sky.”

“But we’ve gotten to go to church and the party at the hotel.” Marta gave a little bounce. “We had a marvliss time!”

Inga patted Marta’s head, as if to keep her feet on the ground. “ Mar-va-lous ,” she gently corrected.

“Marv-a-liss,” Marta repeated. “Just not this year because of the storm.”

“But that’s all right.” Elsabe seemed to think Dale needed reassurance. “Ma says the best Christmas is when we’re all together and everyone is healthy.”

No presents. No holiday party. Yet, they’re so happy.

Would his sisters have been this sweet if his father had lived and softened his stern demeanor? If they had a loving mother, grandmother, and aunts? He held in a sigh. How different life would have been for all of us.

The thought made his chest ache, and he put his palm over the spot and pushed against the pain. Underneath his palm, he felt the crackle of paper—the letter he’d picked up earlier from the train station and folded into his vest pocket. His second oldest sister, Annabelle, had nominated herself as the family correspondent. She wrote him long, newsy letters about her husband and children, sometimes including tidbits about the rest of the family.

She seemed to care about her children. But he hadn’t let himself believe what she put on paper. Could Annabelle have made herself into a loving mother?

Another family took their purchases and left. The Swensen girls moved in front of Mrs. Ritter, all talking at once to put in their order.

Dale pulled some dollar bills from his pocket and waved them over the back of the girls’ heads.

Mrs. Ritter caught the gesture and glanced over.

He pointed to the money in his other hand, and then to the children.

With a wink and a nod at him, she leaned closer to the counter to talk to the girls. “Since you four are the last people in the store besides Mr. Marsden, and I’ve already boxed up his order….” She made a sad face. “I still have so many sweets left, and I don’t want them to go to waste. So, I’m going to give you all a good deal.”

Dale prayed that no other customers would come in while the girls were here to dispute Mrs. Ritter’s assertions with their presence.

“A gingerbread cookie for each of you, along with the ones for the rest of your family. And one peppermint stick for everyone. Or should we skip Olaf?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Ritter,” Elsabe said, her expression solemn. “Olaf can suck on his for a little bit if one of us holds it for him.”

Mrs. Ritter’s eyes dance, although she kept on a professional smile. “All right, then. Nine gingerbread people and nine peppermint sticks for four cents. Deal?”

“Deal,” they chorused.

Watching the luminous joy on their faces warmed something inside Dale—the heart he’d frozen long ago to make it as impervious to hurt as possible—melted like an icicle in the sun.

Inga handed the book bundle to Elsabe and reverently took the bag of goodies, tied with a very long red ribbon, from Mrs. Ritter. “Thank you, ma’am, and Happy Christmas.” She shot a look to her sisters that had them all wishing Mrs. Ritter a “Happy Christmas.”

Turning, she hastened toward the door, her sisters following like ducklings after their mother.

Marta paused, turned and waved. “Bye, Mr. Mar-den.”

“Marsden,” Inga corrected.

“Marzden.”

“Good-bye, girls, and Happy Christmas!”

A chorus of “Happy Christmas” trailed out the door.

Dale couldn’t help but grin at the encounter.

Mrs. Ritter raised her eyebrows, as if to say she’d never seen Dale in such good spirits. But she merely said, “As you heard, I anticipated your yearly order and have the petit fours already boxed.”

“I appreciate that.” An idea came to him. Dale gave her the money, not caring about the total, only a certain kind of change. “However, if among my change, you could give me seven dimes?”

Her green eyes twinkled. “Seven dimes for seven Swensens, indeed.”

From her cashbox, she counted out his change, separating out the dimes.

Dale slipped the coins into his pocket and took the rest of the change from her and placed the money into his opposite pocket.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Marsden.” She picked up the two boxes of petit fours and handed them to him. “I have a feeling this New Year will be a good one for you.”

Pondering her unexpected goodbye, he made sure not to forget to wrap his two hot stones with rags before placing them into his pockets. He stepped into the chilly air without feeling the discomfort for he was still warm from the encounter with the Swensens.

He found Hank Canfield wearing a knitted cap and using several clothespins to fasten a blanket like a cloak around Inga and Krista, who were perched atop a brown horse.

Dale didn’t know Canfield except by sight. But he went right up to the man, gesturing to pull him aside. “The girls mentioned not having a Christmas because Santa doesn’t go to their mountain house.”

“Ah.” Canfield leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t you worry. Elsie, uh, Miss Bailey, has made them all hair ribbons. And my friends and I have carved wooden cup-and-ball toys. Got a ham, bag of coffee, and two jars of cherry preserves in my saddle bags. I think at Christmas time, even stiff-necked-with-pride Swensen will accept presents for his children.”

Dale surreptitiously showed Hank the seven dimes. “Can you find a way to slip these into the children’s stockings? One each.”

Hank shrugged. “Anna Swensen told me that she was decorating today, including hanging up the stockings. If I can find an excuse to get them all out of the room, I can drop the dimes in. The stockings will still look empty, and the money will be a surprise. If not tonight, then when I sneak over my gifts tomorrow night and hand them off to the parents to put in the stockings.”

“Thank you.” Dale gave him the coins.

“Can’t promise Swensen won’t return the money. He accepts some limited aid from me. But I must be wily, so as not to dent his pride. Guess I can tell him the dimes aren’t from me and refuse to tell him about you.” Hank chuckled. “I can just see him grinding his teeth in frustration. But I seriously doubt he’d disappoint his daughters by taking their coins away. That family is as poor as church mice, but mighty rich in love.”

Dale glanced at the girls waiting so patiently in the cold and thought back to his epiphany in the store. How vulnerable am I willing to be?

“To make the money more palatable to him, tell Mr. Swensen that I grew up with spiteful, unkind sisters and….” Dale swallowed. “And to witness the tender interactions of his daughters….” He patted his chest. “Did my heart good. No, better than good. Tell him, I’m the one in his debt. And I can’t thank him and his good wife enough for raising their girls with sweet love and gratitude for each other.”

Canfield looked into Dale’s eyes for a few serious seconds. “If I mount, will you hand up the girls to me? Tuck blankets around them? Sure would be a big help.”

Dale nodded. Throughout the process of getting the girls situated on the horses and ready to go, the openness in his chest didn’t ebb, like he’d half-expected it to.

Canfield saluted him. “Merry Christmas, Marsden.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Marsden,” Inga called. The others echoed, their voices muffled through their scarves.

“Happy Christmas, to you all.” Dale waved goodbye. He pulled his own scarf tighter around his face and watched them ride down the street, feeling lighter than he could ever remember being.