Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection by Debra Holland Read Free Book Online Page A

talk, first about Michael, then about Emmeline.
    Barbara chimed in with her own stories, and they shared favorite memories. At times, they wiped away tears. Like a victrola playing beautiful music, they finally wound down, sitting for a few quiet minutes in peaceful companionship.
    “I baked Mama’s cinnamon and dried apple cake today,” Barbara said. “I felt her presence as I added each ingredient. Heard her voice … felt the touch of her hand as I stirred the batter. I almost seasoned the cake with some salt tears, and at the same time, I felt so good to be close to her. As if she stood at my side.”
    “I’m sure she did. I know I’ve felt her too.”
    Barbara looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Is it just wishful thinking?”
    He smiled and watched for her responding one. “Does it matter? You felt her love, and that’s what’s important.” He shivered, realizing his body had chilled and his toes were numb. “We need to get going, child. We have a warm house waiting, and your family will be wondering where you are.”
    Barbara rose and gathered the blanket close.
    “Let’s leave your horse with the Gordons and take the sled. You’ll be warmer under the blankets. Robert can come get her later.”
    Barbara nodded her agreement.
    Sudden tears moistened Abe’s eyes. He rolled up the ornaments in the blanket and stood. All his muscles had stiffened, and Abe was conscious of his achy bones.
    “Let’s change traditions tonight, Papa. Instead of reading the children A Visit From Saint Nicholas … how about after supper, you tell the children the stories of these?” She held up the rolled blanket.
    Abe smiled at his daughter. “I’d like that.”
    “I left Mama’s Christmas cake baking in the oven. I hope Sassy remembered to take it out.”
    “I hope so, too.” Abe’s mouth watered at the memory of his wife’s cake.  
    Barbara gave him a hug. “This visit was good for my soul, Papa. Now let’s go home and eat some of Mama’s cake.”
    Abe held onto his daughter for a little longer, before releasing her, his heart lighter than it had been for a long time. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

 
    IRISH LUCK
     
    Sally O’Donnell finished off the end of the scarf, cut the yarn, and stuck her two knitting needles into the ball before setting them into an Indian basket at her feet. She gave the knitted weave an anxious glance. Is it good enough? “That’s the last one, Ma,” she said to her mother, who sat in a nearby chair, darning a stocking.
    The O’Donnell family had finished supper, and Sally and her parents had gathered in chairs around the stone fireplace. Three kerosene lamps burned in the room, giving flickering light that combined with the fire to push back the darkness. One glass lamp perched next to a pile of stockings on the little table between Sally and her mother. Her father mended a plowing harness by the light of another lantern hanging from a bracket on the wall, and the third glowed between her ten-year-old twin sisters, studying at the table. Across from them, her fourteen-year-old brother, Charlie, bent over his slate with a piece of chalk in his hand, scratching out the answers to arithmetic questions.
    Sally held up the scarf of undyed wool for her mother’s approval. “That’s number twelve.”
    Her mother reached over and fingered the weave of the scarf. “Well done, my dear.” She gave Sally an approving smile. “That will keep someone nice and warm.” She slipped the wooden darning egg out of a stocking she’d mended, and placed it on the table beside her.
    “I’ve enough of them now, Ma. Can I bring the scarves to town tomorrow?”
    Mrs. O’Donnell glanced at her husband for his opinion.
    Her father laid down the harness and gazed at Sally, concern in his eyes. The lines around his mouth deepened. “I do na like the idea of ye going into town in the winter,” he said in his Irish brogue. “It’s a two-hour ride, Sally. What if a storm blows