Christmas Under Western Skies (5 page)

“Told you so,” Glory said, scooping up the peel before anyone else could see it and walking off toward where the children were bobbing for apples.

Julianne continued to stare at the dirt floor where the peel had lain. She did not believe in such silliness, but on the other hand, the moisture from the peel had left its imprint, and she could not deny that it formed the first letter of Nathan's name.

It had been a year, and in all that time the idea that she might find love again had been the furthermost thing from her mind. And yet…

“And the winner and new champion of the apple-peeling contest with a ribbon of twenty-three inches is,” Putnam shouted, “Mrs. Julianne Cooper.”

A cheer went up as Julianne stepped forward to receive her prize, an apron embroidered with apples on the pocket.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Louder,” someone called.

“Thank you,” she shouted, and everyone laughed. “But let us all remember that the champion will always be Mrs. Foster, until her record can be broken.”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's time for the judging of the baked goods,” Jacob announced. “Captain, will you do the honors?”

The crowd followed Nathan over to where the cakes, pies and sweetbreads were displayed.

She watched as he tasted one sweet after another and announced that choosing the best was an impossible task. In the end, he declared a tie between Emma's pumpkin pie and Glory's apple cake.

 

“That was very nice of you,” she told him later, as they sipped glasses of apple juice and watched the children engaged in a lively game of blindman's buff. “Everyone knows that Emma Putnam has many skills, but baking isn't one of them.”

He shrugged. “Some people need that recognition, and it costs nothing to give it to them now and again.”

“So you admit it,” she pressed.

He grinned. “Between you and me? Yes.”

“Why, Reverend Captain Cook, I am shocked.” His laughter carried above the squeals of the children, warming the air around them.

“It's getting so close in here, and the night is clear.

Would you walk with me, Julianne?”

Outside, several men had gathered around a fire to talk in peace and smoke their pipes as couples strolled hand in hand under the star-filled sky.

“I see Roger Donner is back,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We haven't spoken, but I know that's the answer. If he'd been successful in getting me more time he
would have told me right away. He wants me to have this evening to enjoy. He's a good man.”

“What will you do?”

“I don't know,” she admitted.

He pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow. “We'll figure something out,” he said. “Meanwhile, Roger has a good idea. Let's just enjoy this evening.”

They walked along in silence until they came to a rail fence, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. “I hate seeing you so sad,” he said finally.

“Not sad so much as…” She searched for the right word. “That is, I was very sad for a long time after Luke became so ill and died.”

“Only sad?”

“And angry,” she admitted.

“At God?”

“I'm afraid I don't have your strength when it comes to faith,” she said. “Yes, I was angry at God—and at Luke.”

“For dying?”

“For leaving me and the children, I suppose. Oh, I know that he didn't choose that path—no one does. But life can be so very hard sometimes. Don't you ever feel that?”

He stared out at the horizon for a long moment, and she wondered if he was thinking about his lost brother.

“I'm sorry,” she said, touching his shoulder to draw his attention away from the past. “Glory says I spend too much time dwelling on things I can't change.” She
was struggling to lighten the mood, to bring them back to the place where he was laughing and his laughter made her feel light as air.

“Glory is a wise woman,” he said, cupping her cheek with his palm.

In that moment it was as if the world had stopped turning and they were alone in the dark with only the endless horizon and a sky filled with stars surrounding them.

“Julianne,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to hers. And any idea that she had that he might have been mourning his missing brother flew away on the wings of his kiss.

His lips were soft and met hers gently, tentatively, and even when she returned his kiss, he did nothing to take advantage. Instead, he pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. “You could always come to California,” he whispered. “You and the children.”

Panic laced with confusion threatened to overwhelm her. Her knees shook and she grasped the fence railing for support as she stepped away from him. “How can you think that problems can be so easily solved?” she managed to say.

“I don't. I just…” He reached out to touch her and she backed away.

“I can't leave here,” she told him.

“Why not? Think of it, Julianne. A fresh start. California is filled with possibilities.”

“You don't know that. You've been taken in by what
you've read and heard and you have a purpose in going there. Your brother…”

Now he was the one who took a step back. “And what is your purpose in staying here?”

“I promised,” she said, choking a little on the words as she realized that already she had broken that promise, because she had most likely lost the land. She was suddenly aware of music coming from the barn, lively and incongruous to the tension between them. “I have to go,” she said. “I need to speak to Roger—to know for certain….”

She did not finish her statement, and as she ran back toward the light of the barn, she realized that she felt only disappointment that Nathan did not try to stop her.

R
oger tried to persuade her that there was still hope in that the commissioner had postponed making any decision until after Christmas, but Julianne saw in the land agent's eyes that he did not believe the decision would be in her favor.

She didn't take the children to church on Sunday. Luke had the sniffles, and while she knew it wasn't serious, that was her excuse. On Monday she found herself listening for the creak of Sam's old wagon, knowing if it came it would most likely be Nathan driving the team.

But Nathan did not come. Glory stopped by to check on the children but remained uncustomarily silent regarding Nathan. A week passed, and an unexpected snowstorm gave Julianne the only excuse she needed to miss church for the second week in a row.

Late on Monday night, after the children had been in bed for an hour already, Julianne heard the pound
of hoofbeats coming down her lane. She wiped her hands on her apron and waited for the rider to pass, but the only sound she heard was the relentless wind that whistled around the house seeking any possible entry, and the low murmur of a man's voice instructing his horse. Then boots, heavy on the stoop outside her door, followed by a light tap.

She glanced at the rifle over the door, then at the lamp she'd left burning while she finished putting up the last of the apple butter that she hoped to trade at the mercantile for toys for the twins' Christmas.

“Julianne?”

The voice was muffled and indistinguishable. Not Sam Foster. But who else might call at this late hour?

“Who's there,” she said, standing very close to the door so that there was no need to raise her voice and risk waking the children.

“It's me—Nathan. Look, I know it's late but…” When she failed to answer or open the door, he knocked again louder. “Julianne, please. I need to talk to you.”

She grabbed her wool shawl and wrapped it around her head and shoulders, then slipped outside. “The children are sleeping, Captain Cook,” she said. “Has something happened to Sam or Glory?”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “They're both fine.”

“Then why—”

“Walk with me a minute,” he urged, taking her elbow.

It was absolutely foolhardy to do as he asked. And yet, even as she took in the restless stirring of the animals in
the lean-to and saw that it was a clear night with a sky filled with stars, she did not pull away.

“Captain, really,” she protested, but she followed his lead until they were standing in the midst of the apple trees that she and Luke had planted shortly after the house had been completed.

Nathan bent and scraped away snow until he unearthed a fallen apple. “This,” he said holding the rotted fruit up as if it were gold, “could be your answer.”

“It's an apple,” she said slowly, as she might have years earlier when she was teaching the twins to identify objects.

“And how was this year's crop?” he asked, putting an unusual emphasis on the last word.

“It was really the first,” she explained. “Luke and I planted the saplings three years ago when we first arrived here. It takes some time for—”

“I know. So how was the crop?”

Again that unusual focus on “crop”.

“Captain—”

“Nathan,” he corrected.

“Nathan, it is late. It is freezing. And my children are sleeping. What do you want?”

“You harvested these apples—what you could, right?”

She nodded impatiently.

“You probably dried some, put up some butter, perhaps made a pie?”

“Three,” she corrected. “In fact, as long as you're
here you can carry one back with you for the Fosters.”

She turned and started back around the house.

But once again he stopped her, his hand taking her forearm and turning her so that she was facing the apple trees and he was standing behind her with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Think of it, Julianne,” he said. “Imagine not just these few saplings, but apple trees as far as you can see.”

She had lost most of the feeling in her hands and feet, and yet there was a warmth emanating from him that held her where she stood.

“Think of spring and white and pink blossoms every where you look, like clouds come down to earth,” he said, his voice soft, dreamy. “Think of the blossoms falling like snow, and then the apples coming, green at first, and then brilliant yellow and red, like maple trees back home in Virginia come autumn.”

The picture he painted was mesmerizing. She forgot about the cold, forgot about the late hour. “An orchard,” she murmured.

“A crop,” he corrected. “A legitimate use of the land and one you have already begun. You didn't abandon the land, Julianne. Right here there was a crop.”

She turned to face him. “Do you honestly think the commissioner would accept that?”

“I spoke with Roger after I remembered seeing these apple trees the day before the storm came up so sudden, and I got disoriented. I mentioned the idea to Roger and he sent off a letter to the commissioner that very day.”

“But Roger said that the best he could do was get a decision postponed until after the first of the year.”

“And it may be weeks before you have an official answer. But Roger agrees with me as does Judge Romney.” He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket. “This is a copy of the law, and it says right here that you've met the requirements—you raised a crop. You raised and harvested apples.”

“It's a few fruit trees,” she protested, afraid to let herself surrender to the hope he offered.

“There's nothing in the regulations to specify the size of the crop, Julianne. Roger agrees. It's the intent to farm the land that counts, and these trees show intent.”

She felt the way a bird that had just experienced flight for the first time must feel. Weightless. Free. Without thinking, she flung her arms around Nathan's neck. “Oh, Nathan, thank you. It's brilliant. It's…”

She felt his arms tighten around her, his breath against her cheek as he bent his face to hers. Reality hit like a sudden drop in temperature. She reminded herself of the hour, the isolation, the compromising circumstances of being in each other's arms.

“It's freezing out here,” she said abruptly, releasing him and stepping back as she clutched the shawl more tightly around her. “Come warm yourself by the stove for a bit before you head back.”

She stumbled over the uneven and frozen ground until she reached the front door. Inside, she went first to check on the children, lifting the curtain that surrounded their cots to assure herself that they were both still asleep. She
was aware that he had followed her inside and closed the front door.

Without meeting his gaze, she hurried over to the stove and lifted the kettle. “I'll just…”

His hand on her shoulder made her go still.

“Sit down and warm yourself,” he said, relieving her of the kettle. “I'll do that.”

Gratefully, she did as he instructed, pulling the stool nearer to the fire and holding out her hands to the embers.

He handed her a cup of tea and she wrapped her palms around the warm crockery. Nathan knelt next to her and before she could protest, he had pulled off her shoes and set them on the hearth to dry. Then he wrapped his thick knitted scarf around her feet.

“Better?” he asked looking up at her.

She nodded, unable to find her voice. Unable to decipher the feelings racing through her brain as she looked at him.

“Now then,” he said, taking the bench across from her, “you still have to come up with a plan for planting more trees, building the crop. There's still work to be done.”

She tried to focus on what he was saying, but could get no further than remembering the feel of his gentle touch as he swathed her feet in the soft wool of his scarf. He picked up an apple seed that had stuck to the table. “You'll need seeds and—”

“But until we know for certain…” she said, reminded of how Luke had rallied for a few days and then slipped
away. She had to stop daydreaming and focus on the hard realities of what lay ahead for her and the children.

“You know. You have it right there in writing,” he said, nodding toward the copy of the law he'd given her.

She bent and unwrapped her feet, then folded the scarf in thirds and handed it to him. “Then we'll be fine. Thank you so much, Nathan. You didn't have to—”

“I could help you work out the plan for the planting, order the seeds.”

In the days since he'd kissed her she had a lot of time to think, and the one thing she knew was that it would be foolhardy to get any more involved with this man than she already was. Every act of kindness bound her more closely to him and would make his leaving all the more painful. She stood up. “As I said, I am so very grateful for all that you—and Roger—have done for us. We'll be fine now—the children and I.”

He stood as well. Slowly, he wrapped the scarf around his neck. “There's an old adage,” he said quietly, “that God helps those—”

“What would you have me do?” Her voice was tight and rising. With a glance toward the curtain sheltering her sleeping children, she lowered it to a whisper. “I cannot plant trees when the ground is frozen.”

Nathan started to say something, but instead turned and walked the three steps it took to reach the door. His silence made Julianne feel guiltier than if he had argued with her. After all he had come up with this
idea—this plan that might make keeping her promise to Luke possible.

“Thank you for coming—for trying to help—for…” Her voice broke then, so that the last word came out on a sob. “…caring.”

Nathan turned and pulled her hard against him, holding her as she cried.

“You aren't alone,” he whispered. “There are so many people who want to see you succeed. Don't shut them out, Julianne.”

She forced a laugh and pulled away, determined to show him that she was fine. “How is it that with everything you've been through, you are so sure things will work out for the best?”

He smiled and pushed a wayward curl behind her ear. “I'll answer that when you tell me how it is that you are so very sure that they won't.” He pulled his hat on, anchoring it firmly over his brow. “Goodnight, Julianne.”