Christmas Under Western Skies Read online

  As if he felt her watching him, he opened his eyes. “Ma’am?” His voice was raspy.

  Julianne started and snapped the journal shut, placing it in her apron pocket.

  “Right here,” she replied, edging cautiously closer to the bed.

  He was lying on his side, and for the first time since Sam had carried him inside his eyes were clear. Only the occasional coughing fit told the story of how very ill he still was.

  “Don’t want to impose,” he managed between coughing jags. “Could I have a little water?”

  “Of course,” Julianne hurried to the bucket and dipped water into a tin cup. When she turned, he had pushed himself to a position of half-sitting, his weight resting on one forearm.

  “Appreciate that,” he said when she handed him the cup. His drawl was unmistakable.

  “You’re Virginian?” she guessed.

  He nodded. “How did you know?”

  “I grew up there—in the western part of the state.”

  “Hill country.” He grinned and sipped the water. In spite of several day’s growth of a thick, black beard, his smile was disarming and at the same time captivating.

  “And you?” she asked, forcing her attention anywhere but on those white, even teeth and eyes that were now wide open, and the most startling shade of green—like spring grasses come to life on the plains.

  “Just outside Richmond,” he managed before the coughing started again. The water sloshed from the cup onto the bedding. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he tried ineffectively to clean up the spill.

  “Never mind.” She took the cup from him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” he admitted, “but I don’t mean to trouble you—I mean, any more then I already have.”

  She ignored that and stirred the stew, then ladled up half a bowl and handed it to him.

  “What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  She saw him mentally calculating the lost time. “I’ve been here a week already?”

  “As of yesterday, yes.” She handed him the soup and could not help noticing the way he seemed to savor every bite. She would have expected him to gobble it down.

  After all, it had been days since he’d eaten anything of substance.

  “Where are you heading?” she asked.

  “California, God willing.”

  “Well, God seems to have led you straight into the eye of the worst early winter storm we’ve seen for this time of year.” Julianne had little patience with people who placed their lives in God’s hands. After all, that’s what she’d done with Luke, and he’d died.

  Nathan Cook paused with the spoon poised over the bowl, his eyes searching hers. “God has His reasons for whatever comes our way, ma’am.”

  It was her turn to shrug. Once a woman of deep, abiding faith, the events of her life over the last few years had convinced Julianne that she could rely on neither man nor God. She had only herself. “We found your papers, Captain Cook. They were quite sodden but we managed to salvage them along with your Bible.”

  “We?”

  “My neighbor and I found you lying in the snow. We brought you here and stabled your horse with the other livestock.” She busied herself peeling potatoes to add to the stew.

  “May I know your name?”

  “I am Mrs. Cooper.” Best withhold the fact that she was widowed for as long as possible, Julianne decided.

  “And Mr. Cooper?”

  “Is not here,” she said, satisfied that she had not told an outright lie. “If you’ll tell me who to contact, I can see that your family receives word that you are safe.”

  Julianne was riveted by the expression of abject sadness that briefly shuttered his eyes. “No need,” he replied, and turned his face away, whether because of a fresh coughing jag or because he could not bear for her to witness his pain, she could not say.

  Just then the door banged in on its hinges, admitting nine-year-old twins engaged in one of their never-ending debates. “I’m telling you that he was on the losing side,” Laura insisted. “The papers said that…”

  “Children,” Julianne interrupted, and the twins stopped in midsentence as they stared past their mother to the stranger smiling at them. “Captain Cook is feeling somewhat better, but still recovering. Please close the door and lower your voices.”

  Laura did as she was asked while Luke moved closer to Nathan. “Did you fight for the army that won or the one that lost?”

  “Luke Cooper, Junior.” Julianne knew she did not need to raise her voice. Using the boy’s full name never failed to remind him of his manners.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and took a sudden interest in looking at the tips of his wet boots.

  “Everybody loses in war, son,” Nathan said.

  It was so close to the answer that Big Luke would have given the boy, that Julianne felt her breath catch, and she was relieved to hear the creak of the wagon wheels on the frozen ground announcing Sam’s return. “Go help Mr. Foster unhitch Dusty,” she told her son, as she gently guided him toward the door where she could hear another wagon arriving. “Laura, please finish peeling these potatoes while I see who’s come calling.”

  Nathan watched the woman hurry across the room and peek through one of several small holes in the heavily oiled paper that covered the house’s only two windows.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered to herself as she straightened, they pressed her palms over the front of her apron before heading to the door.

  Under the spotless bibbed apron made of a calico material, she wore a wool dress of dark gray. It suited her in its simplicity, but seemed exceptionally austere for one so young and vibrant. With her golden hair and pale blue eyes, and cheekbones freckled and kissed by the sun, she was like a ray of sunshine in the otherwise gloomy surroundings.

  He saw her glance back at him once she’d recognized her visitors. “Everything will be fine,” she assured him in a voice intended to placate and soothe. It was almost as if she expected him to make a run for it.

  Within moments, the room was filled with cold air, as well as three women who placed prepared dishes of food on the table. They then surrendered their outer garments to the boy who hung them on pegs. An older black man hung up his hat and coat and stood near the door, as if waiting for the women to settle somewhere.

  One of the three—a tall, heavyset woman with a voice that could shatter glass—stood by the door and focused her attention on him as she spoke to the Cooper woman. “I don’t know what you could possibly have been thinking, my dear.” She clucked her tongue against uneven teeth, and the other two women sidled a little closer to her until they formed what Nathan could only view as a solid line of defense against him.

  “You take in a complete stranger, and you all alone here with these dear children?” the woman continued.

  “How did you hear of—”

  “You were not at services yesterday, and so, naturally, I told Jacob something must be wrong. I thought perhaps the children were ill, or you, yourself. Mind you, the way you insist on living out here alone like this—”

  “Sorry,” the man by the door said to Julianne. “She came straight to us, and, well…” He shrugged and Julianne nodded.

  The older woman ignored this, turning her full attention back to Nathan. “Why have you come here, young man?” she demanded, pointing one stubby finger at him.

  “I…” Nathan was not at all sure how to best answer that.

  “The man was passed out in the snow,” the black man drawled, moving fully into the room now and tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hearth. “There was a choice, that’s certain. Leave him where he dropped or take him in.”

  Nathan was speechless that a black man—an ex-slave by his accent—would speak to a white person with such sarcasm and confidence.

  “Just hush, Sam Foster. I am addressing this man here. Well?”

  Nathan was thinking a coughing fit might save him, when the Cooper woman stepped forward.

  “Captain Co
ok became disoriented during the storm, Emma,” she explained. “He, like so many who have passed our way, is on his way west, to California. Ill as he was, there was little choice but to take him in until he could be moved.”

  The woman called Emma peered more closely at Nathan. “He certainly won’t be going to California until spring—not with an early winter already upon us,” she announced. “What’s your trade, mister?”

  Nathan was speechless at the woman’s sudden shift in questioning. “I…”

  “The captain served as a chaplain during the war.”

  All eyes turned to Laura, who was adding onion to the pile of apples and chopped potatoes, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Is that right?” Emma demanded of Julianne.

  “According to his papers,” she replied.

  “Mother, a minister,” one of the other two women said, as if this were some sort of good news.

  “Hush. And from your accent, may I assume that you are Southern?”

  “Virginia, born and bred. Same as Mrs. Cooper here.” He had no idea why he’d added that, but it seemed an important point to make.

  “Well, I suppose it’s true. You had no choice but to do your Christian duty,” Mrs. Putnam said, backing away. “Sam, I am assuming that you and Glory will see that Mrs. Cooper—”

  “I’m staying in the lean-to for the duration,” Sam assured her. “You ladies can rest easy that she and the children won’t be alone,” he added.

  “Very well. But make no mistake, young man,” she added, turning her attention back to Nathan, “someone will be watching you.” She reached for her cloak as the other two women prepared to leave.

  “It’ll be all right,” Sam assured the ladies as he escorted them from the cabin.

  Nathan processed this newest bit of information as the women huddled on the stoop, communicating with Sam Foster in urgent and worried whispers. Where was the husband? He glanced at the boy and girl—twins by the looks of them. The girl kept casting him curious glances, while the boy edged his way closer to her as if to protect her should Nathan try anything.

  Outside, a horse snorted and he heard a wagon pull away, then the black man came back inside with Mrs. Cooper. He folded his arms and studied Nathan while she took the freshly peeled vegetables and added them to a pot over the fire. “Children, it’s time for you to work on your spelling,” she said, as she put away the bread and cake the women had brought.

  “Glad to see you’re feeling some better, mister, but just keep in mind that I’m right here,” the man the Putnam woman had called Sam Foster warned, as he settled himself in the lone chair close to the door.

  “Understood,” Nathan said and collapsed back onto the bed, his head spinning. Nothing about these people was making any sense. Neither Mrs. Cooper, whose protector was not her husband but this elderly man, nor the woman from town who had interrogated him and then left. Mrs. Cooper looked as fragile as a china doll, and yet left the definite impression that she could take care of herself. The one thing that he’d heard since regaining consciousness that made any sense at all was the Putnam woman’s proclamation that he was going nowhere until spring. He stared up at the makeshift canopy, constructed no doubt to protect the Coopers from bugs and such that might fall from the ceiling of the sod house as he considered his options.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “They named the town Homestead,” the girl replied, ignoring her mother’s look of warning.

  “We’re a long way from California,” Sam Foster commented, as if making an observation about the weather. “Why are you going there?”

  “My brother’s there,” Nathan replied, not yet ready to give them the whole story.

  “Well, there’s no hope that you’re going to find your way across those mountains before spring—late spring at that.” The man lit his pipe and drew on it. “I reckon you could stay with me and Mrs. Foster until you figure out your next move. That would probably be best all around.”

  “I can work, Mr. Foster,” he said, seizing this opportunity God had surely placed before him.

  “What’d you say was your trade?”

  “I was a chaplain during the war. Before the war my family owned a…” He hesitated to call his family’s land by its true name.

  “Plantation?” Foster asked.

  Nathan nodded.

  “Things are different out here,” the woman murmured. She glanced at him. “In many ways—not just farming.”

  “I can see that,” he told her, cutting his eyes from her to Foster and back again. “After all I saw these last years, it’d be a nice change.”

  “You might be thinking about helping out some around here,” Sam said. “Those windows could do with some fresh oiled paper if they’re expected to keep out the wind and cold this winter.”

  “I’d be pleased to serve in any way I can,” Nathan said. “I’m in your debt, Mrs. Cooper—and yours, Mr. Foster. After all, the two of you saved my life.”

  “Sam,” the older man said. “Just Sam, and my wife’s Glory. We’ll get you on your feet and then move you over to our place in the next day or so. Let’s see how you hold up over the next little bit. No sense in rushing this thing and you having a setback.” He sucked on his pipe. “Now, who’s gonna help me unhitch that wagon out there?” Both children scrambled to put on their coats and follow him outside.

  The silence was suddenly as thick as the smoke-filled air in the close room. The woman picked up some mending.

  “May I know your given name?” he asked.

  She seemed to consider his request for a long time. “Julianne,” she said.

  “And your husband’s?”

  “Luke,” she replied, her fingers suddenly still on the fabric. Then she looked up at him, her gaze steady. “My husband died a year ago, Captain Cook.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Nathan said—and he was, but he also couldn’t help feeling a certain comfort at the realization that in revealing this information, she had apparently decided to trust him.

  Chapter Three

  Even after Nathan had been with the Fosters for almost three weeks, it seemed that Julianne Cooper’s entire routine had been turned upside down. And she could place the blame for that squarely at the doorstep of one Nathan Cook. The man had a way of being the focus of attention whether he was present or not. Whenever Glory or Sam stopped by, their conversation was about him, and the twins were always curious to know how he was doing. And a parade of townspeople had made it their business to check in on Nathan at the Fosters, and on Julianne, as if they’d suddenly been reminded that she was managing alone now.

  On the day that Glory pronounced Nathan well enough to be moved to their farm, Emma Putnam arrived at Julianne’s house and, as usual, she was accompanied by her sister, Lucinda, and her daughter, Melanie.

  “Good,” she announced in her booming voice. “It’s high time you got the man out of here, Julianne. It’s unseemly for a woman alone—”

  “He was too ill,” Glory started to protest, but saw the futility of arguing, and pressed her lips together.

  “And, Captain Cook,” Emma said, turning her attention to him, “you may as well accept that out here on the plains, we don’t hold with any social hierarchy. The Fosters are every bit as welcome here and a part of this community as anyone else. I know you’re from the South, but—”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nathan replied. He leaned heavily on Sam as the older man helped him from the bed and into the wagon. Julianne had followed with the buffalo robe to cover him.

  “Oh, no ma’am,” he’d protested. “You’ll be needing that—you and the children.”

  “I have another, and Mr. Foster can bring this one back on his next visit,” she assured him.

  He covered her hand with his, then and peered at her from beneath a fringe of thick, black lashes. “I thank God for bringing me to your home, Miz Cooper.”

  Julianne had nodded curtly, and slid her hand from between the tw
o of his. She wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable, the fact that he’d given God the credit for his rescue, or the fact that she could still feel the warmth of his touch radiating through her fingers.

  “Come inside this instant, Julianne,” Emma called from the doorway, “before you catch your death.

  “Captain Cook is quite handsome,” Lucinda gushed, once Julianne had returned to the cabin and closed the door.

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” Emma huffed. “He’s a Southerner, and that’s cause for concern. We’ll see how he handles himself, now that he’s regaining his strength, Lucy—before we make any further assessment of the man’s positive attributes.”

  But whatever reservations Emma Putnam, or anyone else in the community of farmers and townspeople, might have had were erased entirely the first Sunday that Glory pronounced Nathan recovered enough to accompany her and Sam to church. It was the third Sunday of the month, and the circuit preacher was scheduled to hold services in the newly built schoolhouse. The children’s desks had all been pushed against the walls and replaced with rows of long wooden benches.

  The schoolyard was crowded with wagons and carriages, as farmers and townspeople gathered for the service that was as much an opportunity to socialize as it was to worship. But as the clock over the teacher’s desk ticked off the minutes and then an hour, it was apparent that the preacher would not be coming.

  “Well,” Jacob Putnam said as he stood up and moved to the lectern that served as a pulpit. “Seems we’ll have no service today, folks. Shall we—”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Sam Foster said, “but we’ve a chaplain right here. Perhaps he’d be willing to do a reading and give us a few words before we go?”

  All eyes turned to Nathan. He was still gaunt and pale, even after weeks of Glory’s cooking, but he stood up, his Bible in his hand. “I could say a few words,” he said, looking over the congregation, “if that’s agreeable with all?”

  There was a general murmur of assent and relief as Nathan made his way to the front of the room. In addition to the usual group that regularly attended services, this was the Sunday before the community’s annual harvest homecoming, and the beginning of weeks of preparations for Christmas. The room was so packed with men, women and children that it made the fire in the school’s potbelly stove almost unnecessary.