Her Montana Christmas
Her Montana Christmas
Arlene James
In denim and rawhid Roland Thorton looked every inch a stable hand. But his bloodlines ran as blue as teh Montagues, age-old enemies of the Thortons, whose palace the prince infiltrated, searching for his kidnapped half sister. Yet it was another woman whose image consumed him day…and night.Lily claimed to be a lady's maid, yet her grace rivaled any royal princess's. Initially Roland thought to use Lily to expose the Montagues' deceit. Instead, it was his guarded heart that this fair maiden broke open with her innoncence.Then he discovered he wasn't the only royal masquerading….
A Yuletide Bride
It’s time for mistletoe and merriment—for everyone except Robin Frazier. As Jasper Gulch’s centennial celebrations reach their festive conclusion, her guilt is only mounting. The shy historian is hiding something—something that will affect everyone in town. And the more time she spends with pastor Ethan Johnson, creating an old-fashioned Christmas for his church, the more she realizes what this secret is costing her. He’s just the kind of man her heart longs for, and his kind brown eyes seem to say he might feel the same. Can she take a chance this Christmas and reveal who she really is—and what her heart is longing to say?
Big Sky Centennial: A small town rich in history…and love
Join Us at the Old Beaver Creek Bridge on New Year’s Eve
as We Commemorate
One Hundred Years of History
and Usher in a New Era
for Jasper Gulch!
We never thought we’d see the day! The Shaws and the Masseys have been reunited, the time capsule has been found, and, as we celebrate the actual day of Jasper Gulch’s founding, we will be reopening the Beaver Creek Bridge. We here in Jasper Gulch couldn’t be happier, and we suspect that somewhere, Lucy Shaw is smiling down on us. She’ll be smiling even harder when she sees that Robin Frazier is keeping company with pastor Ethan Johnson. But do you want to know why? Keep turning pages and find out as Big Sky Centennial reaches its heartwarming conclusion!
* * *
Big Sky Centennial:
A small town rich in history…and love.
Her Montana Cowboy by Valerie Hansen—July 2014
His Montana Sweetheart by Ruth Logan Herne—August 2014
Her Montana Twins by Carolyne Aarsen—September 2014
His Montana Bride by Brenda Minton—October 2014
His Montana Homecoming by Jenna Mindel—November 2014
Her Montana Christmas by Arlene James—December 2014
ARLENE JAMES
says, “Camp meetings, mission work and church attendance permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity He has blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”
After thirty-three years in Texas, Arlene James now resides in Bella Vista, Arkansas, with her beloved husband. Even after seventy-five novels, her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached via her website, www.arlenejames.com (http://www.arlenejames.com).
Her Montana Christmas
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Many, Lord my God, are the wonders You have done, the things You planned for us. None can compare with You; were I to speak and tell of Your deeds, they would be too many to declare.
—Psalms 40:5
For Valerie Hansen, Ruth Logan Herne,
Carolyne Aarsen, Brenda Minton and Jenna Mindel.
Best of the best,
and I’ve been around long enough to know!
Bless you all.
DAR
Contents
Cover (#u385edb8f-ce61-56c4-8d89-bbca4b83594c)
Back Cover Text (#uc09bc4e9-dd15-508f-8ffd-768ea480f9cc)
Introduction (#u9daafa50-a9f0-5a37-abac-53d62005e6a9)
About the Author (#u4fc6214f-7869-5cd5-b044-4e5622f7f370)
Title Page (#ua8b428fd-5622-5684-839d-7814ba7e8349)
Bible Verse (#uddb07983-22c7-5cec-9225-8e224ed2084d)
Dedication (#u3f24fe37-0c9a-5404-af51-94d1d500ed01)
Chapter One (#ulink_921f45e6-9119-564e-b886-c5e97ab50166)
Chapter Two (#ulink_a69365c7-3efb-5b2a-a1ce-a87a2782ac23)
Chapter Three (#ulink_a596b680-6096-5fd1-b36e-6a6f0220d8da)
Chapter Four (#ulink_19a52cc3-b75c-5ad6-b1c4-319a93232b05)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_1d9185d2-a054-5153-8686-e74ee18a7830)
The first day of December in Jasper Gulch, Montana, sparkled like diamonds. Pastor Ethan Johnson stood in front of the small, weathered parsonage that had been his home these past five months and inhaled early-morning air sharp enough to cut his California-born lungs to shreds, but not even the cold could dim his joy in the day. The snow from November’s freakish storm had finally melted, power had been fully restored and the distinct aura of Christmas permeated the atmosphere.
Ethan was excited to celebrate his first real Christmas as the pastor of Mountainview Church of the Savior. He loved the Lord. He loved being a pastor. He loved the people here in Jasper Gulch. He loved the beauty of Montana. He even loved the church building itself.
The unorthodox log-plank structure had taken on the shape of a cross over the years. It wasn’t at all what one expected or usually pictured when thinking of a church, and yet it fit its purpose supremely well. The belfry contained two brass bells, sadly no longer in use, and four large speakers through which the recordings of bells were played daily. Ethan admired everything about the place, from its broad plank walkways, to its steep, wood-shingled roofs, perhaps because it was his first pastorate or perhaps because it truly was a special place.
The town, though small with just nine hundred or so residents, was certainly unique. Jasper Gulch had been engaged in a six-month-long celebration of its centennial, starting on the Fourth of July and ending on the last day of this year. It seemed to Ethan that the Christmas services should reflect that motif. The idea had come to him the previous night as he’d prayed over his preparations for the holidays, and he knew just where to get the information necessary to make his first Christmas in Jasper Gulch a success in keeping with the centennial theme.
Casting a last fond look at the church building, Ethan swung down into the seat of his dependable nine-year-old dark green Subaru Forester. He could walk over to the museum, but he didn’t know what he might be bringing back with him, books, papers or other media, so he drove. Already many Christmas decorations were out, thanks to Faith Shaw, the mayor’s eldest daughter.
Dale Massey, a fabulously wealthy scion of one of the town’s two founding families, had come out from New York City to participate in last month’s centennial Homecoming celebration, only to find himself stranded in Jasper Gulch by the unexpected storm. Faith, a daughter of the other founding family, the Shaws, had convinced the community’s residents to pitch together to give Dale a taste of a small-town Montana Christmas. As a result, Faith and Dale were now engaged to be married on Christmas night—and Ethan had started thinking in earnest about the true Christmas celebration to come.
Mayor Jackson Shaw seemed pleased to have his eldest daughter marry. For a time, he’d appeared determined to foster a romance between her and Ethan. Apparently, everyone in town wanted to make a match for the new pastor. Much to Ethan’s dismay, they’d thrown every eligible female within traveling distance at him. Thankfully, Shaw seemed less eager to marry off Ethan than he did his own children, for the man had gotten his way with three of the five. Ethan had found that the mayor usually did get his way, but his future son-in-law was bucking him on reopening the Beaver Creek Bridge.
From what Ethan could gather, the bridge had been closed since a Shaw relative had driven off it to her death in an automobile accident nearly ninety years earlier. Apparently, Jackson’s grandfather had promised his father that the bridge would never be reopened, and Jackson had renewed that pledge when he’d first assumed his place as mayor, an office that the Shaws had held for generations.
Other, more forward-thinking citizens pointed out that, with the bridge closed, Jasper Gulch could be accessed by only one road, but Jackson Shaw had repeatedly beaten back attempts to repair and reopen the bridge—until Dale Massey had magnanimously offered to underwrite the project on his own.
Personally, Ethan thought it a shame to let an eighty-eight-year-old tragedy dictate public policy, but he couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for Mayor Shaw. The man was trying to pull off six months of centennial celebration that had been missing its centerpiece from the beginning. On the very first weekend, the time capsule that the whole town had gathered to open had gone missing. Since then, the town had suffered several instances of vandalism and more than one cryptic note hinting that the capsule had contained a treasure and was connected with the initials L.S.
A local teenager by the name of Lilibeth Shoemaker had fallen under suspicion, but she insisted that she’d had nothing to do with the notes or the disappearance of the time capsule. Though she’d been officially exonerated, a few still harbored suspicions of her based on her initials alone, but Ethan certainly wasn’t about to judge her guilty on such flimsy evidence. Most believed that a local man named Pete Daniels was to blame because he’d suddenly left town without explanation.
The time capsule had finally turned up, opened. It contained some historical documents, photos and mementos, but nothing of any market value. Ethan doubted they’d ever know the truth about the time capsule’s contents or who had taken it, and he, for one, did not really care. He would be glad to see the centennial celebrations come to an end on New Year’s Eve with the burial of a new time capsule, the official opening of the museum and the reopening of the Beaver Creek Bridge—unless the mayor found some way to prevent the latter. Again.
After parking in front of the museum, Ethan took a moment to enjoy the new building. A few folks had complained that the structure was nothing more than a brown sheet-iron pole barn with an Old West–style front attached, complete with hitching rails, but Ethan figured that a town the size of Jasper Gulch was blessed to have a bona fide museum of any sort. He got out of the car and, finding the front door unlocked, went inside.
A wide reception area, with an unattended Y-shaped desk, branched off into two hallways. Hearing the unmistakable sound of a copy machine at work in the distance, Ethan dumped his down coat, wool muffler and gloves on the desk and walked along the left hallway toward the sound.
The slender feminine figure at the copy machine jolted him. She wasn’t Olivia Franklin McGuire, the curator, though the purple sweater and black slacks seemed vaguely familiar. The long, straight tail of wheat-colored hair, caught at her nape with a black barrette, swung between the curves of her shoulder blades as she caught the papers shooting from the end of the machine.
He put on his best pastor’s smile and said, “Excuse me.”
She whirled around, pale hair flying. Her peaked brows, several shades darker than her hair, arched high over rich blue eyes as round as marbles. He spotted a tiny flat dark mole just under the tip of her left brow, which she reached up to touch with one finger, calling attention to her perfect nose and lips the color of a dusky rose, the bottom fuller than the upper, with a little seam in the middle as if God had created it in two perfect halves and knit it together.
“Ah, yes. Robin Frazier.”
They’d met more than once. She’d been attending church semiregularly for months now, and they’d spoken on several occasions, but never more than a few passing words. She seemed a serious, studious sort, despite the youthfulness of her face. He’d first seen her at a distance and taken her for a teenager, then wondered why he didn’t see her with the other kids. Someone had finally told him that she was a graduate student visiting Jasper Gulch on some sort of project.
“Pastor Johnson,” she said, several seconds having ticked by. “Can I help you?”
He waved a hand at the papers she held. “Material for your...” He couldn’t remember exactly what her project was. “I’m sorry. Something to do with genealogy, isn’t it?”
She stared at the papers in her hand as if resigning herself to speaking to him. Then her deep blue eyes met his, and a funny thing happened inside his chest. At the same time, she spoke.
“This has to do with the centennial. I’ve been hired to help out here at the museum.”
Since he’d moved to Jasper Gulch, all the eligible females in town had cast lures of one sort or another in Ethan’s direction, but this one seemed reticent, almost wary of him. He should have felt relieved about that. Instead, he felt...disappointed, even a bit irritated, though God knew he wasn’t in the market for a wife.
“Really?” He put on a smile. “That’s great. I hope it means you’ll be joining the church.”
She just looked at him without answer for several heartbeats before asking again, “Can I help you with something?”
“It’s about Christmas,” he said, not at all put off. He was used to people stonewalling, hedging, even outright prevarication when it came to the subject of church attendance. He took his openings when, where and how he found them and left the results to the Lord. “I’m hoping to have a historical kind of Christmas this year. You know, sort of do my part for the centennial. The thing is, being from California and fairly new to the area, I have no real idea what Christmas might have been like around here a hundred years ago.”
“Well,” she said, “let’s see what information we can find for you then.”
Ethan grinned. It looked as if he had come to the right place. And maybe, when all was said and done, he’d find himself with a new congregant, as well.
* * *
Robin didn’t know why the young pastor set her on edge, but he had from the first moment that she’d met him almost five months ago now. He wasn’t just handsome; he was a nice man, almost too nice. Something about him made a person want to confide in him, even when he wasn’t wearing his clerical collar, like now, or maybe it was just that she wanted to confide in someone.
She hated being in Jasper Gulch under false pretenses, and the longer it went on, the worse she felt, but she dared not truthfully identify herself at this late date. Too much had happened. She couldn’t step forward now and tell the truth without raising everyone’s suspicions about her motives. After everything that had gone on—the theft of the time capsule, the vandalism and mysterious notes, the investigation and the disappearance of Pete Daniels, the sudden reappearance of the time capsule and all the mysteries that she and Olivia had uncovered about the past, not to mention the secrets that Robin alone knew—everyone would think that she was after something. It didn’t help that a member of the extremely wealthy Massey family had shown up on the scene, either. Connections to wealth, as Robin knew all too well, inspired a certain type of grasping, clinging hanger-on.
Sometimes Robin thought it would be best if she just left town as quietly as she’d arrived in July, but she couldn’t quite make herself go. Not yet. And go back to what? Her parents and grandparents had never disguised their disappointment in her. With her great-grandmother Lillian dead, she couldn’t find much reason to go back to New Mexico, and Great-Grandma Lillian had known it would be that way, too. Why else on her deathbed would she have urged Robin to come here and find what other family she might have left?
“So the church was here even before the town was officially founded,” the pastor said, laying aside the newspaper article she’d printed off for him. “Interesting. I wonder if any of the original building still stands.”
Pulled from her reverie, Robin shrugged. “Apparently there were several homes and a small log church in the area when Ezra Shaw and Silas Massey decided to formally incorporate the town and draw up a charter. I’m sure I can find something about the church building, given enough time.”
“I’d appreciate that, even though it’s mostly curiosity on my part,” Pastor Johnson told her, smiling warmly. “I’m most interested in the vestibule and the belfry.”
“The rock part at the front of the church?”
“Exactly. Did you know there are actual bells up there in the belfry?”
“You mean they’re not just for show?”
He shook his head. “I have to wonder why we never use perfectly good bells. I mean, recorded bells are fine for every day, but what a treat it would be to pull the ropes on real bells once in a while. I wonder why the church stopped using them.”
“That is a puzzle. I can look into it, if you like.”
“I’d love to know, but I hate to put you to any extra trouble.”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind. I like solving puzzles.”
He would understand that about her if he knew what mysteries had brought her here to Jasper Gulch, but then perhaps it was best that no one here knew.
Her plan had seemed so simple in the beginning. Come to town under the guise of a graduate student doing research for a thesis on genealogy. Find proof to support her claims. Show the proof. Be greeted warmly by family who previously hadn’t known she existed.
Five months into the project, she now realized that her proof wasn’t likely to be any more welcome than she would be, that her motives could easily be questioned and that she could well come off looking like a schemer and a liar. She bitterly regretted the route she’d taken to this point. She had feared being jeered at in the beginning, but at least she could have conducted her research in the open, then once the proof had been found, all would have been well. Now...now people trusted her, people to whom she must reveal herself as a liar. What a fool she had been.
“I appreciate any information you can give me,” Pastor Johnson told Robin forthrightly, again breaking into her troubled thoughts.
He had the kindest brown eyes and the most open, engaging smile she’d ever seen. Everything about him exuded warmth, even on this first day of December. His California origin showed in the burnished brown of his short, neat hair and bronzed skin. In fact, Robin could easily picture him walking barefoot in the surf with his sleeves and pant legs rolled up, the tail of his chambray shirt pulled free of the waistband of his jeans. He looked younger without his ministerial collar, almost boyish, despite the faint crinkles that fanned out from the corners of his deep-set eyes. Something about the way his long, straight nose flattened at the end intrigued her, as did the manner in which his squared chin added a certain strength to his face.
“What?” he asked, his lips widening to show a great many strong, white teeth.
She shook her head, embarrassed to have been caught staring. “I, um, I’ll see what I can find and get back to you.”
“Excellent. Can I give you my personal cell number, as well as the numbers at the church and the parsonage? That way you’re bound to reach me.”
“Oh, of course. That would be fine.” She pulled out her phone and tapped in the numbers as he gave them to her. When she looked up again, he had his own phone in his hand.
“Mind if I take your numbers, too? In case I have any questions?”
Robin was aware of her heart speeding up, which was ridiculous. He was a minister, a man of God. He wasn’t hitting on her. In fact, he probably intended to call and invite her to join the church again. She wouldn’t mind if he did. She just didn’t know if she could do that; she might not be staying in Jasper Gulch for much longer.
“Uh, sure.” She gave him her cell number, though mobile coverage was not the best here, as well as the numbers at the museum and her residence, such as it was. He saved them to his contacts list before pocketing the tiny phone again.
“There now,” he said. “I have a lead on the information I need to make this a grand centennial Christmas, I’ve found a kindred spirit to help me solve a puzzle and I’ve got the phone number of one of the prettiest ladies in town. That’s what I call an excellent morning’s work.” He turned a full circle, walking backward a step or two, as he headed for the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
He was out of sight and halfway down the hall before Robin’s own laughter caught up with her, and her heartbeat still hadn’t slowed one iota. It had, in fact, sped up! Perhaps that was why she called him later when she stumbled across information concerning the church bells.
A tidbit in the local newspaper from early 1925 had reported that the bells had been deemed unsafe due to problems with the crosspiece in the belfry and would “henceforth be silenced to prevent any startling and calamitous accidents.” The reporter had gone on to quote a deacon as insisting that rumors suggesting this decision had to do with the “decampment of Silas Massey and his wife” were “scurrilous and mean-spirited,” which led Robin to wonder aloud if the aforementioned rumors had anything to do with the bank failure.
“Bank failure?” Ethan echoed.
Robin mentally cringed. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want you to think I was gossiping. Speculation is part and parcel of historical research, I’m afraid. It’s just that we’ve uncovered evidence of some trouble at the bank founded by the Shaws and the Masseys here in Jasper Gulch. The timeline says everything’s connected. First, the Masseys pulled out. Then the rumors started flying about the bank being insolvent. Right after that, the bells were determined to be unsafe, with a deacon at the church insisting that the decision had nothing to do with the Masseys leaving town. It seems as if Ezra Shaw was quoted in every edition of the newspaper around that time saying that the bank was solvent and all was fine, but when the crash came in ’32, it failed spectacularly and was reported to be woefully undercapitalized. Shaw was quoted as saying that for him it was just a long nightmare come to an end but that he felt badly for his neighbors and depositors, whom he promised to help as much as he was able. It just seems logical that Massey had something to do with the whole situation.”
“So you’re saying that Silas Massey either forced Ezra Shaw to buy him out, which caused the bank to be undercapitalized, or he stole—”
“I’m just telling you what we’ve uncovered,” Robin interrupted smoothly.
“However it came about,” Ethan said, “there were bound to be some hard feelings. I think it’s worth looking into to see if the bells might have been a gift to the church from the Masseys.” He added that he was going to dig into some old file cabinets tucked into a closet in a back room. “I might find something of interest to the museum.”
Robin remembered that, and the next day when she found a website that showed details, as well as written instructions, for re-creating exactly the sort of decorations the pastor would need to provide a centennial-style Christmas for his congregation, she decided to print off photos and drive over to the church with them on her lunch hour. She and Olivia had their hands full getting the displays at the museum ready for viewing, but Olivia’s husband, Jack, had come into town from his ranch on an errand, so the two of them were having an early lunch together, and that gave Robin a bit of free time.
She parked right in front of the church, grabbed the file folder in which she’d stashed the printouts and hopped out of her metallic-blue hybrid coupe. Stepping up on the plank walkway, she hurried to the white-painted front door of the church. It swung open easily. She walked into the cool, strangely silent vestibule and let her eyes adjust from the bright sunlight.
The vestibule usually rang with noise and always seemed dark, despite the twin brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Not today, however. Today, a shaft of light illuminated the very center of the wide space, along with the slender metal ladder that descended from the belfry. She looked up to find an open trapdoor in the vestibule ceiling.
“Pastor?” she called, amazed at the way her voice carried in the empty room.
“Put your hands over your ears,” he called down to her.
“What?”
“Put your hands over your ears!”
“O-okay.” She tucked the file folder under one arm and clapped her gloved hands over her ears. About two seconds later, a deep, melodious bong tolled through the rock vestibule. The force of the sound made her sway on her feet. She laughed, even as she warned, “You’ll shatter the vases in here if you keep that up!”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”
It was, really, like standing inside a gigantic bell.
“Come up here and see,” he urged.
Glancing around, she laid the folder on the credenza that sat against one wall and tugged off her mittens, tucking them into the pockets of her heavy wool coat, but then she hesitated.
“Robin,” he said, just before his face appeared in the open trapdoor above, “come on up. It’s perfectly safe.” He wore a knit cap and scarf with his coat.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked, moving toward the ladder.
“I recognized your voice, of course.”
“Ah.”
He reached down a gloved hand as she put a foot on the bottom rung of the wrought iron ladder.
“How does this thing work?”
“It’s very simple. There’s a tall pole with a hook on one end. I used it to slide open the trap and then to pull down the ladder. When I’m done, I’ll use it to push the ladder back up and lift it over the locking mechanism then slide the trap closed.”
“I see.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” he told her, grasping her hand and all but lifting her up the last few rungs to stand next to him on a narrow metal platform fixed to one side of the tiny square open-sided belfry. In their bulky coats, they had to stand pressed shoulder to shoulder. “Take a look at this.” He swung his arm wide, encompassing the town, the valley beyond and the snowcapped mountains surrounding it all.
“Wow.”
“Exactly,” he said. “There’s a part of Psalm 98 that says, ‘Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy...’ Seeing the view like this, you can almost feel it, can’t you? The rivers and mountains praising their creator.”
“I never thought of rivers and mountains praising God,” she admitted.
“Scripture speaks many times of nature praising God and testifying to His wonders.”
“I can see why,” she said reverently.
“So can I,” he told her, smiling down at her with those warm brown eyes on her face.
Her breath caught in her throat. But she was reading too much into that look. Surely she was reading too much into it. That wasn’t appreciation she saw in his gaze. That was just her loneliness seeking connection. Wasn’t it? Though she had never felt this sudden, electrical link before, not like this, as if something vital and masculine in him reached out and touched something fundamental and feminine in her, she had to be mistaken.
He was a man of God after all.
Even if she couldn’t help thinking of him as just a man.
A shadow seemed to pass behind his brown eyes, as if he’d read her thoughts, and he turned his gaze back to the mountains, visually drinking in snowcapped peaks set against the bright blue sky and the sunshine.
After only a moment, he smiled at her, his genial self again.
Yet Robin felt a distinct chill that she hadn’t felt an instant before, a chill that even winter could not explain.
Chapter Two (#ulink_af03cd00-c2a3-596c-bfc7-0c13e404c02b)
In an effort to hide her disturbing reaction to Ethan’s closeness, Robin turned away from the magnificent sight outside the belfry, leaned back lightly against the hip-high wall and gazed instead at the two bells attached to the crossbeam in front of her. Each of the bells was about as big around as Ethan was, but one was deeper than the other. He stretched out a foot and gave the nearest bell a gentle shove. It rocked to and fro, giving off a delightful peal that, while loud, did not threaten to burst Robin’s eardrums or move her bodily, as it had down below. The crossbeam remained steadfast. Had it ever been unsound, it was not now.
Suddenly, the noontime recording played, a trilling carillon, one of several that played every three hours from 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. daily. It was neither as loud as the sound had been in the chamber below the belfry, nor as rich.
“I did a little research after you called,” he told her when the recording stopped. “I was able to find records proving that Silas Massey and his wife not only gave these bells to the church, they had the vestibule and belfry built to accommodate them.”
“The rumors that the bells were silenced in resentment after the Masseys left town were apparently true, then,” Robin said, frowning, “but why? Do you suppose it really did have something to do with problems at the bank?”
Ethan shrugged. “All I know is that it’s time for these bells to ring again. I’m going to attach some ropes and prepare to use them. Wouldn’t it be great to ring these bells for Christmas?”
Robin looked around the small, dusty space. Only the ledge where they stood was wide enough to work from, but he couldn’t reach the arm at the top of each bell, where the rope obviously attached, from here. He’d have to crawl along the crosspiece to fix the ropes in place. Meanwhile, the speakers in their wire protective cages sat tucked securely into all four corners, with the recorder that played the bell music presumably housed somewhere safely below.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “I love hearing the recorded bells.”
“So do I,” Ethan admitted, “and we’ll still use the recordings for everyday, but for special occasions, we’ll have the real bells.”
“Real bells would be special,” Robin admitted, warily eyeing that crossbeam and the trapdoor open beneath it.
“I’ll need your help,” he suddenly declared.
“My help?” Her gaze shot to his. “Oh, Pastor, I don’t know.”
“If you help me,” he said, “I can attach the ropes with the trap closed. I’m sure there must be a way to safely close the trap from up here, but I haven’t figured it out.”
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her chest in relief. “In that case, then yes, I certainly will help you.”
“Excellent.” He smiled broadly. “Then I won’t have to explain about the bells to anyone else. Don’t want to start any Massey gossip now that Dale’s in town, do we? Not that there’s ever a good time to start gossip.”
Robin nodded. “I see what you mean.”
“I thought you would. Besides, I want this to be a surprise for the congregation. Hopefully, the townsfolk will think any extra bongs they hear around the regular bell times are part of the recordings, so they’ll be surprised when I toll the bells for Christmas services,” he went on. Then he tugged at his earlobe. “I must think of a way to repay you for all your help.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, shaking her head. “Although...”
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. It was so nice to have someone to talk to. Olivia had become a good friend, but Robin didn’t dare trust any of the Jasper Gulch natives with her story. The pastor was an outsider like her, though. Perhaps she should tell him what had brought her to Jasper Gulch and seek his advice on what to do next. On the other hand, what would he think of her once he learned of her duplicity?
“I, um, appreciate you showing me the view from up here,” she went on carefully, deciding not to risk it. “It is truly spectacular.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,” he told her, moving to the ladder, “but that can’t be what brought you by this morning.”
“No, of course not. I have some photos for you, photos of Christmas decorations from 1913, ’14 and ’15, a couple from right here in Jasper Gulch. That will give us a good idea of what materials to use, and I also have some websites where we can find instructions on how to replicate the designs.”
“We?” he echoed, smiling. “Are you volunteering to help?”
“I’m not a florist or decorator,” she hedged. “All I’m trained to do is research.”
He grinned and said, “An invaluable help. So what are we waiting for? I’m eager to see what you’ve brought me.”
She watched him disappear through the trapdoor. Only as she stood alone on the tiny platform did she realize how very cold it was up there in the belfry. Even with her coat and scarf on over her slacks and sweater, she shivered, until he called up to her, his voice expanding in the rock room below.
“By the way, I think it’s time you started calling me Ethan. Don’t you? Lots of the people in town do.”
Suddenly she felt warm all over. Would he dare suggest such a thing if he knew that, like all the other unattached women in town, she was quickly forming a crush on the pastor with the warm brown eyes?
* * *
Ethan really liked Robin Frazier. He liked her a lot. She had the charming and rare habit of thinking before she spoke. When he’d heard her voice in the vestibule, his heart had rejoiced, for he’d thought of her as he’d gazed out over God’s magnificent creation. He’d wished, quite unaccountably, that he could share the vision with her. To have her suddenly appear like that had seemed an answer to a prayer he hadn’t dared utter. Or was it?
Ethan had long ago accepted that he would not marry. When he’d taken the pastorate in Jasper Gulch, he’d assumed that the opportunities to marry or even date would be few, but then the matchmaking had begun. Aghast, he’d done his best to hide his disquiet with the situation. Often, he’d felt pursued since coming here and had wished mightily to be left in peace. Still, as those around him had paired off—why, one of the centennial functions had been a wedding ceremony for fifty couples!—he’d felt more and more alone, and he wasn’t sure why that should be so. Since the death of his girlfriend, Theresa, he’d had a difficult time even forming friendships with women, let alone romantic attachments.
Until Robin Frazier. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d found a friend, but it was foolish to even think that he’d found anything more in her. He hardly even knew her! More to the point, she hardly knew him, and if she did, she would almost certainly be appalled. That was one reason he chose not to wear his clerical collar outside the pulpit or when not on official church business. While ignorant of the details, people needed to know that their pastor was a man like any other. In this case, many might find his failings difficult to forgive.
When Ethan had taken over this post, the former pastor had advised that Ethan give himself plenty of time to get established within the community before deciding to share the tragedies and failures of his past. Sometimes Ethan wished he still had Pastor Peters to talk to, but after his retirement Peters had moved to Colorado to be near his daughter and grandchildren, and Ethan didn’t feel comfortable imposing on their short acquaintance with chatty telephone calls. As his own family barely spoke to him and his few friends from seminary were all married and busy, Ethan sometimes felt quite alone.
Oh, he’d made friends in Jasper Gulch, but he hadn’t found anyone in whom he felt he could confide. What made him think that Robin could be that person? he wondered as Robin crawled gingerly down the ladder.
Quite without meaning to, he found himself guiding her to the bottom, his arms bracketing her slender body, his gloved hands gripping the narrow side rails until her feet safely touched down on the stone floor. Backing away so that she could turn and face him proved surprisingly difficult, which he covered by sweeping off his cap and stuffing it into a coat pocket.
“Let’s get the belfry closed so it’ll warm up in here.”
Grabbing a long pole with two odd hooks on the end, he pushed up the ladder, locked it in place and slid the trapdoor closed.
“That looked easy enough to do,” Robin commented.
Ethan nodded as he returned the pole to its corner. It fit snugly into a pair of holders bolted into the rock.
“There’s just one thing,” she went on, staring up at the closed trapdoor in the rock ceiling. “Where do the ropes come down?”
He lifted a finger and led the way to what had been a deep shelving unit set off to one side of the vestibule. Its twin space on the opposite wall made a tidy coat closet.
“I always thought this was a strange sort of cupboard, recessed as it was with shelves as deep as my arm. When I removed the contents, I found another space with the pulleys and ropes. The ropes themselves are no good, but the wall fittings are all fine. I’ve already ordered the right type and size of ropes, and they should be here in a week or so.
“I should be able to attach them to the bells. Then all we have to do is hope the bells aren’t too badly out of tune to make a pleasant noise for Christmas.”
“I didn’t know bells could be out of tune.”
“Apparently they can, but I think that’s when there are several bells involved.”
She looked up at the ceiling. “Those two sounded fine to me.”
“Do you have musical training?” he asked.
Her clear blue eyes met his, and she touched the mole beneath her eyebrow before calmly saying, “Not much. I sang in glee club in high school and college.”
Glee club. He couldn’t help thinking that many pastors’ wives often had service callings of their own: music, teaching, women’s or children’s ministry, chaplaincy, even a pastorate of one form or another. He told himself not to be an idiot. All he needed from her was help getting the bells roped and the church decorated.
“I’ll let you know when the ropes get here, and we’ll set up a time to attach them,” he said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“A plan that needs a lot of prayer if it’s to succeed,” he added with a chortle. “Now, about those pictures you brought with you...”
She went to the credenza that stood against the wall and opened a file folder, spreading out several sheets of paper. Ethan hurried over to take a look. As he studied the pictures she’d brought, he casually unbuttoned his coat.
One photo showed the inside of an unnamed couple’s cabin where a small, spindly evergreen tree had been decorated with berries, beads and bits of broken glass. Another showed the front railings of a porch swathed in evergreen boughs. An arrangement of candles and mistletoe on a fireplace mantel with an open Bible and a Christmas postcard was the focus of a third black-and-white photograph.
The final offering had been shot right there in front of the church. It showed the pastor and two others in white smocks with big bows on them, presumably red, and the entire cast of a pageant, including two real sheep, a donkey and, oddly enough, a chicken. Most of the actors were garbed in blankets with lopsided halos and crowns, wings and sashes askew. Most wore cowboy boots beneath their tunics, and one mulish youngster sported his cowboy hat, too, and had a rope slung over one shoulder, despite the shepherd’s crook in the other hand. The youngest children all carried chrismon patterns—simple symbols of the Christian faith, such as the shape of a shepherd’s crook, dove, Bethlehem star or trumpeting angel. Ethan had to smile.
“Now, that’s a congregation to keep a pastor on his knees.”
“It looks like fun, though, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Just look at the smile on the pastor’s face.”
“I wonder what part the chicken played.”
They both laughed over that. Ethan squinted at the tiny type beneath the photo.
“Those are readers in those smocks. They probably read the Christmas story out of the Bible, and the cast acted it out.”
“Makes sense.”
“We could do something like that,” Ethan mused. “That way no one would have to memorize lines.”
“I thought you might like to have these, too,” she said, offering him several more papers.
“Chrismon patterns.”
“They’d be very simple to make out of fabric. And you might want this.”
The final sheet contained a list of websites where he could order modern versions of antique Christmas bulbs.
“I think you can find everything else you need out there,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the great outdoors. “The various types of greenery have different meanings, you see, and the locals would have been aware of that back then.”
“Robin Frazier, you are a gem beyond price. I don’t have internet access here, but I can find it. Now, I have just two more questions for you.”
“And they are?” she asked cautiously, narrowing her lovely blue eyes at him.
“First, will you serve on the decorating committee?”
She blinked. “Pastor—”
“Ethan,” he corrected automatically.
“Ethan,” she began again, “I’m not even a member of the church.”
“But you are the resident expert on historical Christmas decorations. Or as near as we can come to one.”
She bowed her head, smiling. “I see. All right. In that case, of course I’ll help out. Just do remember that I have a full-time job.”
“Of course. Which leads me to my second question.”
“And that is?”
“Are you free on Saturday for gathering greenery?”
“This Saturday?”
“It’s December 2, Miss Frazier. I’d like to schedule a Hanging of the Green service for a week from tomorrow. We have no time to lose, and you know exactly what sort of greenery people would have gathered a hundred years ago.”
She looked around the vestibule before glancing at him once more and nodding.
“Saturday would be fine.”
“I’ll pick you up about 9:00 a.m., then. If you’ll just tell me where you live.”
“Oh.” Smiling, she lifted a finely boned hand to press a fingertip to that exquisite little mole beneath her eyebrow. “That would help, wouldn’t it? I’ve taken a kitchenette at Fidler’s Inn. Room six, on the ground floor.”
“Room six,” he repeated. “Um, if you have hiking boots, you might want to wear them.”
“I can do that.”
“And jeans probably wouldn’t hurt.”
“I can do that, too.”
“Okay, then.”
She nodded, and they stood there smiling at each other until she suddenly said, “Well, I’d better grab something to eat and get back to work.”
“Sure, sure.” He cleared his throat, nodding. “Thanks so much for dropping by.”
“Thanks for showing me your view.”
“Anytime.” She started toward the outer door, reaching into her pocket for her gloves, but he called her back. “Uh, Robin. The bell thing. I’ve told some others that I’m cleaning up the area and doing some research, but I’d really like to keep my plans quiet until Christmas Eve,” he reminded her.
“That’s fine,” she told him. “Whatever you want.”
Grinning, he couldn’t resist ribbing her a little. “Whatever I want, eh?”
“Within reason,” she retorted through a smile.
“I’m a very reasonable man,” he said, straight-faced.
“What you are, Pastor Ethan Johnson,” she said, shaking a dainty finger at him, “is a tease.”
“Maybe a little bit,” he admitted, smiling, “at least with you. It’s just that you’re so very serious. Sweet but serious.” And he should learn to keep his mouth shut. Her blue gaze clouded and skidded away.
Long seconds ticked by before she said, “I have to go.”
He followed her to the door, wondering if he shouldn’t enlist someone else to help gather the greenery and knowing he wouldn’t. “Goodbye, Robin.”
“Goodbye, Ethan,” she whispered. He’d have missed it if the acoustics in the room hadn’t been so extraordinary.
She pushed out into the December sunshine. He followed, calling after her as her footsteps fell swiftly across the plank walkway, “Nine o’clock, Saturday. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
He watched her walk away, wondering if God was telling him that the past could finally be put away once and for all. Or had he come to Jasper Gulch to make another hideous mistake?
* * *
Robin did not next see Ethan Johnson on Saturday as she assumed she would; she saw him on Thursday evening. He called that day to say that he’d put together a committee to plan, design and construct decorations for the church, but because the ladies felt they hadn’t a minute to lose, they wanted to meet that night. What could she say, that she’d rather not see him again so soon because she found him entirely too attractive for her peace of mind? Of course, she said that she would attend the meeting, and then she prayed for some way to get out of it.
While she was mentally sorting through excuses, her landlady, Mamie Fidler, stopped by her room to say that she was on the committee, too, and going to the meeting.
“Might as well head over there together. No sense in both of us burning gasoline.”
Sixtyish, single and no-nonsense, Mamie Fidler wore hiking boots, denim skirts and flannel shirts year-round everywhere she went, even to church. She had “decorated” the Fidler Inn with utilitarian hominess, so Robin was somewhat surprised that Ethan had recruited her for the committee. On the other hand, Mamie was handy with all sorts of tools, including fishing poles and skinning knives, and she was brutally efficient.
“I’ll drive,” Robin volunteered.
“I’ll get my gear. You got a slicker?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Too bad,” Mamie opined, shaking her head.
That was how Robin found herself rushing through a light but wet snowfall in twenty-degree weather over a boardwalk dusted with a mixture of rock salt and sand toward a rectangle of light in the darkness. The door in the education wing of the building opened well before they reached it, and Ethan rushed out, armed with an umbrella. Mamie, covered head to ankle in a shapeless water-repellent poncho, plowed ahead, disappearing into the hallway.
“I’m so sorry,” Ethan told Robin, shaking off the umbrella before collapsing it and pulling it in behind them so he could close the door. “The skies were gray earlier, but the weather forecast didn’t call for snow.”
“The weather bureau should consult Mamie.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I find it wise to consult Mamie on a lot of things, like where’s the best place to find the greenery we’ll need and how to keep it from drying out too badly before Christmas comes.”
Ah. Now things were making sense. “You’re a wise man.”
He laughed. “Maintain that thought, will you?” Placing his warm hand at the small of her back, he applied light pressure, saying softly, “Come along and meet the others, but be forewarned. Some here are used to taking charge in every situation. In this, however, you are our guide. Understand?”
She nodded absently. Even through the thickness of her coat, his touch unsettled her, so she set about nonchalantly peeling off the outer garment as they walked through the corridor to the meeting room. As soon as they reached their destination, he offered to take her things and stow them on a table with everyone else’s. Familiar faces turned from a second table set with muffins and a Crock-Pot of apple cider.
In addition to Mamie Fidler, Robin recognized Allison Douglas, Rosemary Middleton and her daughter, Marie, Abigail Rose and Nadine Shaw, the mayor’s wife. Everyone greeted Robin and invited her to partake of the muffins, provided by Rosemary, who ran the local grocery along with her husband, and cider, which Allison had brought. Marie Middleton would be of great use, being a florist. Nadine’s inclusion made sense because her eldest daughter, Faith, was marrying Dale Massey on Christmas night, so the decorations would be of special interest to her, but Robin couldn’t help feeling nervous around any of the Shaws, the mayor and his wife in particular.
Robin made a point of sitting at the opposite end of the conference table from Nadine, and unless it was her imagination, Ethan made a point of sitting next to her. Everyone else seemed to think so, too, though Abigail was the only one who gave an overt sign, raising both eyebrows. The others merely traded casual glances, all except Mamie, but Robin knew her landlady well enough by now not to mistake the twinkle in her golden eyes.
Ethan’s attention was explained when he raised his head from the opening prayer and said, “Now, then, ladies, thanks to Robin, you have before you copies of photos of Christmas decorations from one hundred years ago.” He went on to say that she had agreed to act as their historical consultant on this project. That won her smiles from the others, and she relaxed somewhat. “Robin,” he concluded firmly, “will have the final say on all designs.”
Soon they were all deep in conversation about swags, garlands and wreaths, as well as the past tendency to attach meanings to certain types of greenery. Marie started sketching, and Mamie set about estimating the necessary foot length of boughs that would be needed. Before long they had a design and a plan. Nadine divided up the responsibilities, and everyone went along without protest until she came to gathering the greenery itself.
“We’ll take care of that on the Shaw Ranch.”
“Uh, no, we have that covered already,” Ethan said.
“But—”
“The McGuire Ranch has more of what we need,” Mamie stated bluntly.
“You have enough to worry about,” Allison pointed out, “with the wedding and all.”
“Robin and I will take care of the greenery,” Ethan insisted, looping an arm around the back of Robin’s chair.
Just like that, every eye riveted to the pair of them again, and just like that, Robin’s breath caught in her throat.
“We, um, want to leave you and Marie free to concentrate on the wedding,” she offered with a wan smile.
“And I need Robin’s expertise on the specific meanings of the various types of greenery,” Ethan said. The speculation in the eyes around the table did not dim one iota, however.
“Who would really know the difference these days?” Nadine asked.
“I would,” he answered firmly, and that was the end of it.
Robin wondered if Ethan realized that he had just made them the object of conjecture and gossip. Surely he wouldn’t want that, especially if he ever found out why she’d really come to town. A pastor wouldn’t want to be linked to a woman who had come here under false pretenses to meet the family who didn’t even know she existed.
Then again, perhaps she had misjudged him entirely and he would be all too glad for a connection, any connection, no matter how distant, to the first family of Jasper Gulch—that was, if the Shaws didn’t toss her out on her ear the instant they discovered the truth about her great-grandmother Lillian.
Or rather, Lucy.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8a10bb5e-08b1-570f-b3ee-b9a0b320a0e2)
It occurred to Ethan, belatedly, that the speculation about him and Robin Frazier could serve a purpose. He hadn’t meant to suggest that a romance might be brewing between then, but the presence of a possible love interest could provide him with a shield against unwanted attention. Perhaps, if everyone thought his own interest to be fixed, he could relax, at least for a little while, instead of being on constant alert for lures being cast his way.
The thought buoyed the young pastor so much that within hours the next morning, he had women sewing chrismon symbols out of white fabric and nearly a dozen children lined up for parts in the Christmas pageant to be performed on Christmas Eve. Moreover, he was busy writing a script, dependent largely on scripture, for the reading, which he proposed to do with one man and two women.
He was surprised by how quickly the whole program began to take shape in his mind. He didn’t imagine that Christmas-pageant costuming had actually changed much across the centuries since the time of Christ, but he wanted to copy what had been used in Jasper Gulch one hundred years ago, and he would require Robin’s help to ensure accuracy. Before even that, however, he suddenly found himself in need of some expert advice on historical Hanging of the Green services.
It was an old tradition of mostly European origin, and he’d been through several of them, but he wanted this year’s service to be as authentic as possible as one that might have taken place a hundred years ago in Jasper Gulch. So off to the museum he went on Friday. He stopped off at the diner and picked up a sandwich on the way, arriving close to the lunch hour. Leaving the half-eaten sandwich in the cold car, he went in to find Robin and Olivia sharing brown-bagged meals in the break room.
“Ethan!” Olivia greeted him, smiling broadly over the rim of a steaming cup of soup. Like Robin, she didn’t look much older than a teen, with her petite stature, blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. She’d married Jack McGuire in October at the centennial’s Old Tyme Wedding, to no one’s real surprise. The two had a well-known history that had made them an item from the moment Olivia had stepped foot back into town after an absence of several years. “Jack tells me that you’re coming out Saturday to raid the place for greenery.”
He shot a glance at Robin, who sat staring at a prepackaged potpie on which she’d barely broken the crust. “Yes. Um, Mamie Fidler judges that the McGuire Ranch has the greatest variety of greenery hereabouts.”
“She’s right,” Olivia said, stirring her soup. “There’s cedar, which symbolizes royalty, fir and pine for everlasting life, holly, which represents the ultimate mission of Christ on the cross, and ivy, a symbol of resurrection. All would have been well known, I imagine, to anyone halfway versed in the traditions of the church a hundred years ago.”
“More so than today, it would seem,” Ethan muttered.
“Don’t forget the bells,” Robin put in. “Bells to signify the birth of royalty.”
Ethan shared a conspiratorial smile with her as Olivia said, “And I thought jingle bells were just for fun.”
He cleared his throat and mused, “Obviously, you two have already done excellent research.” He looked to Robin then and added, “I don’t suppose we could find an order of service or program for the Hanging of the Green ceremony, could we?”
She didn’t even have to think it over. “From a hundred years ago? Doubtful. If such a thing exists, it would be in your files.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing there. At least not that I can find.”
“We might find something online from another church in another part of the country, if that will be of help to you.”
“I suppose it’ll have to do. I did think of it, but surfing the internet on my cell phone is not very handy.”
“I’ll take a look for you,” Robin said, starting to rise.
Ethan waved her back down into her chair. “Finish your lunch first. It can wait.”
“Maybe you’d like to join us,” Olivia offered. “I could heat you a cup of soup in the microwave.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “if you’re sure. I just happen to have a sandwich in the car.” With the temperature hovering just above freezing, he’d judged that the sandwich would be as safe in his car as in a refrigerator.
“Your soup will be ready when you return,” Robin promised, getting to her feet, “and my pie should be cool enough to eat by then, too.”
“In that case, I’ll be glad to join you,” he told her, setting off.
He caught the speculative look that Olivia sent Robin as he slipped back out into the hallway. He felt a pang of guilt about that, but that was how it went in a small town, or so he told himself.
* * *
Strangely, while Ethan was at the museum sharing lunch with her and Olivia in the break room, Robin looked forward to Saturday’s outing with him. Later, as he sat at her shoulder while she searched the internet for historically accurate Hanging of the Green services, she couldn’t help being intensely aware of his every breath, murmur and movement with a kind of joyous expectation. Later, they surfed the web looking for and ordering delicate, period-appropriate glass bulbs and electric candles, as real ones would be too dangerous to use. Only after he went on his way, leaving her to her usual work, did she begin to have serious doubts about keeping company with him.
Perhaps the speculative looks that Olivia slid her way when she thought Robin wasn’t looking were to blame. Or maybe it was realizing how much she was coming to enjoy the pastor’s easy company. The phone call that she received as she was letting herself into her room at the Fidler Inn that evening certainly didn’t help.
“Hello,” she said, juggling her things. “One minute, please.”
“Robin?”
The sound of her mother’s voice instantly made the industrial carpet seem a more dull shade of brown than usual, and the creamy faux chinking between the faux logs on the walls suddenly became a rather uninspiring tan.
“Robin, is that you?”
“Yes, of course, Mother. Who else would it be?”
Her kitchen, which consisted of a six-foot length of brown cabinet that held a two-burner stovetop, a tiny microwave, minifridge, bar sink and four-cup coffeemaker, had been entirely adequate before; yet now she saw it as ridiculously lacking, even for a single woman whose main meals were prepackaged and microwaved.
“Well, it could be anyone, for all I know,” Sheila Frazier complained. “It’s been days since we last spoke, and you might have moved out of that dreadful motel by now.”
Strange. Ethan had recognized her voice after a single chance meeting. Well, perhaps more than one. But shouldn’t her own mother be able to recognize her voice? And how did Sheila know what the inn was like? She’d never been here. Still, the comfy patchwork quilt on the bed suddenly seemed faded and old, and the unstained woodwork that had struck Robin as so fresh when she’d first come to stay at the Fidler Inn now appeared unfinished, incomplete.
Dropping her handbag on the bed, Robin stared at the little square dining table—which bore no resemblance to the pair of chairs that flanked it—and steeled herself for the conversation to come, her mood shifting just as her surroundings had.
Sighing, she asked, “What is it, Mother?”
“I thought you should know that a position has come open as a research assistant here at the university. The Templeton foundation is endowing the position, so if you apply, you’re guaranteed to get it. I know it smacks of nepotism, but after all the good the Templetons have done the university, we are not ashamed to—”
“Mother,” Robin interrupted, wondering why she couldn’t exercise the same circumspection with her own family that she did with everyone else, “this position is in the science department, isn’t it?”
“Well, of course, but you are a trained and able researcher.”
“I am a historian,” Robin said, enunciating each syllable clearly, her temper barely in check. “I know you place no value on that, but history is what I love. History is what I do. And I already have a job as a historian here in Jasper Gulch.” Never mind that it barely paid above minimum wage or that she’d been thinking of leaving.
Her mother’s reply was exactly what Robin expected.
“Oh, honestly. You cannot mean to bury yourself in that hideous little throwback of a town, where you don’t even have decent cell-phone service so I have to call you at your motel, all in the vain hopes of connecting with some jumped-up cowpokes who just happen to be distant relatives.”
Robin pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mother, do you not realize that you are displaying the very same attitude that drove Great-Grandma Lillian away from her home?”
“And you are determined to follow in her footsteps!” Sheila Templeton Frazier, Ph.D., insisted shrilly. “What have we done that is so awful?”
“You haven’t done anything, Mother,” Robin said. “I didn’t come here to get away from you. I came in search of something more. Why won’t you listen?”
“And why won’t you understand,” Sheila countered, “that you are nothing to these Shaws? You will never be anything to them but a lying little opportunist, Robin. You may think that because they’ve accepted young Massey into the fold, they’ll accept you, too, if only for the Templeton name, but I assure you that is not the case. Even if they believe your claims, which I doubt, once they understand that Templeton funds are tied up exclusively in the foundation for scientific research, they’ll bar you from the door. Mark my words. How many times has it happened before?”
Sadly, Robin had lost more than one erstwhile friend who, having discovered her Templeton relationship, had thought she could command the Templeton money. Only those connected with the Templeton Foundation for Scientific Research enjoyed the largesse of Templeton funds, however, and Robin had long ago decided that science was not her calling. Her father managed the foundation, from which her Templeton grandparents had both retired. Her mother was herself a research scientist, so the Templeton foundation was, in a very real sense, the family business. But not—much to the chagrin of her parents—for Robin.
She was fully aware that if she didn’t somehow engage with the foundation or marry someone who could be taken into the foundation, all the Templeton money would pass out of the family’s control with the deaths of her parents. And that was fine with her. What the Templetons didn’t seem to understand was that family was more important to Robin than foundations or money. They just didn’t understand how sad and lonely she was because her acknowledged family consisted of only her parents, her Templeton grandparents and one unmarried Frazier uncle, her father’s brother, Richard, none of whom seemed to value her in any real way. They looked down on her profession. They looked down on her relationship with her beloved late great-grandmother. They even looked down on her faith, which she’d learned at her great-grandma’s knee.
She’d never known her Gillette grandparents. Her Frazier grandparents had both died when she was young; she didn’t even remember her grandmother, Dorothy Elaine Gillette Frazier. Perhaps that was why she had been so close to her great-grandmother, Lillian Gillette. And that was why, a year after her beloved great-grandma’s death, she had come here to Montana to find what remained of her family. Her Shaw family. Lillian, many would be shocked to know, was not Lillian at all but rather Lucy Shaw, whom entire generations of Shaws thought dead and buried for decades.
They all assumed that Lucy Shaw had died in 1926 when her Model T automobile had careened off the Beaver Creek Bridge into the rushing water below. They had no idea that Robin’s great-grandma Lillian had confessed on her deathbed, at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, that she was Lucy Shaw and had faked her own death in order to run away from Montana to New Mexico with her beloved Cyrus. Lillian—or Lucy, rather—had encouraged her lonely great-granddaughter to find her Shaw relatives in Montana, but Robin’s father and mother had insisted that Lillian had been raving when she’d come up with the “Montana story.”
Several weeks ago, Robin had finally found enough proof to convince her that Lillian’s story was true. Lillian was Lucy, but Robin’s parents wanted nothing to do with the Shaws, considering them little more than country bumpkins who would try to impose on the storied Templeton name and the science foundation that her mother’s family and Robin’s father so assiduously protected.
Sadly, as her parents had recently pointed out, Robin now had little reason to believe that the Shaws would want to have anything to do with her. After all, she had been living and working among them under false pretenses for months. Her parents wanted her to forget the Shaws and come home to New Mexico to “do something useful” with her life, the study of history not being on their list of useful endeavors.
If only Robin had trusted Great-Grandma Lillian and not let her parents put doubts into her head about the veracity of Lillian’s story, she wouldn’t be in such a mess now. She could have gone to the Shaws with a straightforward story and looked for proof without subterfuge, but she’d been so afraid of branding her beloved great-grandmother a liar that she’d become a liar herself. Even though she’d found the proof she’d sought, her mother was right that the Shaws weren’t likely to look kindly upon her lies. And neither, she imagined, would Ethan Johnson. What man of God would?
So, despite her brave words to her mother over the phone, Robin worried that she ought not to accompany Ethan the next morning. After the call ended, she hung up the bedside phone and sat brooding about it for several minutes.
She sensed that Ethan was a very special man and that under other circumstances something special might even develop between them, but her deceit had surely doomed any possible relationship already. It would, she was convinced, be better simply to end her association with him entirely. Perhaps she ought to just leave Jasper Gulch altogether. Maybe her mother’s phone call was a sign of that. Maybe God was trying to tell her to get out now before she humiliated herself.
When the phone rang, her cell phone this time, she halfway expected it to be Ethan telling her that he wouldn’t need her assistance on Saturday after all.
Instead, he said, “I’m making a terrible pest of myself, aren’t I?”
She had to laugh. “Hello to you, too, Ethan.”
“Oh, good. She’s not ready to hang up on me. Yet.”
Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “What is it now?”
The phone crackled, as cell phones tended to do in Jasper Gulch, then he very clearly said, “Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to come to the church this evening? I need some advice concerning the pageant.”
She held her breath, wondering if she ought to refuse simply because she so very much wanted to see him.
After a moment, he softly counseled, “You know, it’s okay to pray about these things first. I do.”
She touched her eyebrow and closed her eyes, picturing him with that phone in his hand, praying about whether or not to call her, but then she shook her head. That wasn’t what he meant. Surely that wasn’t what he meant.
“What time?”
“Around seven?”
“Seven it is.”
“Great.” She could hear the relief in his voice. “Weather shouldn’t be a problem, but dress warmly. The sanctuary is chilly on a Friday evening.”
“All right.”
“See you soon.”
She broke the connection and sighed. Whatever was wrong with her? Did she have to go looking for a broken heart? Maybe she should just tell him that she couldn’t go with him tomorrow and put an end to this whole silly crush before she did something truly stupid.
* * *
She turned up at seven sharp, her pale gold hair twisted into a prim knot atop her head. It seemed to Ethan that she’d come armored, with a wide headband that covered her ears and a big, fuzzy, shapeless pale green sweater that covered her almost from knees to chin. Brown leggings and half boots completed the ensemble. She looked rather like a prickly pear, and he had to wonder if that was the point, so wary did she seem at first.
He’d felt compelled to call her. Indeed, seeing her tonight had seemed absolutely imperative. Nevertheless, he welcomed her skittishness and got right down to business, leading her straight into the sanctuary to describe in detail his ideas for the Christmas Eve pageant.
“What do you think?” he asked, finally winding down. “Now, I know they wouldn’t have had this great space to work with, so I’m open to suggestions.”
Robin walked back and forth, considering carefully before saying, “We could put down a tarp and scatter some hay, maybe stack up a few bales and cover them with hopsacking.”
“Very doable.”
“We could also paint a backdrop and string it up on rope.”
“Which do you think would be more in keeping with the period?” Ethan asked.
She tilted her head, thinking it over, perhaps picturing it. “I think we should use loose hay and build a rough stable with timbers or logs.”
“I agree. I’ll get some of the men on it, but I’ll need you to approve their plans. If you don’t mind.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and, after a moment, shrugged. He let out a silent breath.
“About the costumes,” she suddenly began, “the fabrics will be the important part. I’ll ask around. Maybe Mamie has some vintage stuff. If not, we’ll have to arrange a trip into Bozeman or another larger town.”
A smile broke across his face. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you, any of it.”
To his utter relief, she smiled. “Glad to be of service.”
He laughed, feeling tons lighter, and impulsively took her hand in his, saying, “I will be so relieved when we have all the greenery gathered.”
Frowning, she pulled her hand free and turned away. Ethan’s heart abruptly sank.
“Robin, is everything okay?”
She sent him a quick, joyless smile. “Oh, you know how it is. Christmas can be a bittersweet time.”
“Are you missing your family?”
She turned to face him then looked down at her toes. “Yes and no. Sadly, I don’t miss the family I have, but I do miss the family I don’t have. Strange, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” he admitted.
“You couldn’t,” she told him with a shake of her head. “But we ought to miss family, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said simply, “but family is sometimes a burden.”
Her round, blue gaze sharpened. “Is yours?”
He wanted to tell her then, everything, about his losses and disappointments, his fears and heartbreaks, his hopes and needs, but he didn’t dare.
“Some of them are,” he answered evasively. “I miss my sister and niece, though.”
“Oh? Will they come for Christmas?”
Sadness stabbed him. “I doubt it.” That was a half-truth at best, though, and he suddenly wanted very much to give Robin better, so he followed it with a flat “No.”
For some reason, she seemed almost as disappointed as he felt. “That’s too bad.”
“Will your family come here for Christmas?” he asked.
She didn’t even pause to think. “Oh, no. They wouldn’t.”
“Will you go there?” It hadn’t occurred to him until that very moment that she might, and he suddenly realized that all his plans would crumble without her.
As was her custom, she mulled over her answer for a moment, but then she shook her head. “No, I won’t go there.”
Ethan didn’t try to hide his relief. He let it beam out of him. “I am selfishly glad. I don’t think I could pull off this centennial Christmas without your help, and I wouldn’t want to try.”
She smiled then, genuinely smiled. He clasped his hands behind his back, the sudden need to reach out and pull her against him shaking him to his toes. Instead, he offered to walk her to her car. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all, though he was having some trouble with the gentlemanly thing at the moment.
As she drove away into the night, he prayed for guidance. And self-control. It had been a very long time since he’d felt anything like what Robin Frazier stirred in him.
For a moment, long-dormant memory swamped him. Suddenly he was back in Los Angeles, standing on the curb in broad daylight, Theresa beside him. He heard the squeal of tires and the sharp, rapid staccato of gunshots. He felt himself flinch and throw up his arms, dropping to his knees as dust and bits of concrete stung his skin, and then as abruptly as it had begun, it was over, except that almost at once the iron-rich smell of blood rose into his nostrils, coating the back of his throat. He opened his eyes to find Theresa on her back with her dark hair spread across the sidewalk, her arms flung haphazardly across her slender body, a neat hole in her forehead and another in her neck, her dark eyes wide but unseeing, as he tried in his panic to keep her from leaving him. Some part of him had known from the first glimpse that she was already gone, but he’d had to try.
He hadn’t tried to hold a woman since then, and he never meant to.
“Ah, Lord,” he whispered, “don’t let me go back there. Give me courage, wisdom and guidance, the strength to realize all that You plan for me and to walk away from anything that is not Your will. Anything and anyone.”
No matter how compelling.
Chapter Four (#ulink_9a68abc9-315a-5e6a-abc6-9215c2e5e415)
Somehow, when Robin was with Ethan, she felt strangely disconnected from the pitfalls that surrounded her. She knew intellectually that any relationship around Jasper Gulch was potentially problematic for her. As soon as her deceptions were discovered, people were bound to choose sides, and most would undoubtedly side against her and with the Shaws. Still, Ethan’s very presence tended to make her awareness of that fact fade into the background. That was part of what made him so dangerous.
As soon as they parted company, however, her thoughts would begin to seethe with very reasonable doubts and fears. She would quite naturally recall that her position in Jasper Gulch was tenuous at best, even with Ethan himself, perhaps especially with Ethan. No minister would look kindly at a woman who had come into a community under false pretenses and perpetuated the lie for months on end. That being the case, she wondered again if she should go on seeing Ethan. He seemed to addle her thought processes and blunt some of her emotions while exciting others.
Recalling that Ethan had told her to pray about things before she made a decision, Robin prayed that night, asking for clarity and wisdom. Exhausted, she fell asleep, assuming that God had essentially told her to leave Jasper Gulch, the Shaws and Ethan Johnson behind. Yet, when she woke in the morning, she found that she had just enough time to dress before the young pastor arrived to pick her up—and no time to arrange for anyone else to accompany him on his mission. Then Mamie showed up at her door with a pair of sturdy work gloves, snowshoes, a small handsaw and a plate of hot, melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls about three inches thick to combat the cold air that she let in with her.
What else could Robin do but hurriedly dress and wolf down cinnamon rolls while coffee percolated and Mamie made the bed? Ethan showed up while Mamie and Robin were demolishing the third of four monster cinnamon rolls and happily helped himself to the last one.
“Just think,” he quipped, “I’m keeping you both from the sin of gluttony, and at detriment to my own soul, too, as I came here from breakfast at Great Gulch Grub.”
They all laughed, then Robin confessed, “You might have kept Mamie from the sin of gluttony, but not me. I’ve already eaten way too much.”
“That makes two of us, then,” he said, mopping the icing from the plate with his finger. “Guess we’d better get out there and work it off.”
She finished her coffee, enjoying the bite of the black brew juxtaposed against the sweetness of Mamie’s cinnamon rolls, then rinsed the cup, gathered her things and went out into the cold, leaving Mamie to lock up behind them. God, Robin supposed, didn’t mean for her to leave Jasper Gulch right away after all. Otherwise, would He have allowed her this feeling of sweet, joyous anticipation after her long night of doubts?
They drove out to the McGuire’s Double M Ranch in Ethan’s old car because it had all-wheel drive, which he said had come in quite handy, given that some of his congregation lived as far as forty miles outside town. He played music through his smartphone connection along the way, and Robin found herself singing along with some of her favorite praise songs and hymns.
He smiled at her from time to time and once said, “You’re more accomplished than you let on.”
She shook her head. “No, not really. I don’t have much range or resonance. I really can only sing in groups.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“I suppose.”
As they drew near the new sprawling house with its blue metal roof and deep porches, Jack and Olivia came out to meet them. Both wore nothing more than their shirtsleeves, though Olivia had pulled the cuffs of her sweater down over her hands. The twenty-eight-degree weather didn’t seem to faze them a bit. Guess that came from being natives to the area. When Robin and Ethan got out of the car, Jack leaned a shoulder against the porch support and looked up at the sky, a uniform shade of pale gray today.
“Mornin’, Ethan, Robin. Good day for you. Temperature ought to top out above freezing.”
Bundled up like a polar bear, Robin smiled wanly. She supposed thirty-three was, technically, above freezing.
“You’re going to have to go upslope, though, to find some of the firs,” Olivia pointed out. “We have snowshoes if you need them.”
“We came prepared,” Ethan assured her.
Olivia waved at the ATV parked in front of the house. Every one of the ranchers in the area seemed to have the all-terrain vehicles, and old-timer Rusty Zidek, who was well into his nineties, sometimes used one to get around town even now. Except for the color, this one reminded Robin of Rusty’s. Bright yellow and designed for two people to ride side by side with a flatbed behind, it resembled a small, stripped-down version of an early Jeep. A tiny wagon had been attached for good measure.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to go with you?” Olivia asked. “This is a big place, you could get lost out here.”
“It’s all planned out, hon,” Jack assured her. “Ethan and I have gone over it in detail. He’s got GPS, an aerial map in case of weak signal and detailed instructions. They’ll be fine. Besides, they’re just going up as far as Gazebo, where they’ll eat lunch, and then on to Whistler. They should be back here by two.” He looked to Ethan then and said, “If you’re not here by half past, I come looking for you.”
Ethan nodded and answered, “Understood.”
Olivia, meanwhile, was smiling at Robin. “Gazebo,” she said, as if that had some special meaning. “I see. Well, then, don’t let us keep you.”
Ethan started transferring their gear, which included an odd sort of cooler, to the flatbed of the ATV. They climbed in, buckled up and were off. The thing proved to be a surprisingly loud form of transportation. Robin was thankful that Mamie had insisted she take a knit headband to wear under the hood of her coat, and not just because the cold wind would have sliced off her ears. And to think that it was only the sixth day of December.
Winters in Albuquerque and Santa Fe could be cold, but the lows there approximated the averages here, and with three hundred–plus days of sunshine and low humidity year-round, Robin had barely noticed the change of seasons back in New Mexico. Here the seasons were distinct, the precipitation and humidity overwhelming for a desert rat such as herself and winter seemed to be gray more often than not. And the storms! Last month’s freak winter storm and the resulting power outage had frightened Robin. If not for Mamie and her backup generator, Robin wasn’t sure what she’d have done. Even then, warm bathwater had been scarce.
Now here she was setting off into what amounted to wilderness with none other than the pastor at her side, and unless she was mistaken, he didn’t have any more experience at this kind of thing than she did. They were well out of sight of the house when he stopped the ATV at a splintered wood post and consulted both the GPS and the aerial map that he took out of his coat pocket and unfolded across the interior of the small vehicle. It felt amazingly warm once they stopped moving. He showed her exactly where they were on the map, and she felt better, knowing that he was on top of things.
“What’s the deal about Gazebo?” she asked as he refolded the map.
“I don’t think it’s a real gazebo,” Ethan said, “just a kind of shelter that Jack’s parents put up to protect a picnic table in a spot where they could look down on the valley and their home. Jack suggested it as a good place for us to have lunch.”
“I see. I didn’t think about lunch.”
“I did,” Ethan told her with a subtle smile.
Did he ever. Another fifteen minutes took them up the mountain on the west side of the valley high enough for them to find the kind of evergreen growth they needed. Robin had brought photos with her, so they were able to identify the cedar, pine and fir they wanted. Much of it they were able to cut with simple pruning shears, but the larger boughs required the saws.
They needed the snowshoes only once, when they went after a particular pine. Most of the trees were too tall for them to reach the branches, but the trees were smaller at the higher elevations, where the snow tended to pile up and stay around. It was up near Gazebo where they spotted the accessible pine, and they had to hike up to get it. They practically denuded the poor thing, taking two trips to get the fragrant boughs down.
“Why don’t I go up with the net and bring down the last load alone while you set the table for lunch,” he proposed.
“Great,” she agreed. “I know I pigged out at breakfast, but I’m so hungry now I think I could eat a bear.”
He laughed, and no wonder, for that was just about what he’d packed. She peeked into the strange, foil-lined “cooler” and found containers of hot vegetable soup, toasty melted-cheese sandwiches, warm ham-and-pea salad, fat rolls stuffed with sausages, a hash-brown potato casserole and thick slabs of brownie cake covered with melted chocolate and broken walnuts. She left it all in the steamy warmer and instead raided the box he’d brought along for a flannel-lined vinyl tablecloth, matching checked cloth napkins, dinnerware, flatware and cups for the coffee he’d included. She warmed herself with that until he returned, gazing at the valley below and the homey two-story ranch house in the distance where Mick McGuire and his new family lived.
Sheltered by the trees and the roof, the gazebo felt, if not warm, at least survivable, especially with the warm coffee inside her and the bounty of Ethan’s picnic at her elbow. Ethan arrived a few moments later, tugged off his gloves and straddled the wood bench beside her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So different from Los Angeles.”
“And New Mexico.”
“God must take real pleasure in His creation, just the variety and bounty of it,” Ethan said. “No place I’ve ever been makes me want to worship more than Montana, though.”
“That’s a lovely way of putting it.”
“It’s a lovely feeling.” He looked her straight in the eye when he said that.
All the world seemed to pause in that moment. She felt his words to her bones. She let them settle into her. She thought of all the sermons she’d every heard, all the words of wisdom she’d ever read, but none of them had ever moved her or touched her as deeply as Ethan’s simple declaration.
He loved it here. He had been called here to this place, to serve his Lord and these people. She envied him that calling, that belonging. She admired him for it.
He turned his bare hands palms up and asked, “Will you pray with me before we eat?”
She set aside her mug, tugged off her gloves and placed her hands in his, her head bowed and her heart aquiver.
* * *
They enjoyed a sumptuous meal.
“As sumptuous as Great Gulch Grub can make it,” Ethan told Robin with a chuckle.
“It was good of you to think of lunch.”
“Men always think of their stomachs,” he said with a wink. He had to stop that. For some reason he felt compelled to flirt with her. It was immature and foolish and had to stop.
She looked down shyly, scraping a fingertip across the checked vinyl of the tablecloth. “I’m surprised they put in a real tablecloth and napkins.”
“Oh, no, that was me,” he said without thinking, and her blue eyes zipped up in surprise. “Uh, Jack mentioned that the tabletop was rough planking, and I didn’t want to take a chance on paper napkins blowing away,” he finished lamely, letting the words dwindle into silence, only to have her beam at him.
“That was very sweet of you.”
“It’s just a tablecloth and napkins,” he said, ridiculously pleased.
They packed up and set off to Whistler, a notch in the rock where the wind was said to make high-pitched noises from time to time, in search of holly. Sure enough, just as Jack had said, they found several basketball-size clumps growing out of crevices in the sheer rock face. All were too far up to easily reach, however. Ethan thought a moment and came up with a plan.
“You could sit on my shoulder,” he proposed, “and use those long-handled pruning shears to cut the holly at the base.”
She touched her eyebrow. “And if I drop the shears on your head?”
“I’ll try not to drop you, too.”
She rolled her eyes, even as she reached for the shears with one hand. Ethan went down on one knee, and she climbed up, settling her weight onto his right shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked, wrapping both arms around her knees.
“I guess.”
“Up we go, then.” He stood. She weighed...just what she should. If he hadn’t needed to hold his head at a somewhat awkward angle, he could have carried her for some distance like this. As it was, he only had to walk a few steps to the rock face. She reached above her and, with some effort, clipped off the first clump, which fell right down into his face.
“Sorry!”
He spit specks of dirt out of his mouth, eyes blinking rapidly. “My fault. From now on, I’ll look down.”
“Can you move sideways a couple feet?”
Stepping over the big clump of holly, he moved to his left. This time, she used the shears to flick the clump behind them.
“Good job.”
“Think I have a future as a holly harvester?” she joked, stretching to get another big ball.
He assisted by lifting her slightly, heaving her up by the knees. “I think you have a future as anything God ordains.”
“Walked into that one, didn’t I?” she quipped, managing the third clump. “One more.”
She wound up basically standing in his hands, against the rock wall, to reach the final ball of holly. After it fell, she dropped the shears well away from him. “You can let me down now.”
“If you insist,” he told her playfully, backing up a step so she could bend her knees and resume her place on his shoulder.
His arms were shaking a bit by the time she was safely seated again, but he was feeling quite powerful and manly—and glad that he’d been working out regularly with the weights in his basement. Showing off a bit, he reached up to grasp her about the waist and twirl her to face him, almost dropping her in the process. Instantly, he clamped his arms around her and felt her body slam into his, knocking the breath from both of them. When his vision cleared, they were standing wrapped in each other’s arms, her face turned up to his. It took a supreme act of will, bolstered by a silent prayer, to drop his arms and step back.
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Arlene James
In denim and rawhid Roland Thorton looked every inch a stable hand. But his bloodlines ran as blue as teh Montagues, age-old enemies of the Thortons, whose palace the prince infiltrated, searching for his kidnapped half sister. Yet it was another woman whose image consumed him day…and night.Lily claimed to be a lady's maid, yet her grace rivaled any royal princess's. Initially Roland thought to use Lily to expose the Montagues' deceit. Instead, it was his guarded heart that this fair maiden broke open with her innoncence.Then he discovered he wasn't the only royal masquerading….
A Yuletide Bride
It’s time for mistletoe and merriment—for everyone except Robin Frazier. As Jasper Gulch’s centennial celebrations reach their festive conclusion, her guilt is only mounting. The shy historian is hiding something—something that will affect everyone in town. And the more time she spends with pastor Ethan Johnson, creating an old-fashioned Christmas for his church, the more she realizes what this secret is costing her. He’s just the kind of man her heart longs for, and his kind brown eyes seem to say he might feel the same. Can she take a chance this Christmas and reveal who she really is—and what her heart is longing to say?
Big Sky Centennial: A small town rich in history…and love
Join Us at the Old Beaver Creek Bridge on New Year’s Eve
as We Commemorate
One Hundred Years of History
and Usher in a New Era
for Jasper Gulch!
We never thought we’d see the day! The Shaws and the Masseys have been reunited, the time capsule has been found, and, as we celebrate the actual day of Jasper Gulch’s founding, we will be reopening the Beaver Creek Bridge. We here in Jasper Gulch couldn’t be happier, and we suspect that somewhere, Lucy Shaw is smiling down on us. She’ll be smiling even harder when she sees that Robin Frazier is keeping company with pastor Ethan Johnson. But do you want to know why? Keep turning pages and find out as Big Sky Centennial reaches its heartwarming conclusion!
* * *
Big Sky Centennial:
A small town rich in history…and love.
Her Montana Cowboy by Valerie Hansen—July 2014
His Montana Sweetheart by Ruth Logan Herne—August 2014
Her Montana Twins by Carolyne Aarsen—September 2014
His Montana Bride by Brenda Minton—October 2014
His Montana Homecoming by Jenna Mindel—November 2014
Her Montana Christmas by Arlene James—December 2014
ARLENE JAMES
says, “Camp meetings, mission work and church attendance permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity He has blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”
After thirty-three years in Texas, Arlene James now resides in Bella Vista, Arkansas, with her beloved husband. Even after seventy-five novels, her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached via her website, www.arlenejames.com (http://www.arlenejames.com).
Her Montana Christmas
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Many, Lord my God, are the wonders You have done, the things You planned for us. None can compare with You; were I to speak and tell of Your deeds, they would be too many to declare.
—Psalms 40:5
For Valerie Hansen, Ruth Logan Herne,
Carolyne Aarsen, Brenda Minton and Jenna Mindel.
Best of the best,
and I’ve been around long enough to know!
Bless you all.
DAR
Contents
Cover (#u385edb8f-ce61-56c4-8d89-bbca4b83594c)
Back Cover Text (#uc09bc4e9-dd15-508f-8ffd-768ea480f9cc)
Introduction (#u9daafa50-a9f0-5a37-abac-53d62005e6a9)
About the Author (#u4fc6214f-7869-5cd5-b044-4e5622f7f370)
Title Page (#ua8b428fd-5622-5684-839d-7814ba7e8349)
Bible Verse (#uddb07983-22c7-5cec-9225-8e224ed2084d)
Dedication (#u3f24fe37-0c9a-5404-af51-94d1d500ed01)
Chapter One (#ulink_921f45e6-9119-564e-b886-c5e97ab50166)
Chapter Two (#ulink_a69365c7-3efb-5b2a-a1ce-a87a2782ac23)
Chapter Three (#ulink_a596b680-6096-5fd1-b36e-6a6f0220d8da)
Chapter Four (#ulink_19a52cc3-b75c-5ad6-b1c4-319a93232b05)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_1d9185d2-a054-5153-8686-e74ee18a7830)
The first day of December in Jasper Gulch, Montana, sparkled like diamonds. Pastor Ethan Johnson stood in front of the small, weathered parsonage that had been his home these past five months and inhaled early-morning air sharp enough to cut his California-born lungs to shreds, but not even the cold could dim his joy in the day. The snow from November’s freakish storm had finally melted, power had been fully restored and the distinct aura of Christmas permeated the atmosphere.
Ethan was excited to celebrate his first real Christmas as the pastor of Mountainview Church of the Savior. He loved the Lord. He loved being a pastor. He loved the people here in Jasper Gulch. He loved the beauty of Montana. He even loved the church building itself.
The unorthodox log-plank structure had taken on the shape of a cross over the years. It wasn’t at all what one expected or usually pictured when thinking of a church, and yet it fit its purpose supremely well. The belfry contained two brass bells, sadly no longer in use, and four large speakers through which the recordings of bells were played daily. Ethan admired everything about the place, from its broad plank walkways, to its steep, wood-shingled roofs, perhaps because it was his first pastorate or perhaps because it truly was a special place.
The town, though small with just nine hundred or so residents, was certainly unique. Jasper Gulch had been engaged in a six-month-long celebration of its centennial, starting on the Fourth of July and ending on the last day of this year. It seemed to Ethan that the Christmas services should reflect that motif. The idea had come to him the previous night as he’d prayed over his preparations for the holidays, and he knew just where to get the information necessary to make his first Christmas in Jasper Gulch a success in keeping with the centennial theme.
Casting a last fond look at the church building, Ethan swung down into the seat of his dependable nine-year-old dark green Subaru Forester. He could walk over to the museum, but he didn’t know what he might be bringing back with him, books, papers or other media, so he drove. Already many Christmas decorations were out, thanks to Faith Shaw, the mayor’s eldest daughter.
Dale Massey, a fabulously wealthy scion of one of the town’s two founding families, had come out from New York City to participate in last month’s centennial Homecoming celebration, only to find himself stranded in Jasper Gulch by the unexpected storm. Faith, a daughter of the other founding family, the Shaws, had convinced the community’s residents to pitch together to give Dale a taste of a small-town Montana Christmas. As a result, Faith and Dale were now engaged to be married on Christmas night—and Ethan had started thinking in earnest about the true Christmas celebration to come.
Mayor Jackson Shaw seemed pleased to have his eldest daughter marry. For a time, he’d appeared determined to foster a romance between her and Ethan. Apparently, everyone in town wanted to make a match for the new pastor. Much to Ethan’s dismay, they’d thrown every eligible female within traveling distance at him. Thankfully, Shaw seemed less eager to marry off Ethan than he did his own children, for the man had gotten his way with three of the five. Ethan had found that the mayor usually did get his way, but his future son-in-law was bucking him on reopening the Beaver Creek Bridge.
From what Ethan could gather, the bridge had been closed since a Shaw relative had driven off it to her death in an automobile accident nearly ninety years earlier. Apparently, Jackson’s grandfather had promised his father that the bridge would never be reopened, and Jackson had renewed that pledge when he’d first assumed his place as mayor, an office that the Shaws had held for generations.
Other, more forward-thinking citizens pointed out that, with the bridge closed, Jasper Gulch could be accessed by only one road, but Jackson Shaw had repeatedly beaten back attempts to repair and reopen the bridge—until Dale Massey had magnanimously offered to underwrite the project on his own.
Personally, Ethan thought it a shame to let an eighty-eight-year-old tragedy dictate public policy, but he couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for Mayor Shaw. The man was trying to pull off six months of centennial celebration that had been missing its centerpiece from the beginning. On the very first weekend, the time capsule that the whole town had gathered to open had gone missing. Since then, the town had suffered several instances of vandalism and more than one cryptic note hinting that the capsule had contained a treasure and was connected with the initials L.S.
A local teenager by the name of Lilibeth Shoemaker had fallen under suspicion, but she insisted that she’d had nothing to do with the notes or the disappearance of the time capsule. Though she’d been officially exonerated, a few still harbored suspicions of her based on her initials alone, but Ethan certainly wasn’t about to judge her guilty on such flimsy evidence. Most believed that a local man named Pete Daniels was to blame because he’d suddenly left town without explanation.
The time capsule had finally turned up, opened. It contained some historical documents, photos and mementos, but nothing of any market value. Ethan doubted they’d ever know the truth about the time capsule’s contents or who had taken it, and he, for one, did not really care. He would be glad to see the centennial celebrations come to an end on New Year’s Eve with the burial of a new time capsule, the official opening of the museum and the reopening of the Beaver Creek Bridge—unless the mayor found some way to prevent the latter. Again.
After parking in front of the museum, Ethan took a moment to enjoy the new building. A few folks had complained that the structure was nothing more than a brown sheet-iron pole barn with an Old West–style front attached, complete with hitching rails, but Ethan figured that a town the size of Jasper Gulch was blessed to have a bona fide museum of any sort. He got out of the car and, finding the front door unlocked, went inside.
A wide reception area, with an unattended Y-shaped desk, branched off into two hallways. Hearing the unmistakable sound of a copy machine at work in the distance, Ethan dumped his down coat, wool muffler and gloves on the desk and walked along the left hallway toward the sound.
The slender feminine figure at the copy machine jolted him. She wasn’t Olivia Franklin McGuire, the curator, though the purple sweater and black slacks seemed vaguely familiar. The long, straight tail of wheat-colored hair, caught at her nape with a black barrette, swung between the curves of her shoulder blades as she caught the papers shooting from the end of the machine.
He put on his best pastor’s smile and said, “Excuse me.”
She whirled around, pale hair flying. Her peaked brows, several shades darker than her hair, arched high over rich blue eyes as round as marbles. He spotted a tiny flat dark mole just under the tip of her left brow, which she reached up to touch with one finger, calling attention to her perfect nose and lips the color of a dusky rose, the bottom fuller than the upper, with a little seam in the middle as if God had created it in two perfect halves and knit it together.
“Ah, yes. Robin Frazier.”
They’d met more than once. She’d been attending church semiregularly for months now, and they’d spoken on several occasions, but never more than a few passing words. She seemed a serious, studious sort, despite the youthfulness of her face. He’d first seen her at a distance and taken her for a teenager, then wondered why he didn’t see her with the other kids. Someone had finally told him that she was a graduate student visiting Jasper Gulch on some sort of project.
“Pastor Johnson,” she said, several seconds having ticked by. “Can I help you?”
He waved a hand at the papers she held. “Material for your...” He couldn’t remember exactly what her project was. “I’m sorry. Something to do with genealogy, isn’t it?”
She stared at the papers in her hand as if resigning herself to speaking to him. Then her deep blue eyes met his, and a funny thing happened inside his chest. At the same time, she spoke.
“This has to do with the centennial. I’ve been hired to help out here at the museum.”
Since he’d moved to Jasper Gulch, all the eligible females in town had cast lures of one sort or another in Ethan’s direction, but this one seemed reticent, almost wary of him. He should have felt relieved about that. Instead, he felt...disappointed, even a bit irritated, though God knew he wasn’t in the market for a wife.
“Really?” He put on a smile. “That’s great. I hope it means you’ll be joining the church.”
She just looked at him without answer for several heartbeats before asking again, “Can I help you with something?”
“It’s about Christmas,” he said, not at all put off. He was used to people stonewalling, hedging, even outright prevarication when it came to the subject of church attendance. He took his openings when, where and how he found them and left the results to the Lord. “I’m hoping to have a historical kind of Christmas this year. You know, sort of do my part for the centennial. The thing is, being from California and fairly new to the area, I have no real idea what Christmas might have been like around here a hundred years ago.”
“Well,” she said, “let’s see what information we can find for you then.”
Ethan grinned. It looked as if he had come to the right place. And maybe, when all was said and done, he’d find himself with a new congregant, as well.
* * *
Robin didn’t know why the young pastor set her on edge, but he had from the first moment that she’d met him almost five months ago now. He wasn’t just handsome; he was a nice man, almost too nice. Something about him made a person want to confide in him, even when he wasn’t wearing his clerical collar, like now, or maybe it was just that she wanted to confide in someone.
She hated being in Jasper Gulch under false pretenses, and the longer it went on, the worse she felt, but she dared not truthfully identify herself at this late date. Too much had happened. She couldn’t step forward now and tell the truth without raising everyone’s suspicions about her motives. After everything that had gone on—the theft of the time capsule, the vandalism and mysterious notes, the investigation and the disappearance of Pete Daniels, the sudden reappearance of the time capsule and all the mysteries that she and Olivia had uncovered about the past, not to mention the secrets that Robin alone knew—everyone would think that she was after something. It didn’t help that a member of the extremely wealthy Massey family had shown up on the scene, either. Connections to wealth, as Robin knew all too well, inspired a certain type of grasping, clinging hanger-on.
Sometimes Robin thought it would be best if she just left town as quietly as she’d arrived in July, but she couldn’t quite make herself go. Not yet. And go back to what? Her parents and grandparents had never disguised their disappointment in her. With her great-grandmother Lillian dead, she couldn’t find much reason to go back to New Mexico, and Great-Grandma Lillian had known it would be that way, too. Why else on her deathbed would she have urged Robin to come here and find what other family she might have left?
“So the church was here even before the town was officially founded,” the pastor said, laying aside the newspaper article she’d printed off for him. “Interesting. I wonder if any of the original building still stands.”
Pulled from her reverie, Robin shrugged. “Apparently there were several homes and a small log church in the area when Ezra Shaw and Silas Massey decided to formally incorporate the town and draw up a charter. I’m sure I can find something about the church building, given enough time.”
“I’d appreciate that, even though it’s mostly curiosity on my part,” Pastor Johnson told her, smiling warmly. “I’m most interested in the vestibule and the belfry.”
“The rock part at the front of the church?”
“Exactly. Did you know there are actual bells up there in the belfry?”
“You mean they’re not just for show?”
He shook his head. “I have to wonder why we never use perfectly good bells. I mean, recorded bells are fine for every day, but what a treat it would be to pull the ropes on real bells once in a while. I wonder why the church stopped using them.”
“That is a puzzle. I can look into it, if you like.”
“I’d love to know, but I hate to put you to any extra trouble.”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind. I like solving puzzles.”
He would understand that about her if he knew what mysteries had brought her here to Jasper Gulch, but then perhaps it was best that no one here knew.
Her plan had seemed so simple in the beginning. Come to town under the guise of a graduate student doing research for a thesis on genealogy. Find proof to support her claims. Show the proof. Be greeted warmly by family who previously hadn’t known she existed.
Five months into the project, she now realized that her proof wasn’t likely to be any more welcome than she would be, that her motives could easily be questioned and that she could well come off looking like a schemer and a liar. She bitterly regretted the route she’d taken to this point. She had feared being jeered at in the beginning, but at least she could have conducted her research in the open, then once the proof had been found, all would have been well. Now...now people trusted her, people to whom she must reveal herself as a liar. What a fool she had been.
“I appreciate any information you can give me,” Pastor Johnson told Robin forthrightly, again breaking into her troubled thoughts.
He had the kindest brown eyes and the most open, engaging smile she’d ever seen. Everything about him exuded warmth, even on this first day of December. His California origin showed in the burnished brown of his short, neat hair and bronzed skin. In fact, Robin could easily picture him walking barefoot in the surf with his sleeves and pant legs rolled up, the tail of his chambray shirt pulled free of the waistband of his jeans. He looked younger without his ministerial collar, almost boyish, despite the faint crinkles that fanned out from the corners of his deep-set eyes. Something about the way his long, straight nose flattened at the end intrigued her, as did the manner in which his squared chin added a certain strength to his face.
“What?” he asked, his lips widening to show a great many strong, white teeth.
She shook her head, embarrassed to have been caught staring. “I, um, I’ll see what I can find and get back to you.”
“Excellent. Can I give you my personal cell number, as well as the numbers at the church and the parsonage? That way you’re bound to reach me.”
“Oh, of course. That would be fine.” She pulled out her phone and tapped in the numbers as he gave them to her. When she looked up again, he had his own phone in his hand.
“Mind if I take your numbers, too? In case I have any questions?”
Robin was aware of her heart speeding up, which was ridiculous. He was a minister, a man of God. He wasn’t hitting on her. In fact, he probably intended to call and invite her to join the church again. She wouldn’t mind if he did. She just didn’t know if she could do that; she might not be staying in Jasper Gulch for much longer.
“Uh, sure.” She gave him her cell number, though mobile coverage was not the best here, as well as the numbers at the museum and her residence, such as it was. He saved them to his contacts list before pocketing the tiny phone again.
“There now,” he said. “I have a lead on the information I need to make this a grand centennial Christmas, I’ve found a kindred spirit to help me solve a puzzle and I’ve got the phone number of one of the prettiest ladies in town. That’s what I call an excellent morning’s work.” He turned a full circle, walking backward a step or two, as he headed for the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
He was out of sight and halfway down the hall before Robin’s own laughter caught up with her, and her heartbeat still hadn’t slowed one iota. It had, in fact, sped up! Perhaps that was why she called him later when she stumbled across information concerning the church bells.
A tidbit in the local newspaper from early 1925 had reported that the bells had been deemed unsafe due to problems with the crosspiece in the belfry and would “henceforth be silenced to prevent any startling and calamitous accidents.” The reporter had gone on to quote a deacon as insisting that rumors suggesting this decision had to do with the “decampment of Silas Massey and his wife” were “scurrilous and mean-spirited,” which led Robin to wonder aloud if the aforementioned rumors had anything to do with the bank failure.
“Bank failure?” Ethan echoed.
Robin mentally cringed. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want you to think I was gossiping. Speculation is part and parcel of historical research, I’m afraid. It’s just that we’ve uncovered evidence of some trouble at the bank founded by the Shaws and the Masseys here in Jasper Gulch. The timeline says everything’s connected. First, the Masseys pulled out. Then the rumors started flying about the bank being insolvent. Right after that, the bells were determined to be unsafe, with a deacon at the church insisting that the decision had nothing to do with the Masseys leaving town. It seems as if Ezra Shaw was quoted in every edition of the newspaper around that time saying that the bank was solvent and all was fine, but when the crash came in ’32, it failed spectacularly and was reported to be woefully undercapitalized. Shaw was quoted as saying that for him it was just a long nightmare come to an end but that he felt badly for his neighbors and depositors, whom he promised to help as much as he was able. It just seems logical that Massey had something to do with the whole situation.”
“So you’re saying that Silas Massey either forced Ezra Shaw to buy him out, which caused the bank to be undercapitalized, or he stole—”
“I’m just telling you what we’ve uncovered,” Robin interrupted smoothly.
“However it came about,” Ethan said, “there were bound to be some hard feelings. I think it’s worth looking into to see if the bells might have been a gift to the church from the Masseys.” He added that he was going to dig into some old file cabinets tucked into a closet in a back room. “I might find something of interest to the museum.”
Robin remembered that, and the next day when she found a website that showed details, as well as written instructions, for re-creating exactly the sort of decorations the pastor would need to provide a centennial-style Christmas for his congregation, she decided to print off photos and drive over to the church with them on her lunch hour. She and Olivia had their hands full getting the displays at the museum ready for viewing, but Olivia’s husband, Jack, had come into town from his ranch on an errand, so the two of them were having an early lunch together, and that gave Robin a bit of free time.
She parked right in front of the church, grabbed the file folder in which she’d stashed the printouts and hopped out of her metallic-blue hybrid coupe. Stepping up on the plank walkway, she hurried to the white-painted front door of the church. It swung open easily. She walked into the cool, strangely silent vestibule and let her eyes adjust from the bright sunlight.
The vestibule usually rang with noise and always seemed dark, despite the twin brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Not today, however. Today, a shaft of light illuminated the very center of the wide space, along with the slender metal ladder that descended from the belfry. She looked up to find an open trapdoor in the vestibule ceiling.
“Pastor?” she called, amazed at the way her voice carried in the empty room.
“Put your hands over your ears,” he called down to her.
“What?”
“Put your hands over your ears!”
“O-okay.” She tucked the file folder under one arm and clapped her gloved hands over her ears. About two seconds later, a deep, melodious bong tolled through the rock vestibule. The force of the sound made her sway on her feet. She laughed, even as she warned, “You’ll shatter the vases in here if you keep that up!”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”
It was, really, like standing inside a gigantic bell.
“Come up here and see,” he urged.
Glancing around, she laid the folder on the credenza that sat against one wall and tugged off her mittens, tucking them into the pockets of her heavy wool coat, but then she hesitated.
“Robin,” he said, just before his face appeared in the open trapdoor above, “come on up. It’s perfectly safe.” He wore a knit cap and scarf with his coat.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked, moving toward the ladder.
“I recognized your voice, of course.”
“Ah.”
He reached down a gloved hand as she put a foot on the bottom rung of the wrought iron ladder.
“How does this thing work?”
“It’s very simple. There’s a tall pole with a hook on one end. I used it to slide open the trap and then to pull down the ladder. When I’m done, I’ll use it to push the ladder back up and lift it over the locking mechanism then slide the trap closed.”
“I see.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” he told her, grasping her hand and all but lifting her up the last few rungs to stand next to him on a narrow metal platform fixed to one side of the tiny square open-sided belfry. In their bulky coats, they had to stand pressed shoulder to shoulder. “Take a look at this.” He swung his arm wide, encompassing the town, the valley beyond and the snowcapped mountains surrounding it all.
“Wow.”
“Exactly,” he said. “There’s a part of Psalm 98 that says, ‘Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy...’ Seeing the view like this, you can almost feel it, can’t you? The rivers and mountains praising their creator.”
“I never thought of rivers and mountains praising God,” she admitted.
“Scripture speaks many times of nature praising God and testifying to His wonders.”
“I can see why,” she said reverently.
“So can I,” he told her, smiling down at her with those warm brown eyes on her face.
Her breath caught in her throat. But she was reading too much into that look. Surely she was reading too much into it. That wasn’t appreciation she saw in his gaze. That was just her loneliness seeking connection. Wasn’t it? Though she had never felt this sudden, electrical link before, not like this, as if something vital and masculine in him reached out and touched something fundamental and feminine in her, she had to be mistaken.
He was a man of God after all.
Even if she couldn’t help thinking of him as just a man.
A shadow seemed to pass behind his brown eyes, as if he’d read her thoughts, and he turned his gaze back to the mountains, visually drinking in snowcapped peaks set against the bright blue sky and the sunshine.
After only a moment, he smiled at her, his genial self again.
Yet Robin felt a distinct chill that she hadn’t felt an instant before, a chill that even winter could not explain.
Chapter Two (#ulink_af03cd00-c2a3-596c-bfc7-0c13e404c02b)
In an effort to hide her disturbing reaction to Ethan’s closeness, Robin turned away from the magnificent sight outside the belfry, leaned back lightly against the hip-high wall and gazed instead at the two bells attached to the crossbeam in front of her. Each of the bells was about as big around as Ethan was, but one was deeper than the other. He stretched out a foot and gave the nearest bell a gentle shove. It rocked to and fro, giving off a delightful peal that, while loud, did not threaten to burst Robin’s eardrums or move her bodily, as it had down below. The crossbeam remained steadfast. Had it ever been unsound, it was not now.
Suddenly, the noontime recording played, a trilling carillon, one of several that played every three hours from 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. daily. It was neither as loud as the sound had been in the chamber below the belfry, nor as rich.
“I did a little research after you called,” he told her when the recording stopped. “I was able to find records proving that Silas Massey and his wife not only gave these bells to the church, they had the vestibule and belfry built to accommodate them.”
“The rumors that the bells were silenced in resentment after the Masseys left town were apparently true, then,” Robin said, frowning, “but why? Do you suppose it really did have something to do with problems at the bank?”
Ethan shrugged. “All I know is that it’s time for these bells to ring again. I’m going to attach some ropes and prepare to use them. Wouldn’t it be great to ring these bells for Christmas?”
Robin looked around the small, dusty space. Only the ledge where they stood was wide enough to work from, but he couldn’t reach the arm at the top of each bell, where the rope obviously attached, from here. He’d have to crawl along the crosspiece to fix the ropes in place. Meanwhile, the speakers in their wire protective cages sat tucked securely into all four corners, with the recorder that played the bell music presumably housed somewhere safely below.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “I love hearing the recorded bells.”
“So do I,” Ethan admitted, “and we’ll still use the recordings for everyday, but for special occasions, we’ll have the real bells.”
“Real bells would be special,” Robin admitted, warily eyeing that crossbeam and the trapdoor open beneath it.
“I’ll need your help,” he suddenly declared.
“My help?” Her gaze shot to his. “Oh, Pastor, I don’t know.”
“If you help me,” he said, “I can attach the ropes with the trap closed. I’m sure there must be a way to safely close the trap from up here, but I haven’t figured it out.”
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her chest in relief. “In that case, then yes, I certainly will help you.”
“Excellent.” He smiled broadly. “Then I won’t have to explain about the bells to anyone else. Don’t want to start any Massey gossip now that Dale’s in town, do we? Not that there’s ever a good time to start gossip.”
Robin nodded. “I see what you mean.”
“I thought you would. Besides, I want this to be a surprise for the congregation. Hopefully, the townsfolk will think any extra bongs they hear around the regular bell times are part of the recordings, so they’ll be surprised when I toll the bells for Christmas services,” he went on. Then he tugged at his earlobe. “I must think of a way to repay you for all your help.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, shaking her head. “Although...”
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. It was so nice to have someone to talk to. Olivia had become a good friend, but Robin didn’t dare trust any of the Jasper Gulch natives with her story. The pastor was an outsider like her, though. Perhaps she should tell him what had brought her to Jasper Gulch and seek his advice on what to do next. On the other hand, what would he think of her once he learned of her duplicity?
“I, um, appreciate you showing me the view from up here,” she went on carefully, deciding not to risk it. “It is truly spectacular.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,” he told her, moving to the ladder, “but that can’t be what brought you by this morning.”
“No, of course not. I have some photos for you, photos of Christmas decorations from 1913, ’14 and ’15, a couple from right here in Jasper Gulch. That will give us a good idea of what materials to use, and I also have some websites where we can find instructions on how to replicate the designs.”
“We?” he echoed, smiling. “Are you volunteering to help?”
“I’m not a florist or decorator,” she hedged. “All I’m trained to do is research.”
He grinned and said, “An invaluable help. So what are we waiting for? I’m eager to see what you’ve brought me.”
She watched him disappear through the trapdoor. Only as she stood alone on the tiny platform did she realize how very cold it was up there in the belfry. Even with her coat and scarf on over her slacks and sweater, she shivered, until he called up to her, his voice expanding in the rock room below.
“By the way, I think it’s time you started calling me Ethan. Don’t you? Lots of the people in town do.”
Suddenly she felt warm all over. Would he dare suggest such a thing if he knew that, like all the other unattached women in town, she was quickly forming a crush on the pastor with the warm brown eyes?
* * *
Ethan really liked Robin Frazier. He liked her a lot. She had the charming and rare habit of thinking before she spoke. When he’d heard her voice in the vestibule, his heart had rejoiced, for he’d thought of her as he’d gazed out over God’s magnificent creation. He’d wished, quite unaccountably, that he could share the vision with her. To have her suddenly appear like that had seemed an answer to a prayer he hadn’t dared utter. Or was it?
Ethan had long ago accepted that he would not marry. When he’d taken the pastorate in Jasper Gulch, he’d assumed that the opportunities to marry or even date would be few, but then the matchmaking had begun. Aghast, he’d done his best to hide his disquiet with the situation. Often, he’d felt pursued since coming here and had wished mightily to be left in peace. Still, as those around him had paired off—why, one of the centennial functions had been a wedding ceremony for fifty couples!—he’d felt more and more alone, and he wasn’t sure why that should be so. Since the death of his girlfriend, Theresa, he’d had a difficult time even forming friendships with women, let alone romantic attachments.
Until Robin Frazier. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d found a friend, but it was foolish to even think that he’d found anything more in her. He hardly even knew her! More to the point, she hardly knew him, and if she did, she would almost certainly be appalled. That was one reason he chose not to wear his clerical collar outside the pulpit or when not on official church business. While ignorant of the details, people needed to know that their pastor was a man like any other. In this case, many might find his failings difficult to forgive.
When Ethan had taken over this post, the former pastor had advised that Ethan give himself plenty of time to get established within the community before deciding to share the tragedies and failures of his past. Sometimes Ethan wished he still had Pastor Peters to talk to, but after his retirement Peters had moved to Colorado to be near his daughter and grandchildren, and Ethan didn’t feel comfortable imposing on their short acquaintance with chatty telephone calls. As his own family barely spoke to him and his few friends from seminary were all married and busy, Ethan sometimes felt quite alone.
Oh, he’d made friends in Jasper Gulch, but he hadn’t found anyone in whom he felt he could confide. What made him think that Robin could be that person? he wondered as Robin crawled gingerly down the ladder.
Quite without meaning to, he found himself guiding her to the bottom, his arms bracketing her slender body, his gloved hands gripping the narrow side rails until her feet safely touched down on the stone floor. Backing away so that she could turn and face him proved surprisingly difficult, which he covered by sweeping off his cap and stuffing it into a coat pocket.
“Let’s get the belfry closed so it’ll warm up in here.”
Grabbing a long pole with two odd hooks on the end, he pushed up the ladder, locked it in place and slid the trapdoor closed.
“That looked easy enough to do,” Robin commented.
Ethan nodded as he returned the pole to its corner. It fit snugly into a pair of holders bolted into the rock.
“There’s just one thing,” she went on, staring up at the closed trapdoor in the rock ceiling. “Where do the ropes come down?”
He lifted a finger and led the way to what had been a deep shelving unit set off to one side of the vestibule. Its twin space on the opposite wall made a tidy coat closet.
“I always thought this was a strange sort of cupboard, recessed as it was with shelves as deep as my arm. When I removed the contents, I found another space with the pulleys and ropes. The ropes themselves are no good, but the wall fittings are all fine. I’ve already ordered the right type and size of ropes, and they should be here in a week or so.
“I should be able to attach them to the bells. Then all we have to do is hope the bells aren’t too badly out of tune to make a pleasant noise for Christmas.”
“I didn’t know bells could be out of tune.”
“Apparently they can, but I think that’s when there are several bells involved.”
She looked up at the ceiling. “Those two sounded fine to me.”
“Do you have musical training?” he asked.
Her clear blue eyes met his, and she touched the mole beneath her eyebrow before calmly saying, “Not much. I sang in glee club in high school and college.”
Glee club. He couldn’t help thinking that many pastors’ wives often had service callings of their own: music, teaching, women’s or children’s ministry, chaplaincy, even a pastorate of one form or another. He told himself not to be an idiot. All he needed from her was help getting the bells roped and the church decorated.
“I’ll let you know when the ropes get here, and we’ll set up a time to attach them,” he said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“A plan that needs a lot of prayer if it’s to succeed,” he added with a chortle. “Now, about those pictures you brought with you...”
She went to the credenza that stood against the wall and opened a file folder, spreading out several sheets of paper. Ethan hurried over to take a look. As he studied the pictures she’d brought, he casually unbuttoned his coat.
One photo showed the inside of an unnamed couple’s cabin where a small, spindly evergreen tree had been decorated with berries, beads and bits of broken glass. Another showed the front railings of a porch swathed in evergreen boughs. An arrangement of candles and mistletoe on a fireplace mantel with an open Bible and a Christmas postcard was the focus of a third black-and-white photograph.
The final offering had been shot right there in front of the church. It showed the pastor and two others in white smocks with big bows on them, presumably red, and the entire cast of a pageant, including two real sheep, a donkey and, oddly enough, a chicken. Most of the actors were garbed in blankets with lopsided halos and crowns, wings and sashes askew. Most wore cowboy boots beneath their tunics, and one mulish youngster sported his cowboy hat, too, and had a rope slung over one shoulder, despite the shepherd’s crook in the other hand. The youngest children all carried chrismon patterns—simple symbols of the Christian faith, such as the shape of a shepherd’s crook, dove, Bethlehem star or trumpeting angel. Ethan had to smile.
“Now, that’s a congregation to keep a pastor on his knees.”
“It looks like fun, though, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Just look at the smile on the pastor’s face.”
“I wonder what part the chicken played.”
They both laughed over that. Ethan squinted at the tiny type beneath the photo.
“Those are readers in those smocks. They probably read the Christmas story out of the Bible, and the cast acted it out.”
“Makes sense.”
“We could do something like that,” Ethan mused. “That way no one would have to memorize lines.”
“I thought you might like to have these, too,” she said, offering him several more papers.
“Chrismon patterns.”
“They’d be very simple to make out of fabric. And you might want this.”
The final sheet contained a list of websites where he could order modern versions of antique Christmas bulbs.
“I think you can find everything else you need out there,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the great outdoors. “The various types of greenery have different meanings, you see, and the locals would have been aware of that back then.”
“Robin Frazier, you are a gem beyond price. I don’t have internet access here, but I can find it. Now, I have just two more questions for you.”
“And they are?” she asked cautiously, narrowing her lovely blue eyes at him.
“First, will you serve on the decorating committee?”
She blinked. “Pastor—”
“Ethan,” he corrected automatically.
“Ethan,” she began again, “I’m not even a member of the church.”
“But you are the resident expert on historical Christmas decorations. Or as near as we can come to one.”
She bowed her head, smiling. “I see. All right. In that case, of course I’ll help out. Just do remember that I have a full-time job.”
“Of course. Which leads me to my second question.”
“And that is?”
“Are you free on Saturday for gathering greenery?”
“This Saturday?”
“It’s December 2, Miss Frazier. I’d like to schedule a Hanging of the Green service for a week from tomorrow. We have no time to lose, and you know exactly what sort of greenery people would have gathered a hundred years ago.”
She looked around the vestibule before glancing at him once more and nodding.
“Saturday would be fine.”
“I’ll pick you up about 9:00 a.m., then. If you’ll just tell me where you live.”
“Oh.” Smiling, she lifted a finely boned hand to press a fingertip to that exquisite little mole beneath her eyebrow. “That would help, wouldn’t it? I’ve taken a kitchenette at Fidler’s Inn. Room six, on the ground floor.”
“Room six,” he repeated. “Um, if you have hiking boots, you might want to wear them.”
“I can do that.”
“And jeans probably wouldn’t hurt.”
“I can do that, too.”
“Okay, then.”
She nodded, and they stood there smiling at each other until she suddenly said, “Well, I’d better grab something to eat and get back to work.”
“Sure, sure.” He cleared his throat, nodding. “Thanks so much for dropping by.”
“Thanks for showing me your view.”
“Anytime.” She started toward the outer door, reaching into her pocket for her gloves, but he called her back. “Uh, Robin. The bell thing. I’ve told some others that I’m cleaning up the area and doing some research, but I’d really like to keep my plans quiet until Christmas Eve,” he reminded her.
“That’s fine,” she told him. “Whatever you want.”
Grinning, he couldn’t resist ribbing her a little. “Whatever I want, eh?”
“Within reason,” she retorted through a smile.
“I’m a very reasonable man,” he said, straight-faced.
“What you are, Pastor Ethan Johnson,” she said, shaking a dainty finger at him, “is a tease.”
“Maybe a little bit,” he admitted, smiling, “at least with you. It’s just that you’re so very serious. Sweet but serious.” And he should learn to keep his mouth shut. Her blue gaze clouded and skidded away.
Long seconds ticked by before she said, “I have to go.”
He followed her to the door, wondering if he shouldn’t enlist someone else to help gather the greenery and knowing he wouldn’t. “Goodbye, Robin.”
“Goodbye, Ethan,” she whispered. He’d have missed it if the acoustics in the room hadn’t been so extraordinary.
She pushed out into the December sunshine. He followed, calling after her as her footsteps fell swiftly across the plank walkway, “Nine o’clock, Saturday. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
He watched her walk away, wondering if God was telling him that the past could finally be put away once and for all. Or had he come to Jasper Gulch to make another hideous mistake?
* * *
Robin did not next see Ethan Johnson on Saturday as she assumed she would; she saw him on Thursday evening. He called that day to say that he’d put together a committee to plan, design and construct decorations for the church, but because the ladies felt they hadn’t a minute to lose, they wanted to meet that night. What could she say, that she’d rather not see him again so soon because she found him entirely too attractive for her peace of mind? Of course, she said that she would attend the meeting, and then she prayed for some way to get out of it.
While she was mentally sorting through excuses, her landlady, Mamie Fidler, stopped by her room to say that she was on the committee, too, and going to the meeting.
“Might as well head over there together. No sense in both of us burning gasoline.”
Sixtyish, single and no-nonsense, Mamie Fidler wore hiking boots, denim skirts and flannel shirts year-round everywhere she went, even to church. She had “decorated” the Fidler Inn with utilitarian hominess, so Robin was somewhat surprised that Ethan had recruited her for the committee. On the other hand, Mamie was handy with all sorts of tools, including fishing poles and skinning knives, and she was brutally efficient.
“I’ll drive,” Robin volunteered.
“I’ll get my gear. You got a slicker?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Too bad,” Mamie opined, shaking her head.
That was how Robin found herself rushing through a light but wet snowfall in twenty-degree weather over a boardwalk dusted with a mixture of rock salt and sand toward a rectangle of light in the darkness. The door in the education wing of the building opened well before they reached it, and Ethan rushed out, armed with an umbrella. Mamie, covered head to ankle in a shapeless water-repellent poncho, plowed ahead, disappearing into the hallway.
“I’m so sorry,” Ethan told Robin, shaking off the umbrella before collapsing it and pulling it in behind them so he could close the door. “The skies were gray earlier, but the weather forecast didn’t call for snow.”
“The weather bureau should consult Mamie.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I find it wise to consult Mamie on a lot of things, like where’s the best place to find the greenery we’ll need and how to keep it from drying out too badly before Christmas comes.”
Ah. Now things were making sense. “You’re a wise man.”
He laughed. “Maintain that thought, will you?” Placing his warm hand at the small of her back, he applied light pressure, saying softly, “Come along and meet the others, but be forewarned. Some here are used to taking charge in every situation. In this, however, you are our guide. Understand?”
She nodded absently. Even through the thickness of her coat, his touch unsettled her, so she set about nonchalantly peeling off the outer garment as they walked through the corridor to the meeting room. As soon as they reached their destination, he offered to take her things and stow them on a table with everyone else’s. Familiar faces turned from a second table set with muffins and a Crock-Pot of apple cider.
In addition to Mamie Fidler, Robin recognized Allison Douglas, Rosemary Middleton and her daughter, Marie, Abigail Rose and Nadine Shaw, the mayor’s wife. Everyone greeted Robin and invited her to partake of the muffins, provided by Rosemary, who ran the local grocery along with her husband, and cider, which Allison had brought. Marie Middleton would be of great use, being a florist. Nadine’s inclusion made sense because her eldest daughter, Faith, was marrying Dale Massey on Christmas night, so the decorations would be of special interest to her, but Robin couldn’t help feeling nervous around any of the Shaws, the mayor and his wife in particular.
Robin made a point of sitting at the opposite end of the conference table from Nadine, and unless it was her imagination, Ethan made a point of sitting next to her. Everyone else seemed to think so, too, though Abigail was the only one who gave an overt sign, raising both eyebrows. The others merely traded casual glances, all except Mamie, but Robin knew her landlady well enough by now not to mistake the twinkle in her golden eyes.
Ethan’s attention was explained when he raised his head from the opening prayer and said, “Now, then, ladies, thanks to Robin, you have before you copies of photos of Christmas decorations from one hundred years ago.” He went on to say that she had agreed to act as their historical consultant on this project. That won her smiles from the others, and she relaxed somewhat. “Robin,” he concluded firmly, “will have the final say on all designs.”
Soon they were all deep in conversation about swags, garlands and wreaths, as well as the past tendency to attach meanings to certain types of greenery. Marie started sketching, and Mamie set about estimating the necessary foot length of boughs that would be needed. Before long they had a design and a plan. Nadine divided up the responsibilities, and everyone went along without protest until she came to gathering the greenery itself.
“We’ll take care of that on the Shaw Ranch.”
“Uh, no, we have that covered already,” Ethan said.
“But—”
“The McGuire Ranch has more of what we need,” Mamie stated bluntly.
“You have enough to worry about,” Allison pointed out, “with the wedding and all.”
“Robin and I will take care of the greenery,” Ethan insisted, looping an arm around the back of Robin’s chair.
Just like that, every eye riveted to the pair of them again, and just like that, Robin’s breath caught in her throat.
“We, um, want to leave you and Marie free to concentrate on the wedding,” she offered with a wan smile.
“And I need Robin’s expertise on the specific meanings of the various types of greenery,” Ethan said. The speculation in the eyes around the table did not dim one iota, however.
“Who would really know the difference these days?” Nadine asked.
“I would,” he answered firmly, and that was the end of it.
Robin wondered if Ethan realized that he had just made them the object of conjecture and gossip. Surely he wouldn’t want that, especially if he ever found out why she’d really come to town. A pastor wouldn’t want to be linked to a woman who had come here under false pretenses to meet the family who didn’t even know she existed.
Then again, perhaps she had misjudged him entirely and he would be all too glad for a connection, any connection, no matter how distant, to the first family of Jasper Gulch—that was, if the Shaws didn’t toss her out on her ear the instant they discovered the truth about her great-grandmother Lillian.
Or rather, Lucy.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8a10bb5e-08b1-570f-b3ee-b9a0b320a0e2)
It occurred to Ethan, belatedly, that the speculation about him and Robin Frazier could serve a purpose. He hadn’t meant to suggest that a romance might be brewing between then, but the presence of a possible love interest could provide him with a shield against unwanted attention. Perhaps, if everyone thought his own interest to be fixed, he could relax, at least for a little while, instead of being on constant alert for lures being cast his way.
The thought buoyed the young pastor so much that within hours the next morning, he had women sewing chrismon symbols out of white fabric and nearly a dozen children lined up for parts in the Christmas pageant to be performed on Christmas Eve. Moreover, he was busy writing a script, dependent largely on scripture, for the reading, which he proposed to do with one man and two women.
He was surprised by how quickly the whole program began to take shape in his mind. He didn’t imagine that Christmas-pageant costuming had actually changed much across the centuries since the time of Christ, but he wanted to copy what had been used in Jasper Gulch one hundred years ago, and he would require Robin’s help to ensure accuracy. Before even that, however, he suddenly found himself in need of some expert advice on historical Hanging of the Green services.
It was an old tradition of mostly European origin, and he’d been through several of them, but he wanted this year’s service to be as authentic as possible as one that might have taken place a hundred years ago in Jasper Gulch. So off to the museum he went on Friday. He stopped off at the diner and picked up a sandwich on the way, arriving close to the lunch hour. Leaving the half-eaten sandwich in the cold car, he went in to find Robin and Olivia sharing brown-bagged meals in the break room.
“Ethan!” Olivia greeted him, smiling broadly over the rim of a steaming cup of soup. Like Robin, she didn’t look much older than a teen, with her petite stature, blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. She’d married Jack McGuire in October at the centennial’s Old Tyme Wedding, to no one’s real surprise. The two had a well-known history that had made them an item from the moment Olivia had stepped foot back into town after an absence of several years. “Jack tells me that you’re coming out Saturday to raid the place for greenery.”
He shot a glance at Robin, who sat staring at a prepackaged potpie on which she’d barely broken the crust. “Yes. Um, Mamie Fidler judges that the McGuire Ranch has the greatest variety of greenery hereabouts.”
“She’s right,” Olivia said, stirring her soup. “There’s cedar, which symbolizes royalty, fir and pine for everlasting life, holly, which represents the ultimate mission of Christ on the cross, and ivy, a symbol of resurrection. All would have been well known, I imagine, to anyone halfway versed in the traditions of the church a hundred years ago.”
“More so than today, it would seem,” Ethan muttered.
“Don’t forget the bells,” Robin put in. “Bells to signify the birth of royalty.”
Ethan shared a conspiratorial smile with her as Olivia said, “And I thought jingle bells were just for fun.”
He cleared his throat and mused, “Obviously, you two have already done excellent research.” He looked to Robin then and added, “I don’t suppose we could find an order of service or program for the Hanging of the Green ceremony, could we?”
She didn’t even have to think it over. “From a hundred years ago? Doubtful. If such a thing exists, it would be in your files.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing there. At least not that I can find.”
“We might find something online from another church in another part of the country, if that will be of help to you.”
“I suppose it’ll have to do. I did think of it, but surfing the internet on my cell phone is not very handy.”
“I’ll take a look for you,” Robin said, starting to rise.
Ethan waved her back down into her chair. “Finish your lunch first. It can wait.”
“Maybe you’d like to join us,” Olivia offered. “I could heat you a cup of soup in the microwave.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “if you’re sure. I just happen to have a sandwich in the car.” With the temperature hovering just above freezing, he’d judged that the sandwich would be as safe in his car as in a refrigerator.
“Your soup will be ready when you return,” Robin promised, getting to her feet, “and my pie should be cool enough to eat by then, too.”
“In that case, I’ll be glad to join you,” he told her, setting off.
He caught the speculative look that Olivia sent Robin as he slipped back out into the hallway. He felt a pang of guilt about that, but that was how it went in a small town, or so he told himself.
* * *
Strangely, while Ethan was at the museum sharing lunch with her and Olivia in the break room, Robin looked forward to Saturday’s outing with him. Later, as he sat at her shoulder while she searched the internet for historically accurate Hanging of the Green services, she couldn’t help being intensely aware of his every breath, murmur and movement with a kind of joyous expectation. Later, they surfed the web looking for and ordering delicate, period-appropriate glass bulbs and electric candles, as real ones would be too dangerous to use. Only after he went on his way, leaving her to her usual work, did she begin to have serious doubts about keeping company with him.
Perhaps the speculative looks that Olivia slid her way when she thought Robin wasn’t looking were to blame. Or maybe it was realizing how much she was coming to enjoy the pastor’s easy company. The phone call that she received as she was letting herself into her room at the Fidler Inn that evening certainly didn’t help.
“Hello,” she said, juggling her things. “One minute, please.”
“Robin?”
The sound of her mother’s voice instantly made the industrial carpet seem a more dull shade of brown than usual, and the creamy faux chinking between the faux logs on the walls suddenly became a rather uninspiring tan.
“Robin, is that you?”
“Yes, of course, Mother. Who else would it be?”
Her kitchen, which consisted of a six-foot length of brown cabinet that held a two-burner stovetop, a tiny microwave, minifridge, bar sink and four-cup coffeemaker, had been entirely adequate before; yet now she saw it as ridiculously lacking, even for a single woman whose main meals were prepackaged and microwaved.
“Well, it could be anyone, for all I know,” Sheila Frazier complained. “It’s been days since we last spoke, and you might have moved out of that dreadful motel by now.”
Strange. Ethan had recognized her voice after a single chance meeting. Well, perhaps more than one. But shouldn’t her own mother be able to recognize her voice? And how did Sheila know what the inn was like? She’d never been here. Still, the comfy patchwork quilt on the bed suddenly seemed faded and old, and the unstained woodwork that had struck Robin as so fresh when she’d first come to stay at the Fidler Inn now appeared unfinished, incomplete.
Dropping her handbag on the bed, Robin stared at the little square dining table—which bore no resemblance to the pair of chairs that flanked it—and steeled herself for the conversation to come, her mood shifting just as her surroundings had.
Sighing, she asked, “What is it, Mother?”
“I thought you should know that a position has come open as a research assistant here at the university. The Templeton foundation is endowing the position, so if you apply, you’re guaranteed to get it. I know it smacks of nepotism, but after all the good the Templetons have done the university, we are not ashamed to—”
“Mother,” Robin interrupted, wondering why she couldn’t exercise the same circumspection with her own family that she did with everyone else, “this position is in the science department, isn’t it?”
“Well, of course, but you are a trained and able researcher.”
“I am a historian,” Robin said, enunciating each syllable clearly, her temper barely in check. “I know you place no value on that, but history is what I love. History is what I do. And I already have a job as a historian here in Jasper Gulch.” Never mind that it barely paid above minimum wage or that she’d been thinking of leaving.
Her mother’s reply was exactly what Robin expected.
“Oh, honestly. You cannot mean to bury yourself in that hideous little throwback of a town, where you don’t even have decent cell-phone service so I have to call you at your motel, all in the vain hopes of connecting with some jumped-up cowpokes who just happen to be distant relatives.”
Robin pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mother, do you not realize that you are displaying the very same attitude that drove Great-Grandma Lillian away from her home?”
“And you are determined to follow in her footsteps!” Sheila Templeton Frazier, Ph.D., insisted shrilly. “What have we done that is so awful?”
“You haven’t done anything, Mother,” Robin said. “I didn’t come here to get away from you. I came in search of something more. Why won’t you listen?”
“And why won’t you understand,” Sheila countered, “that you are nothing to these Shaws? You will never be anything to them but a lying little opportunist, Robin. You may think that because they’ve accepted young Massey into the fold, they’ll accept you, too, if only for the Templeton name, but I assure you that is not the case. Even if they believe your claims, which I doubt, once they understand that Templeton funds are tied up exclusively in the foundation for scientific research, they’ll bar you from the door. Mark my words. How many times has it happened before?”
Sadly, Robin had lost more than one erstwhile friend who, having discovered her Templeton relationship, had thought she could command the Templeton money. Only those connected with the Templeton Foundation for Scientific Research enjoyed the largesse of Templeton funds, however, and Robin had long ago decided that science was not her calling. Her father managed the foundation, from which her Templeton grandparents had both retired. Her mother was herself a research scientist, so the Templeton foundation was, in a very real sense, the family business. But not—much to the chagrin of her parents—for Robin.
She was fully aware that if she didn’t somehow engage with the foundation or marry someone who could be taken into the foundation, all the Templeton money would pass out of the family’s control with the deaths of her parents. And that was fine with her. What the Templetons didn’t seem to understand was that family was more important to Robin than foundations or money. They just didn’t understand how sad and lonely she was because her acknowledged family consisted of only her parents, her Templeton grandparents and one unmarried Frazier uncle, her father’s brother, Richard, none of whom seemed to value her in any real way. They looked down on her profession. They looked down on her relationship with her beloved late great-grandmother. They even looked down on her faith, which she’d learned at her great-grandma’s knee.
She’d never known her Gillette grandparents. Her Frazier grandparents had both died when she was young; she didn’t even remember her grandmother, Dorothy Elaine Gillette Frazier. Perhaps that was why she had been so close to her great-grandmother, Lillian Gillette. And that was why, a year after her beloved great-grandma’s death, she had come here to Montana to find what remained of her family. Her Shaw family. Lillian, many would be shocked to know, was not Lillian at all but rather Lucy Shaw, whom entire generations of Shaws thought dead and buried for decades.
They all assumed that Lucy Shaw had died in 1926 when her Model T automobile had careened off the Beaver Creek Bridge into the rushing water below. They had no idea that Robin’s great-grandma Lillian had confessed on her deathbed, at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, that she was Lucy Shaw and had faked her own death in order to run away from Montana to New Mexico with her beloved Cyrus. Lillian—or Lucy, rather—had encouraged her lonely great-granddaughter to find her Shaw relatives in Montana, but Robin’s father and mother had insisted that Lillian had been raving when she’d come up with the “Montana story.”
Several weeks ago, Robin had finally found enough proof to convince her that Lillian’s story was true. Lillian was Lucy, but Robin’s parents wanted nothing to do with the Shaws, considering them little more than country bumpkins who would try to impose on the storied Templeton name and the science foundation that her mother’s family and Robin’s father so assiduously protected.
Sadly, as her parents had recently pointed out, Robin now had little reason to believe that the Shaws would want to have anything to do with her. After all, she had been living and working among them under false pretenses for months. Her parents wanted her to forget the Shaws and come home to New Mexico to “do something useful” with her life, the study of history not being on their list of useful endeavors.
If only Robin had trusted Great-Grandma Lillian and not let her parents put doubts into her head about the veracity of Lillian’s story, she wouldn’t be in such a mess now. She could have gone to the Shaws with a straightforward story and looked for proof without subterfuge, but she’d been so afraid of branding her beloved great-grandmother a liar that she’d become a liar herself. Even though she’d found the proof she’d sought, her mother was right that the Shaws weren’t likely to look kindly upon her lies. And neither, she imagined, would Ethan Johnson. What man of God would?
So, despite her brave words to her mother over the phone, Robin worried that she ought not to accompany Ethan the next morning. After the call ended, she hung up the bedside phone and sat brooding about it for several minutes.
She sensed that Ethan was a very special man and that under other circumstances something special might even develop between them, but her deceit had surely doomed any possible relationship already. It would, she was convinced, be better simply to end her association with him entirely. Perhaps she ought to just leave Jasper Gulch altogether. Maybe her mother’s phone call was a sign of that. Maybe God was trying to tell her to get out now before she humiliated herself.
When the phone rang, her cell phone this time, she halfway expected it to be Ethan telling her that he wouldn’t need her assistance on Saturday after all.
Instead, he said, “I’m making a terrible pest of myself, aren’t I?”
She had to laugh. “Hello to you, too, Ethan.”
“Oh, good. She’s not ready to hang up on me. Yet.”
Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “What is it now?”
The phone crackled, as cell phones tended to do in Jasper Gulch, then he very clearly said, “Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to come to the church this evening? I need some advice concerning the pageant.”
She held her breath, wondering if she ought to refuse simply because she so very much wanted to see him.
After a moment, he softly counseled, “You know, it’s okay to pray about these things first. I do.”
She touched her eyebrow and closed her eyes, picturing him with that phone in his hand, praying about whether or not to call her, but then she shook her head. That wasn’t what he meant. Surely that wasn’t what he meant.
“What time?”
“Around seven?”
“Seven it is.”
“Great.” She could hear the relief in his voice. “Weather shouldn’t be a problem, but dress warmly. The sanctuary is chilly on a Friday evening.”
“All right.”
“See you soon.”
She broke the connection and sighed. Whatever was wrong with her? Did she have to go looking for a broken heart? Maybe she should just tell him that she couldn’t go with him tomorrow and put an end to this whole silly crush before she did something truly stupid.
* * *
She turned up at seven sharp, her pale gold hair twisted into a prim knot atop her head. It seemed to Ethan that she’d come armored, with a wide headband that covered her ears and a big, fuzzy, shapeless pale green sweater that covered her almost from knees to chin. Brown leggings and half boots completed the ensemble. She looked rather like a prickly pear, and he had to wonder if that was the point, so wary did she seem at first.
He’d felt compelled to call her. Indeed, seeing her tonight had seemed absolutely imperative. Nevertheless, he welcomed her skittishness and got right down to business, leading her straight into the sanctuary to describe in detail his ideas for the Christmas Eve pageant.
“What do you think?” he asked, finally winding down. “Now, I know they wouldn’t have had this great space to work with, so I’m open to suggestions.”
Robin walked back and forth, considering carefully before saying, “We could put down a tarp and scatter some hay, maybe stack up a few bales and cover them with hopsacking.”
“Very doable.”
“We could also paint a backdrop and string it up on rope.”
“Which do you think would be more in keeping with the period?” Ethan asked.
She tilted her head, thinking it over, perhaps picturing it. “I think we should use loose hay and build a rough stable with timbers or logs.”
“I agree. I’ll get some of the men on it, but I’ll need you to approve their plans. If you don’t mind.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and, after a moment, shrugged. He let out a silent breath.
“About the costumes,” she suddenly began, “the fabrics will be the important part. I’ll ask around. Maybe Mamie has some vintage stuff. If not, we’ll have to arrange a trip into Bozeman or another larger town.”
A smile broke across his face. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you, any of it.”
To his utter relief, she smiled. “Glad to be of service.”
He laughed, feeling tons lighter, and impulsively took her hand in his, saying, “I will be so relieved when we have all the greenery gathered.”
Frowning, she pulled her hand free and turned away. Ethan’s heart abruptly sank.
“Robin, is everything okay?”
She sent him a quick, joyless smile. “Oh, you know how it is. Christmas can be a bittersweet time.”
“Are you missing your family?”
She turned to face him then looked down at her toes. “Yes and no. Sadly, I don’t miss the family I have, but I do miss the family I don’t have. Strange, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” he admitted.
“You couldn’t,” she told him with a shake of her head. “But we ought to miss family, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said simply, “but family is sometimes a burden.”
Her round, blue gaze sharpened. “Is yours?”
He wanted to tell her then, everything, about his losses and disappointments, his fears and heartbreaks, his hopes and needs, but he didn’t dare.
“Some of them are,” he answered evasively. “I miss my sister and niece, though.”
“Oh? Will they come for Christmas?”
Sadness stabbed him. “I doubt it.” That was a half-truth at best, though, and he suddenly wanted very much to give Robin better, so he followed it with a flat “No.”
For some reason, she seemed almost as disappointed as he felt. “That’s too bad.”
“Will your family come here for Christmas?” he asked.
She didn’t even pause to think. “Oh, no. They wouldn’t.”
“Will you go there?” It hadn’t occurred to him until that very moment that she might, and he suddenly realized that all his plans would crumble without her.
As was her custom, she mulled over her answer for a moment, but then she shook her head. “No, I won’t go there.”
Ethan didn’t try to hide his relief. He let it beam out of him. “I am selfishly glad. I don’t think I could pull off this centennial Christmas without your help, and I wouldn’t want to try.”
She smiled then, genuinely smiled. He clasped his hands behind his back, the sudden need to reach out and pull her against him shaking him to his toes. Instead, he offered to walk her to her car. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all, though he was having some trouble with the gentlemanly thing at the moment.
As she drove away into the night, he prayed for guidance. And self-control. It had been a very long time since he’d felt anything like what Robin Frazier stirred in him.
For a moment, long-dormant memory swamped him. Suddenly he was back in Los Angeles, standing on the curb in broad daylight, Theresa beside him. He heard the squeal of tires and the sharp, rapid staccato of gunshots. He felt himself flinch and throw up his arms, dropping to his knees as dust and bits of concrete stung his skin, and then as abruptly as it had begun, it was over, except that almost at once the iron-rich smell of blood rose into his nostrils, coating the back of his throat. He opened his eyes to find Theresa on her back with her dark hair spread across the sidewalk, her arms flung haphazardly across her slender body, a neat hole in her forehead and another in her neck, her dark eyes wide but unseeing, as he tried in his panic to keep her from leaving him. Some part of him had known from the first glimpse that she was already gone, but he’d had to try.
He hadn’t tried to hold a woman since then, and he never meant to.
“Ah, Lord,” he whispered, “don’t let me go back there. Give me courage, wisdom and guidance, the strength to realize all that You plan for me and to walk away from anything that is not Your will. Anything and anyone.”
No matter how compelling.
Chapter Four (#ulink_9a68abc9-315a-5e6a-abc6-9215c2e5e415)
Somehow, when Robin was with Ethan, she felt strangely disconnected from the pitfalls that surrounded her. She knew intellectually that any relationship around Jasper Gulch was potentially problematic for her. As soon as her deceptions were discovered, people were bound to choose sides, and most would undoubtedly side against her and with the Shaws. Still, Ethan’s very presence tended to make her awareness of that fact fade into the background. That was part of what made him so dangerous.
As soon as they parted company, however, her thoughts would begin to seethe with very reasonable doubts and fears. She would quite naturally recall that her position in Jasper Gulch was tenuous at best, even with Ethan himself, perhaps especially with Ethan. No minister would look kindly at a woman who had come into a community under false pretenses and perpetuated the lie for months on end. That being the case, she wondered again if she should go on seeing Ethan. He seemed to addle her thought processes and blunt some of her emotions while exciting others.
Recalling that Ethan had told her to pray about things before she made a decision, Robin prayed that night, asking for clarity and wisdom. Exhausted, she fell asleep, assuming that God had essentially told her to leave Jasper Gulch, the Shaws and Ethan Johnson behind. Yet, when she woke in the morning, she found that she had just enough time to dress before the young pastor arrived to pick her up—and no time to arrange for anyone else to accompany him on his mission. Then Mamie showed up at her door with a pair of sturdy work gloves, snowshoes, a small handsaw and a plate of hot, melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls about three inches thick to combat the cold air that she let in with her.
What else could Robin do but hurriedly dress and wolf down cinnamon rolls while coffee percolated and Mamie made the bed? Ethan showed up while Mamie and Robin were demolishing the third of four monster cinnamon rolls and happily helped himself to the last one.
“Just think,” he quipped, “I’m keeping you both from the sin of gluttony, and at detriment to my own soul, too, as I came here from breakfast at Great Gulch Grub.”
They all laughed, then Robin confessed, “You might have kept Mamie from the sin of gluttony, but not me. I’ve already eaten way too much.”
“That makes two of us, then,” he said, mopping the icing from the plate with his finger. “Guess we’d better get out there and work it off.”
She finished her coffee, enjoying the bite of the black brew juxtaposed against the sweetness of Mamie’s cinnamon rolls, then rinsed the cup, gathered her things and went out into the cold, leaving Mamie to lock up behind them. God, Robin supposed, didn’t mean for her to leave Jasper Gulch right away after all. Otherwise, would He have allowed her this feeling of sweet, joyous anticipation after her long night of doubts?
They drove out to the McGuire’s Double M Ranch in Ethan’s old car because it had all-wheel drive, which he said had come in quite handy, given that some of his congregation lived as far as forty miles outside town. He played music through his smartphone connection along the way, and Robin found herself singing along with some of her favorite praise songs and hymns.
He smiled at her from time to time and once said, “You’re more accomplished than you let on.”
She shook her head. “No, not really. I don’t have much range or resonance. I really can only sing in groups.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“I suppose.”
As they drew near the new sprawling house with its blue metal roof and deep porches, Jack and Olivia came out to meet them. Both wore nothing more than their shirtsleeves, though Olivia had pulled the cuffs of her sweater down over her hands. The twenty-eight-degree weather didn’t seem to faze them a bit. Guess that came from being natives to the area. When Robin and Ethan got out of the car, Jack leaned a shoulder against the porch support and looked up at the sky, a uniform shade of pale gray today.
“Mornin’, Ethan, Robin. Good day for you. Temperature ought to top out above freezing.”
Bundled up like a polar bear, Robin smiled wanly. She supposed thirty-three was, technically, above freezing.
“You’re going to have to go upslope, though, to find some of the firs,” Olivia pointed out. “We have snowshoes if you need them.”
“We came prepared,” Ethan assured her.
Olivia waved at the ATV parked in front of the house. Every one of the ranchers in the area seemed to have the all-terrain vehicles, and old-timer Rusty Zidek, who was well into his nineties, sometimes used one to get around town even now. Except for the color, this one reminded Robin of Rusty’s. Bright yellow and designed for two people to ride side by side with a flatbed behind, it resembled a small, stripped-down version of an early Jeep. A tiny wagon had been attached for good measure.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to go with you?” Olivia asked. “This is a big place, you could get lost out here.”
“It’s all planned out, hon,” Jack assured her. “Ethan and I have gone over it in detail. He’s got GPS, an aerial map in case of weak signal and detailed instructions. They’ll be fine. Besides, they’re just going up as far as Gazebo, where they’ll eat lunch, and then on to Whistler. They should be back here by two.” He looked to Ethan then and said, “If you’re not here by half past, I come looking for you.”
Ethan nodded and answered, “Understood.”
Olivia, meanwhile, was smiling at Robin. “Gazebo,” she said, as if that had some special meaning. “I see. Well, then, don’t let us keep you.”
Ethan started transferring their gear, which included an odd sort of cooler, to the flatbed of the ATV. They climbed in, buckled up and were off. The thing proved to be a surprisingly loud form of transportation. Robin was thankful that Mamie had insisted she take a knit headband to wear under the hood of her coat, and not just because the cold wind would have sliced off her ears. And to think that it was only the sixth day of December.
Winters in Albuquerque and Santa Fe could be cold, but the lows there approximated the averages here, and with three hundred–plus days of sunshine and low humidity year-round, Robin had barely noticed the change of seasons back in New Mexico. Here the seasons were distinct, the precipitation and humidity overwhelming for a desert rat such as herself and winter seemed to be gray more often than not. And the storms! Last month’s freak winter storm and the resulting power outage had frightened Robin. If not for Mamie and her backup generator, Robin wasn’t sure what she’d have done. Even then, warm bathwater had been scarce.
Now here she was setting off into what amounted to wilderness with none other than the pastor at her side, and unless she was mistaken, he didn’t have any more experience at this kind of thing than she did. They were well out of sight of the house when he stopped the ATV at a splintered wood post and consulted both the GPS and the aerial map that he took out of his coat pocket and unfolded across the interior of the small vehicle. It felt amazingly warm once they stopped moving. He showed her exactly where they were on the map, and she felt better, knowing that he was on top of things.
“What’s the deal about Gazebo?” she asked as he refolded the map.
“I don’t think it’s a real gazebo,” Ethan said, “just a kind of shelter that Jack’s parents put up to protect a picnic table in a spot where they could look down on the valley and their home. Jack suggested it as a good place for us to have lunch.”
“I see. I didn’t think about lunch.”
“I did,” Ethan told her with a subtle smile.
Did he ever. Another fifteen minutes took them up the mountain on the west side of the valley high enough for them to find the kind of evergreen growth they needed. Robin had brought photos with her, so they were able to identify the cedar, pine and fir they wanted. Much of it they were able to cut with simple pruning shears, but the larger boughs required the saws.
They needed the snowshoes only once, when they went after a particular pine. Most of the trees were too tall for them to reach the branches, but the trees were smaller at the higher elevations, where the snow tended to pile up and stay around. It was up near Gazebo where they spotted the accessible pine, and they had to hike up to get it. They practically denuded the poor thing, taking two trips to get the fragrant boughs down.
“Why don’t I go up with the net and bring down the last load alone while you set the table for lunch,” he proposed.
“Great,” she agreed. “I know I pigged out at breakfast, but I’m so hungry now I think I could eat a bear.”
He laughed, and no wonder, for that was just about what he’d packed. She peeked into the strange, foil-lined “cooler” and found containers of hot vegetable soup, toasty melted-cheese sandwiches, warm ham-and-pea salad, fat rolls stuffed with sausages, a hash-brown potato casserole and thick slabs of brownie cake covered with melted chocolate and broken walnuts. She left it all in the steamy warmer and instead raided the box he’d brought along for a flannel-lined vinyl tablecloth, matching checked cloth napkins, dinnerware, flatware and cups for the coffee he’d included. She warmed herself with that until he returned, gazing at the valley below and the homey two-story ranch house in the distance where Mick McGuire and his new family lived.
Sheltered by the trees and the roof, the gazebo felt, if not warm, at least survivable, especially with the warm coffee inside her and the bounty of Ethan’s picnic at her elbow. Ethan arrived a few moments later, tugged off his gloves and straddled the wood bench beside her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So different from Los Angeles.”
“And New Mexico.”
“God must take real pleasure in His creation, just the variety and bounty of it,” Ethan said. “No place I’ve ever been makes me want to worship more than Montana, though.”
“That’s a lovely way of putting it.”
“It’s a lovely feeling.” He looked her straight in the eye when he said that.
All the world seemed to pause in that moment. She felt his words to her bones. She let them settle into her. She thought of all the sermons she’d every heard, all the words of wisdom she’d ever read, but none of them had ever moved her or touched her as deeply as Ethan’s simple declaration.
He loved it here. He had been called here to this place, to serve his Lord and these people. She envied him that calling, that belonging. She admired him for it.
He turned his bare hands palms up and asked, “Will you pray with me before we eat?”
She set aside her mug, tugged off her gloves and placed her hands in his, her head bowed and her heart aquiver.
* * *
They enjoyed a sumptuous meal.
“As sumptuous as Great Gulch Grub can make it,” Ethan told Robin with a chuckle.
“It was good of you to think of lunch.”
“Men always think of their stomachs,” he said with a wink. He had to stop that. For some reason he felt compelled to flirt with her. It was immature and foolish and had to stop.
She looked down shyly, scraping a fingertip across the checked vinyl of the tablecloth. “I’m surprised they put in a real tablecloth and napkins.”
“Oh, no, that was me,” he said without thinking, and her blue eyes zipped up in surprise. “Uh, Jack mentioned that the tabletop was rough planking, and I didn’t want to take a chance on paper napkins blowing away,” he finished lamely, letting the words dwindle into silence, only to have her beam at him.
“That was very sweet of you.”
“It’s just a tablecloth and napkins,” he said, ridiculously pleased.
They packed up and set off to Whistler, a notch in the rock where the wind was said to make high-pitched noises from time to time, in search of holly. Sure enough, just as Jack had said, they found several basketball-size clumps growing out of crevices in the sheer rock face. All were too far up to easily reach, however. Ethan thought a moment and came up with a plan.
“You could sit on my shoulder,” he proposed, “and use those long-handled pruning shears to cut the holly at the base.”
She touched her eyebrow. “And if I drop the shears on your head?”
“I’ll try not to drop you, too.”
She rolled her eyes, even as she reached for the shears with one hand. Ethan went down on one knee, and she climbed up, settling her weight onto his right shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked, wrapping both arms around her knees.
“I guess.”
“Up we go, then.” He stood. She weighed...just what she should. If he hadn’t needed to hold his head at a somewhat awkward angle, he could have carried her for some distance like this. As it was, he only had to walk a few steps to the rock face. She reached above her and, with some effort, clipped off the first clump, which fell right down into his face.
“Sorry!”
He spit specks of dirt out of his mouth, eyes blinking rapidly. “My fault. From now on, I’ll look down.”
“Can you move sideways a couple feet?”
Stepping over the big clump of holly, he moved to his left. This time, she used the shears to flick the clump behind them.
“Good job.”
“Think I have a future as a holly harvester?” she joked, stretching to get another big ball.
He assisted by lifting her slightly, heaving her up by the knees. “I think you have a future as anything God ordains.”
“Walked into that one, didn’t I?” she quipped, managing the third clump. “One more.”
She wound up basically standing in his hands, against the rock wall, to reach the final ball of holly. After it fell, she dropped the shears well away from him. “You can let me down now.”
“If you insist,” he told her playfully, backing up a step so she could bend her knees and resume her place on his shoulder.
His arms were shaking a bit by the time she was safely seated again, but he was feeling quite powerful and manly—and glad that he’d been working out regularly with the weights in his basement. Showing off a bit, he reached up to grasp her about the waist and twirl her to face him, almost dropping her in the process. Instantly, he clamped his arms around her and felt her body slam into his, knocking the breath from both of them. When his vision cleared, they were standing wrapped in each other’s arms, her face turned up to his. It took a supreme act of will, bolstered by a silent prayer, to drop his arms and step back.
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Arlene James
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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