SNOW KISSED CHRISTMAS: Sweet Historical Romance Novella--Short Read (4 page)

1914, Christmas in a coal mining town in the Canadian Rockies. Carol has two adorable babies and a husband she adores—but meeting her neighbor, Julia, makes her think maybe she’s missing out on life.

SILENT LIGHT, SILENT LOVE
Excerpt

(Western Prairie Brides Series)

By Bobby Hutchinson

Chapter 1

Betsy Tompkins reined in her mare and studied the prairie landscape carefully. She was searching for the perfect sunset photograph, a dramatic study in light and dark. This was probably the best she was likely to find.

She slid off of Jingles’ back and dropped the reins to the ground, rubbing the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her blue gingham blouse. As usual, her long mass of auburn curls had come loose from her braid and was hot on her neck. She tried to shove her hair up and back under her sunbonnet, but it was a hopeless task. The late afternoon was hot; even though the wind was building, it intensified rather than lessened the heat.

Jingles nuzzled her back, and she smiled and patted her nose. She’d raised the brown mare from a filly, and Betsy knew she’d stay right where she positioned her. She retrieved her camera from the saddlebag, then walked over to the dry creek bed, squinting off into the distance to find the best visual balance between sky and undulating grassland.

It was late August, the hottest August anyone could ever remember on the Canadian prairies, and there wasn’t a trace of green anywhere, although her photographer’s eye saw beauty in the undulating yellow and brown grass. The air had a scorched smell, and the sky to the south was red tinged.

Her new Pocket Zar camera captured images in black and white, and she wanted the contrast between sky and land to be distinct and dramatic. She wanted to get a shot of Jingles silhouetted against the sky and the land.

The new camera was her most prized possession, a recent birthday gift from Annie and Noah, her sister and brother-in-law, and their children, her five beloved nieces and nephews.

Betsy still couldn’t believe her good fortune in having such a new and innovative device. She could take just one photo at a time, having to retire to a dark spot in the Ferguson farmhouse attic to load another glass plate before a second photo was possible, and she didn’t want to waste any of the dozen glass plates that had come with the camera. She’d ordered more immediately, they were available for twenty cents, but having them shipped from far away Chicago could take months. Still, the portability and convenience of the Pocket Zar made her old, cumbersome camera outdated. This one was going to increase her budding photography business, she was sure of it

She walked further along the bank, looking for a slightly higher spot, a more advantageous angle. Behind her, the wind had picked up, but there was nothing cooling about it. It felt even hotter than the last of the sun’s scorching rays, burning through the thin cotton of her blouse. The blue denim pants she’d borrowed from her little stepbrother weren’t nearly as hot as a skirt and petticoats would have been, though. Why should men’s clothing be so simple, and women’s so complicated?

She ignored the heat and took her time. Jingles stood patiently, outlined against the landscape. When she finally decided on the best possible vista, she slowly placed her finger over the lens opening, pulled and held the shutter release lever to one side, removed her finger, and aimed the camera. Then she let go of the lever and her held breath at the same time.

It was only when she drew in a deep lungful of air that she smelled the smoke. Whirling around, she saw a yellowish haze far to the south, low, burning, creeping like a snake over bluffs and little hillocks.

Prairie fire! She let out a startled cry and raced back toward Jingles, who was now tossing her head and turning in restless circles. The horse must have smelled the prairie fire long before Betsy did. She’d been skittish on the ride to the coulee, but Betsy had believed Jingles was objecting to the heat and the far off sheet lightning.

She stowed the camera quickly in her saddlebag, trying to calm Jingles enough to get her booted foot into the stirrup. When she finally managed to swing into the saddle, the horse took off before she could find the other stirrup. She fought with the reins, trying to force Jingles in the direction from which they’d come. That was parallel to where the fire was, though, and the mare fought, dancing and rearing.

Her years of riding stood her in good stead. At last Betsy had the mare racing in the direction of the farm, but she could see the cloud of the advancing fire growing brighter, and the smell of the blue-gray smoke burned in her nostrils. It was travelling faster than she thought possible, and terror filled her.

It was still some distance away, but it looked as if the prairie fire was heading at an oblique angle toward the Ferguson farm-and the wind was increasing.

Noah had gone early into Medicine Hat that morning for supplies. He wouldn’t be back until after dark, which would leave Annie and the five children to battle the flames alone if need-be. Their nearest neighbors, the Hopkinses, lived twelve miles to the west. Judging by the ungodly speed at which the fire was approaching, it was unlikely they’d arrive in time to help. Betsy had to get home as fast as she could.

Jingles was still fighting her, pulling at the bit and trying to turn away from the smoke, and the closer the flames came the more she fought. Neither of them noticed the gopher hole. Jingles’ right foreleg went deep into the dirt. She staggered and then fell hard, tumbling to the ground and rolling.

Betsy had a split second to tear her boots from the stirrups before she went flying up and over Jingles’ head. She landed on the packed prairie earth, knocking the breath out of her lungs, hitting her head hard on a jutting rock. Pain exploded in her skull and the world spun, turned dark, and then faded away.

Sergeant James Alexander Macleod led his small troop of North-West Mounted policemen across the prairie at a fast pace. He and three other Mounties had been dispatched from the Medicine Hat detachment that afternoon to fight the prairie fire sweeping across the plains. The mounted riders had split up, one heading for the Hopkins farm, and James and his two constables riding full out to reach the Ferguson’s, where they hoped to use a team and a plow to dig a firebreak and keep the flames from the buildings should the approaching prairie fire not change course. So far, the wind was not in their favor.

“Thank God you’ve come.” Annie Ferguson shoved her fiery red braid back under her bonnet and hurried toward them as they pulled up in front of the farmhouse. “The fire’s heading this way, and I don’t know what else to do.”

James saw that she’d already prepared a huge stack of gunnysacks to use to beat at the flames, and a red headed girl and two dark haired boys were frantically pumping water from a well and filling buckets and basins, as well as a nearby horse trough.

“Looks as if ye have things in hand, ma’am.”

“My husband is in Medicine Hat, there’s just the children and me.” Annie’s voice was steady, but the strained look on her face and the panic in her emerald-green eyes revealed her terror. The hot wind blew her gingham dress close to her body, and James realized she was pregnant.

“We’ll need yer team and a plow, ma’am, to dig a firebreak,” James said.

Annie shook her head, and her frustration was evident. “Noah took the team into town before daybreak, and my sister Betsy is off somewhere on her mare. I don’t have any other horses because neighbors borrowed our other team two days ago for harvesting.”

“We’ll use our mounts,” James assured her. “We’ll need tack. Is it in the barn?”

Annie was already off and running, her hands clasped under her belly, supporting it. The three policemen followed her, dismounting when they reached the large, well-constructed barn.

James, as senior officer, took charge, and the constable’s horses were rapidly stripped of their saddles and fitted out with harnesses. The men were hitching the horses to the plow when a brown mare came galloping into the yard. Foam dripped from her muzzle, and her eyes rolled in terror. She was saddled, and James moved slowly toward her, grabbed the bridle, speaking quietly to the animal, calming her with words and hands.

Annie cried out at the sight of the horse, and one hand pressed over her mouth. “Betsy, oh my goodness, where’s Betsy? She must be hurt, Jingles would never run off on her otherwise. Please, you have to find my sister, you have to.”

“Which direction did the horse come from?” James looked out toward the rapidly approaching flames, trying to guess how much time there was left to try and stop it with a firebreak before it devoured the entire farm. His men were already urging the horses and the plow toward the smoke. James was about to load gunnysacks on Ajax in preparation for smothering the flames. They’d do their best to save this homestead, but if this Betsy lass was directly in the fire’s path and injured---she’d need rescue, and quickly, if there was to be hope for her survival.

One of the dark haired Ferguson boys came racing over, his blue eyes huge in his dirty face. “Auntie Bets was going over to the coulee, she wanted to take a picture of the sunset from there, she told me. I’m going to look for her,” he said, taking off at a run.

“Halt, laddie,” James thundered. The boy slowed, then turned toward him. James waited until he was close, then bent down and looked straight into the anxious blue eyes. “What’s yer name, son?”

“Samuel, sir.” The boy gulped but bravely held James’s gaze. “Samuel Ferguson. Sir.”

“Samuel, I am Sergeant Macleod, and I need ye to stay here, young man, there’s important work I need ye to take charge of. I want ye to organize a bucket brigade wi’ yer brother and sisters, put up a ladder, and begin soaking down the roof of the house and the outbuildings so no sparks can catch. Can I rely on ye to carry out those orders?”

Samuel squared his bony shoulders and stuck his chest out. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. I’m riding out now to bring your auntie back home, Samuel. Can ye give me good directions as to where ye think she might be?”

The boy was smart and well spoken. He gave James concise directions, and after a few quick words with his men, James swung up on Ajax and headed off to find the missing woman.

The fire was closer now. Smoke and the stench of burning grassland smarted in his eyes and nostrils, and Ajax tossed his head and whinnied in protest.

“Easy, boy.” James patted the horse’s neck, knowing there was a very slim chance of finding the woman. He was likely off on a fool’s errand that could easily result in the death of his horse and himself. But he had to try. He squinted into the smoky heat, trying to see if anything moved in the distance. There was nothing, nothing except smoke and heat and a feeling that every ounce of air was being sucked dry of moisture. It was increasingly difficult to breathe as he rode further and still further in the direction the boy had given him.

It was Ajax who alerted him. The horse turned his head to the right and whinnied, and James caught a glimpse of something blue on the ground, several hundred yards away. He urged Ajax into a gallop, and was off the horse’s back and on the ground beside the girl in a few moments.

She was lying half on her side, her right arm twisted up beneath her, poor lassie. She had a mass of wild curly hair, not the true red of her sister, more a reddish auburn. Her delicate face was stark white underneath its sun-kissed gold, and her eyes were closed; long, inky eyelashes curled against her cheek. The scattering of freckles on her nose stood out in sharp relief. Her sunbonnet was askew and there was a deep, bloody gash on her forehead. He was surprised that she was wearing trousers—he’d only seen one other woman in men’s garb out here on the Canadian prairie, an eccentric stubborn female who’d homesteaded by herself down Fort Whoop Up way.

He remembered now that the saddle on the brown stallion had been a Mother Hubbard, not a sidesaddle. This was an unconventional young woman, to ride astride in men’s garb. It was a relief to see her eyelids flutter and open after a moment.

“Miss Ferguson?” He spoke in an urgent tone. “Miss Ferguson, we have tae get out of here quickly, can ye sit up?”

She didn’t respond except to give him gave him a dazed look. He moved her gently to her back so he could gauge the extent of injury to her arm. He did a fast and thorough examination, concluding that the arm wasn’t broken, but the wrist could be. It was difficult to tell with wrists, there were so many tiny bones. She moaned in pain as he moved it so it lay across her chest.

“I’m going to bind yer arm, lass, so we can ride.” He untied the blue bandana he wore around his neck, and then propped her against him to secure the wrist firmly against her body. She was silent as he quickly tied the makeshift bandage around her body to immobilize and support it. He was concerned that she’d sustained internal injuries, or some injury to her spine, but there was no real way of telling. Regardless, he was going to have to move her, and quickly.

“Sorry, Miss Ferguson, so sorry to hurt ye, lass, but we’re going to have tae ride. Can ye stand?”

He took her uninjured hand and slowly tugged her, first to a sitting position and then to her feet. She moaned and staggered, and he put an arm around her waist, supporting her. Her body stiffened as she tried to pull away, but her legs buckled under her.

There was no time to waste. He glanced over his shoulder at the smoke billowing toward them, and then gathered her up into his arms. She was slender and light, and he was grateful for that, but still it was going to be a fine trick, getting them both up on Ajax. The horse was a well-trained gelding, however, and wouldn’t balk.

She still hadn’t said anything. She looked bewildered and frightened, and he smiled reassuringly, hurrying over to Ajax. With some difficulty he hoisted her onto the horse, grateful for her trousers. It was much easier to position her astride without the bulk of petticoats and dress, and her body was pliant under his hands, devoid of whalebone corset.