A Log Cabin Christmas (18 page)

M
ina pursed her lips, and she brandished a book. The man dared to look surprised! “Don’t deny it, Mr. Carver. It was understandable that you weren’t pleased with my arrival. An undesirable reaction, but an understandable one. But your unreasonable rage over the furs, the petulant display regarding the storage area and moving the luggage, and now … this?”

“This isn’t what you think—”

“Look around you!” she hissed and gestured widely, using
A Compendium of Cures
to extend her reach. “Repacking my belongings? I’m neither blind nor foolish, although I am stymied as to why a forceful man such as yourself felt the need to wait until I lay asleep before evicting me.”

Instead of righteous ire swelling her accusation to a grand end, the creeping sense of betrayal broke Mina’s voice on that last statement. I lied, Lord. Forgive me for being unwilling to admit as much to Sam. I told him I’m not blind or foolish, but I’m both. How could I have slept, feeling cared for and protected, when he wanted me gone? Tears threatened, but she blinked them back, hating that he’d already seen her cry that day. I’ve tried so hard to keep my faith and push forward. Where do I go now, God? Am I never to have a home? To belong?

“You are foolish and obviously not blind, but you might just as well be.” His exasperation cut through her self-sorrow in an instant. “I never understood that verse in second Corinthians about how we’re to walk by faith, not by sight, until now. Have you no faith in me, Mina?” Sam still kept hold of her other arm, his gaze searching hers as though her answer mattered to him.

“I should.” She blinked. “You saved me earlier, took care of Belinda….” Mina closed her eyes. “But you don’t want us, and I’m upset that I let myself forget it this morning.”

“You’re right.” His agreement felt the way she imagined one of those trunks crushing her might have—all weight and no mercy.

“I see.” She took a deep breath and placed the book in the chest, reaching for another before he gave an exasperated sound.

“You’re right … you should have some faith in me.” He grabbed two entire stacks and dumped them, chock-a-block, into the chest before shutting it. That he managed to shut it on her haphazardly crammed darlings spoke volumes as to how much he wanted her to hear what he had to say. “You’re also right that I didn’t want you when you and Mrs. Banks arrived.”

This time Mina held her tongue and waited for him to finish.

“You’re even right in calling my reaction to the trunks in the back room
petulant
. But I’m not sending you away. Strange though it sounds, you belong here. And I’m not undoing your efforts to make the place homey.” He pointed toward the fireplace, where he’d rigged some sort of fence across the hearth. “I’m weighing down the trunks and containing the smaller items so they won’t fly about again. Your things are worse than worthless if any of them hurt you or Mrs. Banks.”

Mina blinked back fresh tears and gave him a tremulous smile. “In that case, I forgive you for shoving my books.”

“And since you were trying to make our cabin a home, I forgive you for hanging my furs.” He cast a wary glance at the walls. Mina knew how much that cost him.

Almost as if the earth itself knew how unnatural Sam’s concession was, the quakes chose that moment to start anew. The first groundswell sent her reeling toward the chest of books, but Sam caught her, holding her tight and turning her away from its sharp corners. “I’ve got you, Mina. Don’t worry.”

And with his arms around her to hold her steady, she didn’t.

Four mornings after the massive quake and its smaller sibling, Sam still found changes in the landscape. Other, lesser disturbances shook them at irregular intervals, but as these proved short-lived and lesser in intensity, Sam felt the deepest danger passed. If birds sang, he could venture forth.

Marks of the upset scored the terrain at every turn. Mighty trees stirred loose from the ground lay on their sides, tangled roots drooping in defeat. Collapsed branches blocked passes, and, worse, lay caught in the canopy of their peers waiting to fall the fatal distance. Boulders stacked atop one another for centuries tumbled down destructive paths to lay like so many giant scattered marbles. Streams changed course or dried up, their sources now blocked or altered by shifting mud and rock.

But worst were the blights Sam never thought to imagine. The small hill to the west, now sunken into itself as though its insides had leaked out. A narrow fissure in the forest floor, mouth opened in a yawn. A previously clear, fresh stream that ran from the east now carried the putrid smell of spoiled egg. Plants nearest the water began to brown, some evergreens taking a sickly yellow cast.

He trudged back to the cabin, eager for the comforting warmth and reassurance that Mina and Mrs. Banks remained safe. Before he even reachedthe door, he came upon Mina sitting outside, staring at a piece of foolscap that she held up against the sun.

As he drew closer, he recognized it as the letter from her father. Clearly, Mina was trying to decipher the faded portion. Just as clearly, Sam could see from her furrowed brow she hadn’t met with success.

“Drat.” She huffed, pushed back an errant lock of hair, and changed her angle. With her eyes squinted and nose scrunched in concentration, Mina bore an unlikely resemblance to a badger.

But a very cute badger
.

A corner of his mouth quirked upward at the observation, but Sam stealthily slipped into the cabin. Spotting Mina reminded him of something he intended to follow up on. With Christmas a mere four days away, Sam needed to get to work.

Making a beeline for the book chest, he pulled out the volume he’d thumbed through a couple of nights ago. Flipping through the pages, he found what he sought. Fancifully entitled “A Liquor to Wash Old Deeds,” the receipt promised to “revive lost writing” with the use of six galls, bruised, steeped in white wine for two days, and brushed atop the paper. White wine they had, courtesy of Mina’s friend, Lady Reed, who’d apparently helped her and Mrs. Banks the day they’d defrauded the corrupt solicitor. But …

“Mrs. Banks, are you in possession of galls?” he asked as best he could, not being entirely certain what a gall might be.

“I’ve got bottom, nerve, and cheek.” The old woman’s response made him smother a laugh, until he spotted the twinkle in her eye. Then he didn’t bother to hold it back. “But I’ve never liked the term
gall
. Sounds bitter and bad.”

“Spirit, Mrs. Banks.” He tweaked her mobcap. “You’re spirited. However, I refer to galls mentioned in this….” Sam passed her the book, waiting for her to read the description.

“I see.” She carefully shut the book and peered up at him. “I suspect, young man, if you wanted to read your letter so much I’d think you would have done something about it long ago.”

“It’s for Mina,” Sam explained. “Since it’s from her father, about her future … A Christmas surprise, if I can manage it.”

“Keep it up, Mr. Carver.” She passed him the book with a sage nod. “Soon enough no one will call you a bufflehead.”

“No one did before you, Mrs. Banks.” He chuckled. The old woman’s approval sat warm in his chest. “Now, the galls?”

“Oak galls. Those round knobs that grow on the trees.”

“Thank you. We’ve plenty of oak around these parts. I’ll go hunt a few ofthem down. And then we’ll see what comes of it.”

“Looks like something interesting from where I’m sitting,” she laughed after him. “I hope you’re ready for what’s revealed once Montrose’s words come creeping back to life.”

“It’s not the words that are important,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door. “It’s Mina.”

“Happy Christmas,” Mina smiled and passed Sam the package she’d been working on for the past week. She and Belinda already exchanged their customary Christmas letters—each of them still had every letter, going back to when Mina had begun to write.

“Socks!” Sam pulled two out of the gift wrap and flapped them in the air as though utterly surprised. “Just what I need. How did you know?”

Laughing at his antics, Mina shook her head. “How did you not? You’ve sat across from me as I knitted those every night!”

“Ssssh,” he cautioned. “This is a time to celebrate the miracles wrought by love. Last night we read from Luke. During Christmas, we remember the gift of His Son coming to earth, born as a man to later die for our sins. Angels sang, the Star of Bethlehem shone to mark the occasion, and great kings traveled to pay homage to the miraculous newborn with presents.”

“They didn’t arrive until Christ was older, and not in Bethlehem any longer,” Belinda pointed out. “No one likes to mention it, but after the trip to the Americas, I think it bears recognition. Traveling a great distance takes time, commitment, and belief in what you’re journeying toward. A years-long trip makes far more of an impression than one short enough for the Magi to reach Christ at the manger, if you ask me.”

“I’d agree with that.” Sam pulled out a small wooden box. “And sometimes, the wait makes something even more meaningful.”

“What’s this?” Mina accepted the box with curiosity.

“Usually, you open the present before you ask that.” Belinda’s chuckle softened her joke. “Otherwise, it’s an empty box.”

Opening the lid, Mina found a bottle of ink and a tapered brush. Her brow furrowed, no more enlightened than before she’d opened it. “Thank you,” she murmured, fingering the brush. “I’m not sure what …”

“Fetch the letter from your father,” Sam instructed, anticipation brightening his face. His excitement spread easily.

“Here.” She tried to pass it to him, but he shook his head.

“Now we’ll see if an old recipe can make a small Christmas miracle of our own. Lay the letter flat, and then use the brush.” He mimed painting. “Try a little on the faded parts, and wait.”

“Do you mean …?” Mina’s breath caught. In the next moment, she spread the letter flat against the top of the box, uncorked the bottle, and dipped the brush inside, wiping excess fluid on the lip of the bottle. Brush in hand, she stopped.

“Whether or not this works, thank you.” She reached out her free hand to clasp Sam’s. “I wanted to say it now, before it mattered either way. Just knowing that you went to the trouble to think of this, and to try to make it work, is the best gift you could have given me.” When his warm hand clasped hers in a firm, strong grip, Mina drew the strength to put brush to paper.

At first, the paper merely looked damp. Then, as though pulled forth from unseen depths, pen strokes appeared across the surface of the paper. So faint Mina feared at first she imagined them, the words gathered strength until they lay legible. So she could read her father’s reasons for making Sam her guardian.

How desperate I was to understand Papa’s reasons when I arrived. Mina laid down the brush, gathering her thoughts. I think I understand now. He chose Sam for his good heart, inner strength, and strong will to protect others. Papa chose well
.

No longer searching for answers, Mina picked up the letter, savoring the words connecting her to her father’s final thoughts on her future. She skimmed the oft-read portion above, until
I hold every confidence of recovery. Nevertheless …

The letter made her laugh, made her gasp, and even made her blush. Mina could feel the heat rising to her cheeks at the implication that her father had hoped she and Sam might be more than guardian and ward. But most of all … “It sounds just like him.” She smiled and passed the letter—written to Sam, afterall—back to its rightful owner. He had freed the words trapped within the page, but the true gift was freeing her from the prison of her final doubts.
I was right to come here
.