A Log Cabin Christmas (24 page)

Liz Johnson holds a degree in public relations from Northern Arizona University, in Flagstaff, and works as a full-time marketing specialist for a major Christian publisher in Nashville, Tennessee.

by Jane Kirkpatrick

To my husband, Jerry, who stitches well.

Oregon, 1867

T
wenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Well, that last one is just half a button, so I won’t count it, Lacy,” Mary Bishop told her dog. At the sound of her name, the little spaniel’s tail wagged on the log store’s puncheon floor. In her window box, spring daffodils nodded sleepy heads to the season in the Willamette Valley of the young state of Oregon. A March sunrise flirted between big pines and firs to light the small window of Mary’s Dry Goods and Mercantile. It was home even without Dale, though these weary, rainy months after Christmas always made her sad, missing him more than ever.

Mary kept counting buttons. She planned to give at least fifty buttons to the Widow Mason down the road. She’d tell the mother of eight that these were old buttons, not in fashion anymore, and some were broken, couldn’t she see? Mary hoped the widow could “take these out-of-date buttons off my hands.” The widow wasn’t one for charity, so Mary had devised what she thought was the perfect plan. She was always planning. Dale, God rest his soul, often chuckled at Mary’s many plans, but weren’t they here on earth to implement what God planned for each one? That’s what she’d told him. He’d reminded her to let God handle the details. Mary sighed. How she missed that man!

“Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two …” The bell over the door jangled, and Mary looked up. She must have unlocked the door out of habit, for it was way too early for customers.
Oh no. Laird Lawson
. Lacy’s ears perked, and the dog rose then scampered toward the counter, away from the intruder, her little nails making skidding sounds on the pine floor.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bishop,” the old rancher greeted her. He frowned at the sight of the dog scurrying but added cheerfully, “Always good to see a woman up before dawn, ready for her day.”

She nodded to him but didn’t hold his gaze. He’d read more into any gesture of familiarity, and she’d be a half hour diverting his attention from his latest advice, probably about how dogs didn’t belong inside commercial establishments or log homes, for that matter. Even worse, he’d begin to tell her that her wares were out of date and she needed a man to sell farm equipment successfully. He had a tendency since Dale’s death to think she needed a man’s help and had assumed the role of advising others on their purchases. Sometimes Mary thought her prematurely white hair led Mr. Lawson to assume she was older and more frail and needed his assistance more than she did. What she needed were sales! Mary’s husband had been older by several years, and they had no young children running about, so she supposed people made assumptions about her age and abilities. She might look more “grandmotherly” than not with that pale hair and being a bit on the plump side. Yet she’d just reached thirty, and she’d had white hair since the age of twelve when she’d been struck by lightning.

Mary took a deep breath. She mustn’t let her financial problems drain her of good manners. “And a fine day to you, too, Mr. Lawson.”

“Ah Mary, isn’t it time you called me Laird? Twas my father who was Mr. Lawson.”

“And I’ve known many a Mary,” she corrected. “But I’m Mrs. Bishop still to friends.”

“Well now, Mary, you’re of an age where familiarity isn’t such a bad thing, is it?” He waggled his finger at her, and she noticed there was no dirt beneath his nails. It was a good feature of the man, his attention to cleanliness despite living in that log cabin in the woods without a wife to tend him—not that he hadn’t tried his best to get a woman to do just that. She’d heard he’d asked the Presbyterian mission in the East to send him a possible wife, just as the Reverend Spaulding had done. But Mr. Lawson wasn’t a Presbyterian or a reverend, so he had to recruit a new wife on his own. Mary feared that she had become his latest target.

“What can I help you with this morning, Mr. Lawson, to get you on your way to what I’m sure is a busy day ahead for you?”

“Oh, I have time before I head over to Smith’s store.”

“Smith’s
store?
It’s opened?” Her competition was already stiff with Cooley & Company in the heart of Brownsville.

“Brand-new clapboard establishment.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed larger, more modern establishments,” Mary said. She wasn’t that far from the heart of the town, but she was across the river, and her sales had been off. She’d thought it was the winter doldrums when people stayed at home in their cabins and sat by the fire to sew, read, or mend harnesses. Cooley & Company was well established, having bought out the original Brownsville store. Now this Smith had arrived to make it a three-way competition for customers.

“Mary, a woman alone can hardly expect to keep men customers in this old log store. I guess Smith figured a growing place needed a modern establishment.”

“Smith,” Mary said beneath her breath. “One can hope his wares will be as common as his name.”

“Didn’t mean to be the bearer of bad tidings.” He cleared his throat. “I need this list filled.” He handed her a page torn from a ledger book. “I can help you pull things,” he said. “Make it go faster. I know you keep your molasses on the top shelf.”

“No, no. That’s my job,” Mary assured him. She wiped her hands on her apron, smelled the lavender she put into the soap when she washed, and remembered Dale again. He’d loved the scent of lavender. “I’m not so old and decrepit that I can’t fulfill my duties to the good citizens of Brownsville,” she told Laird. “Why don’t you tend to your other business and come back in about an hour?” She didn’t want to be stuck with him hovering over her as she put lantern oil, salt, cone sugar, safety matches (she imported them from Sweden), seeds, needles, molasses, and a dozen other items into the wooden box he’d brought in for her to fill. “It shouldn’t take too long,” she said cheerfully. “I thank you for your business.”

He nodded then sauntered out, his eyes scanning the room as he left.

Checking on my inventory
, she thought. He always had suggestions for new things she should be carrying or ways to display her wares, but she liked to keep it the way she and Dale had arranged it.

She returned to finish counting her buttons. The act of counting and the idea of giving them away brought comfort to her restless soul. “Give and ye shall receive” scripture told her. “Fifty. Just right.” The ivory, shell, and tin buttons looked festive through the clear, thin apothecary glass jar. She decided not to tie a ribbon around it so it would look more like a leaving, something left behind, and not an actual gift. The widow could likely use the jar later for something else if she wished. When little Jennifer came in for her hard candy, Mary planned to send the buttons home with her with a note asking that the widow “take them off her hands.” She set the jar on the plank counter.

Now she tended to Mr. Lawson’s order so if he came back early she’d already have his bill posted and wouldn’t have him in her store when other customers came in. As she worked, she kept Dale’s spirit with her, letting the logs wrap their thick round arms around her for comfort. She checked off each of the items on Mr. Lawson’s list and then set the box aside, finished. She noted that he hadn’t ordered any large, more expensive items like a new axhead or a scythe. She supposed he was buying the more costly equipment at Cooley’s or the new Smith store. He did request a needle case, and she happened to have an ivory one. She hoped he’d not think it too expensive.

Once again the door bell jangled.
Back already?
Mary lifted her eyes but notto Laird Lawson. Instead, it was a man wearing top boots, his pants tucked neatly inside, and a leather vest over a shirt with a collar. He stared at her with one brown and one blue eye. His smile would smooth wrinkles from a well-worn dress.

She brushed her hands on her apron. She rarely saw top boots in these parts. Men here mostly wore brogans to resist the snow and mud. And those eyes… “May I help you?” Mary asked.

“You may not,” the man said. “But the proprietor of this fine establishment can.” He looked around. “I love cat-and-clay chimneys and puncheon floors.” His eyes gazed at the ceiling. Mary wondered what he thought of the cobwebs she hadn’t broomed away.

“My husband and I built this store together,” she said. “Found the logs, dragged them with horses and prayers, and with our neighbors raised it up.”

“It’s a fine store,” he said, and then turned back to face her and added, “My name is Richard Taylor, of the New England Taylors, at your service.” He swept his bowler hat from a head of hair as yellow as sunflowers. Soft curls nestled at his neck, but he was otherwise clean-shaven with close-cropped sideburns. The curl behind his ear reminded her of a small child’s just before a first haircut. He stood erect in his pants and vest, though his collar looked to need starching. A well-portioned man.
Good confirmation
, Dale would say if he were here and the man a horse. Mary blinked.
What am I thinking?

“I represent the Barbour Brothers,” he continued. “Thomas, Robert, and Samuel, formerly of Ireland and now of Patterson, New Jersey, where last year they built a flax mill and where they produce this fine, fine line of thread.” He carried a leather case and set it on the counter, pushing the jar of buttons aside. He reached into the satchel and then stopped. “But I’m ahead of myself. Will you secure your husband so I may make his day as well as yours and not repeat myself nor waste the time of such busy folks?”

“I’m the owner of this store, my husband being deceased. Mrs. Bishop.” She introduced herself. She noticed the softening of his eyes at the mention of Dale’s death, eyes that warmed like late-night coal ready for stoking.

“Ah, my mistake, my terrible mistake.” He lowered his eyes to where he saw Lacy staring up at him. “Will your mistress forgive me?” he said, his hands out as if pleading. Lacy’s tail began to wag. “Your dog has a forgiving heart,” he said as he looked at Mary. He gave her one of those puppy-dog looks that follow a broken cup just knocked off of the table.

His expression of exaggerated remorse made Mary smile. “At least you didn’t ask to see my son, the owner,” she said fluffing the white bun at the nape of her neck.
Now why did I bring up my age and draw attention to my white hair?

“The thought never crossed my mind,” he said. “But I surely meant no disrespect by suggesting you weren’t capable of being the owner. I rarely see female proprietors. Here, let me show you what I’ve brought that will delight you.” His eyes stopped at the button jar. “I see you have a fine selection of shell and ivory.”

“Those are for a friend,” she said, “who cuts all the buttons off her children’s clothing before running the shirts and pants through the labor-saving washer device her husband gave her for Christmas shortly before he died. The ringer breaks the buttons, you see. Then she sews them back on before Sunday church.”

“What people do for love,” he mused. “And what a generous spirit you have to cut down some of her time. How many children does she have?” Mary held up eight fingers. “Ah,” he said. He looked at her as though he might say something further, but instead he took from his leather bag a large cone of thread and tore off the white paper protecting it, revealing the most brilliant ruby color Mary had ever seen. “Named Rosa Red,” he said. “Names are important, don’t you think? A name sets your mind free to imagine. It’s yours for a pittance; I assure you.”

If Dale had been here, he’d have kept any smile from his face and begun to bargain. But Mary was taken by that red thread or maybe by this man’s savory voice, his stunning eyes. She held the cone in her hand, fingered the smooth flax. It was beautiful. She could see her quilting customers liking this brilliant color. “I’ll take three spools.”

“Three?” Mr. Taylor blinked those colorful eyes. “Well, that’s wonderful indeed, but wouldn’t you like to look at the other colors first? Maybe you’ll want one of each, Mrs. Bishop.”

“Please. Call me Mary,” she said. She felt her face grow warm with her boldness, giving a stranger her given name. “But I’m partial to red.”

“Why thank you. And you must call me Richard, if you please. You must be quite a seamstress,” he said, digging for what Mary supposed was his order form. Firm arms flexed beneath his white cotton shirt as he pushed things around in the satchel. “Such a good eye for quality.”

“For my customers,” Mary said. “I don’t actually sew myself except for buttons, of course.”

Richard’s hand stopped, and he looked at her. “A woman who doesn’t sew? Rare indeed”—he looked around—“without a maid.”

“I’ve no maid,” she said. She found herself moving from his brown eye to his blue, wondering at the unusual coloring. “My husband taught me to sew on buttons.” She didn’t tell him that as a child growing up in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, servants in their estate overlooking the Wisconsin River did suchmundane things for her. Her mother had died when Mary was born, and the servants and her indulgent father had been her family, until Dale. Dale had been a little shocked when he’d realized she had few domestic skills, though she assured him she was “quite trainable.” He set about doing that as they made the wagon trip west, their marriage beginning a new and glorious chapter of her life and a new skill at button sewing.

“A man after my own heart,” Mr. Taylor said. He stepped back as if surveying this unusual creature. “I do adore a woman who sews,” he continued, “but then, finding one who services those who do is almost as good … for a salesman like me.” He unfurled another cone of thread and then dug deeper into his bag, taking out pyramids of deep blue, sunflower yellow, and of course, snowy white. These would be samples. She’d have to order and wait for them to arrive, but Mary knew that. “Let me show you other necessities for the seamstresses of the region.” He set out ivory thread barrels carved with delicate flowers. “Chinese,” he said. “Look at these bead containers, netting rollers, and ratchets, and of course if you buy the cones, you’ll want these ivory thread winders for the skeins and hanks. I can make quite a good deal for you on all this.” He showed her several more items and then a catalog with even more choices.

He was a good salesman, Mary decided. Earnest with a few rough edges but honest, she thought, not monitoring every word for its sales affect. And he made her smile, telling stories of his travels and even one of tangled thread when he tangled a skein of yarn he showed her. He created distinctive yet respectful images of the Barbour brothers and the proprietors he’d met in the valley. He appeared to be a good observer of humanity and kindly disposed toward people.