Love Inspired December 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Rancher for Christmas\Her Montana Christmas\An Amish Christmas Journey\Yuletide Baby (2 page)

“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

I
n 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.”