The Parson's Christmas Gift

“Trouble you can handle has a way of turning into trouble you can’t,” Pastor Zane said. “If you let us know what’s going on, we’ll figure a way out.”

“The only thing going on here is I’m trying to figure a way to pay my debts, buy a horse and be on my way,” Journey said. “The only thing going on here is a pastor who thinks he can fix every problem. Well, there are some problems you can’t fix.”

Zane bent his head, but his stance held no anger. “We’ll play this your way for now, but watch yourself. And let us know when you need a hand.”

She was determined not to skitter from him, no matter how her thoughts pleaded with her to. Why wouldn’t he just go away?

Zane slid his hat back from his face and looked at her. “Journey, we have a saying here in the West that you might not have heard. But it’s good sound advice.”

“What’s that?”

“Watch your back.”

How little he knew. She was already backed into a corner.

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KERRI MOUNTAIN

grew up surrounded by books and storytellers, and credits her family for instilling in her the love of a good story in any form. An avid reader, the idea came to her that she ought to try writing a story of her own, but it didn’t take her long to realize it was easier said than done. So when she had the opportunity to pursue a master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction, it seemed a natural fit. She tries to write the kinds of stories she would want to read. The Parson’s Christmas Gift is her first novel.

Kerri lives in rural western Pennsylvania with her parents on their small family farm, and teaches in the district where she attended school as a child. She enjoys the quiet pace of country living and spoiling her niece and nephews on a regular basis.

Kerri Mountain

The Parson’s Christmas Gift

This is what the Lord says: Stand at the crossroads and look, ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.

—Jeremiah 6:16

To Mom and Dad—there aren’t enough words to

say thanks for all the love and support you’ve given

in any adventure God allows. Love you both!

And a big thank-you to all the critique partners,

mentors, friends and family who have helped

develop and improve this story far beyond anything

I might have imagined it could be. I praise God for

putting each of you in my path at just the right time.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter One

September 1870, Montana

She’d pay ten dollars for a hot bath if she had it.

Journey wiped the grit from her eyes and slid from her horse. She felt as if she’d been born in the saddle—and spent all of her twenty years there.

She checked her saddlebags. Eight dollars and some hairpins.

She scanned the town as it started to wake. Slowly the sun stretched over buildings, quiet and fresh as the barren peaks surrounding the settlement. Nothing like Savannah, still fighting to recover from the destruction of the War Between the States some five years past. Nothing like Independence, always bustling with folks coming from and going to parts unknown.

“It looks like we may be in luck, Gypsy,” she whispered to her horse.

The shop she was looking for sat near the end of the street—one with a plain, honest front, a quaint little porch and a worn sign proclaiming General Store in faded blue letters. Underneath, smaller letters spelled out a wide variety of items.

Journey slipped along the shadowed side of the building and pulled a small silver mirror from her satchel. Dust muted the freckles over her round cheeks, and she debated as to which was the worse. Her skin had darkened over the miles, despite the broad-brimmed hat she wore. But no amount of color hid the exhaustion from her dark brown eyes. Pulling the hat from her head, she ran strong fingers through the curls that coiled around each other until she could feel the tangles before she touched them. She remembered the brilliant red of her mother’s silky waves and wondered what had happened that it had translated to her as a dingy auburn, uncontrollable mass.

She tugged none too gently at her tight locks and poked hairpins in strategically. “If they catch me talking to you, Gyp, I guess it won’t matter how civilized I look.” She tugged the horse toward the front of the store.

Her dress barely showed its original flowered print and she didn’t know how much shorter she could cut her petticoats to reinforce the material. But she brushed the dust off as best she could and looped the horse’s reins around a post. With a deep breath she pulled on her shapeless hat and mounted the steps to the open door.

A cloud of grime swept over her worn skirt.

“Sorry, ma’am! I didn’t see you there.”

She drew her lips up in a gracious smile. So much for looking civilized.

The man stopped sweeping and leaned against the broom, nodding her through the doorway on his way out. “My wife’ll be with you in a little bit, ma’am. Take a look around.” Journey watched a grin peek from below his full mustache.

Whitened walls gave the store an open feel, much as the landscape did for the little town. An inviting stove glowed in the center near the back. Canned peaches, harness fittings and an odd conglomeration of pans and kettles rested on shelves and pegs behind the counters on either side. Barrels marked Flour and Sugar sat in front.

She tried not to notice the curious stares following her as she browsed her way along the bolts of yard goods, but still started when a young woman asked her, “Anything I can help you with?”

Pulling a bolt of navy broadcloth from the wall, she responded with a flash of smile, determined to be calm. “I’d like a dress length of this, please.” It would cut into her meager funds, but a purchase always made an impression when she needed information. She’d need a new dress before winter anyway. Tattered hems made only wrong impressions.

She stepped toward the counter. Though she’d always been short of stature, the shopkeeper’s wife dwarfed her by a good eight or nine inches. The woman must’ve been about her own age, judging from the smooth skin and bright green eyes. Honey-blond hair hung in a low tail down her back.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the lady said as she measured the cloth. Journey nodded when the woman glanced up. “I’m Abigail Norwood—Abby to most. Have you met my husband, Sam?”

“Yes, she did, I’m afraid,” the low voice called from the porch. He wedged through the door and made a show of putting the broom in its corner space. “I gave her a right unfriendly greeting, though.”

The woman shook her head in mock despair. “The one time I get him to sweep up in here.” A sheepish grin drew across her lips. “Anyway, it’s always nice to see a new face in town.”

“Thanks,” Journey said. She hoped her smile didn’t waver.

“You visiting family?”

She shook her head, making a show of fumbling with the latches on her saddlebag.

“Just passing through, then?”

Sam Norwood stepped back into the room from what Journey guessed was a storage area. He smiled under his thick mustache again, and his eyes twinkled at his wife. “You’ll have to forgive her,” he said. “She has a soft spot for the curious cat.”

A blush lit Abby’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just like to meet new folks. My apologies if I’ve overstepped, Miss…?”

“Smith…Journey Smith. Actually, someone with a little curiosity could be exactly the person to help me.” She breathed deeply, gathering any poise and confidence she could muster. “I wondered if you know where I might find work around here.”

“So you’re planning on staying? Most folks pass through on their way to Virginia City. What type of work are you looking for?”

“I’ve done a little bit of a lot of things. Tended children, waited tables—”

“Ever done housekeeping?”

“My own.”

Journey stood steadily under Abby’s gaze. She thought if she held her breath she could probably hear the gears whirring in the woman’s brain.

Abby turned to her husband then, looking down slightly to meet his eyes. “What about Miss Rose? She’s been hoping to find someone to help out around her house. I’m not sure what arrangements she’s thinking on, but I could take you out there if you’re interested.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town. I was thinking—”

“Nonsense. Miss Rose is a fine woman. Once you meet her, you’ll never want to leave.”

“It’s not that…” Journey stammered.

Abby looked up from where she was cutting the thick cloth. “At least speak with her. You never know how well things might work out.”

Journey searched for an inoffensive excuse. “I don’t want to be a bother. If you’ll direct me to her house, I’d—”

“It’s no bother at all. She lives on a ranch outside of town. Let me get my things and I’ll take you there,” Abby said, tying a string around the fabric Journey had purchased. “If you like, you can leave your trunks inside until you return.”

Fear fluttered like a moth in her throat. “I’m traveling rather light. All I have is my horse tied out front. I’m certain I could find the place on my own.”

As Abby patted the package and pulled her coat from a nearby hook, Journey caught her questioning glance but noticed it didn’t stop her motion. “It’d be easier to show you. Sam knows I need to get out on days like this, anyway. He can handle the store for a few hours until we get back. I haven’t had a chance to visit Miss Rose in a while myself. We’ll take some sandwiches and have a nice little picnic. It’ll give you a chance to get to know her.”

“You can tether your horse around back, if that’ll suit,” Sam offered. “My wife’s a natural guide, born and raised right here in Walten. Montana grows them pretty, that’s for sure.”

Journey forced her arms and legs to relax. There seemed no way around it, short of racing out the front door and galloping away on Gypsy. “If you’re sure.”

Sam moved back toward the storage room. “I’ll hitch up the team. Oh, and, Miss Smith—”

“Please, call me Journey.”

A dimple joined the grin on Sam’s face. “Journey, if things don’t work out with Miss Rose, come back here. We can’t offer much more than a cot, but we might be able to find some work for you.”

She nodded once, turning her head in time to catch the knowing smile Abby directed his way. Journey wrinkled her brow, wondering what these people expected from her.

“Thanks. I’ll just go and tie my horse around back.”

“Wait! Take your cloth—on the house.” Abby thrust the neat package her way.

“I don’t need charity.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

But she heard the insistence in Abby’s voice. “Not charity. I guess Sam owes you for the mess he swept over you. We can’t be treating our customers that way or we won’t have them long.”

She studied Abby. She seemed sincere enough, and she had made a point of not noticing the tattered seams in her dress. “I appreciate your kindness,” Journey said, looking away as she slid the wrapped cloth into her satchel.

“I’ll meet you around back,” Abby said.

Journey nodded. Their kindness overwhelmed her a little. Maybe Hank’s training had become more ingrained than she thought. They were just the type of people he had always sought—helpful and unsuspecting. Fortunately for them, she’d rid the world of at least one of his kind.

Journey slid farther into the corner of the narrow wagon seat. Abby had peppered her with a dozen questions before they’d even left sight of town. The sparse grass crackled under the wagon wheel, and she considered her odds of surviving a leap of escape.

“How far to the ranch?”

Abby paused. “Oh, probably three or four miles. Did you live—”

“It’s easy to get caught up in the scenery here,” Journey said.

“It is beautiful. Some folks complain about it being drab, with all the browns. They don’t pay attention to the shades of the mountains in the light, or the pockets of sage tucked in everywhere. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. But listen to me jabber about myself. Where’d you hail from?”

“Back East.”

“Yes, of course. I suppose most folks around here do, what with all the families settling in the area. What part?” Abby turned a smile her way.

Most folks took the hint when she answered in such an obviously vague way. “Well, I…I traveled quite a bit before coming here.”

“I’ve never been out of Montana,” Abby said. “But my pa’s family came once to visit…”

Journey’s attention wavered as she tried to ease her pounding heart. She considered making up something but hesitated. Lies had cost her plenty in the past. Weren’t lies part of the reason she found herself here now? Hopefully the woman would lose interest.

“I’ll bet you have a lot of stories about your trip west,” Abby said.

“I suppose I’m one of those who’d rather hear the stories of other folks,” Journey countered. She eased her lips into a smile, but it didn’t come so easily to her eyes.

“Then Montana’s the place for you. Plenty of storytellers around, waiting for a willing ear.”

Journey nodded. She’d met grandmothers who adored their grandbabies less than this woman adored her home.

Tension quivered down her limbs. How could she end this line of conversation? “You—y’all do seem real friendly. I do appreciate your kindness.”

Abby’s thin fingers tapped her knee. “Oh, let me guess—you’re from the South, right? Maybe somewhere in Georgia? My aunt Beth lives there. I remember when I was little and she came to visit us. She had the most delightful accent. I just recognized a little of it there in your voice. Am I right?”

“I, ah, I am from the…from the South, but—”

“You’ll have to describe it all for me sometime. I always hoped to go back and visit my pa’s family, see where he grew up. He and my ma moved back last fall, so to hear about it would make them feel a little closer.”

The wagon lurched to the right and climbed steeply, bringing a large two-story ranch house into view. Journey breathed in the dry air, glad for the break in Abby’s too-friendly curiosity. She had to stay alert. If something so minute as a tint in her voice could connect her back to Georgia, she wouldn’t be safe even through Christmas.

She examined the ranch. A sturdy barn with an empty corral faced the broad porch of the home, with about thirty yards of grass-pocked dust between. The bluff they’d crossed boxed around one edge of the property, but the view beyond scooped across the wide valley. Sage and scrub brush were the only thriving plants she could see across the landscape. The property was secluded from the casual traveler but not closed off.

A pounding hammer echoed and drew her attention to a broad-shouldered figure on the roof.

“That’s Zane—Reverend Thompson. He’d said he was going to see about patching some leaks for Miss Rose,” Abby said. “The last time Zane visited, it rained, and he said he had to move three times when water started dripping down his back. Each time Miss Rose just pulled out another pot to catch it.”

Journey knew what it was like to have to make do with what you had. She watched the man kneeling along the roof, sleeves rolled back over deeply tanned arms, shirt clinging between his shoulder blades despite the cool day. His dark brown hair glistened in the midmorning sun.

“You know him well?” She licked her dry lips.

“Oh, Zane and Sam grew up together. Their families came west together. I knew Zane long before he became our pastor. They say a prophet isn’t honored in his hometown, but somehow Zane has made it work. He’s a wonderful pastor, a true man of God. And of course those gray eyes of his don’t hurt him, either.” Abby patted her knee with a light laugh. “You’ll get to hear him tomorrow.” Journey forced another smile.

Tomorrow? She’d be long gone by then. She didn’t need any pastor to make her see her guilt. She knew it well enough already.

“Journey? Is everything all right?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. Everything would be perfect—just as soon as Walten and all of its fine and overly welcoming citizens were miles of trail dust behind her.

Chapter Two

Everything moved so fast—too fast. Abby’s chattering wearied her. She couldn’t keep up. Journey rubbed her aching temples.

The wagon rolled to a stop beside the porch. “Hello, the house!” Abby called, climbing down over the wheel. Journey did the same and stood close to it.

“Thought I heard a wagon,” a deep baritone answered. Reverend Thompson.

She watched Abby dig a sandwich out of the picnic basket and hand it to him as he stepped down the ladder and drank a dipper full of water. “We’ve come to share a lunch with Miss Rose.”

“And this is?”

Journey felt his gaze as he unwrapped his sandwich. With a deep breath to steady her shaking, she tilted her head up to introduce herself. “Journey. Journey Smith.”

“Now there’s an unusual name. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I imagine Abby’s introduced me already.” She stared at the hand he held out for a moment before shaking it. He smiled, crinkling his eyes at the corners and revealing a wide row of straight teeth and a cleft in his cheek. A shock of dark brown hair ruffled off his forehead, and a small thatch tufted at the back, making him look more like an unruly schoolboy than a minister. His square jaw proved more convincing, though his lips curved into a smile that seemed etched onto his face and had a depth she doubted lessened in many circumstances. “I’m Reverend Thompson to most folks, plain Zane to Abby. What brings you all this way?”

“Journey’s new to the area, looking to settle in for a while. I thought maybe we could work something out with Miss Rose. She’s been talking about hiring some help around here.”

“That so?” Zane bit into the sandwich and nodded once slowly as he chewed, as if considering the idea. He swallowed. “Could work fine for you both. Miss Rose is inside. I’m sure she’ll be glad to talk with you.”

He gazed directly at her, his gray eyes alight in the sun. “So how’d you come by a name like that?”

Breath caught in her throat, choking her. One of the few questions Abby hadn’t thought to ask.

“It’s a family name.”

His eyebrow tilted in a question, one she couldn’t read. “Well, that’s nice,” he said. “I—We’ll look forward to having you in our town.”

Had they all assumed she’d decided? She wasn’t staying here. She couldn’t. She scanned the landscape again. Could she?

The young pastor continued. Before she could force a sound from her dry throat, his attention spread to both of them. “I expect we’ll see you tomorrow at church. Hope everything works out for you, Miss Smith.”

“Reverend Thompson.”

“Please, feel free to call me Zane,” he said, seeming not to notice her wavering voice. He grinned, glancing up to the roof. Sunshine burnished the planes of his face a deep bronze. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a few more boards to replace. I’ll leave you to your visit. Thanks, Abby,” he added, waving the sandwich. He snatched another bite as he headed up the ladder.

Journey watched him climb to the roof before following Abby.

An elderly woman with white-gray hair opened the door before they could knock. Her round blue eyes lit with a warm smile for Abby, and with a question for Journey.

“Who do we have here? Come on in, and bring your friend. My, but I haven’t seen you in a spell,” she said. “What’s brought you ladies out today? Come in, come in.”

Warm sunlight streamed in two wide windows on either side of the far wall, making the room bright and airy with a view of the distant mountains. A few delicate vases sat on shelves below them. Two daguerreotypes stood on a high shelf, shrouded with a layer of fine dust. Otherwise the room held little adornment beyond the ornate couch and a simple wooden rocker.

The fireplace in the middle of the house glowed with faint embers. On either side, a doorway opened. One led to the kitchen and Journey guessed the other led to Miss Rose’s bedroom. Simple in design and decoration, it was so unlike the garish and cluttered rooms she’d lived in up until now. She liked it, quiet and unobtrusive.

They followed the tiny figure into the kitchen. Freshly baked bread steamed through cloths on the sideboard. The scent filled the room to the farthest corners.

“I was about to slice some bread for lunch,” the woman said. Journey noted her slow, sure step and the steady voice.

Abby rested the basket she carried on the table. “Then we’re just in time, Miss Rose. I’ve brought some chicken sandwiches for all of us. Zane already took one, and there’s plenty more.”

Miss Rose sat, then slid out a chair and nodded Journey into it. “I’m assuming your friend has a name you just haven’t got around to sharing.”

Abby’s light laugh held none of the nervousness Journey felt. “This is Miss Smith. She wandered into town this morning, looking for work and a warm roof to sleep under. Journey, this is Mrs. Rose Bishop.”

Journey forced her hand forward in greeting. Something about the woman reminded her of the ladies who would pass by the saloon on Sundays, all fine and proper. Except that this woman seemed to possess a kindness, a fairness—confidence born of something more than money and position. She tried to hold her fingers and voice steady. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bishop. Please, call me Journey.”

“Only if you’ll call me Miss Rose,” she said, getting up to set a kettle to heat. “Everybody does. Make yourselves at home, and I’ll get the settings.”

It seemed Mrs. Bishop—Miss Rose—could well handle the affairs of her own home. It didn’t appear as if much needed to be done on the grounds that Miss Rose couldn’t find a nearby rancher to lend a hand. She moved slowly but with a fairly steady step. While the house wasn’t spotless, it wasn’t unlivable, either. What would she want with hired help?