A Plain and Sweet Christmas Romance Collection Page 7

“God cares about our pain and our healing. But most of all, He cares that we draw close to Him in our time of need. Just as we also need each other.”

  “I care for thee,” Silas said quickly. “I care what happens to thee. How you feel. Or how thee feels, that is. I hope thee has need of me.”

  “More than just a need, Friend Silas. I wonder if thee might be in a dream for my life.”

  “I do dream of you,” he said, drawing her gently to him. She submitted, and they shared a sweet kiss before the snapping of the fire as the flames consumed the wood.

  “Dream no longer,” she said softly.

  “I have no need, if I can ask thy father to court thee.”

  “He already suspects.”

  Silas stepped back. “But how can he? I haven’t spoken of it, and—”

  She laughed. “Father doesn’t live on the roof. He knows quite well what is happening in his household. He will be most glad to have thee as my suitor. And I must say, I’m glad as well.”

  Silas took her in his arms, with a peace that surpassed all his understanding, thankful for these precious gifts from God above.

  Mrs. Hall’s Molasses Cake

  1 cup molasses

  ¼ cup butter, cut in pieces

  ½ tablespoon cinnamon

  2 small eggs, beaten

  1¾ cups flour

  ½ teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in small amount of warm water

  Grease 9x9-inch pan. Stir molasses and butter in saucepan over very low heat until butter is soft enough to mix together easily. Then add cinnamon, the beaten eggs slowly, and sifted flour. Stir until lumps are out then add dissolved baking soda. Bake at 350 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes. Test with toothpick for doneness.

  May be served with sweetened whipped cream or a cream cheese frosting like this one:

  1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese

  1 tablespoon milk

  ¾ cup powdered sugar

  Dash cinnamon

  Mix all ingredients, adding more sugar if needed to desired consistency and sweetness. Spread on cooled cake.

  Lauralee Bliss has always liked to dream big dreams. Part of that dream was writing, and after several years of hard work, her dream of publishing was realized in 1997 with the publication of her first romance novel, Mountaintop, through Barbour Publishing. Since then she’s had twenty books published, both historical and contemporary. Lauralee is also an avid hiker, completing the entire length of the Appalachian Trail both north and south. Lauralee makes her home in Virginia in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains with her family. Visit her website at www.lauraleebliss.com and find her on Twitter and Facebook Readers of Author Lauralee Bliss.

  Simple Gifts

  by Ramona K. Cecil

  Chapter 1

  Serenity, Indiana, 1880

  Shoo!”

  Lucinda Hughes gently nudged the Rhode Island Red hen off its straw-filled nest.

  Puck, puck, puck, puckaaw! The plump bird angled its rust-colored head and gave Lucinda an amber-eyed glare. But the hen moved away from the nest and, with a flurry of wings that sent dust flying in the dim chicken coop, jumped to the dirt floor.

  Coughing, Lucinda wrinkled her nose and fought the urge to sneeze. “Well, thank thee, Miss Red. Thee took long enough.” The fowl strutted into the next room as if proud of what she’d accomplished. A giggle bubbled from Lucinda’s throat. The sound surprised her. Her laugh faded as she reached into the indention in the moldy straw and wrapped her fingers around the warm, brown egg.

  When had she regained the ability to laugh? Not so long ago she’d thought she would never laugh again.

  She and Alan used to laugh all the time. She remembered how they’d laughed that day last March when he brought home the crate of pullets and young roosters. He might have brought her a crate of gold, for the jubilation it evoked.

  She tucked the egg into the basket along with the eight she’d already gathered—fruits of the now-mature hens.

  Alan had caught her up in his strong arms, lifting her feet off the ground as he’d loved to do. “Thee is a Quaker farmwife now,” he’d said. “Thee should have thy own chickens.”

  Old Mercy Cox said love didn’t just happen. That real love grew slowly over time. But Lucinda had known she loved Alan from that first moment sixteen months ago, when she first saw him at a Gurneyite Quaker revival meeting in Kentucky. Could all that had happened since been stuffed into the short span of sixteen months?

  Blinking back hot tears, she passed through the roosting area of the coop where several of the chickens already clung to the stair-stepped sapling poles, their eyelids drooping. She emitted a small groan as she bent over her expanded middle to exit the coop’s low doorway.

  Outside, a cool gust of November wind dried the wetness on her cheeks and sent a shiver through her. Gripping the handle of her egg basket, she gazed at the two-story cabin that sat on the rise in front of her. How proud Alan had been that day last December when he brought her, a new bride, to the hewn-log cabin his grandfather had built sixty years before.

  Her gaze drifted to the back of the cabin where a small frame structure jutted out from the old log building. A bittersweet feeling twanged in her chest. Alan had completed half of their new kitchen by the middle of June, when the explosion happened at the grain mill where he worked. So great was the blast that even from a mile away, the cabin had shaken, sending a stoneware pitcher flying from the mantel above the fireplace.

  She remembered wondering if the loud boom and shaking was an earth tremor and then grieving over the loss of the pitcher, a wedding present from Mercy. She would soon learn that she’d suffered a far greater loss than any keepsake. For the same instant the pitcher smashed against the puncheon floor, the explosion had killed Alan, shattering Lucinda’s life.

  The babe within her kicked, as if flailing against the injustice of never knowing his father.

  She’d never felt as alone as she did the day of Alan’s funeral when she walked away from the little Quaker graveyard, leaving her young husband beneath the mound of dirt. Only the thought of her coming child had saved her mind and spirit from crushing despair.

  The congregation of Serenity Friends Meeting had gathered around her, seeing to her immediate needs. The men had even worked together to finish the kitchen. But when Lucinda stopped attending Meeting, the helping hands had become fewer. Only Mercy Cox and Will Davis came regularly now.

  At the thought of her late husband’s best friend, warmth filled Lucinda. Since the accident, not a week passed without Will stopping by to bring her milk and groceries, take care of some chore, or make a repair to the cabin.

  Her face turned unbidden toward the dirt road running past the front of her property. Earlier, when she’d stepped out of the cabin to head for the chicken coop, the mill’s whistle had sounded, signaling the end of the workday. Will’s mule and wagon would appear soon if he planned to stop by on his way home.

  Squinting against the setting sun’s bright rays, she gazed through the nearly barren branches of the old poplar tree that partially obscured her view of the road. But the only movement on the dirt thoroughfare was a shower of brown and yellow leaves caught up by a gust of wind.

  Though she had no need for provisions or Will’s assistance, a feeling akin to disappointment pushed a sigh from her lips and dragged down her shoulders. When had she started looking forward to Will’s visits?

  She brushed aside the unexpected pang of melancholy along with a strand of hair that had blown across her face. Tucking the errant lock back under her bonnet, she started for the cabin. Maybe Mercy was right when she warned that spending too much time alone in the cabin would shrivel Lucinda’s mind and spirit.

  The clip-clop of hooves and the rumble of a conveyance drew her attention to the road. For a moment her heart quickened but then slowed at the sight of a one-horse shay in the distance instead of a mule-drawn wagon.

  When the buggy turned into the lane that wound up to her cabin, she groaned in disma
y and immediately felt guilty. Mercy had hinted during her visit yesterday that Levi Braddock and his wife, Charity, might stop by this week. Though Lucinda knew the elder and his wife meant well, she’d begun to dread their calls. Lately, their visits focused less on inquiring about her welfare and more on encouraging her to attend Meeting. But she refused to sit in Meeting and pretend to pray to a God with whom she no longer felt a connection.

  The buggy rounded the curve in the lane, and Lucinda saw that it carried only one person. A man. He lifted his head, and she recognized not Levi Braddock’s but Will Davis’s face beneath the wide-brimmed black hat.

  Her heart began to prance like the young black horse pulling the buggy.

  It’s just because I’m glad it’s not the Braddocks wanting to pressure me into attending Meeting tonight.

  Then why had her thumping heart not slowed its pace? She ignored the troublesome thought and stepped toward the buggy.

  “Lucinda.” Smiling, Will raised his hand in greeting and reined the horse to a stop. In one continuous motion, he wrapped the reins around the brake’s handle and stepped to the ground. His lanky frame moved with grace as he came around to the horse’s head to pet the skittish animal and murmur reassurances.

  “Is there somethin’ the matter with Bob?” She nodded at the young horse.

  “Naw, the mule’s in fine fettle.” He ambled toward her, giving her that shy, little-boy smile that seemed somehow odd on a grown man. “Simeon just bought this two-year-old colt.” He glanced over his shoulder. “He asked me to get him used to the buggy before Naomi takes it out.”

  Lucinda nodded, her smile fading. Cold and sharp-tongued, Will’s sister-in-law, Naomi, was not one of her favorite members at Serenity Friends Meeting.

  Will took the egg basket from Lucinda’s hands and headed toward the cabin. “I just came from visiting Mercy Cox.”

  Lucinda fell in step beside him, and it struck her how, without being asked, he was always doing little kindnesses. “I pray Mercy is well.”

  He nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, she is well and holds thee in the Light.”

  Lucinda loved the Quaker expression for keeping someone in one’s thoughts and prayers.

  When they reached the kitchen door, he stopped and glanced upward. “Mercy mentioned that thy kitchen roof is leaking.”

  “Yes. It is just a small drip, but when it rained the day before yesterday, I had to put a pan under it to keep the floor dry.” Had Will visited Mercy this evening in hopes of finding a reason to stop by here on his way home? Shame filled Lucinda for both the thought and the spark of joy Will’s visit ignited inside her.

  He held the egg basket out to her. She took it, and their hands touched, sending a pleasant ripple of warmth up her arm. “It will be winter soon. And a hole that will let in rain will let in cold air. I would be happy to fix it if I wouldn’t be a bother.”

  “Yes—I mean no.” Heat flooded Lucinda’s face. She must look like a ninny with her words tripping over her tongue. Her laugh, the second one today, came out in a nervous-sounding warble, sending another burst of heat to her face. “Yes, I would like the roof fixed. And no, of course thee is not a bother.” That was a flat-out lie. Will’s presence bothered her greatly. She wrapped her arms around the egg basket to calm her discomposure. “I’m afraid I’m the bother.”

  For an instant, a shadow passed across his face before turning serious. She could almost feel the warm caress of his gray eyes on her face. “Thee is not a bother to me, Lucinda.”

  Somehow Lucinda managed to escape his gaze and stumble into the kitchen on legs that felt like they’d turned to jelly. With unsteady hands, she set the basket on the table then slumped to a chair. Will was like an older brother to Alan. Of course he wanted to help her. Just like all the other times he’d helped her since June.

  He only meant that doing God’s work is not a bother.

  Yet she didn’t believe a word of it. She’d heard Will’s voice and seen his face. The look in his eyes snatched the breath right out of her lungs.

  But Will was Alan’s best friend!

  That fact, however, didn’t calm the tumult in her chest. Her heart beat like the wings of a gaggle of geese about to take flight. Something had changed between her and Will. And that change both excited and terrified her.

  Chapter 2

  Perched high on the ladder, Will slipped the top edge of a new red cedar shingle beneath the bottom edge of the weathered one above it. The wood’s rich scent filled his nostrils and whisked him back to last spring when he had helped Alan cut the shingles for the new kitchen’s roof.

  He paused to gaze over the roof. As always, thoughts of his late friend sent tentacles of guilt throughout his chest—guilt that gnarled painfully around his heart. The feeling had become a constant companion.

  Alan should be doing this. Alan should be here….

  But he wasn’t here. And the blame for that lay squarely on Will’s shoulders. Over the past five months, the weight of that blame had become a ponderous mantle that grew heavier each day.

  If only he had refused Alan’s request to switch jobs that day at the mill. If only…

  Balancing on the ladder’s rung, he shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a nail. Two sharp blows of his hammer drove it deep into the shingle. The aggressive movement relieved a measure of pent-up emotion building inside him, and he quickly added two more nails to the shingle.

  He reached for a fourth nail but let it fall back into his pocket with a clink against its fellows. The job was done. And no amount of hammering would expel the anger and regret that dwelled inside him. Sometimes he wished Quakers were not so peace loving. Once in a while, it would feel good to plow his fist into…something.

  “Cease from anger, and forsake wrath.” The words from Psalm 37:8 convicted him. He would need to spend much time in prayer at Meeting this evening.

  But anger was the least of his sins. He breathed out a ragged breath and began to back down the ladder. All day he’d tried without success to think of a reason—any reason—to stop by Lucinda’s cabin. So this afternoon when Mercy told him about the leak in Lucinda’s roof, his heart had leaped inside his chest.

  Another wave of shame and guilt washed through him. When had his vow to see to the needs of Alan’s widow become more than a simple act of Christian charity?

  He remembered the first time he saw Lucinda sitting beside Mercy Cox, with whom she’d resided, at Meeting nearly a year and a half ago. A group from the congregation had just returned from a revival trip to Kentucky where the preaching of Friend John Henry Douglas had convinced many, including Lucinda, to join the Quakers. For a brief time, he had even considered courting her. Then he learned that she and Alan—his best friend and foster brother—had become attached to one another. After that, he’d thought of her only as a sister. Until now.

  He hoisted the ladder onto his shoulder and headed to the toolshed. When he opened the door, its rusty hinges creaked in protest. Perhaps he should oil them.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised the dim interior of the shed as he slid the ladder along the floor lengthwise and leaned it against the wall. Yes, tomorrow would be a good day to see to the hinges.

  His heart quickened as he strode through the lengthening shadows toward the cabin. Only an amber wedge of waning sunlight caressed the west side of the log building. Through the poplar tree’s skeletal fingers he could make out streaks of pink and gold smeared across the slate gray sky.

  A cold gust of wind lifted a pile of dried leaves in front of him. Despite his wide-brimmed hat and canvas coat, the wind sent a chill through him. The light from the kitchen window beckoned. How easy to imagine walking into the warm embrace of the cabin. And that of the woman inside it.

  But those things could never be his. Even if by some miracle God blessed him with Lucinda’s affection—affection beyond that of a sister—his abiding guilt surely would throw up a barrier thicker than the log walls of the old cabin to
separate them.

  He knocked at the kitchen door, his heartbeats matching the quick tempo of his raps. At his summons the door opened, drenching him in a comforting rush of warmth. The tempting scents of sassafras and cinnamon met him, teasing his nose. Lucinda stood framed in the doorway. Her black bonnet was gone now. A few wisps of her hair had pulled loose from the bun at the back of her head and curled appealingly against her temples. The sun’s dying rays caught them, burnishing the locks to the rich color of clover honey. He had seen her at least once a week over the past year and a half, but he couldn’t remember her looking lovelier than she did at this moment.

  His throat went dry. He cleared it. Twice. “Thee only lost one shingle. Probably during that storm last week.” Needing to shift his gaze from her face, he looked up at the roof. How stupid she must think him. His face turned back to hers as if pulled by a magnet. “There were extra in the shed, so I replaced it.”

  “Thank thee, Will. Now I can keep the dishpan in the sink instead of on the floor.” Smiling, she glanced down almost shyly. “Good night to thee,” she murmured then turned and started to close the door.

  “Lucinda.” Desperate for one last glimpse of her, he blurted her name without thinking.

  She turned back at his summons. Her light brown eyes, which always reminded him of sassafras wood, grew rounder, questioning.

  “Meeting is tonight, thee knows.” Every week he asked, and every week she turned him down. But he had to try. Without regular Christian fellowship, he feared her young faith might wither. And besides, when her babe came, she would need the support of the congregation even more. “With Christmas coming, the women are planning food baskets for the needy. Mercy may have told thee. I’d be happy to take—”

  Dismay filled her features. “No.” The word felt like a slap. She blew out a ragged sigh. “Please don’t ask me anymore, Will. I just can’t go.”