Snow Angel: a romantic Christmas novella Read online

  Snow Angel

  A Christmas Novella

  by

  Davalynn Spencer

  Wilson Creek Publishing

  Snow Angel © 2018 by Davalynn Spencer

  Wilson Creek Publishing

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  www.davalynnspencer.com

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Books by Davalynn Spencer

  THE FRONT RANGE BRIDES SERIES

  An Improper Proposal - Book 1

  An Unexpected Redemption - Book 2

  THE CAÑON CITY CHRONICLES SERIES

  Loving the Horseman - Book 1

  Straight to My Heart - Book 2

  Romancing the Widow - Book 3

  The Cañon City Chronicles - complete collection

  Novella Collections

  “The Wrangler’s Woman” - The Cowboy’s Bride

  “The Columbine Bride” - The 12 Brides of Summer

  “The Snowbound Bride” - The 12 Brides of Christmas

  Novellas

  The Miracle Tree

  Stay in touch via my quarterly author update and receive a free novella when you sign up here: http://eepurl.com/xa81D

  ~

  Bless the LORD, ye his angels, that excel in strength,

  that do his commandments, hearkening unto the voice of his word.

  Psalm 103:20

  ~

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Connect with Davalynn

  Prologue

  December 1864

  Piney Hill, Colorado Territory

  Lena pushed up the latch, slipped out the cabin door, and dashed down the front porch steps into the snow. Her brother thought he was so big because he was ten and had grown-up chores. Well, she didn’t need him. She was big enough to make snow angels alone. A whole field of them. Rows and rows, like all the people at church on Sunday.

  Ahead of her, the pasture gate sagged open. She ran toward it, pushing through snow that inched above her high-topped shoes until one stuck and she fell to her hands and knees. Icy pin pricks stung all the way to her elbows, but she shook her arms and bent her fingers open and closed, open and closed, their pink tips like rosebuds against the white ground. She’d forgotten her mittens and coat.

  Never mind it. If she went back now, Tay would call her a baby. But she was no baby, she was four. She’d show him.

  Crack! The chock of an ax chased over the snowy field, all the way from where Tay split firewood behind the cabin.

  If only she could fly, there’d be no footprints following her. Wouldn’t that be lovely? To fly like a bird, or a real angel with white wings and a shiny robe?

  Twisting her fingers into her skirt, she trudged on to the gate, then squeezed through its open mouth at the fence post.

  Behind her now, far away, smoke curled from their cabin chimney, thin and silvery like ribbon on a Christmas gift.

  Would Christmas ever come? Papa said it would be here soon, but soon took forever.

  The pasture lay perfectly still beneath its big white blanket, just like she did beneath her quilt when she pretended to sleep. No cows or birds or Sir Humphrey were there to muss it. Sir Humphrey was behind the cabin with Tay and she was glad. He liked to plow through the snow with his cold black nose and giant paws. He’d plow right through her field of angels.

  A million tiny stars sparkled up from the ground, so bright it made her eyes hurt. Papa said the stars were crystals. Crystal would be a lovely name for the doll she wanted for Christmas. If she got a doll, she’d call it Crystal.

  Spreading her arms wide, she faced the fence line, squeezed her eyes shut, and fell straight back. The dry snow caught her like a cloud of goose down, and she swept her arms up beside her head and down again, her legs out and together. Out and together. Then she stood and jumped as far as she could to a fresh spot and fell back again, swishing her arms and legs in the thick white powder. No footprints! Tay would wonder how she did it.

  After a thousand angels, she lay still, breathing hard and puffing out clouds. The sky wasn’t blue, but gray like the chimney smoke. Snowflakes tickled her face.

  Pushing to her feet, she looked around. The cabin was gone, the gate too. Only the snowy ground and falling sky. Far, far away, in a high, tiny voice, Mama called.

  “Lee-na! An-ge-li-na!”

  Her stomach squeezed. She was in trouble now.

  She had nothing to help her find her way home like Hansel and Gretel did—nothing but her field full of angels. They would lead her.

  With a big swing of her arms, she jumped into the snow angel just before the last one she’d made. Then she jumped to the next one and the next one, forever and forever, until she came to the first one she’d made in front of the gate. She almost didn’t see the tired old gate for the snow falling.

  Cold pinched her nose and her toes, and her legs ached from jumping into a thousand angels. Maybe she could rest for a minute.

  But Papa said never rest in the snow. Keep moving.

  She pushed through the gap between the gate and the post and followed the fence line until it got lost in the trees. Icy air slipped in through her mouth and made her chest hurt. Her fingers burned, and she tucked them under her arms.

  If she took a little rest—there, beneath that scraggly berry bush—only for a minute, Papa didn’t have to know.

  Branches scratched her head and plucked her hair as she crawled under the bush. The snow wasn’t as deep, and she curled into a ball like Sir Humphrey did at night in front of the hearth.

  “Stay open, eyes. You do what I say, now.”

  But they didn’t do what she said, and it was warmer with them closed. She pretended she was home in the loft, in her own bed where her fingers wouldn’t hurt so badly. She curled tighter, pretending she was a dog like Sir Humphrey.

  Something pulled her out from under the bush, and she pulled at her eyelids, trying to get them open. Strong arms wrapped around her and lifted her up so high she felt like she really was flying. She wasn’t afraid, and her mouth wanted to smile, but it was pressed against a furry coat like Sir Humphrey’s, only thicker. Warmer. She snuggled into it and it began moving, trudging through the snow like Papa. But it wasn’t Papa. He would have scolded her and kissed her on the top of her head.

  Long slow steps crunched through the snow until they climbed the porch and went inside the cabin. Cedar logs crackled on the fire, and the smell of supper soup filled up the air around her.

  Down, down she eased against a quilt, and her eyes finally did what she told them and opened.

  He wore a thick brown coat like a big bear. A fur cap covered his head and ears, and his face had a light inside it, like a lamp shining behind a curtain. He smiled, and it made her feel sleepy and safe and cozy all at the same time. But what she noticed most were his eyes—blue crystals. They smiled too, with little lines spreading out at the corners.

  And when he stood, he was bigger than Papa. Too big for their tiny cabin,
but somehow he fit inside without bumping his head.

  He added a log to the fire and leaned so close she thought his cap would singe. The flames jumped up bright and shining, but they didn’t burn him or his fur hat.

  When he left, he closed the door so quietly she didn’t hear a thing. Not a thing—other than Mama and Papa yelling her name outside. Even Tay yelled her whole name, not just Lee like he usually did.

  Sir Humphrey barked and scratched at the door. She should let him in, but she couldn’t force herself off Mama and Papa’s bed.

  Supper would be soon.

  And the fire was so warm, the quilt so soft.

  She snuggled deeper. Squeezed her eyes shut and saw again the light of the stranger’s crinkly smile.

  CHAPTER 1

  October 1884

  Piney Hill, Colorado

  Cinnamon. Cloves. Oranges, for heaven’s sake. A heady perfume with a hefty price.

  Lena mentally tallied her purchases. Such indulgence. But Christmas came only once in twelve months, and if she spread her extravagance out over the next eight weeks, they could manage.

  She thanked Mr. Fielding at the mercantile and headed home, a quarter-of-a-mile trip in good weather. Today it felt farther. The sky hung low, goose gray, and promising rain, which meant mud. It should be snowing this time of year, with the cottonwoods flashing yellow along the road, their aspen cousins trickling gold down the hillside at the end of town.

  Smelling the storm’s approach, she hiked her skirt and quickened her pace.

  The one thing she could count on this time of year was her heart flip-flopping between cherished memories and painful recollections. Between excitement and dread.

  Anticipation swept her along when she was shopping or planning meals or decorating cookies for the children at church. But at night, while cleaning up supper dishes after Tay went to bed, apprehension hung like stubborn cobwebs in the corners of the dim kitchen. Fear that a horribly painful accident would happen again.

  And she’d lose something else.

  A fat rain drop hit her shoulder, and pain shuddered down her left arm to her hand. She cradled it protectively against her waist as she crossed the yard and climbed the porch steps. Lord, would this seasonal sensitivity never end? Twenty years. Twenty years was enough!

  After dressing the hall tree with her cloak and hat, she took her bag of spices and fruit to the kitchen. Nothing was going to change. God help her, when would she accept that?

  An hour later, the front door crashed inward.

  Lena scrubbed her hands on her apron and ran down the hall.

  Tay was dragging a man into the surgery, and two muddy feet trailed over the threshold, toes up. One booted, one bare.

  As she reached to close the front door, a gray sharp-eared dog darted through.

  “Grab his legs.” Tay’s voice hardened with urgency. “Be careful with the left one. Fibula’s broken and the ankle’s dislocated.”

  As usual, he excelled at overstating the obvious.

  The rag-doll man hung limp, head lolling as Tay lined him up with the narrow surgery table. She stepped between the mismatched feet, linked her left arm around the right leg, and grabbed a fistful of woolen trouser on the other. Careful not to bump the bare foot that flopped at an unnatural angle.

  “On three,” Tay said. “One, two, three!”

  The poor fellow landed on the table with a thud, and his dog uttered a near-human groan. Just so it didn’t bite. She had enough to think about with its owner’s legs hanging off the end of the table, perfectly even with the broken bone.

  “Hold him and I’ll get the board.”

  As if she could.

  Ignoring the dog, Tay bolted through the door, down the hall, and out the back door. Headed for the barn, she knew, where he’d been working on an extension for his table. Last week, Joseph Cooper and his mangled arm had also been too long. Tay had to figure out a solution or order a new table.

  Lena wrinkled her nose at the mix of muddy clothing and wet dog hair. Standing between the stranger’s feet, she gently lowered the booted one to more steadily hold the other with both hands. Her starched apron was soiled now, but that was easily corrected. Much easier than setting this man’s bones end on end and securing them that way.

  His left arm dangled over the edge of the table, and the dog stood directly beneath it, watching her from between long, still fingers. One eye was honey-colored, the other like a blue opal, both challenging her to shoo it away.

  She dared not. Holding the foot upright and praying the man didn’t come to was challenge enough.

  Footsteps hammered down the hall, and Tay rushed in holding a wide, thin board. He aimed it toward her end of the table, and she lifted the crooked leg higher.

  The man moaned.

  “His weight should counter-balance the board and keep it on the table.” In spite of October’s early chill, sweat trickled from Tay’s tawny hairline and slid in rivulets down his temples.

  Wedging the board beneath his patient, he pushed it, then lifted the right leg onto the board and pushed some more. “All right, ease that leg down.”

  Like a tongue worrying a broken tooth, her eyes kept returning to the crooked foot. She’d force them away and they’d whip right back, curiosity overruling her tumbling stomach.

  She tried again, tacking her gaze to the man’s dark matted hair and roughening beard. “You need a longer table.”

  “We can’t afford it.”

  “If people paid you with real money, we could.”

  Tay shot her a we’ve-been-over-this-before scowl and gave the board a final shove. They tugged a clean sheet beneath the man, covering the board.

  Tay rolled up his sleeves. “Take off his trousers and I’ll wash up.”

  Hers was always the indelicate work.

  Regardless of a patient’s gender or injury, the appearance of rarely seen skin startled her every time, aside from Cecilia Valdez. The dressmaker had somehow stabbed herself with a pair of scissors last year and hadn’t the stomach to stitch up the wound. Lena didn’t blame her.

  Most people’s covered flesh was startlingly pale beneath their clothes and smooth as a baby’s belly. Cecilia’s skin had been rich and satiny like rolled-out gingerbread dough.

  This stranger was most people.

  But for the dark hair on his shins, his lower legs were white as boiled chicken, as was his brow, where a hat must have spent most of its time. His sun-browned face and hands more closely matched his boot leather than his body.

  Lena tossed his trousers and single sock to the corner where she collected soiled sheets and bandages. Then, hands on her hips, she assessed his faded under-flannel.

  Well worn, and a bit short, as if he’d grown out of them. But he was too old to have grown that much lately. His chin whiskers indicated more than twenty years, but not enough to salt his muddy mop with white strands.

  As far as she could tell, he had no leg injuries above the knees, so that was where she made the first cut. At the knee. And then the other. No point in having mismatched drawers.

  His was not the first broken bone she’d helped Tay set, but it was the most challenging. Bunched muscles and tight tendons fought against her as she wrestled with his pale foot, flinching each time it twisted to the side. She braced one foot against a chair wedged under the makeshift extension, wrapped her left arm around his right ankle, and gripped the bare foot with her other hand.

  But when Tay pulled from the man’s shoulders, the entire man moved—broken leg, crooked foot, and all.

  Tay growled his frustration but wouldn’t look at her. He never blamed her for her inadequacies, and sometimes she wished he would. His failure to address the issue was tantamount to ignoring a bison standing square in the center of the room.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  Tay closed his eyes and rubbed the sides of his head, frustration clear in his clenched jaw.

  “You could loop one end of a rope around his chest and
under his arms, then run the other end out the window, and tie it around Winnie’s neck.”

  Tay’s shock alone was worth the suggestion, except she knew it would work.

  “Winnie could jerk him right through the window!”

  Lena sucked in one cheek, the side her brother couldn’t see, and bit off a snort. “Not if I hold her head and you pull his leg into place from this end, then holler when you’re finished.”

  Tay frowned at his patient.

  “Or we can keep this up until he wakes from the pain.”

  The frown dissipated, and her brother’s jaw shifted sideways in surrender.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lena opened the oven door, hooked the iron kettle handle with a finger, and with a quilted hot pad, scooted the beans inside. They’d be done in time for a late supper.

  So would Tay.

  His recent Good Samaritan act had set him back on his rounds about four hours. But he’d always considered time a well-spent commodity, not something to be pinched.

  He’d splinted the man’s leg, then held him upright from the waist while she bathed and salved his ravaged back and shoulders. Though unconscious and relaxed, the man’s muscled arms gave testimony to hard work and long hours. Every inch of him appeared sound and strong, aside from his broken leg.

  They’d managed to transfer him to the cot in the surgery since hauling him upstairs to the spare bedroom was not an option. The cramped corner would have to do.

  After Tay left to check on the Stanleys’ new baby, Joseph Cooper’s arm, and a half dozen other folks depending on his skill and generosity, Lena cleaned up the surgery and threw away the remains of their unconscious patient’s shirt.

  Oddly enough, his neckerchief remained intact. It hung sadly against his broad chest, and she worked the knot loose and dropped it on the trousers. Gray silk. Perhaps he was a cowboy rather than a sawyer.

  With a cloth and a basin of warm water on the nearby washstand, she worked caked mud from the stranger’s hair.

  Except it wasn’t all mud.