The River Girl's Christmas (Texas Women of Spirit Book 4)
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Authors: Angela Castillo
The
River Girl’s
Christmas
Angela Castillo
Copyright © 2016 Angela Castillo
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
1535358645
ISBN-13:
978-1535358644
To all those who love Christmas
Author’s Note
In 1892, Christmas was becoming more
celebrated, even in rural small-town Texas.
The Christmas tree was set up in most homes,
and shop windows beckoned people in
with colorful displays of the latest toys
and fashions. Churches hosted live nativity
scenes, sometimes with real farm animals.
It is my hope that this little story will take
the reader to a simpler Christmas, a
holiday season where family and faith
shine brighter than shopping mayhem.
Contents
Practice
“Hark, the Herald Angels sing,
Glory, to the newborn King.”
F
ive angels in flour-sack robes sang with gusto as a trio of boys dressed in burlap costumes trembled on a wooden box stage.
“All right, Jonathan.” Zillia clapped her hands for attention and Mrs. Fowler stopped playing piano. “The shepherds were afraid, not making faces. And Howard, please try to keep your finger out of your nose during the play.”
“Yes, Mrs. Eckhart,” the boys chanted in unison.
Zillia’s five-year-old brother, Orrie, peered out from his burlap head covering. “How am I doing, Zilly?”
“You’re doing great, Orrie. Try to act a little more surprised next time.”
“How can I be surprised when I know what’s going to happen?”
“That’s why it’s called pretending, dear.”
“Mrs. Eckhart, could you please help me with my costume?” Sadie walked up and turned around. Her robe, made of an old curtain, gaped in the back where the pins had come undone.
“Of course, Sadie.” Zillia rolled her eyes. Sadie always stained her costume, tripped on the stage, and—worst of all, kept dropping the doll that served for Baby Jesus.
I’m glad Margo is too big and wiggly to play Baby Jesus. Not that I’d allow Sadie to carry her around anyway.
Sadie flashed a sweet smile, the feature that had won her the part of Mary. “Thank you, Mrs. Eckhart.”
Zillia nodded to Mrs. Fowler and the music started up again. The angels finished a rousing chorus of
Angels We Have Heard on High,
and then filed off the stage. Little girls giggled and boys jostled one another until they passed by Zillia’s pew.
I’m glad I agreed to help Mrs. Fowler with the play this year.
Zillia smiled. She’d participated in the Bastrop Methodist Church Christmas play when she was a little girl. Being in the play was one of the best parts of Christmas. She’d loved coming to church at night when the sky was still and dark. Every year she’d been an angel in the choir. Even though many of the children sang off key--and some even sang the wrong words—she’d always felt the play was important, like Christmas wouldn’t be properly finished without it. Of course, that had been years ago. She was a married woman now.
A baby’s cry broke into her thoughts. Zillia swiveled in her pew to see her husband, Wylder, come through the church door with their daughter in his arms. His blue eyes softened when he saw her, like they always did.
“Children, get ready for the manger scene,” Zillia called over her shoulder as she stood to meet him.
“Sorry, she was getting fussy.” Wylder stroked Margo’s pink cheek. “But we had a good day. We bought feed for the month, ordered the part for the thresher, and she picked out a new hair ribbon.” He pointed to eleven-month-old’s chubby fist, which clutched a rather bedraggled scrap of satin. “It’s been a big day. But then we both decided we missed you.”
Zillia laughed. “I’ve been gone half an hour. I think you could’ve survived.”
“No, no, we couldn’t.” Wylder looked down at the baby. “Could we, Margo?”
Margo turned a tear-streaked face up to Zillia. She had stopped crying, but her tiny lip quivered.
“Oh my goodness, you poor little thing. You really are pining away, aren’t you?” Zillia folded her daughter into her arms. “I suppose your father will have to run the play for me.”
Wylder glanced over at the stage. Two of the three kings were competing to see who could stand on one foot the longest and Mary and Joseph leaned over the manger, poking at the baby doll. “Maybe you’d better stick with it. I’ve never been any good at this sort of thing. Remember when we spoke pieces in school?”
“And you could never get past the first line of the Declaration of Independence?” Zillia laughed. “You’re right. At least stay and help corral the children who straggle off.”
Wylder tucked a wisp of brown hair that had escaped back into his wife’s bun. “I am pretty good at rounding up strays. I caught you, didn’t I?”
“Wylder Eckhart, you shouldn’t say such things in the house of the Lord.” Zillia teased. She balanced Margo on one hip and went back to the stage. “All right, everyone. Shall we continue?”
Sadie looked up. “Mrs. Eckhart, we have a question. Did Baby Jesus spit up? My little brother spit up all the time when he was a baby.”
“Margo did that when she was newly born.” Orrie’s eyes widened.
Zillia sighed. “Sadie, I don’t think we should worry about that. Let’s try to get through the play for now.”
One of Wylder’s eyebrows arched. “It’s a good question. Did Baby Jesus spit up? I bet he did.”
Zillia handed Margo back to him. “Take this child out of here and let me finish my play!”
Wylder grinned. “Sure thing.” He headed back towards the church door. “Hope you can keep them from stampeding!” he called over his shoulder.
###
After practice, Zillia loaded a box of crooked halos and costumes that needed mending into the wagon. Beside this she placed a basket of food Mrs. Fowler had asked her to take to an ailing woman who lived on the way home.
Wylder brought Margo over from the porch. “Are you ready to load up?”
“Could you please find Orrie for me?” Zillia craned her neck over the edge of the wagon, looking for a glimpse of her brother’s blond curls. “I would like to check in at the post office. I’m expecting that package from Grandma Rose.”
“Oh yes, she’s supposed to send you that dress for Margo,” said Wylder. “I’ll get everyone ready.”
Main Street was just around the corner from the church. Rows of brick and wooden buildings lined the lane. Windows glowed with candles, paper chains and evergreen boughs.
Zillia stepped into the post office. Mr. Miller looked up from the counter, where he was sorting letters.
“Anything for me from Virginia?” Zillia asked.
“Nope, nothing. Sorry, Zillia. But I do have a letter for Wylder’s grandmother. From the Oklahoma territory.” Mr. Miller adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and rifled through a stack of papers on the counter. “Ah, here it is. Came in today.”
Zillia took it and turned it over. “It’s from Soonie. Thank you, Mr. Miller. I’ll get this to Grandma Louise right away.”
She ran over to the wagon and squeezed into the back with Orrie and Margo. “Wylder, Grandma Louise got a letter from Soonie! Could we please take it over on our way home?” She tucked her shawl around Margo’s shoulders. A nip had crept into the afternoon air during practice.
Wylder’s lips twitched and he stared down at his hands. “Of course,” he said in the gruff voice he always used now when he spoke of his sister. “I’m anxious to hear what’s going on with her as well. But don’t we have to run an errand for Mrs. Fowler? I still have chores.”
“Yes, the food for Mrs. Barnes. But her house is on the way. The stop won’t take very long.”
Wylder slapped the reins across the old mare’s back and she plodded down the road that led out of town.
###
Zillia rapped on the door and stepped back, almost tripping down the broken porch steps. The windows of the house were dark, like soulless eyes guarding the road.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” she called out to Wylder, who watched her from the front seat of the cart.
Wylder’s forehead wrinkled. “Mrs. Barnes should be home. She’s doing poorly, so I don’t know how she’d be anywhere else.”
“Come on, Zilly!” Orrie yelled from the back of the wagon. “Margo looks like she’s ‘bout to wake up any second.”
It’s a wonder she ever sleeps with all the shouting that goes on
. As Zillia reached up to knock again, the tarnished brass doorknob turned and the door swung open. A white-faced little girl peered out around the edge. “Hello?”
Zillia blinked.
I was sure Mrs. Barnes lived alone.
“Hello, I brought something for Mrs. Barnes. Is she here?” The child pushed her head a bit further through the doorway. Dark red hair hung in long strings around her face, dirty and unkempt. Her clothes weren’t much more than rags, and smudges of dirt covered all visible skin. But her eyes shone like the first bluebonnets of spring. “Hi. Granny’s here, but she can’t get up right now.”
“So she’s your grandma?”
The little girl nodded. “Mama sent me here a few days ago. She said Granny could take one of us kids since she’s got another baby. I came over with a wagon load from Smithville and Granny fetched me from town, but then she took ill. So I’ve been helping.”
“You . . . what’s your name? How old are you?” was all Zillia could think to say.
“Patsy. Patsy Locks. I’m seven last September. Did you bring something to eat?” The little girl stared at the basket in Zillia’s hands with hungry eyes.
“I sure did. May I come in? I can put it on the table for you.” Zillia turned and waved to Wylder. “I’ll be back in a minute, dear.”
Wylder shrugged and nodded.
Orrie scowled behind Wylder’s shoulder.
Patsy swung the door open and Zillia stepped into the tiny room. Like several of the older houses in the area, the cabin consisted of one room, with a stove and table on one side, a fireplace and two chairs in a corner, and a bed in the other. An old woman slept in the bed. The stained quilt that covered her rose and fell with each snore.
The unmistakable stench of sickness filled the room and made Zillia’s eyes water. She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.
“I’m sorry.” Patsy lowered her eyes. “I’ve tried to clean things the best I can.”
“Of course you have.” Zillia gave the brightest smile she could muster. “Shall we see what the pastor’s wife put in this basket?”
“Yes, please.” Patsy bounced on her toes. “I’m so hungry.”
Zillia began to clear a spot on the table. Dust coated the rough-hewn table. Dishes, covered in moldy food, were stacked in piles.
Mrs.
Barnes can’t much for housekeeping, even when she’s well. Or perhaps she can’t get around enough to clean.
Why hadn’t the elderly woman asked the ladies of the church for help?
Maybe she was too proud to ask.
After dusting off the table as best she could, Zillia opened the basket. The heavenly scents of gingerbread cookies and hot soup drifted through the room, masking some of the more unpleasant odors. “Mrs. Fowler said Mrs. Barnes might need a taste of Christmas, so she sent some of her best cookies.” Zillia lifted out a round, warm sample.
Patsy clapped her hands. “They look so good. May I have one?”
“As soon as you go wash those hands.”
While the little girl went outside to use the pump, Zillia moved over to the bed and stared down at Mrs. Barnes. The woman hadn’t stirred through the visit. She seemed to be breathing evenly and when Zillia felt her forehead, it was cool to the touch.
Whatever’s been ailing her, she seems to be recovering.
Zillia breathed a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Barnes’s eyelashes fluttered against her wrinkled cheeks and her eyes opened in slits. “Who--who are you?” she said in a weak voice.
“Zillia Eckhart, from church. The pastor’s wife sent me over to bring food and check on you. I met your granddaughter. Looks like she’s been a big help.”
“Don’t need your charity.” The old woman spat the words through rotten teeth. She rolled over and faced the wall.
Pasty came in and took the cookie Zillia had set out for her. She carried it over to the farthest corner of the room and nibbled it, watching as though Zillia might decide to take it back.
Zillia glanced around the room at the filth and disarray. “Mrs. Barnes, I don’t see any other food in here. Do you have enough to eat? We had a good harvest and I could give you some extra preserves.”
Mrs. Barnes rolled to face her again and propped herself up on one elbow, the yellowed ribbons on her nightcap quivering. “I—told you, we don’t need no help. I’d ask you to take leave of my house.” She lay back down and closed her eyes.
The front door opened a crack, and Wylder poked his head inside. “Zillia, Margo is fussing and I think we probably ought to head home.”
“I’m coming.”
He nodded and closed the door behind him.
Zillia went to the door.
Patsy followed her, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said in a low voice. “I think Granny’s fractious because she’s sick.”
‘Don’t fret.” Zillia opened the door and pointed to the road. ‘See that path over yonder?”
The little girl nodded.
“If you need anything, just follow that lane around two bends. Right, then left. You’ll see a giant oak tree, and a log fence. The first cabin is ours, all right?”
“All right.”
Zillia felt the little girl’s eyes follow her all the way to the wagon. A tear slipped down her cheek. She knew what it was like to feel hopeless and hungry.
I’ll talk to Mrs. Fowler. Perhaps she can get Mrs. Barnes to accept help. Especially since Patsy is there.