December 5, 1874
Glory Hill, Nebraska
“Move that shoulder for me, Griff. Let’s see how much it’s still hurting you.”
Dutifully, Griff Marcello rolled his left shoulder, felt the muscles bite, and clenched his teeth. “It’s better.”
The physician, Dr. Harley Knowles, who was more of a father to Griff than his own had ever been, stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. He eyed Griff knowingly. “You sure you’re not just saying that so you can get back to work on the ranch?”
The man had more intuition than most did. “I’m sure. Much as I’m about to go crazy here in town without anything to do.”
“You took one heck of a hit from that horse. Being slammed into the fence could have killed you. You’re lucky he left you with just a dislocated shoulder.”
Griff scowled. “Just?”
The pain had been excruciating, made worse by having to heft himself into the saddle of his own horse and ride into Glory Hill alone. Every bump and bounce had been agony. Rotten luck his brothers hadn’t been around to help him out, and he’d been grateful beyond words Harley had been in his office and possessed the skill to put the shoulder back into place.
Harley grunted. “Just glad you didn’t pass out. You’re tougher than most.” He straightened. “Now, stretch out your arm sideways and reach for the ceiling as high as you can. Go slow and stop when it hurts too much.”
Griff followed the instructions, as well as a few more, until his efforts earned him a satisfied nod from the doctor. He didn’t tell Harley how much the stretches cost him, but his throbbing muscles hadn’t failed him. Wouldn’t be long, and his shoulder would be strong as ever.
“Your mother will be happy to know you’re healing.” Harley handed him his shirt, then assisted while Griff eased his arm into the sleeve. “She worries about you.”
“You mean all of us. She always has.”
“Her sons mean the world to her.”
Fastening buttons, Griff eyed him. “You do, too.”
Harley reached for the triangular piece of white cotton Griff had tossed onto a nearby chair and balled it up, avoiding Griff’s glance. “Suppose so.”
“Good thing you’re a patient man, Harley.”
“She’s worth waiting for.”
Neither needed to say how much Harley loved Griff’s mother, a single woman with three sons to raise, and had ever since they lived in New Orleans, and then in Nightingale, Texas, or that he’d follow her to the moon, if that was where she wanted to go. Why she hadn’t agreed to marry the man, none of them could guess for sure.
Although Griff had a pretty good opinion on it.
With his shirt hem tucked into the waist of his Levi’s, Griff pulled up one suspender, then the other, and let the subject drop. Harley tossed the cotton fabric into a laundry basket for washing, in preparation for the next patient who would need it.
Griff’s brow rose. “No more sling?”
Harley smiled. “Not if you keep doing your exercises.”
Relief tugged his own smile, something he hadn’t done much of lately. “I’ll keep at ’em.”
“I know you will.” Harley squeezed his right shoulder with companionable affection. “Now, head over to your mother’s. She’ll want to know how your exam went.”
“Will do. You joining us for supper?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Nor had he, for as long as Griff could remember.
His mother and the doctor were a wedding ceremony short of being husband and wife. Leastways, they acted married most of the time. If it wasn’t for their separate residences and different surnames, most folks would think they were wed, given how inseparable they were.
He gave the doctor an appreciative wave and headed out of the room but stopped short in the doorway. “When can I go back to work at the ranch?”
“Won’t be for awhile yet. After Christmas, at least.”
Griff’s mood sank. “That long?”
“It’s only a few more weeks. We want to make sure your shoulder is good as new before you go wrangling ornery horses and cattle again.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Reckon you can find ways to help your mom in the eatery. And I hear Joyanna Hollinger has big plans for a real nice Christmas Eve celebration here in town. Might be she could use some help, too.”
Griff’s scowl came back. And stayed.
He knew the woman. Dark-haired, green-eyed, with a smile as bright as the sun and a personality as bubbly as expensive champagne, and she was the last person he ever intended to help–Christmas Eve or not.
The Hollingers were the pillars of society in Glory Hill, what little society the small town had, and if there was anything to be done, the Hollingers had their hand in it. Blanche Hollinger knew everything about everyone, and her husband, Bud, was the town sheriff, and those two right there kept Griff from breathing the same air as their only daughter, Joyanna.
A shame it had to be that way, but Griff wasn’t budging, and ignoring the knowing stare of the good doctor, he pivoted on his boot heel and headed toward the front door.
* * *
“Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not
even a mouse.”
Joyanna Hollinger kept the pages of her book, A Visit from St. Nicholas, spread wide to allow the group of children sitting in front of her to see the drawings that embellished the story. Her heart warmed at their rapt expressions. Was there anything more satisfying than immersing a child into the wonders of a beloved book, especially at Christmastime?
Except none of the children had heard the famous poem before, not like she had when she was their age, and she’d loved the tale from the time she was old enough to comprehend the words.
Which is why she’d ordered a copy and had it mailed all the way from Omaha to Glory Hill to keep right here for her Children’s Reading Hour, held every Saturday morning on a rag rug by the warmth of a large woodstove in Walsh’s Mercantile.
She kept reading, each word defined, her voice building with the suspense from the narration.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
with a little old driver, so lively and quick–
“Miss Joyanna?” Lily Sue, one of the five-year-old Ramsey triplets, thrust her thin arm into the air. “What’s a reindeer?”
“Everyone knows what a reindeer is, Lily Sue.” At ten years of age, Homer Keyes was the oldest in the group and sounded superior for it. “It’s a horse.”
“Is not,” said his young brother, Wallace, back stiffening. “It’s a donkey.”
“It pulls a sleigh, don’t it?” Homer shot back. “Horses pull sleighs, not donkeys.”
“Sometimes they do!”
“But the story says ‘tiny reindeer.’” Lily Sue’s sister, Daisy Lee, spoke up with her soft voice stressing the word. “Horses ain’t tiny.”
“Donkeys ain’t, either,” added the last sister of the trio, Rose Amelia.
Holding back laughter, Joyanna caught Hilda Walsh’s eye and detected her amusement, too. The mercantile proprietor’s wife had been quick to agree to Joyanna’s desire to read to children while their mothers shopped or ran a quick errand around town. The idea had been good for both families and business, but no one enjoyed the time more than Joyanna.
She held up a hand to still the quibbling. “That’s a very good question, Lily Sue. Reindeer aren’t horses or donkeys.” She tapped a finger on an illustration of the reindeer pulling the sleigh with St. Nicholas at the reins. “See the antlers? They’re deer.”
Comprehension dawned on the young faces, and she warmed at their innocence, loving that she was able to teach them something new so special to Christmas.
“Let’s continue, shall we? Our hour is almost over.” Again, she held the book’s pages wide and began to read…
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
The children laughed at the strange names for the reindeer. They barely moved in their places on the rag rug and grew wide-eyed at the images of St. Nicholas flying onto the roof, then whooshing down a chimney with his bundle of toys. Their imaginations filled with the old elf’s jolliness and his stocking-filling, and then, too soon, before she suspected they could expect it, he rose up the chimney again, whistling to his team of reindeer…
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all.
And to all a Good Night.
Joyanna sighed and slowly closed the book. Even though she was twenty years old, the story still enthralled her.
“Did you like A Visit from St. Nicholas?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes!” the five said in exuberant chorus.
“Shall we read it again next week?”
“Yes!”
“Very well. We shall, then!” She swept a fond gaze over them. “And you know what? Tomorrow is a special day. Who can tell me what it is?”
Despite their expectant expressions, no one ventured a guess. Was it possible they didn’t know? She chanced a questioning glance at Widow Ramsey and Mrs. Keyes, both waiting near the cash register counter to take their children home. Their faint shrugs revealed they weren’t familiar, either.
Perhaps it was living so far away from a big city where Christmas customs were celebrated on a grander scale than in the sandhills of Nebraska. Here, life was simpler, the population smaller, and travel beyond the town limits rare. Money was intended for necessities only. Perhaps, too, it was the lack of access to reading materials by someone like Clement C. Moore who had penned A Visit from St. Nicholas to delight young children just like those in front of her.
Whatever the reason, the folks in this mercantile, mothers and children alike, didn’t know of the magic St. Nicholas could bring.
Something Joyanna intended to change.
Starting tonight.
“Why, tomorrow is the Feast of St. Nicholas,” she exclaimed. “But what makes his feast even more special is that he brings treats to children and leaves them in their shoe the night before.”
Homer blinked. “He does?”
“But he never left me a treat,” his brother, Wallace, added, clearly taken aback at the news.
Joyanna tapped her chin in feigned contemplation. “Hmm. Did you leave one of your shoes near the front door so he could?”
“No.”
The other four shook their heads, too.
“That’s why, then,” she said with a somber nod.
“How does he know where we live?” Rose Amelia asked.
Joyanna shrugged. “He’s St. Nicholas.”
As if that explained everything, and no one questioned the feasibility. She could hardly hold in her smile.
She straightened in her chair with her book clasped in her lap. “Our reading hour is over, sweetlings, but I’ll see you for another reading hour next Saturday, okay?”
The five children didn’t move to get up, but they exchanged looks. Something obviously held them back. Something not even Homer dared to mention.
“Did I forget something?” she asked, knowing full well she had. At their shy nods, she smiled. “Ah. You’re right. I did.”
She delved into her dress pocket and found the candy she never failed to give. Five wrapped caramels lay in her palm.
“One for each of you,” she said, touched by their good manners from declining to ask for the treat they hoped she’d have.
“Thank you, Miss Joyanna,” they said, deftly maneuvering the paper with their little fingers.
“You’re very welcome. Now, be sure to button your coats and wear your hats. It’s cold outside.”
Cheeks bulging like chipmunks, they retrieved their wraps from the edge of the rag rug and joined their mothers.
“Girls, wait on the boardwalk,” Widow Ramsey said, her thin coat buttoned to her neck. She gave them each a nudge. “I’ll be right out.”
Mrs. Keyes gestured toward the front door. “Homer and Wallace, you, too.”
As the children left, both mothers joined Joyanna, rolling up the rug for storage until the next reading hour. Already anticipating what the women needed to discuss, she rose.
“Joyanna,” Widow Ramsey said, hesitant. “I’m afraid… well, this thing with St. Nicholas… the girls will be sorely disappointed to find nothing in their shoes. I simply don’t have…”
“If we’d known of this custom, we could have prepared–” Mrs. Keyes said.
“No, no.” Joyanna laid a gentle hand on both their arms. “I want to do this for the children. I will be St. Nicholas for them.”
“She’s been planning it for weeks now. In fact, she ordered a special treat, and they arrived only yesterday.” Hilda joined in. “I think I would have heard if either of you practiced the St. Nicholas custom or bought something to do so. In all our time owning the mercantile, no one has mentioned it.”
“I didn’t want to say anything to you until my treats arrived,” Joyanna said. “And now that they have, all you need to do is make sure the children leave one of their shoes inside your front door. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Oh, Joyanna.” The widow pressed a hand to her bosom. Tears welled. “It’s been difficult since my husband passed. Money is terribly scarce, but this… this will delight the girls more than you know.”
“Next year, we’ll be prepared.” Mrs. Keyes smiled. “St. Nicholas will be a regular visitor of ours from now on.”
“On the eve of his feast day, you know.” Hilda dropped some coins into Joyanna’s palm. “Here’s a penny for each of the children. I want to be St. Nicholas, too.”
This time, the Widow Ramsey’s tears spilled free. “Joyanna, you have brought so much life to this town. You are truly a joy, just like the name your mama gave you.”
“Now you’re going to make me cry.” Joyanna hugged her, and Mrs. Keyes moved in for an embrace, too. “But I must say your children bring me even more joy. They deserve to be happy at Christmas.”
“Because of you, they will be.” Mrs. Keyes’ warm gaze included Hilda’s. “Thank you both.” She stepped away. “We’d best go before they come back in and hear us scheming.”
Both women hurried off, and her heart full, Joyanna finished rolling the rug. After stashing it in a small storage room and donning her hooded coat, she joined Hilda at the front of the store. An open bag of oranges lay on the counter.
“They look absolutely delicious.” Joyanna held one of the six she’d ordered in her palm. Her inspection feasted over the bright-orange fruit. “One would think they’d been plucked off their tree only moments ago, instead of having been shipped all the way from an orchard, somewhere.”
“Oh, it’s been too long since I’ve had one,” Hilda said.
“Me, too. Not since I lived in Omaha, certainly.”
“It was generous of you to think of the children, Joyanna. They’ll never forget the taste of that sweet juice on their tongue for the first time.”
Joyanna smiled. “Not me, you know. Saint Nicholas.”
“Well, you’ll have an extra for yourself.” Fred Walsh coughed, slowing his stride before he joined them. He set a stack of packages and a letter onto the counter with a loud clearing of his throat.
“It’s only a spare in case another child needs visiting from St. Nick.” The cost of the fruit hadn’t been inexpensive, and she’d been frugal in her order. “If not, I’ll share it with my parents.” She retied the bundle of oranges with its string. “I’d best be going. I told Father Sherman I’d stop by this afternoon, in case he needed help planning our Christmas Eve service.”
“Would you mind dropping off a couple of packages to Carlene Lancaster on your way? There’s one for Father Sherman, and a letter, too.” He tucked the letter under the string wrapped around the priest’s package.
“Not at all.”
In addition to running the only mercantile in Glory Hill, Fred also served as the town’s postmaster. He was always diligent in making sure his customers received their mail as soon as they could. He slid all three packages toward her.
“The sheet music must have arrived.” Pleased, Joyanna tugged the stack closer and set the bundle of oranges on top. After pulling her fur-trimmed hood onto her head and tying a knitted scarf snugly around her neck, she hefted the pile into her arms.
“Fresh off the train this morning.” Fred managed to smile before trying to stifle another cough. “Appreciate it, young lady.”
“Let me get the door for you,” Hilda said, hurrying behind her.
“That would be helpful.” On the wave of a fresh thought, Joyanna twisted toward her. “How is Fred’s Santa costume coming along?”
Hilda leaned around her to grasp the doorknob. “Well, between us, he’s been a touch cross lately with his coughing. I’ve come along as far as I can with it until he tries it on for size.”
“Hmm.” She dared a quick glance at the mercantile owner, sorting mail to put into the rightful cubicles. A burly-chested man with a bushy beard, he’d make as fine a Santa as any in a child’s picture book. “I hope he feels better soon.”
Hilda heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Men can be such babies when they’re ill, can’t they?”
Joyanna’s mouth softened. She didn’t have any experience with husbands, but she’d seen similar behavior with her father now and again. “How about your costume?”
“It’s finished, and I’m very happy with how it turned out. When we have some extra time, I’d love to show you.”
“And I’d love to see it. Soon, within the next few days.”
Adding her agreement, Hilda pushed open the door, and a wave of cold, Nebraska air wafted into the mercantile. Joyanna stepped past her onto the boardwalk and headed straight for Carlene’s Eatery.