Read the book: «A Child's Christmas Wish»

Chapter One

Berne, Minnesota

November 1, 1875

“Lord, haven’t we suffered enough?” Kate Amaker didn’t say the words aloud, but they echoed in her head as Grossvater Martin urged the horses to hurry over the wooden bridge and up the slight rise to their farm drive. “How much more can we take?”

Ahead, a dull orange colored the night sky, illuminating the undersides of billowing gray clouds of smoke. Something on their farm was burning. Something big. What building was it? The barn? Thankfully, all the cows were out in the pasture tonight. The cheese house? An entire summer’s worth of cheeses gone up in smoke? All their equipment...their livelihood?

Rattling over the bridge, they drew near, and Kate’s heart sank. It was neither the barn nor the cheese house.

It was their home.

Kate put her arm around Grossmutter Inge and gripped the edge of the wagon seat with her other hand. The horses responded to Grossvater’s shouts by galloping up the hill, the wagon jouncing and slewing.

Johann and Grossvater had built the farmhouse together, replacing the three-roomed log cabin the family had lived in when they first arrived from Switzerland more than twenty years before. It was the house Johann had been so proud to bring his bride home to after their wedding almost two years before. The farmhouse was to shelter them through the coming Minnesota winter and welcome her baby in a few weeks. An ache started behind Kate’s ribs, so heavy she couldn’t take a deep breath.

Flames shot from every window and licked out under the eaves. Smoke bellied out in puffs and twists and tendrils, drawn up against the stars.

Grossvater brought the wagon to a halt well back from the fire. The horses snorted and stamped, and Kate sat in frozen horror on the wagon seat as the merciless flames engulfed the house.

Grossmutter clutched Kate’s arm, her mouth open but not making a sound. Tears tracked down her cheeks, catching the light of the fire and glittering as they followed the wrinkles and seams of her lined face.

Kate turned back to the fire, knowing it was far too advanced to stop. Already the shingles were beginning to smoke. Soon, the flames would engulf the roof. Nothing could be saved. She huddled in her late husband’s woolen coat, too shocked to grieve.

Shouts caught her attention, and the sounds of horses and wagon wheels on the road. Neighbors, coming home from the same church service where the Amakers had been worshipping and giving thanks to God for this year’s harvest, drawn by the flames.

They drove into the farmyard in their wagons and buggies, but once they spied the three Amakers, no one dashed about trying to rescue anyone or save anything. No one tried to put out the fire. It was too late, and everyone knew it. Instead, they sat, faces illuminated by the angry blaze, silent, like Kate and Grossmutter and Grossvater.

What was there to say?

After a time, someone reached up to assist Grossmutter to the ground, and then reached up again for Kate, putting his hands under her arms. Numbly, she braced herself on the man’s shoulders and found herself looking into the eyes of their closest neighbor, Oscar Rabb.

He took great care swinging her to the ground, and she felt the solidness of his muscles under his thick, black coat, steady and strong. The moment she was on her feet, he let go, stepping back. His broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, but the glow from the fire touched his cheeks and beard. He watched her, as if he thought he might need to catch her if she fainted.

She hadn’t realized how big he was. Not just tall, but solid. She’d only seen him before from a distance as he worked in his fields, never this near. He had been an acquaintance of Johann’s, but not a close friend. He was something of a recluse, a widower with a little girl, she believed.

The glass broke in the upstairs windows and fire shot out, voracious, consuming everything in its path. A hard lump formed in Kate’s throat. All their things, all their memories.

“There was no one in the house?” Oscar asked. He stood facing the fire, his hands in his coat pockets, his breath making frosty puffs in the night air.

Kate shook her head. “No. We were in town. At church.”

She turned away and put her arm around Grossmutter, who wept softly. When the fire began to encroach on the grass, neighbors brought buckets from the trough, dousing the flames lest they race toward the barn.

The heat was intense, smoke billowed toward them, stinging eyes and lungs. Grossvater led the team farther from the fire, and Kate guided Grossmutter back to stand beside the wagon.

“Oh, Katie, dear.” Mrs. Hale bustled over. The proprietress of the only mercantile in town, along with her soft-spoken husband, Mrs. Hale had her finger in every possible piece of gossip pie. “So terrible.” She fluttered and patted Kate’s arm, an “isn’t it awful” delight in her eyes. No doubt she’d be giving firsthand accounts to everyone who came into the store for the next week.

Kate nodded, unable to speak.

“We saw the flames clear from town and just had to come to see if we could help. Your poor house. God’s blessing no one was inside.” Mrs. Hale’s hat, festooned with flowers and feathers, bobbed in the orange glow. “Did you leave a candle lit? Or a fire in the fireplace? That’s how these things start, you know. I’m always so careful. I never leave the house without checking that I’ve put out all the lamps. Imagine how difficult it would be for us, and for the whole town, really, if we lost our house and the store. Hale’s Mercantile is so vital to the town, after all. Why, folks would have to go clear to Mantorville for their purchases.” She leaned in. “Are you sure you put out all the lamps?” Casting a glance Grossmutter’s way, she whispered, “Old folks can be so forgetful, can’t they?”

Anger burned in Kate’s chest, hot as the house fire. Mrs. Hale was such a busybody that by tomorrow she would have it spread around that the Amakers had no one to blame but themselves for the fire, since they were so careless. “How it started isn’t important, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with my family’s age. Accidents happen, fires happen, and assigning blame or starting rumors won’t help.”

Mrs. Hale’s brows, carefully plucked and arched, rose. Her lips puckered, and she put on her most long-suffering look. “You’re distraught, Katie, dear. No doubt that’s the reason for your harsh tone.”

“Kate.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Kate, not Katie. Kate or Mrs. Amaker.” She eased Mrs. Hale’s hand off her arm.

“Well.” Mrs. Hale straightened, her chin going up. “I see Mrs. Quilling over there. I’ll just go ask about her lumbago. She appreciates my concern.” She lifted her hem and strode away, and Kate’s heart fell. Why had she risen to Mrs. Hale’s bait when she knew from experience that it did no good?

She tucked her hands into her coat pockets, pressing her palms against her stomach, feeling the hard roundness and the reassuring kick of her unborn baby.

The baby that now had no place to lay its head when it arrived.

It was all gone. Their clothes and food stores, books, blankets, furniture. All gone.

What were they going to do now?

* * *

The Amaker place was a total loss.

Oscar Rabb turned away from the blaze and went to his wagon to check on his daughter, Liesl. The four-year-old lay wrapped in a quilt, sleeping in the wagon box on a mound of straw. Rolf, his Bernese mountain dog, lay beside her. When Oscar drew near the wagon, the big animal raised his black-and-white head, his tail swishing the straw. Seeing that his daughter was safe, Oscar leaned against the wagon box to watch the fire. Rolf rose, shook himself and sidled over to put his head on Oscar’s arm, begging to be petted.

The poor Amakers. The old couple and the young woman. He hadn’t had much to do with them for a while. Then again, he hadn’t had much to do with anyone but Liesl for the past two years. To his knowledge, he’d never met the younger woman, though he’d seen her from time to time. Pretty enough, he supposed, in a wholesome way. He remembered hearing that Johann Amaker had gotten hitched, but at the time Oscar had been too deep in his own grief to want to celebrate someone else’s marriage.

But tonight, when he’d looked out his front window and seen the orange glow, he had scooped Liesl out of her bed, wrapped her in a blanket and raced out to hitch up his team. All the way to the neighboring farm, he’d feared that the Amakers were trapped by the fire. When he’d arrived at the blazing house at almost the same time as Martin’s wagon had raced into the farmyard, he’d been weakened with relief. A house could be rebuilt, but a life lost was gone forever. Seeing them safe, he’d almost turned around and gone home, but something had made him stay.

“Tough time of year for this to happen,” George Frankel said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his boots. George had a farm a quarter mile to the south and a houseful of children, twelve at the last count. He was an easygoing—some said lazy—fellow who always had big plans but never seemed to accomplish any of them. He liked to chew the fat, and Oscar avoided him whenever possible.

“Any time of year is a tough time for this to happen.” Oscar stroked his dog’s broad black-and-white head. “It’s good they weren’t home.” The flames were no longer roaring. Instead, they crackled and popped like a campfire. The wind carried most of the smoke to the north, away from where the handful of people milled and shuffled, but occasionally a gust would drift toward them, stinging eyes and clogging throats.

“Course, if they were home, it probably wouldn’t have happened. They could’ve put it out before it spread.” George shrugged, sneezed and dug in his pocket for a huge, wrinkled handkerchief.

Or they might have been in bed and trapped by the fire or overcome with smoke. George had a way of speaking his thoughts that assumed there was no other way of looking at things than his, and he loved to argue. Oscar wondered how soon he could get away. If he had known there was no danger to the family and that so many people would come, he would’ve stayed home.

Neighbors drifted by the Amakers, shaking Martin’s hand, hugging the old woman and the younger one...what was her name? Kathy? No, that wasn’t it. But something like that.

She was small—shorter than his wife had been—with dark brown hair. What had surprised him as he’d lifted her down from the wagon was that her eyes were blue. The clear blue of a summer sky. He wasn’t used to looking into blue eyes. Gaelle’s eyes had been brown, brown like Liesl’s, brown like his.

Mrs. Hale, the shopkeeper’s wife, bustled around, talking nineteen to the dozen. Another person Oscar avoided if he could. She was a do-gooder, but she never seemed to act out of true kindness. More like she wanted everyone to know she was doing good, as if someone was keeping a scorecard and she wanted to make sure she got full credit for her charity. Whatever she was saying to the younger Mrs. Amaker wasn’t going down too well.

Good for young Mrs. Amaker. Someone should stand up to the old biddy’s interfering ways.

“The question is, what are they going to do now?” George blew his nose, honking like a southbound goose. “I’d have them to my place, but we’re cheek-by-jowl now.”

And you have never gotten around to adding onto your house, though you’ve talked about it for ages...half a dozen kids ago.

Per Schmidt edged over, his whitish-blond hair bright in the glow of the fire. “I vish I could take zem in, but zere is no room at my house. My brother und his family haf come from de Old Country to live vid me und Gretel.” His accent was so thick Oscar wished he’d just go ahead and speak German, which was as commonly heard in Berne, Minnesota, as English. But Per was proud of his English, proud to be an American now.

Martin Amaker, a tall, spare man, looked stooped and sort of caved in upon himself. He drew off his hat and ran his gnarled hand through his thin, white hair, staring at the destruction where his home used to be.

Oscar felt for the old man. With winter coming, two women dependent upon him and his house gone up in a shower of sparks, he had to be feeling bludgeoned. Oscar patted his hip pocket, feeling the small lump of his wallet. Hopefully the community would take up a collection so Oscar could contribute. He didn’t want to just walk up and offer Martin money. That would be unbearable for both of them. No, a collection would be best. Oscar didn’t mind giving money toward a good cause, mostly because it was anonymous and simple.

Another buggy rolled into the yard, the snazzy chestnut pulling it stomping and blowing, tossing her head. Ah, here was just the man to start passing the hat. The preacher levered his bulk out of the buggy, setting the conveyance to rocking. His tiny wife took his hand, looking like a child next to her giant of a husband. They both went right to the Amakers, heads bent in empathy.

They spoke, and Mr. Amaker shook his head, shrugging. Pastor Tipford scanned the crowd of neighbors who were already filtering toward their wagons, and his eyes came to rest on Oscar. An uncomfortable feeling skittered across Oscar’s chest. Pastor Tipford visited Oscar regularly, trying to get him to come back to church, trying to get him involved in the community again. But Oscar wasn’t ready for that. He still felt too raw inside to endure the company of well-meaning church folk.

He motioned for Oscar to come over.

“Looks like the pastor wants you.” George sniffed again. “Rotten cold I’ve got. Passed it around the house like candy, we did. Every last kid sneezing and coughing and dripping. Not even the baby escaped.”

Oscar stepped back. The last thing he wanted was to pick up George’s cold and risk passing it on to Liesl.

Pastor Tipford motioned again.

“You better see vat he vants.” Per hitched up his pants. “I vill be going now. Nothing to do here anyway. The house is gone.” He went to his wagon, and climbed aboard. “Gute Nacht... I mean, good night.”

Oscar checked on Liesl once more, told the dog to stay and waited for Per’s wagon to roll past him and down the drive before heading toward Pastor Tipford and the Amakers. He braced himself for the sorrow in their eyes, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, taking a deep breath. Other people’s grief always made his own more acute.

“Ah, just the man we need.” Pastor Tipford clapped him on the shoulder, a hefty blow.

“Pastor.” He nodded. “Mr. Amaker, I’m sorry about your house. I wish we could have saved it.”

Martin Amaker looked at him, but he didn’t really seem to see. His eyes behind his spectacles were unfocused and blank.

Shock.

The elder Mrs. Amaker trembled, twisting her fingers in the fringe of her shawl. The knot on the kerchief under her chin wobbled. The pastor’s wife hugged her again, rubbing her arms as if trying to restore warmth.

But it was the younger Mrs. Amaker that drew Oscar’s attention. She stood a little apart, her face golden in the reflection of the lowering flames. Her eyes were wide, and she huddled into the coat that was too large for her. It looked like a man’s garment. Her dead husband’s perhaps?

They had that in common, he realized. The loss of a spouse. He could understand her desire to keep her husband’s memory close. She must really be missing him now.

God, you exact too high a price. What did she do to deserve this? First her husband and now her home? For that matter, what did I do to deserve to lose Gaelle? Or Liesl her mother?

“Oscar, the Amakers need a place to stay for the night.” Pastor Tipford spoke in his most “let’s all be reasonable” tone. “Your place would be perfect. You have the room, and you’re right next door, so tending to the chores tomorrow would be simpler for everyone.”

His place?

No.

He hadn’t offered hospitality in years. Not since...

Everyone looked at the pastor. “The Frankels are too crowded, and anyway, there’s been sickness there. And the parsonage is tiny,” he pointed out. “You can help out, can’t you, Oscar?”

Mrs. Tipford spoke up. “Of course he will. And I’m sure Liesl will love having some company.” She gave Mrs. Amaker another reassuring squeeze. “It’s all going to be all right, my dear. You can rebuild a house. We’re just thankful that no lives were lost. Now, it’s late, and it’s chilly, and there’s nothing more we can do here. Everything will look better in the morning.” She turned Mrs. Amaker toward the wagon, still whispering in her ear.

Without so much as a nod from him that it was all right. Women could be like that...tornadoes in petticoats, pushing the world around to suit themselves, and in such a nice way that men hardly protested.

But Oscar was going to protest. His home wasn’t open for visitors, even for a night. There had to be another option, something that didn’t involve strangers invading his peace.

“Come along, Kate,” Mrs. Tipford called over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out in this night air any longer.”

Kate. So that was young Mrs. Amaker’s name. Pretty name.

She reached up with both hands to tuck stray tendrils of hair off her face and her coat fell open.

Oscar felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

She was pregnant.

He turned away, but the image was seared on his brain, and he was jerked right back to the center of his own grief. He’d lost his wife in childbirth two years ago come this Christmas. Having a woman in the family way around his house, even for one night, was going to rip open all the old wounds.

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. Pastor Tipford would have to find someone else.

A hand touched his arm. He looked down into Kate Amaker’s face. Her cheeks were gently rounded and looked so soft. How long had it been since he’d stood this close to a woman? Oscar sucked in a breath and smelled lavender mixed with wood smoke.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip for a moment, her eyes looking suspiciously moist.

His muscles tensed. He hated to see any woman cry, even Liesl. It made him feel so helpless.

“It’s kind of you to put us up. I don’t know what we would do, where else we would go.” She blinked hard, lifting her chin, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed rapidly, staring at the glowing embers. “I...it’s just...gone.” Her pretty eyes met his once more.

And just like that, Oscar had houseguests.