Page 31 of The Gift of Seeds
But Andre’s knowing glance showed Dale he hadn’t succeeded in hiding his reaction.
“Are you familiar with the stories of their magic?”
“Magic,” Dale scoffed.How I wished for magic as a child.
“There’s something about riding in a tiny sleigh or buggy pulled by the Falabellas that adds a little…sparkleof love to a courting couple.”
Dale raised his eyebrows. “Maybeyoushould avail yourself of the Falabellas’ magic.”
“Harrumph.” Andre briefly shifted his gaze to the side and cleared his throat.
Dale folded his arms. “Let’s just say that your proprietary air with Miss Collier at church didn’t go unnoticed.”
The brief flash of sadness in Andre’s hazel eyes took Dale aback.
“I’m too old.” Obvious bleakness lay under Andre’s even tone. “My heart’s too creaky to be a courtin’ man. Miss Collier deserves better.”
Dale wasn’t so sure Miss Collier agreed.But who am I to offer romantic advice?
With an audible breath, the man pulled himself together. “Now, about my Falabellas…” He went on the attack—Andre Bellaire style. “They are quite easy to drive. No need to fear causing an accident.”
“I know how to drive,” Dale muttered. His choice of a simple life in a small, remote town included the decision not to keep a stable, even though he’d once enjoyed riding and driving for pleasure and to escape his family for a few hours.
“Good, good. No need to even check with me,” Andre said in his regular jovial tone. “When you want to borrow the Falabellas, go directly to Sam. He has a very snug home above the stables.”
Dale shook his head at Andre’s persistence and raised a hand in farewell. “Have a Happy Christmas.” He strode off, still feeling the man’s amused gaze following him.
CHAPTER 10
When she reached home, bent against the frigid wind, Hester was too disheartened and shivering with cold to even think about baking the strudel for Mr. Marsden. After greeting Lucy, who jumped around and whined as if she’d been gone for years, she stirred up the banked coals of the stove. Although only the faintest of embers remained, she added wood shavings, kindling, and then wood over the small flames in the firebox.
She pushed the kettle of water to the front of the stove top, along with the frozen chicken she’d cooked and shredded two nights ago and, today had left on the back of the stove top, hoping the banked fire would partially thaw the meat.
Still in her outerwear, she pulled over a wooden chair as close to the stove as was safe and practically collapsed into the seat. She sat there until the temperature rose enough for her to shed her cumbersome overclothes.
Feeling too drained and frozen, she couldn’t even muster up the strength to step away from her chair and into the chill of the rest of the house to hang her things up properly. Instead, she dropped everything in a heap onto the floor.
Outside the windows, the sky darkened. Hester wearily stood to let Lucy out the front door to do her business, trusting the dog would stay close. She waited inside by the door until hearing Lucy bark and let her in.
Soon, the wind rose to an audible swishing sound, driving snow against the windows. The kettle shrilled steam, and she poured herself a cup of chamomile tea, adding a spoonful of honey.
She picked up the two bricks she used to warm the bed at night and placed them on the front surface of the stove to heat.
Sitting back in the chair, she held the cup in her hands, inhaling the herbal scent and feeling the heat finally ease the aching stiffness in her hands.
Lucy nudged her leg.
Hester set her cup on the saucer and stood. “I know, you’re hungry, girl.” Grabbing a wooden spoon, she stirred the chicken, picking up a sliver to test. No longer frozen, but not warm, either. Still, they could both survive on cold chicken for supper.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve day. Please, Dear Lord, tomorrow will be better.
When Dale awoke,for a few seconds he couldn’t remember why he felt different, until he recalled the Swensen girls and the sweet miracle they’d created in his life. His gaze swept the kitchen, the early morning light bright through the snow-bedecked windows.The storm must be over.
The room was bitterly cold, and his nose stung. He settled deeper under the covers of the daybed he’d moved into the kitchen in November. At this time of year, he seldom used any other room. Balefully, he eyed the black iron stove. The heatsource was too far away—all of ten feet—to navigate before he’d fully braced himself to venture from under the bedding into the cold of the room.
Instead, he lay, trying to pinpoint what physical change in his body matched his emotional shift. Finally, he realized that his chest didn’t feel heavy from those years of pulling in his shoulders to protect his heart. Experimentally, he wiggled his shoulders up and down, and then tried to ease them back.
The bones didn’t really move. Dale mentally shrugged figuring, without much concern, he’d remain stoop-shouldered for the rest of his life.
