Sweetwater Springs Scrooge: A Montana Sky Holiday Short Story (The Montana Sky Series) by Debra Holland Page A
Authors: Debra Holland
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Elias decided to indulge himself.
The vision of dried apple, cherry preserve, or mincemeat pie served to spur him into his tattered raccoon-skin coat. He wound two scarves around his head and neck—one blue and one green. A single one wasn’t enough because both were full of holes and let in the cold winter air. He pulled on his wool mittens that had the tips worn off, which suited him just fine. He didn’t have to remove them when he needed to do a task, and on the walk to the store, he could keep his hands in his coat pockets.
Grabbing a large burlap bag with a double-reinforced shoulder strap he’d attached with large clumsy stitches, he pulled up the trap door leading to the root cellar. The baskets of apples were lined up against the wall near the ladder, so he didn’t even need to take a light.
Elias filled up the bag with apples. He’d barter the fruit for some supplies and pay cash for the rest. He hesitated with his hand on the latch, wondering if he should walk the long way to town—past a certain house. He shook his head as if tossing away the idea and stepped outside.
The chill winter air bit at his nose and cheeks. He moved briskly down the walkway. In spite of the cold, Elias enjoyed being outdoors.
Snow lay in patches on the ground. But the stark blue sky looked clear of clouds. Even if a storm rolled in, he’d have enough time to walk to the store, make his purchases, exchange a few words with whomever else he might see, and haul the goods home where he could shut the door on the world and enjoy his solitary feast.
On the street, he passed a woman who lived with her family back a ways in the forest. He didn’t know her name but knew she had several noisy sons with carrot-colored hair.
Elias touched his hat. “Good day, ma’am.”
She had a shawl wrapped around her head and face, almost obscuring her features, but not enough to hide her wide-eyed surprise at his greeting. She nodded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Masters.”
He wondered how she knew him, then shrugged off the thought. Sweetwater Springs was a small town after all. Just because he went out of his way to avoid people didn’t mean he was invisible, though he liked to think he was.
The feast , he reminded himself. But first, he had to brave dealing with the Cobbs. He steeled himself for the encounter.
~ ~ ~
Marian Williams stared down at the shattered remains of a violet-patterned white vase, her most prized possession, and had to fight back tears. All of a sudden, her losses seemed too much to bear—the death of her husband Harold almost two years ago, followed by her beloved Juliana, her only child, five months later. But the vase represented the oldest pain of all, long suppressed until now, as if one of the sharp shards had sliced open the feelings she’d thought safely stored away.
She struggled to hold in a surge of anger at her eight-year-old grandson, standing on the other side of the ruins, his hands still outstretched in the futile attempt to catch the vase he’d knocked over. “I told you not to run in the house, Noah,” Marian chided in the calmest voice she could manage. But in spite of her best efforts an edge slipped out. She pointed at the shards, scattered over the polished wooden floor. “ This is why you are supposed to listen to me.”
He stared at her with imploring blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to break your vase, Grandma.”
“I know you didn’t. But you disobeyed me, and look what happened.”
“I’m sorry.” Noah’s chin quivered.
As Marian looked at him, she felt guilt pang, reminding her the vase wasn’t her most precious possession, her grandson was. Some of the anger ebbed but not the tight feeling in her stomach. She waved in the direction of Noah’s bedroom. “Go. I need to pick this up before the slivers fall into the floor cracks.”
Shoulders hunched in dejection, he headed out of the room. If the boy had a tail, he’d be dragging the tip across the floor.
Normally Marian
The vision of dried apple, cherry preserve, or mincemeat pie served to spur him into his tattered raccoon-skin coat. He wound two scarves around his head and neck—one blue and one green. A single one wasn’t enough because both were full of holes and let in the cold winter air. He pulled on his wool mittens that had the tips worn off, which suited him just fine. He didn’t have to remove them when he needed to do a task, and on the walk to the store, he could keep his hands in his coat pockets.
Grabbing a large burlap bag with a double-reinforced shoulder strap he’d attached with large clumsy stitches, he pulled up the trap door leading to the root cellar. The baskets of apples were lined up against the wall near the ladder, so he didn’t even need to take a light.
Elias filled up the bag with apples. He’d barter the fruit for some supplies and pay cash for the rest. He hesitated with his hand on the latch, wondering if he should walk the long way to town—past a certain house. He shook his head as if tossing away the idea and stepped outside.
The chill winter air bit at his nose and cheeks. He moved briskly down the walkway. In spite of the cold, Elias enjoyed being outdoors.
Snow lay in patches on the ground. But the stark blue sky looked clear of clouds. Even if a storm rolled in, he’d have enough time to walk to the store, make his purchases, exchange a few words with whomever else he might see, and haul the goods home where he could shut the door on the world and enjoy his solitary feast.
On the street, he passed a woman who lived with her family back a ways in the forest. He didn’t know her name but knew she had several noisy sons with carrot-colored hair.
Elias touched his hat. “Good day, ma’am.”
She had a shawl wrapped around her head and face, almost obscuring her features, but not enough to hide her wide-eyed surprise at his greeting. She nodded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Masters.”
He wondered how she knew him, then shrugged off the thought. Sweetwater Springs was a small town after all. Just because he went out of his way to avoid people didn’t mean he was invisible, though he liked to think he was.
The feast , he reminded himself. But first, he had to brave dealing with the Cobbs. He steeled himself for the encounter.
~ ~ ~
Marian Williams stared down at the shattered remains of a violet-patterned white vase, her most prized possession, and had to fight back tears. All of a sudden, her losses seemed too much to bear—the death of her husband Harold almost two years ago, followed by her beloved Juliana, her only child, five months later. But the vase represented the oldest pain of all, long suppressed until now, as if one of the sharp shards had sliced open the feelings she’d thought safely stored away.
She struggled to hold in a surge of anger at her eight-year-old grandson, standing on the other side of the ruins, his hands still outstretched in the futile attempt to catch the vase he’d knocked over. “I told you not to run in the house, Noah,” Marian chided in the calmest voice she could manage. But in spite of her best efforts an edge slipped out. She pointed at the shards, scattered over the polished wooden floor. “ This is why you are supposed to listen to me.”
He stared at her with imploring blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to break your vase, Grandma.”
“I know you didn’t. But you disobeyed me, and look what happened.”
“I’m sorry.” Noah’s chin quivered.
As Marian looked at him, she felt guilt pang, reminding her the vase wasn’t her most precious possession, her grandson was. Some of the anger ebbed but not the tight feeling in her stomach. She waved in the direction of Noah’s bedroom. “Go. I need to pick this up before the slivers fall into the floor cracks.”
Shoulders hunched in dejection, he headed out of the room. If the boy had a tail, he’d be dragging the tip across the floor.
Normally Marian
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