The Christmas Brides by Linda Lael Miller

feet below the train’s precariousperch on the mountainside. “At least the snow has stopped,” she mused. “The traveling won’t be any easier, but he’ll be able to see where he’s going.”
    Once the improvised meal was over, time seemed to crawl.
    Mrs. Thaddings introduced Ellen and Jack to Woodrow, and they stared at him in fascination.
    â€œIf he was a homing pigeon,” Ellen observed, bright child that she was, “he could go for help.”
    â€œWe might have to eat him,” Jack said solemnly, “if we run out of food.”
    Mr. Thaddings, who hadn’t said much up until then, chuckled and shook his head. “He’d be pretty stringy,” he told the boy.
    â€œStringy,” Woodrow affirmed, spreading his wings and squawking once for emphasis.
    Amused, Lizzie busied herself tending to John Brennan, while Morgan paced the center of the car and Mrs. Halifax discreetly nursed the baby, her back to everyone. Presently, when Woodrow retired to his cage for a nap, Jack and Ellen shyly approached Whitley, and sat themselves on either side of him.
    He sighed, met Lizzie’s gaze for a long moment, then flipped back to the front of the book he’d nearly finished, and began reading aloud. “‘It was the best of times—’”
    And so the morning passed.
    At midafternoon, a knock sounded at the door of the caboose.
    Hope surged in Lizzie’s heart—her father and uncles had come at last—but even before she opened the door, she knew they wouldn’t have bothered to knock. They’d have busted down the door to get in.
    Mr. Christian stood on the small platform, frost in his eyebrows, his whiskers, his lashes. He clutched a very small pine tree in one hand and gazed into Lizzie’s face without apparent recognition, more statue than man.
    Morgan immediately moved her aside, took hold of the peddler by the arms, and pulled him in out of the cold.
    â€œTracks are blocked,” Mr. Christian said woodenly, as Morgan took the tree from him and set it aside. “I had to turn back—”
    Morgan began peeling off the man’s coat, which appeared to be frozen and made a crackling sound as the fabric bent. Mr. Thaddings helped with the task, while Mrs. Thaddings rushed to fill a mug with coffee. Mr. Christian still seemed baffled, as though surprised to find himself where he was. Perhaps he wondered if he was in the caboose at all, or in the midst of some cold-induced reverie.
    â€œFrostbite,” Morgan said, examining the peddler’s hands. “Lizzie, get me snow. Lots of snow.”
    Confounded, Lizzie obeyed just the same. She hurried out, filled the front of her skirt with as much snow as she could carry, returned to find that Morgan had settled Mr. Christian on the bench seat, as far from the stove as possible. She watched as Morgan took the snow she’d brought in, packed it around the peddler’s hands and feet.
    The process was repeated several more times, though when Mr. Thaddings saw that Lizzie’s dress was wet, he took over the task, using the coal scuttle.
    Mr. Christian lay on the train seat, shivering, wearing only his long johns by then, staring mutely up at the roof of the car. He still did not seem precisely certainwhere he was, or what was happening to him, and Lizzie counted that as a mercy. She was relieved when Morgan finally gave the poor man an injection of morphine and stopped packing his extremities in snow.
    â€œThe children,” Mr. Christian murmured once. “The children ought to have some kind of Christmas.”
    Tears scalded Lizzie’s eyes. She had to turn away, and while Morgan was monitoring the patient’s heartbeat, she sneaked out of the car, unnoticed by everyone but Whitley.
    He started to raise an alarm, but at one pleading glance from Lizzie, he changed his mind.
    She made her way to the baggage car and, after some lugging and maneuvering, began