Christmas Quilt Anthology Read online

  CHRISTMAS QUILT ANTHOLOGY

  by

  Barbara Baldwin

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright © 2006 by Barbara Baldwin

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-59374-876-0

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

  Editor: Chere Gruver

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press:

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  LOVE an Anthology – contributing author

  Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press Torrid:

  www.whiskeycreekpresstorrid.com

  How Far Will You Go?

  Anywhere, Anytime, Anyway – Book 1 Fantasies Delivered

  Anywhere, Anytime, Anyway – Book 2 Fantasy Road

  Winter Wishes Anthology – contributing author

  Spring Flings Anthology – contributing author

  Summer Sizzlers Anthology – contributing author

  Coming from Whiskey Creek Press Torrid:

  Anywhere, Anytime, Anyway – Book 3 Fantasies Undercover (October 2006)

  Fall Fires Anthology – contributing author (October 2006)

  Christmas Candy Anthology – contributing author (October 2006)

  For Priscilla Nancy (Norris) Gaumer -- quilter and sister extraordinaire. You are the reason this all happened and I am so very lucky to have you in my life.

  In Memory of Dad and Mom, who gave us the holiday traditions we continue to pass on. I miss you so much.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Christmas Quilt

  Christmas Waltz at Bayberry

  A Lighthearted Christmas Greeting

  Sugar & Spice

  Christmas Remembered

  A Mother’s Christmas Reflection

  The Hungry Christmas Guest

  Holiday Letters & Memories

  Once Upon A Christmas Wish

  Santa and the Lumberjacks

  Introduction

  The title story—“The Christmas Quilt”—came into being exactly as it states in the opening paragraphs. My sister, an avid quilter, had shown me the quilt top she rescued at an auction. It certainly didn’t hold the same fascination for me, until she started wondering about the people behind the quilt and what their stories might have been. Now that, I could get into, and my imagination took flight.

  I wrote “The Christmas Quilt” for my sister, but the next year I turned it into a story card and sent it to my friends and family at Christmas. The following year, another story was born for the holiday season, and thus began a tradition that I can’t seem to stop. When I created the fifth Christmas story card, I wrote “fifth and last in the series” on the cover, but I had so many friends comment they didn’t want me to stop, that I began an encore series.

  One year, because the Christmas season is a time for family, friends and sharing, I asked those same family and friends to help me create Holiday Letters & Memories. I’m sure you’ll find a little bit of yourself within their letters.

  I am very excited and pleased to be able to share this anthology with you. I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I did writing about the traditions and people that make Christmas so special. Having these traditions surround us during this time of year is as comforting as being wrapped in a favorite quilt and sitting in front of a fire.

  Christmas Quilt

  “It was just lying there in an auction box with some other stuff,” Priss said. “The pattern is called Bride’s Bouquet. I knew I shouldn’t have bought it. Look, it’s not even square. The templates we use today to cut material make everything so exact. I can’t imagine how they pieced these old quilts together.” She shook the material out on top of the Ping-Pong table so we could see it better. “See those stitches—so dainty and uniform. Can you imagine?”

  No, I couldn’t imagine, and didn’t understand her fascination. After all, it was just a section of fabric cut up into pieces and sewn together to form a pattern. There was no backing, so it wasn’t even complete, and she said herself it didn’t run square and would be difficult to finish.

  Priss smoothed a section, picking at a loose string and frowning over a small calico piece that needed re-sewn. “I see something like this and I have to rescue it. I wonder who made it and what the people were like. You know—what kind of stories they could tell.”

  * * * *

  Matilda bent closer over the square of fabric on her lap. The candlelight didn’t illuminate the small cabin very well, and it would have been much easier to sew in the daytime. But days were meant for tending the animals and washing clothes and cooking. Besides, she didn’t want her daughter, Maggie, to see the quilt until it was finished.

  Her tired eyes slid from square to square as her hands caressed the flower pattern created with pieces of fabric. She smiled, shaking her head as she remembered. That piece was from Maggie’s christening dress. Their farm was miles away from the nearest settlement, however she had insisted Henry take her and baby Margaret to town when the circuit preacher arrived so their daughter could be baptized.

  The flowers on the quilt were made from pieces of Maggie’s dresses all through her growing-up years. Dresses that had become too small and too ragged; gone now except for these small remembrances. There were eighteen years of memories in the pieces of the quilt, and in just a few short weeks—on Christmas Eve—Maggie would marry and begin a family of her own. The quilt was to be her wedding present, and Matilda hoped Maggie would always have happiness.

  Matilda threw another log on the fire to keep the chill of winter away so she could continue to sew. She threaded her needle to complete the final square on the bridal bouquet pattern, sewing in love and joy and luck with each stitch.

  The snow fell silently outside the cabin window; the glow of the lamp the only light in a dark December night.

  * * * *

  Maggie cried out. George squeezed her hand and whispered softly, but could do nothing for his wife. Each time he pulled the quilt higher about her shoulders, she would push it off, complaining of the heaviness and the heat.

  Early in his wife’s labor, he had sent for the midwife, but that was hours ago, and the woman hadn’t arrived. The small town they lived near boasted no doctor, and although that was what he studied to be, George felt far from ready to deliver a baby—especially his own.

  Maggie calmed, and for a while, slept fitfully. George wasn’t concerned, for she had told him when her labor began it would probably be a long night. Her mother was supposed to be here, but not until after the Yuletide holiday. The baby was not supposed to arrive until the New Year, either, and look at how well that had been accomplished.

  George sat by his wife’s side, one finger idly tracing the pattern on
the quilt. It was Christmas Eve; just a year since he and his precious Maggie had married and moved to this cabin he had built. He remembered the stories Maggie had told him about the fabric flowers on the quilt; each patterned petal recalling some childhood memory.

  He sighed, wanting to give Maggie more happy memories, for he loved her with an intensity that hurt. And someday, they would have it all—a fine house in a bustling city; his name on a shingle outside an office with the latest medical equipment. Even a maid if that was her desire.

  Maggie cried out and his thoughts once again focused on her. “It’s time,” she said, and George knew there was no hope for it. He would have to deliver his child.

  Later, George moved to the window, watching the snow fall in the inky night. He opened the door for the midwife, but she was too late. Maggie and their baby daughter, Colleen, lay bundled beneath the quilt, sleeping quietly.

  George was quite pleased with himself, for he had managed well during the birthing, but he was even more delighted with his wife. His beautiful baby daughter had a head full of dark, fuzzy hair and each little finger and toe were perfect. She had already captured his heart.

  “’Twill be a wonderful Christmas, won’t it, George?” the midwife asked quietly upon seeing her job already complete.

  “That it will,” George answered with a smile. “That it will.”

  * * * *

  Charles heard the bang on his door even over the wail of the wind. It took some effort for him to get his old bones out of his warm bed. He jerked on his trousers and turned up the wick of the oil lamp. The banging continued and he wondered what fool person would venture out on a night like this. The day had started out overcast, and though the snow hadn’t begun until dusk, it had come with a vengeance.

  He grabbed his gun from over the door, not knowing what manner of person was opposite the barrier of wood. Regardless of the winter storm, he wasn’t about to let criminals enter his home, and there had been reports of a gang of bank robbers in the area.

  The minute he lifted the latch on the door, the wind blew it open and cold air blasted him. His shotgun was knocked out of his hands when a bundle of cloth barreled into him, practically knocking him down. Before he could stop them, several bodies pushed their way into the small house, not waiting for him to move aside.

  The fire had been banked before he retired. Now, as though one body, the five shrouded figures scurried to the heat. One of them, larger than the rest, reached down and tossed several more logs onto the coals.

  “Now just a minute.” Charles retrieved his gun and moved cautiously toward the group. His eyes shifted from figure to figure, trying to see past the scarves and patched garments covering his unexpected guests.

  “Please, mister, we won’t hurt you. We just want to get warm by the fire.” Charles didn’t know which pile of rags had emitted the statement, but he did recognize the voice of a child.

  As the room heated up, the five figures slowly began unraveling, dropping mittens and scarves and coats on the floor in piles, but not venturing far from the fire. When faces started appearing, Charles immediately returned his gun to the rack and swung the stew pot over the flames to warm up the contents.

  “What in blazes are you young’uns doing out on a night like this?” That’s what he faced—children—and at least three of them not more than a dozen years, if they were that old.

  The tallest among them stepped forward, extending her hand. “My name is Kathryn, and these are my brothers and sisters. We’re on our way to St. Louis to our aunt’s, but became lost when the snow began.” She gestured toward the front window. “If not for your light, we never would have made it.”

  Charles grunted and turned back to stir the stew. Colleen had put that light in the window every night for ten years, hoping it would lead her boys back home. It hadn’t, but for some reason even after she died, Charles had continued to light the lamp each night. Perhaps these five urchins were the reason why.

  “We can’t stay in the orphanage, sir, not when it’s Christmas time.” The littlest of the group pulled his pant leg, and his heart softened when he looked down into her big, brown eyes.

  “Sh, Rebecca, it is not this man’s worry where we end up. We’re just grateful for shelter from the cold night.” The one named Kathryn raised worried eyes to him. “We will take our horse and wagon and sleep in the barn, if you have one, and be gone at first light.”

  “Nonsense. You can dish the little ones up some stew; there’s bread on the shelf there. I’ll tend your horse and wagon. Do you have belongings that need to be brought in?” He already had his heavy coat on and now pulled a hat low over his ears.

  “Ain’t got nothing but what’s on our backs.” The boy’s voice was defiant, but Charles could see fear in the youngster’s eyes. So young to be so alone.

  “Nathan, you be polite now. And don’t use ain’t.” This again from Kathryn, who despite her young years, seemed to be in charge of this wayward group.

  Later, Charles turned down the lamp and prepared to return to bed, even though the night was over half gone. They had moved his table back from the fireplace and spread as many blankets as he could find on the floor for pallets. The youngest children all had their faces scrubbed before Kathryn put them to bed. She had even insisted the dishes be washed before she finally laid down, farthest from the fire, acting as a barrier between the children and the door. If Charles had to venture a guess, he reckoned she probably could shoot that shotgun he kept over the door—if she had to.

  She reminded him so much of his sweet Colleen; all fierce pride and protection when it had come to their five boys. Ten years, now, she had been gone, and he still missed her smiles, her spirit, and even her stubbornness. But he was getting on in years, and knew it wouldn’t be long before he joined her.

  Although the wind had blown hard enough to create white-outs, once the sun broke through in the morning, Charles realized it really hadn’t snowed that much. Patches of winter grass still showed through the white, and the dirt road was passable.

  He insisted the children eat a hearty breakfast before starting down the road again. He gave Kathryn directions, for they really weren’t that far from St. Louis and wouldn’t have any trouble making it by the end of the day.

  “Will we be at Aunt Beth’s in time for Christmas?” Little Rebecca asked as he lifted her into the bed of the wagon. “Will she have a present for me?”

  “Rebecca, hush now. Tell this nice man thank you for letting us sleep in his warm house.” Kathryn reprimanded the child and Charles wondered if there really was an aunt waiting in St. Louis. If so, he could only hope she would take these children in.

  “Wait just a minute,” he said and rushed back into the house, returning to the wagon with his wife’s favorite quilt. He gently wrapped it around Rebecca’s little body and sat her up against the box of the wagon where she’d be out of the wind. “Here’s a Christmas present for you, and it’ll keep you warm all the way to Aunt Beth’s.”

  “Oh, sir, we couldn’t possibly take that!” Kathryn turned from the driver’s seat, her face at once thankful for the warm cover and embarrassed he offered it.

  “Colleen would want you to have it. It was her mother’s bridal quilt, and she always hoped to pass it down to her own daughter. But the good Lord blessed us with five sons instead, and every one of them lost in the war.” He shook his head in remembrance. “My poor Colleen never did get that daughter; not even a daughter by marriage.” He cleared his throat. “She would be right pleased to know Rebecca got some use out of her quilt.”

  “We’d best be going,” Kathryn said. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Charles smiled as the wagon pulled away, returning little Rebecca’s wave when her hand slipped out from beneath the cover of the quilt. “Merry Christmas!” she yelled back at him in her sing-song voice.

  “Merry Christmas,” he replied, realizing Christmas day had been a little brighter because of the little girl’s smile.

 
* * *

  Susanna ripped the last of the linen into strips and as gently as she could, wrapped the soldier’s arm to stop the bleeding. She doubted it would do any good, and said a prayer that the soldier would survive.

  “More bandages,” yelled the sergeant as he stuck his head through the opening to her room. He had continued patching up the wounded when the doctor had been shot. The entire north barrack had been taken over for a hospital, and now even Susanna’s own room was strewn with bleeding and dying soldiers. She hadn’t seen her husband in hours, and prayed he didn’t lie dead on the parade ground somewhere.

  “I have no more linen for bandages.” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper, for the stench of gunpowder and cannon smoke continually drifted into the openings where once there had been glass windows and a door.

  “I don’t got time for whining, ma’am, even if you are the commander’s wife. I got men out here bleeding to death. Now get me some wraps!”

  As Susanna looked around the drastically bare room for additional material, her mother’s words echoed in her mind, telling her to stay back east until her husband had quelled the uprisings. But she was in love and wouldn’t listen.

  Now, angry at the world for destroying her happiness, she yelled right back, weary beyond belief from the constant fighting. “I have torn every strip of linen in the place, including my own petticoats.”

  The sergeant’s eyes glanced around the room as though he didn’t believe her. “Well, you won’t be needing those petticoats anyhow, if’n we don’t win this fight.” He pointed to a corner. “Tear up that blanket then!”

  “No!” Susanna flew to the corner. The quilt, with its faded patterns stitched to resemble bouquets of flowers, had been her mother’s, and no power on earth would see Susanna destroy it. The quilt shook beneath her fingers, and Susanna ran a hand over the coverlet.

  “Sh, sh, don’t cry, sweetheart.” As she spoke, a curly black head peeked out from beneath the frayed edge. Large blue eyes, wide with fright, stared at her.