The Baker’s Christmas Blessing (Preview)

Pike, Colorado: Winter 1878

Chapter One: Mary

“I just don’t know what to do,” Mary confided softly to Hannah, her best friend. “He’s taking our business!”

“I know.” Hannah leaned on the wooden counter, chin in her hands as she gazed idly out the window that looked onto Main Street.

Mary crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the wall next to the nearly empty cash register that held their meager earnings. Only one customer since she’d opened. “I would’ve thought our customers would be a little more loyal than this.” She scowled. “After all, we might be small, but we’ve served this community for over ten years!” She’d baked in it just as long as well, since she was fifteen years old.

Hannah glanced at her. “Give them time to realize that the quality at Ryland Bakery is not even close to yours. They’ll come back to you, just wait and see. After all, it’s one thing to be cheap, and quite another to—”

A middle-aged woman passed the front window and paused at the door. She entered, the bell over the door tinkling softly and bringing a brisk, cold breeze with it. She quickly closed it.

Mary greeted Ursula Martin, bundled against the cold in a dark brown heavy woolen dress and cape. “Good morning, Missus Martin. Quite chilly out today, isn’t it?”

Elvira Martin adjusted her bonnet slightly and nodded in agreement. “I need two loaves of bread and two dozen biscuits if you have them.”

“I do,” Mary said, relieved to at least have one more customer today.

“Were they made fresh this morning?”

“Always are,” she said with a smile.

“I have to admit that I went over to Ryland Bakery first,” Elvira said, appearing not the least bit guilty. “Their bread is two cents a loaf cheaper than yours, but when I demanded to know when the bread was made, the man behind the counter admitted that it was made yesterday morning. So here I am.”

Mary glanced at Hannah, who simply lifted her eyebrow as if to say I told you so. While she was certainly glad that at least one person in town had noticed the difference in quality, Missus Martin was only her second customer so far. Usually she had over a dozen, sometimes more in the morning. Yes, bad weather always hampered business, but still.

She quickly stepped into the back room, wrapped two loaves of bread in brown paper, and gently placed the biscuits in a white linen bag before returning to the storefront. “Here you are, Missus Martin.” She gestured at a side shelf. “Can I interest you in a jar of strawberry butter? It’s from the last batch of the summer canning.”

The woman eyed the glass jar, thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’m sure my boarders will enjoy that.”

After the order was boxed and paid for and the woman left, Mary glanced at Hannah. “Twenty-five cents for your jar of preserves and thirty cents for two loaves of bread and the biscuits.” She shook her head and retrieved three pennies. “Here’s your percentage for the preserves, Hannah.”

“Never mind—”

“A deal is a deal,” she reminded her friend. “Take it.”

With a sigh, Hannah took the pennies. “Why did they have to set up shop here anyway?” she grumbled. “Pike isn’t exactly Denver or even Colorado Springs. Both would have been better sites to open another bakery, don’t you think?”

Mary shrugged, staring glumly out the window. A soft snow had begun to fall.

“Are your parents still pressuring you to marry the sheriff?”

The change in topic prompted a frown. Yes,” she mumbled. “They might as well put an announcement in the paper. “Marry our daughter, 25-year-old Mary Alice! Comes from a good family, has plenty of experience taking care of her three siblings. Runs the Ellis Bakery in Pike, Colorado, which, as it so happens, is on the verge of losing its farm and pigs because of overdue property taxes oh and also due to competition from a new and not so impressive bakery that came into town and… and …” She fought back the lump growing in her throat.

Hannah placed a hand on her shoulder. “Have faith, Mary. Things will turn out all right.”

“I can’t imagine how,” she whispered. A dutiful daughter, she often struggled with the responsibilities of being the oldest child, primary baker, and manager of the bakery, and therefore responsible for buttressing the family’s income. Though often overwhelmed, she tried not to complain or worry overmuch. Even so, the weight had gradually increased over the past few months and now it was almost too much to bear.

“You’re not the only one who can run this bakery, you know,” Hannah remarked. “Matthew could take over the management—”

“Matthew couldn’t bake a decent biscuit to save his life!” 

Hannah laughed softly. “You could teach him—”

“Matthew’s got other things on his mind besides the bakery and bread,” Mary said, turning to her friend. “He’s been hired on as a ranch hand on the Double T, starting this spring.”

“The Double T? Isn’t that the big ranch over by Denver?”

Mary nodded. “He’s been itching to get out of Pike for the last couple of years, but Father didn’t want to let him go. Now, with times getting harder …” She left off. Now that the new bakery had come to town, the income provided by the Ellis Bakery had declined, so much so that for the first time in years, her parents looked worried more often than not. Having fewer mouths to feed was an obvious solution. Matthew was old enough to start a new life as a ranch hand. She was more than old enough to get married, and sooner rather than later. She had heard her father worrying that she would soon be labeled a spinster.

A spinster! Why, she was only twenty-five, hardly old and haggard. She stomped her foot on the floor, arms akimbo. “Why did that awful man have to build his new bakery here, in Pike of all places?” The he she referred to was Walter Jones, the manager who ran the Ryland Bakery at the other end of their small mountain town. “This town isn’t big enough for two bakeries.”

“I’ve wondered about that as well. You’d think a bigger operation like that would do better in the city.”

“Or the mining towns. There’s over a dozen of them scattered along the Front Range,” Mary muttered. “I even suggested to Father the possibility that we could relocate, but he said it was impossible, that it would cost too much to start over someplace else. He said the mines would eventually dry up, and the miners would move on.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true, and your family has lived on that property since you were born.”

Mary nodded. “A few years before, actually. Mother and Father had just gotten married. He put every dime he owned into that ten acres of property and built the original house with his own two hands.” 

Her mother had told her that back then, Tanner Ellis had wanted to raise sheep, but people out here in the Colorado Territory didn’t think too kindly of sheep farmers, so he had bought piglets instead. So now they raised pigs and larger hogs that were butchered and smoked nearly year-round. Even so, the demand for pork wasn’t enough to keep the family afloat. That’s when her parents purchased the small structure at the south end of town and created the bakery. Between the pigs and the baking, they barely made do, but it was enough.

Mary looked out the window, watching but not really seeing the flakes of snow floating past the windows. The bakery grew silent once more. Outside, she heard trace chains and the creak of wagon wheels passing through the alley between her bakery and Elvira Martin’s boarding house next door.

“How’s your father doing?”

Mary turned to her friend and sighed. “Not well. This cold weather doesn’t help. Some mornings, he can hardly get out of bed.” Two years ago, her father had fallen off the roof of their small barn. He’d been up there replacing a couple of roofing shingles. He’d broken his hip and damaged something in his back. Though he had recovered, he’d never been the same. His now perpetual limp was severe, and when it grew cold, it was all he could do to walk on it. 

“I wish there was more I could do to help you.”

Mary gave her friend a small smile. “You help by just being my friend.” Even though Hannah was five years younger, the two of them had been the best of friends since Hannah Slade and her father Caleb had ridden into town. He’d set up shop as the blacksmith. Her mother had died before they left Ohio to start a new life.

She began to pace behind the counter, frustration growing with every second. “There has to be a way out of this predicament that doesn’t involve me being coerced to marry.” 

“They’re not exactly twisting your arm,” Hannah said gently.

Mary paused, one hand fingering the buttons of the cash register. “It’s been mentioned a time or two in the past month or so. Mother takes in some sewing to help supplement the income from the bakery, but …” She didn’t like talking about their rather dire straits even to her best friend.

Hannah frowned. “Please don’t tell me that your father is considering selling the bakery.”

Mary turned to her, eyes wide with surprise. “He can’t! With him unable to work, I don’t know how the family would survive.” She paused, her heart thudding and her stomach a hard knot. “I heard Matthew telling Father that he would send most of his earnings home after he starts working at the Double T. After all, he’ll have a roof over his head and food to eat.” She shook her head. “But he won’t be starting work for them until spring.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so hard lately, but you’ll get through it, Mary. God will provide. You’ll see.”

She nodded. “God helps those who help themselves,” she said. “Even if—”

Footsteps on the front boardwalk again caught her attention, followed by the tinkling of the bell over the door as it swung open. She stared in dismay as Walter Jones, their competitor, walked inside, a dusting of snow atop his narrow-brimmed and rounded hat. He left the door open a second or two longer than was necessary, then closed it slowly. He brushed the snow off the shoulders of his black frock coat and, with a grin, swept the hat from his head and offered a slight bow.

It took everything Mary had not to glower at the man. What was he doing here? Coming to gloat? “Good morning, Mister Jones,” she said as politely as she could manage. “Can I help you with something?”

He said nothing as he stepped further into the room, the floorboards beneath him creaking slightly under his weight, eyeing some of the baked goods on display in the glass-fronted display cases that lined one side of the shop. She rose early every morning to make numerous types of bread, from sourdough to rye and white and pumpernickel and cornbread. She made scones to order, along with rolls and biscuits, seasonal pies and cobblers, and several types of cookies, molasses, sugar, and spice, especially around the holidays.

She didn’t like the way he was eyeing her goods. She cast a glance at Hannah who simply lifted an eyebrow. Finally, Jones paused in front of the counter with a look of chagrin. 

“I fear I have run out of yeast powder,” he admitted. He lifted an eyebrow. “You think I could buy some off you?”

Mary stared. Out of yeast powder? She didn’t believe it for a moment. What was he up to this time? Trying to steal her recipes? She wanted to say no, but her upbringing prevented her from doing so. “How much do you need?”

He gave a small shrug. “Oh, I think a cup will do if you can spare it.”

She hated to give her competitor any of her yeast, as it came dear from back east.  She frowned. “I can spare only half a cup, Mister Jones,” she stated. 

“That will be fine, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“Let’s just do an even trade, Mister Jones. Let me know when you get your new supply in, and I’ll come over, and you can give me half a cup back in trade.” She wanted to know if he used the same type anyway.

The man lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t want cold hard cash?”

“I’m trying to be neighborly, Mister Jones.” She glanced at Hannah, who went into the back room and emerged several moments later with a small metal container. She handed it to Jones.

He took it with a nod and then turned back to Mary. “Neighborliness has no place in business transactions, Miss Ellis. You should always insist on cash when you make any transaction.”

She shrugged. “Maybe where you come from, it’s necessary. Out here, especially in winter, people help each other.” 

“Perhaps,” he said. “But you also have a business to run and debts to pay. He lifted the small bag of yeast. “How do you pay your debts, Miss Ellis? In yeast or coin?”

Before she could reply, he turned and left the bakery, once again letting in a swirl of chilly air. The bell tinkled over the door as it closed. For several moments, the shop was quiet once again.

“Well, I never!” Hannah grumbled. “He certainly isn’t a very pleasant man, is he?” She turned to Mary. “Coming in here asking for a favor and then speaking to you like that? How dare he?”

Mary shrugged and glanced out the door, watching the snow fall. “Oh, he dares much, Hannah. He may be competing with me and taking some of my customers for a short time, but he’ll soon learn that we do things differently up here in the mountains. He’ll get his comeuppance, just you wait and see.”

She turned away from the door, glanced at the list of things that she needed to do today, and heaved a sigh. “Well, I better get started on my cranberry and apple pies.” She forced a smile, one that didn’t quite make its way to her heart. “Christmas is on the way, my busiest time of year. Gingerbread cookies, winter fruit pies, and I found a delightful recipe from a woman who was born in Denmark, who makes braided bread that she calls Yule bread. I finally managed to get my hands on some cardamom.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I’ve got the books to take care of for father at the blacksmith shop. He may be gifted when it comes to working with iron and metals, but a bookkeeper, he definitely is not!”

With that, Hannah left the store, and Mary moved into the back room where she did her baking, the combination coal and wood stove in the corner waiting patiently for her next creation.

Chapter Two: Jake

Jake huddled deeper into his coat as he rode along the narrow, twisting trail that made its way along the steep slopes of the mountains. The thick, knitted wool scarf he wore wrapped around his neck and half his face no longer seemed adequate. Ice had caked up on the wool over his mouth. He narrowed his eyes against the cold breeze and the occasional snowflake that landed on an eyelash. His ears felt like they were going to fall off, and his toes, well, forget about his toes. Even his fingers, encased as they were in sheep-lined leather gloves, had started to tingle an hour ago.

“We have to be close, don’t we?”

The gelding he rode barely flicked an ear at him as he slogged through a few inches of freshly fallen snow. Though he held the reins, he did so lightly, letting the horse pick his way along the trail. After all, he’d never been this far up into the mountains and, for the umpteenth time, worried that he had taken a wrong turn, jigged when he should’ve jagged, or gone down when he should’ve gone up.

“What do you think, Stomper?” The scarf muffled his voice. “Is the little town of Pike just over the next rise? Do you have a warm stable and a bin full of hay waiting for you there?”

Both ears twitched. For a second or two, the gelding picked up his pace. He allowed himself to hope. He’d better get out of this cold pretty soon, or he’d turn into an icicle, just like those dangling from the boughs of the pine trees surrounding him in all directions.

“Stop complaining, Jake,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve got a job to do. But Lord, why did He have to send me three weeks before Christmas? By all rights, I should be sitting by the fire at home reading a book and sipping hot cider.” At least he had something to look forward to when he got to Pike. He had tucked his brand-new copy of a story by Dickens into his saddlebag and looked forward to reading it.

“Lord, please keep me safe. Don’t let me freeze to death, never to be found in these wild Rockies.”

He had been doing a lot of that lately, praying. His journey had taken him quite far from home in Kansas, and he’d never seen mountains like these. They towered above and all around, reaching tens of thousands of feet into the sky. He couldn’t see the sky now. Everything was shrouded in clouds, many of them laying on top of the mountains and sifting slowly downward into small valleys and canyons and gorges. An almost eerie quiet surrounded him, broken only by the sharp snap of a branch that accumulated too much snow, or the light tap tap tap of a pinecone dropping from a tree and rolling downhill.

“Just be glad it’s not wolves you hear.” A piece of woolen thread from the scarf made its way past his lips, and he had to tug the scarf away to pluck it out with his fingertips. In the few brief seconds that his cheeks were uncovered, the brisk chill tightened his skin and made his day-old whiskers stand on end. He quickly pulled the scarf back up.

Moments later, his mount topped the ridge, and he groaned with relief. Down below, nestled in a broad valley between two mountains and ridged slopes, was what looked to be a small town. Smoke drifted lazily upward from fireplaces in town and from houses scattered along the sides and slopes of the foothills around it. The valley floor was covered with snow but not as much as up here on the ridge.

“All right, boy, let’s get down there, dry off, eat, and bed down for the night.” He nudged the horse forward, swaying easily in the saddle as he took the downslope. Again, he gave the gelding his head. Relief swept through him, and he began to look forward to some food and a warm bed with a soft pillow. If only he—

Suddenly, a chunk of bark flew off the trunk of a tree not three feet away on his left. A chunk of bark struck his left shoulder. A second later, he heard the sharp retort of a rifle as it shattered the stillness, echoing and bouncing off the mountainsides. His gelding shuffled sideways, ears laid-back. He shouted, afraid he’d been mistaken for a bear and elk by a foolish hunter who didn’t know what he was aiming at. Something hard struck his thigh. At first, he thought it was another piece of bark flying off the tree until he heard the sharp retort of a rifle once more. Pain burned hot in his thigh, and he glanced down, startled to find blood seeping through his leather chaps.

Another shot ripped over the landscape, this one so close he heard it whizzing by his ear. Stomper lifted his head high and shifted so suddenly that he lost his balance. His heart pounding and pain burning in his leg, he tried to tighten his grip on the reins to pull the gelding’s head down, but he was already bolting down the slope. Trying to gain control with the reins in his left hand made his shoulder protest, and the leather straps slid through his fingers. He grabbed the saddle horn with his right hand as Stomper took the steep slope, practically sliding on his haunches as they went down, crashing through brush branches, slapping his face and body as they went.

He managed to stay in the saddle until they hit a flatter shelf of land. Suddenly, a narrow stream appeared before him. He shouted in alarm and tried to order his horse to stop, but he leaped over it and hit the other side, scrabbling for purchase. He lost his seat and his grip on the saddle horn. His heart in his throat, he went flying. He landed hard, rolled several times, and then his head hit something. Everything went black.

*

Cold. Surrounded by cold. He tried to force his eyes open, but they refused. He moved his right hand, surprised to find it clutching a handful of snow. In an instant, it all came back to him. Riding through the woods toward Pike. The gunshots. His horse had bolted, and he’d fallen and landed face down in the snow, arms flung out to either side. His efforts to move were immediately halted by shafts of pain that filled every part of his body. Snow had melted slightly from the heat of his body after he’d fallen, but now he felt frozen to the ground, unable to roll over.

Do it!

If he didn’t move, he’d freeze to death. With a huge effort, he lifted his right hand from the snow and moved it to his face, weakly brushing the frost from his eyelids so that he could open them. As he slowly regained consciousness, he felt a relentless throbbing in his right thigh. His left shoulder burned. He almost welcomed its heat.

After those first seconds of realization, he understood what had happened. He’d been bushwhacked. Those points of hot, burning pain either meant he’d been shot or broken something, maybe both. Fear took hold. It wouldn’t take long for him to freeze to death out here. How far away was that town he’d seen just before those gunshots?

What if—

The sound of a voice filtered toward him on the breeze. A wail? No, it was too regular. He tried to push himself up off of the ground and managed to lift himself a couple of inches before his left arm collapsed beneath him with protesting muscles. With his vision clearing, he realized he lay in about six inches of snow, everything white and foggy around him, dusk falling. How many hours had he lain out here unconscious?

Lord, don’t let me die this way, please. Don’t let me disappear in these mountains, never to be found again …

The sound came again, closer now. To his befuddled dismay, he realized that someone was singing. The soft, lilting, and definitely female voice prompted him to try once more to lift himself upward. Where was it coming from? The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, slightly muffled by the trees, snow, and the hills around him. He couldn’t tell.

“Help!” He shook his head, regretting it as his vision blurred and his head pounded again. What a pitiful effort that had been. He tried again, filling his lungs as best he could before he hollered. “Help!”

The singing stopped. A squirrel high in a tree above him chucked softly, the acorn it had held in its tiny hands dropping and bouncing down, tapping tree limbs along the way. A branch cracked under the weight of snow.

“Hello?”

“Here!” he called out. His voice sounded pathetically hoarse and weak. “Here!” With every second that passed, his body came to life, so much so that he almost wished for that blessed, comforting darkness once more. Pain throbbed along every nerve, every shaft of it surging with every beat of his heart. 

“Hello?” the female voice called out. “Where are you?”

He forced himself onto his side, onto his injured left shoulder, and groaned in pain. One more effort had him half lying on his back, the snow now soaking into it even more, but at least the weight was off his injured shoulder. His leg wasn’t any too happy, throbbing even worse, so much so that blackness tugged on the edges of his consciousness.

“Here,” he called. Too soft. She’s never going to hear you … As he lay between oblivion and consciousness, he wondered what a woman was doing out here in the snow. Where was she going? Didn’t she have enough sense to stay inside in this cold? What if—

“Oh, good Lord!”

He heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow, the snort of the horse, and then he felt a hand on his chest, and a voice spoke close to his face.

 “Mister … Mister …” The hand on his chest gently shook him. “Mister, open your eyes!”

Definitely female. Bossy, too, but he obeyed, forcing his eyes to open a crack, pushing back the darkness swimming around him. He spied a blurry figure, her face barely inches from his own. Even in his pathetic state he acknowledged a swath of brown hair tucked beneath a bonnet, large brown eyes gazing down at him. A cute, red-tipped nose and a mouth open in dismay. She looked wildly around, searching through the trees before looking back down at him.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you on my horse.”

“Stomp … Stomper …” He tried to turn his head to look for his horse, but even that seemed to take so much effort and energy. His heart clenched. Where was Stomper? Was he all right? Had whoever shot him accidentally shot his gelding? “Where—”

With both hands, she grabbed his shirt front by the shoulder seams, trying to tug his upper torso from the snow. He felt like a sack of grain, weak and helpless.

“Help me!” she ground out. She tugged again.

With another groan, he did his best to move. She practically sat on her haunches, tugging on him, pulling him upward from the snow. He got his good but half-frozen hand under him and helped a little until he was sitting up. Or what he considered sitting up, practically folding forward over his legs and swaying like a drunken sailor.

“You’ve been shot.” A pause. “Twice by the look of it. One in your left shoulder, one in your right leg.” 

No wonder he felt so much pain. But that was good, wasn’t it? Pain meant life. Pain meant that he wasn’t dead, not yet. That’s when the anger came. Someone had tried to kill him. A random outlaw, or someone sent to stop him from reaching Pike?

“Come on, Mister! I can’t do this all by myself!”

Though his head throbbed, and his vision swam, he forced himself to look up at the woman tugging on him. A pretty face filled with determination and glaring at him. She knelt in the snow, half her skirt hidden by the snow, the tip of a black boot peeking out from beneath. Just beyond her, he spied a dappled gray mare, watching them with disinterest. He idly noticed her heavy dark blue woolen skirt with a matching jacket. From beneath the jacket, he spied a lighter blue blouse. A knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, and a heavy wool waist-length cape lined with light gray flannel draped her shoulders, the edges lifting in the breeze.

“Come on, Mister, you’ve got to help me get you onto my horse. I’ll get you home, and you’ll be warm there, and we can take care of your injuries …”

He was having a little trouble following her one-sided conversation. Home? Who the heck lived out here? He locked onto one word. Warm. He eyed her suspiciously as she reached delicate yet strong fingers up to the ties of her cape. She swept it off her shoulders and draped it over his own, tying the strap in a bow beneath his neck. He tried to protest and shrug it off. She would freeze! He protested, but she would have none of it.

“Stop it!” she snapped. “You’re half frozen as it is. Now stop being lazy and help me get you up, or you’re going to die out here, Mister. Is that what you want?”

No. It definitely wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want her freezing to death either. “Go on … go on home,” he said. It took so much energy just to get the words out. “Please, don’t risk your life—”

“I’m a good Christian, Mister.” She frowned. “I will not leave a man out in the woods to die like an animal.” She grabbed both his arms. “Now you’re going to get up, and you’re going to bear your weight on your left leg, you hear me?”

Bossy. She was bossy, but he nodded.

She turned over her shoulder and spoke to the horse. “Come over here, Ruth.”

To his surprise, the horse came a few steps closer and lowered her head to snuffle at his face. The mare’s whiskers tickled his cheek, and then she snorted, a gust of warm air passing over his face. It figured that a woman with no sense also had a horse with none either. 

“On three, Mister.”

Fighting the pain, trying to shrug off the lethargy, Jake gave the smallest of nods. She grasped his right forearm with her left hand, her grip strong, while her right hand grabbed the waistline of his pants. 

“We’re going to make this quick,” she warned. “Because if you fall, I won’t be able to get you up. I’ll have to ride all the way to the house and back again, and by then, it might be too late. You understand?”

He did, but he also wondered how he was going to get into the saddle. 

“As soon as you can, you grab the saddle horn. Lift yourself up as best you can, and I’ll try and heave you up by your legs. You’re going to ride like a sack of potatoes, you hear me? Unless you can get yourself into the saddle on your own, you’re going to ride like a sack of potatoes.”

“So undignified,” he muttered.

“Maybe so.” She nodded. “But at least you won’t die in the snow.”

He barely made it. By the time he managed to stand, with mostly her help, and on one weak and shaky leg, pain shooting sharp, stabbing shafts through his entire body, it was all he could do to lift his good hand toward the saddle horn and grab on tight. She spoke words that swam in his head, words meant for her mare rather than himself. She grabbed him about the knees and heaved him upward, muttering what sounded like a prayer and scolding him at the same time. He scrabbled upward, trying to help her with what little strength he had left. Then, hanging over the saddle like the sack of potatoes she promised, the sound of her voice growing ever distant, blackness once again overcame him.