Page 49 of Short-Straw Bride

“The last three years must’ve been hard on you without him.”

Meredith stumbled to a halt and turned startled eyes on him. “How could you know that? That he passed three years ago?”

“That’s when Christmas stopped.” Travis smiled softly at his wife’s scrunched expression. “Well, I guess Christmas didn’t exactly stop, but that was the first year there was no gift at the gate.”

“I don’t understand.” Something more than confusion sparked in her eyes, though. Something deeper. A longing to regain a piece of what had been lost.

He prayed what little he knew would ease that ache.

“The first gift arrived the Christmas after I carried you home. A couple old primers, an arithmetic book, and The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Christmas Eve night he fired off two shots by the gate and left the books for me to find. The only reason I knew it was him was because he had inscribed the front of the almanac with a note thanking me for taking care of his daughter.”

Meredith’s eyes grew dewy, but her lips turned up at the corners. “Do you still have it?”

Travis nodded, his smile matching hers. “I do. I can show it to you tomorrow.”

“I’d like that.”

Wrapping his fingers around hers where they still rested in the crook of his arm, Travis gently urged her back into their stroll.

“He surprised me with more books the next year. He always included some kind of schoolbook and the newest almanac, but then he started passing along back issues of the Palestine Advocate. On Christmas morning, Crockett and I would take turns reading the stories aloud to the others.” A chuckle rose up in Travis’s throat as he recalled how young Neill and Jim had been back then. It seemed like ages ago. “It became a tradition. We would all sit outside on the porch on Christmas Eve and listen for the gunshots. I would retrieve the parcel and the boys would swarm me before I could get off my horse.

“Sometimes there would be a novel, once there was a book on animal husbandry, and Crockett’s favorite was the year we got a collection of Charles Spurgeon’s sermons. There were twenty-seven sermons in that little book if I recall, just enough for Crockett to preach each of them twice to us over the course of a year. I think he did that for three or four years before he finally started writing his own.”

“I never knew he did that,” Meredith murmured. “I knew he put parcels together for the families of his students. I even helped wrap them in brown paper and tie the strings. But I never knew that one of those parcels ended up on your doorstep.”

“Three years ago, even though most of us were grown men, we still sat on the porch waiting for those shots just like we did when we were kids. Only that year, the shots never came.” Travis tried to tamp down a rising lump in his throat.

“We grieved that Christmas, Meri. Not because we missed the joy of the gifts, but because we knew something had happened to the giver. I think all along it was the idea that someone remembered us and cared enough about our education and upbringing to give the books rather than the books themselves that made such an impact on us. Your father was a kind man, and I am proud to be married to his daughter.”

Meredith brushed the pad of her thumb beneath her eyes, but the smile she turned on him was glorious.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glistening—the longing replaced by gratitude and something else that made his heart turn a flip.

The path widened as they approached the pool at the base of a small waterfall. The creek only tumbled a few feet over the rocky ground, but it was enough to create a decent fishing hole. And near the edge sat a large boulder where his father used to sit with his mother.

Travis had never forgotten the time he’d cut through the trees with his pole and jar of worms only to find his father lifting his mother onto the boulder before nestling in beside her. Travis had hid among the pines and watched his mother lean her head on Father’s shoulder. Joseph Archer had taken her hand and held it to his lips, then turned to his wife and whispered words that had made her smile and lift her face to accept his kiss.

Not accustomed to seeing more than a quick peck or two between his parents, Travis grew uncomfortable when that kiss stretched longer and longer. He’d quietly retreated and returned to the house, ignoring Crockett’s teasing about his inability to catch a fish. He never told Crockett about what he’d seen. It felt too private. But from that moment on, the rock at the fishing hole had been dubbed the Kissing Rock in his mind. He’d never climbed on it since, promising himself that the next time he sat there, he’d have a girl of his own to kiss.

“What a beautiful place,” Meredith exclaimed as he drew them to a stop by the rock.

“I’d hoped you’d like it.” Travis watched her face as she took in the surroundings with wonder and delight. “I thought we could sit and talk for a bit, if you wanted.”

“I’d like that.” The mistiness had disappeared from her eyes, yet they continued to sparkle in the moonlight.

“This rock makes a good seat.” Hearing the huskiness in his voice, he quickly cleared his throat. “I’ll . . . uh . . . just help you up.”

He fit his hands around her waist, his gaze mingling with hers. Then, not trusting himself to linger too long, he lifted her onto the rock and scampered up the side where smaller stones offered footholds. He settled close to her side, brushing his legs against hers and bracing his right arm behind her back. He stole glances at her while pretending to be as lost as she in the beauty of their environment. Her mouth drew his attention again and again, and he found himself desperately wishing he knew what his father had whispered to his mother to make her offer him her lips.

So consumed was he with thoughts of kissing, that when Meri opened her mouth to speak instead, it took a moment for her words to register.

“I studied to be a teacher.” She turned her head and looked at him. “Did I ever mention that?”

As he tried to refocus his brain on conversation, she stretched her arms behind her to support her back and inadvertently rubbed her forearm against his bicep. His muscle twitched at her touch, and Travis had to work to keep his mind on their conversation. “No. I . . . uh . . . don’t think you did.”

A faraway look came over her, and her gaze shifted to hover somewhere above the creek. “After the Freedmen’s Bureau shut down in ’70, Father continued teaching at the freedmen’s school. The students and their parents were so hungry for the education that had been denied them, they made great sacrifices to continue paying him a salary.

“When I got older, he occasionally took me with him, let me read to the little ones and help them with their alphabet. Before long I was as enamored with teaching as he was, and for the first time in my life, I felt . . . useful and appreciated.”