Summary:  The weather isn’t the only thing frosty that first Christmas after Marie joins the Cartwright family, but through the magic of story and song, they all find new warmth, acceptance and heartfelt love.
Rating:  G   (6,520 words)

The First Thaw

            “Assez déjà!” Marie exclaimed as she exited the Ponderosa ranch house on her husband’s arm.  “Is there no end to icy wind here?” she demanded as she clutched her wool cape closer.  Ben had warned her, when they passed through San Francisco, that winters could get cold in his territory and advised the purchase of a warm outer garment.  Typical of a man, he had not expressed the half of what weather here in the frigid mountains was proving to be.

“This is nothing,” Adam scoffed.  “It’ll get a lot colder before spring comes.”

She would have expected nothing but discouraging words from the sole person on the Ponderosa who had not welcomed her with open arms.  Perhaps he was even hoping that the cold would make her hurry back to her Louisiana home with its more benign climate.  Well, she would show him!  She had faced much worse than cold wind in her young life: scorn and suspicion, betrayal and even death.  Her hand lightly touched her midriff where rested her hope of a son to comfort the loss of her firstborn, a gift whose promise she intended to present her beloved husband on Christmas morning.  What were icy winds, compared to that joy to come!

“It’ll get better, Ma, honest,” Hoss said, looking a little worried.  Unlike Adam, he rejoiced in having a new mama, but sometimes worried that she might disappear, like his first one had, even before he’d gotten to know her, especially with Adam acting like he didn’t want her around.

Marie gave him an affectionate squeeze.  “Oui, mon doux fils, I am sure that is so.”

“But not soon,” Adam inserted, seemingly not content to leave her any hope.

“Of that, I am also sure,” Marie said with narrowed eyes and stiff tone.

Leading the horses out of the barn, Ben called to Adam, “Come help me get the team in harness, son.”

“Sure, Pa,” Adam replied, glad of escape.  He still couldn’t understand why Pa had dropped this strange woman with her strange ways of speaking and doing things into the lap of their pretty-much-perfect family.  They’d gotten along just fine before she came along!  And if the cold weather scared her back to New Orleans, well, that would be just fine with him.

The team was quickly put in harness, and Adam climbed into the back seat with his brother, while Ben settled in beside Marie

Looking over his shoulder, Ben said, “You did a good job with that, son.  You’re getting to be a fine horseman.”

“Wish you’d let me try, Pa,” Hoss said with a fond glance at the horses, a well-matched pair.

Ben chuckled as he turned the team toward the road.  “I think you’re still a mite short for that job, Hoss, but with your love of animals, I have no doubt you’ll make a good horseman, too.”

“Oui,” Marie put in with a smile at the boy, “perhaps the finest of all.”  She saw, too late, the frown that replaced Adam’s smile and knew she had made another faux pas with him, but did not know how to make it right without stripping his younger brother of the joy he’d taken in the well-deserved praise.  “Ah, Ben,” she said in what she knew was probably a vain attempt to assuage Adam, “you have two fine sons in whom to take much pride.”

Oblivious to the discomfort of two of his passengers, Ben gave her a chiding tsk-tsk.  “We have two fine sons in whom we take much pride,” he said, emphasizing the first word.

“Oui,” Marie said quietly, knowing that his correction would meet with, at best, mixed reactions in the back seat.

“No, dear,” Ben teased.  “We.”

Hoss, who, by its frequent repetition had learned that one French word well, guffawed in appreciation of the joke, while Adam met it with rolled eyes, fortunately not seen by either his father or his father’s wife.

*****

Snow was beginning to fall as Ben pulled up outside the Catholic chapel and helped Marie down.  “Enjoy your service,” he said, giving her cheek a light kiss.  As always, he regretted leaving her there alone, but they’d tried alternating Sundays in each other’s churches, and it just hadn’t worked.  Neither Ben nor his sons understood Latin, so the entire service had all been meaningless to them.  Typically, Hoss, for love of his new mother, had tried to stick by her a little longer, but even he finally gave up.   Adam, the one member of the family who might actually have enjoyed learning Latin, staunchly refused, lest he give too much encouragement to the French interloper.

Marie smiled indulgently at the man who could never seem to remember to call her service a mass.  The smile faded slightly as she entered and approached the confessional.  Once she had found a great sense of cleansing and renewal in the process, but that could no longer be.  She had married outside her Catholic faith and was totally unrepentant about it.  How could she not be when, with Ben, she had found the love of her life and healing from all the pain and sorrow that had gone before.  Without repentance, there would be no penance given; without penance, there could be no forgiveness. She could—and regularly did—confess her lesser sins, and the good God knew they were plentiful enough.  Especially those she committed when a certain son of Ben’s—not hers as yet, much as she wished it—enflamed her Creole temper with his subtle provocations.  It was enough to make a saint explode!  During a previous confession, her priest had quoted Paul’s epistle and advised her to “be angry and sin not,” in her dealings with Adam, but today she would have to confess once again that her sharp tongue had not succeeded at that this week, either.

*****

“Wonderful message, pastor,” Ben said, shaking hands with the Reverend Appleby at the door.

“And blessedly brief?” the pastor said, chuckling.  Out of consideration for those in his congregation who would have to travel through the increasingly heavy snow, he had curtailed his sermon to remarkable brevity.

“That, too,” Ben admitted.  “I do appreciate getting an earlier start home with the way this snow’s coming down.”

The pastor shook first Adam’s hand and then Hoss’s.  “And how did the young Cartwrights enjoy my sermon?” he asked, trying to hold back his urge to smile.

“Most edifying,” Adam said, testing out a word he’d first encountered the week before when the pastor had preached about how all things were permissible, but “all things edify not.”

“I liked the music,” Hoss said, and neither the men nor Adam could hold back their chuckles at that pronouncement.

The pastor leaned over and said in a stage whisper audible to the people lining up behind Ben to shake the Reverend’s hand, “That’s my favorite part, too, Hoss.”  He looked with some concern at the thickening flakes descending on their heads.  “Ben, you’re welcome to stay here with my family until this storm blows over.”

“I appreciate that, Pastor,” Ben said, “but I really need to get home.  I’ve got a ranch to run and stock to tend, you know.”

“Of course,” the Reverend said and moved on to greet the next person.

“Couldn’t we stay, Pa?” Hoss asked.  “It sure is gettin’ cold.”

“Shh.”  Ben said no more until he and his sons were alone, walking down C Street.  “Hoss, they don’t have room for us,” he explained once they could speak privately.  “Their home is barely big enough for his family.  The pastor is kind to offer, but we’d really be putting them out, and we can bear a little cold, can’t we?”

“Sure, Pa,” Hoss said sturdily.  “I just thought it would be good to get somethin’ warm inside us first.”

“Might have known you were thinking of your belly,” Adam said with a wide, teasing grin.

“Naw, I was thinkin’ of yours,” Hoss teased back.

“Now, boys, no fussing,” Ben said, setting a brisk pace toward the livery to pick up their horses and rig.

“We weren’t, Pa,” both youngsters protested at once.

“Well, then, stop sounding as if you were.”  They made record time in reaching the livery, harnessing the team, and driving to the chapel, where he halted the horses and, turning in his seat, said, “One of you will need to go in and tell your mother we’re leaving.”  He could expect no weather-related mercy from her priest, who seemed to follow a more set order of worship than his Protestant preacher.

“I will, Pa,” Hoss said.

Ben hesitated a moment in the predictably vain hope that his older son would volunteer, but only silence came from that quarter, silence accompanied by the predictable stiffness at his use of the word “mother.”  Stifling a sigh, he said to Hoss, “Thank you, son.  Now, go in real quiet, since they may still be worshipping.  Your ma probably will be near the back, so just sit down beside her and whisper in her ear that we need to leave right now.”

“Sure, Pa,” Hoss said confidently as he jumped down from the surrey.  He returned soon, holding tight to Marie’s hand as he helped her into the vehicle.

“Oh, Ben,” she said as she huddled close to him.  “It is really coming down!  Will we make it home?”

“Of course, we will,” he replied.  “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

In the back seat, Adam pressed his lips together, lest he give voice to the question had surged up within him.  Had Pa called his own mother sweetheart or was that reserved for this woman he could barely stand to name, much less think of in terms of endearment?  He seemed to remember Pa calling Hoss’s mother, Inger, that, but it hadn’t bothered him because she was really sweet, not all pricky like Marie could sometimes be.

“Will it be like this all winter?” Marie asked Ben as she huddled, shivering, close to his side.

“It could be,” Ben said as he turned the team toward home.  “Winter can be unpredictable out here, my love.”

Marie sighed.  “Perhaps we should not come so far to worship, then.”

“There’ll be times we can’t risk it,” Ben admitted.  He hesitated a moment and then added, “There is a church closer to home, in Washoe City, but no Catholic one for you there.”

“Perhaps, then, I might just go with you on those Sundays, oui?”

“Of course, dearest!”

She almost laughed at the eagerness in his voice.  Certainly, for him, it would be the easier solution, but she could give him no hope of true conversion and the end of their Sunday separations.  Catholic she was, and Catholic she would remain, but she could not ask these long, cold drives of either her family or her shivering self.  So, perhaps it would do her no eternal harm to worship with the Protestants a few times until the icy winds ceased to blow.

*****

Icy winds continued, almost unabated, as Thanksgiving passed and December made its inexorable march toward Christmas.  Ben chided Marie for her choice of that word one snowy morning.  “Inexorable implies you don’t want Christmas to come,” Ben explained, “and surely that isn’t so.”

“Mais non,” Marie insisted, mindful of the little ears listening in.  “It is a most favorite time of the year, but I chose my word well, Ben.  It is the swift passing of time toward Christmas that I find so unrelenting.  There is much to be done, and for some of it, I need a trip to town, which is looking more impossible by the day!”

One set of little ears had perked up at the introduction of a new word to his vocabulary, for something new to learn always caught Adam’s attention.  While he felt some concern about the Frenchified customs Marie might bring to the seasonal celebrations, for once he was willing to give her some encouragement.  “I bet we can get to town enough for you to get whatever you need, ma’am,” he said.

Ma’am, instead of Ma, but, for now, Marie would take it.  “Merci, Adam,” she said.  “We will make it a most wonderful Christmas, oui?”

Adam couldn’t bring himself to respond in her language, the way Pa and Hoss already did, the way he himself had to Inger’s soft Swedish “Yah,” but the spirit of Christmas demanded some concession.  “Yes,” was all he said, far too softly to convey real boyish excitement, but it was music to Marie’s ears.

Ben saw the boy’s tentative smile toward his new wife and her more openly radiant one toward his son with pleasure and relief.  Oh, please, God, let us have that one day to get to town, his heart cried out.  As he looked out the window, though, he wasn’t sure his prayer would be answered, for the snow was falling yet again, heavier and thicker than before.

*****

They did manage to get to Virginia City for that crucial shopping trip, but that could not be on a Sunday, of course, since the stores would all be closed.  While the weather was again cooperative the next day, Marie did not think it right to ask her family to make that long, cold drive again so soon.  “Perhaps we should visit your church in Washoe City,” she suggested over breakfast

“Are you sure?” Ben asked.  “It’s been two weeks since you could attend your chapel, and goodness knows when the next chance might be.”

“I am sure,” Marie said.  Having found almost everything needed to create the Christmas she envisioned, she was in such a state of content that she felt no need to confess.  Even Adam’s attitude had been better, perhaps in hope of pleasing Papa Noel, if not her.

It was well they made the decision to go the shorter distance to Washoe City that morning since, once again, snow was descending as they left the church.  Just a soft, lovely snowfall at first, but by the time they reached the higher ground of the Ponderosa, icy blasts were once more assaulting, making more than just the woman from the deep south shiver.  By morning, the snow was knee-deep and still coming down as if there were no shortage of frosty flakes in the storehouse of heaven.

*****

The snow continued to descend, day after day, with a dull and worrisome monotony, and as the week of Christmas began, the Cartwrights were well and truly snowed in.  Ben installed a rope leading from the front door to the barn, so that he could tend to the animals.  When Marie saw Adam bundling up to go with him that first morning, she protested.  “Mais non, Benjamin!  Adam is too small to fight through such depths.

“I’ll see to the boy, Marie,” Ben responded, tying a long scarf over his hat to hold it on in the beyond-bracing wind and treating Adam’s headgear to the same treatment.

Adam was near exploding.  He’d expected no better from the Frenchwoman, but it still infuriated him, and now Pa was calling him boy to make matters worse!  “I can handle it,” he insisted stiffly, somehow managing to hold on to his temper.

Seeing the tension building between his wife and son, Ben quickly said, “I’ll carry him over, Marie, and he’ll be warm enough inside the barn.”  As his wife appeared to be mulling it over, he snatched up an even more indignant Adam and carried him piggy-back out the door.

With the wind in their faces, neither boy nor man spoke as Ben made his way, hand over hand, along the guiding rope, but Adam had plenty to say once his father set him down inside the barn.  “I’m not a little kid, Pa!”

The whine did nothing to enhance the case for his manhood, but Ben didn’t let his amusement at that show.  “I know, son; I know,” he soothed, “but I’ve been married three times, and I’ve learned that it’s often best to give in, or at least, appear to, especially this close to Christmas.

A naughty grin twisted Adam’s mouth at the thought of putting one over the woman.  That, too, Ben chose to ignore in the interest of Christmas peace on his particular plot of the earth.

When they returned to the house, Marie had biscuits and hot coffee ready for them.  “I am sorry it cannot be cocoa, Adam,” she said, “but it was the one thing I could not find in town, and I must save what we have for the Christmas baking.  You will not mind the coffee for now, non?”

“No!” Adam said with the most enthusiasm Marie had ever heard toward a suggestion of hers.

Ben, of course, gave his advice in the barn full credit for Adam’s cooperative attitude—well, that and the manliness represented by the drink generally reserved for grownups.  His first taste of the coffee brought a pleasant surprise.  “Why, dear, this is very good,” he said.  Marie usually brewed her coffee a little strong for his taste, but this had been watered down a bit, perhaps for Adam’s and Hoss’s benefit or, perhaps just in the interest of stretching their supplies.

Marie understood exactly what he meant, but for the sake of Christmas and the little ears listening in, she held in her irritation.  “Ouf,” she said, needing some small vent.  “You Americans are such . . . such . . .”

“Weaklings?” Ben suggested with a grin, and wonder of wonders, he saw a small one sprout on Adam’s face.

*****

“Oh, Ben, shut the door!” Marie cried as the wind whipped her skirt.  She was glad her hands were free at that moment, so she could wrap them around her huddling shoulders.

“If you want the firewood in, my love, I have to open the door,” Ben chuckled.

“Oui,” Marie said, a touch of chiding in her voice.  She did not consider the continuing cold a subject for humor.  “But do it as quickly as you can.”

“I am,” Ben said pointedly.  “I’m no fonder of the cold than you, Marie.”

“Mai oui,” she said with a sigh.  “Do—do you think we will have enough?” she asked hesitantly.  “I can curtail my baking if we need to conserve our wood supply.”

“Don’t do that!”  Dumping his armload of wood into its waiting box, he circled his wife’s shoulder with an unfortunately chilly arm.  “There’s plenty of wood, Marie,” he explained.  “I learned to put in a good supply our first winter here, so bake all the Christmas treats you like, right, boys?”

Much as he relished Christmas treats, Adam wasn’t about to give “the woman” any encouragement, but Hoss immediately said, “Right!  Whatcha gonna bake, Ma?  I favor sugar cookies.”

Marie laughed lightly.  “Oui, I can bake sugar cookies, Hoss, and for Christmas Day, I hope to make a Buche de Noel.”  It was for that she was saving their small supply of cocoa.

“A bush?” Hoss asked, eyes widening.  “Why we gotta eat bushes for Christmas?  Ain’t we got enough meat and taters to last?”

Marie tittered into her hand.  “Non, non,” she said when she could speak.  “Buche means ‘log’ in French.”

“We can’t eat logs, either, Ma,” Hoss protested.  “They’re even tougher than bushes!”

“Oh, mon fils!”  She was trying desperately not to laugh, but failing miserably.

Ben gave her a chiding look, but added, “If you’re concerned about our firewood supply, my love, we’d best not eat it!”  Adam’s expression was openly curious and slightly frustrated as he waited for the teasing to stop and the edifying—he did like that new word!—to begin.

Marie brought herself under control and said, stooping down to Hoss’s level, “It only looks like a log, mon cher.  It is a cake we French people bake only at Christmastime.”

“I love cake!” Hoss declared.

“Don’t we all just know it?” Ben hooted.  “You save some of that bush or log or whatever it is for the rest of us, son!”

“Aw, Pa, I ain’t that selfish, not even about cake.”

“I know, son; I know.”  The affectionate ruffling of his hair told Hoss his father was only teasing.

“Can I help make the bush—I mean log—Ma?” Hoss asked eagerly.

“No, Hoss,” Marie said.  “That cake is somewhat hard to make, and I will need all my concentration for it.”  Seeing his disappointment, she added, “Perhaps you could help with the cookies?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m good at cookies!” Hoss exclaimed.

“At eating ‘em, he means,” Adam said with a mischievous grin.

“I’m great at that!” Hoss cried.  “So, can we start now?”

“Let’s have breakfast first,” his father suggested dryly.

“Oh, yeah,” Hoss said, only slightly deflated.  As soon as breakfast was over, though, his mind ran on the cookie track once more.  “So, can we start now?” he asked again.

“No,” Marie laughed lightly.  “I must wash the dishes and, perhaps, rest a bit before I make more messes.  I thought to bake the cookies this afternoon, after lunch.”

“Oh, okay.”  Though Hoss was obviously disappointed with the delay, he was such an easily pleased child that he willingly changed his plans for the sake of others, especially someone as beloved as his new mama.  “So, can I go outside and build a snowman?”

“No,” both his parents responded, Marie with a shiver of fear and Ben with a nostalgic chuckle, for he’d both been a boy himself and was now the father of two.  “Look out the window, son,” he said.  “That’s a driving snowstorm.  Trust me, boy, you do not want to out in it!”

“Guess not,” Hoss said with a sigh, though his face still conveyed other hopes for the near future.  “What we gonna do, then?”

“I’m gonna read,” Adam said.  Then, catching a look at his father’s face, he reluctantly added, “If that’s okay, Pa.”

“I thought we might tell stories,” Ben suggested.

“Stories!  Yeah!” Hoss exclaimed.

“It’s too early for A Christmas Carol, Pa,” Adam said anxiously.  “That’s for Christmas Eve.”

“Yes, I know, son,” Ben said.  “We’ll keep to that tradition.”  Having been a boy himself, he knew how important traditions were to youngsters, especially since there’d been very few in his childhood home.  “I thought we might share more personal stories this morning, about our Christmases past—no ghosts needed,” he added with a grin.

“Certainement pas!” Marie declared, turning from the sink and putting her soapy hand on her hips.  “We will have no ghosts in our house.”

Adam gasped.  Surely, Pa wouldn’t let her spoil that!

Ben saw the look on his eldest’s face and quickly defused the situation.  “We will for Christmas Eve, Marie,” he said, firmly.  Then he softened his voice and added, “It’s really a wonderful story, my love, with a fine lesson in Christian charity.”

“Haven’t you heard of Charles Dickens?” Adam scoffed.

Ben silenced him with a hard look.  “I’m sure she has.  Just not this particular story, perhaps.”

Though irritated by Adam’s continuing need to disparage any and every thing about her, Marie said, “Mais non.  A ghost story is not the type the sisters would have told us.”

“Sisters?  You got sisters, Ma?”  Hoss beamed with excitement.  “Hey, Adam,” he whooped.  “We got aunts!”

Marie tittered into her hands.  “Non, non, mon fils.”

“She means nuns,” a disgusted Adam told his younger brother with a roll of his eyes.

“Nones?” Hoss asked, face scrunching in puzzlement that only deepened when his question was met with more laughter, for they all instantly understood that he’d used a word that sounded like what Adam had said, but definitely wasn’t.

Ben recovered first.  “No, son.  It’s a different word.  Nuns—or as some folk call them, sisters—are women of your mother’s faith who serve God in a special way.”  He turned to his wife.  “Is that close enough, my love?”

“Oui, for now,” she said.  “The sisters at the orphanage were very good to me, but . . .”

“Orphanage?” Hoss asked.

“A place for kids that have no parents,” Adam supplied.

“I know that, but—but you had parents, Ma, didn’t you?”  Hoss’s lower lip was trembling.

Marie touched his shoulder gently.  “For a while, but as with your mother, mon cher, I lost them early.”

“Your ma and pa, both?”  Hoss gulped, unable to take in the magnitude of such a loss.  Adam, too, for the first time, saw the hated Frenchwoman as a real person, someone who had known loss and pain, just as he had.

“Oui,” Marie said quietly, “but the sisters were good to me.”  She laughed then.  “Even though it was hard for them to handle a little rebel like me.”

“I can well imagine it,” Ben teased.  He had said something very similar to her when he happened upon her outside the convent in New Orleans and she had described herself a “something of a rebel” in her girlhood.

“Shh,” she silenced him.  “Do not tell tales, as you say, out of church.”

“Oh, no,” Ben said.  “You’re going to tell the first tale, all about Christmas back in . . . New Orleans.”  He had almost said “back in the orphanage,” but fearing that might be as grim as a tale straight out of Dickens, he quickly changed his wording.

“Now?” Marie asked.  “But the dishes . . .”

“Will wait,” Ben finished.  He began to rhythmically pound the wooden table with doubled fists.  “Story, story.  We want story!”  And of course, the boys quickly took up the cry, Adam a little less enthusiastically than Hoss.  Even he, however, was willing to call a truce for the sake of a story, especially one that sounded like it might be a bit Dickenesque.  (He hoped that was a word, because he really liked the sound of it.)

“As you wish, then,” Marie said, sitting with them at the table.  “Well, the first thing to know is that Christmas in New Orleans is a very noisy affair.  The streets are full of music and people making joyous clamor, the children blowing horns and . . .”

“Did you blow a horn, Ma?” Hoss asked excitedly.

“Oh, no,” Marie said with a tinkling laugh.  “The sisters frowned on such noisemakers, especially during the holy days of nativity.”

“So, you never got to see the fun?” Hoss asked, giving her a sympathetic look.

“Well . . .”  Marie sounded reluctant to answer, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

Ben caught it and said, “Oh, I have a feeling the little rebel found a way.”

Flushing, Marie nodded.  “Yes, I knew a way to escape the walls of the convent, and the music drew me.  I had to follow the sound, and, of course, I wanted to catch sight of Papa Noel.”

“Who’s that?” Hoss asked, nose crinkled in puzzlement.

“You would say Santa Claus,” Marie explained, “but for the people in the swamps, it is Papa Noel, and he does not arrive in a sleigh with reindeer, but a pirogue pulled by alligators.”

“Alligators!” both boys cried.  Even Hoss had seen pictures of those fearsome-looking creatures.

Marie laughed at their widened eyes.  “Oui, alligators.  The swamps of Louisiana are full of them, so what better to pull a pirogue—that’s a kind of boat—through them.  And there are bonfires everywhere, so Papa Noel can find his way to the children, and fireworks exploding all around.  Oh, it is a wondrous time!”

“Can we build bonfires for Papa Noel to find us, Pa?” Hoss asked eagerly.

“I’d rather save our wood for fires inside,” Ben said.

“Aw, Pa, just a little one,” Hoss pleaded, “and I guess we don’t have no horns, but we could make noises like one, and . . .”

“That, I believe!” Ben declared.  “Well, son, perhaps a little one, if the weather permits, but I can’t promise, you understand.  We are not building a bonfire in a blowing snowstorm!”

“Tell about the music,” Adam said.  Try as he might, he couldn’t resist learning more, and the thought of new songs was enticing enough to conquer the considerable reluctance he had to give the woman any encouragement.

Marie was encouraged, however, at this first sign of acceptance from Ben’s older son.  “The music in the streets was, as I say, noisy and very lively.  The songs the sister permitted in the convent were more about the true meaning of Christmas, of course, and I believe I liked them best.”  She hesitated, but taking courage, suggested, “Perhaps I could sing one tonight when we huddle by the fire?”

Adam only gave a small nod, but it came with a tentative smile that Marie took as the first sign that the ice in his heart had released its first drop.  “Ah, good,” she said, “but now someone else must tell a story.”

The afternoon was spent sharing memories of Christmases past.  Hoss could remember only a few, of course, and, surprisingly, Ben had almost as few holiday memories, at least early ones, for his parents had been slow to accept the seasonal celebrations, choosing to keep Christmas as they’d been brought up, as an almost strictly religious holy day.  Not surprisingly, Adam’s favorite memories were those in which Ben’s second wife Inger had taken part, and he was ardent in his praise for her Swedish meals and traditions and the wonderful cookies she had baked.  He’d had only the one Christmas with her, but it had been perfection, as he remembered it.

Marie was certain these memories were shared to point out how superior Inger had been in every way, compared to his pa’s new wife.  So, it came as a surprise to her, when she finally told Hoss it was time to bake the cookies, that Adam rather haltingly asked if he, too, could help.  “Of course,” she agreed, with more enthusiasm than she felt, since she was certain he only wanted to see her fail to meet Inger’s high standard.

She watched Adam’s face like the proverbial hawk when she gave each young Cartwright a cookie to taste, hot from the oven.   She realized she was asking for trouble when she asked the boys how the cookies were, but couldn’t stop herself.

“They’re great, Ma!” Hoss said.  “Nice and crisp and sugary, just the way I like ‘em!”

Marie smiled at his enthusiasm, and then, even as she berated herself for a fool, she asked Adam his opinion.

“They’re good,” Adam said simply, though with no great enthusiasm.

“But not as good as Inger’s?”  She could have kicked herself for the sharp question, but at least she had not described Ben’s second wife as “the sainted Inger,” a phrase which had been on the tip of her tongue.  At least, she would not have to repent of that, if she ever again made it to confessional!

Adam’s eyebrows arched up, and she detected a flush of anger on his face, but for once, he was the one holding his irritation in check.  “Hers were different, the boy said in the most politic response she’d ever heard from him.  “She made icing for them and let us decorate them.”

“Oh!” cried Hoss.  “That would be fun!  And even sweeter than just sugar.”

Ben was sitting by, hoping he wouldn’t have to intervene and thereby ruin what had been a pleasant family afternoon.

“Oui, that would be sweeter,” Marie agreed tentatively, pulling on some instinct as a mother, since she had no real experience nor any example to follow except one especially caring nun who had tried to show the little rebel a mother’s love.  “Perhaps another day we might try that.”  She risked at quick look at Adam to see if he would think she was trying to compete with the sainted memory of, she suddenly realized, the only mother he had ever truly known.  That made the two of them something of a pair, she thought, her heart growing even more tender toward him.

At first, Adam only nodded, for she hadn’t been wrong about the sainted position Inger held in his heart.  In truth, Marie wasn’t the baker Inger had been, and even iced, her cookies probably wouldn’t be as good, but suddenly he didn’t want to hold that against her.  She’d tried her best, and Pa always said that his best was good enough when Adam couldn’t do things as well as he could.   “That would be fun,” he finally said slowly.  “And—and we could put a hole in them before we bake them, like Inger did,” he added tentatively.  “That way we could hang a few on the tree.  Hoss hasn’t ever seen that.”

And Hoss is not the only one who would like to see a remembrance of his mother, Marie realized.  “We will do that,” she said with enthusiasm.

“Just put ‘em on the tree?  Not eat em?” Hoss asked, face crinkling pathetically.

“You can eat them later, greedy belly,” Adam said with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh!  Okay, then!”  And everyone, Hoss included, laughed.

*****

After a dinner of warming stew, with cookies for dessert, the Cartwrights all gathered by the fire with cups of hot coffee, which quickly cooled as they and sang carol after carol.  Finally, Ben reminded his wife of her promise to sing some French carols to them.

“Well, I am not a great singer,” Marie said, “but I will try one—first in French, which is how I learned it, and then in English, so you may understand.”  She began to sing, and though her voice was not one to grace a concert stage, it was melodic and sweet to this forgiving audience:

“Entrentre le bœuf et l’âne gris

Dort, dort, dort le petit fils.

Mille anges divins, mille séraphins

Volent à l’entour de ce grand dieu d’amour.

Entre les deux bras de Marie . . .”

“Ma!” Hoss shouted.  “That’s your name!”

Marie stopped, laughing.  “Oh, mon fils,” she said.  “The song is not about me, but the blessed mother of Jesus.  Marie is how you say Mary in French.”

“You got the same name as Jesus’ ma?” the boy asked, eyes wide.

“I knew that,” Adam muttered.

“Oui,” Marie said.  “You are older and know more things, but Hoss is wise to ask when he does not know.”

Adam gulped.  He hadn’t meant to make Hoss feel bad.  “That’s right,” he said quickly.  “Ask anything you want, Hoss, but I wish you could hold the questions ‘til she finishes the song.

“Well, that’s the first two verses,” Marie said.  “Perhaps I should sing them in English before we go on.”

“Yes, please,” Adam said.  “I know fils is son, ‘cause you use that a lot . . . with Hoss.”

“Oui,” Marie said, pleased to see him show an interest in her native tongue.  “This is what the rest means.”  She began again to sing:

“Between the ox and grey donkey

Sleeps, sleeps, sleeps the little son.

A thousand divine angels, a thousand seraphim

Fly around this great God of love.

Between the two arms of Mary

Sleeps, sleeps, sleeps the fruit of life.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Hoss crooned.

It’s pretty,” Adam agreed, “and dort means sleep?”

“It does,” Marie said, pleased with his interest.  “How quickly you learn Adam!”

“I want to learn the whole song, tune and words and all!” he said earnestly.

“I will be happy to teach you,” she said, “but there are three more verses, so perhaps I should just sing it through tonight.  Then you and I can work on it tomorrow afternoon and present it that evening, oui?”

“Oui,” he said testing the sound on his tongue and finding he liked it far more than he thought he would.  It was only right to use her word for “yes,” he told himself, just like he’d come to say “Yah” with Inger.  Marie wasn’t Inger and could never take her place, but maybe, just maybe, she could have a place, too.  As that thought seeped into Adam’s brain, he felt the ice in his heart not just drip, but actually start to melt.

Marie sang the whole song, from beginning to end, but as the others applauded her, she suddenly gasped, touching her left hand to her stomach.

“What is it, Ma?” Hoss asked anxiously.  “You ain’t feelin’ sick, are you?  Not at Christmas!”

“Non, non,” Marie assured him quickly.  “I only felt a little wiggle in my tummy.  I am fine now.”

“Marie?” Ben asked with a look of wonder in his eyes and a certain expectation, for he’d seen a woman make such gestures before—twice before, in fact.

Though she had wanted to save her news until Christmas morning, Marie knew the secret was out.  She wanted it to be just theirs for a bit longer, though, so she held a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture.

Ben saw it and nodded, but his eyes were shining with the joy bubbling up in his heart.

Once he knew his new mother wasn’t sick, Hoss was satisfied and didn’t pay any attention to the byplay between his parents.  Sharp-eyed Adam, however, saw and understood everything their eyes had telegraphed to one another.  A baby, he realized.  She’s gonna have a baby.   A few days before, he might have reacted differently, knowing a baby would mean there was no getting rid of her, but now he found he didn’t mind.  In fact, as he contemplated having a new little brother—being a Cartwright, it was bound to be a brother—he kind of liked the idea, and it made the ice inside him drip even faster.

“Hey, Ma!” Hoss cried as he took a sip from one of the cups on the table, liberally laced with milk in his case. “This coffee’s half frozen!”

Everyone laughed then, and Ben volunteered to warm the coffee up again.

~ ~ ~ ~

Each year after that snowed-in one, the Cartwrights would sit around the blazing fire during the final days before Christmas and share their most treasured memories of the holidays gone by.  Whenever Adam would tell the story of that first Christmas with Marie, frosty in more ways than one, he always concluded the same way.  “Our cups of boiling coffee would be frozen in twenty minutes,” he would tell the little brother who’d been only a wiggle in her tummy that night, “but the warmth in our hearts thawed all the ice, inside and out.  Love is like that, Little Joe,” he would add as he tapped the boy’s tiny nose, “and Christmas is all about love.”

The End

My prompt:  Our cups of boiling coffee would be frozen in twenty minutes.

My main character: Marie