The Christmas Confection (Hardman Holidays Book 6) Read online

  Elsa nodded in agreement. “We are friends, Mr. Deck… er, I mean Fred. If you want me to call you Fred then you best refer to me as Elsa.”

  The pleased grin on his face broadened. “Very well, Elsa.”

  Her knees wobbled at the sound of his deep voice saying her name, but she resisted the urge to grip the counter for support. “You said there were two things you wanted, in addition to cookies. What is the second?”

  “It’s a tiny little thing really,” Fred said, tightly gripping his hat in both hands.

  “A tiny little thing? Then I shall take great honor in bestowing whatever it is.” Her gaze roved over the kitchen, trying to imagine what in the world Fred could want. She kept a jar full of assorted candy. Sometimes, she used the sweets to decorate cakes and cookies. Perhaps he wanted one. “A piece of candy?” she asked.

  Fred shook his head. “No, Elsa. It’s sweeter than candy and far, far better.”

  Intrigued, she took a step closer to him. “What is it?”

  He waggled his index finger back and forth, indicating she should step closer. When she stood so her skirts brushed against the toes of his boots, he tapped his cheek with the same finger. “A little sugar right here would be even better than ten batches of cookies.”

  Elsa didn’t hesitate as she stood on tiptoe and delivered a chaste kiss to his cheek before she moved back. She had no idea what to expect, but the warmth of Fred’s skin combined with the stubble on his cheek made her wish she could experience the sensation of kissing him again.

  Before she decided to surrender to the urge to do more than kiss his cheek, he tipped his head to her and disappeared out the door.

  “What have you gone and done, Elsa Lindstrom?” she muttered as she closed the door and turned back to the work of cleaning her kitchen. The last thing she needed was to have a man capture her interest, especially one she deemed as fine as Fred Decker.

  Chapter Four

  Dust motes glimmered like snowflakes falling softly on a quiet winter’s day in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the bedroom window.

  Fred lingered in the doorway as his gaze slowly traveled around the empty room. He’d loaded the bed and small desk in his wagon, along with anything he wanted to keep. Although his mother had passed away a few months ago, he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish cleaning out her house until now. A buyer was anxious to take possession of it and Fred was glad to be rid of the place that had brought him so much pain and anguish.

  In spite of the horrible memories he had of the house where he’d been raised, sweet moments crowded into his thoughts, too. It had been in this bedroom where he’d vowed to change his life and leave the destructive path he’d followed for far too long.

  With a bittersweet sigh, he turned around and glanced once more in the bedroom that had been his mother’s. His father had rarely been home, so he’d never felt like the room belonged to his parents. Joe Decker had been more like an unwanted and unwelcome visitor who showed up with no warning and left just as quickly.

  Fred refused to dwell on thoughts of his father or the terrible things he’d done. Not when he was finally ready to close this chapter of his life and move on.

  He stepped into his mother’s room and looked at the frilly curtains at the window, the lace-trimmed coverlet on the bed. Mildred Decker had always overdone everything. Fred had no idea what drove her to do so, but he had his suspicions, especially now that he’d discovered more about her past.

  Just before she died, she’d told him her father had sent her money when Fred was born. She’d stashed the funds in the bank in Fred’s name and never mentioned the account to anyone.

  It wasn’t until after she died that Fred met with Arlan Guthry at the bank and discovered the account held enough money to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. Shocked by the knowledge that he, at one time, had a grandfather who cared enough to send money, and the fact his mother kept it a secret, Fred used a portion of his inheritance to purchase the farm.

  He wanted no part of the house in town where he’d grown up because he assumed the money that purchased it and everything in it most likely came from his father’s ill-gotten gains.

  It’s why he’d sold most of the contents of the house to the county peddler. Fred had purchased a few pieces of new furniture for his house at the farm. He did want to keep some things from his childhood home, items that held good memories for him. But the rest, he’d parted with as quickly as he could.

  Today, as he cleaned out the last of his mother’s belongings, he’d found a small box hidden in the back of a dresser drawer with letters from the man he assumed must be his grandfather. Eager to take them home and read them, Fred set them in the wagon along with his mother’s Bible, a crate of books, and a small box of photographs. He didn’t know when she’d done it, but his mother had rid the house of every photograph of his father right after the man was arrested and hauled off to prison.

  But Fred was grateful to have a few photographs of his mother. He knew she wasn’t a beautiful woman and at times, she wasn’t a very kind one, but she’d loved him unwaveringly and doted on him.

  Fred cast one last glance around his mother’s room before he made his way to the kitchen. He’d just checked through the cupboards to make sure he’d not left anything behind when he heard the front door open.

  “Fred? Are you here?” a voice called.

  He stepped out of the kitchen and glanced down the hall, grinning at the visitor. “I’m here, Pastor Dodd.”

  Chauncy Dodd sauntered down the hallway then clapped Fred on the shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Chauncy? You’re a man grown now, Fred, not a boy wet behind the ears.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fred said, still not accustomed to familiarity with his elders. Not that Chauncy Dodd was old. He and his wife, Abby, were about the same age as Luke and Filly Granger and some of Fred’s other circle of acquaintances and friends. “How are Erin and Owen?”

  Chauncy’s chest swelled with pride at the mention of his children. “Erin’s doing well in school. She and Maura Granger could talk the ears off a dead goat, but they both do well with their studies. Owen is growing like a little weed. He took his first steps by himself yesterday.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Fred moved back into the kitchen and gathered a box that held his mother’s recipe collection, a tea set she had once said belonged to her grandmother, and a few dishes he’d purchased for her as gifts from money he’d earned working odd jobs around town.

  “Are you sure you want to sell this house?” Chauncy asked as he looked around the room that seemed too stark and barren without the trappings of a family filling the empty spaces.

  “Absolutely certain.” Fred motioned for Chauncy to go back down the hall to the front door.

  Together, they walked outside into the bright autumn sunshine. Fred locked the door one last time and handed Chauncy the key. “If I never set foot in there again, it would be just fine with me.”

  Chauncy squeezed Fred’s shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand, Fred. I wish we’d known what you and your mother endured when Mr. Decker was in town. Had any of us known, we would have done something to help.”

  “I know you would have, but that’s all in the past.” Fred set the box in the wagon and leaned against it, staring at the house. He’d spent the last two evenings trimming the shrubs and pulling a few straggly weeds that had popped up since the last time he’d stopped by to see to the yard work.

  “It’s a snug, welcoming home,” Chauncy said, propping an elbow on the wagon bed as he studied the house. “The Holtz family is quite pleased to be moving in soon.”

  Fred leaned against the wagon. He was glad a young family with two rambunctious boys would make the house into their home. “Luke knows what to do with the payment, right?”

  Chauncy nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep a little something from the sale of the house? It’s more than generous of you to donate the wh
ole thing to the town charities.”

  “I don’t want any of it, Chauncy. Not a dime. I couldn’t keep it knowing my father… that he… that the money he used to build this house probably came from someone he robbed and killed.” Fred felt the familiar ache in his chest as he thought of all the lives his father had damaged or destroyed, including his own. “Mother would be pleased, I think.”

  “She probably would be, Fred.” Chauncy gave him a long look. “In fact, I’d say your mother would probably bust her buttons over the fine young man you’ve grown into. It’s a shame she isn’t here to see you.”

  Fred nodded, emotion clogging his throat. His mother had suffered what Doc referred to as a stroke a few years ago. Fred had been working in Heppner for the railroad at the time and came home to care for her. Eventually, she made sufficient improvement to walk around the house unassisted and talk in a garbled tone that only Fred seemed able to understand. The facial paralysis that accompanied the stroke horrified her and she refused to leave the house or allow any visitors. A handful of women in town, Alex Guthry and Filly Granger included, insisted on coming to visit. They delivered meals, treats to tempt Mildred, and news of happenings in town, but Fred’s mother never regained her health.

  Although he had no proof, he thought her spirit drained out of her when his father was taken to jail. It was after they received word he’d died in prison that his mother took to her bed and never left it again. He’d watched her die, a little each day, not from the stroke, but from what he was convinced had to be a broken heart. Mid-summer, she’d finally given up trying to survive.

  Fred mourned her passing, but also knew she hadn’t really been living for a long time. He couldn’t begin to understand or fathom how she could still carry feelings for the monster she’d married, but he knew she did. Even in her last few breaths, she’d whispered Joe’s name then relinquished her precarious hold on life with a smile on her face.

  “She’d probably box my ears for selling her house and most everything in it,” Fred said, tossing Chauncy a grin. “You know how much Mother took pride in her lovely home.”

  “Mildred certainly did, but she loved you, Fred, more than anything else in the world.” Chauncy stepped back from the wagon and settled a hat on his head. “If you don’t have a better offer, why don’t you join us for supper this evening? Abby put a roast in the oven before she went to the dress shop this morning.”

  “Thank you, Chauncy, but maybe I could come another time.”

  “Sure, Fred. Drop by anytime. You’re always welcome.” Chauncy gave him one last comforting pat on his shoulder before he turned and walked off in the direction of the church.

  Fred gave the house a final glance then climbed up on the wagon seat. He’d just lifted the reins when he remembered something and hopped off the wagon. A few long strides carried him around the side of the house to the backyard. He took a shovel out of the little shed where he kept garden tools and walked over to a far corner of the yard. With a grunt, he lifted a heavy stone bench and set it aside then dug down until he found a metal box he’d buried years ago, before the last time his father came home. Nothing in it was of value, but it held things he’d treasured as a boy, like an arrowhead, an old coin he’d found in the dirt behind the saloon, and a bit of gold he’d unearthed at the old mine.

  Lifting the box from the damp earth, he brushed away the dirt and set it aside, then filled in the hole. After he set the bench back in place, he carried the box with him to the wagon, swung up to the seat, and snapped the lines.

  Blake Stratton had loaned him the team of spirited horses and Fred enjoyed driving them as he made his way home. After unloading the wagon, he backed it into the open shed where he kept it, then climbed onto the back of one of the horses and rode it to Blake and Ginny Stratton’s place.

  He waved as Ginny stepped onto the front porch with baby Seth in her arms. The chubby-cheeked boy bounced in his mother’s arms, flapping his hands and babbling in his own language.

  Fred slid off the back of the horse and doffed his hat to Ginny. “Hi, Ginny. Is Blake around?”

  “He’s in his workshop. If you want to lead those two beasts into the corral by the barn, that would be fine,” she said, taking a step back when one of the horses looked her way and blew out a puff of air.

  It wasn’t a secret to anyone that Ginny didn’t like horses. Fred thought it strange how adamantly she refused to ride them when her husband raised some of the finest horses in the state.

  “Thank you,” Fred said, tipping his head to her. He led the horses toward the corral. Before he reached it, Blake hurried out of his workshop. In addition to breeding horses, Blake also made handcrafted furniture that was in demand across the United States and Europe.

  Fred still had a hard time reconciling the amicable furniture maker to a titled English nobleman. With Blake’s friendly manner, it was easy to forget he was a viscount and the creator of Roxbury House fine furnishings.

  As Blake wiped his hands on the sides of his denims and grinned, Fred wondered what some fancy-pants English Lord would say if they could see Blake. The man’s hands bore stains from the furniture project he’d been working on while the smell of horses clung to him from working with his animals.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow the team,” Fred said as Blake approached.

  “My pleasure, Fred. I know you handle them with a gentle hand.” Blake moved to the opposite horse from Fred and together they removed the harnesses. When the animals were brushed down and turned into the pasture, Fred joined Blake in wiping down the harnesses and carrying them inside to the tack room.

  “Want to join us for supper?” Blake asked as they stepped back outside into the fading afternoon light.

  Fred’s eyebrow shot upward. “Did a miracle occur? Ginny learned how to cook?”

  Blake laughed and shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. She still can’t make a decent meal to save her life, but Filly sent a casserole with Luke when he was here earlier.”

  Tempted to join his friends, Fred needed some time alone. “I appreciate the offer, especially since Filly made the food, but I best get on home. I’ve got chores to see to and it’ll be dark soon.”

  Blake glanced up at the ribbons of gold and umber streaking across the sky. “I always forget how quickly the daylight ends in October. It seems like it gets dark before the day is half over, but I suppose it prepares us for the short days of winter.”

  “I reckon it does. At any rate, I best get on home,” Fred said. He whistled and Festus ran over to the fence of the corral. He’d left him there earlier when he’d ridden out to borrow Blake’s team. In trade for their use, Fred had helped Blake in his workshop cutting out chair bottoms and backs that Blake would later shape and carve.

  “We’d be more than happy to have you join us for a meal, Fred,” Blake assured him as he saddled Festus.

  “Nah, I really do need to get home. The cow will be bellowing with disgust that I’ve made her wait this long to get milked.” Fred tightened the cinch, took the reins in hands, then swung into the saddle. “I do appreciate the offer. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure, Fred. Come anytime.”

  “Thank you, Blake. And thanks, again, for the use of the team.”

  “You’re most welcome. I appreciate your help in the shop today, too. It saved me several hours to have you cut out those seats and backs.”

  “I’m glad,” Fred said, then turned Festus away from Blake. He tipped his hat to Ginny as he rode past the house then urged the horse into a trot as they turned onto the road and headed for home.

  By the time they reached his place, he could hear Mabel expressing her opinion about being kept waiting for her evening milking.

  “That cow is as bossy as they come,” he mumbled as he stepped out of the saddle and removed it. He led Festus into the small corral near the barn and left him there before opening the back barn door and letting Mabel inside.

  The cow hurried up the barn aisle, full bag swing
ing like a pendulum with each step. When she reached the spot where Fred always milked her, she glanced back at him with an impatient look.

  “Here’s your supper, you cranky beast,” Fred said, feeding the cow then picking up the milk bucket and taking a seat on the stool at her side.

  Mabel flicked her tail at him then settled down to eating as he milked. Maude meowed and sat waiting for her squirt of milk. Fred pulled on a teat and sent a stream of milk to the cat. The feline greedily licked it off her face.

  “Bunch of cantankerous females around here,” Fred groused, grinning as he sprayed milk on the cat again.

  He ducked as Mabel flicked her tail at him a second time. “Mabel! Enough of that. You’ll end up flicking manure in my milk and I’d rather it not be there. Behave yourself.”

  The cow raised her head and glared at him before returning to her supper, but she did stop swishing her tail.

  When he finished the milking, he poured milk into the old pie tin for Maude then added milk to a bucket of mash for the pig. After feeding Harriett and listening to her happy grunts as she nosed into her meal, he returned to the barn and strained the milk.

  Once he set the bucket in the springhouse, he gave Festus a good brushing, fed the horse, and then made his way to the house.

  Tired from a long day of work, Fred fried a slice of ham with three eggs and cut two pieces of bread off a loaf Elsa had given him the other day.

  He’d stopped by the bakery the day after he’d helped her with the busted stovepipe. She’d handed him a basket heaped with baked goods including a dozen each of three different kinds of cookies, an apple pie, and two loaves of light bread. He’d also found a jar of berry jam and a crock of sweet, creamy butter.

  In spite of his efforts to refuse, she placed her hand over his on the basket handle and smiled at him. “You have to take it, Fred. Please? You were so kind yesterday, so incredibly helpful. If it wasn’t for your assistance, I’d still be trying to fix that stovepipe.”