Her Montana Christmas. Arlene James
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Research enjoyed the largesse of Templeton funds, however, and Robin had long ago decided that science was not her calling. Her father managed the foundation, from which her Templeton grandparents had both retired. Her mother was herself a research scientist, so the Templeton foundation was, in a very real sense, the family business. But not—much to the chagrin of her parents—for Robin.
She was fully aware that if she didn’t somehow engage with the foundation or marry someone who could be taken into the foundation, all the Templeton money would pass out of the family’s control with the deaths of her parents. And that was fine with her. What the Templetons didn’t seem to understand was that family was more important to Robin than foundations or money. They just didn’t understand how sad and lonely she was because her acknowledged family consisted of only her parents, her Templeton grandparents and one unmarried Frazier uncle, her father’s brother, Richard, none of whom seemed to value her in any real way. They looked down on her profession. They looked down on her relationship with her beloved late great-grandmother. They even looked down on her faith, which she’d learned at her great-grandma’s knee.
She’d never known her Gillette grandparents. Her Frazier grandparents had both died when she was young; she didn’t even remember her grandmother, Dorothy Elaine Gillette Frazier. Perhaps that was why she had been so close to her great-grandmother, Lillian Gillette. And that was why, a year after her beloved great-grandma’s death, she had come here to Montana to find what remained of her family. Her Shaw family. Lillian, many would be shocked to know, was not Lillian at all but rather Lucy Shaw, whom entire generations of Shaws thought dead and buried for decades.
They all assumed that Lucy Shaw had died in 1926 when her Model T automobile had careened off the Beaver Creek Bridge into the rushing water below. They had no idea that Robin’s great-grandma Lillian had confessed on her deathbed, at the ripe old age of one hundred and three, that she was Lucy Shaw and had faked her own death in order to run away from Montana to New Mexico with her beloved Cyrus. Lillian—or Lucy, rather—had encouraged her lonely great-granddaughter to find her Shaw relatives in Montana, but Robin’s father and mother had insisted that Lillian had been raving when she’d come up with the “Montana story.”
Several weeks ago, Robin had finally found enough proof to convince her that Lillian’s story was true. Lillian was Lucy, but Robin’s parents wanted nothing to do with the Shaws, considering them little more than country bumpkins who would try to impose on the storied Templeton name and the science foundation that her mother’s family and Robin’s father so assiduously protected.
Sadly, as her parents had recently pointed out, Robin now had little reason to believe that the Shaws would want to have anything to do with her. After all, she had been living and working among them under false pretenses for months. Her parents wanted her to forget the Shaws and come home to New Mexico to “do something useful” with her life, the study of history not being on their list of useful endeavors.
If only Robin had trusted Great-Grandma Lillian and not let her parents put doubts into her head about the veracity of Lillian’s story, she wouldn’t be in such a mess now. She could have gone to the Shaws with a straightforward story and looked for proof without subterfuge, but she’d been so afraid of branding her beloved great-grandmother a liar that she’d become a liar herself. Even though she’d found the proof she’d sought, her mother was right that the Shaws weren’t likely to look kindly upon her lies. And neither, she imagined, would Ethan Johnson. What man of God would?
So, despite her brave words to her mother over the phone, Robin worried that she ought not to accompany Ethan the next morning. After the call ended, she hung up the bedside phone and sat brooding about it for several minutes.
She sensed that Ethan was a very special man and that under other circumstances something special might even develop between them, but her deceit had surely doomed any possible relationship already. It would, she was convinced, be better simply to end her association with him entirely. Perhaps she ought to just leave Jasper Gulch altogether. Maybe her mother’s phone call was a sign of that. Maybe God was trying to tell her to get out now before she humiliated herself.
When the phone rang, her cell phone this time, she halfway expected it to be Ethan telling her that he wouldn’t need her assistance on Saturday after all.
Instead, he said, “I’m making a terrible pest of myself, aren’t I?”
She had to laugh. “Hello to you, too, Ethan.”
“Oh, good. She’s not ready to hang up on me. Yet.”
Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “What is it now?”
The phone crackled, as cell phones tended to do in Jasper Gulch, then he very clearly said, “Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to come to the church this evening? I need some advice concerning the pageant.”
She held her breath, wondering if she ought to refuse simply because she so very much wanted to see him.
After a moment, he softly counseled, “You know, it’s okay to pray about these things first. I do.”
She touched her eyebrow and closed her eyes, picturing him with that phone in his hand, praying about whether or not to call her, but then she shook her head. That wasn’t what he meant. Surely that wasn’t what he meant.
“What time?”
“Around seven?”
“Seven it is.”
“Great.” She could hear the relief in his voice. “Weather shouldn’t be a problem, but dress warmly. The sanctuary is chilly on a Friday evening.”
“All right.”
“See you soon.”
She broke the connection and sighed. Whatever was wrong with her? Did she have to go looking for a broken heart? Maybe she should just tell him that she couldn’t go with him tomorrow and put an end to this whole silly crush before she did something truly stupid.
* * *
She turned up at seven sharp, her pale gold hair twisted into a prim knot atop her head. It seemed to Ethan that she’d come armored, with a wide headband that covered her ears and a big, fuzzy, shapeless pale green sweater that covered her almost from knees to chin. Brown leggings and half boots completed the ensemble. She looked rather like a prickly pear, and he had to wonder if that was the point, so wary did she seem at first.
He’d felt compelled to call her. Indeed, seeing her tonight had seemed absolutely imperative. Nevertheless, he welcomed her skittishness and got right down to business, leading her straight into the sanctuary to describe in detail his ideas for the Christmas Eve pageant.
“What do you think?” he asked, finally winding down. “Now, I know they wouldn’t have had this great space to work with, so I’m open to suggestions.”
Robin walked back and forth, considering carefully before saying, “We could put down a tarp and scatter some hay, maybe stack up a few bales and cover them with hopsacking.”
“Very doable.”
“We could also paint a backdrop and string it up on rope.”
“Which do you think would be more in keeping with the period?” Ethan asked.
She tilted her head, thinking it over, perhaps picturing it. “I think we should use loose hay and build a rough stable with timbers or logs.”
“I agree. I’ll get some of the men on it, but I’ll need you to approve their plans. If you don’t mind.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and, after a moment, shrugged. He let out a silent breath.
“About the costumes,” she suddenly began, “the fabrics will be the important part. I’ll ask around. Maybe Mamie has some vintage stuff. If not, we’ll have to arrange a trip into Bozeman or another larger town.”
A smile broke across his face. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you, any of it.”
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