Page 17 of On a Midnight Clear

Hope Palmer slid her knife through the last of the dried apple pieces , letting them drop into the bowl on the table in front of her.

These should be enough for their Christmas tradition of dried apple pie.

That special day was still four days away , but she wanted to make an early version and test a different ratio of spices.

As she set the blade aside and reached for the towel to wipe her hands, the front door opened with a gust of frigid air.

Her brother, Martin, stepped inside and closed the door quickly before he stomped his boots on the rug. “That’s quite a storm.”

She nodded, her gaze drifting to the small window, where the snow swirled in a curtain of white.

The wind howled, its gusts whining through the rafters of the cabin.

“Sam’s stage is probably holed up at the last stop.

I guess we’ll have a quiet Christmas.” A storm like this usually kept the roads blocked for a few days, especially with them being so far away from any town or even another house.

Martin turned to face her, his expression softening. “I know how much you love having guests this time of year. But we’ll make do. It’ll be nice, just the two of us.”

She bit back a sigh and even managed a small smile. “It’ll be wonderful.”

He moved to the fire to warm his hands. “This time next year, we’ll have the bunkhouse rebuilt and the new trading post open. People will come from miles around, and you’ll be ready to run them off.”

She chuckled, though she couldn’t imagine turning anyone away. She loved their stage stop and inn being a place of refuge for weary stage travelers. Many people who came through here had been traveling for weeks from the east and relished the warm food and comfortable beds she and Martin provided.

But the bunkhouse had burned down two weeks ago, and with only one small extra bedchamber in the house, they had little right now to offer any guests. The few travelers who had come through recently had to make do with a mattress tick and heater in the barn.

Hope carried the bowl of apples over to the large wooden worktable and began measuring out the spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice.

The familiar scents filled the air, mingling with the aroma of the roasting venison Martin had brought in that morning.

For a moment, she could almost forget her troubles.

Almost, but not quite. As she worked the spices into the apples, her thoughts kept circling back to the burned-out bunkhouse and what it meant for their future.

They needed that extra space and the income it brought in to keep afloat—and to expand, like Martin dreamed of doing with the new trading post. Now those plans seemed so terribly far away.

Her brother was right that they would rebuild and come back stronger.

But the prospect of facing the long winter months without the steady stream of guests felt like a heavy weight on her shoulders.

The inn was more than just a business to her.

It was a calling, a way to show God’s love and hospitality to those who passed through their remote corner of the world.

As if sensing her melancholy thoughts, Martin crossed the room and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll get through this, Hope. We always do.”

She nodded, leaning into her brother’s hold. “I know. It’s just hard. Christmas is meant to be shared with others.”

“And it will be.” He gave her a squeeze. “We’ll make it special. We’ll sing the old carols, read the story of the first Christmas, and thank God for all the blessings He’s given us.”

She lifted her head and smiled up at her baby brother. “How did you ever get to be so wise?”

A particularly strong gust rattled the windowpanes, making her start. She glanced through the window again at the worsening blizzard.

Somehow, it felt like this storm was only the beginning.

The wind howled like a wounded beast, rattling the stagecoach as it lurched through the blinding snow.

Noah Bentwood pulled his wool coat tighter around him as he strained to see anything beyond the frosted window.

Across from him, Miss Whitmore sat huddled in her own layers, her face pale in the faint light through the glass.

“Hold tight, folks!” Sam, their driver, called over the roaring storm. “Split Rock Inn is just ahead.”

Noah eased out an exhale. They were almost to safety.

“Good.” Miss Whitmore breathed the word into a cloud of white. He’d promised her father, his mentor, that he would see her safely home to San Francisco. He wouldn’t fail Charles now when it mattered the most.

His mission hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d intended so far.

Had there been so many delays the other times he’d ridden the stage?

And here in the wilds of the Nebraska Territory , keeping Miss Whitmore safe was proving a more daunting task than he’d expected.

Between rough men and fierce weather, he had to stay alert.

The coach slowed as the driver shouted to the horses. Then the rocking ceased with a jerk more sudden than usual. Had they arrived at the inn? Or had a wagon wheel caught on a rock—or worse yet, broken off the axle completely? The rig wasn’t listing, so probably not the latter.

The handle of the coach door twisted, and he tensed, bracing himself for whatever the news would be.

Yet when the door swung open, ushering in a thick flurry of white, a woman’s face appeared. At least, it looked like a woman’s, though a muff covered her chin and neck, and a hood framed the rest of her features. What little he could see appeared too delicate and feminine to belong to a man.

“Come in. Quickly now.” She waved them out even as she scanned the interior. When her gaze landed on Miss Whitmore, a frown gathered between her brows. “You must be frozen.”

Indeed, a sophisticated young woman like Miss Whitmore didn’t belong in a rattletrap stage during a blizzard like this.

Noah climbed out first so he could help her down. The moment he left the shelter of the rig, the bitter wind rushed around him, biting at his exposed skin. He turned and offered his hand to his charge. She took it, and he helped her navigate the slick step in her long skirts the best he could.

He breathed a prayer of thanks when Miss Whitmore got her footing. The woman who had opened the door motioned them toward the roughhewn house, snow swirling around them.

At last, they stepped inside, and blessed warmth enveloped him, pressing like a thick blanket over his chest. He released Miss Whitmore’s elbow and stomped snow from his boots.

The main room was small but tidy, with a fire crackling in the hearth on the left.

A long table with benches on either side filled the center.

They were probably accustomed to feeding much larger crowds than the three of them—including the driver.

Their hostess unwound her scarf to reveal a young, pretty face framed by wisps of dark hair. Not at all like the other innkeepers they’d met along the way. Most of the stops during the first week had been run by families—solid men, harried women, and children scurrying around.

As they’d traveled farther west, they’d stayed with a middle-aged couple, then the inns had all been operated by men.

Sometimes brothers, once a father and son, and most recently, three grizzled friends who’d spent several years trapping in the Idaho Territory until the game dried up.

They’d shared a great many tales—many of which could have only possessed a single thread of truth wrapped in many layers of exaggeration, but it was still entertaining.

He’d stayed up far too late into the night listening to their escapades.

But a stop like this, even farther west ... The young woman must run the place with her husband. She looked far too innocent to have lived in this demanding land for long, though her manner appeared confident and easy.

“I’m Hope Palmer.” She smiled, mostly speaking to Miss Whitmore. “Please, warm yourselves by the fire.” She motioned to the flames leaping in the stone hearth. “I’ll fetch blankets and warm tea.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m Noah Bentwood. And this is Miss Ellen Whitmore.”

Miss Whitmore had already started toward the fire, but paused and dipped her chin. “Please, call me Ellen.” Her teeth chattered slightly as she spoke.

Mrs. Palmer’s eyes softened. “You poor dear, you’re chilled to the bone. We’ll get you warmed posthaste.”

As the innkeeper scurried toward the cookstove, Noah wrapped his coat tighter around himself.

His charge appeared to be in good hands, so he’d best help Sam.

“Excuse me, I need to help the driver with the horses.” He pulled the latchstring and braced himself for the cold, then cracked the door enough to slip out.

The frigid air struck him like a fist, but he pushed forward through the vicious wind and swirling snow. Sam had been out in this mess all afternoon, and though Noah had offered to switch places with him, the older man had refused, determined to get them to the next stop.

Even through injury. Sam had received a nasty gash on his arm not long after they left Kansas, while hitching an unruly team to the coach. He’d not complained, but he’d favored the limb ever since, especially these last few days.

When they’d stopped to rest the horses at noon, Sam’s eyes held a glassy sheen, and he’d been sweating, despite the cold. Noah should have asked if something was wrong then, but Sam had mentioned the coming storm, which then consumed all their focus.

Maybe Mr. Palmer could look at the injury to see if it had festered. Would he have medical skills? Even a basic knowledge would be more than Noah possessed. He’d never been exposed to illness or injury. Gram had always taken care of such, and he and his brothers had rarely been sick.

Noah hated this helpless feeling when he was so used to taking charge and being in control. Though they’d reached shelter from the storm, he had a feeling their troubles were far from over.