Page 22 of On a Midnight Clear

Noah stretched a little higher to secure the end of the garland on the nail at the top of the cabin wall.

“There.” Miss Palmer’s tone rang with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

He stepped back to study their work. All the garland had been hung on the cabin walls, draped in a pretty swag that made the place feel more festive than most homes decorated by a staff of servants. Especially with the aroma of cooked apples filling the room.

He sent the ladies a nod. “Well done.”

Miss Palmer turned to gather the empty bowls that had held the popcorn and cranberries. “Thank you both for your help.”

“What’s next on your list?” Miss Whitmore looked to Miss Palmer.

Miss Palmer crossed the cabin in long, efficient strides and placed the bowls on the work counter. “You can take a break. I need to run to the barn now that the snow has nearly stopped. I’ve some herbs there that might help Mr. Thompson.”

Noah’s gaze shifted to their driver, still lying almost motionless on his pallet. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest showed he lived. Miss Palmer had changed his bandage once during the morning and woken him several other times to have him drink a tea concoction.

He turned to Miss Palmer, who was already pulling on her coat. “I need to retrieve something from my bag too. Do you mind if I accompany you?”

Miss Palmer looked up at him, brows lifting. “Of course not. I would welcome the company.” She finished buttoning her coat and wound a scarf around her neck.

Noah grabbed his own coat and hat, then followed her out the door into the icy air.

The snow had indeed slowed to a light dusting, the flakes dancing on the breeze that seemed to constantly blow through this open country.

They trudged through the knee-deep snow, their boots crunching with each step.

As quiet stretched between them, he was too aware of the woman’s presence beside him. Her skirts must be hard to manage through the snow they had to push through.

He motioned behind him. “Do you want to follow in my steps? That might be easier.”

She shook her head, her mouth curving in a soft smile. “I’m fine.”

And stubborn.

But they’d nearly reached the barn. He lifted the bar to push the large door in, then motioned for her to step inside first.

As he followed, the earthy scent of hay and horses enveloped them. Miss Palmer moved purposefully to the back, where bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters.

He focused on his own task, retrieving his carpetbag from beside his mattress tick. As he rummaged through the contents, his fingers brushed against the worn leather of his Bible. He pulled it out, the weight familiar and comforting in his hands.

When he turned back, Miss Palmer was carefully selecting sprigs of dried herbs and placing them in a cloth sack.

When she finished, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the barn. “Did you find what you needed?”

He nodded, holding up the worn leather-bound book Charles had given him. “I did, thank you.” He hesitated a moment. Now was probably the best time to broach the subject weighing on his mind. “Miss Palmer, I wonder if I might have a word with you before we return to the cabin?”

She paused in her stride toward the door. “Of course. What is it?”

He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.

“As you know, I’ve been tasked with ensuring Miss Whitmore reaches her father safely.

In order to fulfill that duty, I think it unwise to encourage any .

.. attachments during our journey.” Would she understand he meant with her brother, or would he have to be more specific?

Her brows rose. “Attachments?”

She would make him state his exact meaning, then, though he could tell by her expression she knew what he meant.

He pinched his mouth. “I’ve seen how you’ve been subtly pushing them together. And while I’m sure your brother is a fine man, Miss Whitmore and I will be leaving as soon as we’re able. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to nurture affections that can’t last.”

Miss Palmer’s brows rose. “I wasn’t intending to nurture affections. I was only being friendly, as was my brother.”

Was she telling the truth? Her cheeks held extra color, though that might be from the cold.

He dipped his chin. “I’m glad to hear it.

I’m sure it’s best for them both to guard their hearts, especially during this delay.

” As he spoke, his wayward mind nearly distracted him by admiring the way the soft light filtering through the barn walls illuminated the hints of gold in her brown hair.

Her eyes, a vivid green even in the dim interior, held his for a long moment.

He knew well the power of a locked gaze.

In a business transaction, he could spot a lie when a man couldn’t hold his gaze without twitching.

But he’d not suspected the effects of staring into Miss Palmer’s eyes, the way his chest would clench and his middle flip.

How had he not noticed what a beauty she was?

He’d not allowed himself to look at her long enough to see it, and he shouldn’t do so now.

Her posture relaxed as she smiled, finally breaking her gaze, allowing him the freedom to glance aside.

“Of course, Mr. Bentwood. I apologize if I said something amiss. To make amends, I’d like to bake your favorite sweet for our Christmas dinner, if I’ve the ingredients for it. What would you like?”

He blinked and slid a quick glance to her face to catch up with the shift in conversation. He’d not expected her to apologize so quickly. Her expression seemed earnest, but better they end this conversation now. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” Her smile turned hopeful. “What’s your favorite? Sugar cookies? Mincemeat pie?”

“Chess pie.” The words slipped out before he could think better of it.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Chess pie it is.”

Had he just played into her hands? Hope Palmer was a shrewd negotiator, and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d just been outmaneuvered.

As they made their way back to the cabin through the snow, he couldn’t help but be both impressed and slightly unnerved by the woman beside him. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and he had to wonder what other surprises she had in store.

Hope set down her charcoal pencil and surveyed the list before her.

Christmas plans were coming together nicely.

The spiced cider, the garlands ... even a chess pie, Lord willing.

She glanced over to where Mr. Bentwood and Miss Whitmore sat across from each other, both reading quietly by the fire.

Mr. Bentwood’s position outlined his chiseled features in the warm firelight. The strong lines of his jaw, the straight nose, the furrow of his brow as he concentrated on the pages before him. He’d surprised her with his forthright request that she not play matchmaker between Ellen and Martin.

Maybe she should have expected it, though. He seemed the kind of man who possessed the courage to speak up when he had to, even when the conversation would be uncomfortable. A man of integrity and honor.

No wonder Miss Whitmore’s father had entrusted his daughter into this man’s care.

Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the list. Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed so readily to make a chess pie.

Was it even possible to get it to set without eggs?

If she used cornstarch and saleratus, perhaps.

She should test it beforehand. If she had to, she could ask his second-favorite sweet.

With that unwelcome possibility leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, she turned the paper over to focus on the matter of gifts.

She and Martin would exchange gifts, of course.

But she always tried to have something for guests to open on Christmas too.

Just as Mama had done. She sometimes worked on such gifts during the long winter evenings so she’d have scarves or mittens or handkerchiefs ready when the holiday came.

For Ellen, she’d almost finished embroidering a handkerchief, stitched with three of the wildflowers that would grow in the meadow come spring. For Mr. Thompson and Mr. Bentwood, she had scarves already finished. These would be very practical for the remainder of their journey.

Her gaze lifted to Mr. Bentwood once more. Giving both men the same gift would be most proper. She couldn’t let herself add anything special to Mr. Bentwood’s, no matter how much she craved doing so. His initials? No. She would need to do it for poor Mr. Thompson too.

No matter how much Mr. Bentwood drew her ... No matter how handsome he was ... and good ... and completely desirable in every way she’d let herself consider...

He was leaving . Traveling on in just a few days. She knew not to allow herself to fancy any of their guests. She had to guard her heart.

She dropped her pencil to the table and pushed to her feet. She might as well gather the men’s gifts and wrap them. Then she wouldn’t be tempted to add anything extra to one of the scarves.

As she made her way to her tiny bedroom, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

She knelt beside the trunk at the foot of her bed and lifted the lid.

The rich scent of cedar rose up to greet her, and she breathed it in.

Nestled among the folded quilts and spare linens inside was the small wooden box that held her most cherished possessions.

She extracted the box from its resting place and set it on her lap.

Her fingers traced the intricate carving of roses that adorned the lid, the swirling patterns worn smooth by time and countless loving touches.

This box had belonged to her mother, and her grandmother before her.

It held the treasures of generations, each one full of memories and meaning.

Her heart quickened as she lifted the lid.

Martin would love the gift she had for him.

She’d almost given it to him last year, but it hadn’t felt like the right time yet.

The knife had been passed down from father to son for three generations, the deer antler handle bearing their surname, Palmer .

This treasure was more than just a tool—it was a symbol of their family’s strength and resilience.

Of the way they treasured their history and the foundations laid by the members of their family who had gone before.

But as she focused on the contents of the box, a cold dread settled over her. The knife was gone. She pushed aside the lace gloves her mother had embroidered. The tobacco pipe that had been her father’s favorite. The buttons from her grandfather’s cavalry uniform.

Where was the knife?

She stared at the vacant space, her mind reeling. The blade had been there. She’d taken it out to clean yesterday, but she’d put it back. Hadn’t she? Yes, her mind could bring back the image of placing it atop the lace gloves.

Had one of their guests taken it? The idea made a knot in her stomach, but what other explanation could there be? The knife had been secure in this chest yesterday morning, before the stagecoach arrived.

Her hands trembled as she lowered the lid, her vision blurring.

She couldn’t bear the thought that one of them had betrayed her trust, had violated the sacred space of both her room and her family’s history.

Not Ellen, with her gentle grace and her kindness.

Certainly not Mr. Bentwood, who radiated such honor and integrity.

Yet ... would he have the most motive? She knew nothing about his background. Not whether he came from a large family or was the only child of the richest couple in all of California. She did know he’d never strung garland before, but that told her nothing of consequence.

What of Mr. Thompson? He’d not moved off that pallet except once to relieve himself. Was it possible he could have slipped into her room when no one was looking?

Tears burned her eyes as she closed the chest’s lid. She’d have to ask them all. As much as it pained her, she had no choice.

She had to know what had happened to her father’s knife.

Taking a deep breath, she stacked the two scarves on the top blanket in the chest and closed the lid, then made her way back to the main room. She would wrap them in paper later. For now, she had to solve the mystery of the knife.

She paused in the doorway, her gaze drifting once more to the two sitting in front of the fire. From this angle, she could see Mr. Bentwood’s face well. The light from the flames danced across his features as he turned a page in his book, oblivious to her turmoil.

How could she ask him if he’d stolen from her? How could she ask any of them? The question lodged in her throat, sharp and painful.

She eased out a breath and moved to the work counter beside the cookstove. Best put beans on to simmer for the evening meal, then she could begin her search.