Her Montana Christmas

“I should be able to attach them to the bells. Then all we have to do is hope the bells aren’t too badly out of tune to make a pleasant noise for Christmas.”

“I didn’t know bells could be out of tune.”

“Apparently they can, but I think that’s when there are several bells involved.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “Those two sounded fine to me.”

“Do you have musical training?” he asked.

Her clear blue eyes met his, and she touched the mole beneath her eyebrow before calmly saying, “Not much. I sang in glee club in high school and college.”

Glee club. He couldn’t help thinking that many pastors’ wives often had service callings of their own: music, teaching, women’s or children’s ministry, chaplaincy, even a pastorate of one form or another. He told himself not to be an idiot. All he needed from her was help getting the bells roped and the church decorated.

“I’ll let you know when the ropes get here, and we’ll set up a time to attach them,” he said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“A plan that needs a lot of prayer if it’s to succeed,” he added with a chortle. “Now, about those pictures you brought with you...”

She went to the credenza that stood against the wall and opened a file folder, spreading out several sheets of paper. Ethan hurried over to take a look. As he studied the pictures she’d brought, he casually unbuttoned his coat.

One photo showed the inside of an unnamed couple’s cabin where a small, spindly evergreen tree had been decorated with berries, beads and bits of broken glass. Another showed the front railings of a porch swathed in evergreen boughs. An arrangement of candles and mistletoe on a fireplace mantel with an open Bible and a Christmas postcard was the focus of a third black-and-white photograph.

The final offering had been shot right there in front of the church. It showed the pastor and two others in white smocks with big bows on them, presumably red, and the entire cast of a pageant, including two real sheep, a donkey and, oddly enough, a chicken. Most of the actors were garbed in blankets with lopsided halos and crowns, wings and sashes askew. Most wore cowboy boots beneath their tunics, and one mulish youngster sported his cowboy hat, too, and had a rope slung over one shoulder, despite the shepherd’s crook in the other hand. The youngest children all carried chrismon patterns—simple symbols of the Christian faith, such as the shape of a shepherd’s crook, dove, Bethlehem star or trumpeting angel. Ethan had to smile.

“Now, that’s a congregation to keep a pastor on his knees.”

“It looks like fun, though, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Just look at the smile on the pastor’s face.”

“I wonder what part the chicken played.”

They both laughed over that. Ethan squinted at the tiny type beneath the photo.

“Those are readers in those smocks. They probably read the Christmas story out of the Bible, and the cast acted it out.”

“Makes sense.”

“We could do something like that,” Ethan mused. “That way no one would have to memorize lines.”

“I thought you might like to have these, too,” she said, offering him several more papers.

“Chrismon patterns.”

“They’d be very simple to make out of fabric. And you might want this.”

The final sheet contained a list of websites where he could order modern versions of antique Christmas bulbs.

“I think you can find everything else you need out there,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the great outdoors. “The various types of greenery have different meanings, you see, and the locals would have been aware of that back then.”

“Robin Frazier, you are a gem beyond price. I don’t have internet access here, but I can find it. Now, I have just two more questions for you.”

“And they are?” she asked cautiously, narrowing her lovely blue eyes at him.

“First, will you serve on the decorating committee?”

She blinked. “Pastor—”

“Ethan,” he corrected automatically.

“Ethan,” she began again, “I’m not even a member of the church.”

“But you are the resident expert on historical Christmas decorations. Or as near as we can come to one.”

She bowed her head, smiling. “I see. All right. In that case, of course I’ll help out. Just do remember that I have a full-time job.”

“Of course. Which leads me to my second question.”

“And that is?”

“Are you free on Saturday for gathering greenery?”

“This Saturday?”

“It’s December 2, Miss Frazier. I’d like to schedule a Hanging of the Green service for a week from tomorrow. We have no time to lose, and you know exactly what sort of greenery people would have gathered a hundred years ago.”

She looked around the vestibule before glancing at him once more and nodding.

“Saturday would be fine.”

“I’ll pick you up about 9:00 a.m., then. If you’ll just tell me where you live.”

“Oh.” Smiling, she lifted a finely boned hand to press a fingertip to that exquisite little mole beneath her eyebrow. “That would help, wouldn’t it? I’ve taken a kitchenette at Fidler’s Inn. Room six, on the ground floor.”

“Room six,” he repeated. “Um, if you have hiking boots, you might want to wear them.”

“I can do that.”

“And jeans probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“I can do that, too.”

“Okay, then.”

She nodded, and they stood there smiling at each other until she suddenly said, “Well, I’d better grab something to eat and get back to work.”

“Sure, sure.” He cleared his throat, nodding. “Thanks so much for dropping by.”