Christmas On Snowbird Mountain

“She tried to fly in the store?”

“No, Daddy, not in the store.” She giggled, a welcome sound.

“Was she an eagle?”

“Uh-uh.”

“A big owl?”

“No.”

“A moth?”

“No!”

“Maybe she was a goose like you, Sa Sa.”

“No, silly. She was a lady.”

They came to the possum wood trees, persimmons some people called them. He set Nia on the ground and took a sack from his jacket pocket to hold their bounty. Deer and raccoons considered the tart fruit a treat, and the many tracks in the snow told him the animals had already found the ripe ones that had fallen.

“Help me dig down and get some good ones for a pie. The cold will have turned them sweet.”

They gathered enough for several pies, along with a few large pinecones Nia wanted to use for a Thanksgiving project at school. Few Indian families celebrated the holiday, but Nia, like all children in this area, went to the county school where such things were usual.

He and Nia thanked the earth for the possum wood berries and pinecones and then started back up the trail.

“We made it before the dark got us, Daddy,” Nia said as the house came into view.

“And I didn’t have to wrestle a single bear.”

Ryan didn’t stop at his place. A few years ago he’d converted the old equipment barn from his father’s defunct furniture-making business into a modern workshop with two kilns in the back and living quarters in the loft for him and Nia, but Nia most often ate in the house and sometimes slept there. Ryan did, too, unless he worked late, which was happening more often than he liked.

A vehicle he didn’t recognize was parked in the yard. “We have company.”

“Is it Uncle Joe?”

“No, not unless he’s bought a new truck.” That wasn’t likely. His youngest brother didn’t have money for luxuries. Joseph was a carpenter and furniture maker and worked hard, but employment opportunities were limited in the sparsely populated county. Most of the land was virgin forest. Only six percent was appropriate for cultivation. Except for one factory, they had no industry.

Just inside the door, he helped Nia take off her boots and coat. He followed her through the house to the kitchen.

A pretty young woman with red hair sat at the table with his mother and grandmother drinking tea. “You’re here!” Nia exclaimed. To his amazement, she rushed over and climbed into the stranger’s lap.

“Hi, sweetheart.” The woman playfully tugged on one of Nia’s long braids.

“Look, Daddy! I wrote my name on her arm.”

Nia badgered the woman into pushing up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal a cast with her signature.

Ryan couldn’t have been more stunned. The fiery hair. The broken “wing.”

His grandmother nodded to him with a satisfied smile. “Rejoice,” she said in their native tongue. “The redbird has come.”

CHAPTER THREE

RYAN WHITEPATH hadn’t moved or said a word since he arrived. He stood in the doorway holding a sack and stared at Susannah as if she had a second head. She stared back. Not that it was a hardship. On the contrary, she was having a difficult time dragging her eyes away.

The man was extraordinary looking, with black hair falling in shiny soft waves past his shoulders, and rugged, almost harsh, features. If not for the flannel shirt and jeans, he could’ve stepped out of a nineteenth-century painting by Frederic Remington, or been the model for Maynard Dixon’s warrior in The Medicine Robe.

“The woman wishes to speak to you about your art, Ryan,” his mother said. Mrs. Whitepath had offered Susannah a sweet, herbal tea and kept her entertained while they waited for her son and granddaughter to come home.

The older woman—eighty, at least, and no bigger than a twig—was the other woman’s widowed mother-in-law, Sipsey Whitepath, the “Nana Sipsey” Nia had mentioned. She spoke Cherokee and broken English, which meant she was sometimes hard to understand. She also acted as if Susannah had been expected, and that made her a bit uncomfortable.

“Hi,” Susannah said to the man. “I was at the store earlier and met Nia, but I didn’t realize she was your daughter.”

“Who did you say you are?”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself. My name is Susannah Pelton.”

He put his sack down on the table. Instead of sitting, he chose to lean with his back against the counter and his arms crossed over an impressive set of chest muscles.

“And you’re from where?” he asked.

“Originally Waycross, Georgia, but the last year or so not from anywhere in particular. I’ve been traveling the country.” She took the hospital pamphlet out of her purse and passed it to his mother who, in turn, handed it to him. “I saw the floor you did for the hospital in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and thought it was exquisite. I was wondering if you’d consider giving me lessons in designing and creating mosaics. I have a couple of months of free time and I’m eager to learn.”

“You drove three-hundred miles to ask me that?”

“And to see more of your work, of course, if it wouldn’t be an imposition.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Pelton. If you’d called I could have saved you the trouble of a trip. I don’t give lessons.”

“Not ever?”

“Occasionally in the summer months I take on an intern from one of the universities, but right now I have too much to do and too little time to do it in. I can’t possibly work with anyone who has no prior experience.”

“I’ll gladly pay you.” She’d already calculated what she could afford, not much, but this was so important she was prepared to dip into her emergency fund.

“Money’s not the issue,” Whitepath said. “I can’t give you lessons. I’m overwhelmed with contracts and it’s going to take every free minute I have to fulfill them. In fact, I should be working right now.”

“I see.” Susannah’s hope dimmed. “Won’t you make an exception this one time? I’ve taken art classes and I have a sketchbook in my truck with examples of my work.”

“I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m too busy to train anyone. It would only put me further behind.”

“I believe I could be a help to you rather than a hindrance.”

“With a broken arm?”

“The break isn’t severe.”