Amethyst by Lauraine Snelling Page A

legs, swinging back and forth and singing.
    The horse never moved, quite unlike her heart, which did a panic dance as she went to retrieve him, gently talking to the horse so the animal did not get frightened. But then, Joel had always gotten along well with the animals, even with the sow that could have gobbled him easily but instead let him ride on her slightly arched back. Except when she had piglets. Then everyone treated her very carefully and knew enough to jump quick. Mama sows looked after their own with a vengeance.
    “But how to find him in this wild country?” She shook her head. What if he is living far away from town? From the little she saw, Medora could be quite sizable, larger than Smithville. At least it had a train station. Many of those she’d passed while looking out the train window had nothing but an arm for a mail sack, perhaps a water tower to fill the train boiler, and a platform of sorts to unload things from the train. Both the land and the sky seemed to go on forever, although it must be a friendlier land in the spring with growing grass—and someone had mentioned wild flowers. What would spring be like in this wild country?
    She resolutely threw back the covers and sat up, swinging her feet to the floor. Her two carpetbags sat by the wall, where pegs lined a board. Her dark skirt and both waists she’d sewn after a particularly good market day hung from hooks, a towel hung on a peg beside them, and a washcloth took up another. Pearl had been there and hung up Amethyst’s meager wardrobe while she had slept. Amethyst could hear a child’s high voice from downstairs and the rumble of a man’s. Someone laughed. Then quiet reigned.
    Had they left? The notes from a piano drifted up the stairs— her favorite Christmas hymn, “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming.” Even here so far away from home and civilization, that rose would bloom again and always bloom. Amethyst hurried into her clothes and, after brushing her hair, twisted the long strands and swept them in a knot on top of her head. She found only one amber comb on the dresser top.
    Tears burned her nose and eyes. The precious gift from Mrs. Grant, the only combs she’d ever had, and one was gone. She picked up the remaining one and ran her fingertip over the carving. Lost in the snow. So cold, so weary. You nearly lost your life in that snow. You shouldn’t be grieving about a comb. Be grateful for your life , she reminded herself. Someday perhaps she could purchase another. But that wasn’t the point. A pair of such beauty would always remind her of the special friend she had met on the train.
    You might have lost the comb, but you will always have those memories in your heart .
    “Amethyst Colleen O’Shaunasy, listen to that still small voice. Wipe your eyes, fix your hair, and go down those stairs to join the family for the evening. Hiding up here is not only churlish but cowardly.” Her hand wobbled as she inserted the comb. Digging in her carpetbag, she found her hairpins and used them to tuck up the sides. She smoothed the front of her gored wool skirt and made sure all the buttons were in place on her waist, including those at the wrists. The mutton sleeves should have been ironed, but that was the least of her worries. I wonder what Pa is doing this night. Has he made any preparation for Christmas? Tomorrow I must write to him .
    With one hand on the rail, she walked down the stairs, her heart pounding as if she’d chased the cows all the way to the barn from the far pasture. She wasn’t sure if it was the exertion of getting ready or the trepidation of meeting all the family and other boarders, if there were any by now.
    She followed the notes into the front room, pausing in the doorway.
    “See, Ma.” The little girl was leaning against the piano bench where her mother sat, bringing forth bits of heaven from her fingers rippling up and down the ivory keys.
    Pearl brought the song to a close and turned to smile at