Christmas Under Western Skies by Anna Schmidt

that there was no need to raise her voice and risk waking the children.
    â€œIt’s me—Nathan. Look, I know it’s late but…” When she failed to answer or open the door, he knocked again louder. “Julianne, please. I need to talk to you.”
    She grabbed her wool shawl and wrapped it around her head and shoulders, then slipped outside. “The children are sleeping, Captain Cook,” she said. “Has something happened to Sam or Glory?”
    â€œNot at all,” he assured her. “They’re both fine.”
    â€œThen why—”
    â€œWalk with me a minute,” he urged, taking her elbow.
    It was absolutely foolhardy to do as he asked. And yet, even as she took in the restless stirring of the animals inthe lean-to and saw that it was a clear night with a sky filled with stars, she did not pull away.
    â€œCaptain, really,” she protested, but she followed his lead until they were standing in the midst of the apple trees that she and Luke had planted shortly after the house had been completed.
    Nathan bent and scraped away snow until he unearthed a fallen apple. “This,” he said holding the rotted fruit up as if it were gold, “could be your answer.”
    â€œIt’s an apple,” she said slowly, as she might have years earlier when she was teaching the twins to identify objects.
    â€œAnd how was this year’s crop?” he asked, putting an unusual emphasis on the last word.
    â€œIt was really the first,” she explained. “Luke and I planted the saplings three years ago when we first arrived here. It takes some time for—”
    â€œI know. So how was the crop?”
    Again that unusual focus on “crop”.
    â€œCaptain—”
    â€œNathan,” he corrected.
    â€œNathan, it is late. It is freezing. And my children are sleeping. What do you want?”
    â€œYou harvested these apples—what you could, right?”
    She nodded impatiently.
    â€œYou probably dried some, put up some butter, perhaps made a pie?”
    â€œThree,” she corrected. “In fact, as long as you’rehere you can carry one back with you for the Fosters.”
    She turned and started back around the house.
    But once again he stopped her, his hand taking her forearm and turning her so that she was facing the apple trees and he was standing behind her with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Think of it, Julianne,” he said. “Imagine not just these few saplings, but apple trees as far as you can see.”
    She had lost most of the feeling in her hands and feet, and yet there was a warmth emanating from him that held her where she stood.
    â€œThink of spring and white and pink blossoms every where you look, like clouds come down to earth,” he said, his voice soft, dreamy. “Think of the blossoms falling like snow, and then the apples coming, green at first, and then brilliant yellow and red, like maple trees back home in Virginia come autumn.”
    The picture he painted was mesmerizing. She forgot about the cold, forgot about the late hour. “An orchard,” she murmured.
    â€œA crop,” he corrected. “A legitimate use of the land and one you have already begun. You didn’t abandon the land, Julianne. Right here there was a crop.”
    She turned to face him. “Do you honestly think the commissioner would accept that?”
    â€œI spoke with Roger after I remembered seeing these apple trees the day before the storm came up so sudden, and I got disoriented. I mentioned the idea to Roger and he sent off a letter to the commissioner that very day.”
    â€œBut Roger said that the best he could do was get a decision postponed until after the first of the year.”
    â€œAnd it may be weeks before you have an official answer. But Roger agrees with me as does Judge Romney.” He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket. “This is a copy of the law, and it