Her Montana Christmas. Arlene James

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      Robin was aware of her heart speeding up, which was ridiculous. He was a minister, a man of God. He wasn’t hitting on her. In fact, he probably intended to call and invite her to join the church again. She wouldn’t mind if he did. She just didn’t know if she could do that; she might not be staying in Jasper Gulch for much longer.

      “Uh, sure.” She gave him her cell number, though mobile coverage was not the best here, as well as the numbers at the museum and her residence, such as it was. He saved them to his contacts list before pocketing the tiny phone again.

      “There now,” he said. “I have a lead on the information I need to make this a grand centennial Christmas, I’ve found a kindred spirit to help me solve a puzzle and I’ve got the phone number of one of the prettiest ladies in town. That’s what I call an excellent morning’s work.” He turned a full circle, walking backward a step or two, as he headed for the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

      He was out of sight and halfway down the hall before Robin’s own laughter caught up with her, and her heartbeat still hadn’t slowed one iota. It had, in fact, sped up! Perhaps that was why she called him later when she stumbled across information concerning the church bells.

      A tidbit in the local newspaper from early 1925 had reported that the bells had been deemed unsafe due to problems with the crosspiece in the belfry and would “henceforth be silenced to prevent any startling and calamitous accidents.” The reporter had gone on to quote a deacon as insisting that rumors suggesting this decision had to do with the “decampment of Silas Massey and his wife” were “scurrilous and mean-spirited,” which led Robin to wonder aloud if the aforementioned rumors had anything to do with the bank failure.

      “Bank failure?” Ethan echoed.

      Robin mentally cringed. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want you to think I was gossiping. Speculation is part and parcel of historical research, I’m afraid. It’s just that we’ve uncovered evidence of some trouble at the bank founded by the Shaws and the Masseys here in Jasper Gulch. The timeline says everything’s connected. First, the Masseys pulled out. Then the rumors started flying about the bank being insolvent. Right after that, the bells were determined to be unsafe, with a deacon at the church insisting that the decision had nothing to do with the Masseys leaving town. It seems as if Ezra Shaw was quoted in every edition of the newspaper around that time saying that the bank was solvent and all was fine, but when the crash came in ’32, it failed spectacularly and was reported to be woefully undercapitalized. Shaw was quoted as saying that for him it was just a long nightmare come to an end but that he felt badly for his neighbors and depositors, whom he promised to help as much as he was able. It just seems logical that Massey had something to do with the whole situation.”

      “So you’re saying that Silas Massey either forced Ezra Shaw to buy him out, which caused the bank to be undercapitalized, or he stole—”

      “I’m just telling you what we’ve uncovered,” Robin interrupted smoothly.

      “However it came about,” Ethan said, “there were bound to be some hard feelings. I think it’s worth looking into to see if the bells might have been a gift to the church from the Masseys.” He added that he was going to dig into some old file cabinets tucked into a closet in a back room. “I might find something of interest to the museum.”

      Robin remembered that, and the next day when she found a website that showed details, as well as written instructions, for re-creating exactly the sort of decorations the pastor would need to provide a centennial-style Christmas for his congregation, she decided to print off photos and drive over to the church with them on her lunch hour. She and Olivia had their hands full getting the displays at the museum ready for viewing, but Olivia’s husband, Jack, had come into town from his ranch on an errand, so the two of them were having an early lunch together, and that gave Robin a bit of free time.

      She parked right in front of the church, grabbed the file folder in which she’d stashed the printouts and hopped out of her metallic-blue hybrid coupe. Stepping up on the plank walkway, she hurried to the white-painted front door of the church. It swung open easily. She walked into the cool, strangely silent vestibule and let her eyes adjust from the bright sunlight.

      The vestibule usually rang with noise and always seemed dark, despite the twin brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Not today, however. Today, a shaft of light illuminated the very center of the wide space, along with the slender metal ladder that descended from the belfry. She looked up to find an open trapdoor in the vestibule ceiling.

      “Pastor?” she called, amazed at the way her voice carried in the empty room.

      “Put your hands over your ears,” he called down to her.

      “What?”

      “Put your hands over your ears!”

      “O-okay.” She tucked the file folder under one arm and clapped her gloved hands over her ears. About two seconds later, a deep, melodious bong tolled through the rock vestibule. The force of the sound made her sway on her feet. She laughed, even as she warned, “You’ll shatter the vases in here if you keep that up!”

      “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”

      It was, really, like standing inside a gigantic bell.

      “Come up here and see,” he urged.

      Glancing around, she laid the folder on the credenza that sat against one wall and tugged off her mittens, tucking them into the pockets of her heavy wool coat, but then she hesitated.

      “Robin,” he said, just before his face appeared in the open trapdoor above, “come on up. It’s perfectly safe.” He wore a knit cap and scarf with his coat.

      “How did you know it was me?” she asked, moving toward the ladder.

      “I recognized your voice, of course.”

      “Ah.”

      He reached down a gloved hand as she put a foot on the bottom rung of the wrought iron ladder.

      “How does this thing work?”

      “It’s very simple. There’s a tall pole with a hook on one end. I used it to slide open the trap and then to pull down the ladder. When I’m done, I’ll use it to push the ladder back up and lift it over the locking mechanism then slide the trap closed.”

      “I see.”

      “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” he told her, grasping her hand and all but lifting her up the last few rungs to stand next to him on a narrow metal platform fixed to one side of the tiny square open-sided belfry. In their bulky coats, they had to stand pressed shoulder to shoulder. “Take a look at this.” He swung his arm wide, encompassing the town, the valley beyond and the snowcapped mountains surrounding it all.

      “Wow.”

      “Exactly,” he said. “There’s a part of Psalm 98 that says, ‘Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy...’ Seeing the view like this, you can almost feel it, can’t you? The rivers and mountains praising their creator.”

      “I never thought of rivers and mountains praising God,” she admitted.

      “Scripture speaks many times of nature praising God and testifying to His wonders.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ