Authors: Jillian Hart
“Wow!” Amelia bellowed when Mercy had stopped at the bottom of the slope. His daughter cupped her hand to her mouth. Surely something she'd learned from the boys. “You went a lot farther than I usually do. That's like a record.”
“That really was fun!” Mercy popped off the sled, brushed snow off her skirts, as if there wasn't a thing wrong with her behavior. “I can see why you like it so much. George will like this, too, I thinkâ”
She paused, as if aware of his glowering and glanced his way. He must be frowning fiercely again, because her face paled. She fell silent, her eyes rounding. He didn't remember lifting George to the ground or crossing the field, only that he was ducking between the fence rungs and plowing fast and hard through snow up to his knees.
“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, letting anger take over, letting it fill him. It was better than the other things threatening to take him over. Tension coiled through him, snapping his jaw muscles tight, so tight it was hard to speak. “I told Amelia she was never to touch that sled again.”
“Oh, I didn't know.” Mercy took a step back, studying him as if debating whether, in his anger, he was capable of hurting her or not. Then her chin went up, as if she was a lot stronger than she looked. “You mentioned not liking that she rode her sled in town, where everyone could see. I didn't think way out here that it would matter. It's just the four of us.”
“It matters,” he ground out, his outrage losing steam because there was no way she could know the true reason behind his anger. And because he had that rule about keeping the past where it belonged, he hadn't told her. He was afraid of failing his daughter, of not raising her in the proper way. Angry with himself now, he realized he was towering over the woman and took a step back. “This isn't good for her, Mercy. Surely, as a mother, you know that.”
“See, if you wanted to make me mad at you, you have succeeded.” Her chin ticked up a notch higher, her dark blue eyes snapping fire. “I fail to see the harm. Sledding is actually quite fun. I intend to do it again, after Amelia takes her turn.”
“She's not taking a turn. She's not riding that sled.”
“Fresh air and exercise is good for a girl,” Mercy told him. “It's not fair that you and George get to be out here riding the horses and we can't. Hmm, maybe what we need is a sidesaddle.”
“I see what's going on.” He glanced up the hill, where Amelia was shading her eyes with her hands, intent on watching what was going on down below. “You two are ganging up against me.”
“Not at all.” Mercy's hand lit on his upper arm, a familiar, bridging touch, one meant to calm him down. It did. Her touch radiated something that soothed, a special, unnameable something that made him lean in, that made his entire being wish for what he could not have.
He stood there, mouth open, mind blank, not at all sure how to summon up one single word in protest because his brain had simply stopped working. Gaping like a fish out of waterâlike a man moved by a woman's caring touchâhe watched Mercy turn on her heel, dragging the sled up the slope after her.
Tiny, airy flakes of snow chose that moment to come tumbling down, brushing his cheek, clinging to the sleeve where she'd touched him. The sensation of connection, of her caring concern for him, lingered.
It did not fade.
Chapter Seven
“H
ere are some things for George.” Cole's voice echoed in the stairwell outside her rooms above the store. He hesitated in the night shadows, as if a part of them, head down, staring at the floor. Looking as if stepping into the light was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Things?” she asked quietly, curious, closing behind her the door to the bedroom where George slept. “What have you done for him now?”
“Picked out some clothes from the shelves downstairs.” With a shrug, Cole shouldered into the room awkwardly and held out several folded pieces of clothing. “I noticed his things were starting to wear out. Guessing they were hand-me-downs.”
“Yes.” From the church donation barrel back home. Those pesky tears returned, burning her eyes and blurring her vision. She blinked them away, stepping toward him, close enough to see the dark stubble on his jaw from a day's growth. Her fingers itched to touch him there, to feel the rasp against her fingertips. It was foolish to want to get closer to him, this man who'd been clear he wanted none of that. So she squared her shoulders, tamped down the wish and took the stack of clothes he offered her.
“Brand-new.” She stroked the flannel shirt, blue to match George's eyes. There were a week's worth of shirts, she noticed, and denim trousers to match. Her chest ached at Cole's thoughtfulness. “George will be thrilled. Thank you for this, for providing for him.”
“Just keeping my bargain.” Cole dipped his chin in an awkward bob, as if there were far more feelings behind those words than he chose to admit. “Boys his age grow like weeds. He may need underthings and socks. You can choose from the shelves downstairs, whatever he needs. Just let me or Eberta know what you take for inventory purposes.”
“I will.” It was very generous of him to think of so many new things for George. “This is nice of you considering I have the feeling you are upset with me. Over the sled.”
“Yes, I had hoped you would side with me on the sled issue.” He ambled past her and squatted in front of the cold, dark potbellied stove. The door opened with a squeak. “Guess I misjudged the kind of woman you are.”
“Oh.” His words hit her particularly hard. He'd been pleasant but reserved through the afternoon and over a warmed-up supper of stew Emmylou had made the night before. But, she realized, the children had been around them. Now it was only the two of them. “I'm sorry you're disappointed in me, but I can't go against what I believe is right.”
“Oh, that girls need fresh air and exercise, too?” He arched a dark brow at her, reaching for the fireplace shovel. “A nice walk wouldn't have been better?”
“It certainly wouldn't have been as much fun.” She bit the inside of her lip, trying to figure out just how mad he was. Remembering how angry he'd been when he'd marched over to her in the pasture, she realized now that his upset hadn't blown over. He hadn't let it go. What she needed to do was reassure him. “You don't need to bother with the stove. It's just me, and I don't need a fire.”
“So this is how you made ends meet, did you?” He ignored what she had to say and stirred the embers until they glowed bright red. He added a handful of kindling from the nearby wood box. “Once your son was warm in bed, you'd let the fire go out and sit in the freezing cold?”
“Until bedtime. To save on the cost of fuel,” she said, her cheeks heating. “It was financially prudent.”
“In my house, that's not the way it works.” He sounded angry again, his granite shoulders tensing as he watched the tiny flames flicker and dance. “You'll keep the fire burning until your bedtime. You'll do what I ask this time, or I'll put an end to the sledding.”
As if curious about her reaction, he cut his gaze to her, studying her briefly out of the corner of his eye. Their gazes met and she felt her heartbeat pause, as if it were about to cease all together.
“You strike a hard deal, Cole,” she told him, understanding dawning. He wasn't without a heart, not at all. “I'll agree to your terms.”
“Good.” He added small pieces of wood and, satisfied, closed the door. “At this point I wouldn't want to send you back to North Carolina. I'm rather fond of George.”
He looked away, pushed off the floor and rose to his impressive six-foot height. The silence as he brushed moss and bark off his hands said more than his words ever could. His affection for George had won her devotion. He'd spent the entire afternoon teaching the boy how to ride, saddle and rein, and after supper the pair had disappeared into the barn to clean stalls and care for the horses.
“I'm rather fond of Amelia,” she confessed and went quiet, too, letting her silence say much, much more.
“I'm glad.” He cleared his throat and finally spoke, though he looked unsure of himself. It was endearing that for all his strength and size, he was basically shy. Why that stole her heart just a bit, she couldn't say, either.
He reached for the broom, but she beat him to it. He raised one eyebrow and his face turned to stone. She was starting to recognize his angry look.
“This is the least I can do for the man who built the fire for me.” She seized the broom and swept the small amount of debris into a tidy pile. “You're going to have to get used to me doing things for you, too. I understand that it's going to be a challenge for you, as I've been alone for so long, as well.”
“I see.” His gaze raked over her face, and she shivered. Perhaps from the cold air, for the fire in the stove was not strong enough to begin heating the place. He sounded amused as he grabbed the nearby dustpan and knelt to hold it in place for her. “You would have been happy never marrying again?”
“It probably seems that way.” She swept, sending the tiny pieces of moss and bark into the dustpan. “I would have preferred to marry, but finding someone who would be good to George was a problem.”
“You had offers?” He rose, emptied the pan in the wood box.
“Several. We lived in a very small town, but every widower who came along asked for my hand.” For once she was with someone who could understand her choices, unlike her friends and coworkers who'd been critical of her decisions. “One was a man who had a farm to work and five daughters. He said he'd take me on as a wife because of George, who could learn to do the work of a man in the fields.”
“That's terrible.” Cole took the broom from her and put it away, sympathy knelling low in his voice. “But I know men like that. They use their children as free labor.”
“Yes, and that's not what I wanted for George. Better that I work long hours and have my great-aunt watch him than to expose him to that heartache.” She felt surprised when Cole reached for her elbow, guiding her to the sofa, gesturing for her to sit. It had been a long time since a man had shown genuine caring for her. She settled on the cushion, telling him what she'd never told anyone. “That wasn't the worst offer I received. A salesman, who came through town regularly and stayed at the hotel where I worked, offered to make me his wife if I left George behind. Apparently he wasn't interested in raising another man's son. Nothing but trouble, he said.”
“With offers like that, no wonder you were cautious with me. I was cautious, too.” He shook the teakettle on the stove, listened for the sound of water in it and carried it to the kitchen nook. “It took you and me writing over a dozen letters each to reach this point. I've learned from several of my customers most folks in a mail-order situation just write a few times.”
“That's what I've heard, too, but we have children. We had to be sure.” She watched in amazement as Cole filled the kettle from the water pitcher. Timothy had never done such a thing, nor had any man she'd heard of. But there he was, standing in the shadows, doing something for her. “How about you? I told you my stories. It's only fair you do the same.”
“Oh, I asked a few stern-looking widows before resorting to writing an advertisement,” he confessed, carrying the kettle to the stove. He set it down with a clunk. “They were all horrified. Of me, or wild Amelia, I've never been sure.”
“It was you,” she assured him, laughing for no reason at all. “Amelia is a gem.”
“Right.” Humor lit his face, softening the chiseled planes of his cheekbones and the carved line of his mouth. It drove away the shadows from his eyes, leaving a sincere openness in those depths of blue. For an instant he looked approachable, unguarded. He settled on the sofa beside her. “Yes, it must have been me. I'm told I'm a difficult man.”
“No. Not difficult.” She wanted to lay her hand on his sleeve, to bridge the distance between them, but it wasn't necessary. He'd never felt so close, so real. She rather liked this man. A whole lot. “Life has dealt you a blow, that's all. Sometimes we're never the same afterward.”
“No, we're not.” The muscles in his jaw worked. He leaned forward, away from her, planting his elbows on his knees, hands to his face. He took a moment, breathed in and out. “You must have loved your husband very much.”
“I did. I married him when I was seventeen, starry-eyed and full of dreams.” She hardly recognized that girl she'd been, standing at the front of the church with her friends and family watching, vowing to honor the dashing farmer who'd stolen her heart. “I was more in love with him than he was with me, I'm afraid. It took me a while to learn to see the real man, instead of the one I'd wanted to see.”
“Oh, I'm sorry.” He pulled his hands away from his face and straightened, his empathetic gaze searching hers. “I just assumed you had a happy marriage.”
“I did, for the most part, but Timothy had his struggles.” She stared at her hands, too, hesitating. “I loved him. I was devastated when he died.”
“I know how that feels.” He paused, letting the silence take over. But since it was broken by the rumbling of the teakettle, he got on his feet and rescued it from the stove top before it whistled and woke the boy. “When Alice passed, it was like the sun going out, never to shine again. I've been in the dark ever since.”
“That's the first time you've talked about her.”
“I try not to.” Other than mentioning he was a widower, he'd purposefully avoided anything to do with Alice in his letters. It hurt too much. He grabbed the kettle's handle with the hem of his shirt and carried it to the kitchen nook. The darkness in the room's corner made it easier to open up. “She was my world. After the way I grew upâmy father passed away from a field accident when I was about George's age. Because of our financial situation, we were about to lose the farm, Ma had to remarry. She had nothing if she didn't and three children to provide for. Her biggest fear was being homeless and us starving with no place to go. So she married a man from our church.”
“That had to be so hard for her, to marry without l-love.” Her words caught, as if she felt not only sympathy for his mother, but sadness for herself.
That's when he knew for sure. He could feel it in his gut. Deep down, Mercy was hoping for a connection between them, for something more than a simple, courteous convenient marriage. Troubled, he measured tea into the ball, hands shaking. Tea leaves likely fell onto the small table, but it was too dark to see them. He dropped it into the teapot and reached for the kettle.
“It was a hard sacrifice Ma made.” He listened to the water pour, rushing into the pot. Telling by ear when it was full. He set the tea kettle aside, aching in a way he couldn't describe. He hung his head, drew in a breath and hopedâno, prayedâhe was wrong about Mercy's hopes.
“The man Ma married was well-thought-of by many, but we saw his true colors.” He did his best to keep at bay those old memories of the scared and vulnerable boy he'd been, struggling to hide his wounds from his ma. “My stepfather was brutal. I was the oldest, so I made sure I bore the brunt of it.”
“To protect your younger siblings,” she said, as if she'd memorized every fact he'd ever written during their correspondence. Not only committed them to memory, but to her heart. Her caring warmed the air, drove back the shadows, made her lovelier than ever. “Is that why you are so good to George?”
“Partly.” He reached down a mug from the shelf and held himself very still. The truthâthe admissionâdidn't come easily. “Alice died in childbirth. Our son was stillborn. She lived long enough to see his face and then she was gone, too.”
“Oh.” Shocked silence followed. Mercy bowed her head, as if she'd been struck. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea. That had to be unbearable for you.”
“Unbearable,” he repeated. It was the closest word to what he'd gone through. He'd nearly died of sorrow, too, but Amelia had been three years old and he'd had to find a way to go on. “My heart broke for the final time that day. I walled off the pieces, picked myself up and I'm still getting by the best I can.”
“And so that's why you want a convenient marriage.” Her soothing, sympathetic tone reached out to him. She studied him over the back of the sofa, her beautiful face soft with understanding.
He'd never seen anything more lovely or compelling. He didn't know why he could see inside to her heart or why he could read it so easily. But he saw there the dashed hopes for an emotional connection between them, the sorrow for his lost wife and son, and the understanding of what his heart had been through. Without a word, he nodded, acknowledging what he'd seen in her. She smiled sadly, knowing what he meant.
“That's why I was so interested in you,” he confessed, reaching for the teapot and filling the cup. “You'd lost a husband, so you know what it's like. And you had George.”
“Yes, George.” Her tone came falsely bright, layered with too many emotions to name. “You are a blessing to him.”
“As he is to me.” He carried the cup toward the light, toward her, and gave it to her. “I can't tell you what this afternoon meant. Teaching him to ride. Watching him discover the joy of having a horse. I hope what I gave to him had at least as much value as what he gave to me today.”