Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Mail-Order Christmas Brides: Her Christmas Family / Christmas Stars for Dry Creek

Mail-Order Christmas Brides: Her Christmas Family / Christmas Stars for Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad

Jillian Hart


Her Christmas Family by Jillian Hart"Please be my ma for Christmas." Felicity Sawyer can't resist little Gertie's heartfelt letter. Tate Winters seeks a bride for Gertie's sake, not his own. But as his reserve thaws before Felicity's sunny optimism, this new family learns that togetherness is the best way to celebrate the season.Christmas Stars for Dry Creek by Janet TronstadEleanor McBride's outgrown her dreams of romance—but not her wishes for motherhood. Wedding Sergeant Adam Martin will give her a daughter to cherish. Yet it's not just shy, sweet Hannah who's captured her affections. And Eleanor's arrival in Dry Creek could be the start of a journey to true love…







A family for Christmas—and for always...

Her Christmas Family by Jillian Hart

“Please be my ma for Christmas.” Felicity Sawyer can’t resist little Gertie’s heartfelt letter. Tate Winters seeks a bride for Gertie’s sake, not his own. But as his reserve thaws before Felicity’s sunny optimism, this new family learns that togetherness is the best way to celebrate the season.

Christmas Stars for Dry Creek by Janet Tronstad

Eleanor McBride’s outgrown her dreams of romance—but not her wishes for motherhood. Wedding Sergeant Adam Martin will give her a daughter to cherish. Yet it’s not just shy, sweet Hannah who’s captured her affections. And Eleanor’s arrival in Dry Creek could be the start of a journey to true love.…


Praise for Jillian Hart

“Jillian Hart’s High Country Bride is a sweet, tender and highly emotional love story that will stay with readers for a long time.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Hart’s tender love story has strong characters who stay true to themselves and what they believe is the right thing to do.”

—RT Book Reviews on Gingham Bride

“Jillian Hart’s Homespun Bride is a sweet book with lovable characters that have problems to overcome with the help of faith and the power of true love.”

—RT Book Reviews

Praise for Janet Tronstad

“An emotionally vibrant and totally satisfying read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Snowbound in Dry Creek

“Janet Tronstad pens a warm, comforting story.”

—RT Book Reviews on Shepherds Abiding in Dry Creek

“Ms. Tronstad creates a very enjoyable story about learning to believe and love again.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Angel for Dry Creek


JILLIAN HART

grew up on her family’s homestead, where she helped raise cattle, rode horses and scribbled stories in her spare time. After earning her English degree from Whitman College, she worked in travel and advertising before selling her first novel. When Jillian isn’t working on her next story, she can be found puttering in her rose garden, curled up with a good book or spending quiet evenings at home with her family.

JANET TRONSTAD

grew up on a farm in central Montana, spending many winter days reading books. None of those books were as eagerly consumed as the ones about Christmas though. Stars. Sleighs. The story of the Christ Child being born. She loved them all. That’s why, almost every year since she started writing the Dry Creek series, there’s a new Christmas book. Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she is a full-time writer.


Mail-Order Christmas Brides

Jillian Hart

Janet Tronstad






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Her Christmas Family

Jillian Hart


That their hearts may be encouraged, being knit together in love.

—Colossians 2:2


Contents

Chapter One (#u6bc2f442-c282-5024-9c5a-50ea7137e209)

Chapter Two (#u083a4b2f-9b97-5ae2-9ba4-672255b85a54)

Chapter Three (#ufbee3ebb-8e86-5025-a9e9-fe18a2601238)

Chapter Four (#u1f2dfce3-8b72-53dd-8185-8af0eef9b0f7)

Chapter Five (#u79eaad20-022c-5b0f-9df8-1918f1ad541a)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Montana Territory, December 1884

Tate Winters tipped the brim of his Stetson to cut the glare of the sun, watching as the westbound train squealed to a noisy stop along the depot’s platform. The great metal beast spewed steam, smoke and uniformed men who ran to set brakes, open doors and toss out luggage. He braced his shoulders, preparing for the worst.

Who knew what sort of woman was going to step off that train? She could be homely, she could be desperate, she could be so bitter and sharp-tongued that no man who’d ever met her would have her. The way he saw it, he had to be ready for just about any type of horror a woman could bring a man.

“Pa, do you see her?” Gertie clutched his hand, her fingers so small and slight within his own. “Do you see my new ma?”

“Hard to say, since I don’t know what she looks like.” He didn’t care how ugly the woman was. He’d promised to marry her and he would. His life might be in shambles and there wasn’t a thing of his heart left, but he hadn’t been able to say no to his daughter’s wish. Gertie, eight years old, wanted a mother. After everything she had lost, everything his mistakes had cost her, he could not deny her the one thing she wanted most. Regardless of how disagreeable, quarrelsome or shrewish Miss Felicity Sawyer was, as long as she would devote herself to his little girl, he would put a ring on her finger.

“Ooh, look at the pretty lady.” Gertie breathed the words in awe and jabbed one finger. “Is that her?”

Tate took in the cheerful woman in a bright yellow dress with a daisy—yes, a daisy—mounted on her bonnet. What kind of woman wore a hat like that in winter? Slender, graceful, lovely. No way would such a beauty need to resort to answering a marriage advertisement in the territorial newspaper. No way would that woman be desperate enough to marry a stranger.

“She’s like a princess.” Gertie looked captivated, blue eyes wide, button face hopeful. “Like some of the stories in my books, Pa.”

“She isn’t for us. Let’s find the woman who is.” He leaned heavily on his cane and took a careful step. The pain wasn’t as bad these days but it was still enough to make him grit down on his molars when he transferred weight onto his left leg. He ignored the glance of disdain a few townswomen threw his way as they bustled by. He’d gotten used to that pain, too.

“But, Pa, the pretty lady is all alone.” Gertie went up on tiptoe straining to see through the milling crowd. “No one’s comin’ to greet her.”

“I told you. Leave it be. She’s not who we’re looking for.” Relief shot through him when he spotted a squat, rotund looking woman with a pointy nose and an unhappy pinch to her rather homely face. “There she is. That’s your Miss Sawyer.”

“I don’t think so.” Curls bounced as she shook her head. “Felicity said in her letters she had blond hair just like me. That lady there has brown hair. She can’t be my new ma.”

He knew what it was like, that sinking feeling of realizing what you got in life was far short of what you wanted. He hated that his daughter might be disappointed, but hadn’t he warned her? Hadn’t he tried to keep her from getting her hopes set too high?

“The brown-haired lady looks mighty sensible to me.” He limped forward, shoulders straight, trying not to look like the cripple that injustice had made him. “That’s what a little girl needs in a mother. Someone practical, someone who knows what life is about. You go on up to meet her now.”

“Pa, I told you. It’s not her. Look.”

Sure enough, some tall, rail-thin fellow strolled up to the stout woman and offered her his arm. With contented smiles, the pair whisked off, leaving him gaping in shock like a fish out of water. Fine, so that wasn’t his bride. Miss Sawyer had to be around here somewhere. “Best check toward the other end of the train.”

“Pa, the pretty lady is just standing by herself. No one has come for her.” Excitement rang like music in his daughter’s voice. She tugged his hand, holding on so hard. He could feel her hopes rising, soaring like prayers toward the sky. He grimaced, wondering what was best to say to keep her from getting hurt.

Up ahead the beautiful lady had her back to them, exchanging words with a baggage handler. A battered-looking trunk stood between them. Her melodious “thank you” lifted into the air as sweetly as church music.

He’d given up on God, but if he still thought the Lord listened, then he would have asked for help for his Gertie. The crowd surrounding them was thinning, save for a few farewell wishers waving to loved ones who had just boarded the train. Doors closed, men called out, the engine idled harder until the entire train shook like a wild animal about to bolt.

No other woman was left on the platform. Miss Sawyer was a no-show. She had changed her mind without sending word and abandoned Gertie. The girl was going to be shattered.

“C’mon.” No tender notes sounded in his voice. He had no tenderness left to give. Couldn’t remember the last time he did. He wished he had some, even the smallest trace, so he could offer it as comfort to his daughter. “She didn’t show.”

“No. Felicity wouldn’t leave me.”

“Let’s head home.” He knew about being stubborn, about wanting something so badly you couldn’t let go of it even when all chance was gone. “No tears now. You got your hopes up too high.”

“I know, Pa.” Her chin sank down and she gave a little sniff. Her hand tucked in his went slack. Her shoes dragged along the platform.

Blast that Sawyer woman. His cane thumped loudly on the platform. Anger licked through him. He should have figured this would happen. Women didn’t keep promises, and if they did it was only because it was to their benefit. His girl didn’t deserve this, she’d had too many disappointments in her short life.

“Gertie?” A woman’s voice called out, a sweet melodic sound. “Is that you?”

“Felicity?” The child spun around so fast, he lost his balance. Her hand slipped out of his, leaving him lurching against his cane as she took off at a dead run toward the smiling blonde. “I knew you would come. I knew it.”

“I would never break a promise to you, my very own little girl.” To his horror the stunning woman opened her arms wide to wrap his daughter in a motherly hug, the silk daisy on her hat bobbing.

That woman was Miss Sawyer? She was going to be his new wife? His knees buckled. Air whooshed out of his lungs. His heart forgot to beat, of course there were some who said he didn’t have a heart. He blinked, but the woman was still there, bending down to chatter excitedly with Gertie.

He swallowed hard, nearly choking. What cruel joke was this? He shook his head, not wanting to believe what was right before his eyes. He squinted, looking at the woman, really looking at her. She was gorgeous—slender and petite, her locks of gold done up just so, her face as finely carved as a china doll’s. Big blueberry eyes, a rosebud mouth and the daintiest chin he’d ever seen made him blow out a breath and stumble forward.

This simply couldn’t be right. His cane’s grip felt numb in his hand. All of him felt numb. Every step he took brought him closer to her. Easier to see the details now, the sunny smile, the pearls at her collar, the life sparkling out of her. She wasn’t what he’d bargained for, not even close to what he wanted. She was not going to fit into his life. She was not going to work into his plans. She was going to have to turn around, climb aboard that train and go anywhere, somewhere else, even back where she came from. She wasn’t going to stay with him.

“Felicity, you’ve gotta meet Pa.” Gertie dragged the woman by one hand in his direction. “He’s a real good pa, especially now that we’re back together again.”

Too late to head the other way. Hiking off into the mountains and staying put sounded like a good option. Too late to figure out a way to get her back on the train. The great iron beast roared, the whistle blew and the contraption took off, shaking the platform like a blizzard hitting. At least the train’s departure postponed the moment when he had to exchange pleasantries with the woman.

He kept his eyes glued to the boards at his feet, letting her get a good long look at him. Let her see the cane. Let her see the failure he wore like a shabby coat, notice he wasn’t wearing a wealthy man’s duds. He was a simple working man, these days not doing much better than living paycheck to paycheck. Reckoned she was wishing herself back on that train about now, realizing that his best days were behind him. He’d been forced to settle for a mail-order wife because no one who knew him would have him.

“Tate?” Warmth softened her dulcet alto, tempting him to look up and meet her gaze, but he had to resist. He squared his shoulders, drew himself up straight and clamped his jaw tight. Prepared, her disappointment in him would hurt less.

“It’s awkward, isn’t it?” She rustled closer, fine shoes tapping on the plank platform, her hand tucked tightly around Gertie’s. “What do you say to a stranger you are about to marry? I’ve pondered it the entire trip and I just could never think of the exact right thing.”

“Me, neither.” The words came out gruffly. He shifted his cane as if he didn’t know what to say next.

“I figured you for the shy sort, since you let Gertie answer my first letter.” She stopped before him, petticoats swishing. A cold wind gusted hard, blowing a piece of rattling paper across the platform like a leaf in the wind, and she shivered. “My youngest sister was shy, too, so I understand completely. I will try not to be too exuberant. It’s a fault of mine.”

“I see.” He didn’t so much as blink his long dark eyelashes. Tate Winters wasn’t at all what she’d imagined from Gertie’s written descriptions of her beloved pa. Like those descriptions, he was tall. He did have dark blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. This man walked with a cane. This man’s gaze looked shadowed and full of pain.

“That’s your trunk?” His baritone was colder than the gusts knocking her back a step. He still hadn’t looked at her.

“Yes. Just the one.” She pitched her voice, turning toward him, willing him to see her. Didn’t he like her? Couldn’t he at least be polite? A terrible foreboding gripped her stomach. Had she made a mistake in coming? Had she chosen the wrong man?

As he lumbered by, all six feet plus of him, she remembered the exact moment she’d decided to answer his advertisement. Wife needed, she read on that crisp September morning, skimming the ads as she always did while sipping coffee. The clatter of steel forks on ironware rang around her in the dining room of the Iowa boardinghouse where she’d lived. She had bent closer, interested enough to keep reading. All I want is someone to be kindly to my daughter, he’d written. Little Gertrude deserves a good ma.

Her imagination had taken off at those words. She’d set her cup into its saucer, stared out the window where clothes slapped on a line, where her life was a string of long lonely days, and pictured a father who loved his little girl so much, he put concern for her first.

Wasn’t that heartening? Time had robbed her of all but a few memories of her father, but the impact of his kindness remained. Smallpox had taken her parents when she was young.

As she watched the man with the bitter expression grab a handle on the end of her trunk and heft it onto one brawny shoulder, she forced herself to remember his advertisement. When she read his simple request, she had instantly come to care about him, a perfect stranger, hundreds of miles away. Her trunk might be heavy but he handled it as if it were weightless, balancing its bulk with his free hand. He was a strong man, powerfully built, handsome when he took an awkward step and the sunshine touched his face. Strong bones, straight nose, a generous mouth that may have once smiled.

His gaze, when it finally swept over her, was hard as stone and hit her like a punch. It wasn’t dislike of her, but desolation she saw. The smothering, human pain of someone who had lost all hope. Bleak despair echoed in the depths of his eyes and turned her to ice before he swung away.

That was when she noticed the fraying sleeves of his coat, in want of mending. A small tear near the hem of his faded denims. He wore no muffler or gloves on this frigid December day, nor did Gertie, whose hand felt fragile cradled in her own.

Hardship was everywhere. It had ruined her family, taken her parents and separated her from her sisters. How close had hardship come to destroying this family? She gazed down into the girl’s face and into eyes full of silent need. It had been a lifetime since someone had held on to her this tight or wanted her as desperately.

Felicity thought of the letter tucked inside her reticule, written in Gertie’s careful print. Please be my ma for Christmas. I promise to be really good if only you will come.

Love at first word, that’s what this was, the deep abiding tie that had instantly bound her spirit to the girl’s only strengthened. She knew what it was like to ache after a mother who was gone and to long for a mother yet to be. Too many years she’d been a little girl standing in the yard waiting hopefully whenever a married couple came to choose among the orphans. She’d prayed with all the power of her soul to be the one selected. She’d been passed by every time.

Gertie seemed to sense something was wrong. Tears brimmed, one after another. “You’re gonna stay, aren’t you, Felicity?”

“Wild horses couldn’t pry me away.” She saw herself in Gertie’s eyes, longing to be loved. She brushed at the girl’s tears with the pad of her thumb, already a mother to this child. The wedding ceremony was merely a technicality. “Let’s go catch up with your pa. Take me home, Gertie.”


Chapter Two

This was a disaster of epic proportion. Tate ground down the depot steps, aware of the tap of a woman’s shoes directly behind him. The whisper of her petticoats, the rustle of her skirt, the low melody of her voice as she chatted with Gertie grated, and he clamped his jaw tight. He closed his ears to the sound of that pleasing tone. Best not to listen to a thing she said. Best not to get attached because the woman wasn’t staying.

He heaved the trunk onto the wagon bed, wondering what frills and foppery the woman had brought with her. Fancy women like that liked fine frocks. No doubt her hands beneath her gloves were soft and smooth, never having known a day’s work. He grimaced as he latched the tailgate, the chain chattering in the cold. He shook his head. No, he could not imagine the woman who swept into sight was any happier with this situation than he was. Once she saw there was no maid to wait on her, no housekeeper to order about, she would race for the next train out of town so fast she’d be a blur dashing down the platform. No doubt about that. He squared his shoulders and steeled his chest, his only defense against her nearness.

“Pa, guess what?” Gertie stumbled up to him, nearly tripping with her excitement. He couldn’t remember the last time her big blue eyes had sparkled like that, nor the last time he’d seen her dear smile framed by twin dimples. Something in the vicinity of his heart caught, a muscle spasm of sorrow.

“Felicity brought me a surprise!” The wind rustled the ends of her curls and brushed the stray flyaway strands against the side of her apple cheeks as if with a loving hand. “A present. And it’s not even Christmas yet.”

“Huh.” He kept his gaze low as he grabbed hold of his cane and ambled around the side of the wagon. The yellow ruffle of the woman’s skirt stayed in his peripheral vision, following him. Whatever was going to happen to Gertie when the fancy lady took off, he didn’t know. Her heart would be shattered, those sky-high hopes grounded.

Helplessness twisted inside him and wrung him out. He should have put his foot down at the depot. He should have refused the woman, ordered her back onto the train before it departed, pushed her away before she had a chance to win his daughter’s heart. Look how the girl was already captured, one small hand clinging so hard to the woman’s fine-knit glove it was a wonder she wasn’t causing a bruise.

“She has one for you, too.” Gertie bounced in place, as if her happiness was so great not even gravity could hold her. A silent question shone in her blue eyes as she searched his. “Aren’t you glad she’s finally here?”

“Settle down now.” He could feel the rigid lines digging into his face and the harsh set of his mouth, grown hard with hardship and defeat. Life was a grim place, but he read his daughter’s anxiety as easily as if her concerns had been scribbled in ink across her forehead. His darling girl. For her sake, he tried to soften the harsh set of his face, tried to ease the hard lines around his mouth. “Get on up into the wagon.”

“Yes, Pa.” It was a struggle for her to find the will to let go of the woman’s hand. He didn’t look directly at the female. The slash of yellow hem beneath her navy coat and the beige of her wool gloves was all he cared to see of her. He could feel the weight of her gaze as he swung his child into the air and onto the wagon seat.

“Your turn.” He held out one hand, making himself like iron, a cold and unfeeling thing that cannot be hurt. To his surprise, her glove lighted on his palm as gently as a bird landing, accepting his help as she placed one dainty shoe on the running board and rose up into the sun. That’s how it looked when he gazed up at her with the rays of sunlight spearing down around her and her bonnet glowing.

Air froze in his lungs as he stood there, momentarily paralyzed by the sight. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as Miss Sawyer with December sunshine kissing her cheek and shimmering in her hair.

“Oh, I love your horse.” She bobbed out of the sun and settled onto the seat, still carrying wisps and glimmers of the light in her golden hair and on the silken petals of the daisy. “What is his name?”

He made the mistake of forgetting to look away. Sparkling blue eyes latched on his, holding him prisoner and stealing his every thought. He felt his jaw move and his tongue tried to form words that did not come. Confusion curled through him. Kindness curved in the upturned corners of her smile and sang in her gentle voice. He was not prepared for kindness.

“Patches,” Gertie answered, her optimism ringing like church bells. The wind rose, tearing at her words and snatching them apart as he shuffled around the back of the wagon, escaping the woman’s attention.

Ice slipped beneath his cane as he waited for a teamster’s wagon to lumber by before stepping into the road. Gertie’s conversation rose and fell in snatches, explaining about how they bought the old gelding at auction, walking between the aisles of horses until they found the very best one.

The cheapest one fit to do work, but he didn’t correct her as he swung onto the seat and gathered the reins. He couldn’t feel the thick leather straps against the palms of his hands. He couldn’t feel anything at all as the black-and-white pinto pulled them forward into the road.

“I’ve always wanted a horse,” the woman explained as the runners beneath the wagon box jostled over ruts in the snowy street. “My father trained horses when I was a little girl.”

“When you were my age?” Gertie asked.

“I was a year younger.” She gave a decisive nod and the flower on her hat nodded, too. “I remember sneaking into the stables to watch my pa with the horses. He had a voice so benevolent that every living creature leaned in closer just to hear him. I would watch, keeping as quiet as I could until the straw crinkled and he would discover me. I was supposed to be in big trouble, I was too little to be in the barn by myself, but he would always scoop me up and hold me close and let me sit on one of the horses.”

“Then he died?” Gertie’s chin wobbled.

“Yes. My mother, too.” She smoothed away a strand of the girl’s flyaway hair. “I don’t know what happened to the horses. Probably whoever bought the farm kept them. I haven’t had a horse since.”

Don’t get caught up in her sob story, he told himself as he gave the slack reins a small tug as the intersection approached. That was the way a woman hoodwinked you. They played with a man’s heartstrings, tugging his emotions this way and that until they had you right where they wanted you. He glanced both ways down Main before giving the right rein a tight tug. With a face like hers, Miss Sawyer was probably used to playing men right and left. A smart man would keep that in mind when dealing with her.

“Then Patches can be part yours, too.” Gertie leaned closer to the woman, absolute adoration written on her dear face.

His chest cinched tight. What was he going to do about that? Tension licked through him, more regret than anger. Why couldn’t that woman be what he’d bargained for? His little girl was seriously smitten with the woman. How did he protect her from more heartache? He shook his head, not liking the situation. Not one bit. Best to do what had to be done now and get it over with. He reined Patches toward the nearest hitching post.

“Oh, this is a lovely town. Just like something out of a storybook.” The woman clasped her hands, gasping with a sweet little sound that seemed genuine, not fake. He drew the gelding to a stop, his gaze arrowing to her instead of his driving. The brisk air had painted her cheeks a rosy pink, the color accentuating the fine lines of her high cheekbones and the heart shape of her dainty chin.

“The shops are decorated for Christmas. Look at the candles. This is exactly the sort of town I’ve always wanted to live in. It’s homey and sweet and safe feeling.” Sincerity rang in her words as she gazed up and down the street. “It looks as if fairy tales can happen here.”

“I go to school right over there.” Gertie pointed across the street, where the tailor shop hid the schoolhouse two blocks away. “I got a perfect mark in spelling today. I studied real well.”

“I’m so proud of you.” The woman turned her attention to his child. He didn’t want to believe the tenderness he saw on her face or heard in her words as she pulled off her gloves. “I knew from your first letter you were a very smart girl.”

“You did?” Gertie perked up like a dying plant finally set in the sun. “I worked really hard on that letter.”

“I could tell.” She slipped one glove onto Gertie’s hand. “You spelled every word perfectly. It was a very good letter.”

Gertie beamed. Life came into her, something he hadn’t seen since Lolly’s death. His dislike of the woman fizzled as she snuggled the second glove into place and patted the girl’s covered hands. “There. That ought to keep you toasty warm.”

“They are so soft.” Gertie held out her hands and inspected the gloves.

“I’ll knit you a pair, how’s that?”

Already the woman made promises to his daughter, ones she couldn’t possibly keep, and that would be his fault. But someone had to put a stop to this before more damage could be done. He hopped out of the wagon. “I’ll get your trunk, Miss Sawyer. Plans have changed.”

“Changed?” Confused, she blinked those long curly lashes of hers. The wind played with fine gold strands of hair fallen down from the confines of her hat. “This is a hotel. I don’t understand. You were going to take me to your house.”

“True, but I’ve had second thoughts and I’m sorry about it.” He braced himself for the emotional battle, often a woman’s way of controlling a man. He focused on the snow compacted beneath his boots and the rhythm of his cane tapping on it. “You won’t be staying with us. I’ll get you a return ticket in the morning.”

“What? You’re sending me back?” The words rang hollow, vibrating like a plucked string, full of pain. “I don’t understand. We had an agreement.”

“We did. Believe me, I wish I could keep it.” He leaned his cane against his hip to wrestle with the tailgate. It killed him to admit it. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but you aren’t going to fit in here. You don’t suit. Surely you can feel it, too?”

“Papa! What do you mean? No. Don’t send her away.” Gertie’s face crumpled. Life drained from her like sun from the sky. Misery said what she could not. She turned around, climbing onto her knees, gripping the seat back with Miss Sawyer’s gloves still on her hands. Her blue gaze lassoed him, letting him feel her anguish.

He blinked hard against the stab of pain in his chest. He didn’t want his girl hurt. That’s why he was doing this. It was the right thing. That didn’t give him comfort as he unwound the chain, the rattle of metal echoing straight through him as if nothing, not even his soul, remained.

“It’s the best thing to do, Gertie.” He tried to comfort her with his voice. “You’ll never know how sorry I am.”

“Oh, Papa.” The springs creaked as she sat down proper and buried her face in her hands.

He broke right along with her. He had no idea how to fix the situation and scowled at the woman responsible. Miss Sawyer in her tailored clothes tapped rapidly in his direction. Already folks on the boardwalk were passing by, throwing curious glances their way. One word from any of them about his past, and she would be gone, anyway. She had options. He did not. He dropped the chain on the wagon box and reached for the trunk. A yellow ruffle flounced into view.

“How don’t I suit?” Not a demand, but a plea. “You don’t know me. You’ve hardly said a few dozen words to me.”

“I just know. Isn’t it obvious to you?” He couldn’t be what she’d been wishing for. He dragged the trunk closer. He meant to be kind. He wished he could be. “Look, I’m not the right sort of husband for you. I’m going to do the best thing for both of us. It’s better you go now than later. Better for her.”

“For Gertie?” Confusion knelled in her words, drawing him closer, making him look. In the thinning afternoon light, the sun continued to find her, to glow in the golden wisps of her hair, to make luminous her ivory complexion. “I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. I don’t understand this.”

“I’m being honest and doing what’s right, Miss Sawyer—”

“Felicity,” she insisted, moving in to lay her hand on his. The shock of her touch, warm and innocent on his cold skin, made his mind empty, his knees buckle and his anger fade.

The anger was just a defense. He really didn’t dislike her. That was the worst part. Of all the things she could have said, he wasn’t prepared for her concern toward his daughter.

“Give me a chance, that’s all I’m asking.” Her eyes were darker than blueberries. He could see the shadows in them, the wounds of spirit that made the muscle in his chest clamp harder. As if she sensed his weakness, she pleaded on, “At least wait until you know me before you send me away.”

“What about Gertie? She wants you to stay, but you could have anyone. You are beautiful—” Heat stained his face. Bashful from fear of revealing too much, he stared hard at the square of snow visible between his boots.

“You think I’m beautiful?” She breathed the words like wonder, but surely he was only imagining that. Women like Miss Sawyer probably heard that all the time. Her hand remained on his, never moving.

What did he say? Pride held him up as he stared at the hand on his, small and delicate. The slightly rough calluses on the pads of her fingers surprised him. Up close he could see the loneliness shining in her eyes and the set of her delicate jaw, strong, as if used to facing hardship.

Now that he took the time to see it, she wore the air of a woman who’d been on her own too long and struggled to make ends meet. He finally noticed the wear on her coat, although lovingly cared for, and not the new garment he’d mistaken it to be.

“Miss, you don’t look desperate enough to settle for the likes of me.” He might as well admit the truth.

The truth had a startling effect on her. He watched amazed as her guard went down, as the pools that were her eyes deepened to show more of her. He looked into that well of sadness and loss, and felt the muscles where his heart used to be whip tight. He’d been so wrapped up in his own challenges, fighting to right what was wrong in his life to make things better for his daughter that he’d forgotten adversity could fall like rain, striking many people.

“You were not what I envisioned, Tate. I can’t deny it.” The pearls of her teeth dug into her bottom lip as she hesitated, perhaps debating the right words. “I imagined you any number of ways. Tall or short. Bony or beefy. Disagreeable or pleasant. But any way I pictured you, I prayed that what I felt when I read your advertisement was true. That you were a man who loved his daughter above all else, a man of heart and gentleness.”

Her words struck like bullets in the empty place between his ribs. He cast a glance at Gertie, still bent forward on the seat, her back to him, her thin shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He wished he could turn back time, reassemble the man he used to be so he could give her the kindness she deserved.

But not even God could change the past, so he straightened his spine. He may be many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. “I am not gentle. I have no heart. And likely when you hear what folks say about me, you will be off to seek out the next man on your list who is looking for a wife.”

“No. There are no others on my list. I wanted Gertie from the start. From the moment I read your words in the paper I wanted to be her mother.” She changed before his eyes, drawing herself up like a woman weary of fighting battles and resigned to fight one more. Hurt etched in her fine-boned features as she set her chin another notch higher. “Tell me this one thing, it’s all that I care about. Have you ever harmed a woman? Will you harm me?”

“Never. But why on earth would you want me?” Glimmers of the past flashed into his mind, memories he would not allow to take hold. He stared at the hotel’s sign, debating what to do. Black letters on brass glinted in the waning sun, perhaps a sign he should not relent. He should stick to his decision and send her away. He hated how hard Gertie was crying. What should he do? “The way I see it, you’ve got to be hiding something. What is it, Miss Sawyer? If you are not desperate or in sad straits, then there is some other reason you’re here.”

“I never said I wasn’t in desperate straits.” Her hand on his remained, a physical link between them, and suddenly it became more. Her touch sank down as if trying to snare his emotions, somehow a bond between them.

“I lost my job as a seamstress. The town I grew up in began to die when the railroad bypassed it. First, a few businesses closed and left. Then the mill shut down. Jobs dried up. I didn’t want to leave, hoping my sisters whom I was separated from would return. How else could we find each other again? So I stayed longer than I should have, living on hope and my savings until even that was gone.” The fading light framed her, as if it hated to let go of such honesty.

He knew how the light felt, as he reluctantly slipped his hand from beneath hers, breaking the connection between them and any bond she tried to create. A tie that could never be. He hardened himself to it and swallowed hard.

Don’t let her story soften you, he told himself, but less bitterness soured him as he checked on his daughter. Still silently crying, shaking with sobs of loss. How could he leave her sitting there like that? Worse, how could he trust her with a woman who didn’t need her enough?

“I have nowhere to go, no prospects, no other advertisements I’ve answered. I love your daughter, Tate. I haven’t had a family since I was seven years old. I can understand what Gertie has been through. I can love her better than any other woman. Just give me the chance.” She glanced at the hotel sign, the tears in her eyes pooling, threatening to fall. She did not use tears to sway him, only her love that lit her like candlelight on a dark night, that warmed her like fire crackling in a home’s hearth. When her gaze found his daughter, longing shone within her. He could see a mother’s love as she ached for the crying girl.

“I’m not sure I can leave her. Please, don’t make me.” She whispered the words but they seemed to fill up the street, silencing the noise and chasing away the setting sun. Rosy light painted her, a coincidence, he told himself, not the hand of God pointing the way.

“I’ve had one wife run off on me. I can’t have another.” He gave the trunk a push, shoving it deeper into the wagon box. “Gertie can’t take one more loss.”

“Neither can I.” The tears standing in her eyes shimmered like pieces of a long-ago broken spirit.

He’d been quick to judge Miss Sawyer based on her looks, perhaps so quick because he’d feared she would look at him and do the same. Now that he gazed deeper, he saw they were more alike than different. He was sorry for that. He knew what it was to wait for someone to return, refusing to give up hope. He knew what it was like for that hope to die and your soul right along with it.

The chains rattled as he secured the tailgate. He didn’t want to face her reaction. Best not to see the disappointment on the woman as she realized in gaining Gertie she would be getting him. “This means you will need to marry me.”

“I shall try to endure it.” A hint of humor played in her words, her silent message saying she didn’t mind too much, and it made the place between his ribs sting unbearably.

He refused to like her. Common sense whispered to him that he was a fool but he helped her step onto the running board, anyway. Gertie would have a ma. A ma he believed would stay.

He hoped he was right as he circled around to his seat and took the reins.


Chapter Three

What am I getting into? She braced herself on the seat as the runners struck another rut. Tate sat as stoic as a mountain, reins in his capable hands, attention on the late-afternoon traffic. She wanted to dislike him except for his words that stuck in her head. I’ve had one wife run off on me.

He’d been abandoned? And Gertie, too? She studied the child’s small hand tucked into her own, lost in the too-large glove. Felicity sighed. That explained why he’d been unsure about her. He’d been trying to protect his child. Her child, now. She would not fault him for that. She’d never seen anyone with so much pain in him.

Festive candles flickered in shop windows, decorated for Christmas. This day that should have been filled with promise; she only felt a strange ache settling deep into her chest, refusing to budge. Perhaps her optimism had been a tad high for a mail-order bride. She thought of Eleanor McBride, the young woman she’d befriended on the train. When they’d discovered they were both journeying to marry men they’d never met, they had struck up an instant bond. Eleanor had disembarked at Dry Creek while she’d gone on to Angel Falls, and during that last leg of her journey she had time to imagine an awful lot. But she hadn’t been prepared for the real Tate Winters. Had Eleanor’s experience been similar? Eleanor’s groom had not met her at the train.

Her teeth clacked together as the runners hit an extremely bumpy rut. He needs to get to know me better, she decided. Maybe once he saw who she was and how much this family meant to her, things would be different. Stubborn hope struggled for life as she dared to study him out of the corners of her eyes. Severe, he looked like a sculpture carved out of pure marble. How would a smile change his face? She pictured his unforgiving lines softening with humor and his midnight-blue eyes dancing with laughter.

Her stomach fluttered and not from nerves. She held on to the edge of the seat as the horse drew them over a small berm and into a side street, where twilight turned shadows into darkness. Tate became a silhouette, an impressive outline of masculinity and might, and the flutter moved upward toward her heart. He would be quite handsome, she guessed, if hopelessness didn’t rest so heavily on his iron shoulders.

“That’s the feed store where Pa works.” Gertie pointed out as the runners jounced onto the next street. The lighted windows of storefronts reflected warmly on the long stretch of ice. “It’s Uncle Devin’s store. It used to be Grandpop’s store, but he died.”

Felicity caught a glimpse of a barrel behind the shop’s window before Patches drew them onto a residential street. She glanced around. Not exactly a prosperous place. One tiny shanty slumped in the darkness. Another one peered at them from behind a grove of scrawny trees.

“And that’s where we live. Right there. Do you see it?”

“It’s too dark.” She leaned forward, straining through the thickening duskiness. Emotion choked her and stung in her eyes, making it hard to see the dwelling. A lamp burned on the other side of a curtain, casting just enough light to see a crooked porch and lopsided eaves, yellow clapboard and a sturdy front door.

“Now do you see it?”

“I do.” No more boardinghouse meals and temporary rooms or a bed that had never been her own. This was her home. Her first real home in seventeen years.

Thank you, Lord. She let the gratitude move through her. Hebrews 11:1 promised hope and a good future, and she’d never felt the words touch her more. Patches nosed down the narrow driveway, drawing them up to the small yellow house, shabby with poverty and neglect.

“It isn’t much.” Tate’s baritone held no note of emotion. He didn’t move, a brawny form, radiating a challenge. As if he expected her to find fault or prove him right by deciding to cut her losses and leave now.

Not a chance. He didn’t know her well, but he would. When she made up her mind, nothing could sway her. An icy plop fell onto her cheek, accompanied by a hundred taps onto the frozen ground. Snow. Heaven’s reassurance. Like grace, snow make things fresh and new.

“This house is just right.” She lifted her chin, determined to let Tate see she wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s the nicest place I’ve lived in for a long while.”

A deep “hmm” resonated from his side of the wagon, as if her answer surprised him. His movements rustled, echoing faintly in the silent stretch of dark as the last dregs of twilight vanished from the sky. Inky blackness descended in full, making Tate a part of the night as his steely hand gripped her elbow, helping her to keep her balance as she sank ankle-deep in snow.

“Careful there.” The smoky pitch of his words enveloped her briefly. Unaware of his effect on her he pulled away, leaving her to trudge along a shoveled path toward the porch steps.

“C’mon, Felicity. Follow me.” Gertie shivered with anticipation as she charged up the steps. The front door flew open in a wash of lamplight.

“I thought I heard you pull in.” A woman about twenty-three or twenty-four, Felicity’s same age, came into sight in a carefully patched dress. Her voice had a smiling quality, the sound of a friend. “Goodness, Gertie, don’t drag Felicity around like that. Felicity, I’m Ingrid, Tate’s sister.”

“Sister?” She hadn’t known. Gertie hadn’t written of an aunt. She hurried up the steps. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ingrid.”

“Call me Ing.” Ingrid hauled her through the doorway and into a welcoming hug. “It is wonderful you are finally here. Gertie shared your every letter with me. I’ve been on pins and needles all day long waiting for you. I think we will be great friends.”

“I do, too.” Happiness lumped in her throat, making it hard to speak. “I didn’t know I was getting a new sister.”

“Tate is in real trouble now, since we can conspire against him.” Good-humored brown eyes glanced out the open doorway, where a frigid wind gusted and Tate’s shadow knelt to lower the trunk onto the tiny porch.

Why did her heart jump at his shadow? Why did she strain to hear the departing crunch of his boots down the pathway? A moment later, horse hooves clinked a slow rhythm, growing faint.

“I’m sure he heard me and didn’t like what I said.” Laughing, Ingrid closed the door against the wintry night. “Let me hang your coat while you get warm by the fire.”

“Shouldn’t I fetch my trunk?”

“Tate will bring it in when he’s done stabling the horse.” Ingrid, petite and slender, apple-cheeked and energetic, helped Felicity out of her wraps. “You must be frozen through. I’ve heard some of those railroad cars can be quite drafty. Was it exciting riding a train all that way?”

“Very. The most exciting thing I’ve ever done.” She thought of Eleanor as she surrendered her coat. She glanced around and noted the secondhand sofa with fraying cushions, a scarred wooden chair and a battered table tucked midway between the sitting area and the kitchen. She set her reticule on a rickety end table. “Have you ever ridden the train?”

“Sadly, yes. Many times.” Sorrow stole Ingrid’s smile as she hung the coats on a wall peg. Even Gertie bowed her head, as if saying anything more would dredge up a sadness neither of them could speak of.

What had happened to this family? Questions burned on her tongue, but she stayed silent, not wanting to sadden them more. The scent of a baking roast rose richly from the range. In the shadows, the kitchen took up the other outside wall of the main room with a pair of tall cupboards and slanting shelves. Wilting muslin curtains hung on the windows, the only adornment in the plain, brown room. This place needed a woman’s touch. Good thing she’d spent time sewing, embroidering and crocheting preparing for this day.

“What do you think of Tate?” Ingrid whirled away to light a lamp centered on the round oak table.

“He’s—” Words failed her. She thought of his frown. She thought of his cold manner. Then she remembered the love he had for his daughter. “I think he will make a fine husband.”

“He will. He is absolutely a good man.” Ingrid lifted the lamp’s glass chimney and brought a flickering match to the exposed wick. “I’m glad you see that in him.”

Gertie sidled close and pulled off the overly large gloves one by one to watch her aunt light the lamp. The glass chimney clinked back into place like a bell ending the sadness. Light danced, driving the shadows from the room and Felicity was able to see more of her new home. Blue ironware plates sat on shelves, pots and pans rested on lower ones. The windows were large and bound to let in plenty of cheerful sunshine during the day. She could make this place feel cozy in no time.

Bless this house with Your love, Lord. She smiled reassuringly into Gertie’s anxious blue eyes. Help me to make it into a home. That’s what Gertie needs.

She needed it, too.

And Tate? She felt his approach long before the rhythm of his boots reached her. Remembering his desolate shadows, she wondered what she could do for him, this man who had given her this dream of a real home.

“Here are your gloves, Felicity.”

“Thank you, Gertie. Do you hear that?”

“It’s Pa!” Adoration illuminated her, making her as bright as a star in the heavenly sky. Her shoes tapped a beat to the door, which she flung open. “Pa’s got your trunk!”

“So I see.” She couldn’t explain why her gaze searched the shadows for a glimpse of his face. She longed for the sight of him. The side of her trunk hid him as he lumbered into the reach of lamplight. Without a word he bypassed her and disappeared behind a door in the far wall.

That’s it? Not so much as a hello, or where do you want your trunk? She folded her gloves in half, smoothing them absently. She felt Ingrid’s curiosity, and then sympathy as she slipped the gloves next to her reticule. His behavior didn’t hurt her, at least that’s what she tried to believe. In reality it did, down deep.

A thump echoed through the lifeless rooms as her trunk hit the floor.

“Don’t take it personally. Tate doesn’t realize how cold he can seem.” Ingrid set a steaming teacup on the edge of the table. “Sometimes a heart is broken too many times and there is no way to put it back together again.”

Felicity considered those hushed words and her hopes sank. She’d imagined so much with each letter she received from Gertie. A wonderfully loving father, a happy home, a man lonely and in need of a caring wife. She could see now those were Gertie’s hopes, not Tate’s. It wasn’t reality.

His boots struck like hammer blows on the wood floor, his cane tapping a counter rhythm. He shouldered into sight, shrinking the room. He looked immense with his broad shoulders and muscled girth. The power of his disinterest in her struck like a hard gust of wind, shaking her to the bones.

“I gave you my room. I moved all my things across the street, to the room above the store.” An icicle would be warmer than his tone and a glacier friendlier. “You will live here with Gertie until we’re…married…and then I’ll move into the lean-to.”

“Won’t that get rather cold?”

“Probably.” A muscle jumped along his jaw line, a sign of strain. She hadn’t considered how hard this must be for a man to take on a wife he clearly didn’t want.

She felt numb, suffocating in disappointment. How many times had she imagined this moment? Walking into her new home to see the happy future she and Gertie and Tate would share? She’d pictured every outcome but this one, full of awkwardness and the feeling of being unwanted. She had made a terrible mistake.

She’d also made the right one. Gertie twisted her hands, a worried little girl in a wash-worn calico dress.

Is this why You brought me here, Father? She didn’t need God’s answer to know it was true. Tate’s heart might be irrevocably broken, but Gertie’s spirit was beautiful, fragile and immeasurably precious.

“Tate.” Ingrid’s scolding tone held disappointment, too. “I can’t believe you. She’s going to change her mind about marrying you.”

“I told her that to reassure her.” The muscle twisted in his jaw, harder this time. “She has a place, respectful to her reputation as I promised.”

“You could have said it more gently.” Ingrid shook her head, brown curls scattering. “You’re going to scare her into leaving.”

“But you said she would stay.” Gertie took her father’s hand, small and frail standing next to the large, powerful man.

“I’m right here, Gertie.” Felicity resisted the urge to rush to the child and wrap her in her arms. Commitment turned her to steel. “I don’t want you worrying, okay?”

“Okay.” The child gulped, holding on to her father with white-knuckled need. Was she afraid he would leave her, too? Hadn’t she said something about being separated from Tate? Felicity swiped a lock of hair out of her burning eyes. Just what had happened to this family?

“Ingrid, thank you.” She turned to her sister-to-be and squeezed her hand. “You’ve made me feel at home.”

“I did nothing but introduce myself and make you some tea. What I want is for you to put up your feet, rest up from your long journey and let me whip up the rest of supper—”

“That is my job.” She could read Ingrid’s worry, saw it crinkle across her smooth brow, and understood. Tate’s sister wanted to smooth the way, fearing any woman in her right mind would flee. What would life be like being married to a man who said he had no gentleness or heart left in him?

“I appreciate all you’ve done, Ingrid, but I have been looking forward to making supper for my new family.” She hated to trouble the woman further. “Maybe we could talk tomorrow. I could fix you lunch.”

“I would love it.” Ingrid’s smile was a mix of delight and wariness when she studied the man in the shadows. With a sigh she reached for her coat. “You behave, Tate. I’ll see you at noon, Felicity. I’m so glad you came.”

“Me, too. Good night.” Purpose held her up. Tate’s boots struck once, twice and a third step took him to the potbellied stove in the sitting area. The door rattled and squeaked open. As Gertie hugged her aunt and saw her to the door, Tate shoveled coal from the hod. His wide back to her, he worked quietly and efficiently.

“Felicity?” Gertie stood before her, anxiety puckering her adorable face. Golden curls framed her fathomless eyes full of a sadness no child should know.

She understood the silent question and tore her gaze from the solemn man adjusting the stove’s draft. “Everything is fine. I see Ingrid was getting ready to peel potatoes. Would you like to keep me company in the kitchen?”

“I’ll show you where the cutting board is.” Eager to please, the girl bobbed away, braids bouncing.

Across the length of the room, she felt Tate’s curiosity. When she raised her gaze to his, he turned away, staring hard at the floor. His thick, dark hair fell beyond his collar, straggling and too long. The flannel collar was fraying, too. Everywhere she looked needed needle and thread—the sofa cushions, Gertie’s sleeve, even the dish towel where the washed potatoes sat on the edge of the table.

“Here.” Gertie bent to yank something off the bottom shelf, accidentally bumping a pan. It tumbled onto the floor with an ear-ringing clatter. Startled, the girl jumped as if struck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s all right.” She knelt to retrieve the pan. “No harm done. We’ll just give it a good swipe with a dish cloth and it will be as good as new. Is that the cutting board?”

Obviously it was, but Gertie clutched the slab of wood tighter with both arms, eyes silent with distress. In her years at the orphanage, she’d witnessed many sadnesses. Remembering that Gertie had been parted from her father and not knowing what had happened in the time between, she gently laid her hand against the child’s soft, apple cheek. Inalterable love whispered in her heart for this little girl in need. Not only in need of love but of healing.

“Do you want to put the pieces in the pot for me? I always used to help my ma that way.”

Gertie swallowed hard, visibly struggling, and nodded. Just once.

“Then let’s pick out the right pot. Does this look like a good size to you, or do you want more potatoes? Maybe this one?”

“That’s the one.” Gertie hugged the cutting board against her chest with one arm and held out her free hand, as if determined to help by carrying both.

Felicity handed over the potato pot to her child, her own little girl. How many times over the years had she wished for such a blessing? Overwhelmed, she rose on shaky knees, surprised when Tate’s hand caught her elbow to help her up. She hadn’t heard his approach but he towered over her, blocking the pool of light. Big and intimidating, but it was kindness she glimpsed.

He might deny it, but she saw it chase the dark hues from his eyes and the rocky harshness from the planes of his chiseled face.

“Thank you.” His gaze collided with hers. Maybe it was the trick of the flickering light behind him or the depth of the shadows he stood in, but his coldness melted. Apology shone in his eyes and the authenticity of it rolled through her, hooking deep into her heart. His cane tapped a beat as he stepped away. The lamplight washed over her, the moment passed but the hook remained.

“I’ll fetch more coal for you.” Once again cold and unreachable, the man scooped up the hod by the range and limped away.

“Thanks.” She helped Gertie slide the pot onto the table. As the cutting board thunked to a rest, she watched the bob of Tate’s invincible shoulders rise and fall with his uneven gait until the shadows stole him from her sight. The ring of his boots on the floor continued, his cane in counterpoint.

Maybe he wasn’t as unreachable as she’d thought. A small hope flared to life within her. It was a small light in a vast dark but it was enough to see. Coming here was no mistake.


Chapter Four

He glimpsed her through a crack between the curtains, embraced by lamplight, sipping from a cup as she stood in front of the stove, her back to him. Her golden hair was wrapped around her head like a coronet in one long braid. Her yellow dress accentuated her woman’s form, delicate shoulders, slim waist, flaring skirt that draped gracefully to the floor. The light seemed to search her out; like finding like. Gertie was right. The woman did look like a fairy-tale princess out of a book.

What had he gotten himself into? His stomach clenched with foreboding as he forced his bad leg forward and stabbed his cane into the snow. Airy flakes sailed around him, the first harbingers of a coming storm. He figured more snow to shovel and wrestle through was no hardship compared to dealing with the woman in his kitchen, stirring something in a pan. Gertie loved her. That was what mattered. The only thing that sustained him as he forced his feet toward the house. It was going to be torture to get used to having that woman in his house.

“Pa!” The door flung open the instant he stomped snow from his boots. A grinning Gertie filled the threshold, her rosebud smile a welcome sight. “Guess what? Felicity let me help make the biscuits.”

“That’s good.” He cupped the side of her cherub cheek, his dear girl. He saw the tiny newborn cradled in his arms, the gentle toddler wobbling as she took her first steps, the withered child sobbing when the marshal had taken him away. He cleared unwanted emotion from his throat. “I’m sure I’m going to like those biscuits.”

His words must have carried to the woman because she turned from the stove to greet him with a soft look. Gentle. Something he hadn’t seen outside of his family in a long while and his windpipe closed up. He stared back at her, probably looking like a lumbering fool, unable to say a word.

“I’m just finishing up the gravy, otherwise supper is ready.” She offered him a sunny smile before turning to the stove. “I used to help out in the dining room where I lived, for a discount of my room and board. I love to cook.”

“These are the biscuits, Pa.” Gertie pranced up to the table and pointed to a bowl, neatly wrapped in a dish towel to hold the heat inside. “They taste real good. I ate some of the crumbled-off pieces.”

“I can’t wait to have one.” His voice came out strained and coarse, the best he could manage. He shrugged out of his coat, focusing too hard on hanging up the garment just so he didn’t have to look at the woman. He was going to have to start thinking of her with a name.

“It was so thoughtful of your sister to start supper.” Her brisk steps went from stove to table, tap, tap, tapping like a dance. “I see she cleaned, too. You have a brother also?”

He nodded. Took a reluctant step toward the table. “Devin.”

“He owns the feed store where you work. I have it straight now.” She set two plates on the table and whirled to fetch more.

His stomach growled harder, the food did look tasty. Thick peppery gravy and a fluffy white mountain of mashed potatoes with butter melting down the peak. Gertie’s eyes shone as she pulled out her chair.

For Gertie, he found the strength to sit down at the table. A cup of tea steamed beside his plate, waiting to warm him. He peered through his lashes as the woman—as Felicity—added a platter and a bowl to the table.

“Can I get you anything else? I hope I didn’t forget something.” Her warm pleasantness felt out of place in this sad house.

“It’s just right, Felicity,” Gertie breathed, still in awe of the woman. “It’s perfect.”

Do it for Gertie, he told himself again, finding the strength he’d lacked before to offer the woman—Felicity—a half smile. “This looks very good.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she quipped, settling into the chair across the small table from him. “I can only hope you think it tastes just as good. Who usually leads the prayer?”

“I do.” Gertie’s hand crept into his, holding on tight. Her head bowed, her eyes squeezed shut in earnest belief, she began the blessing. “Dear Father.”

Warm fingers curled around his other hand. The shock of the woman’s touch hammered through him. Gertie’s blessing became garbled, words he could not make sense of as Felicity bowed her head. Lamplight caressed her porcelain perfection, accentuating her beauty. Her hand tucked in his felt dainty, as fine-boned as a bird’s.

“Thank You so much for my new ma,” Gertie prayed on. “Now everything will be all right, I just know it. Amen.”

“Amen,” he muttered. He tried to ignore the pinch of regret when he released hold of the woman. His hand felt empty. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her reach for a platter and angled it in his direction as an offering.

Her gaze did something to him. It pulled at him down deep, and so he avoided it. He did take the roast beef. He speared several slices with his fork, realizing too late she’d given him first choice. He wanted to read something into her gesture; Lolly always had a motive behind every action, but he could not get up the steam to suspect Felicity of the same.

“Don’t forget the biscuits, Pa.” Gertie slid the bowl in his direction.

“I won’t.” He added a slice to her plate. “Those biscuits are all I can think about.”

“Put lots of butter on ’em.”

“That was my plan.” He chose a couple biscuits from the bowl and cracked them open with his knife. Buttermilk goodness, crumbly and fragrant made his mouth water. At least he would be eating well. Another reason to be grateful for his wife-to-be. “You ladies did a real fine job.”

“I stirred up the batter.” Gertie dug into the mashed potatoes and spooned a mound onto her plate. “I put them into the oven, too.”

“She was a fantastic helper.” Felicity reached for the gravy. “I think we make a great team.”

“Me, too.” With an emphatic nod, the girl thunked the potato bowl onto the table.

“What do you both like for breakfast? I need to know for when the morning rolls around. Maybe there are some things I should avoid making. Like rhubarb pancakes.”

“Ick.” Gertie curled her upper lip, eyes dancing. “There’s no such thing as rhubarb pancakes.”

“Tell that to the cook at the orphanage. A patron donated a sizable portion of rhubarb from her gardens and not one bit of it went to waste. We had mashed rhubarb, chopped rhubarb, minced rhubarb. We had rhubarb in bread, in oatmeal, in meat loaf and stew. The pancakes were the best of the bunch, almost edible.”

“No rhubarb pancakes.” Gertie laughed. The melody of it rose above the rumble of the fire in the stove and chased the chill from the room. The most beautiful sound.

“Okay, then I’ll cross that off the list. Anything else? How about charred eggs? Burned bacon?”

“No, don’t make that, either.” The child’s cheeks shone pink with delight. “I don’t like things burned.”

“Good to know. I’ll try not to scorch anything.” She swirled her fork in the potatoes on her plate. “Does that mean you like things undercooked? Like wilty bacon? Runny eggs?”

“Nope.” Gertie nibbled on the edge of a biscuit. “Just do it all the regular way.”

“I’ll do my best.” She considered the stoic man across the table, head bent, cutting the beef and stabbing it with his fork. He had to be listening. “Any special requests, Tate?”

“Me?” His head jerked up, dark locks tumbling over his high forehead, giving him a rakish look.

A handsome look. For a brief moment she saw him differently. Confident, gentle and whole. What an impressive man he must have been. He still must be, she decided.

“Whatever you cook is fine.” His fork stopped midair. “I appreciate not having to make it myself.”

“So you do the cooking.” The picture was coming clear. Tate standing at the stove, trying to do both the work of a mother and a father. “I thought maybe Ingrid did.”

“No. My sister has her own life. I do my best not to impose on her.” The words lashed and he winced. Obviously he hadn’t meant to be harsh. “Sorry. It’s an argument in my family. They did so much for Gertie while I was…away.”

He choked on that last word, and Felicity wondered why. Sorrow filled the air. She wanted to know what had happened but now wasn’t the time. She would leave that sadness for another day. “I hope you don’t mind if she and I are friendly. I’ve been without my sisters for so long I ache for that connection again. When I met her, I thought perhaps we could be close, like real sisters should be.”

“I’m sure she will like that.” One corner of his mouth curled upward. Bleakness faded from his eyes’ midnight-blue depths. “Ingrid has been nearly as excited by your arrival as Gertie is. My sister will probably want to drag you with her to her social events. I don’t have a problem with that. You should make friends here.”

“Oh. Friends.” She hadn’t thought that far. Suddenly a whole new world opened up to her. The lonely existence she’d left behind faded. She was no longer alone. Did Tate realize what he had done for her?

“It must be hard leaving everything behind.” He peered at her from behind his dark lashes. “And everyone.”

“There was no one left, not toward the end. The friends I’d made at work left town when they lost their jobs. The relationships I’d made at the orphanage didn’t last. Most of the girls I grew up with were eager to put the past behind them and went somewhere else to start fresh.” She shrugged. Staying had been her choice, so it wasn’t a sad thing. “I wasn’t able to let go.”

“What work did you do?”

“I’m a seamstress.” She liked that he wanted to know about her. Surely that was a good sign? He was reaching out to her and it made the small hope within her grow. “When I was a girl, I was hired out one summer to sew in a workshop in Cedar Rapids. It was an unpleasant circumstance, but I worked hard at learning the craft. When I was sent back to the orphanage in September, I had the skills I needed to find a job when I was old enough.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven. And that’s just what I did. I worked hard to improve my sewing and when I was on my own, I worked in a dress shop making beautiful things.”

“That explains your clothes. That’s no calico work dress.”

“I wanted to make a good impression, so you wouldn’t take one look at me and wish me back on that train.” Her smile wobbled, though she tried to hide it. Guilt hit him because that was just what he’d wanted.

Not anymore. He took another bite of a delicious biscuit and followed it up with a flavorful mouthful of potato and gravy. Hard to swallow past the lump in his throat but he managed it. Felicity Sawyer was not what she seemed, not at all. His daughter had done a fine job picking out a ma. He wasn’t much of a provider, probably wouldn’t be much of a husband, but he vowed to do his best.

Gertie wasn’t the only one who deserved it.



“Do you know what time it is?” Felicity studied Gertie over the rim of her teacup. The meal was nearly done, Tate polished off the last biscuit on his plate and she recognized the girl’s fidgety excitement on her seat.

“Is it present time?” She lost the battle and bobbed off her chair. The question furrowed her dear brow and pleaded like a wish in her eyes. Such an adorable child. Felicity felt as if she’d always loved her.

“I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait a moment longer. Let’s go fetch your gifts.” She set down her cup with a clink, rising to her feet. Aware of Tate’s steady gaze, she dropped the napkin onto the table and followed Gertie’s dancing steps from the lighted room.

The farthest door opened into a small bedroom. Inky hints of a headboard and a window were all she could see before her right shoe bumped against her trunk. Surely there had to be a lamp here somewhere. She heard Tate’s boots approach, illumination spilled into the room bobbing closer as he did and her surroundings came to life. A bed against one wall, a shabby chest of drawers against another and a pair of muslin curtains, that was all. Not even an extra lamp.

“I put your gift right on top.” Felicity knelt beside her trunk, where Gertie already waited, squirming with anticipation, and worked the latch on the lid. “I started making it as soon as I read your first letter. That’s how much I liked you.”

Anticipation beat, making her hand tremble and her pulse thumped, heavy and syrupy in her veins as she opened the lid. Tate leaned in with the lamp and set it on the chest of drawers behind her. His nearness shrank the room and made skittles on her skin, like a summer breeze blowing.

“Felicity, is that really for me?” The girl gasped, unbelieving.

She opened her mouth but no answer came. She had lost every word she knew. Was it because of the solemn man towering over her? He was enormous from this vantage, sculpted muscle and powerful masculinity, a mountain of a man made of granite. His face was a mask of rock but his gaze softened when he looked into the trunk. His eyes turned glassy, as if overcome with emotion.

“Is she really mine?” Gertie repeated, as if certain she was dreaming. As if the gift could not be real.

“She’s yours. I didn’t name her. I thought you could do that. Go ahead and hold her.”

“Oh. She’s beautiful.” Golden ringlets bounced as the girl bent down to gather the cloth doll into her arms like a mother holding a new baby. She simply stared into the doll’s face, taking in the embroidered rosebud mouth and blue button eyes.

“I wanted her to look like you.” She couldn’t resist brushing back a wayward ringlet, as soft as the finest silk. Love for this precious girl deepened. “I didn’t know if you already had a doll.”

Gertie shook her head, curls bobbing, and the silence became sorrow. The same emotion etched into Tate’s stony features. When his gaze captured hers, his stoniness eased. He nodded once, his appreciation clear.

She wasn’t aware of removing another gift from the trunk or rising to face the man. The force in his eyes held her captive, impossible to look away. The hook in her heart deepened, its grip on her secure. Why did it feel as if she were falling? She stood perfectly straight, her balance was just fine. Yet the room tilted until the only steady thing was Tate’s midnight gaze holding her in place.

“This is for you.” Her hands felt disconnected from the rest of her as she held out the woolen bundle. When his eyes broke from hers to study the gift she offered him, she felt oddly bereft, alone and full of loss. As if without the binding connection of his gaze, she was no longer the same, no longer whole. The room stopped whirling. The ground steadied beneath her feet. Uncertainty wound through her as Tate’s rocky mask returned. So remote, she could not read his reaction.

Did he not like the scarf? She’d knitted it during the empty hours after supper and before bed, needles clacking, wondering about the man she was making it for. “I guessed at the color. I didn’t know what you liked.”

“It will do.” His baritone grated, rough and hard as if he were angry but that wasn’t the emotion creasing his face. The show of feeling was brief before it vanished. “I appreciate it.”

“I hoped the blue would match your eyes.” She felt inadequate standing before him and she didn’t know why. Perhaps she’d secretly wished the gift of a scarf would break the ice between them, take them from being strangers to something more friendly.

“I have nothing to give to you.” Apology cracked the crevice of stone. Another clue to the mystery of the man.

“Nothing?” Couldn’t he see what he’d done? “You bought me a train ticket. You brought me here. I will have a whole new life and a family because of you.”

“You aren’t disappointed?” He folded the scarf, concentrating on the task, ill at ease. “This can’t be what you expected.”

“No.” Her loving gaze fell on Gertie, still kneeling on the floor. “It’s a great deal more than I’d hoped.”

“You are, too.” The words made him feel way too vulnerable and he knew he was heading for trouble. There could be no tie between him and the woman. Just a convenient arrangement for the child’s sake. But he wanted Felicity to know she was wanted here. For what she’d already done for Gertie, she’d earned his devotion. Likely as not, her opinion of him would change over time when she heard the rumors about him and learned they were largely true.

But for now he let her smile wash through him, as rare as a Christmas star. He knew God looking down from His heaven had not forgotten Gertie. Tate was grateful. The child tipped her face up to beam at her new mother.

“Thank you so, so much.” Eyes brimming, the girl hugged the doll tight. “I will love her forever.”

He took his leave, swallowed hard against the painful lump lodged in his throat and headed for the chair by the fire. He had work waiting, something to keep his mind busy and his thoughts on the practical. He was no dreamer. Life had taught him the hard way dreams were for the foolish. Once he’d been a fool dreaming of happiness, seeing the best in folks, even where it could not possibly exist. He paid a high price for that lesson he must never forget.

Not even a beautiful woman and her gift of a rag doll with yarn hair and a pink calico dress could make him believe. How could she have known about the doll? He stared at the scarf clutched in one hand, the yarn soft and warm. Voices lifted and fell cheerfully as the females discussed one dress after another while unpacking that heavy trunk. He didn’t have to look to know Gertie still clutched her doll in both arms good and tight, as if it were the grandest treasure in all the world.

He wrapped the length of wool around his neck. Soft, it smelled faintly of roses, the way Felicity did. His chest tangled into a thousand knots as he shrugged into his coat and closed his ears to the sound of the woman’s gentle laughter. But it was too late. The trill of happiness echoed inside him, in the places so empty not even his soul could live there.

He opened the door and took refuge in the dark, in the cold that froze the feeling from his face and fingers, and in the night that cloaked him. Like a ghost, he trudged across the road, surrounded by darkly gleaming snow and a faint echo of her laughter that clung inside him and refused to let go.


Chapter Five

Would Tate come back? Felicity held the plate up to catch the lamplight, gave it a final swipe with the soapy cloth and, satisfied, swirled it around in the rinse basin. It clinked lightly to a rest on top of the others. Alone in the main room, she glanced toward the door. He wasn’t a talkative fellow, so perhaps he’d gone across the street for the night and she would need to bank the fires. Surely he would be returning for breakfast in the morning?

She turned to scoop the potato pot into the wash basin. Water splashed and sloshed as she scrubbed at the mealy residue left along the sides of the pan. Gertie slept with Merry, her doll, tucked in both arms. How sweet it had been to listen to the child’s prayers, to straighten her blankets and kiss her forehead. The coziness lingered even in the silence and the echo of her every step on the floorboards. This day had gone much better than expected in some ways. She thought of Eleanor and wondered if her husband-to-be had ever shown up to meet her. She prayed Eleanor had fared at least as well.

The front door ripped open, startling her. The pot slipped from her fingers and splatted into the water. Soap bubbles burst into flight, iridescent in the lamplight.

“Thought I’d come help out now that my work is done. I still had some deliveries to make.” He closed the door with one shoulder, moving stiffly. Snow dusted his wide shoulders. Cold clung to him and he brought the chill inside as he shrugged off his coat. “That scarf came in handy.”

“I’m glad.” At least she had made one small difference for him. She gave the pan another good swipe. “It’s gotten a lot colder out there. Is the room above the store warm?”

“Warm enough.” He lumbered into the light, the dark shadows accentuating the creases on his face time and hardship had worn into him. “It was a thoughtful thing you did for Gertie in making her that doll.”

“My pleasure.” A strange shivery feeling swept through her as he sidled closer. Her husband-to-be. He leaned his cane against the table and stole a folded dish towel from the nearby stack. She wanted to like this man. No—she wanted to love him. Caring flickered hopefully in her heart as she studied his granite profile. Such a hard man with such a gentle love for his daughter.

“I had so much fun making each stitch just right and trying to figure out what Gertie would like.” She let him take the pan from her and dunk it into the rinse water. “My ma made a doll for the three of us, me and my sisters.”

“What happened to them? Why aren’t you with them?” Water dripped from the pan as he wrapped it in a towel and began to dry.

“My youngest sister was adopted right away. It tore me apart to watch her go.” She squeezed her eyes shut briefly against the crushing pain, grief still strong after seventeen years. “A kindly looking couple took her, so I have hopes that she was treasured. Faith and I were together until I was eleven.”

“When you were hired out?”

“Yes. When I came back she was gone. Hired out and never returned. We didn’t know what became of her.” She gave the pot lid a good scour. “As far as I could find out, another family eventually took her for home care. The same thing happened to me later that year. I wound up working on a pig farm to earn my keep.”

“You didn’t learn all you could about pigs to become a farmer later?”

Was that the tiniest glimmer of humor warming the chill from his rumbling words? Did Tate Winters have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere? Pleased, she slid the lid into the rinse water and reached for the final pan. “Surprisingly, no. That was one smelly opportunity I let pass me by.”

“I don’t blame you. I delivered feed to the Rutger place tonight.” He deftly dried the pot until it shone. “Pig farm.”

She chuckled but she laughed alone. Tate no longer seemed as formidable. “I didn’t expect help with the dishes.”

“I don’t mind. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.” What a relief. She plunged both hands into the hot water to scrub the roasting pan. Do you think you can love me? That’s what she wanted to ask. “There is so much we need to figure out together. The wedding for one.”

“I’ve spoken to the town reverend. He has time before the Christmas Eve service.”

“Gertie will be pleased.” She worked the dishcloth into the pan’s greasy corners. “In her letters she wanted us to get married by Christmas.”

“Yes, and as you can see there is not a lot of money to spare.” The muscle jumped in his jaw again. He held himself so rigid and tense she had to wonder what he expected her to say. To berate him? To think less of him because he was so poor? How could she think less of a man who loved his daughter so much?

“I have a dress to wear. My Sunday best should do.” She gave the pan a measuring look but he took it from her before she could determine if it met her cleanliness standards. His hands were capable and callused and a long thin scar disappeared into the cuff of his sleeve. His flannel shirt wanted mending, too, and she hung her head. How much hardship had the rail ticket caused him? “There should be no need for further expenses.”

“Gertie should have a new dress.” He swallowed hard, his impressive shoulders tense. “If you’re a seamstress, could I ask you to sew her one?”

“I saved up several lengths of fabric, hoping I might be able to sew for her, for my daughter.” He probably had no idea what those words meant to her. They warmed the lonely places in her soul, they made the losses of her parents, and then her sisters, fade. “How about you? I’m fairly skilled at men’s garments.”

“I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I have no need of fancy new duds or the money to afford them.” The muscle in his jaw jumped, strung tighter, and drew up cords of tendons in his neck. She could feel his raw pain like a wind gust to the lamp, dampening the light.

“Maybe sometime later, when things are better.” She wrung the extra water from her cloth and wiped the table. “I had hoped to keep my sewing skills polished. After I’m done sewing for Gertie, I could ask around in town. Maybe find some piece work at one of the local dress shops. I don’t want my needle to go rusty.”

“That’s good of you but not necessary. You take care of Gertie. That’s our bargain.” He could hardly breathe as he rinsed the roasting pan, the sloshing sound hiding the wheeze in his chest. Shame wrapped around him. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was in the lamplight. He did not deserve her. She did not deserve what folks would be saying about the woman who married him.

He set the pan down too hard. The clatter punctuated the harsh cast to his words, made harder by the fading light. The lamp needed more kerosene. “You don’t need to pay your way, Felicity.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Hope. He hadn’t been without it so long that he’d forgotten the sound of it. He hung his head, unable to look at her. A terrible feeling settled in his gut. He put the pan on the shelf, grateful for the break away from her. The lamplight writhed, struggling for life, casting eerie orange flickers along the wall. “I suppose I can’t call you Miss Sawyer for much longer.”

“No, as I will soon be Mrs. Winters. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve said that.” She circled the table in the lengthening shadows, swiping up every last crumb, a swirl of color and sweetness. “I like it. It makes me feel as if I belong here.”

She filled the house with a force that did not fade as the flame gave one last thrash and sputtered out. The last thing he saw clearly was the plea in her lovely eyes.

A plea. His guts twisted tight as he spun on his heel, plodding by memory to the lean-to entrance. He fumbled in the dark and not because he couldn’t find his way. Her plea stayed with him like a noose about his neck. Something he couldn’t outrun. Something that tightened around his throat cruelly.

The woman hadn’t come here expecting some romantic fairy tale, had she? He snatched the kerosene can off the shelf, his grip so tight on his cane his skin burned. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for. That wasn’t something he could do. He knew where love led. He was still picking up the shattered pieces of that illusion. Bitterness soured his mouth, tore through him like winter lightning and he stumbled back into the kitchen where the faint scent of roses, of her, softened the darkness.

“Gertie said you work tomorrow. Should I expect you home for lunch? What would you like for supper?”

Her kindness became cruel, but she couldn’t know that. She meant well. Her helpfulness and concern glanced off the glacier his soul had become. He wished he had some kindness to offer her in return. He removed the glass chimney with a clink as it landed on the table top and twisted open the can. He ignored the pungent smell as he tipped the can, listening to hear when the reservoir sounded full. What he heard was Felicity. The pattern of her step, the drops of water as she doused and wrung out the cloth, the steady nearly nonexistent rhythm of her breathing. Her plea remained, tighter around his neck.

He could not be what she wanted. He was sorry for it. Once he was a man of deep feeling. Prison had torn the feeling right out of him, leaving only the shell. He hated the emptiness inside as he watched her pour the soapy water into the rinse basin. She bent to the task, making a lovely picture. Gleaming, light blond hair, ivory skin, the graceful angle of her slender arm, the way her perfect top teeth worked into her bottom lip as she shook out the last few stubborn drops.

“I’m fortunate to have found you.” He had to be honest. It was the best thing he could do for her. He winced, hating to do it, wishing he had some gentleness inside to use to soften the blow. He took the heavy, water-filled basin, lifting it from the table so she wouldn’t have to. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “Not every woman is sensible enough to agree to marriage the way we have. A business arrangement. A living arrangement. A mutual agreement to make a child’s life better.”

He hardened himself for her reaction. As his words sank in, the brightness shining within her dimmed a notch. Hope faded, leaving a hollow smile and a tiny gasp of pain she could not hide.

“Nothing more.” He searched her, emphasizing those words, waiting for understanding to play across the perfect blue hue of her eyes. “It was what we agreed to before you came.”

It was better to be honest, rather than letting her hopes get too high. She had to see the man he was, the failure he’d become. She had to see he had nothing inside of him to give. That did not mean he would not work hard to provide the best life he could for her, for Gertie.

“I’d best get to bed. Work starts early in the morning.” The words felt torn from him.

“What time would you like breakfast?” Her strained voice struggled to disguise her disappointment.

He’d hurt her. He hated it but what else could he do? Let her hopes rise higher, only to fall further? He resisted the urge to reach out and brush a wayward curl from her cheek. Silly urge, wanting to bridge the distance between them. A distance that had to remain. That always had to be. He turned on his heel. “I start work at six.”

“Five-thirty, then?” She cleared her throat but layers of heartache remained as unmistakable as the shadows. Not even the growing strength of the lamp could chase it away. “I’ll have food on the table.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door, mountain-strong but no longer as remote. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a woman around, aside from Ingrid. I’ll do my best to be gentle.”

“We both have some adjusting to do. I’m not used to being around a man.” Her boardinghouse had been for women only. How did she explain suitors tended to bypass her just like those prospective parents in the orphanage yard, always choosing another? She hung up the wet dishcloth, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for you tonight?”

“No.” Surprise skimmed his face, then furrows of thought dug in. “Good night.”

The shadows claimed him as he opened the door. Cold curled in as if to snatch the man out into the dark. With a final thump the door closed, leaving her alone. The wind and snowfall masked the sound of his gait. The stove lid rattled as another gust broadsided the little house, making her pulse skip.

This wasn’t what she’d imagined. She gripped the lamp’s handle carefully and took it with her from table to couch. The rustle of her petticoats, the swish of her skirt, the pad of her shoes echoed around her. No, this was not what she’d expected when she’d made the decision to accept Tate’s briefly written proposal. Not at all what she’d risked dreaming of riding the train westward across the territory.

How could she have been so wrong? Agony twisted through her. With a sigh, she set the lamp next to the sofa and sat. She buried her face in her hands. She’d risked everything coming here hoping for love, a love that could not possibly be found.

A business arrangement. A living arrangement. Nothing more. Tate’s words came back to her now, replaying over and over again in her mind. The man she’d imagined didn’t exist. He didn’t want to care about her. He never would. Her precious hopes fell like glass and shattered all around her into tiny shards and bits of dust that glimmered mockingly in the light.

Her fault for wishing love might grow, anyway. Her heart swelled with pain as she straightened and took a steadying breath. She tugged her yarn basket closer, glad she’d thought to unpack it earlier, and took up her needles and a skein of red Christmas yarn. Gertie needed mittens.




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