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

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СКАЧАТЬ “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.”

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