Mail-Order Christmas Brides. Jillian Hart

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СКАЧАТЬ “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 СКАЧАТЬ