by Jillian Hart
“We’ll be coming back, baby girl.”
“Okay.”
How one simple word could hold so much joy Mac didn’t know. It only made the sharp edges of the pain within him cut deeper like a serrated blade that chewed instead of sliced cleanly.
Carrie knelt, deftly plucking the girl’s muffler around her neck. “How about you, me and baby Molly go take a look around town?”
“No.” Her small fingers turned white as she gripped her dolly. “I don’t wanna go anymore.”
“I know, but we have to.” Carrie cradled her little girl’s chin in her palm, and the love that shone in her eyes made it clear. She knew exactly how rich she was, how blessed.
Alone, Mac stood, forcing away the ghosts of the past. The ones that reminded him in silence and emptiness of all he had lost.
At least she knows how lucky she is, he thought as he watched her brush a kiss to her child’s forehead. “Come, I think I have change enough for a cookie.”
“A cookie?”
“We’ll find the town bakery and when we do, you get to pick any cookie you want. Okay?” She brushed her little one’s bangs out of her eyes, and there was no missing the love and sorrow and lost wishes all rolled up together and leaving him changed inside.
Maybe he could do something about that sorrow. About those lost wishes. He stayed, when he wanted to turn on his heel and retreat to the safety of the outside world, where the frigid winds could chill this ebb of emotion.
He lifted the coat from Carrie’s arm and held it for her. Felt the warm lap of feeling within him grow like a water spring at the bottom of a newly dug well, rising in a slow steady flood.
She smelled like roses and cinnamon and wood smoke from tending the fire, and something else, something wonderful and rare he hadn’t sensed in what felt like a lifetime: home. His throat cinched up tight, leaving him silent. The garment he held by the collar tugged and moved as she slipped into it.
She was so close, he could see the burnished red highlights in her hair. Smell the silk of her skin. See the fast beat of her pulse in her neck beating as fast as—and in time with—his.
Chapter Five
This is like something out of a storybook. Carrie felt breathless and not from the shocking cold as she stepped out of the white fury of the blizzard and onto the covered boardwalk. Here the wind did not seem so brutal and the brightly lit windows of the shops marching along the walkway cast a welcome, fairy-tale glow.
“Mama! Look!” Ebea pointed with her little pink-mittened hand at the mercantile’s display.
The windows glittered with lamplight, casting a golden pool over the porcelain snowy village on display, with a toy train winding through it. Inside the store, shoppers were plainly visible hurrying about with full baskets, checking their lists.
As they passed other shops—the candy maker, the general store, a hatmaker—they found the windows just as festive. All were decorated in pine garlands and strings of cranberries. The dress shop had a small Christmas tree lit with tiny taper candles and bright, cleverly made ornaments for sale.
“Pretty,” Ebea breathed, transfixed. She’d been too exhausted last night to notice the McKaslins’ decorated fir tucked in the dark corner of the parlor, and she’d never before seen a real Christmas tree.
There was no mistaking the sheriff’s inquisitive gaze. He had so much—he probably had lost sight of what was truly important in this holiday season. And in life.
The shop’s door glided open and a handsome woman in the most lovely dark green wool coat emerged, holding a decorated basket. The seamstress took one look at Ebea. “Oh, what a pretty little girl. I haven’t seen you two before. Are you relatives of the sheriff’s?”
Carrie was at a loss. How could she explain? “No, I—”
“They’re visitors,” the sheriff interrupted easily. “They’ll be staying with my mother for a few days.”
“For Christmas.” Brightening, the store owner smiled, meeting Carrie’s gaze directly. “I’m giving out hair ribbons to all the little girls who stop by today. Would your daughter like one?”
“Oh!” Ebea’s gasp of delight was answer enough.
The seamstress knelt with her basket so that the child could easily look at all the pretty handmade bows and decorated ribbons. “Go ahead and pick whichever one you like.”
It was the loveliest assortment Carrie had ever seen. “Ma’am, you had to have spent hours making those.”
“I work on them throughout the year when I have quiet time here at the shop. I’m Candace.”
For an instant it was as if they could be friends. They were not so far apart in age, Carrie realized. It had been a long time since she’d had a real friend or the time to spend with one.
But maybe, thanks to the sheriff, she would one day. A person never knew what good was in store for them around the next bend.
If she could figure out a way to reach the Northwest, then who knew what good things could come her way? “What do you say, Ebea?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. You’d better get a matching one for your baby. What’s her name?”
“Molly. My grammy’s named Molly, too. ’Cept she died.”
“I’m very sorry for that. Molly is a lovely baby. You have a merry Christmas, all of you.” With a genuine smile, Candace slipped back into the warmth of the store.
The sheriff cleared his throat, and he sounded gruff as he gestured down the snowy boardwalk. “My folks’ shop is this way.”
With Ebea’s hand safely within hers, Carrie followed Mac past storefronts where tenacious shoppers braved the storm and busy store clerks waved or called out wishes for a merry Christmas in such a friendly way, it was clear the sheriff was well thought of. Some places were real communities, where folks knew one another by name.
Mac pulled open a frosted-glass door. The sign hanging overhead said in pretty blue lettering: McKaslin Bakery. A musical bell chimed cheerfully overhead as Carrie stepped out of the storm and into wonder.
What a beautiful place. Welcoming lamplight shone on polished oak floors and counters and little tables, which were set up by the wide windows and the red-hot potbellied stove. Such inviting places to sit and relax and, she imagined, watch people go by when a blizzard was not blowing. And the scents of baking chocolate, warm yeasty doughnuts and baking cinnamon rolls made her mouth water.
“Oh, good, you came!” A pleasant-looking woman cornered around the counter. Her silver hair was puffed up in a soft chignon. A crisp apron covered the red dress she wore, emphasizing her matronly curves. She moved with confidence and energy and cheer.
Mac’s mother. Carrie didn’t need an introduction. Mrs. McKaslin had the same gray eyes, but hers sparkled like sunlight on the clearest lake. She adored the woman immediately. “Mrs. McKaslin, it’s especially good to meet you, I can’t thank you enough—”
“Goodness!” she interrupted, waving her hand away. “I didn’t do all that much. It was my boy here who brought you.”
Her boy was a big strapping man, but Mrs. McKaslin didn’t seem to notice that, even as she went up on tiptoe to give him an exuberant motherly hug. The top of her head came only to the center of his chest, so she had to tip her head back to see him as she released him. “I can’t begin to tell you, my boy, how happy this makes me.”
Carrie wasn’t sure what the woman was referring to, but happiness seemed to radiate from her, the quiet, contented kind, and it grew. The affection between mother and son was unmistakable, and it heartened her to see it. Now she understood why Mac had helped her last night and this morning. Family was important to him, too.
“Call me Selma, and you’re Carrie? And who is this?”
Ebea studied the grandmotherly woman with somber eyes. “Elizabeth Beatrice. Are you Mrs. Santa Claus?”
“Goodness me, dear, I wish I were. Because surely Mr. Claus wouldn’t be such a procrastinator as my dear Fred is. Tell me, Elizabeth Beatrice, do you like cookies?”
“Mama said we had money enough for any one I want!” Delighted, Ebea squeezed her doll to her chest. “Can I pick now?”
Out of the mouths of babes. Mac watched Carrie’s face turn from pink to red, and she was lovely when she was blushing.
“You can pick now, baby.” She knelt to loosen the secure ties of the girl’s hood.
Mac couldn’t help watching the way Carrie’s hands moved. They were long and slender, her fingers tapered and looked made for playing a piano instead of the hard work that had reddened and roughened them.
Still, her touch was obviously gentle as she loosed her child’s wraps, kissed her on the cheek and said, “Go along up to the display, but don’t touch the glass.”
“’Kay. Do you think there are gingerbread men here, too?”
“Possibly. Go see.” Carrie straightened, her fingers lingering on her daughter’s cheek, a normal, affectionate gesture of a mother to her child.
So, why did he feel as if he’d been struck in the chest with a .45-caliber bullet?
His ma seemed extraordinarily pleased as she held out her hand to the child. “Come, sweetheart, I’ll show you where they are. Carrie, I’m sorry I’m so busy. Heavens, are those more customers, too? Please, help yourself to a cup of coffee and find a place to sit. Unless you want a cookie?”
Carrie shook her head, her hand tightening on the small cloth reticule she carried, as if thinking of the little money she had inside. Mac knew that his mother had meant a free cookie, and it was interesting that Carrie hadn’t seemed to make that assumption.
Mac concentrated on taking a clean tin cup from the shelf and pouring two cups of coffee. It was as if the bullet in his chest remained, creeping deeper as Carrie swished up to him, her skirts rustling around her slim ankles. He could see glimpses of her dark stockings as her skirt swayed. Not that he ought to be noticing something that personal.
“Here.” He knew he was gruff; it was the best he could do. He didn’t want to explain, his past was private, but he couldn’t go around letting her affect him like this. If only he could stop the tingle of awareness in his chest as he handed her the cup and their fingers brushed.
Skin to skin. He felt her warmth; he was near enough he couldn’t miss the warm rose scent of her. Then the contact went from comfortable to scalding. His hand jerked back as if he’d touched a scorching flame. What was that? He couldn’t explain the kick of his pulse and the jittery feeling as if he’d had two pots of coffee. Needing to get away from her, he poured a second cup for himself, not that he needed it. No, he just had to get away.
But did she? No. She remained at his side. Her sleeve brushed his as she reached for the sugar canister, and his body betrayed him like a randy, undisciplined youth. Blood thrummed in his veins, and he wrestled down thoughts he had no right having. He wanted her in the worst way, just like that, and this couldn’t go on as if he were a man with a heart. A woman’s love was something he could never have again. Not that his body agreed.
Add that to the look Ma kept sneaking in Carrie’s direction and he was in big trouble. The absolute worst kind. If he wasn’t careful, his mother was going to start trying to matchmake, when she knew the way things had to be. And why. She knew the darkness was more unbearable this time of year, for Amelia had died on Christmas Eve.
What I need to do is to help Carrie to get on her way. It seemed the only choice. She had plans that would take her far from there. She simply needed a little mercy—and help—to do it. He was in a position to give her both.
“Goodness, I should have known you would have gone for the pink one!” Ma’s voice chimed like a silver bell above the hubbub of the customers chatting with each other and Pa, who’d come from the back to help out.
Carrie, who was only a few steps away, swept to the counter, untying her reticule. Her little girl was holding an enormous gingerbread lady in one hand in a square of waxed paper, gazing at the cookie as if it were the most incredible thing she’d seen yet. Even better than the Christmas tree in Candace Day’s display window.
Mac turned his back before his mother could shoot him another hopeful look or his father joined in with the same hopes. The coffee was hot and fresh and he slurped it down without sugar. The scalding heat on his lips and tongue helped him to forget the woman standing behind him.
But not well enough. He could hear the gentle tone of her alto words. “No, Selma, I’m sorry. I can’t accept more of your generous hospitality. How much do I owe you?”
The bell jangled behind him as more customers stumbled through the door, drowning out his ma’s response, although he already knew what she was saying. Good luck to Carrie in trying to get his mother to accept her three pennies in payment.
“Howdy there, Sheriff.” Jed swept off his cap. “Sure is blizzarding out there. If it gets much worse, folks’ll be in a bit of trouble tryin’ to get home.”
“Everyone I’ve come across today lives right in town. Besides, that’s what I’m here for.”
“That ain’t the little lady from last night, is it?” He squinted in what looked like disapproval. “I thought she was supposed to be locked up.”
“Tell me what’s a reasonable fare from Minot to, say, Seattle.” Mac took another scalding gulp from his cup, his eyes tearing at the burn. What he was thinking was lunacy. But what else in blazes was he to do?
“Uh, well, a good hundred and fifty, two hundred. Depends on the class of car you want.”
“That’s a lot of money.” Mac set down his coffee, watching Carrie as she took her daughter by the hand and led her through the gathering crowd at the counter. Her chin was up, her shoulders tensed, and she marched with a quick, angry pace that told him she’d failed to convince Ma to let her pay.
His groin thrummed—yep, he was in big trouble. “Two hundred. That’s for passenger fare. She sat in a boxcar with no seat and no heater. Could you figure that into things?”
“You asked for fare to Seattle.”
“Just figure out what she owes the railroad for getting here. And then get me an amount for the rest on a passenger train.”
“I’ll do my best. See ya ’round, Mac.”
It was more than lunacy. He’d lost his damn mind. And for a woman he didn’t know, would never see again and didn’t want to. Not that he could see her with the crowd backing up. The bell above the door jangled again, announcing more business. Where was Carrie? Well, he’d best find her and figure out what to do with her for the rest of his workday. His folks were busy here, and—
“Uh, can I help you?”
Why her soft alto rose above the noise from the kitchen and the din of customers talking amongst themselves he couldn’t say. He only knew he heard her as if she’d spoken right beside him. He pivoted toward the front and there she was. Behind the counter.
That can’t be right. His eyes were playing tricks on him. Ma didn’t let just anyone back there. Hell, how many times had she banished him? More than he could count. But his eyes weren’t deceiving him. She was behind the counter with an extra apron of his mother’s tied around her slender waist. She was smiling as she listened to the request of the next customer in line.
Well, I’ll be. The noose she’d left tied around his heart gave a long sweet yank. That was worse than the desire strumming in his veins. Yeah, he needed to help her on her way the instant the trains were running.
It wouldn’t be soon enough.
Carrie watched the sheriff shoulder out the door, keeping his back firmly turned toward her. Or so it seemed that way. He powered through the billowing snow in the doorway like a man with a fierce amount of determination. Just like that, he was leaving. Without saying goodbye.
Remembering how he’d jerked his hand from hers over the coffee cup, it all made sense. Maybe he thought a young widow down on her luck might be looking to catch herself a husband. He was probably used to women wishing on him. Now he thought she was one of them.
Not that she had time to worry about it. Even more people h
ad crowded into the shop with last-minute orders for Christmas treats. She’d concentrate on helping Selma, that’s what she would do, and keep her mind off Mac McKaslin.
Except it wasn’t her mind that was troubled. It was her heart. It felt as if she were lost in the blizzard and didn’t know which way was home.
After being alone for over a year, since she’d buried her mother, she’d never quite felt this lonely. Not that she had time to think about why she felt this way after the precise moment Mac had left. She tried to focus her attention on the customer she’d offered to help.
“I’d like a dozen iced cinnamon rolls, the large size,” demanded a severe-looking woman on the other side of the counter. “And a Black Forest cake, decorated like last time. Fred will know what I mean—”
Fred being Mac’s father, Carrie guessed as she spied an extra tablet on the counter and grabbed one of the lead pencils lying beside it. She wrote as fast as she could, although the woman kept right on talking.
“I’ll need this by tomorrow, no later than noon. I have family coming in, if this dreadful storm blows out. Are you the new hired girl?”
“You could say that.”
“Then you’ll need my name, and make sure to give this order to Fred personally. I’m Mrs. Brickman.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Brickman.”
“Don’t you lose that order, now, or I’ll have your job.”
Perhaps Mrs. Brickman had been a schoolteacher for a long length of time, because she had that intimidating, no-nonsense stare. “I promise, ma’am.”
The instant Mrs. Brickman stepped aside, another customer took her place. “I believe I’m next. Goodness, you’re busy. My little Annie would like one of your gingerbread ladies, please.”
Carrie had to stand on tiptoe to see far enough over the counter, but there was an angel-blond little girl, hugging her rag doll in the crook of her arm. “Oh, of course. Do you want the lady with the pink dress or the yellow?”
“Yellow.” Annie clasped her little hands together.
Carrie knew how important cookies were, so she chose the nicest one from the tray in the display case. While she handed over the treat carefully wrapped in waxed paper, the mother gave a start of surprise. “Why, is that your little one?”