by Jillian Hart
And of light.
She came back to herself slowly, and it was like drifting on a summer cloud. Complete.
Mac had drifted off, his head pillowed on her breasts. His dark hair tumbled everywhere and was black against her skin. The moon had kindly managed to ebb around a crack in the curtains, giving her enough illumination to see his face. To memorize the hard shape of his mouth. The cut of his chin. The slope of his nose.
She’d never known what a dear thing it was to hold a man she loved so entirely like this as he slept naked upon her. She didn’t want to move or wake him. She wanted the night to go on without end.
But that was impossible, and she had responsibilities. It was one thing to leave her daughter sleeping in a house she knew was safe and with reliable grandparent-types just down the hall. It was another to spend the night away making love to a man who was not her husband. She could not stay much longer.
But how can I leave? Her heart wrenched even as she thought about slipping out from beneath him and leaving for good. Forever.
Not yet, she thought, clinging to him. A few more minutes and then I’ll go. Then I’ll leave him.
She learned by heart the feel and curves of his shoulders. She let her fingertips memorize the muscled plane of his back. He stirred in his sleep, rubbing his face against the inside curve of her breast, and love exploded ever more, ever brightly within her. How was she going to let him go?
She had to. It was only sensible. He wasn’t hers to keep. But that didn’t make it easier as she took one last moment to savor the privilege of being with him. She breathed in the winter-night scent of him, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, and moved carefully out from beneath him, cradling his head. Laying him down in the soft pile of wool and sheepskin.
As the night deepened and the hint of moonlight moved away from the gap in the curtains, she tugged on her clothes. He slept so deeply, he did not dream or stir, so she left her coat on the floor beneath him and took a lighter winter jacket of his that hung on the pegs by the door.
Quietly she added wood to the stove to keep him warm while he slept the rest of the night through and pulled the quilt off the top of his bed. Covering Mac was the last loving thing she could do for him. She tucked him in, ignoring the twisting of her soul.
Time to go. Every piece of her yearned to stay with him forever. To keep this night from ending. I love this man so. She felt the strength of it fill her and give her the courage she needed to open the door. She took one last look of him asleep and at peace.
Then she walked into the night, alone.
The brush of a kiss woke him. He didn’t bolt awake; he didn’t feel suffocated by a nightmare he couldn’t end and couldn’t forgive. When he opened his eyes, he saw the hint of a shadow and thought he heard a woman saying goodbye.
But the door was already closed. The first graying of dawn crept through the curtains to diminish the shadows in the house. The fire was nearly burned out. There were no woman’s clothes on the floor where he’d tossed them in his rush. No sign of Carrie or her footsteps hurrying away.
He stood, naked, ignoring the cooling air in the kitchen, and pulled back the drapes. There was no one. Nothing. A faint dusting of new snow fell, and the steps and walkway from his house to the lane looked unbroken by tracks. Whenever Carrie had left, it had been a long while, and yet her love remained.
Chapter Nine
In the early hours before a winter dawn, Carrie tried to keep her mind on her work in the bakery’s kitchen. It wasn’t easy. She might have walked away from Mac, but her heart had not. Love that should have been easily extinguished was not. It burned more brightly within her as the minutes turned to hours. A love that Mac did not want. A love he could not give back to her.
Concentrate on your work, Carrie. Rousting herself, she first checked to make sure Ebea was still sound asleep and then went back to spreading festive red frosting across the almond-butter snowmen, adding color to row after row of red Santa caps. She worked until the cookies laid out across the entire table were red decked.
Selma bustled by, reversed and peered over Carrie’s shoulder. “Oh, you’ve got a talent for this.”
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but luckily I’ve been able to hide them with more frosting.”
“Not even I can tell it. We ought to hire you on.” Selma hurried along and disappeared out of sight around the partition to where her husband worked at the ovens. Soon, the low murmur of their conversation filled the kitchen as pleasantly as the scent of the baking cinnamon rolls.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to work here? Carrie traded the red frosting for a bowl of green and settled it into the crook of her arm. Wouldn’t this be a fun job to have? A person would spend all day decorating cookies, taking orders, talking to customers and enduring the kindness of the McKaslins. Yep, it would be a hard row to hoe, but she would love to have the opportunity.
Except for Mac, she would stay and accept Selma’s offer of a job. But he didn’t want her to stay. As sad as that was, he had been very clear. He had nothing lasting to offer her.
If she stayed, there could only be disaster. She loved him; that could not be helped. Love wasn’t something logical or practical or governed by choice. But a woman’s behavior was. While she’d made love to a man she wasn’t married to, and even if it had been the most thrilling joy she’d known, it was not something she would repeat. She had her dignity and her reputation and her daughter to think of. And her future would be based on what was best for Ebea.
Surely she could find something like this in Seattle? There were bakeries there. And diners and hotel restaurants and even logging-camp cooking opportunities. She need not scrub floors and other people’s bed linens for a living.
She dipped the spreading knife into the frosting and began to ice the snowmen’s jackets. The work was pleasing, and the almond scent of the frosting made her stomach growl. She worked fast because she wanted to get these dozens of cookies finished before she had to leave. The work crews had gone out in the night, she’d heard from Fred, who’d gone to the depot to ask. They were expected back by midmorning.
The train would soon follow, and she and Ebea would be on it.
Selma returned. “Lovely. I couldn’t have done the job better myself. You know, if you stayed on, you could get to know Mac better.”
Carrie felt the older woman’s probing gaze. There was no way she could know what had happened last night, was there? No, surely it didn’t show. Although remembering the wonderful experience of lying naked beneath the man made her face burn. “Stay on? I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I think it is. He’s so alone, you know.” Selma shifted the bowl of sugar icing she carried to her other arm so she could lean in close. “He was a Range Rider, you know. He lost his wife six years ago. She was seven months pregnant when she was shot by a fugitive who wanted revenge on him.”
No. The knife fell from her fingers. Mac had been married? No wonder he was so wounded inside. “A loss like that could destroy a person.”
“It nearly did.” Selma patted Carrie’s wrist. “But you have put a spark into his eyes that hasn’t been there in some time. It’s like he’s coming alive again. Do you know what that means to his mother?”
Carrie’s gaze slid to the corner where her little girl slept bundled warmly on a cushion. “I can imagine how much you want Mac to find happiness again.”
“That’s right. And you, my dear, ought to stay right here. It’s not good for a woman to be alone in this world, and with a little one to raise. If you stay here, you’ll have us. We’ll help you look after her. You can work right here. We’ll fix up the upstairs rooms so you’ll have your own place.”
“What would Mac say about your generous offer?”
“He’ll come around. And in the meantime, it’ll be good for you to stay. Good for Ebea.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could accept. There’s nothing I would like more than to be here. But—” Carrie’s mind wa
s spinning. No wonder he couldn’t get close again. She hurt for him. She grieved for him. She loved him enough to give him what he needed. “I’ll remember you always, Selma.”
“Oh, we needn’t lose touch. We can write. Surely you will want to let me know how your Ebea is doing. I’m awful fond of her. Only my daughter has made me a grandma. My sons are too busy, off chasing their dreams, to settle down. Maybe I could be an honorary grandma to your Ebea. If you would let me.”
“I couldn’t think of anyone better.” Her heart melted as Selma brushed a kiss on her cheek.
No, she would never forget these people. She would always be grateful to the forces of nature and of fate that had brought her here for a brief time.
Mac eased the shop’s glass door shut behind him, careful not to ring the bell. The jingle would bring his mother, and she was busy enough on this Christmas Eve morning with so many orders to prepare. Besides, he wasn’t quite ready to see Carrie. Or to tell her the news. So he was careful to keep his boots from making much noise as he hung her coat on the hooks by the door.
And then he saw her. She was like the first light of morning after a bitter December storm. When the nights are the longest and darkest of the year and the dawn sky is all the more crisp and clear. When dawn comes like magic over the frozen land and the world is utterly still.
That’s how she makes me feel, he thought as he unbuttoned his coat and watched as she worked at decorating. She brought to him the still, refreshed peace of a winter’s dawn.
Wanting a better view of her, he angled toward the potbellied stove and began peeling off his mittens and muffler and cap. Yep, he could see her better from this vantage, over the end of the counter, through the doorway and into the kitchen where she worked at a table with dozens of cookies spread out before her.
He could not deny he cared for her. He could not deny he thought her beautiful. Her thick, chestnut hair was back in a braid and wrapped in a coronet around her head, and her thick bangs curled across her forehead and framed the wide brilliance of her eyes.
Yes, he could look at her for the rest of his days and only want to gaze upon her more. This morning, her face was soft and relaxed; the circles beneath her eyes were gone. She looked happy with her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and she cradled a big mixing bowl in the crook of her arm.
Why his gaze remained on the bowl had nothing to do with the red-tinted frosting she was scooping out with a spreading knife. No. The rim of the bowl was pressed against the round curve of her breast. Longing thundered through him. Images of last night, of loving her, caressing her and being joined with her hit him like a punch. Tenderness for her thrummed through him hard and sweet. I want her again.
The toll of his father’s gait hammered from the back of the kitchen, and Pa’s bellowing baritone carried easily through the shop, although he remained out of sight. “I got more boxes folded up for you, my lovely wife. Will you let me grab one of those buns?”
“Oh, you! Keep your hands to yourself.”
“You can’t blame me. Yours are the sweetest buns I’ve ever seen.”
“Stop! You may have one of the iced ones if you will be decent!” Her laughter came like lark song and there was a smacking sound, and Mac could easily picture Ma playfully swatting his pa.
He was surprised how he could feel their happiness wrapping around him. It came warm and comforting, instead of something too intense that made him want to head for the door. Strange how he no longer felt hollow or empty, and he knew just who was responsible.
He felt bright. And the brightness within him intensified until it was pain the closer he came to her. She was absorbed in her work, and the furrow in her forehead and the way she bit her bottom lip in concentration only made him ache all the more. He couldn’t keep staring at her like this. Ma would be coming in from the ovens any minute and she would know with one look what had happened last night. And how he felt about Carrie.
But the truth was, even if he was again painfully alive, he had no heart to give.
He cleared his throat and hoped he would sound as he always did. The sheriff at work, in control, as hard as stone and not a man falling in love. “I see my folks are keepin’ you busy.”
She did not startle. There was no hitch in her movements. She’d known he was approaching all along. Did she, he wondered, feel this connection, too?
“I knew exactly how many orders your parents had to have ready today, since I helped take them. I thought that it was the least I could do to help out until the train comes.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“The crews are in?”
“They sent a telegraph to Jed. I happened to be over checking on their progress.”
Had he been over there checking to see how soon I could leave? Carrie set the bowl down with careful diligence. Her hand was shaking. Her entire being was unsteady. He didn’t want her.
You knew that last night before you stayed, Carrie. She couldn’t deny it. He’d been honest with her all along. And with what Selma had told her about his wife’s death, it was understandable. Sometimes a heart broke too deeply.
She loved him; it was that simple. She could not help it. She could not will her heart to stop feeling and to stop filling with longing for this man. The most loving thing she could do was to give him what he needed. And unless he showed any sign of needing her to stay, then she would be on that train.
It was hard to believe that the man filling the door frame as easily as he filled her senses would one day be only a fond memory.
Since the icing was finished, she turned to the final touches on the cookies. The tiny black candies made perfect cheerful eyes, and she added them to the blank snowman faces. “How long before the train arrives?”
“You have a half hour or so.”
There was nothing in his tone to give her a clue. He sounded relieved that she was going.
“Good,” she said brightly. Falsely. “I’ll have time to finish these cookies.”
“Fine then.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and his gaze strayed to the front door. “I’ll…uh…carry over your bag for you. I’ll stop by the house in about fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“I have my satchel here, and anyway, I can carry my own bag.” She held her heart still. It was the hardest thing yet she’d had to do. But she was no weak woman, and if she cried at losing him, then it would be in private. “As much as I care about you, Ebea and I are not your responsibility.”
He reeled back as if she’d struck him. For a moment it seemed as if he was hurt. As if he truly cared for her. For an instant, hope flamed to life within her soul. Does he want me? Is it possible last night has changed his heart?
Then his face turned to stone, his stance to steel, and she had his answer. She watched him pivot on his heel and walk away.
Every knell of his step rang through her like a funeral bell. The door whispered open and closed with a swift bang. He was gone. And since she would be leaving in thirty minutes’ time, she would never see him again.
She could hear the sound of her heart breaking, piece by tiny piece.
“Goodness, is Mac gone already?” Selma appeared from the back of the kitchen, her cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat and an armful of packed boxes to go on the racks. “He came with news of the train, didn’t he? Oh, of course he did. I just can’t stand you leaving us. Can’t you stay, at least until after Christmas?”
“I would love to, but I have to take this train.”
“Alone is no way to spend Christmas Eve. I’ll worry for you dreadfully.”
“No, please don’t worry. Ebea and I are on our way to a better future because of you and your family. We will be just fine. Have a merry Christmas, Selma.”
Tears filled the older woman’s eyes. “You too, sweetie.”
It was Christmas Eve. She gathered up a wish in her heart, one for staying here with these people and for having Mac’s love. But she made no wish after all.
She and E
bea would spend Christmas Eve on the train instead of in the McKaslins’ parlor with the lovely tree and even lovelier people. They would light all those beautiful candles come dusk, and she could only imagine how each crystal ornament would twinkle like a star of wonder on this sacred night when miracles were possible.
But she’d already been given a gift of grace. Ebea lay still sleeping, wrapped warmly in the corner. A child was not a gift to take lightly, and so there could be no more wishful thinking. Not when she had so much.
Not even a frigid walk through town, with the windchill slicing through to his bones, could rub out Carrie’s words from his mind. As much as I care about you, we are not your responsibility. Maybe because it was an insult, and because he was a man who took responsibility seriously.
Or maybe her words stung his conscience because she hadn’t said them cruelly. He could still see the lift of her chin and the quiet dignity that seemed to hold her up as she’d spoken.
Her words reminded him that she’d been taking care of herself and her daughter alone for a long time. And he’d come along and helped her with the railroad and with finding shelter. He’d behaved as a friend to her and, last night, as a lover. When in truth he had no heart to give her. He’d been honest about that, but he’d made love with her all the same.
It hadn’t been enough. He needed her still. Not with a selfish physical lust that was easily slaked, but with all the emptiness within him that had hurt for so long. When he’d made love to her, joining his body with hers, he’d felt joy like dawn come to an endless night. Like calm come after an endless storm. Like color to a life of gray and shadow.
The town was busy, yet the tone of the train’s whistle blasted like the wrong note above the clatter from the busy road. From his vantage just north of downtown, he could see the black locomotives gleaming in the bright morning sun, the pair of stacks billowing coal smoke like thick black snakes undulating across the cold blue sky.