by Jillian Hart
No sooner had they settled into the warmth of the room than Maggie had the baby in her arms and James was standing above her, close to the stove’s roaring fire.
“Here, you hold her while I get her a fresh diaper.”
“What? Me? I don’t think—”
Maggie plopped the infant into his arms. “You carried her against your chest for six hours in a snowstorm. You certainly know how to handle her.”
“But those were different circumstances. It was a matter of life and death and I had no choice—”
“She likely grew accustomed to your touch, just like the commander said.”
“Yes, yes,” cooed the sisters, smiling brightly.
Maggie beamed at him. “There, see how Holly settles into your arms? She remembers you.”
To James, it was clearly a ruse by the women to get a man to hold a baby. Why did women love doing that?
But maybe more to the point, why would he object?
He slid onto the sofa and propped Holly on his lap. She weighed almost nothing, and that made him smile. Looking down into her plump round face, he felt the same sense of awe he had when he’d found her, deserted by the fire. A feeling of the power of mankind, the goodness of spirit, the abiding love of humanity that attached one man, a stranger to an even stranger child, to fight together for mutual survival. With Maggie’s decorated Christmas tree looming to the baby’s right and the scent of pine needles filling the air, James could almost feel a spirit of Christmas invading his heart.
“Remember our trip across the snow?” He twirled his finger above the baby’s fist. She reached out and clamped onto it, her blue eyes deepening in the flickering light of an overhead lantern.
Maggie’s sisters laughed. Their children came around to his side, some sliding beside him on the sofa.
Maybe Maggie was right. James did like people and children; he just never knew how to be around them or how to be himself. Well, he’d been himself the entire six hours he’d fought for Holly. Holding her again relaxed him. She couldn’t speak, so there was no need to think of something to say, and to James, that was the biggest burden lifted.
When he looked up, Tamara and Anna were staring at him from the other sofa, sighing in contentment.
He turned back to Holly and rolled his eyes good-naturedly, as if the baby might understand. “Ah, women.”
Nine-year-old Rebecca kneeled beside him on the cushion. For a young girl, she was gifted with her hands. He could see that by the cross-stitching she had been working on that she now put to the side. “Aunt Maggie lets me change her diapers. Mama let me do it once this afternoon.”
“Good for you. It’s an important skill to have.”
“Do you know how?”
“I had to change Holly’s twice during our trip. I didn’t have the proper cloth, so I tore up two of my cotton undershirts and used them.” James recalled his childhood and laughter sprung to his voice. “Once when I was your age, I was stuck in the house alone with my youngest brother, so I had a go at his diapers. It was either change his diaper or listen to him bawl forever.”
“Did you do a good job?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What’s his name?”
“William. And I’ve got two other brothers. Stewart and Daniel.”
They were still smiling and talking when he noticed Maggie standing in the doorway, listening. She sprang forward with the clean diapers and a bottle of heated milk.
Maggie lifted the baby from his arms and placed her on a cushioned chair close enough to the fire to keep her warm but turned away enough to provide privacy for the diaper change.
Questions began pouring out of the sisters, with Maggie eager to answer.
“…and James found some dog hairs at the scene…sleigh tracks in the forest…” Maggie told the story as she bottle-fed the youngster.
James sat back and enjoyed the space, the chatter and watching Rebecca cross-stitch a scene depicting three small mice decorating a Christmas tree. The stitching was done on a child’s scale, not very intricate, but Rebecca could easily manage.
“…and so James and the commander arranged for two scouting teams to deliver the news to the lumber camp and mines,” Maggie finished, and looked to him for agreement.
The crackling firelight illuminated the soft shape of her eyebrows, the rich detail of her lips. He could watch the golden light dance across her features for hours.
Her younger sister rose. “So you might have word by the twenty-third or -fourth?”
“It’s possible.”
“That’s wonderful. We’ll pray for good news.” Tamara stood up and urged Rebecca to her feet. “Let’s go, children. Time to make supper for your father.”
Cliff soon arrived and within ten minutes, the families were gone, leaving James, Maggie and the baby alone.
James wondered what was on her mind. He added two more logs to the fire while she slid the sleeping baby into her cradle. When Maggie turned around, she seemed withdrawn. He thought for certain she was about to tell him goodbye, so he prepared to get his coat.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked instead, sending a stream of unanticipated delight rolling through him.
Chapter Eight
Lord, the man filled the room wherever he went. Half an hour later while the baby slept in her cradle in the sitting area of the front room, Maggie stood nervously beside James in the tight kitchen. She rinsed two steaks in a bowl of water to thaw them while he peeled potatoes. His shoulders knocked the cupboards twice, and he’d just hit his head on the swinging lantern above him.
“Here, I’m sorry—let me move that for you.” Maggie slid a wooden chair beneath the lantern, jumping up to move it out of his way, but James reached up first with a long arm and adjusted the chain.
“It’s fine, don’t worry.”
He turned his head toward her. Already standing on the chair with her arm raised, she was taller than James, but what unsettled her was that he took her arm to help her down.
She couldn’t deny her response to his touch forever. Her wrist heated beneath his grip, her breathing came with difficulty as his head brushed her hairline, and she felt the blood well up to her forehead even as she stared at the floor to place her step.
Sooner or later, she had to face him without the baby or a platter in her hands. She had to tell him how his kiss affected her and whether they stood a chance together. But what should she say?
She fought to compose herself, but was somehow feeling very feminine, very out of sorts with her body and much too warm standing an inch away from James.
“Well, we’ll get started with dinner, then,” was all that came out.
He hummed an agreement and stepped back to peel his final potato.
Maggie had planned on reheating a bowl of soup for herself, but a strapping man like James couldn’t survive on chicken broth. With his black sleeves rolled up past his elbows, she became acutely aware of his muscular forearms. They were lightly matted with fine, sable hairs.
James broke the tension. “I never picture you like this.”
“Cooking? Why, I cook all day it seems, trying out new recipes for my customers.” She reached for the platter of steaks. “You sprinkle one side with salt and paprika, and the other side with peppercorns—”
“No, I mean…like this…alone.”
Totally befuddled, she stared at him. Alone. Yes, she was most certainly alone.
“I always thought you hated solitude. I always picture you surrounded by your sisters, in the midst of kids and customers.”
“You picture me?”
“Mmm, hmm.”
“When do you picture me?”
He seemed embarrassed by his disclosure, for he hesitated for a second, then turned back to his potato. “Just last night as I was staring at the ceiling, trying to get you out of my mind.”
Oh! Now, why had he put that image into her brain? A half-clothed Mountie with a lean, muscled leg splayed out from benea
th wrinkled bedsheets.
Feeling unsteady, she spun to the stove and dropped the steaks into the frying pan. Crackling oil seared the meat, just as the image of James, potentially naked, seared her silly head.
“Careful,” he urged.
Beyond his view she rolled her eyes, vexed with herself for the confusion in her heart and the uncertainty of knowing what to say.
“Everyone leaves by five,” she said softly. “They always do.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not as much as I used to,” she said, surprised by her own answer. “When Sheldon passed away, the silence at nighttime was the worst to bear. But now…I miss the silence, especially if I’ve had a busy day and there’ve been tons of people around me for hours. I do love the children, but the adults are tiring. I’ve got things to do and it’s peaceful if—” She cut short at his quizzical look. “Do I sound terribly self-absorbed?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I know exactly how you feel.”
Of course he did. This was the earth’s leading soloist.
But maybe they had more in common than she’d thought. She was much more independent than she used to be as Sheldon’s wife. When he was here on earth, they’d enjoyed doing practically everything together—whether it was tending to chores, visiting friends, or setting up the store. She had fond memories of her earlier life, but she enjoyed her new life, too.
She felt a trifle guilty for thinking it.
The baby’s cry pulled her into the other room. Maggie changed another diaper, settled Holly into another sleep, then finally sat down at the kitchen table across from James.
Over dinner, they discussed news about town, her new spice shipment and the outdoor activities scheduled for Christmas Eve. They talked about everything except personal affairs.
But as the evening unwound and Maggie carried the dirty dinner plates to the washing bin, James came up from behind.
“How long are we going to continue avoiding the discussion about how we feel?”
Still behind her, James cupped his hands on her shoulders. She swore she could feel the outline of each finger as his hot grip penetrated the shimmering linen fabric of her blouse and then seeped into her flesh. She prayed he couldn’t feel her trembling.
He spun her around to face him, looming above her, his eyes demanding some response, his breath quickening in time with her own.
Backing up, she bumped into the counter. Its thick pine slab dug into her behind.
James took the opportunity to take another step forward, his thighs grazing hers. He planted one hand firmly on one side of her, and then the other.
With her neck craned, she struggled for words. “I do believe you’ve trapped me.”
He grunted softly in response, his stormy gaze sweeping over her face. She felt the burn of her own blood as it crept into her cheeks.
James kissed her then, and she wanted him to.
Her arms went up around his neck, his came around to cinch her waist, then slid to her lower back. Possessively, he yanked her closer.
She’d never shared a better kiss. His mouth was sweet and warm and loving, and she ached for him to kiss lower, down her throat, her arms, her breasts.
She’d forgotten how blissful it felt to be encased in strength, to be united as a couple, as nature intended.
With a rougher manner, James uttered husky sounds and swept one hand across her blouse, trailing his fingers over the swell of her breast. Mumbling in pleasure, she allowed herself to feel his need, his urge to push further.
But when he slid his hand to her front buttons, she found herself pressing her small hand over his fingers, indicating he should stop.
She broke free of his mouth. “Don’t, James—it’s not right.”
Panting, he pressed his forehead against hers. “We can make it right. You’ll see how good we can be together—”
“I’ve no doubt it would feel better with you than I can ever imagine, but I’m unmarried and I don’t do that sort of thing with anyone.”
Her heart thumped wildly at his nearness, but he was gracious enough to give her a moment to recover. She turned around to the counter and tucked in her blouse. Physically, they responded to each other in the most passionate sense, but sentimentally, and in conversation, they were lacking. Maybe there was something she could do about it, letting him linger here tonight with hopes of getting him to talk.
“I feel like I don’t know much about you, personally.”
“Ask me whatever you’d like.”
To keep her hands busy, she began to wash the dishes. After a moment of watching her and tucking in his own shirt, he lifted the tea towel and helped her dry.
“Why is it, James, that you never speak about your brothers?”
“That’s what you’d like to know? Of all the things you could ask, you’d like to know about my brothers?”
“Not so much about them, but why you avoid talking about them. This evening with Rebecca was the first time I’ve ever heard you mention their names. Did they treat you badly when you were young?”
“No, they treated me well.”
“Then it must have been your folks who were unkind.”
“It was my father.”
“What did he do?”
For the next ten minutes, James explained about his childhood, how difficult it was to make ends meet, how many hours his father put into working the mines, how James himself had tried his hand at the age of thirteen. Listening quietly as she scrubbed pots, she could picture him as a sensitive child.
“They must have been very proud of you for volunteering.”
James scoffed. “Not exactly.”
“But you added food to the table and you were only thirteen.”
“It didn’t work out the way I’d hoped. I got extremely ill and didn’t recover for almost a year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Then they must have been devastated at how badly you’d suffered.”
He snorted. “Not exactly. My father was angry.”
“At you?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I cost him twice as much on medicine than I did before I’d volunteered.”
“And that’s why you don’t speak to him now?”
“It’s not so much that we don’t speak, it’s that we don’t feel the need to interfere in each other’s lives.”
“Huh,” she uttered in disbelief. “You’re covering up.”
His jaw tensed. Turning away to stack a plate, he spoke with a chill in his tone. “You’ve no right to give your opinion on people you’ve never met.”
“I’ve met you,” she said, hoping to keep their conversation going. “And some of your traits are explained by the situation with your folks, but what I don’t understand is why you won’t forgive your father.”
“What are you talking about? He did nothing but yell and curse at us. He and my mother don’t even live in the same house anymore.”
“I’m sorry about that, but their marital problems aren’t your fault.”
“I didn’t say they were.”
“What is your fault is your situation with your father.”
James winced. “You don’t know—”
“You won’t let him apologize. You feel superior by allowing this chasm to separate you.”
With a look of disbelief, James backed away from her.
She continued, unable to stop herself, and wanting to help James through his obvious pain. “He’s older than you and you should respect your elders. They’re closer to leaving this earth, and they’ve got a right to clear the air before they die. You’ve got to give him a chance to apologize to you, now that you’re an adult.”
“He’d never apologize. Not in the next five decades.” James looked at her with a harshness she’d never seen before, as if asking, What do you know?
“I know how people behave around money,” she said sadly, thinking of her own life.
“Not everyone wants your money, Maggi
e. Don’t blame me for things I’ve never done to you.”
She ignored the comment because the conversation wasn’t about her, it was about him.
“Have you ever considered, James, that your father wasn’t angry with you for getting sick, but with himself for allowing it to happen? Maybe his pride couldn’t take the fact that he had to allow his thirteen-year-old son to descend into mine shafts with him every morning, when you should have been at school or playing in the sunshine with the other boys. Maybe your father couldn’t stand himself for allowing his misery, his inability to make ends meet and provide for his family, to nearly take the life of his eldest son.”
“Have you ever considered, Maggie, that it’s none of your business, and that you should worry about your own problems with money?”
Her enthusiasm drained, replaced by a kick of anger. “What do you mean by that?”
“You think every man who steps through your door is here to steal your last dollar. How selfish do you think that is?”
Slapping the towel on the counter, James stalked out of the room. She heard him unlatch the back door, then burst out of her home.
Chapter Nine
The next three days were spent in misery.
“Some things should never be spoken aloud between two people,” Maggie whispered to herself as she reviewed what she’d said to James.
It was December twenty-third. Late-afternoon sunshine streamed past the storefront curtains while she scooped fragrant coffee beans for customers and listened to the children practicing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
She still agreed with what she’d said to James about his lack of forgiveness toward his father, but disagreed with what he’d said to her about her distrust of men.
However, as the days wore on, with James dropping in to the store to check on the baby and barely mumbling hello to her, she realized how deeply her harsh words had hurt him. And that maybe what he’d said about her held a morsel of truth. With some embarrassment, she wondered if she was really that transparent about her finances. Or simply transparent to James?
It wasn’t her place to point out his shortcomings. It was just that sometimes it was so much easier to see the problems in other people’s lives rather than your own.