by Jillian Hart
“Remember how we all met?” Lila squeezed in to hand over the steaming china cup of sweet tea.
“In first-grade Sunday school.” Earlee settled into a chair. “Remember? My ma had just left me there. I was the first little girl to arrive, and I was afraid to stay with Mrs. Hadly. Then Scarlet came marching up with her ma. You took one look at me and said—”
“—you are my friend,” Scarlet finished, laughing. She settled on the cushion beside Fiona with a flourish. “I have always been forthright. It appalls Ma to this day. Anyway, the next kid to come along was Narcissa Bell. I didn’t like the way she wrinkled her nose at me and said my dress was, what did she say?”
“‘Common calico,’” Lila supplied as she lifted the china teapot and began refilling everyone’s cups. “As I love calico and was wearing the new rosebud-sprigged dress my mother had lovingly made for me, I took great offense.”
“And I told Narcissa she was not my friend.”
“You were an excellent judge of character, even at six years of age.” Meredith stole a sugar cube from the service and handed the bowl to Fiona. “I can see you all arriving in your cute little dresses and Scarlet telling each one of you that you were her friend.”
“It was the first time I was with children my own age.” Fiona remembered how terrified she had been when Ma had left her at the bottom of the basement steps. “I couldn’t make my feet move. I felt everyone looking at me. So when Scarlet strode forward and took my hand, I thought she was wonderful, that you were all so amazing for wanting me.”
“Same thing with me,” Earlee confessed. “Who would have thought that first Sunday-school class what, twelve years ago, would be the start of lifelong friendships?”
“One of God’s great blessings,” Kate agreed, and swiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Which is why I am not going back to Boston.” Meredith’s confession raised shocked comments from them all. “I have been utterly miserable there, and I haven’t known what to do about it or how to make Mama understand. But listening to you all has made me realize something. I have never been happier since the day I walked into Sunday school almost five years ago and you all invited me to sit with you.”
“Narcissa Bell and her group wanted you, too.” Fiona sipped the steaming tea, but that wasn’t what warmed her. Her friends and their memories together did. “Remember? You were a vision in that gown of yours. I’ve never seen anything prettier.”
“Not even Narcissa had anything so nice,” Earlee added. “What I remember was how you held your sisters’ hands, like you were all close. And how Mrs. Hadly split you up by age. I could tell you and your sisters didn’t like it, and that’s how I knew you would fit in just fine with us, although we weren’t so fancy.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Scarlet added.
“It’s going to be fun to have you back in school,” Kate said thoughtfully as she picked up her sewing. “But it comes at the same time we are losing Fiona.”
“Maybe you can still come to our sewing circle?” Lila asked as she threaded her needle.
“I wish I could.” She slid her cup and saucer onto the edge of the table and reached for her bag. She unfolded her work and settled it on her lap.
“That’s beautiful.” Earlee leaned forward to examine the fabric. “Is that something you’re working on for Miss Sims?”
“No, it’s a Christmas present. For Ian.” She smoothed the lapel lovingly. The seam was sitting well, and she couldn’t help being pleased with her work. “He will be bringing out his herd of mares soon, and I want him to have a warm riding coat. Something suited to the stature I’m sure his ranch will soon be.”
“His ranch?” Scarlet’s embroidery needle stilled. “Does this mean you will be marrying him for real?”
“And soon?” Meredith looked up from pinning a quilt block seam.
“No. Ian does not love me, so he shouldn’t be forced to marry me. And you all know how I feel about marriage. I’m not going to be tethered down.” She didn’t believe in love, right? She was the girl who had never started sewing treasures for a hope chest. The last thing she would ever trust in was a man’s love for her.
And if a tiny voice deep within her wanted to argue, she silenced it entirely.
“But you are in love with him.” Earlee, ever the romantic, put down her crocheting.
“I don’t intend to let any man own or dominate me, not even Ian.” She ran her fingertips over the coat, remembering how Miss Sims had helped her with the pattern and had even cut it for her. How she had spent her evenings pinning the pieces, basting them and stitching each seam with care. She had fitted the collar and sleeves, imagining him astride one of his beautiful mares or training a young colt in the corral.
In truth, the reason she loved Ian was simple: he was not the kind of man to dominate a woman. But this was a celebration, and not a place for her disappointments, so she kept silent about them. “When are we going to exchange gifts? I am so excited for you all to see what I made for you.”
“Oh, me, too!” Scarlet twisted around to tug a bag off the floor. “As is our tradition, I made something for each of our hope chests. Even Fiona’s, although she refuses to have a real hope chest.”
“That’s okay, Fee. We will keep hoping for you when you are out of faith.” Earlee put five equal-size gifts wrapped in newsprint in the center of the table.
“We will keep praying for you when you stop praying for yourself.” Lila rescued five identical gifts wrapped in lovely wrapping paper and put them beside Earlee’s.
“We want you to be happy,” Kate added, gathering her gifts from her sewing basket.
“Even if you can’t keep coming to our sewing circle, we will keep a place open for you. Just like we did for Meredith.” Scarlet added five more gaily wrapped presents to the growing pile.
“We will be here for you, Fee.” Meredith crossed the room to fetch her bag full of gifts. “Always and forever.”
Fiona looked from one dear face to the other—her family, in all the ways that mattered. There were those pesky feelings again, making her far too vulnerable and trying to blur her vision. Touched by the amazing wealth of friendship, she saw for the first time the incredible richness of her life.
Ian knew the moment the sun set. The storm changed, the air turned reverent and the snowflakes floated through the air solemnly. Flannigan, warm in his stall, snorted, as if he could scent night’s approach. Duchess cast an anxious gaze down the aisle, for this place was not home to her.
“We won’t be here for much longer, so rest easy,” he told his mare and gave the pitchfork a final turn. He had rented a two-room house north of town, closer to his job. A place Nana might like, and the owner did not mind if he improved on the fencing. A better place for his future than this broken-down farm of neglect and sadness. The cow patiently chewed at the fresh hay in her feeder. He patted her flank with his gloved hand, to slide behind her and out of the stall. “I’ll be back to milk you, sweet girl.”
The cow blinked her liquid-brown eyes in agreement, content with her dinner.
The cat, however, was not so pleased. He yowled underfoot.
“I’ve not forgotten you, you mop.” Affectionate, he knelt to give the feline a fine scrub around the ears. The rusty, ardent purr was reward enough. “I’ll get to the milking next.”
He felt Fiona’s presence before he heard her—the tug as if a door opened within him, the sweetness of first love, the brightness of hope stirring. The day was no longer ordinary. At the pad of her footsteps, he looked up to see her approaching the open barn door. Snowflakes danced around her as if glad to be with her. The twilight was perfect because she walked through it.
Flannigan nickered, perhaps in love with her, too. Not ashamed to show it, the gelding leaned hard until the wood gate dug into his flesh and stretched his long neck as far as he could go, craning to get a view of her. Riley, with a mouthful of hay, followed suit, and the cow gave a hopeful moo. Even D
uchess in her corner stall offered a welcoming nicker and the cat raced the length of the barn as if eager for the privilege of curling around her ankles.
“Good evening to you, handsome boy. I’m glad to see you, too.” She knelt, her hood shading her face, elegant in her thick woolen wraps.
Ian, eager to see the first glimpse of her face, knew he was standing in the aisle like one of the posts, still and staring, but did he care? No, not one bit. He would cherish all he could of this time left with her.
“McPherson. What are you doing here?” She straightened and although he could not see her face, he felt the sting of her glare. “I thought you would be at work.”
“What? You are afraid I am like your father, unable to hold a job?” Tender, he saw what she thought of him; he could not help teasing her. “No. The mill closed at noon. It is Christmas Eve, after all.”
“I didn’t know you would be here.” Her arms were full, and a bag hung from her shoulder, thick and heavy. “I just came in from town.”
“Were you with your friends, like last week? At Lila’s, is that her name?”
“Yes.” She pulled back her hood, icy crystals tumbling from the fabric to rain down at her feet. Flecked with snow, she looked like a storybook princess, too beautiful to be real and too good to want to be with a man like him.
That didn’t stop him from hoping.
“We had our own Christmas celebration. I got a lot of beautiful things for the hope chest I don’t have.” The lantern light found her, bathing her with its luminous glow. She tripped forward to lay her bundle and bag on the grain-barrel lid. “My tatted doilies and matching snowflake ornaments were very well received. Why don’t I finish the chores? You have had a hard week, Ian.”
“One I am grateful for. I have a good-paying job.” He winced at the signs of exhaustion on her face—the shadows smudging the porcelain skin beneath her eyes, and the strain etched into her forehead. He shoved his hand in his pocket to resist the urge to try to smooth them away. All he wanted was to draw her into his arms and shelter her, hold her until she understood everything was going to be all right. “I will finish the barn work, lass. But first, there’s something I want to give you.”
“You mean, like a gift?”
“It is Christmas Eve.” A dapper man would know what to say to win her heart. A smart man would know the right way to let her go. But as he was neither dapper nor smart, he pulled the train ticket from his coat pocket. “This is for you. Merry Christmas.”
“I don’t understand.” She took the first-class permit, staring at it as if she didn’t know how to read. “You want me to go and fetch your grandmother?”
“No, pretty girl.” He cradled her chin in his palm, unable to hold back the tidal force of his affection. “This is to take you anywhere you want. I am not going to make you marry me. You are free to go.”
“But the farm. Your grandmother paid my da—”
“That she did.” He prayed she would never know how hard this was for him, all that he had given up for her. “Your father and I have come to final terms this afternoon and there will be no marriage. You need never worry about being forced to live your mother’s life. You and Flannigan are free.”
“Flannigan?” Her lower lip trembled; he rubbed the pad of his thumb along her plump bottom lip.
“He is yours. I paid your father for him.”
“But your wages were to go for your mares.” Instead of the joy he expected, her sorrow deepened, and the shadows swallowed her, as if she had lost the last bit of hope.
“What is wrong?” Her sadness splintered him into pieces. “You promised to take him with you. I heard you tell him so the day he tried to run away.”
“But what about you, Ian?”
“My dreams have changed.” If he had thought her beauty great before, it was nothing to her comeliness as the lantern light flared. He knew how that light felt, unable to let go, unable to keep her. “Some things in life are not to be, no matter how much you want them. If I can’t have what I wish, then you will have your happiness.”
He could not help it, he was a besotted man and he wanted her to feel—not just to know—how he cared for her. He leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his. Sweeter than Christmas candy, that kiss, and he savored it—savored her—before he moved away. The memory of it was the last he would have of her.
It took all his strength to withdraw his fingers from her chin, to step back and hitch up his dignity. No sense letting the girl know how foolish in love he was with her. “Go follow your dream, Fiona.”
Chapter Nineteen
“What about your grandmother’s money?” She could not think straight. The gentle bliss of Ian’s kiss had muddled her mind, and she could not gather it enough to make sense of what he was saying. She only knew that her father would not let her go out of any sense of Christmas spirit. “I can’t allow her to be swindled on my behalf. She was my grandmother’s best friend, I know the value of that bond. I do not want to dishonor their friendship. She has paid for the property. Did my father sign over the deed to you?”
“No, he did not.” The steely mask that Ian kept in place slid away, just a second’s weakness, and she saw the truth and felt it settle in her soul. The bond between them remained, stronger than ever, and she caught his hand with hers, his so much larger and capable of accomplishing so much. She thought of the horses he had been destined to train, champions yet to be proven, and his gentle horseman’s nature. He had sacrificed much for that future. She hated that it would be delayed again.
“There might be another farm? You have a good job. Is that what you are hoping for?”
“No. That road is no longer meant for me.” His fingers twined through hers, locking them together, and that felt like destiny, too. “I sent a draft to Nana to reimburse her for the money. The original offer was for you, not the land. Do you remember?”
“But you wanted the land.”
“No. I want you.”
To have her dream, she finished for him. To take the ticket and leave town, she told her impossibly rising hopes. Not because he loved her. He did not mean he wanted her and he loved her and he felt an endless, abiding devotion, too. Her lips tingled, proof of his kiss—goodbye? Was that why he had kissed her? As a farewell gesture?
Of course, it had to be. She stared at the ticket in her hand. She was the one holding on to him. She was the one with lead feet, unable to move. Wasn’t she the one who had fallen? And yet his grip tightened, his fingers clutching hers. As if he did not want to let go.
Hope lifted on wings within her. All the things he had done for her, all that he had said came back to her anew.
“Where did you get the money?”
“I sold my mares, all but Duchess.” His throat worked, and his granite mask was back in place. Only the tic of tension in his set jaw revealed the cost of that decision.
“You sold your thoroughbreds? No. I don’t believe it.” She couldn’t make her brain accept it. “You couldn’t have. They mean everything to you.”
“Not everything.” Tender, those words, and layered with something more, something deeper. “I did it for you, Fiona.”
“For me?” A terrible cracking rent through her, the last of her denial, the last of her old, useless beliefs she had been clinging to. That there were no noble men, that no man would love her, that she did not believe in love. Those notions shattered like glass, their shards landing on the dirt at her feet, useless and impossible to pick up. Falsehoods she could no longer believe in.
“Midweek I sent a telegram to my friend, the one keeping what was left of my herd.” No sorrow rang in the deep notes of his voice. Only peace. “Jack was happy to buy them.”
What did she believe in? Ian. She believed in his noble heart, in his compassionate spirit and in the love polishing him in the lantern’s coppery light.
“You have to get them back.” She tore her hand from his, whirling away. “This isn’t right, what you’ve done.”
“What isn’t right about it? It is the best thing for you.”
“But what about you?” She had been prepared to care for her parents, find a job in town to help support them and do her share of the work forever, if it meant Ian could have his land. Was it too late to give him what he wanted most? What he deserved? “If you take Flannigan right now and hurry to town, you can make it before the depot closes. You can send a wire and get your mares back.”
“Dear, sweet Fiona.” He came to her, both comfort and might. No sorrow shadowed his gaze, for there was a greater emotion, one pure enough that nothing could mask it. “Do not be so upset for me. I am glad to do this. I have been able to pay the last of my grandparents’ debts. My burden is lighter.”
“But I could see them here, those beautiful horses like Duchess grazing in these perfect green fields, their coats of every color gleaming in the sunshine. And you—” Her breath hitched, betraying her sorrow for him. He might not be sad, but she was. “You were supposed to train them and prosper. I know you will be successful. I see you, Ian, all of you, your goodness and your gentleness. Horses love you. Look at Flannigan. He behaved terribly most of the time. He was afraid of men, all save my brother, and you came along and turned him into a kitten. Look at him. He adores you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
For a moment it did not seem as if he were speaking of the horse. More hope rushed in, making her long for the impossible—a lifetime loving him.
“So you can go with good conscience now, lass. I will be well. My grandmother will be able to buy back her family jewelry. And you can have that little house somewhere with flowers all around it.”
“I cannot go,” she confessed. “I spent all but five dollars of my savings.”
“On what?”
“Your Christmas gift.” She broke away from him, the silence of the barn echoing like a great stillness. The animals had quieted, watching intently. Mally, sitting on a stall rail, did not blink. Not even his tail moved as she opened her bag to withdraw the finished garment. “It’s the warmest fabric I could find. A riding coat, for working with your horses.”