by Jillian Hart
“I have your meal ready to go.” Her step tapped toward him, a blue skirt swirled to a stop, and he had to look at her. Slender, soft hands held out a bundle wrapped in a dishtowel. His breakfast. He looked into her caring eyes, which were eager to please and his throat closed up. “I appreciate it.”
“Here’s a cup of coffee, although it’s going to cool off fast in that cold.” She spun around, moving like a waltz the few steps from door to table. Steam curled from the ironware cup she handed him along with a small pail. “And your lunch.”
“My stomach will thank you come noon.” Something jammed up tight in his chest. Probably another muscle spasm. He didn’t know how to thank her well enough, so he smiled. “Maybe having a wife won’t be such a bad thing, after all.”
A smile blossomed across her face, glorious like the first rays of a new dawn rising. “I’ll likely be a trial to you, but you were the one who advertised for a mail-order bride.”
“So you’re saying I get what I deserve?”
“Yes, and you will just have to accept the consequences.” Little sparkles of gold flashed in her irises. “I shall try not to vex you too much.”
“Too late for that,” he quipped, meaning just the opposite and he suspected she knew that. Uncomfortable with the lightness, he turned away. At least the pinch of pain had vanished from the sweet curve of her rosebud mouth. Some of his guilt eased. Life had been hard for so long, he’d forgotten how kindness felt. He searched for it now in the empty places where his heart used to be and could not find it. Gruffly he turned, words tangling in his throat. Work waited, and he had one more person depending on him.
“Have a good day.” Her words sailed behind him, undaunted by wind or snow, toasty in spite of the sub-zero temperature. Her brightness blinded him. It was too much to endure. He could not answer as his cane slipped on a patch of ice; he jerked to the right to keep his balance and pain slammed through his left side. The lunch pail crashed into the snow. He recoiled, wobbling on his feet, looking like a fool.
No, like a cripple. He hardened his defenses, making them unbreakable as he heard her skirts rustle behind him. The aftershock of pain lashed through him but he gritted his molars together and bent toward the pail. Slender fingers wrapped around the metal handle before he could. Felicity smelling of roses and butter plucked his lunch from the icy accumulation.
Humiliation gripped him, but it was nothing compared to his pride. He set his shoulders, unable to meet her gaze as he accepted the handle she offered him. Coat thrown on, unbuttoned, nothing on her hands or head. She would catch her death in this weather.
“Button up.” He meant the words to be soft but they boomed out of him, sharp enough to cut glass. He wanted her to get back inside where she would be warm and snug, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out.
“I’ll see you at supper time.” Her fingers found his arm and squeezed gently, a silent communication of understanding. Was it possible she could sense what he meant? That she could hear what he hadn’t been able to say?
He nodded, his throat entirely closed, unable to do more than limp away. Why didn’t she mind the cane and the physical disability that made him less of a man? Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her goodbye wave, a dainty flutter of her finely sculpted fingers.
She really ought to get inside, he worried, troubled at his concern for her, touched by her kindness to him. No, it wasn’t his heart thawing. Nothing could do that. As if in confirmation, the wind gusted, the snowfall thickened and all he could see was her faint outline against the glow falling through the doorway. That image stayed with him all day long.
* * *
“What is your pa going to think?” Felicity climbed off the chair and dragged it away from the sitting-area window. Her back ached slightly from all the heavy lifting and her muscles burned pleasantly from the day of work.
“He’s gonna love it.” Gertie clasped her hands together, pure sweetness. “It’s the prettiest home ever.”
“I’m glad you think so and I agree.” She couldn’t help reaching out to the child and brushing blond bangs from dazzling eyes. “It’s the only real home I’ve had in a long time.”
“Because your ma and pa died.” Gertie nodded with sympathy, her forehead furrowing with thought. “I remember that from your letters. Do you know what?”
“What?” She gave one twin braid a loving tug.
“It’s mine, too. There was a boardinghouse and before that a room above the tannery.” Gertie heaved out a painful sigh, as if lost in tough memories. “After that Aunt Ingrid found me, and I lived with her over the feed store. That’s where Pa’s staying now. I was real glad she came for me.”
“I’m glad, too.” The poor child. She dropped to her knees, Gertie’s misery palpable. Would it be better to change the subject? Why hadn’t she been with Tate? “I’m glad you’re right here with your pa and with me.”
“Me, too.” Gertie rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t like the orphanage. Not at all. Did you like it there?”
“No.” Shock twisted her in half until she crumpled inside. Gertie had been a ward of the territory? She thought of Tate’s cane and disability, the one he fought hard to hide. Had he been unable to take care of her? How had he been injured? Questions itched on her tongue longing to be asked but she held them back.
Poor Gertie. She pulled the child to her, breathed in her little-girl scent sweet like Christmas cookies and honey soap, and gave thanks that God had brought her back together with her family, with her father.
Lord, I know why You brought me here. She raised the thought in prayer. Never would she have guessed that her past and Gertie’s were similar.
“When I was a little girl and wanted cheering up, my ma would make chipped beef on toast. I don’t know if you would like it—”
“Oh, it’s one of my favorites.” Gertie sniffled, straightened her shoulders and her throat worked, as if struggling to put her sadness behind her.
“Then it’s settled. I’m fixing you a special supper. Here’s hoping your pa likes it, too.” Grief for the child snuck inside her, stubbornly refusing to let go. Vowing to be all that Gertie needed, she brushed away a single tear from those satin cheeks. “Is Merry still napping? Or does she want to watch me make supper, too?”
“I’ll go get her.” Gertie slipped away, the past trailing her like smoke. The hardship that had touched this family was worse than she’d realized. And poor Tate, separated from his daughter. He had to have been torn apart.
Sunset squeezed the daylight from the sky, drawing shadows into the cheerful room. Felicity lit the lamp and turned up the wick so that the golden glow shone on the calico tablecloth and shimmered on the curtains at the window. Satisfaction filled her as she studied her handiwork. The colorful braid rugs brought out the sheen of the wood floor. The wicker basket and quilted wall hanging she’d pieced cheered up the space between the windows. She’d spun dreams stitching the things for the home she would have one day.
That day was here. She felt heaven’s touch like a comforting weight on her shoulders. A girl’s dreams might not turn out the way she’d envisioned, but she had nearly everything she’d wished for. A little girl who shared her heart, who was a kindred soul. A home to fill with love. A place and people who needed her. This is what she had longed for. This was her answered prayer. Just one thing was missing.
The door swung open to reveal a snow-covered man in a shabby black coat. Tate. He had to be terribly cold out in the weather all day. She plucked the cozy off the teapot and checked it. Yes, still hot.
What if he was wrong and love could grow between them?
“Come in,” she called. “Warm up. I’ll bring you something to drink.”
Had he heard her? She couldn’t tell. His hat brim shaded his face, hiding his reaction as he surveyed the far side of the room. Was he regretting having a woman in charge of his house? Or perhaps he didn’t have heart enough to care. He merely shrugged, dusted off
the snow, hung up his things and limped heavily to the sofa. Brutal cold chased the warmth from the air, the storm outside was worsening.
“Thank you.” He kept his head down, ignoring her as she slid the steaming sweetened tea onto the scarred end table. Strain carved into his square jaw. Perhaps the bitter cold pained his bad leg. She suspected he would not admit it if she asked.
“You’re not here to wait on me.” He glared up at her but beyond the severe set of his handsome features lurked something more. Something substantial and real.
“I’m here for Gertie, I know.” Not once had he commented on all the lace and the predominantly pink floral fabrics. She was sure it was appreciation she saw in the bleak blue depths of his eyes as she drifted to the kitchen. Probably not appreciation over all the pink, but at least he appeared to approve.
“Pa! Don’t you just love everything?” The girl dashed into his arms with Merry tucked in hers. “Felicity had it all in her trunk.”
“That’s why it was so heavy.” Humor lingered at the edges of his words. Just a hint, but enough to make a smile stretch her face as she grabbed the cutting board from its shelf.
“She sewed everything.” Gertie snuggled Merry to her and hopped onto the couch. “She made some of it before she knew me. But this she did after.”
Father and daughter bent together to study the afghan on the back cushion. Light pink flowers on a background of leaf-green and snow-white. Gertie ran her forefinger across a puffy raised petal. Side by side, Felicity could see the resemblance. Where Gertie’s features were delicate and sweet, father and daughter shared the same shape eyes, high cheekbones and full jaw.
“And look at the rug. It’s one big braid. So’s the one under the table.” Gertie disappeared from sight, presumably on the floor. “She got scraps for free from her work. Isn’t that right, Felicity?”
“Absolutely.” She uncovered the roast, talking as she worked. “I made all sorts of things with those scraps. Quilts, wall hangings, even Merry. But with her, I used only the very best pieces.”
“That’s why she’s so beautiful.” Gertie studied the doll cradled in her arm and kissed the cloth forehead the way a real mother would.
Sweet. But it was Tate’s reaction that hit her in the heart. His jaw dropped. His eyes squeezed shut. He looked like a man on the edge of losing his iron control. Tendons stood out in his neck. Tension snapped along his jaw line. Callused hands fisted as if it took all his strength to hold back his emotions. He swallowed hard. When he opened his eyes they were glassy. Emotion had won.
“Best get to some of the work waiting outside.” He cleared his throat but his voice wasn’t as hollow or as hard. He rose up to his six-foot-plus height, cloaked in his secrets except for the devotion written on his face.
He smoothed one rough hand tenderly against the side of Gertie’s face briefly, just for that moment he was no longer bleak. But it returned to wrap around him like the shadows, the weight of failure and loss and adversity, things that were a mystery to her as she watched him head for the door.
“How long until we eat?” He threw the question her way, busy with his coat.
“Thirty minutes or so.” She wanted to go to him, to lay her hand on the immense plane of his shoulder, to comfort him. But her feet stayed rooted in place, knowing he would refuse her. “I can wait longer if you wish.”
“Thirty minutes will be fine.” He bit out the words, meaning to be gruff but she heard something else. “I’ll be back.”
“And I will have supper hot and waiting.”
He stiffened. For one moment he did not move. He did not seem to breathe. Shadows gathered around him like nightfall setting in. Despair lived deep inside the man, that was why he kept his back to her hiding what he didn’t want her to see. Well, she knew something about broken hearts. No matter how shattered, the human heart yearned to be loved. Tate shouldered out the door with a thump of his cane, a flutter of blue scarf and the creak of hinges closing, a great hulking darkness.
She’d never seen anyone who needed love more.
Chapter Seven
“So you are the lady Gertie has been telling me all about.” Reverend Hadly squeezed her hand as if he were meeting a long-lost friend. “Wonderful to meet you, Felicity.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I loved your sermon.” The sanctuary was crowded after the service, full of people engaged in conversations or waiting to speak with their minister. “I hear you are the man who will be marrying us.”
Beside her, Gertie hopped up and down. Tate cleared his throat. He stood tall, trying his best not to lean heavily on his cane. She’d thought him closed off before but she barely recognized this statue of a man with chin set, spine straight and guards up.
“That I am.” The reverend’s compassionate brown eyes studied Tate before flicking over to her. “I have plenty of time before the Christmas Eve service. With the church lit up, it will be a lovely ceremony.”
“I’m getting a new dress,” Gertie chimed in. “Felicity and I are going to start making it after we get home.”
“You must be excited.” Reverend Hadly’s sympathy spoke volumes, easy to read his happiness for the child and his concern for the man as he clapped Tate on the shoulder. “Congratulations again. God is giving you a new chance, Tate. I’m happy for all of you.”
Strain bunched along Tate’s jawline, his only reaction as he took a step forward. Whatever happened, the minister knew of the family’s hardships and knew them well. True sympathy shone from brown eyes, stirring the same within her.
“Good day to you, Hadly.” Tate’s cane thumped on the floor, betraying his strain. Was it being in church that troubled him? Or surrounded by so many people? When Gertie’s hand crept into hers, realization sifted over her like the quietly falling snow. She blinked against the airy flakes flying into her face as she tapped down the front steps.
Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? This was Tate’s home church. He had attended here with his wife, when his family was whole. Had her funeral been performed in this church? Gertie’s christening? His wedding?
“Oh, I pity that woman,” a pitched whisper carried her way. She felt watched.
She was. A trio of women in their Sunday best stared at her as if she were a window display in a shop. Should she smile? Greet them? What poor woman in need of pity were they talking about?
“Come on.” Gertie’s hand in hers tugged hard. “Where’s Aunt Ing?”
“Here I am.” Ingrid appeared, breathless. She deftly blocked the trio of women with a tight smile. “We’ll let the men get the horses. Don’t you adore our reverend?”
“Yes, he is the nicest man.” She swallowed hard, realizing the women were still staring. Ingrid hadn’t blocked them entirely. Felicity took a careful step in the snow. Surely those women didn’t feel sorry for her?
Tate trudged diagonally away from them toward the horse, a powerful force radiating manliness and might. Black hat, black coat, black trousers, he was a silhouette against the stretch of white snow, achingly alone. His left leg might drag a bit, but how could anyone see the disability and not the man? The caring within her strengthened until no force could break it.
“We are blessed in our reverend,” Ingrid went on talking. “He leads our Bible Study on Saturdays. You could come along with me and see what it’s like, if you’re interested.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait to introduce you around. Oh, this is going to be so fun.” Ingrid reached the edge of the yard, where oldest brother, Devin, waited in the feed store’s rough-hewn wooden sled. A pair of study horses swished their tails, patiently waiting while Ingrid hugged first Gertie, and then Felicity goodbye.
I’m going to love having a sister again, she thought, waving as the sled pulled away. Joy crept into her, making the day bright and so did the pressure of the small hand tucked in her own. Now that she’d discussed the wedding ceremony with the minister, nerves popped in her stoma
ch. The good sort of nerves, the same she’d felt when she’d held Gertie’s first letter or stood on the platform waiting to board the westbound train with Tate’s ticket clenched in her fist.
A ticket that must have been very difficult to afford. The old pinto nosed into the spot Devin’s sled had vacated, drawing Tate and the wagon box to a stop in front of her. His scarf did bring out the incredible shade of his eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the gray daylight or the power of her enduring wish, but his gaze gentled when he looked at her. The craggy stone of his face softened. Just for one brief moment.
Just for her.
“Pa, are you gonna stay home today?” Gertie hopped onto the seat. Tate set down the reins to help her.
“You know I have work to do.” He held out his hand, palm up, turning into a statue of a man again with feelings hidden and heart barricaded.
Maybe it had been the light, after all. Disappointment crept in but she lifted her chin, refusing to let it show. She laid her bare fingertips on his broad palm, barely touching him as she stepped onto the running board. “You deliver on Sundays?”
“No, but it’s a good time to go over the equipment. To keep everything running smoothly.” He gathered the reins, glancing over his shoulder to check for traffic. A jam of horses and sleighs waited on the street, so with a sigh he loosened the reins, resigned to wait. “After hours, when I’m done with any last-minute deliveries for the store, I run loads for a local teamster.”
He worked two jobs? So that’s how he paid for her train ticket. That explained why he left in the evenings after supper. What else didn’t she know about him? The bulk of it could fill her hope chest to overflowing.
Finally the horses and vehicles thinned, and with a snap of the reins, Patches pulled them forward. The runners bumped over ruts in the road and snow swirled playfully into her eyes. Tate sat straight and tall in the seat, more handsome than he’d ever been to her. What a blessing he was. God had shown great a kindness in leading her to him. Affection bloomed like a rare rose in winter, gently and sweetly and budding with hope. Surely her caring could make a difference.