by Jillian Hart
His son. He knees went weak. It was the closest he’d ever been to Thomas. Just a few feet, maybe three, separated them. He drank in every detail he could. The expression of trepidation. The worried purse of Cupid’s-bow lips. The tiny cleft in his chin.
He had one, too. As he peeled off his gloves, he found more of himself in the boy’s face. A sprinkle of light freckles across his nose. Funny, how he’d had those too when he’d been young. They shared the same set and slant of eyes, sloping nose, long curling lashes, and the exact shape of their ears. Remarkable. Caleb swept off his snowy hat, not knowing what to say.
Never had he felt a more powerful force than love for his child. Not just love, but commitment, devotion and duty.
“Supper is on the table.” Caroline’s dulcet alto touched his soul, spinning him around, luring him to look at her. This had to be a dream. Home and hearth, comfort and kindness. Things he’d forgotten existed, but they were real. Right here. Right now. He thirsted for these things and craved them with the whole of his being.
The little boy put down a chunk of wood with a rough cut etching of a horse on it and dashed to the table.
Caleb couldn’t move, watching his son go. A cowlick stuck straight up at the back of his head. Like the one he smoothed down on the back of his own head with trembling fingers.
“You may as well take off your coat and sit a spell.” Caroline pulled out a chair for Thomas. “I hope you like chicken.”
“I do.” The words sounded torn from him. Feelings welled up as out of control as a flash flood. It took all his willpower to wrestle them down.
He hardly noticed crossing the room or pulling out the extra chair she’d brought to the table. Best to focus on why he was here. On making sure Thomas had what he needed and finding a way to help Caroline. The marshal wasn’t wrong. He could see the details that had passed him by before. The simple, secondhand furnishings, the patch on Caroline’s dress sleeve, the hearth in need of repair. But the food on the table spread out before him, plentiful and aromatic. His mouth watered.
“Guests first.” Caroline gave the chipped serving dish a nudge in his direction, giving him first choice of the chicken pieces.
First choice. The lady had no notion what kind of man she dined with. He wanted nothing more in this world than to feel whole and released from the stain on his reputation. He wanted her to gaze at him forever with that look of kind acceptance.
It was wrong of him. He knew that. But it had been so long since he had felt his own worth. It was almost as if his past could stay hidden. He could be free. Cleared. Renewed.
If only.
“Give Thomas first choice.” He noticed the boy staring with hope at one of the chicken legs. Love left him helpless. He gave the platter a shove in Thomas’s direction and earned Caroline’s smile.
Yep, he figured he’d do just about anything to earn such a pretty smile. He grabbed hold of his tin cup and took a sip. Warm, steamed milk sluiced across his tongue, true to her word.
How about that.
Chapter Four
Caroline closed the book, smoothed the covers under Thomas’s chin and rose. The bed ropes squeaked in protest. “Sleep well, little one. Have sugar-spun dreams.”
The child sighed, a forlorn sound in the dark room. As he did every night since he’d come to stay with her, he curled up on his side and hugged his pillow for comfort. The bedtime ritual was hard on them both, with him remembering his mother and she thinking of her child. The remembered sweetness of tucking Mathias in and watching sleep tug down his heavy eyelids lodged deep in her heart, aching. Wishing she could take that same pain away from Thomas, she smoothed a hand over his wayward cowlick and smiled into his blue, blue gaze.
The two of them were definitely a pair.
She set the book on its shelf and lifted the lantern by its brass handle. The flame danced on its wick as she whirled toward the door, giving her a perfect view of Caleb seated in the extra wooden captain’s chair, watching with his familiar-seeming eyes.
There was something about him, something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. She closed Thomas’s door behind her, shivering. The main room felt chilly. The temperatures must be plummeting outside. When she breezed by the fireplace the heat seemed to disappear the instant it left the hearth. Would Caleb be safe in the stable? Worry gnawed at her.
Now that they were alone, she had some questions for him. “How did it go when you showed up at the marshal’s office?”
“Fine enough. Your horse thief is behind bars where he belongs.” His blue eyes darkened. “I was right. Turns out he was a seasoned outlaw with a five-hundred-dollar bounty on his head.”
“Five hundred dollars.” She couldn’t imagine that kind of money. What kind of an outlaw had that much of a reward on his head? Another kind of chill shot through her. “I’m doubly grateful you came along when you did. To think a man like that had been close enough to spy inside this house. He’d known I was baking.”
“It’s over now. With any luck, no more trouble will come your way again.” He leaned in, gaze intent, that shade of blue stirring her memories.
“Do I need to stop by the marshal’s office?” she asked. “Did Mac say I would need to fill out any paperwork?”
“No. I reckon he knows where to find you if he does.” Caleb grabbed Thomas’s piece of wood from the floor. “I noticed the boy playing with this. It’s his pretend horse?”
“It was one of the few toys he had.” Inadequacy filled her, pinching her with shame. Maybe a man like Caleb couldn’t understand what it took to put down roots and provide for a child. She certainly wished she could do more for him financially. Thomas deserved it. “He calls it Bingo. It’s supposed to be a wild mustang.”
“I see.” He tumbled the chunk of wood in his large, capable hands. “It can’t be easy supporting the two of you on a woman’s wages.”
“No, but we get by. It’s not easy, but it’s not difficult, either. I have a good job. It’s the best one I’ve ever had. I’m lucky.” She didn’t get the sense he was judging her, but life mostly fell far short of the ideal. “I’m patching the patches. He keeps wearing out the knees.”
“That’s a boy for you. He spent a great deal of the evening on his knees galloping this piece of wood around the braid rug.”
“The rug is the meadow where the mustang lives.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked down. “Well, the rug is green. That makes sense.”
“Yes, in the spring and summer. But not in the winter.” She couldn’t help it. Humor slipped out of her whenever Caleb was around. She felt light as air, in spite of her worries and her troubles.
“You need a white rug, I guess. Although I dropped my fair share of snow on this rug earlier. Say, do you think he would mind if I whittled this? I’m a fair carver. It might even look like a horse when I’m done.”
“Seriously?” Her needle stilled. “I’m sure he would love it, but wouldn’t that take a lot of time?”
“I’ve got time now.” He pulled a knife from his trouser pocket and snapped open the blade. “It’s been a long while since I’ve whittled. I’m out of practice.”
“Where did you come from, Caleb McGraw? You rescue stolen horses, deliver thieves to the marshal, haul in enough wood to see me through the storm and make a toy for a child you don’t know.” Her breath caught at the sight of emotion etched into his rugged features. He truly was striking.
Not that she ought to be noticing. It was best to ignore the skitters of attraction beating like butterflies behind her ribs. She pulled the needle through the fabric and fussed with the stitch until it edged the patch just right. “I’ve never met a man like you.”
“You ought to count yourself lucky on that.” The humble half-smile looked good on him.
Too good. Blushing, she peeled her gaze away and concentrated on her next stitch.
“I’m from a small town on the Montana prairie.” His confession resonated warmly in the night air, all trace of
lightness had gone. His features set into a mask of stone, making it hard to believe in the gentle, kind side of him she’d seen so much of during the day.
What hardship had done that to him? He rose from the chair, straight and powerfully tall, a hulking brawn of a man as he paced through the darkness into the kitchen. Without his hat on, his dark hair fell in thick tufts past his collar. Except for a curl of a cowlick at the back of his head, sticking nearly straight up remarkably similar to Thomas’s.
Probably a lot of people in the world had exactly the same cowlick.
“My parents were farmers.” His baritone rumbled deep and rich. “I grew up helping my father in the wheat fields, helping raise cattle and take care of the horses. It was a nice way to grow up.”
His broad shoulders dipped as he swiped the dishpan leaning against the wall. The shadows swallowed him, stealing him from her sight but the warmth remained in his words, the obvious love in his tone. “My parents were good people. They had me late in life. I was their middle-life surprise. The good thing about being an only child was that I had them all to myself for so many years. I had that comfort when they passed away, first my mother and my father soon after. He couldn’t live without her.”
“It was true love. My parents were the same way.” The memories of her early years swirled back to her, bringing with them the first year of her marriage. Newlyweds besotted with their love for one another and then happily awaiting the birth of their baby. “When my pa started a sentence, Ma would finish it. They could look at one another and instantly know without words what the other thought. They died way too young. I always assumed that given more time together, Michael and I would have been the same way.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get that chance. I don’t believe a person only gets one shot at true love.” His gaze deepened, so intensely blue they were hard to resist. “There still may be hope for you. One day you might find a man who can finish your sentences.”
“It’s a nice thought, but I can’t imagine it happening.” His gaze mesmerized her.
Blueberry-blue, just like Thomas’s.
Exactly like Thomas’s. So was his cowlick and, now that she thought about it, the shape of his ears. A chill snaked down her spine. Her needle stilled as she looked into those familiar eyes and saw the layers of regret and remorse. Caleb bowed his head to slide his knife across the block of wood and a thick chunk tumbled into the dishpan.
She carefully retrieved her needle and slid it through the edge of the patch. The sharp tip clinked against her thimble. “I’m not sure any man would be interested in taking on a widow and a young boy. I’m not sure I have the heart to love like that again. Being with Michael gave my world color. Without it, everything seems like shades of gray.”
“I know that feeling.” His knife dug into another corner of the block. “I’ve seen a lot of gray.”
“Thomas helps put a little color back into my days.” She pulled the thread through and made another stitch.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Shavings of wood curled at the tip of his knife.
“I wasn’t sure I could handle taking him in at first. When Alma’s letter arrived, written in the final days of her illness, I wanted to turn her down. Tell her I couldn’t have a child in my life to remind me of what I’d lost. I was afraid that in remembering my Mathias all the pain of losing him would come rushing back.”
“Did it?”
“Yes. But so did the good memories, ones I’d let myself forget because they hurt too much.” Firelight caressed her in soft waves, polishing her with a loving radiance that drew the air from his lungs and the wishes up from his soul. She fussed with the thread, smoothing it unnecessarily. “I’m grateful to Thomas for that. There are so many beautiful things I do not want to forget. I wish I could do the same for him. Maybe one day.”
“I’m certain you do more for the boy than you know.” His chest might implode from the strain of wanting what he could not have. More time with his son. More time with Caroline. He ran the blade of his knife along the curve that would be the horse’s flank, concentrating on his work, but where was his gaze? On her sitting there so luminous, his bone marrow ached with longing. “He has a lot of grieving yet to do. I can’t think of anyone better for him than you.”
“That’s kind. Alma trusted me to raise her child. I don’t want to let her or Thomas down.” Emotion traced across her face, so poignant it made her even lovelier. She gathered her needle, straightened the thread and returned to her mending. “How long has it been since you lost your son?”
“It’s been many years.”
“Six?” She made another stitch as if she’d said nothing of importance, nothing that made his pulse stall in his chest.
Why six? Why had she guessed at that number? His knife stilled on the slight curve of the horse’s back. She had to know the truth, she had to have put the pieces together. His hands shook too hard to trust using the blade so he sat there like a fool struck mute, his secrets about to be exposed. He’d grown hard enough in prison he ought to be able to get up and walk away without a word. To not give one hoot what she thought of him. To not care about what he was leaving behind.
Truth was, he’d never been that hard. Not even close. He’d never been cut from the same cloth as those men in that place, where ruthlessness and heartlessness were first nature. His hands kept trembling while he waited for her next words.
What had Alma said in that letter about him? Had she said anything about his prison sentence? He could not endure lifting his eyes to see the expression on Caroline’s dear face. He did not want to witness the moment when her kindness turned to suspicion and fear.
“Your son didn’t die, did he? You’re Thomas’s father.” Instead of accusing, her words wrapped around him like a sympathetic hug, the only true comfort he’d felt in years. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I feared you would think I’d come to take him from you. I haven’t. I don’t want to disrupt his life.” His throat worked. He stared at the knife blade so hard it blurred. “I wanted to see him, that’s all. Make sure he was okay. That he didn’t need anything.”
“I see.” Her slender fingers stilled. She set aside her mending, her skirts rustling with her movements. Her hands, at the top edge of his field of vision, folded together. Such gentle hands.
He felt horrible. “I deceived you and I’m sorry. It was true that I lost him. When I came back to Blue Grass to check on Alma, I was told of her passing. It took a bit more to find out about the son she had. That was my fault. My doing. You don’t know how I regret it. I had to leave town suddenly and I just didn’t know.” The words bunched in his throat, heavy with guilt and shame. “She knew where I was. If she’d written, I would have married her. Somehow or another, I would have done everything I could have to make it right.”
“I believe you.” Her words were magic. Unexpected. The most remarkable gift he could imagine. “I don’t know you well, but I see enough in you to know that you do the right thing.”
“I try.” Emotion gnarled his words, choked and strained. Grateful to her for seeing this in him and for understanding, he didn’t know how to say it. “I only just learned I had a son.”
“So that’s why you happened to be in my driveway to rescue Kringle. You were coming to see Thomas.”
“In truth, I wasn’t sure if I would have knocked on your door. I didn’t know the right thing to do.” He put aside the block of wood and knife before he dropped them. “I had to set eyes on him, that was all.”
“Alma didn’t tell me about you. If I’d known, I would have tried to contact you.” The tenderness in her alto lured him with a strength he could not fight.
When he dared to lift his chin and meet her gaze, he read more than tenderness in those compassionate depths. Understanding flowed from her heart to his, a silent acceptance that made his eyes sting. She rose from the chair, willowy grace and soft splendor. His pulse stilled as she crossed the green braid rug to sit on the wood-frame
sofa next to his chair, so close he swore he could feel her heart beat in synchrony with his.
What was it about this woman? He couldn’t explain how she’d torn down the defenses he’d carefully built in lockup, determined never to trust anyone again. Yet she could bridge that barrier with a single look. She would lay claim to his heart if he let her.
“Every son should know his father.” Her hand covered his, an intimacy he did not pull away from. She meant to be comforting and sympathetic.
What would she think if she knew he wanted more than her sympathy? Desire sluiced through his veins. He had never yearned for any one thing the way he wanted her. He cleared his throat, wrestling with emotions he could no longer hold back.
“Do you want to be the one who tells him?” Her hand squeezed his. Caring telegraphed from her skin to his, spilled into his veins and touched his heart. Did she know what she did to him? Disarming him with her goodness, leveling him with her empathy, leaving him defenseless?
“No, I don’t want him to know.” The truth wedged like a rock in his throat. The shame within ached like an open sore. “Not ever. It’s best for him if I move on. He has you. After meeting you, I’m good with that. I couldn’t have picked anyone better.”
“You want him. I can see it in your eyes.”
“You want to keep him. I can see it in yours.” His fingers tightened around hers. “He’s been uprooted enough. I will help out. Send money when I find a job.”
“Oh, I didn’t expect that.” Her eyes burned, realizing what this must be costing him. How could he stand to see his child and never claim him, never hold him or watch him grow? He sat straight and tall as if invincible, as if nothing could tear him apart.
She didn’t believe it for a moment. His agony showed in the small things—the set of his bottom lip, the pain pinched in the corners of his eyes, the strain corded in his neck. The poor man. Was he all alone in the world?