Mail-Order Christmas Brides: Her Christmas Family / Christmas Stars for Dry Creek

“Warm enough.” He lumbered into the light, the dark shadows accentuating the creases on his face time and hardship had worn into him. “It was a thoughtful thing you did for Gertie in making her that doll.”

“My pleasure.” A strange shivery feeling swept through her as he sidled closer. Her husband-to-be. He leaned his cane against the table and stole a folded dish towel from the nearby stack. She wanted to like this man. No—she wanted to love him. Caring flickered hopefully in her heart as she studied his granite profile. Such a hard man with such a gentle love for his daughter.

“I had so much fun making each stitch just right and trying to figure out what Gertie would like.” She let him take the pan from her and dunk it into the rinse water. “My ma made a doll for the three of us, me and my sisters.”

“What happened to them? Why aren’t you with them?” Water dripped from the pan as he wrapped it in a towel and began to dry.

“My youngest sister was adopted right away. It tore me apart to watch her go.” She squeezed her eyes shut briefly against the crushing pain, grief still strong after seventeen years. “A kindly looking couple took her, so I have hopes that she was treasured. Faith and I were together until I was eleven.”

“When you were hired out?”

“Yes. When I came back she was gone. Hired out and never returned. We didn’t know what became of her.” She gave the pot lid a good scour. “As far as I could find out, another family eventually took her for home care. The same thing happened to me later that year. I wound up working on a pig farm to earn my keep.”

“You didn’t learn all you could about pigs to become a farmer later?”

Was that the tiniest glimmer of humor warming the chill from his rumbling words? Did Tate Winters have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere? Pleased, she slid the lid into the rinse water and reached for the final pan. “Surprisingly, no. That was one smelly opportunity I let pass me by.”

“I don’t blame you. I delivered feed to the Rutger place tonight.” He deftly dried the pot until it shone. “Pig farm.”

She chuckled but she laughed alone. Tate no longer seemed as formidable. “I didn’t expect help with the dishes.”

“I don’t mind. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.” What a relief. She plunged both hands into the hot water to scrub the roasting pan. Do you think you can love me? That’s what she wanted to ask. “There is so much we need to figure out together. The wedding for one.”

“I’ve spoken to the town reverend. He has time before the Christmas Eve service.”

“Gertie will be pleased.” She worked the dishcloth into the pan’s greasy corners. “In her letters she wanted us to get married by Christmas.”

“Yes, and as you can see there is not a lot of money to spare.” The muscle jumped in his jaw again. He held himself so rigid and tense she had to wonder what he expected her to say. To berate him? To think less of him because he was so poor? How could she think less of a man who loved his daughter so much?

“I have a dress to wear. My Sunday best should do.” She gave the pan a measuring look but he took it from her before she could determine if it met her cleanliness standards. His hands were capable and callused and a long thin scar disappeared into the cuff of his sleeve. His flannel shirt wanted mending, too, and she hung her head. How much hardship had the rail ticket caused him? “There should be no need for further expenses.”

“Gertie should have a new dress.” He swallowed hard, his impressive shoulders tense. “If you’re a seamstress, could I ask you to sew her one?”

“I saved up several lengths of fabric, hoping I might be able to sew for her, for my daughter.” He probably had no idea what those words meant to her. They warmed the lonely places in her soul, they made the losses of her parents, and then her sisters, fade. “How about you? I’m fairly skilled at men’s garments.”

“I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I have no need of fancy new duds or the money to afford them.” The muscle in his jaw jumped, strung tighter, and drew up cords of tendons in his neck. She could feel his raw pain like a wind gust to the lamp, dampening the light.

“Maybe sometime later, when things are better.” She wrung the extra water from her cloth and wiped the table. “I had hoped to keep my sewing skills polished. After I’m done sewing for Gertie, I could ask around in town. Maybe find some piece work at one of the local dress shops. I don’t want my needle to go rusty.”

“That’s good of you but not necessary. You take care of Gertie. That’s our bargain.” He could hardly breathe as he rinsed the roasting pan, the sloshing sound hiding the wheeze in his chest. Shame wrapped around him. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was in the lamplight. He did not deserve her. She did not deserve what folks would be saying about the woman who married him.

He set the pan down too hard. The clatter punctuated the harsh cast to his words, made harder by the fading light. The lamp needed more kerosene. “You don’t need to pay your way, Felicity.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Hope. He hadn’t been without it so long that he’d forgotten the sound of it. He hung his head, unable to look at her. A terrible feeling settled in his gut. He put the pan on the shelf, grateful for the break away from her. The lamplight writhed, struggling for life, casting eerie orange flickers along the wall. “I suppose I can’t call you Miss Sawyer for much longer.”

“No, as I will soon be Mrs. Winters. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve said that.” She circled the table in the lengthening shadows, swiping up every last crumb, a swirl of color and sweetness. “I like it. It makes me feel as if I belong here.”

She filled the house with a force that did not fade as the flame gave one last thrash and sputtered out. The last thing he saw clearly was the plea in her lovely eyes.

A plea. His guts twisted tight as he spun on his heel, plodding by memory to the lean-to entrance. He fumbled in the dark and not because he couldn’t find his way. Her plea stayed with him like a noose about his neck. Something he couldn’t outrun. Something that tightened around his throat cruelly.

The woman hadn’t come here expecting some romantic fairy tale, had she? He snatched the kerosene can off the shelf, his grip so tight on his cane his skin burned. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for. That wasn’t something he could do. He knew where love led. He was still picking up the shattered pieces of that illusion. Bitterness soured his mouth, tore through him like winter lightning and he stumbled back into the kitchen where the faint scent of roses, of her, softened the darkness.

“Gertie said you work tomorrow. Should I expect you home for lunch? What would you like for supper?”

Her kindness became cruel, but she couldn’t know that. She meant well. Her helpfulness and concern glanced off the glacier his soul had become. He wished he had some kindness to offer her in return. He removed the glass chimney with a clink as it landed on the table top and twisted open the can. He ignored the pungent smell as he tipped the can, listening to hear when the reservoir sounded full. What he heard was Felicity. The pattern of her step, the drops of water as she doused and wrung out the cloth, the steady nearly nonexistent rhythm of her breathing. Her plea remained, tighter around his neck.

He could not be what she wanted. He was sorry for it. Once he was a man of deep feeling. Prison had torn the feeling right out of him, leaving only the shell. He hated the emptiness inside as he watched her pour the soapy water into the rinse basin. She bent to the task, making a lovely picture. Gleaming, light blond hair, ivory skin, the graceful angle of her slender arm, the way her perfect top teeth worked into her bottom lip as she shook out the last few stubborn drops.

“I’m fortunate to have found you.” He had to be honest. It was the best thing he could do for her. He winced, hating to do it, wishing he had some gentleness inside to use to soften the blow. He took the heavy, water-filled basin, lifting it from the table so she wouldn’t have to. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “Not every woman is sensible enough to agree to marriage the way we have. A business arrangement. A living arrangement. A mutual agreement to make a child’s life better.”

He hardened himself for her reaction. As his words sank in, the brightness shining within her dimmed a notch. Hope faded, leaving a hollow smile and a tiny gasp of pain she could not hide.

“Nothing more.” He searched her, emphasizing those words, waiting for understanding to play across the perfect blue hue of her eyes. “It was what we agreed to before you came.”

It was better to be honest, rather than letting her hopes get too high. She had to see the man he was, the failure he’d become. She had to see he had nothing inside of him to give. That did not mean he would not work hard to provide the best life he could for her, for Gertie.

“I’d best get to bed. Work starts early in the morning.” The words felt torn from him.

“What time would you like breakfast?” Her strained voice struggled to disguise her disappointment.

He’d hurt her. He hated it but what else could he do? Let her hopes rise higher, only to fall further? He resisted the urge to reach out and brush a wayward curl from her cheek. Silly urge, wanting to bridge the distance between them. A distance that had to remain. That always had to be. He turned on his heel. “I start work at six.”

“Five-thirty, then?” She cleared her throat but layers of heartache remained as unmistakable as the shadows. Not even the growing strength of the lamp could chase it away. “I’ll have food on the table.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door, mountain-strong but no longer as remote. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a woman around, aside from Ingrid. I’ll do my best to be gentle.”

“We both have some adjusting to do. I’m not used to being around a man.” Her boardinghouse had been for women only. How did she explain suitors tended to bypass her just like those prospective parents in the orphanage yard, always choosing another? She hung up the wet dishcloth, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for you tonight?”

“No.” Surprise skimmed his face, then furrows of thought dug in. “Good night.”

The shadows claimed him as he opened the door. Cold curled in as if to snatch the man out into the dark. With a final thump the door closed, leaving her alone. The wind and snowfall masked the sound of his gait. The stove lid rattled as another gust broadsided the little house, making her pulse skip.

This wasn’t what she’d imagined. She gripped the lamp’s handle carefully and took it with her from table to couch. The rustle of her petticoats, the swish of her skirt, the pad of her shoes echoed around her. No, this was not what she’d expected when she’d made the decision to accept Tate’s briefly written proposal. Not at all what she’d risked dreaming of riding the train westward across the territory.

How could she have been so wrong? Agony twisted through her. With a sigh, she set the lamp next to the sofa and sat. She buried her face in her hands. She’d risked everything coming here hoping for love, a love that could not possibly be found.

A business arrangement. A living arrangement. Nothing more. Tate’s words came back to her now, replaying over and over again in her mind. The man she’d imagined didn’t exist. He didn’t want to care about her. He never would. Her precious hopes fell like glass and shattered all around her into tiny shards and bits of dust that glimmered mockingly in the light.

Her fault for wishing love might grow, anyway. Her heart swelled with pain as she straightened and took a steadying breath. She tugged her yarn basket closer, glad she’d thought to unpack it earlier, and took up her needles and a skein of red Christmas yarn. Gertie needed mittens.