by Jillian Hart
She rocked her child and listened to the blizzard turn feral outside the walls. A vicious force in a wholly cruel night.
But there was small mercy in this world, after all.
Chapter Three
All she had of worth on her was her dead mother’s wedding ring. Mac didn’t think he would ever forget the sad determination etched on her face, a face lovely and too young for that depth of sorrows. But just add that image to the thousands that were lodged in his head. Being a lawman, and a retired Range Rider, had taught him about life in a way he had never figured when he’d been a green recruit. A young man hoping to do some good.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had the chance to actually do that, but he’d surely tried. And kept trying. Some days, it felt like a lost cause.
Maybe he needed a change. Of scene. Of job. Of everything. Yes, that’s what he wanted.
The thought of starting over again somewhere—anywhere—calmed him. To get away from his past, that would be a relief. It would be best for him. Best, but not right. No, he thought as he ambled through his ma’s kitchen, it wasn’t right at all. His folks were getting on in years and they needed him.
The clatter of the stuff on his mother’s serving tray made him sound like a herd of drunk elk let loose in the parlor. China rattled, glass tinkled, flatware clinked. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wake up his parents. They would think a thief was loose in the house.
“It’s just me,” he told the young woman who stared at him with wariness in her big jeweled eyes. “You thought I was bringing along my chains and shackles, judging by the sound of things, huh?”
“You make a lot of noise for just one man. I thought lawmen were supposed to be quiet. Stealthy. So they can creep up on the bad guys.”
“That would be the good lawman. The ones worth their salt. I’m just a small-town sheriff. No need for sneaking around. Much.” He didn’t add that he could be as quiet as a silent winter’s night if he had to be, as long as he wasn’t carrying a loaded tray. Not something he had a lot of practice with. “I’ll leave you two to warm up, and get a room ready. That is, if this’ll do.”
“It’s wonderful. Thank you. Is there a chance your mother is still up?”
“She and my father are upstairs asleep, ma’am.”
“Carrie Montgomery. Since I’m your prisoner, I suppose you should at least know what to call me.”
“Then just call me Mac.”
She’d learned long ago thinking of a man in that way only got a woman into more trouble and heartache than she bargained for, but for some reason she couldn’t help the way her gaze followed him through the room. It was an easy gait he had. Not exactly carefree, but not militant, either. A nice comfortable step that made her look and keep looking. Even when he was more than shadow in the dark edges of the parlor, his tough male presence made her heart kick up a little faster.
No, that wasn’t from watching him, it couldn’t be. And if it was, she wouldn’t let it be. It was just gratitude for this warm room for Ebea. A gratitude that did not fade but grew like the fire snapping brightly in the grate as Mac set the tray he carried on the short wide table between the sofas. She’d smelled the comforting aroma of sweet tea, but when the sheriff returned with a plate of iced gingerbread men, it surprised her.
At the sight of the neat little men with their candy buttons marching up their chests, their smiling face and candy eyes, Ebea gasped. Her tensed little body relaxed. Her child who had burrowed so deeply inside the blanket and huddled hard against Carrie relaxed for the first time since they’d been found in the boxcar.
The sheriff’s eyes were kind as he knelt close. “I raided my mother’s cookie jar, so if there’s trouble, I’ll be the one getting it, okay? You like gingerbread?”
Ebea nodded, still silent, but she grinned up at the lawman.
“They’re all for you, then.” He held out the plate for her to take one of the delicious-looking men. “Go on.”
“Thank you.” Ebea’s voice came small and thin like the tiniest silver bell, and then her hand shot out and took the closest cookie by the iced foot.
“You are most welcome, little lady.” Mac set the plate on the table and stood, moving away, moving on to where the raging fire needed tending.
His long wide shadow fell across the couch, across them, and it was oddly intimate. She wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was the tree tucked in the corner, where evergreen needles and graceful branches held candleholders and delicate crystal figures. An angel at the top seemed to watch over the room. Over them.
She’d nearly forgotten it was that time of the year. Maybe on purpose. She brushed the palm of her hand over the top of her child’s head, her skin rough and callused catching on the silken strands of fine hair.
Christmas. Carrie squeezed out the images of home, the good ones before she’d married, of Ma’s house filled with the scent of baking and the excitement of the gifts to be laid on the hearth come Christmas morning. Of Ebea’s delight on the Christmases more recent, and of the hope that the year to come would be better.
Surely this was the year things could not get worse.
“Those bed irons ought to be hot in no time.” The sheriff didn’t miss much. His gaze followed hers to the tree. “Were you trying to get home to family?”
“No, that wasn’t why I was on the train. We’ve lost all our family.”
Mac noticed again the ring on her right finger, and none on her left hand. Widowed and alone in the world. “Well, it looks like you’ll be stuck here for Christmas. I hope you don’t mind if your girl gets a little spoiled by my mother.”
“Spoiled?” The tense line of the woman’s shoulders, as straight as a soldier’s, eased. First a little, then, as the words sank in, a lot. No longer rigid, she relaxed against the sofa’s cushioned back. “That would be welcome.”
“Why don’t you have one of those cookies, too? Take off your wraps and stay awhile.”
“I s-suppose.” The tension snapped back into her spine as she reached with her free hand, the one that wasn’t holding her child protectively, and tugged off her dark woolen hood.
The dark fabric fell away to reveal the richest brown mane of hair he’d ever seen. Gleaming with deep burnished reds, chestnut warmth and silken beauty, those lustrous waves could not be tamed in a proper lady’s knot. They had swept down out of numerous pins to tumble in a riot around her face.
Just the way a woman’s hair looked when she’d been well loved and pleasured by her man. The surprising longing to do just that raged through him like a chimney fire. A yearning he’d thought long dead but here it was, roaring to life like banked embers exposed to air.
It surprised him there was any spark of desire, of want left.
Maybe it was because he wasn’t prepared for her beauty. Fair of face, with an angel’s heart shape and carefully chiseled features. She was a striking woman.
But when she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s brow, she became even lovelier to him. For hers was an inner loveliness, as well.
It was goodness he saw, and that was something he didn’t run into much in his line of work. He knelt before the fireplace and pulled the heating irons from the hearthstones. “Will your girl need more to eat? There’s makings for sandwiches in the kitchen.”
“No, thank you. This is a real treat.”
“How about for you?”
“No, I couldn’t eat.”
Gratitude warmed the emerald in her eyes. Maybe it was the bleak night or simply the darkness that made his soul twist to life in a way it never had before.
Or maybe it was the endless loneliness for what had once been good in his life. It had haunted him tonight in dreams and in this very house.
He escaped into the shadows of the hallway, but it was no refuge. His chest ached and tightened as if an illness was coming on, but this was no illness. It felt as if the woman, Carrie, had tossed a noose around his chest and pulled it tight, holding on to him even as he headed up the stairs.<
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Just goes to show how tired I am. He dismissed it; how could he do anything else? Even if it seemed as if the rope binding him pulled tighter and tighter, and made him more aware of the woman in the room below.
You’re gonna get in over your head with this one if you’re not careful, man. He made up the bed in the spare room, the one reserved for his sister’s boys when they came to stay, and slipped the glowing warmers between the sheets. The bed would be snug in no time.
He left a lamp burning, to guide the way.
Here he comes.
Carrie cringed inwardly at the first knell of his boots on the top of the stairs. She heard the creak of wood, the groan of the runners and knew her time had run out. One thing I can’t do is frighten her more, she thought, holding the plate steady as Ebea grabbed the last of the gingerbread men. Somehow she would have to keep her terror inside.
She would feel better about this if she’d had the chance to meet the sheriff’s mother. But the mantel clock had chimed one at least twenty minutes ago, and Mac’s steps came closer, tolling through the house like a funeral procession. Somber. Grim.
This feels unreal, she thought. Me, going to jail. Being arrested.
The dark tree in the corner, decorated with bits of crystal and finery, bows and candles, drew her gaze. Her heart ached with longing. She missed her mother.
It’s not the same without you, Ma, she thought, so grateful for all the times her mother had been there to understand, to help out or at least to offer her gentle advice. While Carrie always prided herself on being independent, it wasn’t the same as being utterly alone.
How is this going to be all right? How could she let her child go, even when the law forced her? Everything she’d worked for, every hope was gone.
While the wild notes of the wind worsened outside, she awaited the sheriff’s entrance into the room. It seemed to take an eternity with her pulse thrumming in her ears loud enough to drown out the storm, but he came from the darkness and the shadowed hallway and through the door into the light where she waited.
“Go ahead and take your girl up. Unless you want me to carry her?”
“Uh…no, I can.” Determined to do this with as much dignity as possible, Carrie gathered her daughter in her arms, made sure to catch hold of the satchel and stood.
The lawman was there, taking the satchel from her. She let him. Why not? Most of what was inside was for Ebea, and it was nice to concentrate on holding her child this last little bit. She feared the moment she was taken from this house, her arms would be so empty, her heart aching with the chance to do just this, hold her daughter again.
And so as she ascended the stairs, she breathed in the sweet scent of gingerbread and tea. Memories she would hold on to through what remained of the night.
A faint light glinted when she reached the top of the stairs, like hope in the night, and she followed it. Closed doors on either side of her seemed to make the place more austere, but when she reached the middle door where the lamplight glowed, she saw not a simple stark room as she’d expected, but a chamber bright with a handmade quilt draping a big feather bed and molasses-rich wood posts. Lace hung at the windows, where pillows stuffed against a seat promised a sunny daytime sewing spot.
The braid rug softened her step and the toll of the sheriff’s step behind her. He shouldered by her to deposit the satchel on the bed, where pillows were plumped and waited like something out of a fine store window’s display.
“Ma, do I getta sleep here?”
“Yes, you do, baby. Isn’t it nice?”
Ebea gasped with delight. “Oh, yes. Yes, it is!”
Come to life, the child struggled out of her mother’s arms and plopped onto the thick down mattress. Her faint squeal of awe was unmistakable.
Mac didn’t need to ask. This humble home of his mother’s was nicer than anything this child had known. And yet anyone could plainly see how well she was loved.
Her clothes were neat, and although she’d spent most of the night in a freight car, her hair was carefully pulled back and her pins and ribbons matched the yellow plaid of her pretty, clean flannel dress. Her sturdy shoes looked handed down, but neatly polished.
And the unguarded joy on the child’s angel’s face when the mattress bounced her up into the air, told him she’d lived a protected life, as a child should be.
“No jumping, baby. Come, let’s open the satchel and find your nightgown.”
It was then Mac noticed the resemblance between the young mother and her small daughter as they worked side by side to unwind the length of knotted rope holding the satchel closed. She let her child dig through the depths to find her nightgown and a battered brown stuffed rabbit.
He deposited the last item he carried onto the bedside table and turned away. She’s a good mother. He knew why it hurt. Knew why it was easier to head out the door without saying a word.
The past was heavy within him tonight, on this long night of the year. It was as if the extra minutes of darkness had crept inside his bones and deeper, into his soul. And as eyes did that had been left too long in the dark, it blinded and burned when a lamp was lit.
“Uh…excuse me, Sheriff?”
Even her voice had a hold on him, not like lethal talons of a predator hawk taking hold but with the force of it and the pain. He had to will away the image filling his mind, the one that would not quit haunting him, of another woman who’d wanted to be a mother. Who should have had the right to be one.
If he hadn’t failed her, his wife. He froze, choking with torment, not willing to gaze upon this woman, whose future depended on his actions and his decisions.
“What is it?” He heard the hollowness of his words and grimaced, hating what he’d become.
“I’ll get her ready and asleep. It shouldn’t take long. And perhaps you’ll want me to bring down the tea. Ebea has had enough.”
“But I brought it for you.”
“I—I don’t think I could stomach any, and I won’t be here long enough anyhow—”
“Why? Did you want a separate room? I’d assumed you’d want to spent the night in the same—”
“What?” She felt the flannel nightgown tumble from her grip. “What did you say?”
The granite line of his shoulders tensed. “Then this room is all right for you?”
“I’m to stay here?”
“Yes.” He sounded exhausted. Annoyed.
“But I thought—”
“It can’t be right to put you in a cold jail cell. Good night, ma’am.”
“I—” She couldn’t seem to talk, to think, to thank him. Shock left her paralyzed as he ambled across the threshold and into the shadows.
For a brief moment the strong outline of him lingered against the absolute darkness of the long hallway, and then just the sound of his gait tolling steadily away until there was nothing at all.
She thought she heard the outside door slam against the wind, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew he was gone and she was safe in this snug room with her daughter.
Surely this was only for the night, she thought, afraid to believe that any more good could come her way, for it felt as if she’d used up her humble portion. But Ebea was sparkling with happiness as she crawled on the soft flannel quilt, her smile as pure as a morning star.
“Ma, ooh, it’s warm.” Ebea vibrated with wonder as she slipped both hands beneath the pile of covers. “Look!”
It took only one feel of the sheets. Blessed, bone-melting warmth seeped into her. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d become. Or tired. It felt like decades since she’d last slept in a real bed, safe and warm, although it had only been three weeks. Three long, infinite weeks. The weight of endless worrying and constant responsibility slipped off her shoulders for this moment.
As she helped Ebea into her nightgown and into that toasty, luxurious feather bed, she caught a glimpse of her old self—before her husband’s drinking and her mother’s death took their toll. And again in the mirro
r as she brushed out her hair. Maybe somehow she could make this right. She’d come this far already. If she could salvage this, maybe there was still a chance to start over, to build a new and good life for her and Ebea.
At least, she thought as she climbed into bed beside her sleeping daughter, it was something to wish on.
And, remembering the tree downstairs, silent and waiting, it was the right time of year to dream.
Chapter Four
“Mac, get in here before you catch your death, do you hear me?”
How was it that no matter how old a man was, his mother was still his mother? And nothing could motivate him like her friendly scolding. “I can’t hear you over the storm, Ma.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you will.” Selma McKaslin hadn’t raised five strapping sons and a wonderful daughter by letting anyone push her around. She knew how to stand her ground and give orders. “Get in this house this minute or you’ll regret it.”
She tugged the door shut loud enough to give her threat emphasis, but Mac wasn’t worried. She was trying to get him to come in to keep her company, and to get the real news about the visitors he’d left her a note explaining.
Not that he was worried Ma would cast out Carrie and her child. Nope. He’d learned the mettle of his mother long ago. She baked the best cookies in the county, everyone said so, and she had a sweet heart to match.
His ma was always someone he could count on. He made sure to knock the snow from his boots before he walked through the door and hung his snowy coat and hat to dry on the pegs near the stovepipe. The stove was crowded with sizzling pans being managed by his efficient mother. Dressed in her usual flowery apron pulled over her work dress and her hair poofed up into a knot, she hardly spared him a glance as she flipped golden buttermilk pancakes.
