Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set

by Jillian Hart

  “I realize that now.” Hands trembling, she splayed them against the wooden rail, needing something to hold on to. Relieved that he wasn’t angry with her, relieved that he was very much the earnest man she’d met through his letters, she took a deep breath of the cold air. It burned in her lungs like an icy rush. “This is, after all, about the children. If there’s something I’m failing to do for Amelia, you should let me know.”

  “Right.” He nodded, staring intently down at his boots, refusing to look at her. He looked as remote as the mountains in the distance, as icy as the land mantled in snow. But when he raised his head and his gaze met hers, life shone there. She read his promise in that look, felt the solemnity of it, could see all the way to his heart. She didn’t know why a son was so important to him, why he’d chosen her and George out of all the letters he must have received, but she was appreciative beyond words.

  “Guess I’ll figure out a way to face church. I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen to George again.” Determination showed in the lift on his square, chiseled chin. “If it does, I’m sure you’ll remind me.”

  “Yes, I’ll be right on that. I have a sharp eye.” Now she was smiling, amazed how fast that vast distance between them seemed to vanish, how quickly he could change from remote to approachable. Somewhere inside beyond all the defenses, he had a very good heart.

  “Mercy!” Amelia’s faint shout penetrated the outside walls of the house and the closed door. “Come see!”

  “Now it’s my turn,” she said gently. Without realizing it, she reached out to touch the man. Her fingers landed on his arm, the act as natural as breathing. Aware of what she’d done, her breath hitched. She raised her eyes to his. She read confusion there, but he didn’t move away. She did, removing her fingers from his coat sleeve, her fingertips tingling sweetly from the contact.

  She felt the lingering weight of his gaze on her back as she crossed the porch and opened the door. Something had changed between them, something that went beyond words, something she could not describe. But the sun seemed to shine more brightly, the wind held less of a bite, and when she stepped into the house and closed the door behind her, the warm, friendly feeling within her remained.

  “Mercy!” Amelia dashed toward her, grinning widely, blue skirts swirling around her, braids flying. “You have to see what Pa got George.”

  “Come look, Ma!” George’s voice echoed from deeper inside the house, out of sight. “I can’t believe I’m a real cowboy!”

  Oh, the delight in his voice. The sound of it made her forget everything else. Her shoes tapped a merry rhythm against the hardwood floor, barely noticing her surroundings. The big gray stone fireplace, the windows letting in light and mountain views, the two overstuffed chairs in an otherwise sparse room.

  A staircase rose to her right, ascending to the second floor. The kitchen was airy and pleasant, but she hardly noticed the oak cabinets and counters, the shiny new range or the round oak table seated in front of a big window. No, those details paled in comparison to the sight of her son standing by that table with a Stetson on his head and cowboy boots on his feet.

  “They even fit, too!” George grinned at her, happier than she’d ever seen him. “I can’t believe it. They’re my very own. Amelia said so.”

  “Be sure and thank Cole.” She blinked happy tears from her eyes, hands clasped together, just drinking in the sight of her delighted boy. “You look like a real cowboy ready to ride.”

  “You surely do,” Amelia agreed. “Hurry, go show Pa. He’s waiting to show you your big surprise.”

  “My horse?” George choked out, as if too overcome to say more. He hugged himself like a boy whose every dream had come true. “Oh, boy. I gotta go. ’Bye, Ma.”

  “’Bye, kid.” She felt choked up, too. “Go and have fun with your pa.”

  “I will!” His boots made a hammering sound, pow-powing through the house as he made a mad dash away.

  She listened to his progress, heard the door open and Cole’s rumbling baritone as he said something to the boy. The door shut with a click, cutting him off. She swiped happy tears from her eyes.

  “George was really excited.” Amelia wandered over to the stove. “Pa is giving him an old horse to learn to ride. Howie’s big, but don’t worry. He’s as gentle as a lamb. I wanted to learn to ride him. I begged and begged and pleaded and pleaded. I was sure I could wear Pa down and he’d agree.”

  “And it didn’t work?” Mercy asked, amused, imagining reserved Cole’s reaction to his daughter wanting to ride astride like a boy. Think how upset he got over a sled! She gave a soft huff of laughter. What a pair she and Amelia were. “Once long ago I wanted to learn to ride horseback.”

  “You did?” Surprised at such news, and apparently intrigued, Amelia dropped an oven mitt. It tumbled to the floor and she stooped to pick it up. “Did you ever get to?”

  “Alas, no. My parents were shocked I would suggest such a thing.” Mercy laughed again, love filling her at the memory of her folks, long gone now, and of those happy times long past. Perhaps happier times could come around again, she thought hopefully, taking in the pretty kitchen. Goodness, it was larger than her shanty. By twice, maybe three times.

  “Too bad about the riding,” Amelia sympathized. She opened the stove’s warmer. “Have you ever gone sledding?”

  “No. It looks fun.” Mercy crossed over to take a look inside the warmer, from which Amelia extracted a bowl. Residual heat radiated off the stove, and it felt good. It was going to take some time to get used to the cold Montana winters. “Is this lunch?”

  “Emmylou made it yesterday. She’s our housekeeper,” Amelia explained, carefully setting the bowl on the counter. “At least, she will be until the wedding. Then you take over.”

  “Ah, so in marrying me, your father is saving some money,” she quipped. She liked knowing that she wouldn’t be a burden to him, two more people for him to support. That was another relief. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the stretch of shining white snow and rolling meadows was broken only by precise split-rail fencing and a gray barn, trimmed in white.

  A dozen horses strained against the rails, each jockeying to be the one getting petted by George. My, wasn’t that a sight. She bit her bottom lip, overcome once again, watching as Cole stayed at George’s side, appearing to talk gently to him, perhaps telling him about each animal. George listened intently, his little hand petting one horse nose after another, nodding solemnly to whatever the man said.

  This was everything she’d hoped. Just everything.

  “The palomino in the middle, the tallest horse?” Amelia leaned on the edge of the counter, going up on tiptoe straining to see what had captured Mercy’s attention. “That’s Howie. That’s George’s horse.”

  “My, he’s mighty big.” She gulped, trying not to be alarmed. That was one large animal for such a small little boy. Cole knew what he was doing, right? She gripped the edge of the counter, trying to suppress her motherly instincts until the enormous horse lowered his head and George flung his arms as far as they would go around the creature’s neck. The horse, as if he were a very fine gentleman indeed, tucked the boy beneath his head protectively, as if he intended to love and look after the child.

  “Emmylou left us chicken to use for sandwiches.” Amelia tapped over to the pantry and flung open the door to reveal tidy shelves stacked full of food staples. “One of my chores is taking care of the chickens. In the summer, we have a big garden. And the orchard is full of trees to climb and fruit to pick.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” Like a dream come true. Mercy glanced around, taking in the sight of her happy son and stoic husband-to-be, of her new daughter setting out a plate of covered leftover chicken onto the counter, of this home—a real house—full of sunshine and comfort and safety. She could not believe her good fortune. After working twelve-, sometimes fourteen-hour days at the hotel, day in and day out, scraping together a living, wanting better for her son, it had happened
.

  “I spotted a loaf of bread in the pantry,” Mercy said, after one last glance at the window. “Let’s get lunch made and on the table. Do you think we can tear George and your pa away from those horses?”

  “It’ll be tough.” Amelia grinned, opening a drawer to extract a knife. “We may have to throw dessert in. Pa has a real sweet tooth.”

  “Good to know.” Especially since she loved to bake. Maybe she could find out Cole’s favorites. He certainly deserved all the effort she could give to make his life better, for what he was doing for George. The letters Cole had written telling of his life here had been no exaggeration, nor had his promises and intentions.

  I don’t know how I was chosen for this, Lord, she prayed, lifting the bread from its shelf. But thank You so much. And please look after Maeve and Violet, she added, thinking of her dear friend who was also settling into her new life. Help all of us to find happiness.

  For the first time in a long while, that felt possible. Maybe she and Cole weren’t marrying for love, but perhaps they could have a happy life helping one another. Maybe even become friends. That notion put a smile on her face as she sidled up to the counter next to her beautiful new daughter so they could make sandwiches together.

  Chapter Six

  “Mercy, thank you for lunch.” Cole dropped his cloth napkin on the table, pushed back his chair and resisted the pull of the woman’s magnetic presence. Something about Mercy kept urging him to look, to smile, to notice things about her he oughtn’t be noticing. Like the Cupid’s-bow shape of her lips, as blushed as new roses. Or the refined beauty of her heart-shaped face, the wide slash of her deep blue eyes, the curl of her honey-brown lashes, the dainty slope of her nose.

  No, it was smarter to keep his head down, grab his hat and coat on the way to the door and not look back.

  “Take your time and eat up, George.” He called over his shoulder. “Come down to the barn when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready!” The boy hit the floor with a two-footed clatter. “Ma, Pa said he’d teach me to ride right after lunch. That I get to sit up on Howie’s back and everything. I love Howie, he’s my very own horse. For keeps.”

  “I’m sure he loves you, too.” Mercy’s melodic, caring words tempted Cole to look. Why she affected him, pulled at him, like this, he didn’t know. Gritting his teeth, he stabbed his arms into his coat and turned his ears off to the rest of what she had to say.

  If he wanted to keep not liking the woman, it would be best not to get pulled in by her, not to care. He pushed open the door and escaped into the lean-to, where his boots waited. As he jammed his feet into them, he felt the weight of her gaze on him. Had he thanked her for lunch? He searched his mind for any memory of it. Yes, he had. Shaking his head at himself, he shoved his foot into a boot. Maybe that was a sign of how worked up over her he was. Having a woman around, making the commitment to marry wasn’t easy. His life was changing, and he didn’t like change.

  “Pa?” George’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts.

  Gazing down at the boy’s face crinkled up into a worried, silent question, he realized he was frowning. Cole blew out a breath, replaced the frown with what he hoped was more of a grin than a grimace and patted the bench by the door.

  “Need help with those boots?” he asked his son. His son. Satisfaction filled him. This was one change he liked.

  “Nah, I can do it.” George plopped down on the bench with little-boy exuberance, his blond hair tousled and wrangled his way into his new boots. “I’m a cowboy now.”

  The back of Cole’s neck tingled. He turned around inexorably, as if he were destined to do it, as if he had no will or control over his own eyes. Mercy stood at the table, gathering the dirty plates, a willowy wisp of blue calico and grace.

  In that moment as she stood before the window, blessed by sunlight, burnished by gold, she was no longer the stranger he’d corresponded with, widowed when her husband fell ill with diphtheria. She was no longer just the woman who’d stepped off the train, the one he’d decided was best for Amelia.

  He could inexplicably see inside her, read the scars of loss that grief and hardship had made on her heart. Feel the commitment to their children. See the loneliness and the hope for a connection shadowed in those midnight-blue depths. He froze, hands fisting, unable to stop the sensation of the world fading away, the floorboards at his feet, the walls surrounding him, the children chattering.

  As if in silence, as if haloed by light, there were just the two of them. Just him. Just Mercy. The emotional distance separating them vanished. His fingers wanted to unclench and reach out for hers, to take her hands in his, to ease the pain of loneliness within his own soul.

  Fortunately he came to his senses in time, jerked away, turned his back and closed the door. George stared up at him, still wrestling with his second boot. Worry arched his brows and widened his eyes, as if he was frightened he hadn’t been fast enough.

  “It’s okay,” Cole soothed, knowing he’d turned away from the boy too quickly, but it wasn’t George he needed to get away from. A man had to protect himself. He’d gotten by this long without being close to a woman. He saw no reason for that to change now. “Your sock is bunched up. Pull it up straight and your foot should slide in.”

  “Okay.” George bent his head to the task, full of little-boy sweetness and intent. Task completed, he grinned and bounded to his feet.

  “Button up all the way,” he reminded the boy, opening the lean-to door for him. “It’s cold out there.”

  “I know, it’s not even melting.” The kid tromped down the steps and landed in the snow. “If it snows like that again, will Santa be able to come?”

  “Sure. Santa’s used to snow. He lives at the North Pole, remember?” Cole caught up to the boy, plowing side by side with him through the drifts. “Even if we get a bad storm on Christmas, he’ll make it through.”

  “If I were Santa, I’d have horses instead of reindeer,” George commented. Up ahead several horses poked their noses out of their stalls, curious to see what was going on. Howie’s golden nose was one of them. The gelding’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of the boy. Howie had a soft spot for kids, and came bounding into the snow, nickering an eager welcome.

  “Look, he likes me!” George clasped his hands together, overcome.

  Hard not to like this kid, Cole thought, chest aching. He laid a land on the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll put you on his back.”

  “Oh!” George trotted ahead, grabbed hold of a fence rung and pulled himself up to stand on the bottom of it. All the better to reach Howie, who arched his head over the fence, knocked George’s Stetson askew and nibbled the boy’s cheek with a horsey kiss.

  “I love you, too, Howie.” The boy’s delighted giggle filled long-broken places in Cole’s soul.

  Maybe that was why he could suddenly feel more sharply than ever the tangible touch of a gaze on his back, how he knew Mercy stood at the window watching him with her son. His response to her troubled him, but it didn’t stop him from turning nor did it stop the acres of snowy land from shrinking until it felt as if there were no distance between them at all.

  This connection to her wasn’t what he’d signed on for. This wasn’t what he wanted, he thought, jaw set, hands fisting, gaze connecting with hers. His pulse fluttered in recognition of her, and an unfamiliar peace came to his soul, healing him more. Emotion he couldn’t name gathered behind his eyes, burning and stinging. He felt her silence like singing. He jerked away, palms damp, the back of his neck sweating, needing the separation from her. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he feared what she silently wanted.

  Hadn’t he made it clear in the numerous letters they’d exchanged? Mercy knew that. She’d written as much, but while that assurance had mollified him at the time, he kept worrying about it now. A woman like Mercy could find love again. She was beautiful, kindhearted and grounded, but he wasn’t looking for an emotional attachment and never would be. He’d tried
that before and it had destroyed his heart. He forced his gaze to focus on George, who was busily chatting with Howie and stroking the gelding’s nose.

  “George, let’s get you up and riding.” He strode to the gate and unlatched it. Several horses rushed over, friendly brown eyes searching him for any signs of food or impending affection. He waved them back, gave Patty a shove, scrubbed Chester’s nose, chuckled at Polly’s antics, all the while aware of the small boy behind him, who was unsure at being surrounded by so many horses.

  “Don’t worry, they won’t trample you.” He caught the child’s gaze reassuringly. Funny how he remembered being younger than George, following his father into the corral for the first time. How enormous those horses had seemed back then. “They might give you a lot of kisses. And watch out, Polly will steal your hat. Wait, give that back, girl.”

  George laughed, which only encouraged the bay mare to lift the hat higher, gripped lightly between her teeth, and give it a shake in the air as if to say, come and get it.

  Ready to oblige, Cole scooped George up by the waist and held him high enough to grab his hat.

  Polly lifted her head higher, stretching her neck as far as it would go, happy eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “Hey!” George protested with a soft laugh. “Is she giving me sass?”

  “I think she is, buddy.” Cole meant to retrieve the hat for the boy, but Howie beat him to it. The big gelding moved in to bump Polly, a protective look dark in his gentle eyes. With a sigh, the game over, Polly lowered the hat into George’s outstretched hands.

  “Thank you, girl,” he said, earning a horsey grin from Polly and a nibbling kiss on his cheek.

  “That tickles.” George giggled. “I think she likes me, too.”

  “You are charming my horses, kid.” As he remembered those long-ago times, it was as if he could feel the soul of his father brushing close, feel the echo of his childhood with his pa. “You are a natural born horseman, George.”