Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set

by Jillian Hart

  “I am?” Pleased, the boy’s grin was powerful enough to change the air, warm the winds and burrow into Cole’s heart.

  Howie, ready to do his horsey duty, shouldered Polly out of the way completely. No one was going to get his boy, apparently. The gelding stood expectantly as Cole hefted the child onto the horse’s back. Howie nodded with approval and crooked his neck far enough around to check on the boy, as if to make sure he was sitting snug and holding on.

  “See that clump of hair at the bottom of the mane?” Cole leaned in. “That’s right. Hold on tight. It won’t hurt him.”

  “I’m really doing it.” No one in the history of time had ever grinned as widely or as joyfully as George as he seized a handful of mane, vibrating with excitement, ready to ride. “I’m on my very own horse. I’m riding him.”

  “That’s right. Now sit up straight, grip him just a little with your knees, enough that you don’t fall off.” Cole made sure George was sitting well enough before taking hold of Howie’s halter. Howie stood tall and still, full of pride and concern. Perhaps it was good for the old horse to feel loved and needed again. Every soul longed for that.

  Even his own? Cole wondered, glancing over his shoulder. Mercy was gone from the window and he felt bereft, as if missing her. Which was ridiculous, he told himself with a wince. He was never traveling down that treacherous path again. He wasn’t equipped to do it. He didn’t have enough heart to give. He couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her.

  Howie blew out his breath, impatient to move. George looked ready to burst, waiting for the horse’s first step. Cole clucked, tugging gently on the rope bridle and remembering that father-and-son moment when Pa had been the one holding the bridle, leading the horse, and he’d been the boy riding for the first time. Like his own father had done, Cole kept a hand on George’s knee and kept it there, making sure the boy didn’t slide or fall.

  “What do you think, kid?” he asked, already knowing the answer as Howie ambled along, ears pricked, turning his head to keep an eye on the boy, too.

  “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me!” George looked giddy. He was an entirely different child. Unspoken were the things Cole had read between the lines in Mercy’s letters, the things she hadn’t said. All the opportunities George never had with no father to provide and to be there for him, all the hardships and penny-pinching and doing without.

  Well, that had changed for good, Cole thought, fonder of the boy than he’d ever imagined he could be. “Hey, you really are a natural. You haven’t slipped even once.”

  “I must be really good at this.”

  “Yes, you are, George.” Cole assured him, remembering how his father had done the same for him. “Let’s go faster. Are you ready?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Cole broke into a lope, and Howie smoothly transitioned into a slow cantor. The rocking movement didn’t unseat the boy, although he slipped a little. Cole kept a good hold on his knee, keeping him in place.

  “Ma! Do you see me?” George squealed with glee. “Look!”

  “I see,” sang a sweet voice, carried by the wind. “Is that a real cowboy, or is that you, George?”

  “It’s me!”

  Mercy’s burst of laughter, soft and sweet, threatened to undo him, to reach deep inside him and slip past his defenses. She was somewhere behind him on the hill, perhaps trudging through the snow to watch her son’s first ride. She couldn’t know what her presence did to him, how it threatened to crack his heart, the glacier it had become. He wished he had more to give her, that he was a better man. Focusing on the horse and boy, guiding Howie away to the far side of the corral, he hoped the distance would help.

  It didn’t. She filled his senses. The dainty crunch of snow beneath her boots, the rustle of her petticoats in the wind. The trill of her laughter, as sweet as lark song; her praise of George’s riding skills, as gentle as a hymn. She was a splash of color against the white, wintry world. Golden hair, rosebud cheeks, flashing blue eyes, matching blue skirts, brown coat, purple flower on her hat. Color and life, in a way there had been none before.

  And in one gloved hand, she pulled a rope attached to the front of Amelia’s sled—the sled he’d forbidden the girl to use. The sled she’d bought off the Gable boy at school one day and hidden for two weeks before, while out on a delivery, Cole had spotted her speeding down Third Street with the boys. The outrage still haunted him, flaring to life when he realized Amelia traipsed behind Mercy, instructing her on the best way to ride on a sled.

  His feet stopped moving while he stared in disbelief, not comprehending what his eyes were seeing. Howie halted, keeping an eye on the boy, as Mercy lifted her hand in a wave, flashed him a smile and sat down on the sled. His jaw dropped as Amelia gave a running push, let go, and Mercy—prim-and-proper Mercy, the lady he’d expressly chosen to be a model of female propriety and decorum—gave a whooping laugh as she raced down the slope, hair and skirts flying, a colorful, laughing blur against the white.

  “Wow!” Amelia bellowed when Mercy had stopped at the bottom of the slope. His daughter cupped her hand to her mouth. Surely something she’d learned from the boys. “You went a lot farther than I usually do. That’s like a record.”

  “That really was fun!” Mercy popped off the sled, brushed snow off her skirts, as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with her behavior. “I can see why you like it so much. George will like this, too, I think—”

  She paused, as if aware of his glowering and glanced his way. He must be frowning fiercely again, because her face paled. She fell silent, her eyes rounding. He didn’t remember lifting George to the ground or crossing the field, only that he was ducking between the fence rungs and plowing fast and hard through snow up to his knees.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, letting anger take over, letting it fill him. It was better than the other things threatening to take him over. Tension coiled through him, snapping his jaw muscles tight, so tight it was hard to speak. “I told Amelia she was never to touch that sled again.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” Mercy took a step back, studying him as if debating whether, in his anger, he was capable of hurting her or not. Then her chin went up, as if she was a lot stronger than she looked. “You mentioned not liking that she rode her sled in town, where everyone could see. I didn’t think way out here that it would matter. It’s just the four of us.”

  “It matters,” he ground out, his outrage losing steam because there was no way she could know the true reason behind his anger. And because he had that rule about keeping the past where it belonged, he hadn’t told her. He was afraid of failing his daughter, of not raising her in the proper way. Angry with himself now, he realized he was towering over the woman and took a step back. “This isn’t good for her, Mercy. Surely, as a mother, you know that.”

  “See, if you wanted to make me mad at you, you have succeeded.” Her chin ticked up a notch higher, her dark blue eyes snapping fire. “I fail to see the harm. Sledding is actually quite fun. I intend to do it again, after Amelia takes her turn.”

  “She’s not taking a turn. She’s not riding that sled.”

  “Fresh air and exercise is good for a girl,” Mercy told him. “It’s not fair that you and George get to be out here riding the horses and we can’t. Hmm, maybe what we need is a sidesaddle.”

  “I see what’s going on.” He glanced up the hill, where Amelia was shading her eyes with her hands, intent on watching what was going on down below. “You two are ganging up against me.”

  “Not at all.” Mercy’s hand lit on his upper arm, a familiar, bridging touch, one meant to calm him down. It did. Her touch radiated something that soothed, a special, unnameable something that made him lean in, that made his entire being wish for what he could not have.

  He stood there, mouth open, mind blank, not at all sure how to summon up one single word in protest because his brain had simply stopped working. Gaping like a fish out of water—like a man move
d by a woman’s caring touch—he watched Mercy turn on her heel, dragging the sled up the slope after her.

  Tiny, airy flakes of snow chose that moment to come tumbling down, brushing his cheek, clinging to the sleeve where she’d touched him. The sensation of connection, of her caring concern for him, lingered.

  It did not fade.

  Chapter Seven

  “Here are some things for George.” Cole’s voice echoed in the stairwell outside her rooms above the store. He hesitated in the night shadows, as if a part of them, head down, staring at the floor. Looking as if stepping into the light was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Things?” she asked quietly, curious, closing behind her the door to the bedroom where George slept. “What have you done for him now?”

  “Picked out some clothes from the shelves downstairs.” With a shrug, Cole shouldered into the room awkwardly and held out several folded pieces of clothing. “I noticed his things were starting to wear out. Guessing they were hand-me-downs.”

  “Yes.” From the church donation barrel back home. Those pesky tears returned, burning her eyes and blurring her vision. She blinked them away, stepping toward him, close enough to see the dark stubble on his jaw from a day’s growth. Her fingers itched to touch him there, to feel the rasp against her fingertips. It was foolish to want to get closer to him, this man who’d been clear he wanted none of that. So she squared her shoulders, tamped down the wish and took the stack of clothes he offered her.

  “Brand-new.” She stroked the flannel shirt, blue to match George’s eyes. There were a week’s worth of shirts, she noticed, and denim trousers to match. Her chest ached at Cole’s thoughtfulness. “George will be thrilled. Thank you for this, for providing for him.”

  “Just keeping my bargain.” Cole dipped his chin in an awkward bob, as if there were far more feelings behind those words than he chose to admit. “Boys his age grow like weeds. He may need underthings and socks. You can choose from the shelves downstairs, whatever he needs. Just let me or Eberta know what you take for inventory purposes.”

  “I will.” It was very generous of him to think of so many new things for George. “This is nice of you considering I have the feeling you are upset with me. Over the sled.”

  “Yes, I had hoped you would side with me on the sled issue.” He ambled past her and squatted in front of the cold, dark potbellied stove. The door opened with a squeak. “Guess I misjudged the kind of woman you are.”

  “Oh.” His words hit her particularly hard. He’d been pleasant but reserved through the afternoon and over a warmed-up supper of stew Emmylou had made the night before. But, she realized, the children had been around them. Now it was only the two of them. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed in me, but I can’t go against what I believe is right.”

  “Oh, that girls need fresh air and exercise, too?” He arched a dark brow at her, reaching for the fireplace shovel. “A nice walk wouldn’t have been better?”

  “It certainly wouldn’t have been as much fun.” She bit the inside of her lip, trying to figure out just how mad he was. Remembering how angry he’d been when he’d marched over to her in the pasture, she realized now that his upset hadn’t blown over. He hadn’t let it go. What she needed to do was reassure him. “You don’t need to bother with the stove. It’s just me, and I don’t need a fire.”

  “So this is how you made ends meet, did you?” He ignored what she had to say and stirred the embers until they glowed bright red. He added a handful of kindling from the nearby wood box. “Once your son was warm in bed, you’d let the fire go out and sit in the freezing cold?”

  “Until bedtime. To save on the cost of fuel,” she said, her cheeks heating. “It was financially prudent.”

  “In my house, that’s not the way it works.” He sounded angry again, his granite shoulders tensing as he watched the tiny flames flicker and dance. “You’ll keep the fire burning until your bedtime. You’ll do what I ask this time, or I’ll put an end to the sledding.”

  As if curious about her reaction, he cut his gaze to her, studying her briefly out of the corner of his eye. Their gazes met and she felt her heartbeat pause, as if it were about to cease all together.

  “You strike a hard deal, Cole,” she told him, understanding dawning. He wasn’t without a heart, not at all. “I’ll agree to your terms.”

  “Good.” He added small pieces of wood and, satisfied, closed the door. “At this point I wouldn’t want to send you back to North Carolina. I’m rather fond of George.”

  He looked away, pushed off the floor and rose to his impressive six-foot height. The silence as he brushed moss and bark off his hands said more than his words ever could. His affection for George had won her devotion. He’d spent the entire afternoon teaching the boy how to ride, saddle and rein, and after supper the pair had disappeared into the barn to clean stalls and care for the horses.

  “I’m rather fond of Amelia,” she confessed and went quiet, too, letting her silence say much, much more.

  “I’m glad.” He cleared his throat and finally spoke, though he looked unsure of himself. It was endearing that for all his strength and size, he was basically shy. Why that stole her heart just a bit, she couldn’t say, either.

  He reached for the broom, but she beat him to it. He raised one eyebrow and his face turned to stone. She was starting to recognize his angry look.

  “This is the least I can do for the man who built the fire for me.” She seized the broom and swept the small amount of debris into a tidy pile. “You’re going to have to get used to me doing things for you, too. I understand that it’s going to be a challenge for you, as I’ve been alone for so long, as well.”

  “I see.” His gaze raked over her face, and she shivered. Perhaps from the cold air, for the fire in the stove was not strong enough to begin heating the place. He sounded amused as he grabbed the nearby dustpan and knelt to hold it in place for her. “You would have been happy never marrying again?”

  “It probably seems that way.” She swept, sending the tiny pieces of moss and bark into the dustpan. “I would have preferred to marry, but finding someone who would be good to George was a problem.”

  “You had offers?” He rose, emptied the pan in the wood box.

  “Several. We lived in a very small town, but every widower who came along asked for my hand.” For once she was with someone who could understand her choices, unlike her friends and coworkers who’d been critical of her decisions. “One was a man who had a farm to work and five daughters. He said he’d take me on as a wife because of George, who could learn to do the work of a man in the fields.”

  “That’s terrible.” Cole took the broom from her and put it away, sympathy knelling low in his voice. “But I know men like that. They use their children as free labor.”

  “Yes, and that’s not what I wanted for George. Better that I work long hours and have my great-aunt watch him than to expose him to that heartache.” She felt surprised when Cole reached for her elbow, guiding her to the sofa, gesturing for her to sit. It had been a long time since a man had shown genuine caring for her. She settled on the cushion, telling him what she’d never told anyone. “That wasn’t the worst offer I received. A salesman, who came through town regularly and stayed at the hotel where I worked, offered to make me his wife if I left George behind. Apparently he wasn’t interested in raising another man’s son. Nothing but trouble, he said.”

  “With offers like that, no wonder you were cautious with me. I was cautious, too.” He shook the teakettle on the stove, listened for the sound of water in it and carried it to the kitchen nook. “It took you and me writing over a dozen letters each to reach this point. I’ve learned from several of my customers most folks in a mail-order situation just write a few times.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, too, but we have children. We had to be sure.” She watched in amazement as Cole filled the kettle from the water pitcher. Timothy had never done such a thing, nor had any man she’d heard
of. But there he was, standing in the shadows, doing something for her. “How about you? I told you my stories. It’s only fair you do the same.”

  “Oh, I asked a few stern-looking widows before resorting to writing an advertisement,” he confessed, carrying the kettle to the stove. He set it down with a clunk. “They were all horrified. Of me, or wild Amelia, I’ve never been sure.”

  “It was you,” she assured him, laughing for no reason at all. “Amelia is a gem.”

  “Right.” Humor lit his face, softening the chiseled planes of his cheekbones and the carved line of his mouth. It drove away the shadows from his eyes, leaving a sincere openness in those depths of blue. For an instant he looked approachable, unguarded. He settled on the sofa beside her. “Yes, it must have been me. I’m told I’m a difficult man.”

  “No. Not difficult.” She wanted to lay her hand on his sleeve, to bridge the distance between them, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d never felt so close, so real. She rather liked this man. A whole lot. “Life has dealt you a blow, that’s all. Sometimes we’re never the same afterward.”

  “No, we’re not.” The muscles in his jaw worked. He leaned forward, away from her, planting his elbows on his knees, hands to his face. He took a moment, breathed in and out. “You must have loved your husband very much.”

  “I did. I married him when I was seventeen, starry-eyed and full of dreams.” She hardly recognized that girl she’d been, standing at the front of the church with her friends and family watching, vowing to honor the dashing farmer who’d stolen her heart. “I was more in love with him than he was with me, I’m afraid. It took me a while to learn to see the real man, instead of the one I’d wanted to see.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He pulled his hands away from his face and straightened, his empathetic gaze searching hers. “I just assumed you had a happy marriage.”

  “I did, for the most part, but Timothy had his struggles.” She stared at her hands, too, hesitating. “I loved him. I was devastated when he died.”