Saran frowned at her father. "What am I going to do? I don’t believe there is anything I can do, Father. The man will not permit Daniel to come to our home for fear I’m waging some underhanded treason against his parenthood."
Her father nodded. "Perhaps they would enjoy having Christmas dinner with us? We could invite them. By the way, do we know where they are staying?”
Saran stared at her father, surprised by his sudden turn of thinking about the holidays. "Where? No, all I know is that they are staying with his uncle."
"Hmm, well, where does he work, then? Daniel told me today that his father reads very well and has taught him much of the basics in schooling."
Saran remembered the gutted fish smell as Brady held her at the docks. "I believe he works at the fish market, in one of the warehouses near the docks.”
"Fine.” He gave her a glance. “I’ll send Thomas out tomorrow. We’ll invite him and the boy to dinner, provided they aren’t already otherwise engaged."
Saran pulled the shawl from her shoulders and folded it carefully, laying it over the back of the chair. "If you wouldn’t mind, Father, I think I would like to go myself. I don’t wish Mr. McCormick to think that I am being insensitive to his circumstances. Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement about the boy coming here. I think it would be very good for him to have some structure, and I can use some help with errands. He’s a fine lad for company. Perhaps I could offer to tutor him.”
Her father’s silvery brows lifted. “Now, there’s a splendid idea. The boy’s a good lad, and there’s no doubt he would benefit from having you as tutor. Very well, then, I shall leave this matter in your hands, Saran. I’m heading to bed.” He looked over his shoulder as he started up the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late; you’ll want to be rested for battle tomorrow."
Saran gave him a look of warning, followed by a quick smile. She would show the narrow-minded Brady McCormick that women in America were different. A woman could have a productive life without the benefit of a husband. The idea that he felt she was prowling around looking to sink her claws into his readymade family made her furious. And even more frustrating was the fact that if she were looking for a husband, the pig-headed but soft-spoken and hard-working Brady McCormick would be exactly the kind of man she’d be looking for.
Chapter Six
"Good day, Mr. McCormick."
The cleaver barely missed his thumb. Brady slammed the giant knife on the table, forcing his racing heart back to a semblance of its normal pace. He steadied his hands on the butcher block and waited a moment before responding.
A week had passed since his last encounter with Saran Reichardt, and Brady had for the most part successfully managed to turn his thoughts to other things, except at night. Alone on his cot was when the loneliness assailed him. The bed linens, as cold as the frost on the windowpane, only accentuated his sequestered heart. Two years since Mary Margaret’s death and he’d not touched another woman. He could not forget the comfort of her arms after they’d made love.
"What are you doing here?" Her mere presence had all but stopped production in the warehouse. Dressed in a hunter green velveteen jacket and matching skirt, every curve was gloriously accentuated. Her dark hair was swept up beneath her hat and only the wispy tendrils brushing against her pale neck gave away that she’d ridden in an open carriage. The woman stood in chum and blood, amidst a stench that could turn the stomach of even the strongest of men, and yet she stood there as though she addressed a church social.
The fact that fifty pair of hungry male eyes—forty-nine, if you didn’t count Barney’s glass eye—were focused on her apparently left her unfazed.
Not so, Brady.
He pointed toward the door and followed her like some dutiful hen-pecked husband to the outer dock. There the men hauled the nets off the wagons, but at least they weren’t gawking. It was going to be hell with the ribbing he would take for the rest of the week.
"What in St. Michael’s holy name would prompt you to come down here? Are you alone? You do realize that this is not a safe place for a woman?" He searched her eyes, familiar now with the stubborn glint that he’d seen quite often in the short time he’d been in America. Brady held back a smile.
"Thomas is with me."
Brady glanced over at the elderly man standing in a military stance beside the carriage and turned his face to hide his grin. She’d have better luck with a mackerel as her defense. Poor chap was suckered into traipsing down here with little choice, he suspected. Brady looked up and met her steady gaze. “What is it you needed, Miss Reichardt?”
"Needed?” She sighed and glanced away for a moment as though summoning her thoughts. “I came because we parted last on somewhat less than pleasant terms, Mr. McCormick."
Brady scratched the back of his neck, eyeing her. Honestly, he didn’t care that they’d parted as they did. It was better and far less complicated than if he’d stayed. Truth was, he’d not meant to hurt her. But his priorities were to protect his son and maybe himself before things got too complicated. In lieu of explaining all of that, Brady instead offered a shrug. A shrug gave no indication one way or another of a man’s thoughts. She stared at him as though reassessing her strategy. Her look caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.
"Are you always so stubborn, Mr. McCormick?"
She tipped her head, studying him intently. Perhaps it was a womanly attribute as he’d seen the look on his Mary’s face more than once in their married life. "I’d say that I am a reasonable man, Miss Reichardt." Brady was not entirely sure where she was going with her line of thought.
"I see. Well, then, perhaps you’ll see the reason that my father and I invite you and Daniel to our home for Christmas dinner."
An image of the four of them seated at a sumptuously laden table, a fire crackling in the fireplace and the heavy scent of pine, flashed through his brain. "I cannot truly see reason why you would invite two strangers—foreigners, no less—into your home unless it is because you want to be charitable to those less fortunate during the season."
Her eyes widened in blatant astonishment. She took a step toward him, pushing her face to his.
He’d also seen that stance before from a perturbed Mary Margaret. "You, Mr. McCormick, are what we here in America call a snob." She poked his chest hard.
Brady took a step back and lost his footing on the edge of the dock. She reached out, catching his shirtsleeve, helping him to recover his balance. Unfortunately, it did nothing to recover his inner equilibrium. Who did this woman think she was, coming down here and making a spectacle in his place of work? Brady decided that the conversation was over. “Sticks and stones, Miss Reichardt,” he countered, unable to come up with anything better. He raised his brow purely in defiance.
She responded in kind, crossing her arms over her chest--apparently not picking up on the fact that he was finished. "Listen here, you stubborn, bull-headed oaf."
Oaf?
"I’ve no intent of trying to replace Daniel’s mother. The woman, God rest her soul, must have been a saint to put up with the likes of you.” She turned to leave and whirled on her heel, jabbing her finger at him. “And just for the record, I would sooner eat raw fish than to even attempt to find passage into that stone heart of yours." Picking up her skirts, she turned, heading down the steep, tiered stairs of the dock. Brady stepped forward, instinct pushing him to her aid. He held out his hand, and she batted it away. He heard her audible sigh as she looked back at him. "My father has invited you to our home for Christmas dinner. Four o’clock sharp, if you so choose. We would be delighted if you are not otherwise engaged." Her tone was as crisp as the air.
Brady knew she was lying through her teeth.
“Tell your father I appreciate his kind invitation, and we will add it to our list of options for the day." God in heaven, something about this woman sparked a challenge inside him every time they met. Perhaps it was the idea that another woman, so like his Mary Margaret in some
ways and yet nothing at all like her in others, had managed to worm her way into his life so quickly, so unexpectedly, leaving him in tangled knots. Only one woman, his wife, had ever accomplished that feat.
Her brows rose indignantly, twin dark arches over those angry violet eyes as she continued down the steps, her boots stomping with each step. Brady looked up, catching Thomas’s blithe expression. He shook his head.
Brady watched as the carriage pulled into the line of others in the street, a cold wind whipping his hair across his eyes, making him aware that he had been staring after her. He told himself that Thomas could just as easily given him the invitation to dinner, that she wouldn’t have had to make the trek down to the filthy docks herself. Brady turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. Was he imagining the tension that mounted every time they met? Imagined or not, he had to wonder if she’d had as many sleepless nights as he had since the day they’d met. His curiosity alone was enough for him to talk to Daniel and see how he felt about having Christmas dinner with the Reichardts.
“Christmas dinner with Miss Reichardt, Da?” His son sat at the end of the cot, hands folded in his lap.
“And her father,” Brady reminded his son. “Let me see your hands. Did you get them clean?” He checked the front and back as he’d so many times watched Mary do.
“Do you want to go, Da?” his son asked as he crawled into his cot and drew up the scratchy wool blanket.
Brady knelt at his son’s bedside and held Daniel’s palm against his own. “Look how you’ve grown, Daniel. I think at least an inch since we arrived here.”
“Da, you didn’t answer me.”
Brady knew that. “It isn’t a question of wantin’ to go or not, son.”
The boys face scrunched in a frown. “Then why don’t you want to go? You like Christmas, yeah?”
“Aye, it was your ma’s favorite time of year.”
Daniel’s gaze held Brady’s. He’d never seen such wisdom in a child’s eyes before. “I think Ma would want us to go.”
“You do, now?” Brady brushed a shock of hair from his son’s forehead. “Why don’t you ask her in your prayers, then?” Brady leaned over, brushing back the boy’s unruly brown hair, and kissed his temple.
“She likes Miss Reichardt, Da. If that’s your worry.” The boy turned on his back and stared up at him.
A painful sting attacked Brady’s eyes and he looked away, recovering before his son could notice. “Well, we’ll have to see how things go with work. They may not give the new man time off.” He tousled Daniel’s hair and swallowed the sob threatening to crawl up his throat. “G’night, Daniel. Peace be to ye.”
“And to ye as well, Da. It’s going to be a happy Christmas, you’ll see.” He turned over and snuggled beneath his covers.
Later that night, Brady stood outside the kitchen, staring up at the frozen sky, tears staining his cheeks. “Mary, if yer listening, let me know what I should do. I dunna want to forget what we had. I dunna want to forget you, my love.” He waited, listening to the wind whistle through the eaves of the house. The stars above shone bright in the dark night. His eyes stung from the cold. Brady hugged his arms and turned toward the door when he heard a faint sound. Barely discernable, he followed the pitiful noise and discovered a kitten shivering beneath an old watering can. He picked up the sorry animal and perched it in his giant palm, drawing it close to his chest. The poor thing was half-frozen, but Brady knew Uncle Stephen wouldn’t take kindly to an animal in his house. He slipped it between the layers of his shirts and tiptoed through the kitchen and next to Daniel’s bed.
Daniel stirred and came wide-awake at the sight of the small white bit of fluff. He looked up at Brady.
“Can we keep her, Da?”
Brady pressed his finger to his lips and, after he managed to find a small dish of cream and a bit of fresh fish he’d brought home, he sat down next to his son, content to watch the animal eat.
“It’s a miracle you found her, Da. She wouldn’t have made it without your help.”
“Aye, I suspect you’re right, son.” Brady scruffed the kitten’s ear and smiled when she lovingly curled her small body against his hand. “But I doubt Uncle Stephen will want to keep her,” Brady muttered more to himself than to Daniel.
“Miss Reichardt would take care of her, Da. I know it. We could give it to her for Christmas.” He yawned.
Brady stared at the kitten, still young enough that its eyes shone a bright blue. They reminded him of Mary’s. “There now, back to bed.” The kitten mewed incessantly until Brady placed her next to Daniel’s shoulder, where she curled into a ball, snuggling close to his cheek and fell asleep.
“I’m calling her Angel, Da. She’s our Christmas angel,” Daniel mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
The kitten peeked open her eyes, round and blue as a summer day. She looked at Brady. “Very well, then, we’ll see if Miss Reichardt believes in angels.”
***
The grandfather clock in the front hall chimed the three o’clock hour. Saran finished lighting the slender white candles tucked in her mother’s silver holders amidst the boughs of evergreen. She took a step back to admire the newly decorated mantel, thinking how pleased her mother would have been. Woven in her memories of the holiday was her mother’s ability to transform their home into a place of magic, warmth, and wonder.
All the boxes that she and Daniel had retrieved from the dusty attic over the past few days were now tucked away. Their contents—an array of Saran’s old toys and keepsakes—donned sprigs of evergreen and red ribbon as they sat in proud display in the front parlor.
"It all looks lovely, Saran. You mother taught you well. Since her passing, I’ve had no desire to celebrate this or any other holiday. I didn’t realize what I’d been missing—thank you."
Her father’s arm came around her shoulder and Saran pressed her face into the comfort of his shirt, allowing the dam of frustration that had been building inside of her to break. "There are times when I wish desperately that she were here to talk to. I had so many questions, so much I wanted to ask her about.” Saran sniffed, wiping her nose in an unladylike gesture with the back of her hand. Her father’s gentle hand stroked the back of her head as he held her close.
"Sssh now, the one thing I do know is she would have wanted for you to be happy at Christmas."
"I know, and I am truly grateful. It’s just that life can be so frustrating at times."
Her father nodded as he often did when unsure what to say.
"More precisely, men, present company excluded, can be…" Saran closed her eyes and took a deep breath, searching for the right words.
"Frustrating, stubborn oafs."
"Yes, exactly," Saran replied with a sniffle. She opened her eyes and realized the voice was not her father’s.
Her father brushed his fingers under her chin, and then glanced over at the man with his small son, standing hat in hand at the entry to the parlor.
He held out his hand to the boy. "Daniel, let’s go see if Estelle will allow us a taste of her special plum pudding.
“May I, Da?”
“Aye, son. Be mindful of your manners, then.”
“You won’t forget to give Miss Reichardt her gift?”
Saran glanced at Brady, seeing now the slight wiggle inside his jacket. Carefully, he drew out a scrawny white kitten. Dwarfed in his cupped hands, he held out the kitten to her. “Daniel thought you’d like her. He’s named her Angel, says she’s our Christmas angel.”
“If Da hadn’t found her then we might not be here for dinner,” Daniel piped up with an innocent smile.
Saran held the small bundle of fur and bone close to her and looked up at Brady. “I guess then she really is a Christmas angel, isn’t she?” She handed the kitten to Daniel.
“Come on, son. Let’s go see if we can find Angel some Christmas dinner,” her father nudged the boy toward the kitchen. Saran’s cheeks warmed as she realized that her father was purposely trying to give th
em some time alone. He paused though at the door. “My daughter tells me you’re a hard worker, McCormick. I could use a man with your determination at the paper. We’ll discuss it over dinner, if you’re interested.”
“Aye, thank you, sir,” Brady responded.
“And we’ll discuss getting your son enrolled in school, as well.” He messed Daniel’s hair with a friendly hand. “By the way, Saran is one of New York’s finest teachers.”
Brady’s gaze swung to hers. “I’m not at all surprised to hear that, sir.”
Her father looked from one to the other. “New blood, that is what’s going to keep this country young. Now, you two young people have a lot to talk about, I wager.”
"You’ll be okay then, Da?" The boy asked, giving his father a wary look.
Brady nodded, handing his coat and Daniel’s to Thomas, who stood by patiently waiting. “Happy Christmas, Thomas,” he told the man, then addressed his son. "I promise to behave."
“Happy Christmas, sir,” the old man replied in monotone.
"Good." Daniel broke free of her father’s grasp and ran to Saran, wrapping his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly. "Happy Christmas, Miss Reichardt."
Saran swallowed the lump in her throat. "Happy Christmas, Daniel," she whispered quietly against the top of his head.
Daniel looked up, his eyes dancing. “Be patient with my Da, Miss Reichardt. He means well,” the boy whispered in her ear.
She nodded and watched him skip to her father’s side, taking his hand. The sight of the two of them walking together warmed her heart.
Aware that he was staring at her, Saran glanced at Brady. His presence was formidable enough, but freshly shaven and donning a dark gray wool jacket and pants he was to be avoided like a poison. She dabbed the corner of her eyes with her fingertips and pressed her teeth to her lips to return some semblance of color to her face.
"Daniel told me about your mother. I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me not to notice,” Brady said.
The Promise Page 4
