Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set. Jillian Hart
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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.”
“I know how that feels.” He paused, letting the silence take over. But since it was broken by the rumbling of the teakettle, he got on his feet and rescued it from the stove top before it whistled and woke the boy. “When Alice passed, it was like the sun going out, never to shine again. I’ve been in the dark ever since.”
“That’s the first time you’ve talked about her.”
“I try not to.” Other than mentioning he was a widower, he’d purposefully avoided anything to do with Alice in his letters. It hurt too much. He grabbed the kettle’s handle with the hem of his shirt and carried it to the kitchen nook. The darkness in the room’s corner made it easier to open up. “She was my world. After the way I grew up—my father passed away from a field accident when I was about George’s age. Because of our financial situation, we were about to lose the farm, Ma had to remarry. She had nothing if she didn’t and three children to provide for. Her biggest fear was being homeless and us starving with no place to go. So she married a man from our church.”
“That had to be so hard for her, to marry without l-love.” Her words caught, as if she felt not only sympathy for his mother, but sadness for herself.
That’s when he knew for sure. He could feel it in his gut. Deep down, Mercy was hoping for a connection between them, for something more than a simple, courteous convenient marriage. Troubled, he measured tea into the ball, hands shaking. Tea leaves likely fell onto the small table, but it was too dark to see them. He dropped it into the teapot and reached for the kettle.
“It was a hard sacrifice Ma made.” He listened to the water pour, rushing into the pot. Telling by ear when it was full. He set the tea kettle aside, aching in a way he couldn’t describe. He hung his head, drew in a breath and hoped—no, prayed—he was wrong about Mercy’s hopes.
“The man Ma married was well-thought-of by many, but we saw his true colors.” He did his best to keep at bay those old memories of the scared and vulnerable boy he’d been, struggling to hide his wounds from his ma. “My stepfather was brutal. I was the oldest, so I made sure I bore the brunt of it.”
“To protect your younger siblings,” she said, as if she’d memorized every fact he’d ever written during their correspondence. Not only committed them to memory, but to her heart. Her caring warmed the air, drove back the shadows, made her lovelier than ever. “Is that why you are so good to George?”
“Partly.” He reached down a mug from the shelf and held himself very still. The truth—the admission—didn’t come easily. “Alice died in childbirth. Our son was stillborn. She lived long enough to see his face and then she was gone, too.”
“Oh.” Shocked silence followed. Mercy