Snowflake Bride. Jillian Hart
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making his lips vibrate disparagingly.
“See?” Lorenzo chuckled, and the sound was warm and homey, like melting butter on a stove. “If Poncho is upset, he will take it out on me all day long. You don’t want that for me, do you?”
“No, as Poncho looks like a terror.” The terror in question reached over to lip his master’s hat brim affectionately. Even the horse adored him. “I suppose one short, little ride won’t hurt. It’s only so I can sew.”
“Of course. That’s the reason I asked.” Lorenzo’s assurance came quick and light.
He must offer rides to stranded young ladies all the time. He was a gentleman. It was nothing personal, which made it easier to lay her palm on his.
A current of awareness telegraphed through her with the suddenness of lightning striking. The sweet wash of sensation was like a hymn on a Sunday morning. A sweetness she had no business feeling, though it brought her a gentle peace. She didn’t remember stepping forward or climbing into the sleigh. Suddenly, she was on the seat with him settled next to her and the steel of his arm pressed against hers.
How was she going to concentrate enough to sew?
“What happened to the horse you usually ride?” He snapped the reins gently. Poncho stepped forward, although the gelding swiveled his ears back, as if he wanted to hear the answer, too.
“Solomon threw a shoe, and I didn’t dare ride him.” She leaned forward to work on loosening her laces.
“It’s a long way to walk. Three miles or more.”
“I don’t mind. It’s a beautiful morning.” Soft, platinum curls, fallen loose from her plaits, framed her heart-shaped face and fluttered in the wind.
“It’s a cold morning,” he corrected gently, but she didn’t seem to see his point as she tugged off her shoe, shook off any melting pieces of snow and set it on her lap. He tried to think of a woman he knew who would walk three miles on a morning like this because it was better for her old horse. “You must really want the chance at the kitchen job.”
“Yes. I’m sure I’m not the only one. Work is hard to find these days. Pa is always talking about the poor economy.” She unwound a length of thread from a small wooden spool, her long, slender fingers graceful and careful.
Wishing swept through him as he studied her profile. Long lashes framed her light blue eyes. Her nose had a sweet little slope, and her gentle, rosebud mouth seemed to always hold the hint of a smile. The way her chin curved, so delicate and cute, made him want to run the pad of his thumb along the angle to see if her skin felt as soft as it looked. Every time he gazed upon her, tenderness wrapped around him in ever-strengthening layers. He had a fondness for Ruby Ballard, but he suspected she did not have one for him.
The sting pierced him, but he tried not to let it show. Never, not once, had he caught her glancing his way. A few times, he’d spotted her in town, but she was busily chatting with her friends or running her errands and did not notice him.
Then again, he had never been alone with her, and she was fairly new to town. She’d arrived late in the school year last year. He remembered the day. How quiet she’d been, settling onto her seat in the back of the school room. She hadn’t made a sound, but he’d turned in his seat toward her, unable to stop himself. To him, she was like the first light of dawn, like the first gentle notes of a song and he’d been captivated.
“Everyone is talking about the poor economy,” he agreed. The low prices of corn and wheat this last harvest had been a disappointment to his family and a hardship to many others. He didn’t have to ask to know her family had been hard hit, too. “Did your father find work in town?”
“How did you know he was looking?” She glanced up from threading her needle. Wide, honest eyes met his with surprise. “How do you know my father?”
“He came by during the harvest, looking for work. We had already filled our positions, or I would have made sure he had a job.” He knew how fortunate his family was with their plentiful material blessings. He had learned a long time ago wealth did not equate to the goodness inside a person and that everyone was equal in God’s eyes. Having money and privilege did not make someone better than those without. God looked at the heart of a person, and he tried hard to do the same. When Jon Ballard had come to ask for employment with hat in hand, Lorenzo had seen a decent, honest, hard-working man. “I gave him a few good recommendations around town. I had hoped it helped.”
“It didn’t, but that was nice of you, Lorenzo.”
“It was no problem.” The way she said his name tugged at his heart. He couldn’t deny he was sweet on the woman, couldn’t deny he cared. He liked everything about her—the way she drew her bottom lip between her teeth when she concentrated, the care she took with everything, including the way she set the button to the shoe leather and started the first, hesitant stitch.
Snow clung to her in big, fat flakes of fragility, turning the knit hat she wore into a tiara and decorating her light, gossamer curls framing her face. Snowflakes dappled her eyelashes and cheeks until he had to fight to resist the urge to brush them away for her.
“In other words, you are in serious need of employment.” He kept his tone light but determination burned in his chest.
“Yes.” She squinted to draw her needle through the buttonhole a second time. “My brother has found work in Wyoming. Pa is considering moving there.”
“Moving?” Alarm beat through him. “Is there work for him there?”
“No, but he has the hope for it.” Her rosebud mouth downturned, she fastened all her attention on knotting her thread. “I would have to go with him.”
“I see.” His throat constricted making it hard to speak, harder to breathe. “You don’t want to go?”
Please, say no, he thought. His pulse leaped, galloping as if he’d run a mile full out. It seemed an eternity until she answered, her voice as sweet as the morning.
“I’m happy here. I wish to stay.” She bit off the thread and bent her head to re-knot it.
I wish that, too. It wasn’t exactly a prayer, he did not believe in praying for himself, so it was for her happiness he prayed. Give her the best solution, Lord, he asked. Please. He had no time to add any thoughts because a shadow appeared through the gray veil of the storm, which had grown thick, blotting out all sign of the countryside and of the lamp-lit windows of the house that should have been in sight.
Poncho gave a short neigh, already anticipating the command before it happened. Lorenzo tugged briefly on the right rein anyway as the gelding guided the sleigh neatly around the figure. A woman walked up the lane, her head covered with a hood and her coat shrouded with snow. She glanced briefly at them, but he could not recognize her in the downfall. His first inclination was to stop and offer her a ride, too, but then he wouldn’t be alone with Ruby. He felt Poncho hesitate, as if the horse was wondering why he hadn’t been pulled to a stop.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ruby, head down, intent on sewing the final button as fast as she could go. This was his one chance, his one shot to be alone with her. He hoped that she might see something in him she liked, something that might lead her to say hello to him on the street the next time they met or to smile at him across the church sanctuary on Sunday. He gave the reins a sharp snap so Poncho would keep going. Up ahead, another shadow rose out of the ever-thickening curtain as the storm closed in.
“There. Done,” Ruby said with a rush and stowed away her needle and thread. “Just in time, too. There’s the house.”
“It was good timing,” he agreed as he slowed the gelding in front of the portico. The tall, overhead roof served as a shelter from the downfall. While she leaned forward to slip on her shoe, he drank in the sight of her until his heart ached. He didn’t know why she opened a place inside of him, a deep and vulnerable room he had not known was there.