Mail-Order Mistletoe Brides. Jillian Hart
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sensible, and heaven knew that was exactly what his daughter needed. Curbing Amelia’s unladylike behavior was the true reason he’d agreed to marry a complete stranger. Every woman he’d approached in town either laughed at his convenient marriage proposition or gaped at him with horror.
At least he hoped Amelia was the reason those women had looked at him that way.
“I’ll take over, boss.” Middle-aged and efficient Eberta Quinn bustled over in her sensible brown frock. “I’ll finish wrapping Mrs. Wolf’s packages.”
As Lanna hurried off to her next shopping errand, other customers piled in. They all had that hungry look, since Christmas was a handful of days away. Cole frowned, debating. “It’s getting busy. I don’t want to miss an opportunity for a sale. I should stay. Maybe—”
“No,” Eberta scolded him, shaking her head. “I know it’s a good time for business, but if you don’t meet that lady at the train, what will she think? It will make a bad impression.”
“This is a marriage of convenience.” He’d been clear about that in his advertisement and in the many letters he’d exchanged with Mrs. Mercy Jacobs. “She’s hardly expecting a bouquet and courting words. She’d likely appreciate a friendly greeting. Perhaps you could do it.”
“Pa.” Amelia stepped in, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at him as if she wasn’t surprised by this at all. “For once, leave the shop to Eberta. This is really important.”
It wasn’t the shop he cared about as much as the fact that he wasn’t so good at relationships. On this side of the counter, he understood his role. He felt comfortable with it. Greeting customers, totaling up purchases, helping people find what they were looking for. This was a transaction he understood.
His true worry that he would disappoint Mercy Jacobs, the woman who’d traveled so far with the heartfelt promise to love his daughter. What if she was secretly hoping for some semblance of a real marriage? What if she’d been wishing for a man capable of loving her?
His heart had been broken so long ago, and he couldn’t even remember when it had been whole.
A whistle sounded in the distance, faint through the walls of the shop.
“It’s coming! We need to hurry.” Amelia’s much smaller hand crept into his. “Oh, I can’t wait to meet my new mother.”
She held on so tight, the way she used to do when she was small.
It was a reminder that she was still a little girl, that while she’d grown tall and slender, she absolutely needed the woman who would be getting off that train.
* * *
“Angel Falls, next stop!” The conductor’s friendly voice boomed through the car.
A frantic flutter of heartbeats tapped against her sternum. Mercy drew in a slow breath, trying to steady her nerves. This was the moment of truth. When she discovered whether everything Cole Matheson had written about his town, his daughter and himself were true. Her palms went clammy as she worried for her son. How would George feel if Mr. Matheson wasn’t the man he claimed to be?
She smoothed down the boy’s flyaway cowlick, willing it to stay down for a good first impression. Just trust in the Lord, she told herself. Trust the feelings and the signs that have brought you here.
“Look, Ma!” George went up on both knees, struggling to get a good view as the train started its slow descent on the town. “There’s horses in that field. Horses.”
“So I see.” She leaned in, love in her heart for her son, daring to hope for him. “Look at them run.”
“They’re racin’ the train. Wow.” George pressed his nose against the glass, hungry to lap up the sight of the majestic creatures in shades of blacks and browns galloping against the snowy-white world. His boyish shoulders lifted up with satisfaction. “What if those are Mr. Matheson’s horses? What if one of ’em will be mine?”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She let her son dream, her sweet good boy, giving thanks for the man who’d promised to give George one of his horses and riding lessons. Everything George had been dreaming. Her throat closed up tight. She needed to believe Cole was a man who kept his promises. Her late husband, Timothy, had meant well, but he hadn’t been so good with that. She hoped history wasn’t about to repeat itself.
A touch on her sleeve caught her attention. The conductor stood there, smiling down at her, his gray hair peeking out from beneath his cap. “I’ll get your satchels for you, ma’am. You have your attention full with your fine son.”
“I’m gonna learn to ride like a real cowboy.” George beamed, his grin ear to ear, his button face flushed pink with pleasure. Why, she’d never seen his navy blue eyes so bright.
She didn’t know what she’d do if Cole Matheson let him down. Tears burned behind her eyes at the thought and she smiled weakly up at the conductor. “Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“My pleasure.” The kindly man set both her and George’s satchels on the floor at her feet. “I see you’re wearing your mistletoe.”
“I pinned it on. I need all the help I can get.” She tried to laugh to hide her reservations, but she feared she didn’t quite succeed.
Something that looked like understanding flashed in the older man’s eyes. The anxious flutter in her chest doubled. So much depended on this first meeting. She thanked the conductor, who moved along to help another passenger with her bags, and looked out the window with George.
It does look like a friendly town, she thought over the squealing sound of the brakes. She drank in the sight of tidy streets, the white steeple of a church spearing up over the storefronts and the school bell tower not far away. The train made a final jerk to a stop, and the depot’s platform stretched out before them. A half-dozen people waited for the train, searching the windows anxiously as if eager to be reunited with loved ones—all except for one man.
He was brawny, muscled and tall. His black Stetson tilted to cover half of his face. What she could see was his strong, square jaw, a chiseled mouth that naturally drew into a straight, stern line, and a dimple carved into an angled chin. This man stood apart from the others, staring at the plank boards in front of his black cowboy boots. Maybe in his mid-thirties, she guessed. He wore denims, a black duster and a look of resignation.
As if he felt her scrutiny, he lifted his head higher, knuckled back the brim of his hat to reveal a granite face, high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. Across the distance, their gazes met and she felt the shock of it strike through her like a lightning bolt. All the way to her soul.
Cole Matheson, she thought, beyond all doubt. And by the look of him, he really was a cowboy. All he was missing were spurs.
That was a good sign, right? He hadn’t exaggerated that piece, anyway. Hopes for her son broke loose and she smiled, truly smiled.
Maybe it was another sign—and not a good one—that Cole Matheson didn’t smile back.
Chapter Two
“Pa! Do you see her?” Amelia bounded ahead of him, skirts and wild strawberry hair batted by the icy wind.
“Yes, I see her.” He swallowed hard against a thickness in his throat, surprised to hear his voice strained and not sounding at all like his own. Through the glazed glass, the prim-and-proper lady was shadowed, hardly more than an outline of a colorful hat and the delicate curve of cheek and chin. Eyes too far away to see the color through the glass fastened on his, and he felt the plea and worries as if they were his own. As hard as this was for him, he thought with a sigh, it had to be the same for her.
This was the moment of truth. Resigned and grim, he squared his shoulders and marched forward like a dutiful soldier. He was about to find out if this mail-order marriage idea was a mistake or a solution.
“Oh, she’s pretty. That has to be her.”