Mail-Order Christmas Brides: Her Christmas Family / Christmas Stars for Dry Creek

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“So you do the cooking.” The picture was coming clear. Tate standing at the stove, trying to do both the work of a mother and a father. “I thought maybe Ingrid did.”

“No. My sister has her own life. I do my best not to impose on her.” The words lashed and he winced. Obviously he hadn’t meant to be harsh. “Sorry. It’s an argument in my family. They did so much for Gertie while I was…away.”

He choked on that last word, and Felicity wondered why. Sorrow filled the air. She wanted to know what had happened but now wasn’t the time. She would leave that sadness for another day. “I hope you don’t mind if she and I are friendly. I’ve been without my sisters for so long I ache for that connection again. When I met her, I thought perhaps we could be close, like real sisters should be.”

“I’m sure she will like that.” One corner of his mouth curled upward. Bleakness faded from his eyes’ midnight-blue depths. “Ingrid has been nearly as excited by your arrival as Gertie is. My sister will probably want to drag you with her to her social events. I don’t have a problem with that. You should make friends here.”

“Oh. Friends.” She hadn’t thought that far. Suddenly a whole new world opened up to her. The lonely existence she’d left behind faded. She was no longer alone. Did Tate realize what he had done for her?

“It must be hard leaving everything behind.” He peered at her from behind his dark lashes. “And everyone.”

“There was no one left, not toward the end. The friends I’d made at work left town when they lost their jobs. The relationships I’d made at the orphanage didn’t last. Most of the girls I grew up with were eager to put the past behind them and went somewhere else to start fresh.” She shrugged. Staying had been her choice, so it wasn’t a sad thing. “I wasn’t able to let go.”

“What work did you do?”

“I’m a seamstress.” She liked that he wanted to know about her. Surely that was a good sign? He was reaching out to her and it made the small hope within her grow. “When I was a girl, I was hired out one summer to sew in a workshop in Cedar Rapids. It was an unpleasant circumstance, but I worked hard at learning the craft. When I was sent back to the orphanage in September, I had the skills I needed to find a job when I was old enough.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven. And that’s just what I did. I worked hard to improve my sewing and when I was on my own, I worked in a dress shop making beautiful things.”

“That explains your clothes. That’s no calico work dress.”

“I wanted to make a good impression, so you wouldn’t take one look at me and wish me back on that train.” Her smile wobbled, though she tried to hide it. Guilt hit him because that was just what he’d wanted.

Not anymore. He took another bite of a delicious biscuit and followed it up with a flavorful mouthful of potato and gravy. Hard to swallow past the lump in his throat but he managed it. Felicity Sawyer was not what she seemed, not at all. His daughter had done a fine job picking out a ma. He wasn’t much of a provider, probably wouldn’t be much of a husband, but he vowed to do his best.

Gertie wasn’t the only one who deserved it.

“Do you know what time it is?” Felicity studied Gertie over the rim of her teacup. The meal was nearly done, Tate polished off the last biscuit on his plate and she recognized the girl’s fidgety excitement on her seat.

“Is it present time?” She lost the battle and bobbed off her chair. The question furrowed her dear brow and pleaded like a wish in her eyes. Such an adorable child. Felicity felt as if she’d always loved her.

“I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait a moment longer. Let’s go fetch your gifts.” She set down her cup with a clink, rising to her feet. Aware of Tate’s steady gaze, she dropped the napkin onto the table and followed Gertie’s dancing steps from the lighted room.

The farthest door opened into a small bedroom. Inky hints of a headboard and a window were all she could see before her right shoe bumped against her trunk. Surely there had to be a lamp here somewhere. She heard Tate’s boots approach, illumination spilled into the room bobbing closer as he did and her surroundings came to life. A bed against one wall, a shabby chest of drawers against another and a pair of muslin curtains, that was all. Not even an extra lamp.

“I put your gift right on top.” Felicity knelt beside her trunk, where Gertie already waited, squirming with anticipation, and worked the latch on the lid. “I started making it as soon as I read your first letter. That’s how much I liked you.”

Anticipation beat, making her hand tremble and her pulse thumped, heavy and syrupy in her veins as she opened the lid. Tate leaned in with the lamp and set it on the chest of drawers behind her. His nearness shrank the room and made skittles on her skin, like a summer breeze blowing.

“Felicity, is that really for me?” The girl gasped, unbelieving.

She opened her mouth but no answer came. She had lost every word she knew. Was it because of the solemn man towering over her? He was enormous from this vantage, sculpted muscle and powerful masculinity, a mountain of a man made of granite. His face was a mask of rock but his gaze softened when he looked into the trunk. His eyes turned glassy, as if overcome with emotion.

“Is she really mine?” Gertie repeated, as if certain she was dreaming. As if the gift could not be real.

“She’s yours. I didn’t name her. I thought you could do that. Go ahead and hold her.”

“Oh. She’s beautiful.” Golden ringlets bounced as the girl bent down to gather the cloth doll into her arms like a mother holding a new baby. She simply stared into the doll’s face, taking in the embroidered rosebud mouth and blue button eyes.

“I wanted her to look like you.” She couldn’t resist brushing back a wayward ringlet, as soft as the finest silk. Love for this precious girl deepened. “I didn’t know if you already had a doll.”

Gertie shook her head, curls bobbing, and the silence became sorrow. The same emotion etched into Tate’s stony features. When his gaze captured hers, his stoniness eased. He nodded once, his appreciation clear.

She wasn’t aware of removing another gift from the trunk or rising to face the man. The force in his eyes held her captive, impossible to look away. The hook in her heart deepened, its grip on her secure. Why did it feel as if she were falling? She stood perfectly straight, her balance was just fine. Yet the room tilted until the only steady thing was Tate’s midnight gaze holding her in place.

“This is for you.” Her hands felt disconnected from the rest of her as she held out the woolen bundle. When his eyes broke from hers to study the gift she offered him, she felt oddly bereft, alone and full of loss. As if without the binding connection of his gaze, she was no longer the same, no longer whole. The room stopped whirling. The ground steadied beneath her feet. Uncertainty wound through her as Tate’s rocky mask returned. So remote, she could not read his reaction.

Did he not like the scarf? She’d knitted it during the empty hours after supper and before bed, needles clacking, wondering about the man she was making it for. “I guessed at the color. I didn’t know what you liked.”

“It will do.” His baritone grated, rough and hard as if he were angry but that wasn’t the emotion creasing his face. The show of feeling was brief before it vanished. “I appreciate it.”

“I hoped the blue would match your eyes.” She felt inadequate standing before him and she didn’t know why. Perhaps she’d secretly wished the gift of a scarf would break the ice between them, take them from being strangers to something more friendly.

“I have nothing to give to you.” Apology cracked the crevice of stone. Another clue to the mystery of the man.

“Nothing?” Couldn’t he see what he’d done? “You bought me a train ticket. You brought me here. I will have a whole new life and a family because of you.”

“You aren’t disappointed?” He folded the scarf, concentrating on the task, ill at ease. “This can’t be what you expected.”

“No.” Her loving gaze fell on Gertie, still kneeling on the floor. “It’s a great deal more than I’d hoped.”

“You are, too.” The words made him feel way too vulnerable and he knew he was heading for trouble. There could be no tie between him and the woman. Just a convenient arrangement for the child’s sake. But he wanted Felicity to know she was wanted here. For what she’d already done for Gertie, she’d earned his devotion. Likely as not, her opinion of him would change over time when she heard the rumors about him and learned they were largely true.

But for now he let her smile wash through him, as rare as a Christmas star. He knew God looking down from His heaven had not forgotten Gertie. Tate was grateful. The child tipped her face up to beam at her new mother.

“Thank you so, so much.” Eyes brimming, the girl hugged the doll tight. “I will love her forever.”

He took his leave, swallowed hard against the painful lump lodged in his throat and headed for the chair by the fire. He had work waiting, something to keep his mind busy and his thoughts on the practical. He was no dreamer. Life had taught him the hard way dreams were for the foolish. Once he’d been a fool dreaming of happiness, seeing the best in folks, even where it could not possibly exist. He paid a high price for that lesson he must never forget.

Not even a beautiful woman and her gift of a rag doll with yarn hair and a pink calico dress could make him believe. How could she have known about the doll? He stared at the scarf clutched in one hand, the yarn soft and warm. Voices lifted and fell cheerfully as the females discussed one dress after another while unpacking that heavy trunk. He didn’t have to look to know Gertie still clutched her doll in both arms good and tight, as if it were the grandest treasure in all the world.

He wrapped the length of wool around his neck. Soft, it smelled faintly of roses, the way Felicity did. His chest tangled into a thousand knots as he shrugged into his coat and closed his ears to the sound of the woman’s gentle laughter. But it was too late. The trill of happiness echoed inside him, in the places so empty not even his soul could live there.

He opened the door and took refuge in the dark, in the cold that froze the feeling from his face and fingers, and in the night that cloaked him. Like a ghost, he trudged across the road, surrounded by darkly gleaming snow and a faint echo of her laughter that clung inside him and refused to let go.

Chapter Five

Would Tate come back? Felicity held the plate up to catch the lamplight, gave it a final swipe with the soapy cloth and, satisfied, swirled it around in the rinse basin. It clinked lightly to a rest on top of the others. Alone in the main room, she glanced toward the door. He wasn’t a talkative fellow, so perhaps he’d gone across the street for the night and she would need to bank the fires. Surely he would be returning for breakfast in the morning?

She turned to scoop the potato pot into the wash basin. Water splashed and sloshed as she scrubbed at the mealy residue left along the sides of the pan. Gertie slept with Merry, her doll, tucked in both arms. How sweet it had been to listen to the child’s prayers, to straighten her blankets and kiss her forehead. The coziness lingered even in the silence and the echo of her every step on the floorboards. This day had gone much better than expected in some ways. She thought of Eleanor and wondered if her husband-to-be had ever shown up to meet her. She prayed Eleanor had fared at least as well.

The front door ripped open, startling her. The pot slipped from her fingers and splatted into the water. Soap bubbles burst into flight, iridescent in the lamplight.

“Thought I’d come help out now that my work is done. I still had some deliveries to make.” He closed the door with one shoulder, moving stiffly. Snow dusted his wide shoulders. Cold clung to him and he brought the chill inside as he shrugged off his coat. “That scarf came in handy.”

“I’m glad.” At least she had made one small difference for him. She gave the pan another good swipe. “It’s gotten a lot colder out there. Is the room above the store warm?”

“Warm enough.” He lumbered into the light, the dark shadows accentuating the creases on his face time and hardship had worn into him. “It was a thoughtful thing you did for Gertie in making her that doll.”

“My pleasure.” A strange shivery feeling swept through her as he sidled closer. Her husband-to-be. He leaned his cane against the table and stole a folded dish towel from the nearby stack. She wanted to like this man. No—she wanted to love him. Caring flickered hopefully in her heart as she studied his granite profile. Such a hard man with such a gentle love for his daughter.

“I had so much fun making each stitch just right and trying to figure out what Gertie would like.” She let him take the pan from her and dunk it into the rinse water. “My ma made a doll for the three of us, me and my sisters.”

“What happened to them? Why aren’t you with them?” Water dripped from the pan as he wrapped it in a towel and began to dry.

“My youngest sister was adopted right away. It tore me apart to watch her go.” She squeezed her eyes shut briefly against the crushing pain, grief still strong after seventeen years. “A kindly looking couple took her, so I have hopes that she was treasured. Faith and I were together until I was eleven.”

“When you were hired out?”

“Yes. When I came back she was gone. Hired out and never returned. We didn’t know what became of her.” She gave the pot lid a good scour. “As far as I could find out, another family eventually took her for home care. The same thing happened to me later that year. I wound up working on a pig farm to earn my keep.”

“You didn’t learn all you could about pigs to become a farmer later?”

Was that the tiniest glimmer of humor warming the chill from his rumbling words? Did Tate Winters have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere? Pleased, she slid the lid into the rinse water and reached for the final pan. “Surprisingly, no. That was one smelly opportunity I let pass me by.”

“I don’t blame you. I delivered feed to the Rutger place tonight.” He deftly dried the pot until it shone. “Pig farm.”

She chuckled but she laughed alone. Tate no longer seemed as formidable. “I didn’t expect help with the dishes.”

“I don’t mind. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.” What a relief. She plunged both hands into the hot water to scrub the roasting pan. Do you think you can love me? That’s what she wanted to ask. “There is so much we need to figure out together. The wedding for one.”

“I’ve spoken to the town reverend. He has time before the Christmas Eve service.”

“Gertie will be pleased.” She worked the dishcloth into the pan’s greasy corners. “In her letters she wanted us to get married by Christmas.”

“Yes, and as you can see there is not a lot of money to spare.” The muscle jumped in his jaw again. He held himself so rigid and tense she had to wonder what he expected her to say. To berate him? To think less of him because he was so poor? How could she think less of a man who loved his daughter so much?

“I have a dress to wear. My Sunday best should do.” She gave the pan a measuring look but he took it from her before she could determine if it met her cleanliness standards. His hands were capable and callused and a long thin scar disappeared into the cuff of his sleeve. His flannel shirt wanted mending, too, and she hung her head. How much hardship had the rail ticket caused him? “There should be no need for further expenses.”

“Gertie should have a new dress.” He swallowed hard, his impressive shoulders tense. “If you’re a seamstress, could I ask you to sew her one?”

“I saved up several lengths of fabric, hoping I might be able to sew for her, for my daughter.” He probably had no idea what those words meant to her. They warmed the lonely places in her soul, they made the losses of her parents, and then her sisters, fade. “How about you? I’m fairly skilled at men’s garments.”

“I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I have no need of fancy new duds or the money to afford them.” The muscle in his jaw jumped, strung tighter, and drew up cords of tendons in his neck. She could feel his raw pain like a wind gust to the lamp, dampening the light.

“Maybe sometime later, when things are better.” She wrung the extra water from her cloth and wiped the table. “I had hoped to keep my sewing skills polished. After I’m done sewing for Gertie, I could ask around in town. Maybe find some piece work at one of the local dress shops. I don’t want my needle to go rusty.”

“That’s good of you but not necessary. You take care of Gertie. That’s our bargain.” He could hardly breathe as he rinsed the roasting pan, the sloshing sound hiding the wheeze in his chest. Shame wrapped around him. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was in the lamplight. He did not deserve her. She did not deserve what folks would be saying about the woman who married him.

He set the pan down too hard. The clatter punctuated the harsh cast to his words, made harder by the fading light. The lamp needed more kerosene. “You don’t need to pay your way, Felicity.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Hope. He hadn’t been without it so long that he’d forgotten the sound of it. He hung his head, unable to look at her. A terrible feeling settled in his gut. He put the pan on the shelf, grateful for the break away from her. The lamplight writhed, struggling for life, casting eerie orange flickers along the wall. “I suppose I can’t call you Miss Sawyer for much longer.”

“No, as I will soon be Mrs. Winters. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve said that.” She circled the table in the lengthening shadows, swiping up every last crumb, a swirl of color and sweetness. “I like it. It makes me feel as if I belong here.”

She filled the house with a force that did not fade as the flame gave one last thrash and sputtered out. The last thing he saw clearly was the plea in her lovely eyes.

A plea. His guts twisted tight as he spun on his heel, plodding by memory to the lean-to entrance. He fumbled in the dark and not because he couldn’t find his way. Her plea stayed with him like a noose about his neck. Something he couldn’t outrun. Something that tightened around his throat cruelly.

The woman hadn’t come here expecting some romantic fairy tale, had she? He snatched the kerosene can off the shelf, his grip so tight on his cane his skin burned. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for. That wasn’t something he could do. He knew where love led. He was still picking up the shattered pieces of that illusion. Bitterness soured his mouth, tore through him like winter lightning and he stumbled back into the kitchen where the faint scent of roses, of her, softened the darkness.

“Gertie said you work tomorrow. Should I expect you home for lunch? What would you like for supper?”

Her kindness became cruel, but she couldn’t know that. She meant well. Her helpfulness and concern glanced off the glacier his soul had become. He wished he had some kindness to offer her in return. He removed the glass chimney with a clink as it landed on the table top and twisted open the can. He ignored the pungent smell as he tipped the can, listening to hear when the reservoir sounded full. What he heard was Felicity. The pattern of her step, the drops of water as she doused and wrung out the cloth, the steady nearly nonexistent rhythm of her breathing. Her plea remained, tighter around his neck.

He could not be what she wanted. He was sorry for it. Once he was a man of deep feeling. Prison had torn the feeling right out of him, leaving only the shell. He hated the emptiness inside as he watched her pour the soapy water into the rinse basin. She bent to the task, making a lovely picture. Gleaming, light blond hair, ivory skin, the graceful angle of her slender arm, the way her perfect top teeth worked into her bottom lip as she shook out the last few stubborn drops.

“I’m fortunate to have found you.” He had to be honest. It was the best thing he could do for her. He winced, hating to do it, wishing he had some gentleness inside to use to soften the blow. He took the heavy, water-filled basin, lifting it from the table so she wouldn’t have to. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words. “Not every woman is sensible enough to agree to marriage the way we have. A business arrangement. A living arrangement. A mutual agreement to make a child’s life better.”

He hardened himself for her reaction. As his words sank in, the brightness shining within her dimmed a notch. Hope faded, leaving a hollow smile and a tiny gasp of pain she could not hide.

“Nothing more.” He searched her, emphasizing those words, waiting for understanding to play across the perfect blue hue of her eyes. “It was what we agreed to before you came.”

It was better to be honest, rather than letting her hopes get too high. She had to see the man he was, the failure he’d become. She had to see he had nothing inside of him to give. That did not mean he would not work hard to provide the best life he could for her, for Gertie.

“I’d best get to bed. Work starts early in the morning.” The words felt torn from him.

“What time would you like breakfast?” Her strained voice struggled to disguise her disappointment.

He’d hurt her. He hated it but what else could he do? Let her hopes rise higher, only to fall further? He resisted the urge to reach out and brush a wayward curl from her cheek. Silly urge, wanting to bridge the distance between them. A distance that had to remain. That always had to be. He turned on his heel. “I start work at six.”

“Five-thirty, then?” She cleared her throat but layers of heartache remained as unmistakable as the shadows. Not even the growing strength of the lamp could chase it away. “I’ll have food on the table.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated at the door, mountain-strong but no longer as remote. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a woman around, aside from Ingrid. I’ll do my best to be gentle.”

“We both have some adjusting to do. I’m not used to being around a man.” Her boardinghouse had been for women only. How did she explain suitors tended to bypass her just like those prospective parents in the orphanage yard, always choosing another? She hung up the wet dishcloth, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for you tonight?”

“No.” Surprise skimmed his face, then furrows of thought dug in. “Good night.”

The shadows claimed him as he opened the door. Cold curled in as if to snatch the man out into the dark. With a final thump the door closed, leaving her alone. The wind and snowfall masked the sound of his gait. The stove lid rattled as another gust broadsided the little house, making her pulse skip.

This wasn’t what she’d imagined. She gripped the lamp’s handle carefully and took it with her from table to couch. The rustle of her petticoats, the swish of her skirt, the pad of her shoes echoed around her. No, this was not what she’d expected when she’d made the decision to accept Tate’s briefly written proposal. Not at all what she’d risked dreaming of riding the train westward across the territory.

How could she have been so wrong? Agony twisted through her. With a sigh, she set the lamp next to the sofa and sat. She buried her face in her hands. She’d risked everything coming here hoping for love, a love that could not possibly be found.

A business arrangement. A living arrangement. Nothing more. Tate’s words came back to her now, replaying over and over again in her mind. The man she’d imagined didn’t exist. He didn’t want to care about her. He never would. Her precious hopes fell like glass and shattered all around her into tiny shards and bits of dust that glimmered mockingly in the light.

Her fault for wishing love might grow, anyway. Her heart swelled with pain as she straightened and took a steadying breath. She tugged her yarn basket closer, glad she’d thought to unpack it earlier, and took up her needles and a skein of red Christmas yarn. Gertie needed mittens.