Jillian Hart (10 page)

Sara tried not to watch, but her gaze drifted over to the girl and the cat, to the way Mary giggled, the sound lost through the thick glass.

"Elana Barry is the innkeeper's sister." Connie caught the brass doorknob and stepped inside. "Just like you, she thought she would be here for a brief time, and look, she's married and running her own business."

"Good morning." An elegant lady rose from her sewing machine, the black casement polished and gleaming in the lamplight

Sara had never seen one before, but her aunt had purchased two for her shop in Missoula. In time, she would be expected to run such a wondrous machine.

"Why, you must be the woman from the train. I know everyone in this town, it's so small and friendly here. And let me tell you, word travels fast. Did you hear? Jesse just got back from the pass."

"The train. Is it coming?" She knew she sounded far too eager, and she caught the puzzled frown on Connie's face and the disappointment on Mary's.

"Sara, you can't leave. You gotta stay and watch me sing."

"Oh, Mary." Her throat closed. "I don't want to leave, but I have to."

The bell on the door jangled. A tall shadow fell across the polished floor, broad of shoulder, substantial as the man who made it.

"Gabe." Sara's knees wobbled.

"Good morning, ladies." He tipped his hat, his sheriff's badge glinting in the lamplight. His gaze fastened on hers, dark and drawing. "I wanted to tell you in person, Sara. The train isn't coming this morning."

"What?" She leaned against a cabinet vaguely aware of Connie and Elana conducting business. "Will it be coming later?"

"Fortunately for you"—regret tucked a frown at his brow—"they say there's a good chance the train will be here by suppertime."

Connie dug through her reticule and gold pieces clanged as she set them on the counter for Elana to count. "That isn't so long. Sara, it looks as if you might arrive in Missoula in time to save your job after all."

Relief filtered through her, but only a little. She still had today to get through. And with the way her heart ached every time she looked at Mary and Gabe, it would prove to be a very long wait.

"Darn, I forgot the candles." Connie dropped the canvas bag on the top of Gabe's kitchen table. "I swear, I'm getting so forgetful I'd lose my head if it wasn't stuck on my neck. I'll be right back."

"Can you bring back a lot more ribbon too?" Mary begged, then closed the door behind her aunt. "Sara, do you know how to make popcorn?"

"Yes, I do." Sara glanced at the tree in the corner of the parlor, a safe distance from the stove, right in front of the big window. "But I've never strung popcorn."

"It's easy. Even I can show you that." Mary skipped to the table and inspected the array of ribbons and bells, peppermint candies and cranberries. She grabbed the sack of corn. "We got enough for the tree and lots left over to eat."

"I like the way you think." Sara took the bag from Mary's firm grasp. "Come help me get the fire stoked, and we'll have the skillet hot by the time Connie returns."

"Pa keeps the kindling here." Mary hauled a basket of dried cedar shavings from the lean-to. "Do you know how to open the stove?"

"I sure do." Sara knelt and turned the handle. The dank scent of ashes filled the air. She lifted the poker from its hook and carefully uncovered the top layer of gray to reveal the gleaming red orange embers beneath.

"Take the littlest ones," Mary advised, both small hands gripping that basket tight.

"The littlest ones." Sara spread the slivers of wood over the embers and they smoked, then sizzled, bursting into flame.

"Now the bigger ones."

Sara obliged, although she didn't need Mary's advice. She had tried to keep her distance from the girl today, for both the child's sake and her own, but Mary had been hard to resist.

Soon the flames inside the stove were healthy enough to add sticks of wood, carefully stacked to let in enough air. Heat radiated against Sara's face as she shut the door, then adjusted the damper.

She stood, swiping the slivers of cedar and bits of moss from her skirt.

"There's a broom right next to my horse." Mary dashed across the kitchen to carry it back, handle held high.

"It's getting dark awfully fast." Sara noticed she could hardly see the mess she'd made on the floor. "I'd better light a—"

The house shook, and the last of the light ebbed from the room.

"Mary? Are you all right?"

"It's a blizzard." Tentative fingers touched hers. "Are you scared?" How small that voice sounded.

"No. Just surprised." Sara reached out with her free hand and felt the edge of the table. She remembered there was a lamp in the center. By feel, she found the match drawer and lit one. Meager flame chased away some of the dark as she removed the glass chimney and lit the wick. The light grew and danced until it was enough to see the worry on Mary's dear face."

She ached to draw the child into her arms and give her comfort, but she could not. Mary wasn't her child to hold. Not anymore.

"Aunt Connie!" Mary raced to the window. She pulled back the gingham curtains but there was only twilight gleaming blue on a wall of snow and wind.

"Connie is very capable. I'm certain she is safe." Sara had to believe it. "I've never been in a blizzard like this. Look, the wind is driving the snow through the door."

"Yeah." Mary rubbed her eyes. "Where do you think Pa is?"

"He's safe too."

"But I don't like waiting for him to come home."

"What would you like to do while we wait? I could heat some milk. I noticed some chocolate in the pantry."

"No, I wanna pop popcorn." Mary looked a little brighter.

"We've already got the stove heating. Why don't I see if I can get the fire in the parlor lit?"

Already she could see her breath—the temperature had dropped that quickly.

"I can help." Mary trailed after her, just a step behind.

Sara didn't need to guess there would be no train. Maybe she ought to be grateful, having this time alone with Mary. But she felt awkward, because the longer she stayed, the closer she became to Gabe and Mary, the greater the deceit. And now, if Connie knew...

She struck a match to light two more lamps before kneeling down to stir the embers into flame inside the potbellied stove. With two fires going, the log house, its walls thick and well chinked, was warm in no time.

Mary advised Sara on which fry pan to use and which lid to cover the pan with. Then Sara dropped a dollop of lard into the skillet and held it above the heat until it melted.

"Quick, add the corn." She held the pan low so that Mary could pour in the kernels. "Wait! That's too much."

"Oops." Mary managed to right the bag, spilling corn on the floor. "Is it gonna make a mess?"

"Probably." Sara lifted the pan back onto the heat. The oil surrounding the golden kernels sizzled. "Maybe you'd better find a really big bowl."

"I don't think we have one." Mary dropped to the floor to look through the cabinets.

Sara covered the pan with the lid, leaving it slightly ajar. The first kernel popped. Then another, and then a multitude started, filling her ears with the happy sound.

"Pa!" Mary hopped to her feet and took off.

Gabe was home? The workday couldn't be over. "Mary, I need—" A white froth rose up beneath the lid. "Mary—"

"Looks like you got yourself into a little trouble, ma'am." Gabe's presence, tingling and male hot, brushed her back. "You let Mary help, didn't you? That's okay. I've made that mistake before."

"Pa!"

A popped kernel shot from the pan, raining to the floor. More followed. "A bowl. I need a bowl."

One appeared at her elbow, held by strong hands. "Good thing I'm here to come to your rescue."

Her entire body felt on fire simply being beside him. Sara tried not to look at him as she tilted the lid just enough to pour some of the wildly popping corn into the bowl he held. White fluffy pieces shot out, like rocks from a slingshot, all in a thousand different directions. Hitting Mary's forehead, tumbling down Gabe's collar, landing on the table, the chair seats, the floor.

"Quick, another bowl!" A kernel plugged her in the chin.

Gabe scrambled to his knees and corn tumbled down on him, fat and fluffy. He stood up, popcorn pieces tumbling off his head and shoulders to land on top of his boots.

"This is out of control." He held out an empty bowl.

Sara tilted the fry pan enough to keep the popping kernels inside and let out the already popped corn. He caught it with the bowl, then produced another when it was full. He was prepared this time. Still, more kernels popped, muffled beneath the lid Sara held.

Her eyes shimmered with suppressed laughter. "Goodness, look at this mess. I think this is finally quieting down."

"You have some in your hair." How pretty she looked with her cheeks flushed from the heat and dark tendrils curling around her face, lustrous against her creamy complexion. He plucked the popped corn from the crown of her head where pieces had become tangled in those fine silken wisps. His foolish heart thundering, he gazed down into her eyes.

They were so wide, filled with yearning. She said she didn't want him. But she had lied about that. He could see what she wanted, see those needs as plain as the ceiling over his head. "It's darn nice having you in my kitchen."

She caught her breath, and he could see her chest rise, see the strain on her face. "I need one more bowl."

So he wasn't wrong. Sara Mercer liked him. His chest filled with that knowledge. He wanted her. How he wanted her.

"Pa, I picked up all the popcorn." Mary had piled the pieces that had fallen around the room into an empty kettle, perfect for stringing up. "Pa, do you think Connie's safe at home?"

"I know she is. I went to her house before I came here."

"To get me?"

"Yep. But your aunt said you were over here with Sara. You three were going to decorate the tree without me. Run and get a sweater on. That wind is getting colder."

"Okay." Mary's shoes drummed on the floor.

"She's louder than the blizzard." A smile sweet on her face, Sara upended the last batch of popcorn and filled his last bowl. "I didn't mean to make a mess of your kitchen."

"No problem." He held out his hand, gesturing at his clean floor. "Mary picked it up. We should start decorating the tree."

"And it's time for me to leave." She avoided his gaze, dipping her chin, but he wasn't fooled. She wasn't abrupt, but a quiet want lingered beneath her words. "You and Mary enjoy your decorating."

"You can't leave, Sara."

"Connie is just across the road. I can make it. I've lived my whole life in Montana. I can handle one small blizzard." She took a step, all grace and winsome elegance, but beneath her words was a hard stubbornness, as if she were waiting for him to argue. As if she wanted him to. She reached for her coat.

"The wind is stronger than when I came home." He grabbed the butter from the pantry. "Look, I bet you can't even see Connie's lights from here."

"I can't stay here, Gabe. It wouldn't be right."

"Because of your reputation?" He spooned a heaping chunk of butter into a small pan.

Because I don't belong here.
Where seeing Mary had once been her dream and spending a day with her an unimagined privilege—now it was torture. Sara knew she didn't belong here and never would. And with the way she was falling in love with Gabe—why, what good could come of that?

Oh, she thought she was so smart, but in truth, she couldn't hold back her heart. This man was from her dreams, strong and gentle, handsome and brave, infinitely kind.

The love she felt was for Gabe Chapman, the man, and not because he was Mary's father. The gleam of affection nestled in her heart—so bright and vibrant—was for him, all for him. For the man with the lopsided smile and easy humor who made her feel as if she'd never been truly kissed, never honestly loved before.

Chapter Eight

"Mary loved having you here to help tuck her into bed again." Gabe ambled down the hall and stepped into the light of the parlor. He liked seeing Sara sitting on the sofa, making snowflakes for their tree, her skirts fanning around her slim frame. "I think she would have rather stayed up much later and learned how to do that."

"This? Oh, it's just tatting." She held out the little wonder that Mary had marveled over less than an hour ago, made of string and Sara's ingenuity. "I think that looks about right, don't you?"

"Just like a snowflake." He wanted to reach out, wanted to pull her against his chest and cradle her in his arms, just to hold her. Well, in truth he wanted to do more than that, but holding her would be a nice place to start. A very nice place indeed.

She somehow knotted the end of string and added another snowflake to the pile. "I think Mary will be excited to wake up tomorrow morning and see how these turned out."

"You make her very happy, Sara. And me too." He lifted the kettle off the stove. The single lamp in the room illuminated the polished table, the leftover bowl of popcorn, and Sara's soft, honest beauty.

Light sheened on her dark hair, like starlight chasing midnight shadows, and shone in her luminous eyes, round with want and worry. That light caressed her as he could not, brushing the gentle curve of her cheek and jaw, touching the tempting shape of her Cupid's mouth, playing at the curves of her breasts and hips.

Now he could see the advantage in a Montana blizzard. Sara was trapped here, unable to even cross the street without great risk of becoming disoriented, even lost in the storm. Gabe felt particularly grateful because, as the evening progressed, he knew now for certain, she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

"You wouldn't happen to have any starch?" Sara asked, her head bowed over her work, already spinning the little silver object she held around the white length of string. She twisted it and turned it and made magic, made snowflakes, delicate and intricate and all for Mary's tree.

"You never know what's in my cabinets. I'll check in the lean-to for you." He hated leaving her sight, but her smile warmed him for the few frigid minutes it took to rummage around in the cold lean-to and find the container of starch. The kitchen smelled like steeping tea and the lingering scent of popcorn.