Jillian Hart (2 page)

Why, he was flirting with her! What kind of man was he? He was a husband and a father. Sara bowed her chin and clenched her frozen hands.

The sleigh bumped to a start as Gabe Chapman led the team out of the shelter between the hotel and stables and into the unprotected street. Ice drove at her, cutting and scouring the exposed part of her face. The sleigh stopped again, but this time there was no shelter from the bitter misery of the storm. She could not even see the light in the windows, only the smallest glow as the front door opened. She waited for minutes but it seemed like hours before the sheriff reappeared at her side.

"The boardinghouse has a vacant bed, but it's sharing a room with our local teamster." It was too dark to see his face, but his voice sounded serious. "You might be more comfortable at my sister's house. She has a warm, cozy place and a spare guest room. Will that do?"

Sara remembered Connie from her childhood, although she hadn't seen her in many years. She recalled a friendly girl with red hair and freckles. But Connie was Gabe's sister and her daughter's aunt. "Is there anyplace else?"

"Not that I can find this time of night. It's two in the morning. Unless you want to stay with me."

"No." Goodness, she hadn't come to town to install herself in the Chapman household. She was a woman of her word. She had agreed never to interfere in her baby's life, and she would keep that promise. But looking wasn't interfering. And where else was she to stay?

"Then I'll take you on to my sister's house?"

There were no more sleds trailing them. The rest of the passengers from the train—all men—had found shelter at the boardinghouse. Without another solution, Sara nodded.

That was all the answer the sheriff seemed to need. He trudged away from her side to lead the horses home.

Chapter Two

"I brought you a visitor." Gabe took one look at his sister in her flowered wrapper, her hair sleep rumpled and exhaustion ringing her eyes. "The hotel was full up. If there was another solution, I would have found it."

"I'll get the bed ready. Goodness, I'm a sight. I could scare off mice at twenty paces."

"Only at four," he teased, shouldering through the door to set the three satchels on the floor. "Did Mary have a hard night?"

Connie shrugged, a simple casual movement. "She was just missing her pa."

"I missed her too." Gabe's chest tightened. "I appreciate you looking after her."

"It's the least I can do for my precious niece." Connie's smile lit her face, and it was all the assurance Gabe needed. His sister was generous, but she was newly married and he hated imposing. "Who did you bring me?"

"A lady heading to Missoula—that's all I know about her." Gabe glanced outside to see the woman, who'd only accepted his help in carrying her bags, quietly step up onto the porch behind him. "That, and she's shy."

"Why, she looks frozen, the poor dear." Connie rushed on past him, clucking her tongue, her hands outstretched to help the frozen woman into the house.

He had tried twice to assist her, but she only shook her head, stubbornly insisting that she could manage on her own. He held the door for her as she hobbled into the swatch of lamplight in Connie's parlor. Her dark skirts were frosted with a layer of ice and frozen stiff. Stooped, she looked as if each step caused her pain. But she didn't complain.

"I'll build up the fire," he said as he closed the door, then crossed the room despite his aching joints and numb hands.

"I kept the fire going in the kitchen," Connie said, holding the woman's arm as they made slow progress across the room. "I thought you might need some hot tea."

"You're a lifesaver, sis." Gabe found the range lit, but the fire dying. He grabbed a few sticks of wood with his clumsy fingers and added them to the flames. How good the heat felt.

"Sit right down here." He dragged a chair from the table and set it before the stove. He caught the woman's arm, so fragile beneath the layers of wool she wore. Here, in the light, he could see that, while her cloak was not worn thin, it was not new either, but patched neatly at the right elbow.

"Thank you." Her words were soft beneath the muffler that still covered her face, caked with ice. "I can manage from here."

"Oh, no, you can't." Connie caught hold of one snowy hand.

The mittens came off easily, bits of snow crackling to the polished floor. But the muffler stuck, layers frozen together. They unwound with a bit of work, revealing more of those dark stormy eyes and a face as soft as he'd remembered.

The gentle light brushed her alabaster skin with golden caresses. She wore no ring on her left hand, he noticed in a glance. Why was a woman so young and pretty traveling unescorted, especially this time of year? Gabe knelt before her.

"I can see to my own shoes. Thank you." Her voice sounded prim, but the way her mouth shaped the words did not. His gaze snagged hers, and he could swear he caught the look of panic before she bowed her chin, working intently at her cloak's wooden buttons.

"You're scaring the poor girl," Connie whispered in his ear. "She's been through an ordeal and doesn't need an overeager bachelor trying to play with her feet."

He only meant to be polite, and rolled his eyes at his sister. "Go ahead and joke. If I'm not wanted, I'll head on upstairs and see my daughter."

The woman's head snapped up, one delicate brow crooked with interest. He wondered at that. Well, maybe he didn't look like the father type.

"It's pretty cold out to take her home this time of night," Connie commented.

"I know. That's why I'm going to leave her here." Gabe grabbed a biscuit from the covered basket on the counter and headed through the house. He heard Connie's voice, low and merry, probably making some comment about him, thinking she was funny. Sibling teasing never died—it just took on a different form.

The upstairs hall was unlit, but Gabe knew the way by memory. This wasn't the first time his job had forced him from his home late at night. Good thing Connie lived so close and didn't mind watching after his girl. He curled his hand around the knob and turned it slowly.

The door creaked open just enough for him to see his daughter, asleep in the bed, a shadowed form in the dark room. His eyes adjusted as he stood there, listening to the reassuring rhythm of her relaxed breathing, glad that, as she slept undisturbed, her dreams were apparently good ones.

It was far too cold to take her home. He only lived across the street. But it was hard closing the door and walking away, even though he knew she was better off sleeping here in the warm house.

"Sara's cold straight through, poor thing." Connie stopped him at the base of the stairs. "I have her in a lukewarm bath in the kitchen to help her thaw a bit, so you'll have to use the front door."

"The train might not be running tomorrow. I can find another place for her then. I know this is an imposition."

"Nonsense. Why don't you stay the night here? Mary does better with her papa close, and the storm is worse. Look, you might not even make it across the street."

"With your houseguest, I don't think I should be sleeping on your sofa, or next thing we know the whole town will be talking." He winked.

She grabbed a warm muffler. "Wrap up good then. I don't want to lose my only brother."

"You can't get rid of me that easily." He wound the scarf around his throat and headed outside into the darkness.

He saw the glow of the kitchen window, where the woman with the sad eyes bathed. He would wager she was a sight, all alabaster skin and delicate curves.

Hell, he'd been too long without a woman, for the thought made his blood heat, made the bitter arctic air less cold. A few more steps and the lighted window faded, swallowed by the night and the storm, until there was nothing but darkness.

I'llhead on upstairs and see my daughter.
Gabe Chapman's words haunted Sara. Was her little girl upstairs? In this very house? It had to be, unless the Chapmans had adopted a second child.

Sara settled into the tub, the lukewarm water like fire against her skin, and tried to quiet her racing thoughts. She could still hear Connie's voice, mumbling through the kitchen walls, even though she spoke low to her brother.
Mary does better with her papa close.

Sara's heart twisted. They had named her baby Mary. Elation and longing spun through her. Ever since she'd had to let her daughter go, she had held close the impossible dream of seeing her again.

And now, it could truly happen. She would get to see her little girl. From the instant she'd traded in Aunt Ester's train ticket for a stop in Moose Creek, she'd harbored so many fears. That what she was doing wasn't right. That someone would recognize her. Then the blizzard hit, stopping the train.

But now she could see how events had brought her here, to this shining hope. Tomorrow, she could leave, and maybe the sleepless nights would end now that the emptiness in her heart had filled.

A new life awaited her in Missoula. Maybe, with the knowledge her child was loved and well, with a strong kind man like Gabe Chapman as her father, Sara could move on, maybe try to find love and marriage, have another baby.

"Goodness, but it's cold out there. I hope my brother doesn't freeze solid on his way across the street." With a glitter of humor, Connie breezed through the door and into the room, all bustling energy even in her nightgown and wrapper. "How are your feet feeling?"

"Like they're on fire." Sara wiggled her toes. "I'm lucky I'm not frostbitten."

"I can heat the water up for you. The teakettle is full and steaming."

"No, I'm ready to get out." Sara reached for the length of linen, soft and neatly folded. "I'm sorry to impose on you like this. You must have a family to look after—"

"No, we have no children yet, and my husband is upstairs snoring up a storm. I brought you some things of mine, since your satchels look frozen solid."

"That is mighty generous of you." Sara could not remember the last time someone had shown her kindness, true kindness. Not since Andrew died. Her legs were stiff and clumsy as she climbed out of the tub, but she didn't trip.

"Now tell me why you look so familiar," Connie started as she lifted the steaming teakettle from the stove. "I know, you're Sara Reece from over in Oak's Grove."

Sara grew cold at the woman's words, and her hopes faded one by one. She did not look up as she fumbled with the buttons on her borrowed nightgown, the flannel soft against her skin.

"Am I right?"

"Yes, but it's Sara Mercer now."

How could she admit why she'd come? They wouldn't understand. How could they? She had given up her child, made from love, to perfect strangers to raise. But the ties of the heart remained, so strong and solid she could not sleep a night through or survive a day without regrets.

"We were in the same class in school, those few years before your mother died." Connie plinked a pot on the cloth-covered table and set the tea to steeping. "Whatever are you doing traveling out this way?"

Sara's knees wobbled, and she dropped into a nearby chair. "I'm on my way to Missoula."

"And you got stuck on the pass in this nasty blizzard," Connie finished, checking the teapot. "That looks ready enough. Here, this will help you sleep. Where's your husband?"

Sara watched the woman pour, the scents of peppermint and chamomile steaming in the air between them, and she did not know what to say about her past, about the truth she did not wish to tell. "Andrew died five years ago."

"I'm sorry, Sara." The brightness in Connie's dark eyes faded to sympathy and understanding.

Later, after she'd taken the tea upstairs and sipped it until she was warm from the inside out, sleep eluded her as it often did. The winds had quieted and she took refuge at the window seat, staring out at the sheen of falling snow. The world seemed dark and mysterious, strangely beautiful.

And at odds with the fears balled high in her chest. What mess had she gotten herself into? Connie had recognized her. What if Gabe had too?

Ashamed at the weakness in her own heart, of a mother's need she had no right to, she watched the snow fall, a continuous cascade of wind-battered specks against the endless night.

"Gabe, you don't have to haul in wood for us," Connie scolded as she swung open the back door. "But I won't argue since Jim had to leave early. You know he had to get the path shoveled and the schoolhouse toasty before the students arrive. I'm afraid I'm running low on what he left me—it's such a cold morning."

"And still storming." The bite of the wind had curled itself around his bones in just the short walk across the road. He shouldered through the threshold and dumped the cedar in the wood box near the range. The door slapped closed behind him and he savored the warmth of the room. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Strong, just the way you like it." Connie grabbed her broom. "Come over here and take off your boots. You're dripping on my clean floor."

"Pa!" Dark twin braids and blue skirts flying, Mary sprinted through the kitchen, all merriment and enthusiasm. "Pa, you
finally
came! I've been waitin' and waitin'."

He knelt to accept those small arms around his neck. He felt the need in them—how she'd missed him. And how he had missed her. "Look at you, all dressed and your hair braided. You never get up this early at home."

"Oh, Pa, I wasn't sleepy this morning." She hopped back, all little-girl energy. "Aunt Connie made me hot chocolate after you left last night."

"She did?" Gabe stood, shrugging off his bulky coat.

"Yep. And we worried and worried 'cause you were out in that blizzard."

"You worried about me, huh?"

Mary nodded, her dark eyes serious, twin braids bobbing up and down. " 'Cause I didn't want you to freeze up like an icicle, Pa."

"I'm too tough for that." Gabe winked as he hauled off one boot, then the other.

"Yeah, some tough guy." Connie's eyes twinkled as she set a cup on the table closest to the stove. "I heard the emotion in your voice last night when you asked me to look after Mary."