Jillian Hart (4 page)

"When do you think the train will be running?"

"I don't know. Maybe late today, if the snow tapers off. Maybe tomorrow."

"I don't want to impose." Sara turned her gaze to Connie. "Let me help with the dishes. It's the least I can do. I guess I should try the hotel again. Maybe there'll be room today."

"Not as long as the train is stuck up on the pass." Gabe scooted out of his chair and stood.

"Well, I'm going to hope they do." She lifted her face and wisps of ebony curls, gossamer fine, brushed her brow and the curve of her cheek. "A person just never knows."

"I'll check for you." Her optimism touched him. "I'll need to stop by the hotel anyway and pay a visit to the train passengers."

"Thank you." She rose from the table and began gathering the plates.

It was time for him to leave. The parlor clock bonged. He had work to do, yet he wanted to linger here in the warmth, watching Sara clear the table, her movements graceful and lithe.

A widow with no children, making her way in the world alone. He fetched his boots, now dry, and carried them back to his chair. Sara brushed past him for the final time, the table picked clean, to join Connie at the counter, where they discussed who would wash and who would dry.

"Pa, do you gotta go?" Mary leaned against his shoulder, a frown tugging down her angel's face. "It's Saturday."

"I know Clancy normally takes care of things today, but with these extra people in town, they'll be unhappy. We can't have any of them heading off on their own."

"But what about my dress?" Mary whispered in his ear. "Aunt Connie ain't good at pickin' out dresses."

"True," Gabe admitted. His sister's fashion sense left a lot to be desired. Even now, her tan-and-brown-plaid skirt did not exactly match her calico shirtwaist. Connie just had never put much stock in appearances.

"I know." Mary's dark blue eyes sparkled with merriment, the little sprite, as she skipped up to the work counter. She tilted her head back to gaze up at the woman holding a dishtowel, diligently wiping the spots from the china cup she held.

"Sara?"

"Why, Mary." Sara's face softened like the sky at sunrise when she looked at his girl. She clearly adored children. "Did you need a clean cup?"

Mary shook her head, slow and solemn. "You got an awfully pretty dress."

Sara flushed with pleasure, a soft pink caress of color across her delicate nose and cheekbones. "It's not nearly as pretty as yours."

"Uh-oh," Connie commented above the splash of soapy water. "I know what's coming next."

"So do I." Gabe, feet snug in his boots, stood to lift his coat from the peg. He was proud of his girl, pleased she had thought enough to include Sara in their midst, the woman with the lonely eyes and the quiet smile.

"Could you come help me pick out my Christmas dress?" Mary swiped dark curls from her eyes, her unruly hair already escaping those tight braids. "Please, Sara?"

"Well, I—" The blush across her cheeks turned pinker. "No, I don't see how I can, Mary. I'm sorry. I don't want to disappoint you."

"Pretty, pretty please?"

"The train won't be coming this morning, Sara. You might as well give in." Gabe plopped his hat on his head and knuckled it back, so he could see the way her eyes widened, the worry dark and unveiled. "Go on. Save Connie from the torture of shopping alone with Mary."

A softness touched her mouth, a ghost of a grin. "I don't see how shopping with such a wonderful little girl could be difficult."

"Trust me, it's brutal." Connie feigned bleakness as she rinsed her fry pan.

Sara shook her head, determined to keep herself apart from them, but he could see in her eyes the argument was already won. She had a fondness for children and a big heart. So he stepped out into the frigid morning, feeling warmer for the smile she'd given him.

She should have said no in a way that meant it, Sara decided, but how on earth could she ever say no to Mary? The child was like a fairy, all wispy dark curls and energy, dashing around the kitchen.

"I hope Pa doesn't have to work too long." Mary ran with the small stack of saucers to the sideboard, the enamel rattling. "We gotta go get our tree."

"A Christmas tree?" Sara took the heavy stack of plates herself, afraid they would be too much for Mary.

"Yep. Pa and me are gonna string up popcorn and put candles on it." Mary skipped along beside her, blue skirts swishing, shoes drumming against the polished floor. "The best part is when Santa comes and leaves lots of presents."

"As long as you've been a good girl this year." Sara couldn't help teasing, couldn't help the thud of her heart at the sight of the joy and excitement sparkling in Mary's blue gray eyes.

"I've been a very good girl, right, Aunt Connie?"

"No way." Connie heaved up the washbasin and headed to the door. "A more terribly behaved girl doesn't exist."

"I'm awful," Mary giggled. "I don't eat my vegetables."

"A horrible crime. Santa never leaves gifts for little children who waste good vegetables." Connie went outside to dispose of the dishwater, then hopped back in, her cheeks red from the cold. "I guess that means you'd better try to reform yourself quick."

"And eat vegetables at dinner?"

"If you don't, Santa will be leaving coal for you, young lady." Connie's teasing made the kitchen warmer.

So this is what, a happy family feels like,
Sara realized, watching Mary, who was still debating the merits of green beans, then tromped across the kitchen to gather up the wet dishcloths and towels for Connie.

A cozy home, easy laughter, gentle banter. It was so different from the childhood she'd had, solemn and strict, where there had been no running in the house or leaving vegetables uneaten. The more she saw, the more grateful she was to Gabe. She had no more regrets. Not one.

"Sara, look out the window." Connie knelt to bank the fire in the cookstove. "The snow is stopping. This means you could be in Missoula before Christmas."

"Just as I'd hoped." Sara closed the etched glass doors of the beautiful sideboard. "Can I help?"

"Too late." Connie stood with a grin. "The embers are banked. Let's grab our coats and get on our way. I hope you don't mind walking? It's too cold to bring out the horses."

"I'm used to walking." Sara thought of her savings, hard earned and carefully tucked in her reticule upstairs. She had some money to spare, not much, but maybe she could find gifts for these wonderful people, for their hospitality, for the care they'd given Mary all her life. "I'll be right back."

Upstairs, in the room papered with tiny rosebuds, she stood before the bureau's beveled mirror and brushed the curls at her forehead and tried to stuff the escaped tendrils back into her braid with some success. She saw the window reflected in the mirror. The snowfall had tapered to just a few airy flakes. She felt cold inside at the thought of leaving, for this morning had been so wonderful.

But what was right for Mary and the promise she'd made long ago—never to interfere—made her course clear. She had to go. Before someone noticed they shared the same eye color, before she fell more in love with Mary.

"Sara?" Mary's face peeked around the doorframe. "Hurry up, okay? I got a lot of stuff to make Pa buy me."

At least she was honest. Sara laughed, treasuring the sight of the girl's smile, a ghost of Andrew's, gentle and sweet. "I've got my reticule and my gloves. I'm ready."

Mary grabbed her hand and Sara's chest squeezed with happiness as she raced down the stairs, making a horrible clatter as their feet drummed on the wood steps, echoing in the parlor's high ceilings.

"Goodness, you two sound like a wild stampede," Connie laughed as she shrugged into her wraps. "Mary, you bundle up now. If you don't, you'll only get more coal under that Christmas tree."

Mary grabbed her little cloak, beautifully cut and made of bright red wool. "I don't think Santa's sleigh can carry too much coal."

"I don't know. I've heard it's a pretty big sleigh." Connie knelt with little red mittens for those little girl hands and a matching scarf and hat.

Sara, unable to take her gaze from Mary, fetched her coat from the pegs. The child, cloak half buttoned and the scarf loose around her neck, pulled open the door. Cold air blew in, and outside sunshine glittered off drifts of sugar-white snow.

"That's more coal, young lady," Connie admonished with a grin as she rushed after Mary to fasten more of those buttons.

"But look! We got enough snow to make a whole family of snowmen." Mary spread her arms wide, sparkling like a ruby among diamonds.

Sara, squinting against the bright gleam of sun on snow, closed the door behind her. A sleigh sped by on the street ahead of them, its runners squeaking on the hard packed snow. A mild wind blew cold and crisp, and the scent of winter and pine teased her nose.

Moose Creek was a small town, pleasant with neatly painted storefronts and long awnings that covered freshly shoveled boardwalks. Shoppers were already crowding the streets, their bustling and excitement adding to the festive feeling.

Mary ran ahead, jumping and sliding and hopping about in the snow. Her delighted squeals tolled like birdsong. Lacking the same energy, she and Connie trudged through the deep snow behind her, then, when they reached the boardwalks, stomped the caked ice off their boots.

"Sara, where do you need to go?" Connie asked, catching Mary by the cap as she raced on by. "We need to drop by the mercantile for this wild one's new dress."

"That's fine with me."

Mary led the way inside. The brass bell above the door tinkled as they entered. The scent of coffee and pickles and leather clashed, and the warm stove in the center of the main aisle emitted the soothing scent of wood smoke.

There were so many things to choose from. Sara blinked, overwhelmed. The small dry goods store in Oak's Grove was a closet compared to this, and the variety—why, it was fun just to look at so many different kinds of ribbons and dishes and lamps.

"Over here, Sara!" Mary charged down the aisle. "Look at the candy."

Rows of glass canisters lined one whole section of the counter. As many different kinds of candy as Sara could imagine.

"I got a penny." Dark curls tumbled over Mary's brow as she dug through her pockets.

"So do I." Sara set a dime on the counter. The clerk counted out a dozen peppermint sticks and wrapped them in a striped paper sack. Pleasure pooled warm and cozy in her chest as she held the sack out to Mary.

"Sara, she's spoiled enough all ready," Connie scolded gently.

"She's got a little ways to go before she's good and truly spoiled." She heard the fondness shimmering in her own voice, but she could not be ashamed. She didn't belong here. She had never meant to so much as say a single word to Mary, but this sweetness was like nothing she had ever known.

"Thank you, Sara." Mary gazed up at her, tilting her head slightly to one side. "I'm glad you got stuck on that train."

"Me too." Her throat ached.

"Aunt Connie, can we go look for my dress now?"

"Here's where the agony begins." Connie winked at Sara as she chose a piece of candy. "Prepare yourself."

Mary led the way to the clothes racks, which sported an array of colorful dresses. Beautiful calicos and ginghams, velvets and satin.

"Hello, Connie," a portly woman, an apron tied around her waist, said as she approached with a pleasant smile. "In to take a look at the new dresses, I see."

"I like the red one," Mary spoke up. "Can I try it on please?"

"Why of course you can." The sales clerk reached down the red velvet dress from the rack. "Is this the one you like?"

Mary's nod was serious, her eyes wide. "I'm gonna need new shoes."

Connie laughed. "See? She's torture."

Sara's chest felt so tight. "Yes, I can see the misery."

Clapping with excitement, Mary followed the clerk to the curtained partitions in the back wall. "I don't need any help," the girl announced.

"She's an independent one." Connie turned to study the selection of spooled ribbons.

"Like her father, I bet." Sara caught sight of the lace goods, laid out by the yard, and the stitched collars and cuffs. A bow caught her eye and she wondered how much it cost.

"I guess she does get that from Gabe. It's funny, the impact a parent can have on a child." Connie, perhaps in anticipation, picked up a roll of velvet red ribbon. "She's adopted."

Sara dropped the length of lace. "Adopted?"

"Yes. Not many people know that." Connie sighed, her gaze settling on Sara's face, on her eyes.

On eyes the same color as Mary's. Sara flicked her attention back to the lace goods, biting her lip. How foolish she'd been. She should have insisted on leaving after breakfast. Hadn't it been enough for her that no one had noticed the resemblance then?

"Ann died of cancer, and that was probably the reason she could never conceive, or so the doctor thought. It was hard on both Gabe and Mary. She withdrew and didn't flash that button smile of hers for an entire year. Gabe—well, he just looked half dead inside, but he tried hard to get past his grief, because of the love he has for their daughter."

Sara glanced up and saw Connie watching her. She felt terribly sad for their loss. "Ann must have been a kind person, to have loved an adopted child so much."

"She was. Kind and gentle, frail, actually. Like she never quite belonged on this earth." Connie looked away, sorting through the selection of stockings. "How she loved that child."

Iowe Ann my thanks too.
Sara looked up at the sound of Mary's shoes clattering on the polished floor. The girl skipped into sight, all rich crimson velvet and full swishing skirts.

"I love it." Sara couldn't stop the words; they just rolled right out of her heart. Maybe it was the little girl she thought so special, with her face pink with pleasure, her eyes shining, and her bow-shaped mouth flashing a beaming grin.

The dress—a princess-style cut with a round neckline and narrow waist—was adorable. The full skirt was trimmed with fine white lace and red ribbon, and when Mary swirled around, a big, fat bow hung at an odd angle in back, from her attempt to tie it herself.