Jillian Hart (7 page)

It would be nice to have a woman in his home again, someone to share the moments of his life with, one by one. He could only wish that woman might be Sara Mercer with her winter blue eyes and gentle smile.

"Pa!" Mary scolded, giggling as she dodged a big snowball. "You ain't listenin'!"

"I don't need a four year old's advice." Gabe dove to his knees to avoid Mary's surprisingly accurate snowball, which nearly hit him square on the forehead. "Not when it comes to romancing a lady."

"You don't know anything about girls." Mary packed more snow in her mittened hands, the yarn thick with clumped balls of ice.

"I know enough." Gabe already figured he wasn't going to charm Sara Mercer with his cooking. His stew was passable, nothing more, but just to have her in his kitchen, in his home, basking in the light of her presence... A cold white object struck him square in the face.

Mary's giggle announced her delight. "I got you, Pa."

"You sure did. A direct hit." He rubbed the snow out of his eyes, planning retaliation, and he heard the gentle bell of laughter.

Great, just great. He had been hoping on cleaning up, changing into his best shirt before she arrived, but it was too late. And too late to save his dignity. He turned to face Sara Mercer with a sense of doom. It was damn near impossible to look dashing with bits of snow clinging to his cap.

"Sara!" Mary shrieked with delight, dashing across the snow to catch Sara in a hug.

Her smile brightened. "Look what I brought for you."

"You finished the dress!"

"Just like I said." Liquid warm, those words, and as dependable as her promise. "I don't want to interrupt your game."

The wind snapped the hem of her skirts taut around slim ankles and played with the edge of her long cloak. She carried several packages—one he wagered was the special dress. "Maybe I'd better go inside and set these down. And Connie warned me to check on the stew."

"The stew." He flashed her a smile and liked the way she flushed, just a bit, as if she felt this too, this sense of rightness. "Let me carry those."

"They aren't heavy." She moved with an elegance, a grace that held him mesmerized, made it hard to look at anything but her.

She surrendered her packages. "Connie sent over a surprise."

"Let me guess." He heard the rustling inside the bag. "Popcorn."

 "Yippee!" Mary jumped up, clapping her hands. "That's my very favorite."

"Mine too." Sara had had the treat a few times in her life.

"Don't go in yet, Sara." Mary's hold didn't lessen. "You gotta see my snowmen. You just gotta!"

"A few words of warning." Gabe tugged open the front door to the cozy looking log home. "Don't let her talk you into a snowball fight. She's got a good arm."

How handsome he looked, speckled with white, the left side of his face red from the icy snowball's impact. How dependable he looked, all solid man and tender smile.

Then he closed the door behind him, gone from her sight.

"We made a family." Mary tugged Sara over to the side of the house, where the three awkward snow people perched, stick arms raised in a perpetual greeting. "A father, a little girl, and
a
mother."
Mary's voice caressed that word.

Sara remembered Mary's wish for Christmas. If she had a wish, what would it be?

Sara complimented the girl on her snow family, on the father with a mustache and the little girl with straw hair, but her gaze lingered on the mother figure, on the apron etched along the snowwoman's abdomen, the telltale depth of a child's finger, and the necklace at her throat. A locket. A heart-shaped locket, like the one hanging even now beneath her cloak.

"Hey, you two." Gabe stood on the porch, gloved hands curled around the post. "I've got the biscuits warming."

"Aunt Connie's biscuits." Mary grabbed Sara's hand and tugged her toward the steps. "Pa's are as hard as rocks."

"Hey, I heard that." Gabe reached out to catch Sara's elbow, helping her up the icy steps.

She looked up at him, surprised by the care he showed her. How solid his grip felt, not possessive or bruising, but strong. So very strong.

"No matter what Mary and Connie say, I'm not that bad a cook."

"Sure, Pa."

"I've heard differently, Gabe." Sara swept across the threshold after Mary, and her heart felt so light. "This is a beautiful home."

"Come stand by me," Mary urged.

Sara felt Gabe behind her as he closed the door with a gentle whisper of hinges and the click of the doorknob. She heard his solid step on the wood floor. He was so close. Her skin prickled, and she shivered. She took a step away, unwinding her muffler.

"I'll take that." Velvet heat, that voice, and it warmed her from the inside, chased away the chill from snow and wind, made her see the man he was, both strong and vulnerable.

She did not want to see Gabe Chapman in such a way. It was enough he was a good father to Mary. It was what she had come to see, what she had had to know. Like a new bird testing its wings, she was uncertain of these feelings. Uncertain if she should be looking at Gabe and appreciating him as a man.

She would be leaving on the next train. Only a fool would think... No, there could never be any affection, any attraction between them.

"Let me show you your dress." Sara knew she was being rude, not allowing Gabe to help her with her coat, but she shrugged out of it quickly, then thanked him when he insisted on hanging it up for her. She avoided his gaze, her heart tearing, not knowing what to do.

Her hands trembling, she unfolded the dress from the bundle she carried. Smoothing the red velvet gently, Sara held up the garment.

"It's perfect." Mary's awe shimmered in eyes filled with delight. "Pa, come see. Oh,
thank you,
Sara."

Just to see Mary's happiness was more than Sara could take. She knew her eyes filled with tears she dared not show, with years of love for a baby no longer hers. The stolen pleasure she'd taken, doing this simple stitching. Never in her deepest dreams had she imagined sewing for her daughter.

"That's a fine job, Sara." Gabe hardly looked at the dress; he was gazing at her. And she felt his scrutiny like a touch, gentle as a winter's dawn. "Mary is going to have the best Christmas dress in town."

"Sara, you're a real good sewer." Mary shrugged out of her wraps. Ice tinkled to the floor and sizzled on the stone hearth.

"That's why I'm going to Missoula to work as a seamstress." Sara's face clouded. "My mother taught me, you know. I was five years old—"

"I'll be five on January tenth."

Sara pursed her lips, the color draining from her cheeks. "My birthday's in January too."

"You should come to my party. Pa!" Mary twisted around to shout at her father, who had retreated to the kitchen. "Sara oughta come to my party."

"Maybe she'll be too busy with her new job, tiger." Gabe stepped into view, dark hair tumbling across his brow. He held a big spoon in one hand.

"Pa! That's not what you're supposed to say."

"Missoula is a long ways away." Sara's voice was rich with regret. "At least, to someone who's never traveled before."

Gabe knew his stew was boiling and the biscuits were probably drying out in the oven, but his feet felt bolted to the floor and his gaze riveted to the woman in his parlor. She lifted a slim hand to brush stray black curls out of her eyes, a graceful, simple movement, yet it made his heart hammer. Desire stronger than he'd ever known fired through his blood, driving with a force that knocked him breathless.

"We travel on the train a lot." Mary fingered the new lace collar. "Don't we, Pa?"

"Now and then." Gabe tried to sound normal, but how could he? It was as if everything had changed with Sara Mercer in his parlor.

"How exciting." Sara folded the dress neatly for Mary, her hands smoothing away every wrinkle with such care it made his throat knot, made every lonely spot in his chest ache. "This was the first time I've ever rode on the train. There now. This is all ready."

"For Christmas Eve," Mary breathed with reverence.

"It's a very important night." Sara stood, her skirts swishing to the floor to hide her slim ankles. "We'd better put this away before it gets wrinkled."

"Or dirty or somethin'." In agreement, Mary scooped up her shiny shoes and snowy-white stockings. "You gotta come see my room, Sara. Pa made my bed."

"He's a furniture maker too? Your father's pretty talented." Sara's voice grew distant as she followed Mary's skipping step down the hallway, but the tenderness in her voice did not fade.

Not from his heart, at least. Gabe grabbed the biscuits from the warming oven and plopped them into a bowl, then covered the bowl with a dishtowel to keep in the heat. Frankly, he had wanted to marry again, but there was a shortage of women in Montana Territory. And the few women he'd met—why, he hadn't felt that spark and hadn't been sure they would come to love Mary.

But Sara Mercer had a fondness for children that lit her voice, that resonated in her every act. From shimmering smiles to gentle laughter to sewing collars and cuffs on a little girl's dress—why, that kindness drew him, made his heart ache for that kind of affection in his life.

He set the biscuits on the table, content with the happy voices coming from Mary's room, the little girl's excitement and Sara's soft exclamations over the bed or desk or the ruffly curtains they had special ordered from Billings.

Mary's shoes drummed on the wood floor. "Pa? We're getting hungry."

"I heard you coming, buffalo gal." He set her bowl on the place by the window, near her stick horse tucked into the corner.

"Sara knows how to make lace, Pa." All sparkling awe.

They stood side by side, Mary's hand tucked in Sara's larger one, both woman and child slim and delicate of build. Looking at them together, he nearly dropped the steaming bowl he carried. Mary's shade of brown black hair was identical to Sara's, thick and bouncy, curling into ringlets when those unruly tendrils escaped from tight braids.

"I learned to crochet when I was your age." Sara gazed down at Mary, and only then did he notice the stormy blue of her eyes, saw how they matched Mary's. "My mother taught me. I remember in the winter, when the snow fell and it was cold everywhere but right near the stove, she would pull her rocking chair up to the hearth and bring out her big basket. It was full of wonderful threads and flosses and yarns. And I got to pick out the one I liked the best to work with. Mother would do the same, and she would settle into her chair, and I would curl up at her feet. and we would crochet until the afternoon became evening and it was time to start supper."

He stood captivated, the memory lighting her face the same way excitement colored Mary's. Why, they did look identical in this light, with that rare brightness in Sara's eyes.

A cold chill snaked down his spine.
It couldn't be, could it?
His heart skidded to a stop in his chest. Somehow he continued setting the bowls on the table. His thumb knocked a spoon and it clattered against the polished wood. It rang as it rocked, and he turned, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Mary, as an unwanted baby, had been born in the vicinity of Oak's Grove—at least that was what he'd been led to believe when his father-in-law had said he'd found an infant they could adopt. Gabe had never known the identity of Mary's mother. He had always assumed she had been a young woman, little more than a girl herself, who'd been disgraced. Could that woman have been Sara?

"Why, you're a better cook than you let on, Gabe Chapman." Sara swept into the kitchen, bringing with her a sweet apple-and-woman scent and the light of her smile. "That smells delicious. Let me help."

"Absolutely not. You're the guest."

"And really pretty," Mary spoke up, all impish grin, as she caught Sara's hand and tugged her in the direction of the table.

He looked again and saw only differences between Mary and Sara. The cut of the mouth, the cowlick in Mary's part, Sara's high cheekbones.

When Sara was told where to sit—in the best chair so she could look at both the window and the cozy parlor— Gabe could see a difference in the shades of those blue gray eyes. Sara's were darker, laden with shadows, where Mary's sparkled, a tad more blue than gray.

He gave the stew a final stir, before dishing up the last bowl. Before turning around to feel his heart thump at the way Sara watched him, gentle as spring rain. Surely his imagination had gotten away from him—that was all. Sara Mercer was a woman on her way to Missoula, stuck in a blizzard. It was chance she was here in Moose Creek, here in his kitchen.

Judging by the way his blood thrummed when he sat down near her, he had to believe maybe there was some truth to Mary's observations. He was too old to believe in Santa, but he did believe that things happened for a reason.

And maybe Sara—why, maybe she was meant for them. To give his daughter the mother she yearned for and to end the loneliness that banded tight around his heart.

Chapter Six

"I wanna play 'Silent Night' first," Mary informed them with a flick of her braids after their applause faded. "Wait. I gotta find the music."

Sara watched as the girl rattled through sheets of paper, then, with a bob of her head, smoothed the scored sheets of parchment. She set her small fingers over the ivory keys. Sweet notes, melody and harmony, blended together to make the solemn, familiar refrain.

Silent night,
the piano strings toned, low and reverent. That was her daughter. Sara's chest swelled until it hurt with pride for the girl. A pride that could never be shown or spoken of, but it was real and abiding just the same.

"She's good." The words stuck in her throat.

Gabe nodded, pride bright in his eyes. "There's a music teacher in town. A woman we hired to come teach at the school, but she ended up married. She's taught Mary since her first lesson."

Music lessons, Sara marveled, unable to tear her gaze away from the small girl on the polished piano stool, fingers deliberate and practiced.

Sleep in heavenly peace,
the piano strings shivered, and the song ended. The final notes still lingered in the air even as Mary turned to accept her applause.