Jillian Hart (8 page)

She played until bedtime, when Gabe sent her off to the necessary room to wash her face and brush her teeth and to change into a pink flowered nightgown.

"Come tuck me in, Sara." Mary held her hand tight.

Sara could not say no. This could be her last time spent with Mary and she wanted to savor every moment so it would last forever in her memories, treasured and rich.

Gabe brought out an illustrated book and read "A Visit from St. Nicholas." Sara had never heard the poem before, but Mary had, apparently many times, delighting in the father who threw open the shutters to hear Santa on his roof. She said the reindeer's names aloud along with Gabe, and her voice rose right along with his at the ending, " 'And to all a good night.' "

Gabe tucked the covers to Mary's chin as Sara watched, perched in the chair beside the large window, lace curtains brushed by the crystal lamp's glow. The child was surrounded by fine things, a beautiful bed and a store-bought dollhouse and a lovely quilt to cover her, but more important was the love in Gabe's touch as he brushed dark curls from her forehead and pressed a quick fatherly kiss there. It was love that made him her true father.

"Kiss me too, Sara!" Mary twisted beneath the quilt. "You want me to have sweet dreams, don't you?"

Sara laughed, unable to resist such a pleasure. "Of course I want you to sleep well."

"She's using every skill she owns to try to charm you." Gabe stood as she stepped close.

How wide his chest was beneath that dark blue shirt. Sara wasn't sure if she'd noticed it quite like this before.

His gaze kept trying to trap hers and she looked steadily at Mary, her elfin grin wide, happiness sparkling in deep blue gray eyes.

"I don't mind at all," she told Gabe and bent to press a kiss along the child's brow.

Such a sweetness filled her. Sara stepped back, stumbling. Gabe's strong hand snared her elbow and his presence, hot and unmistakable, lashed around her. Then they were alone in the hall outside Mary's closed door.

"I enjoyed the evening." Sara headed toward the coat tree, where her cloak looked so plain against Gabe's black wool jacket and Mary's berry red coat

"We forgot to pop the corn." He strolled out of the shadowed hallway and into the lighted parlor.

The fire crackled merrily in the potbellied stove. The room glowed with the gentle light of several lamps. How inviting it looked, how hard to leave. But she must. With the way Gabe watched her—why, it made the strongest part of her weak.

"Maybe you and Mary can enjoy the popcorn tomorrow." Sara reached for her cloak. "It was a gift from Connie, not me."

"Stay." His fingers curled around the cloak's collar, holding the garment so she could not slip into it

"I can't. It wouldn't be right."

"Why not?"

The shadows caressed the straight blade of his nose, the chiseled cut of cheekbone and chin, made mysterious dark blue eyes that raked hers with a question she didn't dare answer.

"We could sit by the fire and talk," he persisted. "I could boil some coffee or steep tea if you prefer."

"I plan to leave on the train come morning. Early morning." It was what she had to do, regardless of the yearnings of her heart. "Besides, I've overstayed my welcome as it is—"

"How can you say that?" His fingers brushed lower to caress hers, leaving a sizzling trail of fire wherever his skin touched hers. "You don't have to stay long. I just want to get to know you better."

"I don't see why." She stepped away, letting him have the cloak because to endure his touch—why, it tugged at the deepest places inside her, untouched since her husband's death. And it hurt, because Gabe Chapman was the one man she could never love, never have.

"How long has it been since your husband died?" So understanding. He caught her hand with his big one. He towered over her, blocking the light, leaving her in shadow.

"Five years."

"And you're afraid to love again." Sympathy shimmered in his voice, true and genuine.

Her conscience stung. He thought she was still grieving Andrew.

"It was rough getting over Ann's passing," he admitted. "She felt like a part of me, and I was never the same after I buried her. For a long time, I was afraid to love like that again, because I was afraid I would do her an injustice. And because I was afraid to lose my heart twice."

Gabe hung her cloak back on the tree, his face as dark as the shadows. "But then I realized I had already risked my heart. I had Mary, and because of her, I was able to move past the fear of loving another person again. But it took me a long time and then I just hadn't met a woman I wanted to be with."

"Gabe, you have no idea—" Her voice broke, full of tears, but she did not cry. "I'm no longer grieving Andrew."

"Then maybe Mary was right." A sense of lightness burned in his chest, growing brighter until it engulfed him, until he could see only Sara, her complexion pink from the warm parlor, her dark hair curled into tendrils that framed her face. A face he would be content to look at for the rest of his life.

She was like a candle newly lit, chasing away the darkness in his life. In a life where the evenings, after Mary was asleep, stretched like the night, long and lonely. And when he woke up, he was alone. He cooked breakfast, cared for Mary, and lived his life without a woman at his side, without the right woman.

Emotion shimmered in her eyes, as troubled as a stormy sky, and he saw there an old heartrending pain that brought silvered tears but would not let them fall. He knew the force of that kind of pain, and he hated how Sara must be hurting. She was so gentle and kind that she would sew for a stranger's daughter.

"Dear Sara." He dared to lay both hands along the delicate curve of her jaw, cradling her face against his palms. She felt like the finest silk; she smelled sweet like apples and cinnamon. "Maybe someone did send you to us."

Her tears brimmed, silent tears that rolled down her cheeks and touched his thumbs. He ached in ways he'd never known, wanting to protect her from the pain he read in her eyes, wanting to comfort her, wanting to make her his. He leaned forward and slanted his mouth over hers.

Their first kiss was like springtime after a long winter. Like the first touch of gentle sunlight to frozen earth. A tenderness welled within him at the brush of her lips. She was like velvet heat, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt as if he were drowning in the sensation from one small kiss.

And then she responded, her lips moving to meet his, and his chest kicked, his blood sizzled. A sparkling need for her telegraphed through his body and he pulled her close against him. She was all firm curves and soft woman, and he knew, as he dared to trace the seam of her lips with his tongue, that this kiss would never be enough. Or a second one. Not even a lifetime of kisses.

"Gabe." She broke away, her hands flying to her mouth. Her fingertips brushed his, for he still cupped her face and he could not bring himself to let go.

How could he let go of the first woman who made him feel alive inside? Who made him ache with desire, with hope? Maybe she could stay here forever in his arms, right against his heart. Tonight was the sweetest he'd known in many years, basking in the beautiful light of her presence, feeling special when she smiled just for him.

And how she treated Mary—why, she had captured his heart when she'd bent over to press a kiss to his daughter's brow. It was no superficial, perfunctory kiss, but a sweet tenderness that was just right.

How could he not fall in love with her? "Mary and I have been lonely, just the two of us." He could hear the emotion rumble in his voice, low and raw. "And I want"— he paused, trying to find the right words—"I want you."

"Oh, no." Panic filled her eyes, and she fumbled at the door, snatching her cloak from the hook. The coat tree wobbled, the door swung open, and she tumbled away from him out onto the porch and into the brutal night wind.

Not the reaction he expected. "Sara, come back here."

"I can't" She dashed across the porch and down the iced steps, slipping but not falling. She spun around, at the same time struggling into her cloak. "Supper was lovely."

He'd moved too fast. She was still grieving. Some things took time, but he knew in his heart what he said was true. Sara was right for them. She fit into their lives. "Wait. Don't leave."

"Good-bye, Gabe."

Not good night. But good-bye. As if she didn't plan on seeing him again.

The bitter chill lashed across his face, driving through his clothes to ice the skin beneath. He loped through the deep snow. "Sara!"

"Don't follow me, Gabe."

"I didn't mean to embarrass you. Or insult you." Damn, but she was fast. She was already to the road. He began running, closing the distance between them. "I don't know what's troubling you, but I promise you this: I have the best of intentions."

He halted in front of her, the cold night air burning his lungs, fogging his breath, and yet the night was so clear he could see the tears in her eyes, pooled and shimmering. He could almost feel how much she hurt.

"Please give me a chance." He took her hands and placed them between his, warming them, hoping to comfort her. Wanting her to know what lived in his heart. "I know this is fast. But the first moment I saw you, I was certain you were the kind of lady I'd been wishing for."

"No one has ever said such lovely things to me." She had to tilt her face to look up at him, and the faint starshine brushed her alabaster face with an angel's light. Her chin wobbled. "I can't love you, Gabe."

Her delicate hands slipped from his and she ran for the shelter of Connie's house, leaving him alone in the silent night.

Upstairs in the guest room Connie had made snug for her, Sara closed tight the door against the pleasant conversation down below. Connie and Jim had greeted her, and she had tried to be polite, but she knew her heart showed. How could it not? Connie had looked puzzled, but genuinely concerned. It was the depth of sincerity of these people, of Gabe and his sister, that troubled her the most.

They were good people, and she was deceiving them. Living in their house, eating their food and taking advantage of their trust. All to get close to Mary. If there were another place in town she could go, she would have done it. But there was no place else.

She didn't light the beautiful crystal lamps in the room. She much preferred the dark. Her heart aching, she hung up her cloak and muffler and pulled off her shoes. The room was chilly, but she didn't mind. Her chest burned, and she sat down on the window seat, the store-bought cushions and pillows so fine.

Outside starlight sheened on silvered blue snow. Like a picture in a storybook—that was how the world looked with the dark sentry of trees tipped with white, the shades and shadows of darkness shrouding houses and mountains as black as the night. All was as still as a hush, as the quietest whisper when the wind blew. She knew how that wind smelled, because it still clung to her clothes and hair, that fresh clean brightness mixed with the dark scents of wood smoke, of pine and cedar.

She saw Gabe ambling up the steps to his house, saw the slope of his shoulders, muscled and set, saw the bow of his head, slight, but unmistakable. She'd handled this so badly. Her lips still tingled with his kiss, with the hot brush of passion and need. Her chest ached remembering how exquisite it had felt to be held and kissed like a princess in a fairy tale, feeling precious and treasured.

And she'd given herself to him in that kiss, in that brush of lips and mingling of breaths.

Ipromise. I have the best of intentions.
She watched Gabe hesitate on the porch, gazing through the darkness toward the house, to the window where she sat watching him. He couldn't see her, she knew, but she felt his question and his disappointment.

Please give me a chance,
he'd said. Gabe Chapman wanted her—he'd said those very words.
You are the kind of lady I've been wishing for.

Sara had loved her baby from the moment she knew she was pregnant, and when she was born—why, that sweet little girl had grabbed hold of Sara's heart and no force in the universe could break that love. What of Gabe and his intentions? Even now her heart still felt warmed by the evening of laughter and songs and bedtime stories.

And while she could not deny the attraction she felt for Gabe, what would it do to Mary? Giving in to her own desires for him—why, how could any good come from that? Her fierce love for Mary was what had brought her here and what gave her the strength to walk away. She would not change her child's life, could not break her trust, refused to deceive her.

Sara's heart twisted, as she remembered the privileges and the healthy and happy childhood Mary had with a loving and kind father. A far better life than Sara could ever have given her. And she would do anything to make sure Mary remained happy and treasured, with wonderful things like popcorn and piano lessons and store-bought dresses and shiny new shoes.

This was why she could leave, why she could go on, because her guilt and her shame no longer burdened her. She had made the right choice that cold winter's night when Mary was so tiny and helpless.

And maybe Sara could have a life in Missoula. With the clear weather, the train would be running tomorrow, maybe even by morning. She would move on, as she always meant to do, and she could find happiness for herself, maybe meet a kind man to marry, one with broad shoulders and dark blue eyes and a gentle easy humor. How she ached for such precious things, and maybe, one day, another baby, a real family of her own. If she had a Christmas wish—why, that was what it would be.

He'd moved too fast, Gabe knew that. As he boiled coffee and heated water for their morning oatmeal, he pondered Sara's hasty departure. He'd scared her off, no doubt, when all he'd meant to do was draw her closer. He was running out of time, if he wanted to try to romance her. The train could be pulling in by late morning as long as the weather held.

"Pa, you told her she was pretty, right?"

"I can't remember exactly, smarty." Gabe set the glass of milk on the table. "Here, drink up. I've got your oatmeal simmering."