Jillian Hart (11 page)

"It feels right, you standing in my kitchen." He set the jug on the counter, unable to take his gaze from her, instincts warning him to go slow. His touches and spoken feelings had scared her off before, and so he held back what burned in his heart, sweet aching affection that seemed to grow every time he looked at her.

"I know you're searching for a mother for Mary, but just because I'm here doesn't mean I'm the right candidate." She tried to smile but failed. How dark her eyes were, how troubled. "Let's just sit by the fire and let me finish these snowflakes for the tree."

"See the difference you make just by being here?"

"What difference?" A frown puzzled her brow. She truly did not know what she had done here.

"Magic." He gestured toward the tree in the parlor, shrouded by lamplight, wearing snowy-white popcorn strings and bright cranberry beads and plump red ribbons. Presents sat beneath it, wrapped in colorful paper and tied with ribbon and string. "Our tree has never looked this good."

"Be careful, Gabe Chapman. I'm likely to believe your flattery." Sara set down her nearly completed snowflake to check on the tea. Enamel clinked against enamel when she lifted the small lid.

"I'm not trying to flatter you, Sara." His hand covered hers. "I'm trying to win your heart."

"Why mine?" So huge, her eyes, so unknowing.

Didn't she know what she did to him? How she made him wish for her, not just any woman, but her? With her quiet smile and quieter humor and the generosity of her heart?

"You drew me the moment I saw you step down from the train, so independent and vulnerable. You stepped into my empty life and filled it up."

"I think any woman could do the same, and many would be a better choice." She pulled her hand away, taking the teapot with her, turning her back to search for cups in the cabinets.

"Not any woman. You're not convenient, Sara. You're special. Mary knows it and so do I. Things happen for a reason. The train getting stuck on the pass and your coming to Moose Creek were both by chance. You didn't plan to come here."

Her shoulders stiffened and she didn't answer.

"Look, I know how hard it is to put aside your grief—"

"I told you before, I'm not grieving Andrew. I'll always miss him and feel sad he's gone, but that's not the reason—" She bowed her head, her spine stiff. The light caressed the back of her neck, where soft dark tendrils curled at her nape, fallen from the intricate knot of her molasses-dark hair.

"Then what is it?" He dared to lay a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her tension, feel how something bothered her greatly. "I don't mean to hurt you."

"Then stop trying to court me."

"What's wrong with a little courting?"

"You don't want me, Gabe. Believe me." She shoved a cup into his hand and dodged him. Her shoes drummed with her retreat and her skirts swished. His blood thickened from wanting her.

How he wanted her, only her.

Cradling both her tatting and her tea, she sped across the room, finding refuge on the sofa near the lamplight. She'd said it before, that she had moved past her grieving. Then what was the problem? She had mentioned no engagement, and he was fairly sure she would have said something after their kiss if her heart belonged to another man.

The parlor echoed with the happy memories from this evening, when they'd decorated the tree, singing Christmas carols and any other song they happened to think of while they strung the popcorn and cranberries. Mary's excitement seemed to linger in the air, like the fresh scent of pine, her happiness a bright luxury. Having Sara with them tonight only made the evening more special.

And he had been happy too, truly happy of heart and soul for the first time in a long, long while. Sara made him laugh, made him feel deep and true, made him ache for her touch and to be touched, made him want to lay her down beneath him and make her completely his.

"Do you think I'm ugly?" He set the tea on the table and crossed the room.

She didn't look up from her work, another snowflake taking shape beneath her sensitive fingers. "No, Gabe. I don't think you're ugly."

"Do you like my house?"

Her gaze flicked up to his, her mouth a tight line. "You have a beautiful home."

"And I know you like my daughter."

She bowed her chin, concentrating hard on her work. "You know I do."

"Then will you tell me what the problem is?"

Sara's fingers stilled. Oh, he was a cocky man, far too sure of himself. She knew what he was up to. "Just because you're handsome doesn't mean a woman has to fall at your feet."

"I never said I wanted you on the floor." Humor sparkled in eyes as dark as dreams and played along the edges of his mouth, hinting at dimples.

He strode across the room, unflinching and determined, the golden glow from the lamplight limning his height and his strong sturdy breadth. Sara tried to keep her heart from beating faster, her breath from growing thick, her blood from zinging with want as he sat down beside her, crossing one booted ankle to rest on his knee, leaning one elbow against the arm rest.

Her blood zinged, her breath thickened and her heart beat faster.

"This is what it would be like if you married me." How deep and rich his voice. How inviting, tempting her with a happiness she could never have.

But he didn't know that. Sara tied off the string and made a quick double knot, then hid it neatly. "This was a very pleasant evening."

"Because of you." His hand settled on her forearm, hot and tempting and just short of possessive.

Selfish want gathered inside her, in the secret place where she dreamed. Want for a life with this man who made her blood scorch, who made her melt at the simple touch of his hand. "Don't do this, Gabe. Please."

"You're happy with us. I know you are."

"How do you know?"

"Your face is too honest. It's there in your eyes, even now, how happy you are. That's one thing I like very much. You wear your heart."

"That just proves how wrong you are." She twisted away from his touch, guilt rising, and concentrated on starting another snowflake. Look what he thought of her, unable to deceive, unable to be dishonest

"Tell me why I'm wrong?"

"What's wrong isn't any of your concern, no matter how you try to make it." So soft those words, brushed with sorrow. "Can't you see that I plan to leave tomorrow on the train? I'll never return to Moose Creek. Ever. So we can't have a relationship. Don't you see?"

"I believe we can make a place for you in our lives."

Before she could argue further, his lips claimed hers in a kiss infinitely tender and oh so passionate.

She could feel his desire for her in the way he treasured her mouth with his. How she wanted him. Her chest thundered with desire for this man so true and tender. She tipped her head back, reveling in the sensations, both hot and sweet, of his kiss. Velvet heat and brushing tongues and trembling pleasure. Her whole body burned with it.

His hands wrapped around her neck, his fingers caressing the escaped curls at her nape. Hot sparks jolted down her spine. A want so great wrapped around her chest and banded tight, stealing her breath and all protest. She dared to press her hands to his chest and feel the rock-hard span of muscle and bone. How fast his heart drummed beneath her palm.

"You seem to like the way I kiss," he murmured against her lips, their breath mingling, before he pressed kisses over her chin, along the line of her jaw, down the length of her throat.

"I do." In all her life Sara had never felt like this, tingly soft on the inside, melting like butter on a hot stove. She wanted to wrap around him and hold on, to feel the iron-hard weight of his body pressing hers to the ground, to know what it would be like to make love to him, to share with him that bright, thrilling intimacy.

"You feel like silk." His lips brushed her collar, where somehow a few buttons had loosened. "You taste like dreams."

Dazed, she tipped her head back as she felt more of her bodice give way beneath his tugging fingers, buttons easing through fabric, first her dress, then her chemise until she was naked to his touch. His eyes widened, glittered with approval and then he touched her, tentative and tender and thrilling.

"You're so exquisitely made." His breath teased her nipples and then his tongue flicked around one pebbled tip.

A tight band of pleasure twisted straight through her abdomen. Sara closed her eyes, savoring the wondrous feeling. Her hands curled around the back of his neck to hold him against her. His dark locks tumbled through her fingers, soft and luxurious. When he drew her nipple into his mouth with his tongue and suckled deeply, the pleasure nearly shattered her.

Over and over again, he suckled and licked, teased and laved until her body trembled with wanting him, until she felt charged and aching. Then his hands were on her thighs and lifting her skirts. The touch of his fingertips to her leg pierced through the daze of pleasure.

What was she doing? She had no right to love this man, not when he didn't know the truth about her. She straightened up, not knowing what to say. Embarrassment—no, shame—heated her face. She couldn't look at him. She felt him move away, felt the brush of fabric instead of his touch against her thigh.

"You're right. We should wait. I got carried away." His lips brushed her brow, infinitely gentle.

Why did he have to be so understanding? Her body still trembled, her blood hot and scorching. She wanted him, how she wanted him.

"Remember, you can tell me anything."

"Not this." Not this one huge thing.

"Whatever it is, I promise it won't change one bit how I feel for you." The kindness in his voice, low and inviting, made her look up. His eyes were dark as temptation, intimate and sparkling. Golden lamplight haloed him and illuminated the great affection he held for her, a great respect

She'd done nothing to earn it but there it was, a rare precious light. She almost believed he could be that understanding, that he could see how a woman, impoverished by her husband's death, had to return home to her father's strict household, how she could not keep her beloved baby. She believed Gabe, the man, just might understand.

But not Gabe, the father.

"You can take the bedroom." He stood, towering over her, such a good man. "I'll go find a few extra blankets for the sofa."

"I would rather sleep here, if you don't mind."

"You're my guest, Sara. Your reputation be damned, I can't let you sleep out here. It isn't as warm or comfortable."

"I had hoped to finish Mary's snowflakes." Thinking of how she could surprise the girl chased away some of the tightness in her chest.

"There's tomorrow for that." Tender as night, his hand brushed her chin. "You need your sleep. The storm may be over tomorrow. Either way, it's Christmas Eve and you should celebrate with us. Look, there are presents for you under the tree."

"Why, no, I—" Her gaze strayed to the packages both Mary and Gabe had set out just after supper, talking and laughing. She hadn't expected presents. "I couldn't accept anything from you."

"These are gifts from our hearts, Mary's and mine." He pressed a kiss to her brow. "I'll get the bed ready for you."

How he cared for her, cared about her. No man had done so in a long time. "Truly, I don't want your bed, Gabe. I often have trouble sleeping at night. If I'm out here, I can make myself a pot of tea."

"As long as you're sure." He pressed another kiss to her brow and moved away, a man of steely might and tenderness, a combination she so admired.

He returned with an armload of bedclothes. Together they tucked in the sheets and spread the wool blankets and thick quilt. "I've bolted the doors, so you should be safe. I'm just down the hall if you need anything, anything at all."

"Thank you, Gabe." She didn't want to love him, but heaven help her, she loved him more than words could say.

It's Christmas Eve and you should celebrate with us.
Gabe's words seemed to echo in the pleasant silence of the sleeping house.

This is what it would be like if you married me.
She could have a real home, these people who made her feel safe and wanted, cared for and cherished as her family. She could have the privilege of raising Mary.

Sara cherished all the memories she had saved up so far, her first sight of Mary, come to fetch her for breakfast And the joy of shopping with her, the stolen pleasure of sewing for her own daughter, the evenings spent in song, of tucking Mary in, of showing her a quicker way to thread a needle... How the memories collected, filling her heart, shimmering moments already more precious than any treasure.

What if she were to stay silent? Sara nursed her cooling cup of tea, the smooth enamel comfortable in her hand. What if she were to share this table with Gabe and Mary for every breakfast, every supper? What if she could call him her own? Have the right to show him her love? To wear Gabe's ring and take his name and share every night with him, basking in the pleasuring heat of his touch.

Sara felt cold inside despite the tea, as cold as the dying storm. What was she going to do? Not tell Gabe the truth? Nothing good could come of a love that was not honest, of intentions that were not sincere.

Yet how could she tell him?

The storm withered, the howl of the wind dying into a rustle, then a whisper. In time, moonlight peeked between parting clouds to gleam silver blue on the snowy world, hushed and reverent and infinitely peaceful.

There would be no train tomorrow. Sara poured the last cup from the teapot, treasuring these final moments in Gabe's house—the muffled tick of the parlor clock, the crisp scent of pine, the velvety darkness without lamplight to diffuse it, the soothing taste of peppermint.

She could not truly deceive Gabe, and she was ashamed she'd even thought of it Ashamed she'd come here intending only to look. But given the opportunity, she broke her word to remain uninvolved in Mary's life, to never make contact, to never try to claim her.

If Gabe knew the truth, that was what he would think, what the father in him would believe. How could Sara blame him? It looked as if she came to town to take Mary, or to capture Gabe's affections intentionally just to get close to her lost child.