Jillian Hart (3 page)

"I had a moment of weakness." Grinning, Gabe grabbed the sugar bowl, tipping it sideways to sweeten his coffee.

"Here's a spoon, barbarian." Connie dropped the utensil on the table in front of him. "A moment of weakness? You nearly teared up at having to leave your little girl."

"I did not. I caught a snowflake in my eye." Gabe took a sip. "This is damn good coffee."

"I cried when you left too, Pa." Mary leaned her head against his shoulder. " 'Cause people sometimes don't come back when they leave you."

Dealing with loss wasn't easy, especially for a small child. Gabe's chest tightened and the old grief—these days just a hard sadness—returned. This would be their second Christmas without Ann. "Well, I came back. And I always will."

"That's good, 'cause we gotta go shoppin' today." Mary dropped into the chair next to him. "Is it snowin' too hard to go?"

"Why don't you go check for us?" Gabe asked, and like lightning, she bolted up from the chair and dashed through the room to the parlor, where the big front windows offered the best view. "Connie, how's the woman from the train doing? She was pretty cold last night."

"Sara is just fine. I heard footsteps a few minutes ago. I should start breakfast." Connie set out a cup of tea.

"Sara, huh?" He took another gulp of steaming coffee, finally feeling warm.

"Didn't you recognize her? She's Sara Reece, from back home. Actually, she's Sara Mercer now. Widowed, poor thing, and traveling all alone."

Gabe recalled the sadness, so shadowed in those storm blue eyes. And he remembered a lot of things about the town they grew up in, where he married, and where he became a father. "She's Grant Reece's daughter. He was a tough son of a bitch."

Connie cracked an egg against the lip of a bowl. "He pulled her out of school when she was nine years old to do her mother's work after the poor woman died."

"I remember he was a harsh man. He was good friends with Ann's father. I saw him a couple of times at the yearly Christmas party Ann's family hosted. I don't remember Sara ever being there."

"She wasn't. She was probably home doing the work." Connie's voice rang low with contempt for a man who would treat his own child so harshly. "It still makes me furious that cruel people can have children they don't value, but that you and Ann went so long without a baby to call your own."

"We got Mary, and she made up for all that waiting and heartbreak." Gabe thanked his sister for the bowl of oatmeal she set before him.

"It's snowin' buckets and buckets." Mary dashed into the kitchen, her eyes shining. "When can we build snowmen, Pa, like we did yesterday? I wanna go now."

"Not until that wind dies down." Gabe patted the chair next to him. "Now sit on down and have some oatmeal. We have a lot of planning and shopping left to do before Christmas."

"We have to hurry. I wanna pick out my new dress first thing."

Gabe grabbed a jar of huckleberry preserves from the shelf behind him and broke the seal. "I don't remember saying you could have a new dress."

"Oh, Pa, you're not one bit funny."

While Mary shook her head, he plopped the jar on the table beside her. The scent of the sweet wild berries enticed her to pick up her spoon.

Gabe caught Connie's laughing gaze over the platter of bacon and eggs. The table had been set for five, the empty chair and plate reminding him of the woman upstairs—Sara Reece Mercer—and her sad eyes and quiet manner.

Looking after her welfare last night had left a warm spot in his chest, just a small one, but it was enough to force him to remember what it was like to hold a door for a lady or help her from a sleigh. He had been a widower a long time, and he had grieved Ann truly and well, but Mary needed a mother and he was a lonely man.

He cast his gaze to the generous window above the kitchen pump. He watched the snow fall steadily at a mean angle from the driving wind. Had to be over a new foot since last night. The train wasn't going to arrive today or anytime soon if this storm didn't end.

His gaze flicked to the stairs, the banister just visible from where he sat, and his heart picked up a quicker pace remembering Sara Mercer's gentle beauty.

Sara hesitated on the top step, startled by the rumble of voices coming from the kitchen below.

"Shopping?" a man's low voice rang with humor. "Are you going to make me suffer through another round of shopping? I think I have to work."

"You can't squirm out of this one, brother," Connie's merry voice answered.

How happy they sounded. If Gabe was here, then maybe his wife was too. This was a family, laughing over breakfast, for Sara could smell the aroma of fresh fried eggs and bacon, the sweet scent of tea and the deeper harshness of boiled coffee.

She had no right to intrude. She had never meant to wedge her way into the middle of the Chapman family.

"But, Pa, you gotta see my new dress," a child's bright voice pleaded, sweet like melody, merry as song.

Gabe Chapman's answer faded against the buzzing in her ears. Sara grabbed the rail, already stepping forward, hungry to hear more of the happy child's voice.

"Oh, Pa, I still gotta pick out a new ribbon."

"What? Don't you have enough ribbons? I suppose you want another hair clip too."

"And maybe new shoes."

"Shoes?" Gabe's protest sounded like nothing she'd ever heard before, not from a grown man and father. Warm as cocoa, rich as cream, brimming with love.

During all the long nights of worrying and wondering, she had never imagined something so wonderful for her helpless baby. A terrible ache tore through Sara's heart, so big and grateful it hurt. All the days of living without Mary in her arms was worth it to know she was so well treated.

"I think I hear a footstep on the stairs." Gabe's words broke through her thoughts.

Sara blinked. She was halfway down the staircase. Heavens, what did she do now? She had imagined being alone and unnoticed when she took the first look at her daughter, maybe from the street watching the child at play or shopping with her mother. But not like this. Not in front of Mary's family, who had brought Sara in out of the cold and given her a bed for the night. What if the years of longing showed in her eyes? How could she disguise the affection for a child she loved but could not have?

"Sara, is that you?" Connie called, friendly and expectant. "Breakfast is still hot. And I steeped some tea."

"Who's Sara, Pa?"

"A pretty lady who was stuck on the train last night."

"You mean, you rescued a pretty lady? Like in my fairy tale book?"

"Well, I'm no shining knight." Humor and humility tolled in Gabe's words.

He was a hero to her, a man who had provided for a baby not of his blood and raised her so that she could joke at the table, so that confidence twinkled in her voice as bright as sunlight.

Footsteps clattered on the wood floor, the gait of a running child. Sara didn't have time to retreat or to think or even to blink back the tears pooling in her eyes. There was Mary, with twin black braids hanging over her shoulders, with eyes as blue gray as a stormy sky and Andrew's chiseled chin.

"Are you the lady my pa rescued?" Mary tilted her head to one side when she smiled, curiosity bright and unmistakable.

"Yes, I was stuck on the train last night." How she found her voice, Sara didn't know, but words tumbled off her tongue in such a rush. "Your pa helped me from the train and tucked me into his sleigh and made sure everyone was safe."

"That's my pa." Pride swelled her shoulders, and Sara could see the love there, pure and true.

Mary was delicate and lean, and the blue flannel dress she wore with a red rosebud print had to be store bought. In all Sara's life, she had never owned a dress half so fine or made of such beautiful fabric, but for her daughter, why, this was a
play
dress.

More gratefulness wedged in her throat. Years of worry fled, like nighttime shadows at the first touch of dawn, because now Sara knew for certain. Giving up her baby had been the right thing to do.

"Aunt Connie made up some eggs and stuff, but I don't like eggs." Mary reached out and grabbed Sara's hand.

At the first touch of those slender little fingers, Sara's heart melted, just puddled in her chest. "I don't like eggs either."

"Mrs. Mercer." Gabe stood, his chair grating on the wood floor. He hadn't asked for her name last night, so Connie must have told him this morning.

Their gazes locked, and she tried to tuck away the emotion she knew showed. "Sheriff. I didn't expect to see you again."

"He's always showing up, begging for a hot meal." Connie rose, fetching the teapot from the counter.

"No, don't fuss over me," she said, lowering her eyes, seeing no other woman in the room.

"Don't let her give you the wrong impression about me." Gabe circled around to draw the empty chair away from the table, holding it out for her. "I may come and eat her out of house and home now and then, but I do it for Mary's sake."

"Yeah, Pa's cookin' is sorta bad sometimes." Mary traipsed over to her chair and dropped into it, braids swinging. "Unless he's makin' stew."

Connie set down a steaming cup and a bowl. "There now, don't be afraid to ask if you want anything more. I'm not the best of cooks, but I'm a far sight better than Gabe."

"It's the only reason Mary and I visit." He grinned, and she was close enough to see the smooth line of his freshly shaven jaw, the hint of dimples along his mouth, the flecks of indigo in eyes as dark as midnight.

There was no mention of a wife to cook supper, a mother to look after Mary. Sara settled down into the chair he held, his solid strength towering over her, sure and honorable.

"I asked Santa Claus for a new mother this year," Mary piped up as she dumped another spoonful of jam on her oatmeal. " 'Cause my real mother died. Sara, can you cook?"

"Excuse me?"

Then Gabe broke out in laughter so easy and hearty she felt mesmerized. He looked at ease as he circled around to his chair, moving with the powerful agility of a man comfortable with his body, aware of his strength. "Nice try, Mary, but that's not going to work. Mrs. Mercer is planning to leave as soon as the train comes."

Mrs. Mercer.
It was friendly enough, but formal too, letting her know that Gabe had not guessed from her eyes why she was here, had not noticed the emotion strung so tight in her body she felt ready to snap.

Across the table, Mary granted her a smile and the jar of huckleberry preserves. "Oatmeal tastes yummy with jam on it."

Sara's favorite breakfast food was oatmeal with jam.

She tamped down every last bit of emotion and thanked Mary, no longer the baby she ached for, and knew she could leave. She could go on, holding this sweet moment in her heart, knowing the little girl with Andrew's chin and her eyes was happy and loved.

Chapter Three

There was a lonely look to her, Gabe decided as he pushed his empty plate away and reached for his second cup of coffee. Sara Mercer from Oak's Grove, a little farming town near the North Dakota border. He didn't remember her, nothing but a vague impression of a solemn little girl from his school days, but then he was older and had been several grades ahead.

He knew Grant Reece had a daughter, but had never noticed. He'd been married by the time Sara would have been in her teens, moved from Oak Grove to take a deputy job by the time she'd probably married. He felt sorry for her. Since she was Reece's daughter, her life would have been hard, and since she was a widow, he knew the pain of that breaking loss.

"What's in Missoula?" he asked, because he was curious and because he wanted to see her look up at him again.

She set her teacup down with a clatter. "A job. My father's sister opened a dress shop and is in need of a seamstress. She offered me the job first."

True pride shone in her eyes, as gentle as twilight. How it drew him. "Sounds like a good opportunity."

"It is." She ran her forefinger, slim and beautifully shaped, around the rim of the china cup, her face bowed. Dark curls framed her delicate face. "I've been working in a laundry for the last few years."

"Did you still live with your father?" She looked up startled, and he regretted asking. "I just remember him, is all."

"You do?" Her eyes widened with what looked like fear.

Gabe remembered how cruel her father was. "I didn't know him well, just met him a few times. You spent your growing up years out on the farm. I just wondered."

"I came to live with him right after"—her voice dropped—"after my husband died. But eventually I found a job and could afford to rent a place in town. It wasn't much, but it was a home of my own."

"That's important," Connie spoke up.

"It is." So intelligent she was, and with the way she dipped her chin and smiled just a little, she made his heart thrum. "When Aunt Ester offered this job, it was like a dream come true. I think I can make a good living, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'll be working at something I enjoy."

What she didn't say struck him more. Gabe's throat tightened and he heard the dreams, unspoken but bright and shining—dreams for a happier future.

"Do you have to go to Missoula?" Mary asked, licking huckleberry jam from the back of her spoon.

Sara's smile gleamed, changing the solemn set of her face, chasing the sadness from her eyes. "I wish I didn't, but I do. I gave my word that I would be there."

"But the train ain't comin' today, is it, Pa?"

"Not if this snow keeps up. The crew won't be able to clear the tracks." Gabe drained his cup. "Your aunt will hold your job, won't she?"

"Not if I'm late." Sara's gaze strayed to the window, where snow fell with a dizzying speed. Worry lines crept across her forehead and his thumb ached to soothe them away. "I had no idea the trains couldn't run in this kind of weather."

"Not when we get blizzards the way we did yesterday. The wind drives the snow into drifts, and it's especially bad when the tracks have been cut through the mountainside and the snow just blows right in and fills the gully."