“Emmylou left us chicken to use for sandwiches.” Amelia tapped over to the pantry and flung open the door to reveal tidy shelves stacked full of food staples. “One of my chores is taking care of the chickens. In the summer, we have a big garden. And the orchard is full of trees to climb and fruit to pick.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Like a dream come true. Mercy glanced around, taking in the sight of her happy son and stoic husband-to-be, of her new daughter setting out a plate of covered leftover chicken onto the counter, of this home—a real house—full of sunshine and comfort and safety. She could not believe her good fortune. After working twelve-, sometimes fourteen-hour days at the hotel, day in and day out, scraping together a living, wanting better for her son, it had happened.
“I spotted a loaf of bread in the pantry,” Mercy said, after one last glance at the window. “Let’s get lunch made and on the table. Do you think we can tear George and your pa away from those horses?”
“It’ll be tough.” Amelia grinned, opening a drawer to extract a knife. “We may have to throw dessert in. Pa has a real sweet tooth.”
“Good to know.” Especially since she loved to bake. Maybe she could find out Cole’s favorites. He certainly deserved all the effort she could give to make his life better, for what he was doing for George. The letters Cole had written telling of his life here had been no exaggeration, nor had his promises and intentions.
I don’t know how I was chosen for this, Lord, she prayed, lifting the bread from its shelf. But thank You so much. And please look after Maeve and Violet, she added, thinking of her dear friend who was also settling into her new life. Help all of us to find happiness.
For the first time in a long while, that felt possible. Maybe she and Cole weren’t marrying for love, but perhaps they could have a happy life helping one another. Maybe even become friends. That notion put a smile on her face as she sidled up to the counter next to her beautiful new daughter so they could make sandwiches together.
“Mercy, thank you for lunch.” Cole dropped his cloth napkin on the table, pushed back his chair and resisted the pull of the woman’s magnetic presence. Something about Mercy kept urging him to look, to smile, to notice things about her he oughtn’t be noticing. Like the Cupid’s-bow shape of her lips, as blushed as new roses. Or the refined beauty of her heart-shaped face, the wide slash of her deep blue eyes, the curl of her honey-brown lashes, the dainty slope of her nose.
No, it was smarter to keep his head down, grab his hat and coat on the way to the door and not look back.
“Take your time and eat up, George.” He called over his shoulder. “Come down to the barn when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready!” The boy hit the floor with a two-footed clatter. “Ma, Pa said he’d teach me to ride right after lunch. That I get to sit up on Howie’s back and everything. I love Howie, he’s my very own horse. For keeps.”
“I’m sure he loves you, too.” Mercy’s melodic, caring words tempted Cole to look. Why she affected him, pulled at him, like this, he didn’t know. Gritting his teeth, he stabbed his arms into his coat and turned his ears off to the rest of what she had to say.
If he wanted to keep not liking the woman, it would be best not to get pulled in by her, not to care. He pushed open the door and escaped into the lean-to, where his boots waited. As he jammed his feet into them, he felt the weight of her gaze on him. Had he thanked her for lunch? He searched his mind for any memory of it. Yes, he had. Shaking his head at himself, he shoved his foot into a boot. Maybe that was a sign of how worked up over her he was. Having a woman around, making the commitment to marry wasn’t easy. His life was changing, and he didn’t like change.
“Pa?” George’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts.
Gazing down at the boy’s face crinkled up into a worried, silent question, he realized he was frowning. Cole blew out a breath, replaced the frown with what he hoped was more of a grin than a grimace and patted the bench by the door.
“Need help with those boots?” he asked his son. His son. Satisfaction filled him. This was one change he liked.
“Nah, I can do it.” George plopped down on the bench with little-boy exuberance, his blond hair tousled and wrangled his way into his new boots. “I’m a cowboy now.”
The back of Cole’s neck tingled. He turned around inexorably, as if he were destined to do it, as if he had no will or control over his own eyes. Mercy stood at the table, gathering the dirty plates, a willowy wisp of blue calico and grace.
In that moment as she stood before the window, blessed by sunlight, burnished by gold, she was no longer the stranger he’d corresponded with, widowed when her husband fell ill with diphtheria. She was no longer just the woman who’d stepped off the train, the one he’d decided was best for Amelia.
He could inexplicably see inside her, read the scars of loss that grief and hardship had made on her heart. Feel the commitment to their children. See the loneliness and the hope for a connection shadowed in those midnight-blue depths. He froze, hands fisting, unable to stop the sensation of the world fading away, the floorboards at his feet, the walls surrounding him, the children chattering.
As if in silence, as if haloed by light, there were just the two of them. Just him. Just Mercy. The emotional distance separating them vanished. His fingers wanted to unclench and reach out for hers, to take her hands in his, to ease the pain of loneliness within his own soul.
Fortunately he came to his senses in time, jerked away, turned his back and closed the door. George stared up at him, still wrestling with his second boot. Worry arched his brows and widened his eyes, as if he was frightened he hadn’t been fast enough.
“It’s okay,” Cole soothed, knowing he’d turned away from the boy too quickly, but it wasn’t George he needed to get away from. A man had to protect himself. He’d gotten by this long without being close to a woman. He saw no reason for that to change now. “Your sock is bunched up. Pull it up straight and your foot should slide in.”
“Okay.” George bent his head to the task, full of little-boy sweetness and intent. Task completed, he grinned and bounded to his feet.
“Button up all the way,” he reminded the boy, opening the lean-to door for him. “It’s cold out there.”
“I know, it’s not even melting.” The kid tromped down the steps and landed in the snow. “If it snows like that again, will Santa be able to come?”
“Sure. Santa’s used to snow. He lives at the North Pole, remember?” Cole caught up to the boy, plowing side by side with him through the drifts. “Even if we get a bad storm on Christmas, he’ll make it through.”
“If I were Santa, I’d have horses instead of reindeer,” George commented. Up ahead several horses poked their noses out of their stalls, curious to see what was going on. Howie’s golden nose was one of them. The gelding’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of the boy. Howie had a soft spot for kids, and came bounding into the snow, nickering an eager welcome.
“Look, he likes me!” George clasped his hands together, overcome.
Hard not to like this kid, Cole thought, chest aching. He laid a land on the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll put you on his back.”
“Oh!” George trotted ahead, grabbed hold of a fence rung and pulled himself