Mail-Order Christmas Brides: Her Christmas Family / Christmas Stars for Dry Creek

Why did her heart jump at his shadow? Why did she strain to hear the departing crunch of his boots down the pathway? A moment later, horse hooves clinked a slow rhythm, growing faint.

“I’m sure he heard me and didn’t like what I said.” Laughing, Ingrid closed the door against the wintry night. “Let me hang your coat while you get warm by the fire.”

“Shouldn’t I fetch my trunk?”

“Tate will bring it in when he’s done stabling the horse.” Ingrid, petite and slender, apple-cheeked and energetic, helped Felicity out of her wraps. “You must be frozen through. I’ve heard some of those railroad cars can be quite drafty. Was it exciting riding a train all that way?”

“Very. The most exciting thing I’ve ever done.” She thought of Eleanor as she surrendered her coat. She glanced around and noted the secondhand sofa with fraying cushions, a scarred wooden chair and a battered table tucked midway between the sitting area and the kitchen. She set her reticule on a rickety end table. “Have you ever ridden the train?”

“Sadly, yes. Many times.” Sorrow stole Ingrid’s smile as she hung the coats on a wall peg. Even Gertie bowed her head, as if saying anything more would dredge up a sadness neither of them could speak of.

What had happened to this family? Questions burned on her tongue, but she stayed silent, not wanting to sadden them more. The scent of a baking roast rose richly from the range. In the shadows, the kitchen took up the other outside wall of the main room with a pair of tall cupboards and slanting shelves. Wilting muslin curtains hung on the windows, the only adornment in the plain, brown room. This place needed a woman’s touch. Good thing she’d spent time sewing, embroidering and crocheting preparing for this day.

“What do you think of Tate?” Ingrid whirled away to light a lamp centered on the round oak table.

“He’s—” Words failed her. She thought of his frown. She thought of his cold manner. Then she remembered the love he had for his daughter. “I think he will make a fine husband.”

“He will. He is absolutely a good man.” Ingrid lifted the lamp’s glass chimney and brought a flickering match to the exposed wick. “I’m glad you see that in him.”

Gertie sidled close and pulled off the overly large gloves one by one to watch her aunt light the lamp. The glass chimney clinked back into place like a bell ending the sadness. Light danced, driving the shadows from the room and Felicity was able to see more of her new home. Blue ironware plates sat on shelves, pots and pans rested on lower ones. The windows were large and bound to let in plenty of cheerful sunshine during the day. She could make this place feel cozy in no time.

Bless this house with Your love, Lord. She smiled reassuringly into Gertie’s anxious blue eyes. Help me to make it into a home. That’s what Gertie needs.

She needed it, too.

And Tate? She felt his approach long before the rhythm of his boots reached her. Remembering his desolate shadows, she wondered what she could do for him, this man who had given her this dream of a real home.

“Here are your gloves, Felicity.”

“Thank you, Gertie. Do you hear that?”

“It’s Pa!” Adoration illuminated her, making her as bright as a star in the heavenly sky. Her shoes tapped a beat to the door, which she flung open. “Pa’s got your trunk!”

“So I see.” She couldn’t explain why her gaze searched the shadows for a glimpse of his face. She longed for the sight of him. The side of her trunk hid him as he lumbered into the reach of lamplight. Without a word he bypassed her and disappeared behind a door in the far wall.

That’s it? Not so much as a hello, or where do you want your trunk? She folded her gloves in half, smoothing them absently. She felt Ingrid’s curiosity, and then sympathy as she slipped the gloves next to her reticule. His behavior didn’t hurt her, at least that’s what she tried to believe. In reality it did, down deep.

A thump echoed through the lifeless rooms as her trunk hit the floor.

“Don’t take it personally. Tate doesn’t realize how cold he can seem.” Ingrid set a steaming teacup on the edge of the table. “Sometimes a heart is broken too many times and there is no way to put it back together again.”

Felicity considered those hushed words and her hopes sank. She’d imagined so much with each letter she received from Gertie. A wonderfully loving father, a happy home, a man lonely and in need of a caring wife. She could see now those were Gertie’s hopes, not Tate’s. It wasn’t reality.

His boots struck like hammer blows on the wood floor, his cane tapping a counter rhythm. He shouldered into sight, shrinking the room. He looked immense with his broad shoulders and muscled girth. The power of his disinterest in her struck like a hard gust of wind, shaking her to the bones.

“I gave you my room. I moved all my things across the street, to the room above the store.” An icicle would be warmer than his tone and a glacier friendlier. “You will live here with Gertie until we’re…married…and then I’ll move into the lean-to.”

“Won’t that get rather cold?”

“Probably.” A muscle jumped along his jaw line, a sign of strain. She hadn’t considered how hard this must be for a man to take on a wife he clearly didn’t want.

She felt numb, suffocating in disappointment. How many times had she imagined this moment? Walking into her new home to see the happy future she and Gertie and Tate would share? She’d pictured every outcome but this one, full of awkwardness and the feeling of being unwanted. She had made a terrible mistake.

She’d also made the right one. Gertie twisted her hands, a worried little girl in a wash-worn calico dress.

Is this why You brought me here, Father? She didn’t need God’s answer to know it was true. Tate’s heart might be irrevocably broken, but Gertie’s spirit was beautiful, fragile and immeasurably precious.

“Tate.” Ingrid’s scolding tone held disappointment, too. “I can’t believe you. She’s going to change her mind about marrying you.”

“I told her that to reassure her.” The muscle twisted in his jaw, harder this time. “She has a place, respectful to her reputation as I promised.”

“You could have said it more gently.” Ingrid shook her head, brown curls scattering. “You’re going to scare her into leaving.”

“But you said she would stay.” Gertie took her father’s hand, small and frail standing next to the large, powerful man.

“I’m right here, Gertie.” Felicity resisted the urge to rush to the child and wrap her in her arms. Commitment turned her to steel. “I don’t want you worrying, okay?”

“Okay.” The child gulped, holding on to her father with white-knuckled need. Was she afraid he would leave her, too? Hadn’t she said something about being separated from Tate? Felicity swiped a lock of hair out of her burning eyes. Just what had happened to this family?

“Ingrid, thank you.” She turned to her sister-to-be and squeezed her hand. “You’ve made me feel at home.”

“I did nothing but introduce myself and make you some tea. What I want is for you to put up your feet, rest up from your long journey and let me whip up the rest of supper—”

“That is my job.” She could read Ingrid’s worry, saw it crinkle across her smooth brow, and understood. Tate’s sister wanted to smooth the way, fearing any woman in her right mind would flee. What would life be like being married to a man who said he had no gentleness or heart left in him?

“I appreciate all you’ve done, Ingrid, but I have been looking forward to making supper for my new family.” She hated to trouble the woman further. “Maybe we could talk tomorrow. I could fix you lunch.”

“I would love it.” Ingrid’s smile was a mix of delight and wariness when she studied the man in the shadows. With a sigh she reached for her coat. “You behave, Tate. I’ll see you at noon, Felicity. I’m so glad you came.”

“Me, too. Good night.” Purpose held her up. Tate’s boots struck once, twice and a third step took him to the potbellied stove in the sitting area. The door rattled and squeaked open. As Gertie hugged her aunt and saw her to the door, Tate shoveled coal from the hod. His wide back to her, he worked quietly and efficiently.

“Felicity?” Gertie stood before her, anxiety puckering her adorable face. Golden curls framed her fathomless eyes full of a sadness no child should know.

She understood the silent question and tore her gaze from the solemn man adjusting the stove’s draft. “Everything is fine. I see Ingrid was getting ready to peel potatoes. Would you like to keep me company in the kitchen?”

“I’ll show you where the cutting board is.” Eager to please, the girl bobbed away, braids bouncing.

Across the length of the room, she felt Tate’s curiosity. When she raised her gaze to his, he turned away, staring hard at the floor. His thick, dark hair fell beyond his collar, straggling and too long. The flannel collar was fraying, too. Everywhere she looked needed needle and thread—the sofa cushions, Gertie’s sleeve, even the dish towel where the washed potatoes sat on the edge of the table.

“Here.” Gertie bent to yank something off the bottom shelf, accidentally bumping a pan. It tumbled onto the floor with an ear-ringing clatter. Startled, the girl jumped as if struck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s all right.” She knelt to retrieve the pan. “No harm done. We’ll just give it a good swipe with a dish cloth and it will be as good as new. Is that the cutting board?”

Obviously it was, but Gertie clutched the slab of wood tighter with both arms, eyes silent with distress. In her years at the orphanage, she’d witnessed many sadnesses. Remembering that Gertie had been parted from her father and not knowing what had happened in the time between, she gently laid her hand against the child’s soft, apple cheek. Inalterable love whispered in her heart for this little girl in need. Not only in need of love but of healing.

“Do you want to put the pieces in the pot for me? I always used to help my ma that way.”

Gertie swallowed hard, visibly struggling, and nodded. Just once.