Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set. Jillian Hart

expressly chosen to be a model of female propriety and decorum—gave a whooping laugh as she raced down the slope, hair and skirts flying, a colorful, laughing blur against the white.

      “Wow!” Amelia bellowed when Mercy had stopped at the bottom of the slope. His daughter cupped her hand to her mouth. Surely something she’d learned from the boys. “You went a lot farther than I usually do. That’s like a record.”

      “That really was fun!” Mercy popped off the sled, brushed snow off her skirts, as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with her behavior. “I can see why you like it so much. George will like this, too, I think—”

      She paused, as if aware of his glowering and glanced his way. He must be frowning fiercely again, because her face paled. She fell silent, her eyes rounding. He didn’t remember lifting George to the ground or crossing the field, only that he was ducking between the fence rungs and plowing fast and hard through snow up to his knees.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, letting anger take over, letting it fill him. It was better than the other things threatening to take him over. Tension coiled through him, snapping his jaw muscles tight, so tight it was hard to speak. “I told Amelia she was never to touch that sled again.”

      “Oh, I didn’t know.” Mercy took a step back, studying him as if debating whether, in his anger, he was capable of hurting her or not. Then her chin went up, as if she was a lot stronger than she looked. “You mentioned not liking that she rode her sled in town, where everyone could see. I didn’t think way out here that it would matter. It’s just the four of us.”

      “It matters,” he ground out, his outrage losing steam because there was no way she could know the true reason behind his anger. And because he had that rule about keeping the past where it belonged, he hadn’t told her. He was afraid of failing his daughter, of not raising her in the proper way. Angry with himself now, he realized he was towering over the woman and took a step back. “This isn’t good for her, Mercy. Surely, as a mother, you know that.”

      “See, if you wanted to make me mad at you, you have succeeded.” Her chin ticked up a notch higher, her dark blue eyes snapping fire. “I fail to see the harm. Sledding is actually quite fun. I intend to do it again, after Amelia takes her turn.”

      “She’s not taking a turn. She’s not riding that sled.”

      “Fresh air and exercise is good for a girl,” Mercy told him. “It’s not fair that you and George get to be out here riding the horses and we can’t. Hmm, maybe what we need is a sidesaddle.”

      “I see what’s going on.” He glanced up the hill, where Amelia was shading her eyes with her hands, intent on watching what was going on down below. “You two are ganging up against me.”

      “Not at all.” Mercy’s hand lit on his upper arm, a familiar, bridging touch, one meant to calm him down. It did. Her touch radiated something that soothed, a special, unnameable something that made him lean in, that made his entire being wish for what he could not have.

      He stood there, mouth open, mind blank, not at all sure how to summon up one single word in protest because his brain had simply stopped working. Gaping like a fish out of water—like a man moved by a woman’s caring touch—he watched Mercy turn on her heel, dragging the sled up the slope after her.

      Tiny, airy flakes of snow chose that moment to come tumbling down, brushing his cheek, clinging to the sleeve where she’d touched him. The sensation of connection, of her caring concern for him, lingered.

      It did not fade.

       Chapter Seven

      “Here are some things for George.” Cole’s voice echoed in the stairwell outside her rooms above the store. He hesitated in the night shadows, as if a part of them, head down, staring at the floor. Looking as if stepping into the light was the last thing he wanted to do.

      “Things?” she asked quietly, curious, closing behind her the door to the bedroom where George slept. “What have you done for him now?”

      “Picked out some clothes from the shelves downstairs.” With a shrug, Cole shouldered into the room awkwardly and held out several folded pieces of clothing. “I noticed his things were starting to wear out. Guessing they were hand-me-downs.”

      “Yes.” From the church donation barrel back home. Those pesky tears returned, burning her eyes and blurring her vision. She blinked them away, stepping toward him, close enough to see the dark stubble on his jaw from a day’s growth. Her fingers itched to touch him there, to feel the rasp against her fingertips. It was foolish to want to get closer to him, this man who’d been clear he wanted none of that. So she squared her shoulders, tamped down the wish and took the stack of clothes he offered her.

      “Brand-new.” She stroked the flannel shirt, blue to match George’s eyes. There were a week’s worth of shirts, she noticed, and denim trousers to match. Her chest ached at Cole’s thoughtfulness. “George will be thrilled. Thank you for this, for providing for him.”

      “Just keeping my bargain.” Cole dipped his chin in an awkward bob, as if there were far more feelings behind those words than he chose to admit. “Boys his age grow like weeds. He may need underthings and socks. You can choose from the shelves downstairs, whatever he needs. Just let me or Eberta know what you take for inventory purposes.”

      “I will.” It was very generous of him to think of so many new things for George. “This is nice of you considering I have the feeling you are upset with me. Over the sled.”

      “Yes, I had hoped you would side with me on the sled issue.” He ambled past her and squatted in front of the cold, dark potbellied stove. The door opened with a squeak. “Guess I misjudged the kind of woman you are.”

      “Oh.” His words hit her particularly hard. He’d been pleasant but reserved through the afternoon and over a warmed-up supper of stew Emmylou had made the night before. But, she realized, the children had been around them. Now it was only the two of them. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed in me, but I can’t go against what I believe is right.”

      “Oh, that girls need fresh air and exercise, too?” He arched a dark brow at her, reaching for the fireplace shovel. “A nice walk wouldn’t have been better?”

      “It certainly wouldn’t have been as much fun.” She bit the inside of her lip, trying to figure out just how mad he was. Remembering how angry he’d been when he’d marched over to her in the pasture, she realized now that his upset hadn’t blown over. He hadn’t let it go. What she needed to do was reassure him. “You don’t need to bother with the stove. It’s just me, and I don’t need a fire.”

      “So this is how you made ends meet, did you?” He ignored what she had to say and stirred the embers until they glowed bright red. He added a handful of kindling from the nearby wood box. “Once your son was warm in bed, you’d let the fire go out and sit in the freezing cold?”

      “Until bedtime. To save on the cost of fuel,” she said, her cheeks heating. “It was financially prudent.”

      “In my house, that’s not the way it works.” He sounded angry again, his granite shoulders tensing as he watched the tiny flames flicker and dance. “You’ll keep the fire burning until your bedtime. You’ll do what I ask this time, or I’ll put an end to the sledding.”

      As if curious about her reaction, he cut his gaze to her, studying her briefly out of the corner of his eye. Their gazes met and she felt her heartbeat pause, as if it were about to cease all together.

      “You strike a hard deal, Cole,” she told him, understanding dawning. He wasn’t without a heart, not at all. “I’ll agree to your terms.”

      “Good.” He added small pieces of wood and, satisfied, closed the door. “At this point I wouldn’t want to send you back to North Carolina. I’m rather fond of George.”

      He looked