Mail-Order Christmas Brides. Jillian Hart

       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.

       “Then let’s pick out the right pot. Does this look like a good size to you, or do you want more potatoes? Maybe this one?”

       “That’s the one.” Gertie hugged the cutting board against her chest with one arm and held out her free hand, as if determined to help by carrying both.

       Felicity handed over the potato pot to her child, her own little girl. How many times over the years had she wished for such a blessing? Overwhelmed, she rose on shaky knees, surprised when Tate’s hand caught her elbow to help her up. She hadn’t heard his approach but he towered over her, blocking the pool of light. Big and intimidating, but it was kindness she glimpsed.

       He might deny it, but she saw it chase the dark hues from his eyes and the rocky harshness from the planes of his chiseled face.

       “Thank you.” His gaze collided with hers. Maybe it was the trick of the flickering light behind him or the depth of the shadows he stood in, but his coldness melted. Apology shone in his eyes and the authenticity of it rolled through her, hooking deep into her heart. His cane tapped a beat as he stepped away. The lamplight washed over her, the moment passed but the hook remained.

       “I’ll fetch more coal for you.” Once again cold and unreachable, the man scooped up