Mail-Order Christmas Brides

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 the hod by the range and limped away.

“Thanks.” She helped Gertie slide the pot onto the table. As the cutting board thunked to a rest, she watched the bob of Tate’s invincible shoulders rise and fall with his uneven gait until the shadows stole him from her sight. The ring of his boots on the floor continued, his cane in counterpoint.

Maybe he wasn’t as unreachable as she’d thought. A small hope flared to life within her. It was a small light in a vast dark but it was enough to see. Coming here was no mistake.

Chapter Four

He glimpsed her through a crack between the curtains, embraced by lamplight, sipping from a cup as she stood in front of the stove, her back to him. Her golden hair was wrapped around her head like a coronet in one long braid. Her yellow dress accentuated her woman’s form, delicate shoulders, slim waist, flaring skirt that draped gracefully to the floor. The light seemed to search her out; like finding like. Gertie was right. The woman did look like a fairy-tale princess out of a book.

What had he gotten himself into? His stomach clenched with foreboding as he forced his bad leg forward and stabbed his cane into the snow. Airy flakes sailed around him, the first harbingers of a coming storm. He figured more snow to shovel and wrestle through was no hardship compared to dealing with the woman in his kitchen, stirring something in a pan. Gertie loved her. That was what mattered. The only thing that sustained him as he forced his feet toward the house. It was going to be torture to get used to having that woman in his house.

“Pa!” The door flung open the instant he stomped snow from his boots. A grinning Gertie filled the threshold, her rosebud smile a welcome sight. “Guess what? Felicity let me help make the biscuits.”

“That’s good.” He cupped the side of her cherub cheek, his dear girl. He saw the tiny newborn cradled in his arms, the gentle toddler wobbling as she took her first steps, the withered child sobbing when the marshal had taken him away. He cleared unwanted emotion from his throat. “I’m sure I’m going to like those biscuits.”

His words must have carried to the woman because she turned from the stove to greet him with a soft look. Gentle. Something he hadn’t seen outside of his family in a long while and his windpipe closed up. He stared back at her, probably looking like a lumbering fool, unable to say a word.

“I’m just finishing up the gravy, otherwise supper is ready.” She offered him a sunny smile before turning to the stove. “I used to help out in the dining room where I lived, for a discount of my room and board. I love to cook.”

“These are the biscuits, Pa.” Gertie pranced up to the table and pointed to a bowl, neatly wrapped in a dish towel to hold the heat inside. “They taste real good. I ate some of the crumbled-off pieces.”

“I can’t wait to have one.” His voice came out strained and coarse, the best he could manage. He shrugged out of his coat, focusing too hard on hanging up the garment just so he didn’t have to look at the woman. He was going to have to start thinking of her with a name.

“It was so thoughtful of your sister to start supper.” Her brisk steps went from stove to table, tap, tap, tapping like a dance. “I see she cleaned, too. You have a brother also?”

He nodded. Took a reluctant step toward the table. “Devin.”

“He owns the feed store where you work. I have it straight now.” She set two plates on the table and whirled to fetch more.

His stomach growled harder, the food did look tasty. Thick peppery gravy and a fluffy white mountain of mashed potatoes with butter melting down the peak. Gertie’s eyes shone as she pulled out her chair.

For Gertie, he found the strength to sit down at the table. A cup of tea steamed beside his plate, waiting to warm him. He peered through his lashes as the woman—as Felicity—added a platter and a bowl to the table.

“Can I get you anything else? I hope I didn’t forget something.” Her warm pleasantness felt out of place in this sad house.

“It’s just right, Felicity,” Gertie breathed, still in awe of the woman. “It’s perfect.”

Do it for Gertie, he told himself again, finding the strength he’d lacked before to offer the woman—Felicity—a half smile. “This looks very good.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she quipped, settling into the chair across the small table from him. “I can only hope you think it tastes just as good. Who usually leads the prayer?”

“I do.” Gertie’s hand crept into his, holding on tight. Her head bowed, her eyes squeezed shut in earnest belief, she began the blessing. “Dear Father.”

Warm fingers curled around his other hand. The shock of the woman’s touch hammered through him. Gertie’s blessing became garbled, words he could not make sense of as Felicity bowed her head. Lamplight caressed her porcelain perfection, accentuating her beauty. Her hand tucked in his felt dainty, as fine-boned as a bird’s.

“Thank You so much for my new ma,” Gertie prayed on. “Now everything will be all right, I just know it. Amen.”

“Amen,” he muttered. He tried to ignore the pinch of regret when he released hold of the woman. His hand felt empty. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her reach for a platter and angled it in his direction as an offering.

Her gaze did something to him. It pulled at him down deep, and so he avoided it. He did take the roast beef. He speared several slices with his fork, realizing too late she’d given him first choice. He wanted to read something into her gesture; Lolly always had a motive behind every action, but he could not get up the steam to suspect Felicity of the same.

“Don’t forget the biscuits, Pa.” Gertie slid the bowl in his direction.

“I won’t.” He added a slice to her plate. “Those biscuits are all I can think about.”

“Put lots of butter on ’em.”

“That was my plan.” He chose a couple biscuits from the bowl and cracked them open with his knife. Buttermilk goodness, crumbly and fragrant made his mouth water. At least he would be eating well. Another reason to be grateful for his wife-to-be. “You ladies did a real fine job.”

“I stirred up the batter.” Gertie dug into the mashed potatoes and spooned a mound onto her plate. “I put them into the oven, too.”

“She was a fantastic helper.” Felicity reached for the gravy. “I think we make a great team.”

“Me, too.” With an emphatic nod, the girl thunked the potato bowl onto the table.

“What do you both like for breakfast? I need to know for when the morning rolls around. Maybe there are some things I should avoid making. Like rhubarb pancakes.”

“Ick.” Gertie curled her upper lip, eyes dancing. “There’s no such thing as rhubarb pancakes.”

“Tell that to the cook at the orphanage. A patron donated a sizable portion of rhubarb from her gardens and not one bit of it went to waste. We had mashed rhubarb, chopped rhubarb, minced rhubarb. We had rhubarb in bread, in oatmeal, in meat loaf and stew. The pancakes were the best of the bunch, almost edible.”

“No rhubarb pancakes.” Gertie laughed. The melody of it rose above the rumble of the fire in the stove and chased the chill from the room. The most beautiful sound.

“Okay, then I’ll cross that off the list. Anything else? How about charred eggs? Burned bacon?”

“No, don’t make that, either.” The child’s cheeks shone pink with delight. “I don’t like things burned.”

“Good to know. I’ll try not to scorch anything.” She swirled her fork in the potatoes on her plate. “Does that mean you like things undercooked? Like wilty bacon? Runny eggs?”

“Nope.” Gertie nibbled on the edge of a biscuit. “Just do it all the regular way.”

“I’ll do my best.” She considered the stoic man across the table, head bent, cutting the beef and stabbing it with his fork. He had to be listening. “Any special requests, Tate?”

“Me?” His head jerked up, dark locks tumbling over his high forehead, giving him a rakish look.

A handsome look. For a brief moment she saw him differently. Confident, gentle and whole. What an impressive man he must have been. He still must be, she decided.

“Whatever you cook is fine.” His fork stopped midair. “I appreciate not having to make it myself.”

“So you do the cooking.” The picture was coming clear. Tate standing at the stove, trying to do both the work of a mother and a father. “I thought maybe Ingrid did.”

“No. My sister has her own life. I do my best not to impose on her.” The words lashed and he winced. Obviously he hadn’t meant to be harsh. “Sorry. It’s an argument in my family. They did so much for Gertie while I was…away.”

He choked on that last word, and Felicity wondered why. Sorrow filled the air. She wanted to know what had happened but now wasn’t the time. She would leave that sadness for another day. “I hope you don’t mind if she and I are friendly. I’ve been without my sisters for so long I ache for that connection again. When I met her, I thought perhaps we could be close, like real sisters should be.”

“I’m sure she will like that.” One corner of his mouth curled upward. Bleakness faded from his eyes’ midnight-blue depths. “Ingrid has been nearly as excited by your arrival as Gertie is. My sister will probably want to drag you with her to her social events. I don’t have a problem with that. You should make friends here.”

“Oh. Friends.” She hadn’t thought that far. Suddenly a whole new world opened up to her. The lonely existence she’d left behind faded. She was no longer alone. Did Tate realize what he had done for her?

“It must be hard leaving everything behind.” He peered at her from behind his dark lashes. “And everyone.”

“There was no one left, not toward the end. The friends I’d made at work left town when they lost their jobs. The relationships I’d made at the orphanage didn’t last. Most of the girls I grew up with were eager to put the past behind them and went somewhere else to start fresh.” She shrugged. Staying had been her choice, so it wasn’t a sad thing. “I wasn’t able to let go.”

“What work did you do?”

“I’m a seamstress.” She liked that he wanted to know about her. Surely that was a good sign? He was reaching out to her and it made the small hope within her grow. “When I was a girl, I was hired out one summer to sew in a workshop in Cedar Rapids. It was an unpleasant circumstance, but I worked hard at learning the craft. When I was sent back to the orphanage in September, I had the skills I needed to find a job when I was old enough.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven. And that’s just what I did. I worked hard to improve my sewing and when I was on my own, I worked in a dress shop making beautiful things.”

“That explains your clothes. That’s no calico work dress.”

“I wanted to make a good impression, so you wouldn’t take one look at me and wish me back on that train.” Her smile wobbled, though she tried to hide it. Guilt hit him because that was just what he’d wanted.

Not anymore. He took another bite of a delicious biscuit and followed it up with a flavorful mouthful of potato and gravy. Hard to swallow past the lump in his throat but he managed it. Felicity Sawyer was not what she seemed, not at all. His daughter had done a fine job picking out a ma. He wasn’t much of a provider, probably wouldn’t be much of a husband, but he vowed to do his best.

Gertie wasn’t the only one who deserved it.

“Do you know what time it is?” Felicity studied Gertie over the rim of her teacup. The meal was nearly done, Tate polished off the last biscuit on his plate and she recognized the girl’s fidgety excitement on her seat.

“Is it present time?” She lost the battle and bobbed off her chair. The question furrowed her dear brow and pleaded like a wish in her eyes. Such an adorable child. Felicity felt as if she’d always loved her.

“I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait a moment longer. Let’s go fetch your gifts.” She set down her cup with a clink, rising to her feet. Aware of Tate’s steady gaze, she dropped the napkin onto the table and followed Gertie’s dancing steps from the lighted room.

The farthest door opened into a small bedroom. Inky hints of a headboard and a window were all she could see before her right shoe bumped against her trunk. Surely there had to be a lamp here somewhere. She heard Tate’s boots approach, illumination spilled into the room bobbing closer as he did and her surroundings came to life. A bed against one wall, a shabby chest of drawers against another and a pair of muslin curtains, that was all. Not even an extra lamp.

“I put your gift right on top.” Felicity knelt beside her trunk, where Gertie already waited, squirming with anticipation, and worked the latch on the lid. “I started making it as soon as I read your first letter. That’s how much I liked you.”

Anticipation beat, making her hand tremble and her pulse thumped, heavy and syrupy in her veins as she opened the lid. Tate leaned in with the lamp and set it on the chest of drawers behind her. His nearness shrank the room and made skittles on her skin, like a summer breeze blowing.

“Felicity, is that really for me?” The girl gasped, unbelieving.

She opened her mouth but no answer came. She had lost every word she knew. Was it because of the solemn man towering over her? He was enormous from this vantage, sculpted muscle and powerful masculinity, a mountain of a man made of granite. His face was a mask of rock but his gaze softened when he looked into the trunk. His eyes turned glassy, as if overcome with emotion.

“Is she really mine?” Gertie repeated, as if certain she was dreaming. As if the gift could not be real.

“She’s yours. I didn’t name her. I thought you could do that. Go ahead and hold her.”

“Oh. She’s beautiful.” Golden ringlets bounced as the girl bent down to gather the cloth doll into her arms like a mother holding a new baby. She simply stared into the doll’s face, taking in the embroidered rosebud mouth and blue button eyes.

“I wanted her to look like you.” She couldn’t resist brushing back a wayward ringlet, as soft as the finest silk. Love for this precious girl deepened. “I didn’t know if you already had a doll.”

Gertie shook her head, curls bobbing, and the silence became sorrow. The same emotion etched into Tate’s stony features. When his gaze captured hers, his stoniness eased. He nodded once, his appreciation clear.

She wasn’t aware of removing another gift from the trunk or rising to face the man. The force in his eyes held her captive, impossible to look away. The hook in her heart deepened, its grip on her secure. Why did it feel as if she were falling? She stood perfectly straight, her balance was just fine. Yet the room tilted until the only steady thing was Tate’s midnight gaze holding her in place.

“This is for you.” Her hands felt disconnected from the rest of her as she held out the woolen bundle. When his eyes broke from hers to study the gift she offered him, she felt oddly bereft, alone and full of loss. As if without the binding connection of his gaze, she was no longer the same, no longer whole. The room stopped whirling. The ground steadied beneath her feet. Uncertainty wound through her as Tate’s rocky mask returned. So remote, she could not read his reaction.

Did he not like the scarf? She’d knitted it during the empty hours after supper and before bed, needles clacking, wondering about the man she was making it for. “I guessed at the color. I didn’t know what you liked.”

“It will do.” His baritone grated, rough and hard as if he were angry but that wasn’t the emotion creasing his face. The show of feeling was brief before it vanished. “I appreciate it.”

“I hoped the blue would match your eyes.” She felt inadequate standing before him and she didn’t know why. Perhaps she’d secretly wished the gift of a scarf would break the ice between them, take them from being strangers to something more friendly.

“I have nothing to give to you.” Apology cracked the crevice of stone. Another clue to the mystery of the man.

“Nothing?” Couldn’t he see what he’d done? “You bought me a train ticket. You brought me here. I will have a whole new life and a family because of you.”

“You aren’t disappointed?” He folded the scarf, concentrating on the task, ill at ease. “This can’t be what you expected.”

“No.” Her loving gaze fell on Gertie, still kneeling on the floor. “It’s a great deal more than I’d hoped.”

“You are, too.” The words made him feel way too vulnerable and he knew he was heading for trouble. There could be no tie between him and the woman. Just a convenient arrangement for the child’s sake. But he wanted Felicity to know she was wanted here. For what she’d already done for Gertie, she’d earned his devotion. Likely as not, her opinion of him would change over time when she heard the rumors about him and learned they were largely true.