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“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 away, pushed off the floor and rose to his impressive six-foot height. The silence as he brushed moss and bark off his hands said more than his words ever could. His affection for George had won her devotion. He’d spent the entire afternoon teaching the boy how to ride, saddle and rein, and after supper the pair had disappeared into the barn to clean stalls and care for the horses.

“I’m rather fond of Amelia,” she confessed and went quiet, too, letting her silence say much, much more.

“I’m glad.” He cleared his throat and finally spoke, though he looked unsure of himself. It was endearing that for all his strength and size, he was basically shy. Why that stole her heart just a bit, she couldn’t say, either.

He reached for the broom, but she beat him to it. He raised one eyebrow and his face turned to stone. She was starting to recognize his angry look.

“This is the least I can do for the man who built the fire for me.” She seized the broom and swept the small amount of debris into a tidy pile. “You’re going to have to get used to me doing things for you, too. I understand that it’s going to be a challenge for you, as I’ve been alone for so long, as well.”

“I see.” His gaze raked over her face, and she shivered. Perhaps from the cold air, for the fire in the stove was not strong enough to begin heating the place. He sounded amused as he grabbed the nearby dustpan and knelt to hold it in place for her. “You would have been happy never marrying again?”

“It probably seems that way.” She swept, sending the tiny pieces of moss and bark into the dustpan. “I would have preferred to marry, but finding someone who would be good to George was a problem.”

“You had offers?” He rose, emptied the pan in the wood box.

“Several. We lived in a very small town, but every widower who came along asked for my hand.” For once she was with someone who could understand her choices, unlike her friends and coworkers who’d been critical of her decisions. “One was a man who had a farm to work and five daughters. He said he’d take me on as a wife because of George, who could learn to do the work of a man in the fields.”

“That’s terrible.” Cole took the broom from her and put it away, sympathy knelling low in his voice. “But I know men like that. They use their children as free labor.”

“Yes, and that’s not what I wanted for George. Better that I work long hours and have my great-aunt watch him than to expose him to that heartache.” She felt surprised when Cole reached for her elbow, guiding her to the sofa, gesturing for her to sit. It had been a long time since a man had shown genuine caring for her. She settled on the cushion, telling him what she’d never told anyone. “That wasn’t the worst offer I received. A salesman, who came through town regularly and stayed at the hotel where I worked, offered to make me his wife if I left George behind. Apparently he wasn’t interested in raising another man’s son. Nothing but trouble, he said.”

“With offers like that, no wonder you were cautious with me. I was cautious, too.” He shook the teakettle on the stove, listened for the sound of water in it and carried it to the kitchen nook. “It took you and me writing over a dozen letters each to reach this point. I’ve learned from several of my customers most folks in a mail-order situation just write a few times.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, too, but we have children. We had to be sure.” She watched in amazement as Cole filled the kettle from the water pitcher. Timothy had never done such a thing, nor had any man she’d heard of. But there he was, standing in the shadows, doing something for her. “How about you? I told you my stories. It’s only fair you do the same.”

“Oh, I asked a few stern-looking widows before resorting to writing an advertisement,” he confessed, carrying the kettle to the stove. He set it down with a clunk. “They were all horrified. Of me, or wild Amelia, I’ve never been sure.”

“It was you,” she assured him, laughing for no reason at all. “Amelia is a gem.”

“Right.” Humor lit his face, softening the chiseled planes of his cheekbones and the carved line of his mouth. It drove away the shadows from his eyes, leaving a sincere openness in those depths of blue. For an instant he looked approachable, unguarded. He settled on the sofa beside her. “Yes, it must have been me. I’m told I’m a difficult man.”

“No. Not difficult.” She wanted to lay her hand on his sleeve, to bridge the distance between them, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d never felt so close, so real. She rather liked this man. A whole lot. “Life has dealt you a blow, that’s all. Sometimes we’re never the same afterward.”

“No, we’re not.” The muscles in his jaw worked. He leaned forward, away from her, planting his elbows on his knees, hands to his face. He took a moment, breathed in and out. “You must have loved your husband very much.”

“I did. I married him when I was seventeen, starry-eyed and full of dreams.” She hardly recognized that girl she’d been, standing at the front of the church with her friends and family watching, vowing to honor the dashing farmer who’d stolen her heart. “I was more in love with him than he was with me, I’m afraid. It took me a while to learn to see the real man, instead of the one I’d wanted to see.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He pulled his hands away from his face and straightened, his empathetic gaze searching hers. “I just assumed you had a happy marriage.”

“I did, for the most part, but Timothy had his struggles.” She stared at her hands, too, hesitating. “I loved him. I was devastated when he died.”

“I know how that feels.” He paused, letting the silence take over. But since it was broken by the rumbling of the teakettle, he got on his feet and rescued it from the stove top before it whistled and woke the boy. “When Alice passed, it was like the sun going out, never to shine again. I’ve been in the dark ever since.”

“That’s the first time you’ve talked about her.”

“I try not to.” Other than mentioning he was a widower, he’d purposefully avoided anything to do with Alice in his letters. It hurt too much. He grabbed the kettle’s handle with the hem of his shirt and carried it to the kitchen nook. The darkness in the room’s corner made it easier to open up. “She was my world. After the way I grew up—my father passed away from a field accident when I was about George’s age. Because of our financial situation, we were about to lose the farm, Ma had to remarry. She had nothing if she didn’t and three children to provide for. Her biggest fear was being homeless and us starving with no place to go. So she married a man from our church.”

“That had to be so hard for her, to marry without l-love.” Her words caught, as if she felt not only sympathy for his mother, but sadness for herself.

That’s when he knew for sure. He could feel it in his gut. Deep down, Mercy was hoping for a connection between them, for something more than a simple, courteous convenient marriage. Troubled, he measured tea into the ball, hands shaking. Tea leaves likely fell onto the small table, but it was too dark to see them. He dropped it into the teapot and reached for the kettle.

“It was a hard sacrifice Ma made.” He listened to the water pour, rushing into the pot. Telling by ear when it was full. He set the tea kettle aside, aching in a way he couldn’t describe. He hung his head, drew in a breath and hoped—no, prayed—he was wrong about Mercy’s hopes.

“The man Ma married was well-thought-of by many, but we saw his true colors.” He did his best to keep at bay those old memories of the scared and vulnerable boy he’d been, struggling to hide his wounds from his ma. “My stepfather was brutal. I was the oldest, so I made sure I bore the brunt of it.”

“To protect your younger siblings,” she said, as if she’d memorized every fact he’d ever written during their correspondence. Not only committed them to memory, but to her heart. Her caring warmed the air, drove back the shadows, made her lovelier than ever. “Is that why you are so good to George?”

“Partly.” He reached down a mug from the shelf and held himself very still. The truth—the admission—didn’t come easily. “Alice died in childbirth. Our son was stillborn. She lived long enough to see his face and then she was gone, too.”

“Oh.” Shocked silence followed. Mercy bowed her head, as if she’d been struck. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That had to be unbearable for you.”

“Unbearable,” he repeated. It was the closest word to what he’d gone through. He’d nearly died of sorrow, too, but Amelia had been three years old and he’d had to find a way to go on. “My heart broke for the final time that day. I walled off the pieces, picked myself up and I’m still getting by the best I can.”

“And so that’s why you want a convenient marriage.” Her soothing, sympathetic tone reached out to him. She studied him over the back of the sofa, her beautiful face soft with understanding.

He’d never seen anything more lovely or compelling. He didn’t know why he could see inside to her heart or why he could read it so easily. But he saw there the dashed hopes for an emotional connection between them, the sorrow for his lost wife and son, and the understanding of what his heart had been through. Without a word, he nodded, acknowledging what he’d seen in her. She smiled sadly, knowing what he meant.

“That’s why I was so interested in you,” he confessed, reaching for the teapot and filling the cup. “You’d lost a husband, so you know what it’s like. And you had George.”

“Yes, George.” Her tone came falsely bright, layered with too many emotions to name. “You are a blessing to him.”

“As he is to me.” He carried the cup toward the light, toward her, and gave it to her. “I can’t tell you what this afternoon meant. Teaching him to ride. Watching him discover the joy of having a horse. I hope what I gave to him had at least as much value as what he gave to me today.”

“More.” She blew on the tea to cool it, because she needed time to gain control of her emotions or she wouldn’t be able to hide the most private ones from him. “George was floating he was so happy. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“Good.” As if buoyed by that, Cole nodded, sank onto the edge of the sofa and steepled his hands. Half in the shadows, half in the reach of the lamp’s light, he made a stunning image of light and dark, of strength and heart. “I think George and I are going to get along just fine.”

“I do, too.” She took a sip of tea, although her hand was trembling so it wasn’t easy. She burned her lip, scorched her tongue, and spilled some on her dress. None of that mattered next to the enormous swell of affection and grief filling her. “If you could have seen him before, watching our neighbors back in North Carolina. Mr. Fulton would be out in the alley playing catch with his sons or in the backyard rubbing down their horse, and the yearning on George’s face would make me cry every time. You’ve done something for my boy, something you don’t even know.”

“I do.” His throat worked, the tendons cording with the strain of his emotions. “I’ve been yearning for a son, too.”

Tears filled her eyes, thinking of the hole in Cole’s life, the son he never got to know. She blinked hard, willing those tears back. Too bad she couldn’t do the same with her affection. It welled up, unbidden, rising through her like hope on the darkest winter night, like starlight in a cold Christmas sky. She took another sip of tea, swallowing the hot liquid blindly, ignoring the scald. How could she not love the man who loved her son?

“Well, I’d better go.” Cole stood, lost in the shadows again. He moved in the darkness, a shadowed line of his shoulder, a curve of his capable hand. “Like I said, be sure and take what you need from the store, for you, the boy or the house. I expect you to make the place your home, any way you want. Amelia made an appointment for you at Cora’s dress shop tomorrow.”

“Oh, for the wedding dress.” She thought of the slate, of the girl’s hopes written out in a tidy, organized list. Quite extravagant, but now she understood. As George had longed for a father, as Cole had longed for a son, so Amelia had yearned for a mother and a wedding to celebrate it. “Of course. Anything Amelia wants.”

“Within reason.” Cole’s firm tone held warmth, too. “No sledding in town. No horse riding. No Stetson. She keeps threatening to trade in her sunbonnet for one.”

“I’ll do my best.” Mercy set the cup aside and rose, too, trailing after him to the door. The affection she felt for him seemed to keep expanding, growing beyond all bounds. She prayed she could keep it secret from him, to be the wife he wanted and deserved. “I’m worried about what Amelia wants for my wedding dress versus what you can afford.”

“I’ve already spoken to Cora about that.” The door whispered open and he stood in the darkness before it, towering over her, close.

So close.

Her skin tingled sweetly, as if a mellow summer breeze had blown over her. She lifted her chin and swallowed, praying her feelings didn’t show in her voice. “Good. I’ve never been dress shopping in a store before. Growing up, Ma always made our clothes and so I’ve always made mine.”

“How old is that dress you’re wearing?” he asked, his tone firm and caring at the same time.

“I sewed it when Timothy was alive.” The last time she’d been able to afford fabric for a new dress.

“That’s been a long while,” he commented. “At least four years.”

“Five, but it’s quite serviceable. It still has another good year left. Maybe more.”

“Sorry, that’s not going to happen.” He gave a soft bark of surprised laughter. He couldn’t believe this woman. She thought of the children before herself. She really didn’t realize that he’d wanted to better her life, too, not only Amelia’s and George’s, when he’d written his proposal. Something about her had hooked him. Now he knew what. “I told Cora you need more than a wedding dress. You need a new wardrobe.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” She sounded scandalized, horrified. “That would be a terrible expense.”

“It’s mine to pay,” he reminded her. “Remember my second rule?”

“Oh, yes, the budget. How is this living on a budget? It’s too extravagant.” She truly sounded distressed. The reaches of the lamplight strained to find her, to highlight the golden glints in her hair, to caress the curve of her face. Crinkles dug into her forehead as she gazed up at him. “No, that makes no sense. I told you in our correspondence. I don’t need anything. I’m not the one in need.”

He begged to differ. He looked at her and saw all kinds of need. The need for her son, for a home, for family and for love. That was the one that stabbed at him, that cut like a blade. It was the one thing he could not give her. The one thing he did not have to give.

It saddened him greatly, because he wanted so much for her, for this woman who’d given him a son and who’d made his daughter happy. He still could hold on to the hope that she’d help mold Amelia into an acceptably behaved daughter. After all, a man had to hold on to something.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her, his chest hurting so stridently it was as if he’d been kicked in the ribs by seven wild horses. “I’m the head of the household. I’m the man. What I say goes. You’ll get new dresses. End of story.”

“I thought we agreed not to boss each other around?” Amusement tugged her pretty mouth upward, and there was a hint of challenge in her eyes.

He liked this woman. Very much. “Sure, we agreed to that, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in charge. On this matter, you need to do what I say.”

“Buy myself dresses I don’t need?” Her amusement faded; the challenge remained. Her delicately carved chin hiked up another notch. “I’m not in need.”

“Yes, you are.” She’d been struggling in poverty for too long and that was over. The overwhelming need to take care of her, too, rushed through him like a flash flood, knocking down some of the barriers he’d had up for years. Thankfully some of his defenses stayed standing, the iron-strong ones, the ones closest to his heart. “You will be a store owner’s wife, and how you dress reflects on me. You need to look the part.”

“You’re just saying that. I don’t believe you mean it.” Her chin dipped, as if she, too, could look inside him and see the truth.

His fingers reached out on their own accord to curl around her delicate chin. Her skin felt warm and silken-soft as he nudged her chin up so their eyes could meet. She was a woman of pride. He saw that, and he saw, too, what his gesture meant to her. No more patched dresses, faded from years of washing. No more quiet desperation struggling to make basic ends meet. They were a team, meant to help each other.

“I mean it,” he told her, pretending to be tough when he was crumbling. His ribs felt broken, his internal organs ripped and bleeding. How could feelings hurt so much? “I won’t go around town overhearing folks talking about how ragged my wife’s clothes are. I deserve better than that.”

“So, buying new things is a wifely duty?”

“Yes. Glad you understand me.” His throat closed up, overcome by the cracking pain inside him. He hated the emptiness he felt within, the void of his lost heart, the one that Alice and their son had taken with them when they’d passed. With no hope of getting it back, he felt like a failure, feared the disappointment to come. But did that stop him from leaning forward? No, not one bit. His lips brushed her forehead with the faintest touch. He breathed in her rose and soap scent, and the emptiness inside him throbbed like an open wound.

That kiss was a mistake. Reaching out to her at all was a mistake. Ashamed of himself, of what he’d done, he turned away and strode out the door. What was she expecting now? That there might be more kisses in their future, more closeness, even love? He winced, knowing he would fail her. He had nothing to give to her.

“Good night, Cole.” She broke the silence, sounding practical, like the woman from the letters he’d come to trust. As if she knew his heart, her voice consoled. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to spending your money tomorrow.”

A joke. That helped, he thought, feeling the pain within him ease. He managed a grin as he caught hold of the doorknob, crossing over the threshold. “Now I’m actually feeling like a married man.”

“Excellent practice for the real thing,” she teased back.

“Wait, I’m thinking about changing my mind.” He winked, but it was too dark for her to see or to realize he was telling the truth. Like a wounded man, he headed down the stairs, his gait unsteady, feeling winded and reeling from the sort of pain that comes from a wound that had never healed.

“Sorry, no changing your mind now,” she gently kidded, her voice echoing down the stairwell. “Not when I finally get to spend your money.”

While her words were light and breezy, meant to make him smile, there was something else there. An emotion he sensed, an awareness. He’d not hidden his true feelings from her, after all.

He grimaced, alone at the foot of the stairs, as the door closed, blocking off all sight of her. He turned around, staring up into the deep shadows, feeling the night’s cold wrap around him. He longed for her the way the dark yearned for light. He wished he had a heart to give her.

Chapter Eight

“Yep, that’s the dress,” Amelia declared with a decisive nod in the sunniest corner of Mrs. Cora Jones’s dress shop. The girl gave her braids a toss. “I knew it the second I saw it in the front window. It makes you even more beautiful, Ma.”

Ma. Mercy’s hand flew to her throat. She would never get over how good that felt. She smiled at her daughter, held out the green skirt and slowly twirled. “Isn’t it a little festive for a wedding? I was expecting something sedate and very somber.”

“Oh, no, this is just right.” Amelia tilted her head to one side, considering, absolutely serious. “It’s a Christmas dress. See the sprigged holly on the bodice? And the velvet skirt is my absolute favorite. Pa won’t let me wear velvet. He says I’m too young, but I’m dying to.”

“Perhaps together we can sew a dress for you. I’m thinking we can find a way to put some velvet on it.” Loving that idea, Mercy turned to eye the plentiful bolts of fabric in this upscale shop. She’d never stepped foot inside such a fancy establishment before or worn a dress like this, with mother-of-pearl buttons and trims of dainty lace and silk.

“Why, that looks lovely on you.” The shop owner bustled over with genteel grace and genuine friendliness. “The perfect dress for your wedding in, what, two days?”

“One and a half now,” Mercy said shakily. “It’s counting down more quickly than I thought.”

“A Christmas wedding is terribly romantic.” Cora Jones selected a red velvet bonnet from the nearby display and set it on Mercy’s head. “I met my husband during the Christmas season. It’s a time for joy. I’ve known Cole a long time. You couldn’t have found a more wonderful man.”

“I think so, too.” Mercy squinted at herself in the full-length mirror, hardly recognizing her reflection. Was she really this woman with a twinkle in her eye, looking slender and elegant in a finely tailored, fashionable dress? Her cheeks were rosy, her skin glowing. She felt so full of life.

The last time she’d felt this way had been her first wedding day. The realization slammed into her, forcing the air from her lungs. She gasped, covering her mouth to hide her dismay. No one noticed. Amelia was busy conferring with Cora about the hat. Cora had turned around to choose a different bonnet. Mercy felt her heart break, remembering that girl she’d been, so full of hope. Love hadn’t turned out quite like she’d expected. She and Timothy had struggled, and while they’d loved one another, they’d grown apart a little more each year of their marriage. She’d longed to be closer, working hard to repair the distance between them up until death took him.