Mail-Order Christmas Brides. Jillian Hart
family meant to her, things would be different. Stubborn hope struggled for life as she dared to study him out of the corners of her eyes. Severe, he looked like a sculpture carved out of pure marble. How would a smile change his face? She pictured his unforgiving lines softening with humor and his midnight-blue eyes dancing with laughter.
Her stomach fluttered and not from nerves. She held on to the edge of the seat as the horse drew them over a small berm and into a side street, where twilight turned shadows into darkness. Tate became a silhouette, an impressive outline of masculinity and might, and the flutter moved upward toward her heart. He would be quite handsome, she guessed, if hopelessness didn’t rest so heavily on his iron shoulders.
“That’s the feed store where Pa works.” Gertie pointed out as the runners jounced onto the next street. The lighted windows of storefronts reflected warmly on the long stretch of ice. “It’s Uncle Devin’s store. It used to be Grandpop’s store, but he died.”
Felicity caught a glimpse of a barrel behind the shop’s window before Patches drew them onto a residential street. She glanced around. Not exactly a prosperous place. One tiny shanty slumped in the darkness. Another one peered at them from behind a grove of scrawny trees.
“And that’s where we live. Right there. Do you see it?”
“It’s too dark.” She leaned forward, straining through the thickening duskiness. Emotion choked her and stung in her eyes, making it hard to see the dwelling. A lamp burned on the other side of a curtain, casting just enough light to see a crooked porch and lopsided eaves, yellow clapboard and a sturdy front door.
“Now do you see it?”
“I do.” No more boardinghouse meals and temporary rooms or a bed that had never been her own. This was her home. Her first real home in seventeen years.
Thank you, Lord. She let the gratitude move through her. Hebrews 11:1 promised hope and a good future, and she’d never felt the words touch her more. Patches nosed down the narrow driveway, drawing them up to the small yellow house, shabby with poverty and neglect.
“It isn’t much.” Tate’s baritone held no note of emotion. He didn’t move, a brawny form, radiating a challenge. As if he expected her to find fault or prove him right by deciding to cut her losses and leave now.
Not a chance. He didn’t know her well, but he would. When she made up her mind, nothing could sway her. An icy plop fell onto her cheek, accompanied by a hundred taps onto the frozen ground. Snow. Heaven’s reassurance. Like grace, snow make things fresh and new.
“This house is just right.” She lifted her chin, determined to let Tate see she wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s the nicest place I’ve lived in for a long while.”
A deep “hmm” resonated from his side of the wagon, as if her answer surprised him. His movements rustled, echoing faintly in the silent stretch of dark as the last dregs of twilight vanished from the sky. Inky blackness descended in full, making Tate a part of the night as his steely hand gripped her elbow, helping her to keep her balance as she sank ankle-deep in snow.
“Careful there.” The smoky pitch of his words enveloped her briefly. Unaware of his effect on her he pulled away, leaving her to trudge along a shoveled path toward the porch steps.
“C’mon, Felicity. Follow me.” Gertie shivered with anticipation as she charged up the steps. The front door flew open in a wash of lamplight.
“I thought I heard you pull in.” A woman about twenty-three or twenty-four, Felicity’s same age, came into sight in a carefully patched dress. Her voice had a smiling quality, the sound of a friend. “Goodness, Gertie, don’t drag Felicity around like that. Felicity, I’m Ingrid, Tate’s sister.”
“Sister?” She hadn’t known. Gertie hadn’t written of an aunt. She hurried up the steps. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ingrid.”
“Call me Ing.” Ingrid hauled her through the doorway and into a welcoming hug. “It is wonderful you are finally here. Gertie shared your every letter with me. I’ve been on pins and needles all day long waiting for you. I think we will be great friends.”
“I do, too.” Happiness lumped in her throat, making it hard to speak. “I didn’t know I was getting a new sister.”
“Tate is in real trouble now, since we can conspire against him.” Good-humored brown eyes glanced out the open doorway, where a frigid wind gusted and Tate’s shadow knelt to lower the trunk onto the tiny porch.
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