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Chapter Six

“Mercy, thank you for lunch.” Cole dropped his cloth napkin on the table, pushed back his chair and resisted the pull of the woman’s magnetic presence. Something about Mercy kept urging him to look, to smile, to notice things about her he oughtn’t be noticing. Like the Cupid’s-bow shape of her lips, as blushed as new roses. Or the refined beauty of her heart-shaped face, the wide slash of her deep blue eyes, the curl of her honey-brown lashes, the dainty slope of her nose.

No, it was smarter to keep his head down, grab his hat and coat on the way to the door and not look back.

“Take your time and eat up, George.” He called over his shoulder. “Come down to the barn when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready!” The boy hit the floor with a two-footed clatter. “Ma, Pa said he’d teach me to ride right after lunch. That I get to sit up on Howie’s back and everything. I love Howie, he’s my very own horse. For keeps.”

“I’m sure he loves you, too.” Mercy’s melodic, caring words tempted Cole to look. Why she affected him, pulled at him, like this, he didn’t know. Gritting his teeth, he stabbed his arms into his coat and turned his ears off to the rest of what she had to say.

If he wanted to keep not liking the woman, it would be best not to get pulled in by her, not to care. He pushed open the door and escaped into the lean-to, where his boots waited. As he jammed his feet into them, he felt the weight of her gaze on him. Had he thanked her for lunch? He searched his mind for any memory of it. Yes, he had. Shaking his head at himself, he shoved his foot into a boot. Maybe that was a sign of how worked up over her he was. Having a woman around, making the commitment to marry wasn’t easy. His life was changing, and he didn’t like change.

“Pa?” George’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts.

Gazing down at the boy’s face crinkled up into a worried, silent question, he realized he was frowning. Cole blew out a breath, replaced the frown with what he hoped was more of a grin than a grimace and patted the bench by the door.

“Need help with those boots?” he asked his son. His son. Satisfaction filled him. This was one change he liked.

“Nah, I can do it.” George plopped down on the bench with little-boy exuberance, his blond hair tousled and wrangled his way into his new boots. “I’m a cowboy now.”

The back of Cole’s neck tingled. He turned around inexorably, as if he were destined to do it, as if he had no will or control over his own eyes. Mercy stood at the table, gathering the dirty plates, a willowy wisp of blue calico and grace.

In that moment as she stood before the window, blessed by sunlight, burnished by gold, she was no longer the stranger he’d corresponded with, widowed when her husband fell ill with diphtheria. She was no longer just the woman who’d stepped off the train, the one he’d decided was best for Amelia.

He could inexplicably see inside her, read the scars of loss that grief and hardship had made on her heart. Feel the commitment to their children. See the loneliness and the hope for a connection shadowed in those midnight-blue depths. He froze, hands fisting, unable to stop the sensation of the world fading away, the floorboards at his feet, the walls surrounding him, the children chattering.

As if in silence, as if haloed by light, there were just the two of them. Just him. Just Mercy. The emotional distance separating them vanished. His fingers wanted to unclench and reach out for hers, to take her hands in his, to ease the pain of loneliness within his own soul.

Fortunately he came to his senses in time, jerked away, turned his back and closed the door. George stared up at him, still wrestling with his second boot. Worry arched his brows and widened his eyes, as if he was frightened he hadn’t been fast enough.

“It’s okay,” Cole soothed, knowing he’d turned away from the boy too quickly, but it wasn’t George he needed to get away from. A man had to protect himself. He’d gotten by this long without being close to a woman. He saw no reason for that to change now. “Your sock is bunched up. Pull it up straight and your foot should slide in.”

“Okay.” George bent his head to the task, full of little-boy sweetness and intent. Task completed, he grinned and bounded to his feet.

“Button up all the way,” he reminded the boy, opening the lean-to door for him. “It’s cold out there.”

“I know, it’s not even melting.” The kid tromped down the steps and landed in the snow. “If it snows like that again, will Santa be able to come?”

“Sure. Santa’s used to snow. He lives at the North Pole, remember?” Cole caught up to the boy, plowing side by side with him through the drifts. “Even if we get a bad storm on Christmas, he’ll make it through.”

“If I were Santa, I’d have horses instead of reindeer,” George commented. Up ahead several horses poked their noses out of their stalls, curious to see what was going on. Howie’s golden nose was one of them. The gelding’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of the boy. Howie had a soft spot for kids, and came bounding into the snow, nickering an eager welcome.

“Look, he likes me!” George clasped his hands together, overcome.

Hard not to like this kid, Cole thought, chest aching. He laid a land on the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll put you on his back.”

“Oh!” George trotted ahead, grabbed hold of a fence rung and pulled himself up to stand on the bottom of it. All the better to reach Howie, who arched his head over the fence, knocked George’s Stetson askew and nibbled the boy’s cheek with a horsey kiss.

“I love you, too, Howie.” The boy’s delighted giggle filled long-broken places in Cole’s soul.

Maybe that was why he could suddenly feel more sharply than ever the tangible touch of a gaze on his back, how he knew Mercy stood at the window watching him with her son. His response to her troubled him, but it didn’t stop him from turning nor did it stop the acres of snowy land from shrinking until it felt as if there were no distance between them at all.

This connection to her wasn’t what he’d signed on for. This wasn’t what he wanted, he thought, jaw set, hands fisting, gaze connecting with hers. His pulse fluttered in recognition of her, and an unfamiliar peace came to his soul, healing him more. Emotion he couldn’t name gathered behind his eyes, burning and stinging. He felt her silence like singing. He jerked away, palms damp, the back of his neck sweating, needing the separation from her. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he feared what she silently wanted.

Hadn’t he made it clear in the numerous letters they’d exchanged? Mercy knew that. She’d written as much, but while that assurance had mollified him at the time, he kept worrying about it now. A woman like Mercy could find love again. She was beautiful, kindhearted and grounded, but he wasn’t looking for an emotional attachment and never would be. He’d tried that before and it had destroyed his heart. He forced his gaze to focus on George, who was busily chatting with Howie and stroking the gelding’s nose.

“George, let’s get you up and riding.” He strode to the gate and unlatched it. Several horses rushed over, friendly brown eyes searching him for any signs of food or impending affection. He waved them back, gave Patty a shove, scrubbed Chester’s nose, chuckled at Polly’s antics, all the while aware of the small boy behind him, who was unsure at being surrounded by so many horses.

“Don’t worry, they won’t trample you.” He caught the child’s gaze reassuringly. Funny how he remembered being younger than George, following his father into the corral for the first time. How enormous those horses had seemed back then. “They might give you a lot of kisses. And watch out, Polly will steal your hat. Wait, give that back, girl.”

George laughed, which only encouraged the bay mare to lift the hat higher, gripped lightly between her teeth, and give it a shake in the air as if to say, come and get it.

Ready to oblige, Cole scooped George up by the waist and held him high enough to grab his hat.

Polly lifted her head higher, stretching her neck as far as it would go, happy eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Hey!” George protested with a soft laugh. “Is she giving me sass?”

“I think she is, buddy.” Cole meant to retrieve the hat for the boy, but Howie beat him to it. The big gelding moved in to bump Polly, a protective look dark in his gentle eyes. With a sigh, the game over, Polly lowered the hat into George’s outstretched hands.

“Thank you, girl,” he said, earning a horsey grin from Polly and a nibbling kiss on his cheek.

“That tickles.” George giggled. “I think she likes me, too.”

“You are charming my horses, kid.” As he remembered those long-ago times, it was as if he could feel the soul of his father brushing close, feel the echo of his childhood with his pa. “You are a natural born horseman, George.”

“I am?” Pleased, the boy’s grin was powerful enough to change the air, warm the winds and burrow into Cole’s heart.

Howie, ready to do his horsey duty, shouldered Polly out of the way completely. No one was going to get his boy, apparently. The gelding stood expectantly as Cole hefted the child onto the horse’s back. Howie nodded with approval and crooked his neck far enough around to check on the boy, as if to make sure he was sitting snug and holding on.

“See that clump of hair at the bottom of the mane?” Cole leaned in. “That’s right. Hold on tight. It won’t hurt him.”

“I’m really doing it.” No one in the history of time had ever grinned as widely or as joyfully as George as he seized a handful of mane, vibrating with excitement, ready to ride. “I’m on my very own horse. I’m riding him.”

“That’s right. Now sit up straight, grip him just a little with your knees, enough that you don’t fall off.” Cole made sure George was sitting well enough before taking hold of Howie’s halter. Howie stood tall and still, full of pride and concern. Perhaps it was good for the old horse to feel loved and needed again. Every soul longed for that.

Even his own? Cole wondered, glancing over his shoulder. Mercy was gone from the window and he felt bereft, as if missing her. Which was ridiculous, he told himself with a wince. He was never traveling down that treacherous path again. He wasn’t equipped to do it. He didn’t have enough heart to give. He couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her.

Howie blew out his breath, impatient to move. George looked ready to burst, waiting for the horse’s first step. Cole clucked, tugging gently on the rope bridle and remembering that father-and-son moment when Pa had been the one holding the bridle, leading the horse, and he’d been the boy riding for the first time. Like his own father had done, Cole kept a hand on George’s knee and kept it there, making sure the boy didn’t slide or fall.

“What do you think, kid?” he asked, already knowing the answer as Howie ambled along, ears pricked, turning his head to keep an eye on the boy, too.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me!” George looked giddy. He was an entirely different child. Unspoken were the things Cole had read between the lines in Mercy’s letters, the things she hadn’t said. All the opportunities George never had with no father to provide and to be there for him, all the hardships and penny-pinching and doing without.

Well, that had changed for good, Cole thought, fonder of the boy than he’d ever imagined he could be. “Hey, you really are a natural. You haven’t slipped even once.”

“I must be really good at this.”

“Yes, you are, George.” Cole assured him, remembering how his father had done the same for him. “Let’s go faster. Are you ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cole broke into a lope, and Howie smoothly transitioned into a slow cantor. The rocking movement didn’t unseat the boy, although he slipped a little. Cole kept a good hold on his knee, keeping him in place.

“Ma! Do you see me?” George squealed with glee. “Look!”

“I see,” sang a sweet voice, carried by the wind. “Is that a real cowboy, or is that you, George?”

“It’s me!”

Mercy’s burst of laughter, soft and sweet, threatened to undo him, to reach deep inside him and slip past his defenses. She was somewhere behind him on the hill, perhaps trudging through the snow to watch her son’s first ride. She couldn’t know what her presence did to him, how it threatened to crack his heart, the glacier it had become. He wished he had more to give her, that he was a better man. Focusing on the horse and boy, guiding Howie away to the far side of the corral, he hoped the distance would help.

It didn’t. She filled his senses. The dainty crunch of snow beneath her boots, the rustle of her petticoats in the wind. The trill of her laughter, as sweet as lark song; her praise of George’s riding skills, as gentle as a hymn. She was a splash of color against the white, wintry world. Golden hair, rosebud cheeks, flashing blue eyes, matching blue skirts, brown coat, purple flower on her hat. Color and life, in a way there had been none before.

And in one gloved hand, she pulled a rope attached to the front of Amelia’s sled—the sled he’d forbidden the girl to use. The sled she’d bought off the Gable boy at school one day and hidden for two weeks before, while out on a delivery, Cole had spotted her speeding down Third Street with the boys. The outrage still haunted him, flaring to life when he realized Amelia traipsed behind Mercy, instructing her on the best way to ride on a sled.

His feet stopped moving while he stared in disbelief, not comprehending what his eyes were seeing. Howie halted, keeping an eye on the boy, as Mercy lifted her hand in a wave, flashed him a smile and sat down on the sled. His jaw dropped as Amelia gave a running push, let go, and Mercy—prim-and-proper Mercy, the lady he’d 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.