Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,82
about her dreams, all of it she knew he had meant.
The trouble was, some things mattered to him more. That was simply the way life was. She had fallen in love with him, and that love made her wish for what could never be. She was not going to marry Ian, but neither was she going to run from her problems.
The candle on her bureau chose that moment to flicker. The wind gusted again, blowing through the cracks in the wall, nearly dousing it. The flame writhed as if in pain, and she squinted, trying to see enough for her next stitch. Iciness crept through the floor and roof above, and the next gust extinguished the candle.
The night closed in on her, and the hopelessness that always chased her caught up. Without her dreams of running away to escape into, without her brother who had always lent a kind word of understanding, with only the present and this life stretching ahead of her forever, she had nothing to console her. She put down her work, pressed her face in her hands and breathed deep, fighting not to give in to it.
A rush of wind howled through the house, rattling the glass chimney of the lamp in the kitchen and ghosting up the ladder. She shivered, realizing she wasn’t alone. An uneven gait padded on squeaky floorboards. The oven door creaked open.
Ian, home for the night. How was he? She had not seen him for days. She crept off the foot of the bed and along the floor, knowing which boards to avoid so she could move in silence. She stretched out on her stomach, easing up to peer over the edge of the doorway. The kitchen stretched out before her, black as a void except for the glow of orange lapping from the open oven door and onto the man seated before it.
He had drawn one of the chairs over to the heat, and, still coated in snow and ice, held his hands out to the warmth, rubbing to thaw them. The building fire tossed ever brighter light over the man, who remained in silhouette as he hunched toward the warmth. Cold radiated from him, but so did his strength and his goodness. He made no sound of discomfort, although he had to be frozen clean through.
More affection dawned within her, as wonderful and as blessed as Christmas morning. She eased into the safe shadows, hidden from his sight. Love for him bloomed fully, like grace falling into her life. It was a love never meant to be returned, she feared, but one that would always live inside her heart.
Chapter Eighteen
“Fiona! You made it.” Lila greeted her in a warm hug before tugging her into the lovely parlor. “Look, everyone. She’s here.”
“We didn’t think you were going to come.” Scarlet bolted up from a chair and hugged her, too. “You look frozen clean through.”
“Come sit in my seat.” Earlee hopped off the edge of the couch. “It’s closest to the fireplace.”
“Things weren’t going to be the same without you, Fee.” Kate stood to hug her, as well.
“I had just made up my mind to drive out to fetch you.” Meredith took her by the hands and led her to the seat Earlee had vacated. “We are all so glad you could come.”
“I almost didn’t.” Fiona clutched her satchel and her book bag, both stiff with frost from the walk to town. Actually, it had been a run-walk, hurrying as fast as she could and hoping no one came riding after her. “My parents forbade me, but I couldn’t stay away. I have missed you all so much.”
“We have missed you, too,” Scarlet and Kate chorused, and Earlee took her hand in silent agreement.
“I have had to sit at our desk all by myself. During class I start scribbling a note to you on my slate, and realize you aren’t there.” Lila poured a cup of tea from the service on the coffee table. “School isn’t the same without you, Fee.”
Her throat burned, and she felt out of place, the outsider in this group where she had always belonged. She was no longer a schoolgirl like they were. Everything within her yearned to go back. If only it were possible.
“I know how you feel.” Meredith took the bags from her and set them on the floor, near to the hearth, so they would thaw out. “Every day I have spent away from you all is a form of misery. Mama thinks