Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,85
hood shading her face, elegant in her thick woolen wraps.
Ian, eager to see the first glimpse of her face, knew he was standing in the aisle like one of the posts, still and staring, but did he care? No, not one bit. He would cherish all he could of this time left with her.
“McPherson. What are you doing here?” She straightened and although he could not see her face, he felt the sting of her glare. “I thought you would be at work.”
“What? You are afraid I am like your father, unable to hold a job?” Tender, he saw what she thought of him; he could not help teasing her. “No. The mill closed at noon. It is Christmas Eve, after all.”
“I didn’t know you would be here.” Her arms were full, and a bag hung from her shoulder, thick and heavy. “I just came in from town.”
“Were you with your friends, like last week? At Lila’s, is that her name?”
“Yes.” She pulled back her hood, icy crystals tumbling from the fabric to rain down at her feet. Flecked with snow, she looked like a storybook princess, too beautiful to be real and too good to want to be with a man like him.
That didn’t stop him from hoping.
“We had our own Christmas celebration. I got a lot of beautiful things for the hope chest I don’t have.” The lantern light found her, bathing her with its luminous glow. She tripped forward to lay her bundle and bag on the grain-barrel lid. “My tatted doilies and matching snowflake ornaments were very well received. Why don’t I finish the chores? You have had a hard week, Ian.”
“One I am grateful for. I have a good-paying job.” He winced at the signs of exhaustion on her face—the shadows smudging the porcelain skin beneath her eyes, and the strain etched into her forehead. He shoved his hand in his pocket to resist the urge to try to smooth them away. All he wanted was to draw her into his arms and shelter her, hold her until she understood everything was going to be all right. “I will finish the barn work, lass. But first, there’s something I want to give you.”
“You mean, like a gift?”
“It is Christmas Eve.” A dapper man would know what to say to win her heart. A smart man would know the right way to let her go. But as he was neither dapper nor smart, he pulled the train ticket from his coat pocket. “This is for you. Merry Christmas.”
“I don’t understand.” She took the first-class permit, staring at it as if she didn’t know how to read. “You want me to go and fetch your grandmother?”
“No, pretty girl.” He cradled her chin in his palm, unable to hold back the tidal force of his affection. “This is to take you anywhere you want. I am not going to make you marry me. You are free to go.”
“But the farm. Your grandmother paid my da—”
“That she did.” He prayed she would never know how hard this was for him, all that he had given up for her. “Your father and I have come to final terms this afternoon and there will be no marriage. You need never worry about being forced to live your mother’s life. You and Flannigan are free.”
“Flannigan?” Her lower lip trembled; he rubbed the pad of his thumb along her plump bottom lip.
“He is yours. I paid your father for him.”
“But your wages were to go for your mares.” Instead of the joy he expected, her sorrow deepened, and the shadows swallowed her, as if she had lost the last bit of hope.
“What is wrong?” Her sadness splintered him into pieces. “You promised to take him with you. I heard you tell him so the day he tried to run away.”
“But what about you, Ian?”
“My dreams have changed.” If he had thought her beauty great before, it was nothing to her comeliness as the lantern light flared. He knew how that light felt, unable to let go, unable to keep her. “Some things in life are not to be, no matter how much you want them. If I can’t have what I wish, then you will have your happiness.”
He could not help it, he was a besotted man and he wanted her to feel—not just to know—how he cared for her. He leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his. Sweeter than Christmas candy, that kiss, and he savored it—savored her—before he moved away.