Authors: Sara's Gift (A Christmas Novella)
Jillian Hart (15 page)
"We sure hope to." He found the air to speak, and noticed the shine of a gold band on her left ring finger. "I'm Colton Kincaid. And this little charmer is my son, Zac."
"It's a pleasure to meet you both. My name is Hannah." She reached into her cloak pocket and withdrew a pair of gray knit gloves. "You must be new to town."
"Yes, ma'am." What was he doing, talking to a married woman, far too fine for the likes of him? Colton took a step toward the hotel, holding on tight to Zac as the boy toddled and nearly slid.
Colton caught him, both hands on those small elbows, and kept him upright. Zac, the trust so deep, kept waddling.
"Perhaps you could tell us if this is the only place to eat in town?" he found himself asking, just to catch her gaze again.
"Yes, it is." Dream-blue eyes brushed his. She wasn't bold or flirtatious, just friendly, and it intrigued him, touched him.
How long had it been since he'd lived in a place where women could greet strangers with such a smile? Such complete faith in the goodness of the world?
All the more proof he was a duck out of water. A man like him, he didn't belong here. But for his son's sake, he would do his best.
Colton nodded his thanks and took a few more patient steps up onto the boardwalk, carefully holding Zac by the forearms so the boy could walk on the ice on his own.
"Rose Carson runs this establishment." Hannah rushed after them, her face pinkened from the harsh burn of the cold air. Despite the bulky winter coat and the care she took on the ice, she looked graceful and gentle. And as well dressed as a fashion plate. "Rose is a great friend of mine. I should introduce you."
So eager. Colton wondered at that. Then he realized she was watching after his son, the small boy determined to follow in his father's footsteps, sliding, but unafraid of falling. It was for the child her eyes shone and her voice rang like melody and harmony.
A knot tightened in Colton's throat. When he studied her now, with a careful eye, he saw the lines of sadness etched around her mouth.
"Thanks, but I think I can manage on my own," Colton said more gruffly than he intended.
Hannah froze, a stiffness settling along her jaw. In her eyes, he saw her own reproach. He'd embarrassed her, he realized. Worse, she must have thought she'd embarrassed herself.
But in his book, any woman who cared so easily over another's child, why, that was a good thing indeed.
"Yes, come inside and introduce me to this Rose." Colton let his voice soften. He felt bigger, better, when a small but sure smile brushed her soft lips.
"I hope she's a good cook," he added.
"I'm hungry," Zac grinned.
Hannah's heart caught. Such a dear child—she could see that about him already, this tiny boy who was the exact replica of his father, with the same dark hair and eyes. The same sense of stoic strength that made heroes of men. At least in myths and legends.
She'd never known a man who was halfway trustworthy, let alone one who could be called a hero.
But she did admire how this man, Colton Kincaid he'd called himself, held open the heavy front door to the hotel with a patience only a father's love could provide. Her throat ached, remembering.
How she'd wished things could have been different, that Charles could have looked with love like that so bright and alive in his eyes at his own child. But there was no changing the past. Certainly not now.
Her whole chest hurt watching the little boy as he ambled on short, chubby legs out of the bitter cold and into the hotel. Her arms felt empty. Her heart felt empty.
"I didn't mean to..." Zac's father paused, "embarrass you, I guess. I think he's something special, too."
"Then you're a good father." Hannah forced a smile. Loneliness wrapped around her as cold as the snow outside but here, in the light of this stranger's presence, she felt less alone. "All little children should be so lucky."
"Not so lucky." A single shake of his head.
Hannah wondered at the swift denial. Then wondered at the man. His chiseled face looked rugged, but handsome. His black hair was long, falling just past his collar to touch his shoulders. And the shadows in his brown eyes, they drew her. As if he, too, had lost hope long ago.
Remorse shivered through her. Small lines hugged his eyes, etched his face. Hardship had placed them there. And time.
And here she had been longing after his child like...like a kidnapper. Blushing, ashamed her feelings rose too easily to the surface, Hannah only took a step past the door he held for her. She caught a fresh scent of pine and outdoor air that clung to his coat, to him, and it was as rugged and as attractive as the man.
She cleared her throat, determined to leave before she could embarrass herself further. It just hurt, being so alone. Having such empty arms.
"Rose," she called out into the warm and well-lit parlor. "You have customers."
"In this weather? Oh, my!" Rose bustled out from the back door of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her crisp, ruffled apron. "My, what a handsome little boy. Hannah, are these friends of yours?"
She felt the man's gaze on her, sure and steady, bold as a touch. Had she given him the wrong idea? "No, I just met them myself. I wanted to recommend your wonderful cornbread and baked beans."
"Beans," Zac repeated wistfully.
The big, powerful man, handsome as the devil, pulled off the tiny boy's knit woolen cap. A simple brown, nothing special, made with a mother's love.
Hannah wondered if they were alone. If Mr. Kincaid was a widower. Then she shook herself, determined to stop letting her dreamy nature get the best of her. Whatever Mr. Kincaid was, he wasn't her business. Never would be.
"I've got to get home, Rose," Hannah called out to her friend. But Rose was already kneeling down to talk to little Zac as his capable, broad-shouldered father unwound the boy's dark muffler.
"Thank you, ma'am." Colton's words rattled through her like a thunderstorm, low and dark and powerful.
"Good luck to you." She managed the words, thankful she sounded normal. Thankful her heart didn't show, for she was determined to hide it.
" 'Bye," Zac turned, lifting his mittened hand in a cute, childish wave.
Her heart collapsed. Would the pain always be with her? Lord knew she'd tried so hard to bury it. But there it was again, always raw and hopeless. She supposed she would have to try harder. More determined, Hannah closed down her feelings, dug a little deeper, and laid the yearnings in her heart to rest.
"Good-bye, Zac." She tried to smile through the words, but couldn't. Not really. So she stepped out into the cold and let the freezing comfort of the snow wash over her.
Mrs. Rose Carson's wholesome beans, honeyed ham, and fresh cornbread did the trick. It had taken the edge off his hunger and driven the cold from his bones. Colton sat down on the edge of the double bed, neatly made and the tick freshly stuffed—he could smell the clean straw—and gently tugged off Zac's shoes.
Tummy full, the boy's eyes had closed the instant Colton had laid him in the bed, more exhausted from the trip than Colton had figured. In truth, the cold ride out from Missoula had been a grueling one this time of year. He hadn't thought cold weather would come so soon in these mountainous foothills east of the Rockies, but he'd been wrong. Had he known, he would have started for these parts weeks earlier.
But in his letter, Charles had promised there was no hurry, that the job would be waiting for him—and the opportunity. It was too damn good to be true. The knowledge of what he stood to gain calmed the guilt of how hard the trip had been for little Zac. He was so young now, but if Colton played his cards right and worked for all he was worth, the boy would have land to call his own one day. He wouldn't have to make his living the way his father had, at the cold end of a gun.
A light knock on the open door spun Colton around. It was only Mrs. Carson, harmless in her blue gingham and ruffled apron, a smile lighting her eyes. "He's a precious one. Is he sleeping?"
"Hasn't even stirred." Colton set the tiny shoes on the hearth to stay warm and turned to pull the hand-crocheted afghan over his son. "Thank you for the meal. I know it was late, past dinner time. You were cleaning up your kitchen."
"I always have food for a weary traveler, especially one so small." There was no censure in Rose's eyes. Maybe a question. And he could guess it. What was a man doing out in such weather with a child?
Colton was appreciative that the woman didn't ask. "The town looks shut down because of the storm."
"It is." Rose leaned against the threshold. "Folks are used to the snows around these parts, but it's the blizzards that come up and can kill a man. Last winter ranchers in these parts lost most of their cattle. The winds were so cold and hard and the snow drifted so high it smothered entire herds."
That was not news to Colton. When Charles had written late last spring, looking for a partner and extra cash to help save his ranch, he'd written of the terrible storms. Of the tremendous losses that had sent him—as well as many other cattlemen—into neck-deep debt.
"The mercantile's open, though," Rose continued, as if his silence didn't bother her in the least. "The Bakers live on the second floor above the store, so it's good for business because they can stay open no matter the weather."
"Yes, ma'am." Although he wasn't by nature a talkative man, he rather liked this woman's pleasant chatter. He was hungry to know more about the town. "The lady I met outside today, the one who introduced us, mentioned Sunday School classes."
That had struck his interest. Zac needed to be around children his own age. And church sounded like the right place to take the boy. It felt like he'd landed on his feet this time. A small ray of hope burned in Colton's chest.
"Yes, Hannah Sawyer—she teaches the littlest ones every Sunday. She has a gentle hand with them."
"Hannah
Sawyer
?" Realization ran over him like a speeding train. The woman he'd met, with the angel's face and the ache for a child in her eyes, this woman was married to Charles?
His mind reeled. He hadn't put the pieces together. Couldn't even remember, in fact, if Charles had written his wife's name in his letters. Now he resisted the urge to dig through the small packet in one of the two satchels sitting on the floor and find out
"Charles Sawyer, why, he was killed just a few months ago."
"Killed?" Charles, who'd offered him a partnership in his ranch, was dead? "That can't be—"
"Terrible accident. Has left Hannah in difficult straits." Rose's voice dipped in genuine sympathy.
A terrible emptiness echoed through Colton's gut, and his hopes for his son faded.
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About the Author
Jillian Hart makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not writing away on her next book, she can be found reading, going to lunch with friends and spending quiet evenings at home with her family.