“You have invaded my haven.” She scooped up the cat in her arms, cradling him like a baby. “Now I must choose between spending time in the shanty with my parents or out here with you.”
“Sounds like a difficult choice, lass.” He wagered she might think so. He lifted the pail, crossing the aisle with a limping gait. “I’m sorry if I’m the least of two bad choices.”
“You are not the worst choice.”
Was that a grin threatening to tug upward at the corners of her mouth? He could not be sure. Maybe it was his hope making him see what wasn’t there. He lowered the bucket over the stall gate and held it as Duchess dunked her nose in and lapped at the good food daintily. The other horses pricked their ears and scented the air, straining against their doors, hoping for the same. Flannigan nickered. Riley kicked the wall. The cow mooed sadly.
“Where did you get that coat?” She watched him through narrowed eyes. There was no telling what the lass was thinking, but she made a pretty sight, caressed by the lantern light, her curls tumbling out of her braids and with the cat in her arms.
His fingers itched for his pen and paper. She made a pretty picture, but it was more than drawing her image he yearned for. He wanted to memorize the perfect angle of her cheek, to etch into his soul the sight of her gentle spirit. He was a sorry cause, pining after her so. He focused on the horse in front of him. The mare, done with her oats, licked the bottom of the pail harder and gazed at him with her liquid brown eyes in protest.
“There will be more tomorrow, don’t you worry.” He rubbed her poll, laughing when she bumped her forehead against his palm, wanting more adoration. He felt Fiona’s gaze and the question behind it. “Are you still pitying the horse, lass?”
“Something like it. You two have a deep bond.”
“Aye. I helped see Duchess into the world. Her dam was my first horse. I was a boy, hardly school age when my ma and I came to stay with my grandparents. She was my first great responsibility, the gentling and training up of her.”
“You did not do too badly.”
“Perhaps it was the quality of the horse more than the one who raised her.” He could not disguise the pride as he gave his mare one final rub. “She’s the best of the best.”
“I’ll not argue that.” She set the cat on the stall railing, and he sauntered away, still purring. Perhaps she watched her feline because it was easier, pretending there was distance between them. “You didn’t mention your father. He must have been there, too.”
“Pa found being a husband and father difficult. He tried, but he could never settle down.” He did not mention the long stretches where they had not known where his father was. How Ma would fret and cry with worry, with no money left to buy bread and staples. How she could cry with heartbreak late in the night when she thought him asleep. He’d been a little guy, but he had been old enough to know his father was a man who loved only himself. “My mother was happier living on the estate, but she died a time later in childbirth.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you lost your ma.” She hesitated outside the bright pond of light, as if unsure to stay away or come close.
“It was a long time ago. The Lord made sure I was not alone. My grandparents raised me, and I could not have asked for better.”
“What about your grandmother? You must miss her.”
“Aye. I sent her a telegram but there has been no news in return. I worry about her.” He set the bucket on the floor next to others needing to be washed. “She has been frail enough since Grandfather’s passing, but she is happy and well cared for.”
“Can she travel?”
“The doctor says only by rail. Which poses a problem, as I do not have that kind of cash, unless I sell the rest of what I have.”
“Do you mean Duchess?” She eased into the fall of light, knowing she risked him seeing what she feared was on her face—sympathy, no matter how hard she tried not to care at all. “You don’t want to sell her because she was a gift from your grandfather.”
“I am surprised you can see that much of me.”
“It is not that difficult. You are not such a mystery.”
“I suppose not.” When his smile played across the contours of his mouth, dimples cut into his cheeks. “She is my prize mare, but there are others. I managed to keep a dozen brood mares from the clutches of the creditors.”
“They were what you spoke of, the hopes to rebuild what was lost.” She didn’t know what drew her toward him, only that he fascinated her. He, with his lost hopes and family; she knew what it was like to be left with broken dreams and no one to comfort you. “Is it true what you told me, about selling your things?”
“I have told you nothing but the truth.”
“And you are staying to help me when your grandmother needs you, too?”
“When you put it that way, I sound like a terrible grandson.” He swiped at a lock of hair falling rebelliously into his eyes. It would be easy to imagine him a prince in a fairy tale, with his handsome charm and steel integrity.
No, she did not think him such a horrible man. Not anymore. Not at all.
“I didn’t have it in me to leave you, Fee. Good friends are with Nana, so she is cared for. But you. You have no one to care for you.” He stopped, his face growing stony and impossible to read.
“Those things you sold, that could have been money to help your grandmother. Yet you spent it for me.” She wasn’t aware of crossing the aisle; suddenly she was close enough to feel the weight of his regret.
“I do not feel the money was wasted.”
“That coat is terrible. It is worn and patched.” She cleared her throat but the emotion remained, revealing.
“It was what I could afford.” He did not sound sorry.
“When you come in for supper, leave it in the kitchen.” Her chin came up; she stepped back, putting distance between them once more. “I will mend that tear when I’m through with the dishes. You cannot leave it like that. The rip will only get worse.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
“No, it is not.” Emotions deepened her blue irises, ones that looked both soft and ready to fight him. “If you are going to come to church with me on Sunday, then I cannot have you embarrassing me.”
“I understand.” He saw that she no longer hated him. It was something. A quiet gift in the silence between them on this cold winter’s night. She spun on her heel and took the light with her. When she paused in the doorway, she stole the last pieces of his heart.
“Don’t think this changes anything between you and me,” she warned.
“No worries, lass.”
When she left him alone in the barn, it was without hope. Some loves in life were never to be.
Chapter Thirteen
I
an was shivering. Even through the steady snowfall, she could see him trembling on the other side of the sled seat. Ma sat between them, well bundled and staring straight ahead, not overly concerned about the man driving them to church. She wouldn’t be. Ma did not like Ian. Whatever agreement he had reached with Da had not made her parents happy.
But she could not forget how thin the fabric when she had mended the tear in his coat or all that he had told her.
I came back to help you find a better life. I do not think I can go back to my own unless I know you are safe and well. Only the good Lord above knows why.
The Bible cradled in her hands felt reassuring and troubling at once. Snow lashed at her face, burning her exposed cheeks and nose with its needlelike iciness. But she was comfortable enough in her coat, layers of flannel and wool, and with the old blanket draped over her and Ma for extra warmth. At least her teeth were not chattering as Ian’s were. What would the book she held have to say about his sacrifice? Or her hard-set determination against him?
The church sped into sight, its spire reaching up into the hazy snow. Families tumbled out of sleighs or walked along the street toward the church. Little kids, warmly bundled, skipped ahead of their parents, or trailed behind, being gently reprimanded either way. She tried not to notice the patient manner in which Ian directed Flannigan, who was distracted by all the excitement, and the way he guided him to a stop at an available hitching post.
“Ladies.” Ian stood to help Ma from the sled. Ma refused his hand with a huff. The way she did it, chin up and a frown darkening her face, was a shocking reminder.
Hadn’t she treated him the same way days earlier? Shame filled her. Had she been that coldhearted to him? The man was suffering in the temperatures without complaint. What did it say about him that he offered her his hand, knowing how she felt? Did he expect her to act like her mother again? There was no sign of it on his face as he waited with quiet dignity, palm up.
Surely he deserved better from her. It went against the grain to lay her hand in his, to willingly accept what he offered. It was more than a gentleman’s manners, much more, and as his fingers closed around hers, she felt the catch of it deep within her soul, like recognizing like.
I do not want to care for him, she thought, but it did no good. Her shoes sank in the snow and her hand remained tucked in his. Snow sifted around them like grace, like peace everlasting, forcing her to see with the eyes of her heart. How tall and straight he stood, as if no hardship was big enough to break him. His grip on her hand was both binding and reverent, protective but not overbearing as he guided her out of the ice. When he released her, she felt sorely alone although he was a mere foot away, tethering Flannigan’s rope.
No, she did not want to care for him, but she did. She cared that he was not dressed well for the frigid morning. She cared that he hid it with a handsome smile. She cared that his limp was more pronounced today. Why had she never asked how he’d been hurt?
He handled the horse with care and competence; Flannigan obediently stood and waited with a swish of his tail. No attempt to fight. No sideways kick. The animal nickered and pressed his nose into the man’s touch. Ian double-checked the knot securing Flannigan solidly to the iron ring of the post. “Almost done, boy.”
Flannigan nickered, bumping Ian again. Something had changed. The horse no longer tried to bite men. He stood patiently, his defiance gone, swinging his neck to keep an eye on his caretaker as he circled to the back of the sled.
Ian was changing things, changing her. She tucked her Bible into the crook of her arm. While he blanketed Flannigan, working the fastenings and smoothing the wool, she tried not to notice the care he gave the horse, or how handsome he looked with happiness softening the chiseled angles of his face. A born horseman, her grandmother had called him. He surely was that.
“Do you miss your horses back home?”
“Until it hurts. I have cared for them all, most since they were wee foals.” He gave Flannigan one final pat and a promise they would return to him soon. He joined her on the side of the road, where sleighs full of families whirred by on the ice. “They are my best friends.”
“I can understand that.” She brushed a stray lock out of her eyes.
“I thought you might. Nana always worried about me, growing up in the barn the way I did, always with Grandfather and the horses. She feared I would grow up to be an odd young man, and when we met you would refuse to marry me.”
“Wise woman, your nana. She was right.”
“Hey!” Their laughter mingled together, sweet and a perfect chord. “There’s a clearing in the traffic. Careful of the ice.”
“I have been crossing icy streets for as long as I can remember. I hardly need help from you.” Her words could have been cutting, but they weren’t. Emotion hid in the layers, soft and shy.
Maybe it was only his wishful thinking. He ignored the wince of pain in his thigh, leaned on his cane and caught her hand with his. “I’m your fiancé. It’s my right to help you across the icy street.”
“What else are you thinking you’ve a right to?”
Oh, he caught that flicker of a grin. She was teasing him, for she had no notion how the torch he carried for her could light up the darkest night. He prayed he could keep those feelings hidden. He suspected the lass would have nothing to do with him—even accepting his help—if she knew. They reached the side of the road, but he kept her hand and did not let go.
“Oh, I was thinking I have the right to control your life. Order you around. Get you to do all the barn work.” He could tease, too.
“Funny. You are hysterical, McPherson.”
“Sure, but I’m serious. I’m taking charge of your life.”
“Go ahead and try.” She did not seem alarmed. Perhaps because she trusted he would never leave the barn work to her. No, a mischievous sparkle gleamed within her, a hint at her untamable, beautiful spirit. “I’m not sure, but I think I could take you in a fight.”
“You would win hands down, lass.” His laughter rang out, and pleased he was that they laughed together. Aye, but the girl was good for his weary soul. “I could not fight you.”
“Because you are afraid of losing to a girl?”
“Because I would want you to win.” The truth slipped out and hovered in the chilly air between them. He winced, afraid she could hear what he did not want her to know. The churchyard was up ahead, and the crowd that went with it. The cheery rumble of conversations broke the silence that fell between them.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she could guess, if he had been too revealing. He steeled his spine, ready to take the hit if she figured it out and very plainly and fairly rejected him, as he knew she would do.
“Fee!” A familiar voice called out above the hustle and bustle of the busy street. One of her school friends, the one whose family owned the mercantile.
“It’s Fiona!” The second girl, the one with the red hair, joined the first one, waving from the snowy churchyard.
“And you brought your beau.” The third girl, Mr. Schmidt’s daughter, looked so happy she couldn’t stand still.
Oh, he saw exactly what they thought. They wanted Fiona happy. As he crunched to a stop on the snowy path, he realized how things looked. Him and Fiona walking side by side and hand in hand, like other serious young men and women headed to church—courting couples. Fiona must have come to the same conclusion. She dropped his hand and stepped away.
“Ladies.” He tipped his hat and did his best to smile, so the lass wouldn’t guess how her reaction hurt him. “Good morning. If you will excuse me, I’d like to go in search of the minister.”
“His name is Reverend Hadly, and you don’t have to leave.” A crinkle burrowed across the bridge of Fiona’s nose, an adorable furrow. “We’re going down to the church basement. I was going to introduce you to some other fellows.”
“Oh, I think we could all do that, Fiona,” one of the girls answered, while another whispered, “Lorenzo,” making the first one blush.
Girls. They were a mystery to him. But the only mystery he was interested in was Fiona. An apology shone in her eyes, true and lustrous. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, and she was handing him a peace offering to join the rest of her friends.
“I will come find you after a bit.” He nodded toward the front steps where a line had formed. Mrs. O’Rourke was standing with another severe-looking lady, he noticed, waiting to speak to a white-collared older man. He tipped his hat, leaving Fiona before he had the chance to say more. He wanted to stay with her, but it hurt too much.
“We have a surprise for you, Fee.” The girls grabbed hands. “Where is Earlee?”
“She’s not here yet.”
“Then we’ll show her later. C’mon, Fiona.”
“Come where? What surprise could you possibly have?”
He could not say why her voice followed him, or why of all the conversations surrounding him, her quiet alto was the one he heard clearly. The line had grown, and he took his place behind an elderly couple. His gaze strayed to the edge of the yard where Fiona was hopping up and down in excitement as another girl, one he had not seen before, joined the group. Their squeals of happiness and welcome made him smile.
“Henrietta, I see your girls are back from their East Coast school.” A voice floated to him from farther ahead in line.
“Yes, they arrived on yesterday’s train. With that dangerous storm, I feared they might have troubles with snow on the tracks. There was a terrible crash only last month. Thank the Lord the girls arrived safe. I do not like these modern contraptions, but they are convenient. A coach trip would have taken months.”
“It’s good your family is all together for Christmas,” her friend replied.
Christmas was coming. Aye, living on the joyless O’Rourke farm, he had nearly forgotten. But the memories of the blessed season blew through him like a chinook. As the bell in the steeple rang, he remembered the church back home, which he had attended with his grandparents since he was a boy. He would miss Christmas Eve service there this year, cutting a tree for his grandmother, the carols she would play on her beloved piano and the hymns on Christmas Day. He missed home, the ache soul-deep. He longed for what was—the beautiful horses grazing in the green pastures, the sense of rightness as he worked a colt in the paddock and the history of his family on the land, land now gone. Land his grandfather had loved and his grandmother grieved; land he was still hoping to get back.
He was not the only one clinging to the past. He understood more what his grandmother felt. It was not the McPherson name that she wanted to establish, but the moments of love that time stole day by day, that were only memory now. The caring looks Nana and Grandfather had shared over morning tea, across the blooming fields and beside the fire at the end of the day. As the Bible said, all things had a beginning and an end, all things a season. He felt alone as he stood, a solitary man among groups of family and friends.
Across the way, Fiona was hugging another newcomer, a girl in finely tailored clothes. Must be one of the daughters home from the East Coast school, he reasoned, watching as his betrothed hopped up and down with excitement. He had never seen her this happy. A pretty picture she made with her braids bouncing and the skirt of her blue-checked dress swirling around her ankles. Snow dappled her, sweet as sugar. Gone were the shadows, the sadness and the troubles of her daily life. She was bursting with joy; not only could he see the evidence of it, he could feel it deep within. As if his spirit knew hers. His fingers itched to draw her, to try to capture her elusive spark. But the line moved forward, and the kindly minister was offering his hand.
“I’m so pleased to know you,” Reverend Hadly said with great sympathy. “I have worried over and prayed for little Fiona. What a blessing your coming here must be for her.”
“I hope so, sir.” He shook the minister’s hand and when he walked away, he felt something more, something like the notice of God. Nana always said that to find His will, all a person had to do was to look into his heart.
When I do, Lord, I see Fiona.
Her musical voice, wholesome and lovely, stood out from all the others. Aye, she looked her age for a change, laughing and carefree with her friends as girls were wont to do.
Confirmation that the decision he had made was the right one.
Fiona bowed her head for the final prayer, far too aware of the man at her side. The man who seemed to dominate the sanctuary. The man every one of her friends thought was in love with her.
Love? She studied him out of the corner of her eye. With his head down, his rugged face poignant in prayer, he was the perfect image of faithfulness. As if every piece of his soul was focused solely on the minister’s prayer for peace and selflessness during this holy season. That’s what she ought to be focusing on, too, except her mind could not keep track of the what was being said. She concentrated, clearly hearing Reverend Hadly’s every word. But did they make any sense? No, of course not. Her brain was like her morning oatmeal, all mush and steam.
“Fiona, stop fidgeting,” Ma hissed on her other side.
I’m trying to pay attention, Lord.
Even her prayer felt mired down next to the track her mind kept following.
“Look at the way he stared down Lorenzo,” Lila had whispered over their Sunday-school table in the basement only an hour before. “Your Ian is serious.”
“I’ll say. Did you see the way he gazes at her?” Scarlet had to voice her opinion—of course. “He can’t take his eyes off her.”
“Only to glower at Lorenzo.” Kate beamed with happiness, as if that were proof of eternal devotion.
“And the loving way he helped her with her coat and keeps watch over her.” Earlee’s sigh held with it great romantic hopes.
“He loves her,” they all pronounced, practically in unison.
He does not love me, she thought stubbornly. He couldn’t possibly. Her friends, as dear as they were, did not know everything. They were slightly unrealistic where romantic love was concerned, bless them. Her stomach twisted up like it did when she was afraid of something. And well it should, because believing something like that would be a big mistake.