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.
“Here
