the place she contained such things and kicked up a fuss inside Lizzie.
Again, that crooked little smile from Morgan. “I think I’d like to be married,” he mused, surprising her yet again; she’d thought she was getting used to his blunt way of speaking. “A lovely wife. A passel of children. It all sounds very good to me right now, but maybe I’m just being sentimental.”
For some reason she could not define, Lizzie wanted to cry. And it wasn’t because she was far from home on Christmas Eve, or because she knew she would have to turn down Whitley’s proposal and he would be hurt and disappointed, or even because all their lives were in danger.
Not trusting herself to speak, or govern what she said if she made the attempt, Lizzie remained silent.
Morgan brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep,” he counseled. “Tomorrow’s Christmas.”
Tomorrow’s Christmas. Lizzie found that hard to credit, even with the little tree and the presents so carefully arranged beneath it. She nodded, and she was about to get to her feet when, with no warning at all, Morgan suddenly caught her face between his hands and placed the lightest, sweetest kiss imaginable on her mouth.
A jolt shot through Lizzie; she might have captured liquid lightning in a metal cup, like fresh spring rain, and swigged it down. She knew Morgan felt her trembling before he lowered his hands from her face to take hers and help her to her feet.
“Good night, Lizzie McKettrick,” he said gruffly. “And a happy Christmas.”
She found a place to lie down on one of the long bench seats, never dreaming that she’d sleep. Her heart leaped and frolicked like a circus performer on a trampoline, and she could still feel Morgan’s brief, innocent kiss tingling on her lips.
To distract herself from all the contradictory feelings Morgan had aroused in her, she imagined herself at home on the Triple M. She stood for a few moments in the familiar kitchen, lamp-lit and warm from the stove, and saw her papa and Lorelei sitting in their usual places at the table, though they did not seem to see her.
Mentally, she climbed the back stairway, made her way first to the room John Henry, Gabriel and Doss shared. They were all sound asleep in their beds, fair hair tousled on the pillows and flecked with hay from the customary Christmas Eve visit to the barn, and each one had hung a stocking from a hook on the wall, in anticipation of St. Nicholas’s arrival. The stockings were still limp and empty—Lorelei would fill them later, when she was sure they wouldn’t awaken. Rock candy. Toy whistles. Perhaps small wooden animals, hand carved by Papa, out in the wood shop.
The scene was achingly real to Lizzie—it made her eyes sting and her throat ache so fiercely that she put a hand to it. As she stared down at her brothers, drinking in the sight of them, John Henry opened his eyes, looked directly at her.
“Where are you?” he asked, using his hands to sign the words he couldn’t speak.
Lizzie signed back. “I’ll be home soon.”
John Henry’s small hands flew. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Lizzie confirmed.
And then the vision faded, leaving Lizzie longing to find it again.
As she settled her nerves, she was aware of Morgan moving about the caboose, probably checking his various patients: Mrs. Halifax with her injured arm, Whitley with his broken leg, the peddler, Mr. Christian, who’d nearly gotten himself frozen to death, and last of all poor John Brennan, struggling with pneumonia.
And over them all loomed the mountain, ominously silent.
Finally Lizzie slept.
Christmas.
It had never meant so much to Morgan as it did that night. He wanted to give Lizzie everything—trinkets, the finest silks and laces, and beyond those things…his heart. For a brief fraction of a moment, he actually wished he’d granted his mother’s wishes and become a banker, instead of a doctor.
Annoyed with himself, he shoved both hands
Again, that crooked little smile from Morgan. “I think I’d like to be married,” he mused, surprising her yet again; she’d thought she was getting used to his blunt way of speaking. “A lovely wife. A passel of children. It all sounds very good to me right now, but maybe I’m just being sentimental.”
For some reason she could not define, Lizzie wanted to cry. And it wasn’t because she was far from home on Christmas Eve, or because she knew she would have to turn down Whitley’s proposal and he would be hurt and disappointed, or even because all their lives were in danger.
Not trusting herself to speak, or govern what she said if she made the attempt, Lizzie remained silent.
Morgan brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep,” he counseled. “Tomorrow’s Christmas.”
Tomorrow’s Christmas. Lizzie found that hard to credit, even with the little tree and the presents so carefully arranged beneath it. She nodded, and she was about to get to her feet when, with no warning at all, Morgan suddenly caught her face between his hands and placed the lightest, sweetest kiss imaginable on her mouth.
A jolt shot through Lizzie; she might have captured liquid lightning in a metal cup, like fresh spring rain, and swigged it down. She knew Morgan felt her trembling before he lowered his hands from her face to take hers and help her to her feet.
“Good night, Lizzie McKettrick,” he said gruffly. “And a happy Christmas.”
She found a place to lie down on one of the long bench seats, never dreaming that she’d sleep. Her heart leaped and frolicked like a circus performer on a trampoline, and she could still feel Morgan’s brief, innocent kiss tingling on her lips.
To distract herself from all the contradictory feelings Morgan had aroused in her, she imagined herself at home on the Triple M. She stood for a few moments in the familiar kitchen, lamp-lit and warm from the stove, and saw her papa and Lorelei sitting in their usual places at the table, though they did not seem to see her.
Mentally, she climbed the back stairway, made her way first to the room John Henry, Gabriel and Doss shared. They were all sound asleep in their beds, fair hair tousled on the pillows and flecked with hay from the customary Christmas Eve visit to the barn, and each one had hung a stocking from a hook on the wall, in anticipation of St. Nicholas’s arrival. The stockings were still limp and empty—Lorelei would fill them later, when she was sure they wouldn’t awaken. Rock candy. Toy whistles. Perhaps small wooden animals, hand carved by Papa, out in the wood shop.
The scene was achingly real to Lizzie—it made her eyes sting and her throat ache so fiercely that she put a hand to it. As she stared down at her brothers, drinking in the sight of them, John Henry opened his eyes, looked directly at her.
“Where are you?” he asked, using his hands to sign the words he couldn’t speak.
Lizzie signed back. “I’ll be home soon.”
John Henry’s small hands flew. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Lizzie confirmed.
And then the vision faded, leaving Lizzie longing to find it again.
As she settled her nerves, she was aware of Morgan moving about the caboose, probably checking his various patients: Mrs. Halifax with her injured arm, Whitley with his broken leg, the peddler, Mr. Christian, who’d nearly gotten himself frozen to death, and last of all poor John Brennan, struggling with pneumonia.
And over them all loomed the mountain, ominously silent.
Finally Lizzie slept.
Christmas.
It had never meant so much to Morgan as it did that night. He wanted to give Lizzie everything—trinkets, the finest silks and laces, and beyond those things…his heart. For a brief fraction of a moment, he actually wished he’d granted his mother’s wishes and become a banker, instead of a doctor.
Annoyed with himself, he shoved both hands
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