Jillian Hart by Sara's Gift (A Christmas Novella) Page A
Authors: Sara's Gift (A Christmas Novella)
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to smile but failed. How dark her eyes were, how troubled. "Let's just sit by the fire and let me finish these snowflakes for the tree."
"See the difference you make just by being here?"
"What difference?" A frown puzzled her brow. She truly did not know what she had done here.
"Magic." He gestured toward the tree in the parlor, shrouded by lamplight, wearing snowy-white popcorn strings and bright cranberry beads and plump red ribbons. Presents sat beneath it, wrapped in colorful paper and tied with ribbon and string. "Our tree has never looked this good."
"Be careful, Gabe Chapman. I'm likely to believe your flattery." Sara set down her nearly completed snowflake to check on the tea. Enamel clinked against enamel when she lifted the small lid.
"I'm not trying to flatter you, Sara." His hand covered hers. "I'm trying to win your heart."
"Why mine?" So huge, her eyes, so unknowing.
Didn't she know what she did to him? How she made him wish for her, not just any woman, but her? With her quiet smile and quieter humor and the generosity of her heart?
"You drew me the moment I saw you step down from the train, so independent and vulnerable. You stepped into my empty life and filled it up."
"I think any woman could do the same, and many would be a better choice." She pulled her hand away, taking the teapot with her, turning her back to search for cups in the cabinets.
"Not any woman. You're not convenient, Sara. You're special. Mary knows it and so do I. Things happen for a reason. The train getting stuck on the pass and your coming to Moose Creek were both by chance. You didn't plan to come here."
Her shoulders stiffened and she didn't answer.
"Look, I know how hard it is to put aside your grief—"
"I told you before, I'm not grieving Andrew. I'll always miss him and feel sad he's gone, but that's not the reason—" She bowed her head, her spine stiff. The light caressed the back of her neck, where soft dark tendrils curled at her nape, fallen from the intricate knot of her molasses-dark hair.
"Then what is it?" He dared to lay a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her tension, feel how something bothered her greatly. "I don't mean to hurt you."
"Then stop trying to court me."
"What's wrong with a little courting?"
"You don't want me, Gabe. Believe me." She shoved a cup into his hand and dodged him. Her shoes drummed with her retreat and her skirts swished. His blood thickened from wanting her.
How he wanted her, only her.
Cradling both her tatting and her tea, she sped across the room, finding refuge on the sofa near the lamplight. She'd said it before, that she had moved past her grieving. Then what was the problem? She had mentioned no engagement, and he was fairly sure she would have said something after their kiss if her heart belonged to another man.
The parlor echoed with the happy memories from this evening, when they'd decorated the tree, singing Christmas carols and any other song they happened to think of while they strung the popcorn and cranberries. Mary's excitement seemed to linger in the air, like the fresh scent of pine, her happiness a bright luxury. Having Sara with them tonight only made the evening more special.
And he had been happy too, truly happy of heart and soul for the first time in a long, long while. Sara made him laugh, made him feel deep and true, made him ache for her touch and to be touched, made him want to lay her down beneath him and make her completely his.
"Do you think I'm ugly?" He set the tea on the table and crossed the room.
She didn't look up from her work, another snowflake taking shape beneath her sensitive fingers. "No, Gabe. I don't think you're ugly."
"Do you like my house?"
Her gaze flicked up to his, her mouth a tight line. "You have a beautiful home."
"And I know you like my daughter."
She bowed her chin, concentrating hard on her work. "You know I do."
"Then will you tell me what the problem is?"
Sara's fingers stilled. Oh, he was a cocky man, far
"See the difference you make just by being here?"
"What difference?" A frown puzzled her brow. She truly did not know what she had done here.
"Magic." He gestured toward the tree in the parlor, shrouded by lamplight, wearing snowy-white popcorn strings and bright cranberry beads and plump red ribbons. Presents sat beneath it, wrapped in colorful paper and tied with ribbon and string. "Our tree has never looked this good."
"Be careful, Gabe Chapman. I'm likely to believe your flattery." Sara set down her nearly completed snowflake to check on the tea. Enamel clinked against enamel when she lifted the small lid.
"I'm not trying to flatter you, Sara." His hand covered hers. "I'm trying to win your heart."
"Why mine?" So huge, her eyes, so unknowing.
Didn't she know what she did to him? How she made him wish for her, not just any woman, but her? With her quiet smile and quieter humor and the generosity of her heart?
"You drew me the moment I saw you step down from the train, so independent and vulnerable. You stepped into my empty life and filled it up."
"I think any woman could do the same, and many would be a better choice." She pulled her hand away, taking the teapot with her, turning her back to search for cups in the cabinets.
"Not any woman. You're not convenient, Sara. You're special. Mary knows it and so do I. Things happen for a reason. The train getting stuck on the pass and your coming to Moose Creek were both by chance. You didn't plan to come here."
Her shoulders stiffened and she didn't answer.
"Look, I know how hard it is to put aside your grief—"
"I told you before, I'm not grieving Andrew. I'll always miss him and feel sad he's gone, but that's not the reason—" She bowed her head, her spine stiff. The light caressed the back of her neck, where soft dark tendrils curled at her nape, fallen from the intricate knot of her molasses-dark hair.
"Then what is it?" He dared to lay a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her tension, feel how something bothered her greatly. "I don't mean to hurt you."
"Then stop trying to court me."
"What's wrong with a little courting?"
"You don't want me, Gabe. Believe me." She shoved a cup into his hand and dodged him. Her shoes drummed with her retreat and her skirts swished. His blood thickened from wanting her.
How he wanted her, only her.
Cradling both her tatting and her tea, she sped across the room, finding refuge on the sofa near the lamplight. She'd said it before, that she had moved past her grieving. Then what was the problem? She had mentioned no engagement, and he was fairly sure she would have said something after their kiss if her heart belonged to another man.
The parlor echoed with the happy memories from this evening, when they'd decorated the tree, singing Christmas carols and any other song they happened to think of while they strung the popcorn and cranberries. Mary's excitement seemed to linger in the air, like the fresh scent of pine, her happiness a bright luxury. Having Sara with them tonight only made the evening more special.
And he had been happy too, truly happy of heart and soul for the first time in a long, long while. Sara made him laugh, made him feel deep and true, made him ache for her touch and to be touched, made him want to lay her down beneath him and make her completely his.
"Do you think I'm ugly?" He set the tea on the table and crossed the room.
She didn't look up from her work, another snowflake taking shape beneath her sensitive fingers. "No, Gabe. I don't think you're ugly."
"Do you like my house?"
Her gaze flicked up to his, her mouth a tight line. "You have a beautiful home."
"And I know you like my daughter."
She bowed her chin, concentrating hard on her work. "You know I do."
"Then will you tell me what the problem is?"
Sara's fingers stilled. Oh, he was a cocky man, far
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