love you, too, Howie.” The boy’s delighted giggle filled long-broken places in Cole’s soul.
Maybe that was why he could suddenly feel more sharply than ever the tangible touch of a gaze on his back, how he knew Mercy stood at the window watching him with her son. His response to her troubled him, but it didn’t stop him from turning nor did it stop the acres of snowy land from shrinking until it felt as if there were no distance between them at all.
This connection to her wasn’t what he’d signed on for. This wasn’t what he wanted, he thought, jaw set, hands fisting, gaze connecting with hers. His pulse fluttered in recognition of her, and an unfamiliar peace came to his soul, healing him more. Emotion he couldn’t name gathered behind his eyes, burning and stinging. He felt her silence like singing. He jerked away, palms damp, the back of his neck sweating, needing the separation from her. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he feared what she silently wanted.
Hadn’t he made it clear in the numerous letters they’d exchanged? Mercy knew that. She’d written as much, but while that assurance had mollified him at the time, he kept worrying about it now. A woman like Mercy could find love again. She was beautiful, kindhearted and grounded, but he wasn’t looking for an emotional attachment and never would be. He’d tried that before and it had destroyed his heart. He forced his gaze to focus on George, who was busily chatting with Howie and stroking the gelding’s nose.
“George, let’s get you up and riding.” He strode to the gate and unlatched it. Several horses rushed over, friendly brown eyes searching him for any signs of food or impending affection. He waved them back, gave Patty a shove, scrubbed Chester’s nose, chuckled at Polly’s antics, all the while aware of the small boy behind him, who was unsure at being surrounded by so many horses.
“Don’t worry, they won’t trample you.” He caught the child’s gaze reassuringly. Funny how he remembered being younger than George, following his father into the corral for the first time. How enormous those horses had seemed back then. “They might give you a lot of kisses. And watch out, Polly will steal your hat. Wait, give that back, girl.”
George laughed, which only encouraged the bay mare to lift the hat higher, gripped lightly between her teeth, and give it a shake in the air as if to say, come and get it.
Ready to oblige, Cole scooped George up by the waist and held him high enough to grab his hat.
Polly lifted her head higher, stretching her neck as far as it would go, happy eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Hey!” George protested with a soft laugh. “Is she giving me sass?”
“I think she is, buddy.” Cole meant to retrieve the hat for the boy, but Howie beat him to it. The big gelding moved in to bump Polly, a protective look dark in his gentle eyes. With a sigh, the game over, Polly lowered the hat into George’s outstretched hands.
“Thank you, girl,” he said, earning a horsey grin from Polly and a nibbling kiss on his cheek.
“That tickles.” George giggled. “I think she likes me, too.”
“You are charming my horses, kid.” As he remembered those long-ago times, it was as if he could feel the soul of his father brushing close, feel the echo of his childhood with his pa. “You are a natural born horseman, George.”
“I am?” Pleased, the boy’s grin was powerful enough to change the air, warm the winds and burrow into Cole’s heart.
Howie, ready to do his horsey duty, shouldered Polly out of the way completely. No one was going to get his boy, apparently. The gelding stood expectantly as Cole hefted the child onto the horse’s back. Howie nodded with approval and crooked his neck far enough around to check on the boy, as if to make sure he was sitting snug and holding on.
“See that clump of hair at the bottom of the mane?” Cole leaned in. “That’s right. Hold on tight. It won’t hurt him.”
“I’m really doing it.” No one in the history of time had ever grinned as widely or as joyfully as George as he seized a handful of mane, vibrating with excitement, ready to ride. “I’m on my very own horse. I’m riding him.”
“That’s right. Now sit up straight, grip him just a little with your knees, enough that you don’t fall off.” Cole made sure George was sitting well enough before taking hold of Howie’s halter. Howie stood tall and still, full of pride and concern. Perhaps it was good for the old horse to feel loved and needed again. Every soul longed for that.
Even 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