man who’d promised to give George one of his horses and riding lessons. Everything George had been dreaming. Her throat closed up tight. She needed to believe Cole was a man who kept his promises. Her late husband, Timothy, had meant well, but he hadn’t been so good with that. She hoped history wasn’t about to repeat itself.
A touch on her sleeve caught her attention. The conductor stood there, smiling down at her, his gray hair peeking out from beneath his cap. “I’ll get your satchels for you, ma’am. You have your attention full with your fine son.”
“I’m gonna learn to ride like a real cowboy.” George beamed, his grin ear to ear, his button face flushed pink with pleasure. Why, she’d never seen his navy blue eyes so bright.
She didn’t know what she’d do if Cole Matheson let him down. Tears burned behind her eyes at the thought and she smiled weakly up at the conductor. “Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“My pleasure.” The kindly man set both her and George’s satchels on the floor at her feet. “I see you’re wearing your mistletoe.”
“I pinned it on. I need all the help I can get.” She tried to laugh to hide her reservations, but she feared she didn’t quite succeed.
Something that looked like understanding flashed in the older man’s eyes. The anxious flutter in her chest doubled. So much depended on this first meeting. She thanked the conductor, who moved along to help another passenger with her bags, and looked out the window with George.
It does look like a friendly town, she thought over the squealing sound of the brakes. She drank in the sight of tidy streets, the white steeple of a church spearing up over the storefronts and the school bell tower not far away. The train made a final jerk to a stop, and the depot’s platform stretched out before them. A half-dozen people waited for the train, searching the windows anxiously as if eager to be reunited with loved ones—all except for one man.
He was brawny, muscled and tall. His black Stetson tilted to cover half of his face. What she could see was his strong, square jaw, a chiseled mouth that naturally drew into a straight, stern line, and a dimple carved into an angled chin. This man stood apart from the others, staring at the plank boards in front of his black cowboy boots. Maybe in his mid-thirties, she guessed. He wore denims, a black duster and a look of resignation.
As if he felt her scrutiny, he lifted his head higher, knuckled back the brim of his hat to reveal a granite face, high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. Across the distance, their gazes met and she felt the shock of it strike through her like a lightning bolt. All the way to her soul.
Cole Matheson, she thought, beyond all doubt. And by the look of him, he really was a cowboy. All he was missing were spurs.
That was a good sign, right? He hadn’t exaggerated that piece, anyway. Hopes for her son broke loose and she smiled, truly smiled.
Maybe it was another sign—and not a good one—that Cole Matheson didn’t smile back.
“Pa! Do you see her?” Amelia bounded ahead of him, skirts and wild strawberry hair batted by the icy wind.
“Yes, I see her.” He swallowed hard against a thickness in his throat, surprised to hear his voice strained and not sounding at all like his own. Through the glazed glass, the prim-and-proper lady was shadowed, hardly more than an outline of a colorful hat and the delicate curve of cheek and chin. Eyes too far away to see the color through the glass fastened on his, and he felt the plea and worries as if they were his own. As hard as this was for him, he thought with a sigh, it had to be the same for her.
This was the moment of truth. Resigned and grim, he squared his shoulders and marched forward like a dutiful soldier. He was about to find out if this mail-order marriage idea was a mistake or a solution.
“Oh, she’s pretty. That has to be her.” Amelia glanced over her shoulder to throw him a happy look. Sparkles gleamed in her blue eyes; the wind’s bite and joy turned her dear face pink. “She’s wearing the brown hat with the purple flower like she said she would, and look at the boy with her. He’s blond. That’s George.”
George. Something hollow twisted in Cole’s chest, in a place that had been empty for so long. Eagerness he hadn’t felt in aeons surged through him and he turned his attention to the child. Round face, a tumble of blond hair, big worried eyes. Then the boy was gone, disappeared from the window. Cole froze in place, not wanting to move forward in enthusiasm the way Amelia was, needing to be reserved. He needed that shield, that protection.
“Mrs. Mercy!” Amelia rushed toward the passengers disembarking, her shoes pounding against the planks of the platform. Most unladylike, but he didn’t raise his voice to rein her in. That would mean he would have to move closer, draw attention to himself and make the elegant, willowy woman easing down the steps glance his way.
She was beautiful. Really beautiful. His jaw dropped in disbelief. His pulse screeched to a stop. Surprised, he could only stare at the unexpected loveliness of her face, her carefully carved, china-doll features, porcelain skin, graceful sloping nose and lustrous blue eyes that made every person on the platform turn and stare at her. He couldn’t look away. Why on earth did she need to be a mail-order bride?
The woman spotted Amelia, and a caring smile transformed her reserved beauty into sheer loveliness radiating such warmth it made his throat close up entirely. This lady was kind, kinder than he’d ever dared to imagine, he thought as she took her son by the hand and helped him make the leap off the lower step and onto the board platform.
How could this be? he wondered. How could this lady be everything he’d wanted for Amelia? A man like him didn’t get that lucky, and he’d given up looking for blessings a long time ago. God had forgotten about him an hour after his stepfather had married his widowed mother. But Amelia... The Lord hadn’t forgotten Amelia. That was all that mattered.
“Or can I call you Ma?” Amelia gushed, wrapped her arms around Mercy Jacobs as if she’d known her forever. She bounced back and boldly grabbed hold of both Mercy’s satchels. The girl’s shoulders sank from the weight of the heavy bags, but she refused to let go.
“Ma?” Mercy’s forehead crinkled, her soft mouth tilting upward. “It’s not official yet. Should the wedding come first?”
“I don’t care. You’re going to get married. Maybe that’s not what you want me to call you, but I’ve been practicing. Mrs. Mercy is probably best, that’s what Pa says I should call you, because Mrs. Jacobs is too formal, like I don’t know you at all, but I really know you because of the two letters so we aren’t complete strangers.”
“You may call me whatever you like, dear girl.” To her credit, Mercy Jacobs bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Her expressive dark blue eyes telegraphed caring, as if she’d already fallen in love with the child. “But I don’t want you to feel as if I’m replacing your mother.”
“Oh, I hardly remember her, not that I don’t love her, too, but I want to call you Ma.” Amelia looked as if she were about to float away with pure joy at any minute. “I want you for a mother so much.”
“Just the way I want you, Amelia.” Warmth. Gentleness. The kind that only a mother could bring. That’s what he saw as Mercy Jacobs gently brushed strawberry-blond tangles out of Amelia’s eyes. “I’ve always wanted a daughter, too. Something tells me I couldn’t have found a better one if I’d looked all over the world.”
Overcome, Amelia fell silent, tears standing in her eyes.
George watched the woman and girl curiously, standing back from his mother, obviously a shy boy. Quiet.
Just like Cole had been at that age. Still was, if truth be told. He didn’t like emotions, did his best to avoid them—he squared his shoulders, wrangling down every last one. He watched Mercy Jacobs introduce her son to Amelia, who greeted him with enthusiasm. She thought she might like having a brother, the girl explained,