Jillian Hart by Sara's Gift (A Christmas Novella)

not delay any longer. Connie had called her, and she didn't want to keep them waiting. But she wasn't certain if she felt ready to say good-bye. There had been no more snow during the night, so surely the train was coming.
    "There you are." It was Jim who spoke first, a kindly man, tall and lean, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight. He held up the china teapot. "Would you like some tea?"
    "Please." Sara headed to the stove, where Connie was dishing out the food. "I'm sorry I'm late."
    "You're not a bit late." Connie gestured with her chin. "Do me a favor and hold that platter for me."
    "Sure." Sara lifted the delicate porcelain platter rimmed with cabbage roses and held it while Connie dished up the butter-fried potatoes.
    "Here we are, the day before Christmas Eve, and I'm not nearly prepared." Connie scraped the last of the potatoes from the fry pan. "Would you like to come with me this morning? I have a few more gifts I need to get."
    "It sounds fun, but it's possible the train might be coming in. Isn't that right?" Sara set the platter on the cloth-covered table.
    "That's right." Jim gave his glasses a push with his forefinger, sliding them back up his nose. "The crew worked late into the evening last night, once the snow let up. There's a very good chance you could be with your aunt for Christmas."
    "That would be wonderful." Sara held a second platter for the sausage and ham slices as Connie forked them out of another pan. "I haven' seen my aunt since I was young."
    "Goodness, you can't spend a Christmas with a stranger, even if she is your aunt." Connie set down the fry pan with a clunk of iron upon metal. True concern gleamed in eyes as dark as Gabe's. "Would it truly hurt your chances for this job if you just stayed a few more days with us?"
    "What?" Sara's fingers slipped. The platter hit the edge of the stove. Shaken, she caught it in midair, saving all but one sausage, which rolled to a stop somewhere beneath the table.
    "Good catch." Jim rose to grab a towel. "I'd hate to lose those sausages."
    "Goodness, are you all right, Sara?" Connie dropped the pan on a trivet "Are you burned?"
    "No." Heat stained her face and she set the platter on the table. "I didn't mean to be so clumsy. Oh, Jim, I could have gotten that."
    "That's my job, picking up after everything Connie misses." A good-natured grin accompanied his kind words, and he tossed the fallen sausage into the garbage pail.
    "That's right. Men have their uses." Connie's glimmer of humor faded when she caught Sara's hand. "Are you sure you're all right? I hope my suggestion didn't startle you."
    "No, I just—" Words failed her. "I truly can't jeopardize this job, no matter how much I appreciate your invitation."
    "Couldn't we send a telegram to your aunt and ask her to hold the job for you?" Jim scooted his chair forward to reach for a platter of fried eggs. "I would be happy to send one for you this morning."
    "Oh, I couldn't." She could feel the heat on her face, hotter than before. Besides, she couldn't afford the luxury of a telegram. They were expensive, and she fully intended to pay Connie and Jim for her stay. That left precious little in her reticule to see her through.
    And besides, it wouldn't be right. Not to stay here intentionally, with these feelings so strong and bright in her heart, with her love growing stronger for Mary and for Gabe, love she had no right to. She was not Mary's mother, not in truth. Ann had been, the woman who had rocked Mary through endless nights and comforted her and cared for her. Who had taught Mary her first word and how to walk, then run, how to sing, and how to make a snowman.
    "Surely your aunt doesn't need you until after Christmas." Connie reached for the salt and pepper, her gaze intent on Sara's face and eyes.
    "She wanted me there a few days before to help with the rush sewing for the holiday." She needed that job. Her planned stay in Moose Creek had only been for a few hours, not days. It was hard thinking