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

of leaving, but the truth was, she had to go. If she reached Missoula and her angered aunt decided not to give her the job—well, she would be in a real fix.
    "For your sake, I hope the train is running this morning, but for mine—" Connie's gaze sharpened, and Sara bowed her head, certain the woman was studying her eyes. "Why, I have to admit I'm selfish and hope you stay."
    Sara opened her mouth, not sure what to say, but a knock on the door spared her. The back door swung open and Mary breezed inside, bringing in with her a piece of sunshine. A man hesitated in the threshold, tall and iron strong, his blue gaze riveting Sara's the instant he stepped into the room.
    "Gabe." The spoon clattered from her fingers, nearly landing in the sugar bowl.
    "Didn't mean to interrupt your meal, but I want a private word with Sara." His gaze intensified, as if he could see clear through to her secrets, to the deepest part of her heart.
    It was a place she didn't want him looking.
    "You're free to use the parlor," Connie spoke up, reaching for the platter of sausages.
    Jim and Mary looked at her expectantly and Sara didn't see how she could refuse. She stood, heart pounding. Had he guessed the truth?

Chapter Seven

    Gabe held the swinging door open for Sara. She brushed past him, her chin bowed, her hands locked together. She wore a soft yellow dress, buttery and inviting, a color that made her black hair gleam and brought out the blue in her eyes.
    She was still in mourning, even if she'd long ago given up wearing black. He had to remember that. He knew how hard this was, reaching out to another person, hoping to find love again.
    "I'm sorry I scared you off last night." He wanted that out right away. He wanted her to know he wasn't about to push her if she wasn't ready. He was a patient man and more than willing to buy a few tickets to Missoula to visit her. "I didn't mean to be so direct. I thought you felt the same things I did."
    "Gabe, I—"
    "I know you need time." He could see it in her eyes, the want so large not even her denial could hide it. "I'm willing to give you all the time you need."
    "You have it all wrong." She wrung her hands, small and pretty hands slightly reddened from harsh lye soap, from a life of hard work. "I just want to leave."
    His heart squeezed. "The train could be coming today, as long as the storm holds off. Once it clears the pass, there should be no more trouble the rest of the way to Missoula."
    "That's what I want." She held his gaze steady, her eyes gleaming with a regret so big he could feel it in his own heart. "That's what's best. I hope you understand."
    "I do." She wasn't ready. Or she didn't think she was. He knew about that too. "Mary and I enjoyed your company last night, Sara. Mary thinks Santa sent you here to be her mother."
    "I know." She dipped her chin, and dark curls tumbled across her face, hiding the emotions that pinched her mouth. "I don't want to disappoint Mary, but I'm certain you two will find the right woman. I'm just not—" She hesitated, rubbing the curls from her eyes as dark as winter.
    "You want too much, Gabe. More than it is right for me to give." She touched his sleeve, a brief but sustaining touch, and in that moment of contact he felt a sorrow so great it stunned him, left him reeling. Sara headed toward the kitchen, where Mary, a child who believed in Santa's magic, waited.
    "I'm gonna sit by you, Sara." Mary scooted over a chair that belonged next to Jim.
    "What? I've got boy germs or something?" Fond amusement sparkled in Jim's kind eyes.
    "Well, you are a boy," Mary said as if that were a bad thing she forgave him for. "I can sit with you at dinnertime."
    "Thank you." Jim poked his fork into a bit of egg, hiding his smile.
    "Sara, you're not going to leave when the train comes, right?" Mary looked up at her expectantly.
    Sara let the door shut behind her. The fire in the stove crackled, and the teakettle bubbled on the stove, getting ready to whistle. The cozy