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

hers, leaving a sizzling trail of fire wherever his skin touched hers. "You don't have to stay long. I just want to get to know you better."
    "I don't see why." She stepped away, letting him have the cloak because to endure his touch—why, it tugged at the deepest places inside her, untouched since her husband's death. And it hurt, because Gabe Chapman was the one man she could never love, never have.
    "How long has it been since your husband died?" So understanding. He caught her hand with his big one. He towered over her, blocking the light, leaving her in shadow.
    "Five years."
    "And you're afraid to love again." Sympathy shimmered in his voice, true and genuine.
    Her conscience stung. He thought she was still grieving Andrew.
    "It was rough getting over Ann's passing," he admitted. "She felt like a part of me, and I was never the same after I buried her. For a long time, I was afraid to love like that again, because I was afraid I would do her an injustice. And because I was afraid to lose my heart twice."
    Gabe hung her cloak back on the tree, his face as dark as the shadows. "But then I realized I had already risked my heart. I had Mary, and because of her, I was able to move past the fear of loving another person again. But it took me a long time and then I just hadn't met a woman I wanted to be with."
    "Gabe, you have no idea—" Her voice broke, full of tears, but she did not cry. "I'm no longer grieving Andrew."
    "Then maybe Mary was right." A sense of lightness burned in his chest, growing brighter until it engulfed him, until he could see only Sara, her complexion pink from the warm parlor, her dark hair curled into tendrils that framed her face. A face he would be content to look at for the rest of his life.
    She was like a candle newly lit, chasing away the darkness in his life. In a life where the evenings, after Mary was asleep, stretched like the night, long and lonely. And when he woke up, he was alone. He cooked breakfast, cared for Mary, and lived his life without a woman at his side, without the right woman.
    Emotion shimmered in her eyes, as troubled as a stormy sky, and he saw there an old heartrending pain that brought silvered tears but would not let them fall. He knew the force of that kind of pain, and he hated how Sara must be hurting. She was so gentle and kind that she would sew for a stranger's daughter.
    "Dear Sara." He dared to lay both hands along the delicate curve of her jaw, cradling her face against his palms. She felt like the finest silk; she smelled sweet like apples and cinnamon. "Maybe someone did send you to us."
    Her tears brimmed, silent tears that rolled down her cheeks and touched his thumbs. He ached in ways he'd never known, wanting to protect her from the pain he read in her eyes, wanting to comfort her, wanting to make her his. He leaned forward and slanted his mouth over hers.
    Their first kiss was like springtime after a long winter. Like the first touch of gentle sunlight to frozen earth. A tenderness welled within him at the brush of her lips. She was like velvet heat, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt as if he were drowning in the sensation from one small kiss.
    And then she responded, her lips moving to meet his, and his chest kicked, his blood sizzled. A sparkling need for her telegraphed through his body and he pulled her close against him. She was all firm curves and soft woman, and he knew, as he dared to trace the seam of her lips with his tongue, that this kiss would never be enough. Or a second one. Not even a lifetime of kisses.
    "Gabe." She broke away, her hands flying to her mouth. Her fingertips brushed his, for he still cupped her face and he could not bring himself to let go.
    How could he let go of the first woman who made him feel alive inside? Who made him ache with desire, with hope? Maybe she could stay here forever in his arms, right against his heart. Tonight was the sweetest he'd known in many years, basking in the beautiful light of her