Free Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set by Jillian Hart, Janet Tronstad

with a two-footed clatter. “Ma, Pa said he’d teach me to ride right after lunch. That I get to sit up on Howie’s back and everything. I love Howie, he’s my very own horse. For keeps.”
    “I’m sure he loves you, too.” Mercy’s melodic, caring words tempted Cole to look. Why she affected him, pulled at him, like this, he didn’t know. Gritting his teeth, he stabbed his arms into his coat and turned his ears off to the rest of what she had to say.
    If he wanted to keep not liking the woman, it would be best not to get pulled in by her, not to care. He pushed open the door and escaped into the lean-to, where his boots waited. As he jammed his feet into them, he felt the weight of her gaze on him. Had he thanked her for lunch? He searched his mind for any memory of it. Yes, he had. Shaking his head at himself, he shoved his foot into a boot. Maybe that was a sign of how worked up over her he was. Having a woman around, making the commitment to marry wasn’t easy. His life was changing, and he didn’t like change.
    “Pa?” George’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts.
    Gazing down at the boy’s face crinkled up into a worried, silent question, he realized he was frowning. Cole blew out a breath, replaced the frown with what he hoped was more of a grin than a grimace and patted the bench by the door.
    “Need help with those boots?” he asked his son. His son. Satisfaction filled him. This was one change he liked.
    “Nah, I can do it.” George plopped down on the bench with little-boy exuberance, his blond hair tousled and wrangled his way into his new boots. “I’m a cowboy now.”
    The back of Cole’s neck tingled. He turned around inexorably, as if he were destined to do it, as if he had no will or control over his own eyes. Mercy stood at the table, gathering the dirty plates, a willowy wisp of blue calico and grace.
    In that moment as she stood before the window, blessed by sunlight, burnished by gold, she was no longer the stranger he’d corresponded with, widowed when her husband fell ill with diphtheria. She was no longer just the woman who’d stepped off the train, the one he’d decided was best for Amelia.
    He could inexplicably see inside her, read the scars of loss that grief and hardship had made on her heart. Feel the commitment to their children. See the loneliness and the hope for a connection shadowed in those midnight-blue depths. He froze, hands fisting, unable to stop the sensation of the world fading away, the floorboards at his feet, the walls surrounding him, the children chattering.
    As if in silence, as if haloed by light, there were just the two of them. Just him. Just Mercy. The emotional distance separating them vanished. His fingers wanted to unclench and reach out for hers, to take her hands in his, to ease the pain of loneliness within his own soul.
    Fortunately he came to his senses in time, jerked away, turned his back and closed the door. George stared up at him, still wrestling with his second boot. Worry arched his brows and widened his eyes, as if he was frightened he hadn’t been fast enough.
    “It’s okay,” Cole soothed, knowing he’d turned away from the boy too quickly, but it wasn’t George he needed to get away from. A man had to protect himself. He’d gotten by this long without being close to a woman. He saw no reason for that to change now. “Your sock is bunched up. Pull it up straight and your foot should slide in.”
    “Okay.” George bent his head to the task, full of little-boy sweetness and intent. Task completed, he grinned and bounded to his feet.
    “Button up all the way,” he reminded the boy, opening the lean-to door for him. “It’s cold out there.”
    “I know, it’s not even melting.” The kid tromped down the steps and landed in the snow. “If it snows like that again, will Santa be able to come?”
    “Sure. Santa’s used to snow. He lives at the North Pole, remember?” Cole caught up to the boy, plowing side by side