Homespun Bride

You can count on me. Why did Thad’s words trouble her? This wasn’t the first time he’d said something that seemed to have a deeper layer to it.
    The last thing I ever want to do— The last thing I would ever do is hurt you. His words puzzled her. She could not reconcile Thad’s sincerity with the man who’d shattered her heart.
    How would a man who had knowingly broken her heart also be the man who stayed to clean the stable, see to the horses, chop wood, run errands and ride for the doctor at a moment’s notice? The real truth was that he had always been hardworking and sincere and caring. Except for that one terrible point in time.
    The fire popped and crackled, and, exhausted, she laid down her Bible and reached for the bracing cup of coffee. A wave of chatter floated down from upstairs, bringing with it notes of measured happiness and hope.
    That happiness could not penetrate her deeper sorrow.
    * * *
    Thad put off going into the house as long as he could. He’d scrubbed the water troughs, washed out the feed trays, took note of what feed was running low and even spent some time working with the new mare. She had a long way to go before she was a reliable horse, but he had faith in her.
    He especially made sure to keep a careful watch on the expecting mare, as Noelle had requested. He imagined she didn’t ride anymore. That was too bad since she loved horses so much.
    As he trudged through the snow to the house, he couldn’t think of anything else. Only her. She still amazed him. She was more beautiful and as good as ever.
    How could love be there all long and he hadn’t known it? Against all common sense, he wanted to take care of her and cherish her. Every fiber of his being longed to protect her with all of his devoted heart.
    You are a sorry case, Thaddeus McKaslin, he thought as he beat the snow off the steps. Hadn’t Aiden said it? You’re going to get sweet on that Kramer girl again, and that’ll be a mistake.
    And what had he told his brother? No one knows that more than I do.
    It didn’t seem as if he knew that now. No, the past and its mistakes and pain seemed to be forgotten whenever he was with Noelle. It was a mistake to let himself care about her again. Plain and simple.
    But did that stop the spark of tenderness in his heart when he remembered her in the kitchen with her scorched skirt and determination to be helpful to her family? That flame of tenderness grew until it had warmed his cold winter’s heart. He wanted to make her smile again. He wanted to put happiness back into her life. He wanted to love her the right way for every minute of every day to come.
    Whoa there, his thoughts were like a wild horse running away with him. He leaned the shovel against the siding. For a moment there in the kitchen, it had been almost like old times. Words had come easily, there had been a zing of emotional connection between them and a moment of understanding that made him hope, just a little, that maybe —maybe—she could forgive him.
    He knocked the snow from his hat brim and stomped his boots on the back step. His pulse was rattling in his chest, and he felt as if he were about to step in front of a speeding train as he opened the door. The lean-to was chilly but the kitchen was warmer. As he shrugged out of his winter wraps in the empty room, he had to admit that he’d been half expecting to see her here, doing what she could to help out.
    That skunk smell had faded some, but not enough that he wanted to linger in the kitchen. He marched past the huge worktable, the rows of counters and the wall of glass shelves, and found himself in the dining room. It, too, was full of polished wood furniture and shelves of fancy doodads. But no Noelle.
    He didn’t spot her until he stepped foot into the parlor. She was asleep on the couch, stretched out the length of those stout-looking cushions, her head resting on a throw pillow. Her hands were pressed together beneath her chin as if in prayer.
    An overwhelming lightning bolt of affection hit him. Left him thunderstruck.
    He loved her. Beyond all rhyme and reason, beyond all good sense and possibility, he loved her.
    Quietly, he took the afghan off the back of the couch and covered her. She didn’t stir. He gently tucked the warm knitted wool around her and stood over her, watching her sleep. Hopes came to life in his soul—hopes he could not let himself look at—but they were there all the same.
    No good could come from his feelings and he