“You must admit, Jake, that at the start you didn’t think I’d be able to do this.”
“That is absolutely—” Jake started to protest but hesitated, looking from her to the fully assembled nativity situated in the side yard by the winter garden. “The uncontested truth.”
She beamed and turned again to admire her handiwork, and with good reason.
“You should be very proud of yourself, Aletta.”
She nodded. “I am.”
“And I”—he winced—“should be somewhat ashamed.”
“Yes, you should be.” She playfully narrowed her eyes. “But truly, I couldn’t have built this without your help. So thank you.”
He offered a salute. “My pleasure, General Prescott.”
She began picking up the tools scattered in the yard and placing them back in the bucket. He did likewise. He hadn’t heard back from Colonel Stratton yet in regard to his returning to the regiment, which was answer enough in itself, Jake guessed.
He looked over at her. “So who’s your first Mary and Joseph?”
“Hattie and Andrew. Winder wanted to be the first Joseph, until he found out his sister was going to be Mary.”
Jake gave her a look. “Wise boy. Do you have a baby Jesus yet?”
“Baby Jesus is being sewn together at the church as we speak.” She looked over. “You must admit, Jake, having seen what those women can do over the last few days, that it’s impressive. They’ve knitted almost six hundred scarves, caps, and pairs of gloves between them for the soldiers. And seven quilts for the auction. And they’re still knitting and sewing.”
“I admit, they’re a far more productive group than I thought they’d be. And talkative. Especially that Mrs. Peterson.” The woman had to be eighty if she was a day, and she’d all but talked him to death on more than one occasion.
Aletta chuckled, shaking her head. “Yes, Mrs. Peterson is most definitely a handful. But to be her age and have that energy. She’s quite the—” She gasped, wincing as she pressed a hand to her abdomen.
“Aletta!” Jake was by her side in an instant. “Are you all right?”
She took several deep breaths. “Yes . . .” She gripped his arm, her complexion flushed, despite the chill of December. “I’m fine. But perhaps I should sit down for a moment or two.”
Holding her hand and with his arm about her waist, he led her to a bench a few feet away beneath an osage orange tree. A hedge of hydrangea provided shelter from the wind and he sat down beside her.
“Better?” he asked.
Eyes closed, she breathed through pursed lips. “Mmm-hmm . . . or I will be.”
His gaze dropped to her hand, so small and pale by comparison, still tucked in his, then moved to the swell of her belly where her unborn child lay nestled within. A sense of protectiveness rose up inside him, and he prayed as he sat there beside her that all would be well for her, for her baby. For little Andrew too. And he couldn’t deny—no matter how he tried, no matter how he told himself it wasn’t wise—that he wished there was a place for him in her life. Their lives.
Finally, she exhaled and opened her eyes, their blue so vibrant and alive. “Well, that was exciting.” She laughed softly.
“Is . . . everything proceeding as it should? With . . . the baby?”
The smile in her eyes deepened. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s normal to have these pains. I had the same with Andrew.”
“And how many weeks are left before the baby is expected?”
“Five, at least. Andrew came three weeks early but I’d been sick with him. The doctor said that had a lot to do with it. And as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle now.” She shrugged. “A very big fiddle.”
He smiled at the look on her face. “I can’t imagine you being any more beautiful than you are right now, Aletta. You . . . shine from the inside out.”
She shook her head. “That’s probably just perspiration from building the nativity.”
They laughed, then she looked down at her hand still tucked in his. She gently started to pull away, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Once, twice, her skin like silk. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his mouth, and the simple gesture sent something akin to a thunderbolt through him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d looked at her and wished he’d earned the liberty to kiss her, to hold her close. But never more so than right at that moment. As though she’d read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed crimson.
Jake traced a feather path with his thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth opened slightly. He told himself to move slowly where this woman was concerned. But when she closed her eyes, that was all the answer he needed.
He kissed her gently at first, her mouth softer, sweeter than he’d imagined. But when a soft sigh rose in her throat, he drew her closer and she slipped her arms around his neck. He deepened the kiss, weaving his hands into her hair and—
“Mama! We’re here to help with the star!”
Jake drew back slightly and broke the kiss, hearing the boys barreling in their direction. Aletta looked up at him and smiled, and whatever determination he’d had to move slowly where she was concerned vanished completely.
“Mama?” Andrew called.
“I’m coming,” she answered and stood, smoothing the sides of her hair then the front of her dress. Jake rose along with her and reached over and tucked a wayward curl back into place, then kissed her on the forehead.
They joined the boys, who each gave a loud whoop as Aletta pulled the star from a crate.
“Captain Winston will help you each up there.” She smiled. “Then I’ll hand the star to you and you can put it into place together!”
Jake lifted the two boys to the top of the booth, the structure sturdy enough to hold far more weight than that. When this woman built something, she built it to last.
He stayed close as she directed them on positioning the wooden star atop the three-sided booth, and he couldn’t help but admire her, both as a carpenter—and as a woman.
“Very nicely done!” She grinned up at the boys. “Now be careful climbing down.”
But climbing down wasn’t their plan. Clearly seeing what the boys intended, Jake gestured to Andrew first—and caught him as he jumped down. Then did the same with Winder.
The front door opened and Miss Clouston, the nanny, stepped out. “Well done, Mrs. Prescott! Captain Winston!” The woman beamed. “And you too, boys! Now you two come back inside and let’s get to work so you’ll have time to play after your studies.”
The boys obeyed and as Jake continued picking up tools, he heard the sound of horse’s hooves and spotted a rider coming up the road. But he couldn’t make out the precise definition.
Aletta turned, her gaze trailing his. And she went perfectly still.
She slowly set the bucket down and walked to the gate. Jake followed. Only when the rider grew close did he realize who it was.
The Confederate soldier dismounted and walked as far as the gate. “A letter from the War Department. For a Mrs. Warren Prescott.”
Aletta stared at the envelope trembling in her hand, feeling as though her world had turned inside out. Only from a distance did she hear the retreat of horse’s hooves and feel Jake’s presence beside her.
She looked up at him and saw in his expression the same contorted jumble of emotions that described what she was feeling at that very moment. She slipped a forefinger beneath the flap, which lifted with surprising ease.
She withdrew the letter, a wordless utterance rising from deep inside her as her gaze flew over the address at the top, the date, the opening salutation and went to the first sentence. It is with deep regret over the needless pain that was caused you but also with fresh hope that I write to inform you that your husband, Warren, who was thought to have been mortally wounded in battle, is indeed very much alive and is—
Aletta felt her knees about to buckle. She reached out to grab hold of something solid, and Jake’s arm came about her waist. She leaned into his strength, her own hand shaking so badly she could scarcely hold the letter.
She blinked as the words on the page blurred in her vision, a fury of joy, disbelief, dread, and guilt pounding through her veins. “He’s alive,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Warren is alive.”