Page 3 of The Love Knot

Claire’s stomach swirled, and her head grew light. Avoiding the wolf was all well and good, but there’d be no avoiding whoever stepped off the train that had just pulled into the station. No avoiding the truth about her sister, either. As much as Claire wanted answers, she dreaded them with equal fervor.

Mr. Porter came around to her side of the wagon and helped her down. Once on the ground, she thanked him for his assistance, then turned to face the depot. Hands quaking slightly, she smoothed her bodice and touched her hat to ensure it remained straight. Setting her shoulders, she lifted her chin and strode forward. Polly was counting on her. Whatever trouble stepped off that train, she’d handle it with calm efficiency and sensible practicality. Just as she always had.

Weaving through the drummers and departing passengers who milled about on the platform, Claire made her way to the train. Steam hissed. The conductor shouted instructions. Porters jumped to obey. And amid the chaos, people trickled out of the front railcar.

One stranger after another exited to clutter the platform. Claire inched forward, determined not to miss whomever her sister had sent.

The top of a man’s hat protruded from the doorway. A hand reached for the bar alongside the opening to steady his descent. Claire stilled. Her mouth turned to cotton wool, and her heart thumped in her chest. As if time had been mired in molasses, a chin gradually appeared. A strong, square chin. A clean-shaven chin. An impossibly familiar chin. The rest of the man’s face remained blocked by the brim of his hat as he ducked.

It couldn’t be. Saints preserve her. Polly could never be so cruel.

Her knees weakened, and Claire staggered, but there was nothing to grip for support. Only her own hand. So she clasped her fingers together and willed her spine and legs to straighten.

The man’s foot reached the first step, and finally, his hat lifted.

Instinct might have warned her what was coming, but nothing could stop the burning jolt that seared her soul when Pieter van Duren’s honey-brown eyes locked on hers.

Chapter

2

Claire stared at the man who had broken her heart. Why? Why had Polly sent him of all people? The van Durens had been neighbors, fellow immigrants, though from Holland instead of Ireland. While most of the Nevins’ non-Irish neighbors looked down their noses at them and others of their kind, the van Durens had been different, inviting them to church services and sharing food during the harsh winters. It was their kindness that had drawn Claire’s mam to accept Mrs. van Duren’s invitation to worship, but it had been the warm fellowship of the small congregation and the simple, practical teachings of biblical truth that kept them coming back. It was in their Sunday school that Claire had come to know Jesus and to believe in his love for all mankind, even the despised Irish.

As the two families grew closer, the elder Nevin girls played with the two van Duren boys. Went to school with them. Fell in love with them. Polly with the younger of the two, Diederick, who could wrap the world around his finger with nothing more than some blarney and a smile, and she with the older, more serious Pieter.

Four years had separated Claire and Pieter in age, but she had adored him, following him around the schoolyard, the neighborhood, pretty much everywhere. He’d treated her kindly, never teasing her or poking fun at her freckles or calling her carrot head as the other boys had. In fact, he’d looked out for her like an older brother, even going so far as to meet her after work at Miss Fester’s shop in order to walk her home. But the winter she turned sixteen, something had changed between them. Deepened. Brotherly affection transformed into manly interest. Girlish fancy matured into deep-seated love.

Until his betrayal ripped apart the seam binding them together, leaving her edges ragged and threadbare.

And now he was here. In Seymour. Less than ten feet from where she stood. Holding some kind of small bundle firmly against his chest, his left arm cradling it like a . . . a . . . babe. The heart fractures Claire thought long healed cracked open and bled inside her chest.

She tore her gaze from his and stared at the ground to center herself. This wasn’t about her. It was about Polly. Claire need only speak to him for the briefest of moments. Glean what she needed to know, then send him on his way.

When she lifted her eyes again, he had turned to face the railcar and held his hand out expectantly. Claire’s chest throbbed, the ache nearly unbearable as she braced herself for the wife he was no doubt preparing to hand down. But instead of a beautiful, willowy blonde with sparkling green eyes and a dowry to make any man salivate, even a sensible Dutchman who’d sworn he preferred freckly redheads, all that emerged was the handle of a well-worn carpetbag—one that bore a remarkable resemblance to the one Polly used to tote around her quilting supplies.

Claire couldn’t seem to move. She barely breathed as Pieter collected the bag, then made his way toward her. One solid stride came after another, his sensible work boots even more scuffed than she remembered, the heels worn down in back. His tan trousers were creased from the long journey with a few dark spots of undecipherable origin around the knees. Probably the babe’s doing.

He wore a blue shirt . . . nay, he wore the blue shirt. The one she’d sewn for his twenty-first birthday. The one she’d pieced together from remnants purchased at a discount from the seamstress whose shop stood two doors down from Miss Fester’s. Durable denim, since he tended to wear clothes until they fell off him, his father’s thrifty nature deeply embedded in Pieter’s character. Yet this shirt, nearly two years old now, looked new. As if he’d not worn it since they separated. As if he’d saved it. For today.

Her mind too numb with shock to process the ramifications of that observation, Claire focused on keeping her legs beneath her as Pieter halted in front of her. She tilted her head slightly upward—he stood a good five inches taller—and stared into eyes she never thought she’d see again.

He smiled, the subtle movement barely curving his mouth, yet the expression was so quintessentially Pieter that a wave of homesickness broke over Claire, nearly drowning her in memories of what had once existed between them.

He had no right coming here. Stirring up feelings. Looking so steady and sure when he was nothing but a philandering ne’er-do-well.

Pieter bent sideways to lower Polly’s bag to the ground, then lifted his hand to remove his hat. The circular crease in his blond hair tempted her to brush it out with her fingers. She fisted her hands against the impulse. There’d be no touching. Her nerves were too raw just from the sight of him. Touching him would be catastrophic.

“Claire.” He dipped his chin in greeting, his voice soft and velvety, just as she remembered.

She said nothing in return. Mostly because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her cottony mouth. Yet she also remained quiet out of fear that once she started talking, all the anger and pain she’d clamped off for the last year would gush out of her like blood from a freshly opened wound.

So they stared at each other. Pieter never had been one for stringing words together. Then a train whistle pierced the air. The baby twitched, one tiny leg kicking out of the blanket. Fussing quickly followed.

Pieter jammed his hat back onto his head and shifted his grip on the babe, making little hushing sounds that turned her heart to mush. She’d always known Pieter would make a wonderful father, and now the proof stood right before her eyes. It hurt. Saints above, it hurt. He was supposed to father her children, not some other woman’s.

After he settled the little one, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He met her gaze, his eyes seeming to stare into her soul, communicating support, steadfastness, and . . . sorrow? Claire gave her head the tiniest of shakes. No, that couldn’t be right. She was reading old dreams into nothing more than a stare. He didn’t care about her. Not like that. Perhaps as an old friend who shared companionable memories, but nothing more. Nothing deeper.

He held out the envelope to her. “From your sister.”