Page 16 of A Texas Christmas Carol

seven

BEING WANTED FOR ONE’S BRAIN was a rather singular experience. People wanted Evan’s money, his influence, occasionally even his good opinion, but he couldn’t recall ever being desired for his mental prowess. It dangled dangerously close to being wanted for one’s self, an idea that made his blood hum.

Evan handed Felicity into the chair in front of his desk, then began to circle around to his own seat on the opposite side.

“What happened to your cane?” she asked.

Halting at the edge of the desk, he turned and sat on the corner, self-consciously swinging the shortened walking stick and slapping it against his palm. He fiddled with the unfinished end, his heart pumping twice as hard as it had a mere moment ago.

He shrugged, afraid to let her see how much her opinion mattered. “Young Timothy Little enjoyed borrowing my cane when we visited. I thought he might like one of his own, adapted to fit his shorter stature.” The stick seemed to grow shabbier and more ridiculous the longer he prattled on. “I thought to get a metal cap made for the end to hide the sawn-off section, but maybe it’s a foolish idea. I really don’t know anything about children or what they—”

A thump interrupted him as the writing tablet Felicity had been holding in her lap hit the carpet. Before he could do more than straighten away from the desk, she stood before him and was clasping his hand in both of hers. He had to make a quick adjustment to keep the cane from joining her tablet on the carpet.

“That is the kindest, most thoughtful . . .” Moisture glistened in her eyes as her words faded away. Her gaze overflowed with admiration. For him.

Never had he felt such a powerful ache to hold someone. To close the scant inches between them and wrap her in his arms. To press his lips to hers and taste perfection. Felicity. A woman who radiated such light, she could navigate the dark pit of his heart and find a half-dead coal to stir back to life. He hadn’t thought such a miracle possible.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Her approval spawned a thirst within him—a need to become the man she saw instead of the man he was. A precious, tenuous connection stretched like spider silk between them. He dared not breathe. One wrong move, one wrong word would surely destroy it.

Keen awareness charged the air and sent a frisson of electricity vibrating through him. The moment stretched into two. Then three. Then one of them finally came to their senses.

It wasn’t him.

Felicity looked away, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she released his hand and stepped back toward her chair.

Evan straightened and caught sight of her fallen tablet. He scrambled to retrieve it for her, not thinking about his trick knee. The despicable thing gave way the instant he put his full weight on it, causing him to grab the arm of her chair to catch himself. Unfortunately, she hadn’t fully seated herself yet, so there was nothing to serve as a counterweight.

The chair tipped. Felicity toppled. And he tumbled face-first onto the rug.

In other circumstances, having Felicity Wiggins sprawled on top of him would be a distinct pleasure. But in the face of his humiliation? He couldn’t think of anything worse.

Until her laughter bubbled out and filled the room. It shook her so hard, the vibrations tickled his spine.

“Oh, d-dear.” She tried to stifle her amusement but failed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She rolled off him and pushed the chair out of the way before taking hold of his arm.

He wanted to yank away from her and prove himself capable of standing on his own, but his pride melted beneath her sunny laughter. He allowed her to tug him upward, then twisted in order to settle his back against his desk.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “Afraid my knee’s not precisely the dependable sort.”

She brushed a bit of carpet lint from the front of his suit vest. The action was maternal in nature, yet it didn’t feel like mothering when she did it. It felt affectionate and almost . . . flirtatious? He searched her face, trying to find evidence to support his hypothesis, and noticed her topknot sitting slightly askew upon her head.

His gaze sharpened, taking in the rest of her. “Are you all right?”

Her green eyes danced with mirth. “I’m fine.” She reached for his brow, combing his overlong hair off his forehead. “That was the most excitement I’ve had all day.”

“How do you do that?” he asked. “Always find the good in things? I’ve never known someone so . . . immune to negativity.”

“Oh, I’m not immune.” She grinned as she retreated from him. She didn’t go far, just sat on the rug across from him, but he immediately mourned the loss of her touch. Her skirt stretched tight around her knees as she pulled her legs up in front of her. “I feel plenty of frustration. Anxiety. Hurt. But I also feel joy, gratitude, and hope. The trick, I’ve learned, is to decide which feeling to hold on to. It’s impossible to feel two opposite emotions at the same time. At least, I’ve never managed it. I can’t feel both anxiety and peace in the same moment. I have to choose one.” She seesawed her hands in front of her like two sides of a scale. “Resentment or gratitude? Self-pity or joy? Despair or hope? The choice isn’t always easy, especially when the hurt or anger is fresh. But prayer helps. As does singing. Taking walks in the sunshine. And playing with a hound who can’t help but be excited about everything he sees.”

“Rather ironic that a dog named Humbug is your source of cheer.”

She smiled. “Isn’t it?”

The edges of his mouth twitched in response, but he managed to stifle the motion before it got out of hand. Felicity’s emerald eyes twinkled at him, though, as if she knew exactly what he’d done and predicted he’d soon lose the ability to smother that impulse. She was probably right. The more time he spent in her company, the lighter he felt.

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt, her expression softening into something more pensive. “A few years ago, my mother grew ill,” she said quietly. “So ill that for a while, I feared we would lose her. Papa took it hard. Not knowing if she would live or die weighed on him, but he found a way to smile through it all. Not in a false way, but in a deep way. As if it stemmed not from his circumstance, but from his soul. I found him kneeling at their bedside one night, holding Mama’s hand and praying aloud. ‘Give me joy, Lord. Joy to lighten this darkness for my girls. Joy in your past provision. Joy in your promise of future glory. Joy in your presence today as you walk beside us in this valley of shadow. I am weak, but the joy of the Lord is my strength.’”

She lifted her head. Her gaze melded with Evan’s. “That prayer changed me. I’ve always been naturally cheerful and optimistic—all of us Wigginses are—but until that moment, I didn’t understand the true power of joy. Not my own joy, mind you, but the Lord’s joy. That soul-deep, eternal source that never runs dry. With that kind of strength, I could choose to focus on hope instead of despair. On peace rather than anxiety. Instead of itemizing all the things I had lost or might lose, it freed me to count my blessings.” Her eyes suddenly brightened. Unwrapping her arms from around her knees, she sat up straighter. “It’s like your ledgers,” she said. “If all you look at are the numbers in the debit column, you’re bound to feel poor and wretched because all you see is what you’ve lost. But if you focus your attention on the credit column, you realize how rich you really are.”