A Wreath of Snow by Liz Curtis Higgs Read Free Book Online Page B

it across the ice without considering where it might land?”
    He looked as if he’d just been slapped. “Miss Campbell, I know—”
    “And
I
know that my brother was innocent and that you were not.
Are
not,” she amended. “I suppose you recognized me aboard the train?”
    “Aye.” He didn’t flinch or look away. “Even before we left Stirling station, I realized you were Alan’s sister.”
    “And yet you said nothing?”
    “To my great shame, I did not. Not even when you mistook my surname for Gordon.” Though weighed down by their bags, he spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whether from fear or cowardice, I have done you a great disservice, Miss Campbell. Can you possibly forgive me?”
    “
Forgive
you?” The sincerity of his expression merely heightened her pique. “I cannot think of one reason—” Meg bit back the rest, ashamed of her vitriol. She could at least be civil even if she chose not to forgive him.
    Is forgiveness a matter of choice?
She frowned, irritated by the question. “At the moment my only concern is reaching home.”
    When she stamped off, Meg felt a rush of cold air on her neck and realized little Tam had loosened her scarf. “Come, lad, what are you up to?” she scolded him lightly, tucking the woolen fabric back in place. She glanced at Mrs. Reid, well behind them now, then hugged the child to her heart, patently ignoring Gordon Shaw. “We shall have you and your mum safe and warm within the hour.”
    The snowfall at last had eased. Not far ahead the lights of Stirling twinkled like stars, from the castle to the mill lade. However fine the view, her hands were numb, her walking boots were soaked through, and she could not feel her toes.
    Gordon’s voice was low but steadier than she expected. “Miss Campbell, may I ask what you intend to do when we reach Stirling?”
    She spoke plainly. “Knock on my parents’ door and hope they will have room in their hearts for a foolish daughter.”
    “Perhaps I might escort you home—”
    “Certainly not!” Meg stared at him, aghast.
    “But I would very much like to meet them,” he explained. “To apologize—”
    “No!” Meg covered Tam’s ear and pressed him against her lest the urgency in her voice frighten him. “It is too late, Mr. Shaw. You cannot make amends now.”
    “Nonetheless, I mean to try.”
    “Please, it is out of the question,” Meg told him. “I cannot think what my brother would say if you appeared on our doorstep.”
Nor what Alan might say to me
. “It simply will not do for you to come to our house, Mr. Shaw, and dredge up painful memories best forgotten. Christmas is meant to be joyful, is it not?”
    When he dropped back a step, Meg felt the tension inside her begin to ease. Perhaps he finally understood.
    She pressed on, focusing her thoughts on a warm fire, a plate of food, and a clean bed. Even so, Gordon’s wounded expression was firmly planted in her mind.
    At last the lights of Stirling station came into view. Exuberant cries rang up and down the line. “Almost there, almost home,” Meg whispered in Tam’s ear. She heard the stragglers behind them making an effort to catch up as she found her own steps growing lighter, swifter.
    Then she saw the lanterns and the faces and the open arms. “Look, Tam!” she cried, turning the child so he could see. “Look at all the people coming down the track to greet us.”
    The boy squealed, clapping and waving, as a spirited band of people drew near, lanterns held high, the light reflecting off the snow. Wives welcomed husbands with warm blankets and heartfelt embraces while the railway staff pointed the way to hot tea in the booking office.
    The stationmaster, resplendent in his dark uniform with its gleaming brass buttons, guided Meg up the narrow steps onto the crowded platform, brightly lit and swept clear of snow. “Many apologies, madam,” he said, eying Tam. “You and your boy have had a rough night of it.”
    “Oh, this fine