A Yorkshire Christmas by Kate Hewitt Read Free Book Online Page B

doing? Watching TV? Playing cards? She envisioned some happy family scene and her heart ached, although why or for what she refused to examine.
    Don’t go there, Claire. Don’t buy into that broken dream.
    She pulled the first essay towards her and took a slug of wine.
    Identify two events that affected the United States’ territorial expansion in the nineteenth century, and explain why and how they did.
    Ugh. She was so not in the mood.
    Pushing the essay, as well as her untouched chicken tikka masala-for-one aside, Claire tucked her knees up to her chest and took another sip of wine. She gazed into the fire, her emotions like a kaleidoscope within her. Turn it one way and she felt happy, even excited. Turn it another way, and she felt lonely and lost, a million miles from any place she’d called home.
    She’d enjoyed being with Noah, even though it made a pang of something close to terror ripple through her. She was curious about him, about the solitary life he seemed to lead, and she’d liked brightening it just a little bit, even if it was just by wiping down his kitchen counters.
    And that’s how it starts, Claire. Haven’t you learned anything?
    With Mark it had been, of all mundane things, an umbrella. He’d left the teacher-parent meeting in the pouring rain, and she’d lent him her umbrella. She still remembered the little lurch of feeling the sight of him walking away under her red and blue striped umbrella had given her, a sense of belonging that was ridiculous and didn’t even make sense.
    And yet she’d felt it, and one little kindness had turned into, inch by inch, an almost-relationship. An almost disastrous relationship.
    But you didn’t get that far.
    And she wouldn’t get that far with Noah. She’d come to England to relax and recover, not fall for a man yet again.
    And with that resolution firm in her mind, Claire drained her wineglass and headed for bed.
    She woke the next morning to hazy blue skies and morning sunlight making the fields, still covered in snow, glitter as if they’d been strewn with diamonds.
    She stood at the kitchen sink, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands, and let the beauty of the fresh, new day fill her with promise. She could make a picnic, take a long walk, or explore the village. And most importantly, get her car. Now that it had stopped snowing she should be able to dig it out herself.
    She finished her coffee and bundled up before stepping outside, the cold stinging her cheeks, the crystalline air so clean and clear it felt like taking a drink of water.
    Digging her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat, she was about to head down the lane that led towards the main road when she caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a slight figure huddled on top of the drystone wall, knees drawn up to skinny chest, shoulders slumped.
    Even though she hadn’t had a good look at her last night, Claire knew instinctively this was Noah’s daughter. She hesitated, torn between a desire to help the girl, who looked clearly miserable, and the voice screaming in her head to stay uninvolved.
    And yet how could she? Did Noah even know where his daughter was? Holly Cottage was a good fifteen minutes from his farm, plodding through snow-covered fields.
    Besides, Molly looked small, maybe only seven or eight years old. Claire had to help.
    Squaring her shoulders, she started over. As she came closer she saw the girl had a notebook on her knees, and was busily sketching something, her head bent over the paper. Claire took a step closer.
    “Hey, there.”
    Startled, the girl whirled around, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she caught sight of Claire. She sniffed, wiping her face with her arm, the other hand clutching the notebook.
    “Hey.”
    “Are you Noah Bradford’s daughter, by any chance?” Claire asked, and the girl’s eyes narrowed further.
    “How did you know that?”
    “Lucky guess. He told me you were coming, and I know he lives