As Fiona made her way through the parlor to her room, Broderick looked up and removed the pipe from his mouth. “Days are getting longer.”
She glanced at the lace-covered window, surprised to see the sun just setting. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“It’ll be spring soon.”
“Spring.” She spoke the word on a sigh.
“Sick of winter, are you?”
She nodded. “It seems to last much longer here in Paradise Falls.”
“In all of Northern Michigan.” He stretched out his long legs toward the fire and crossed one foot over the other. “Got time to sit a spell?”
“I guess I could.” She settled herself in the big overstuffed chair beside his, grateful for the warmth here in the parlor.
“What was winter like in Bennett.”
“It could be cold and snowy, but not as much as here. I’ve never seen this much snow before. Mountains of it.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Good for snowshoes. This was a mild winter compared to some.”
“Mild?” She looked over to see if he was serious.
“My father used to say, beware a mild winter. It pays a call in springtime with a vengeance.” He blew out a. puff of smoke and watched it curl toward the ceiling. Then he looked at the pipe in his hand, studying the intricate carving on the bowl. His tone grew thoughtful. “Grayson was named for my father. He’s a lot like him—good with his hands. An artist, I suppose, in his own way. Keeps his thoughts to himself. Strong as a mule, and just as stubborn. Loyal—if he gives his word, he’ll never take it back.” He paused a beat, speaking more to himself than to her. “I miss him.” He looked up, and seemed surprised to have revealed so much. “I sense that you do, too.” Fiona swallowed. “I do. Yes.”
“Well.” He set the stem of the pipe between his teeth and turned to stare at the fire, lost in thought.
He never even seemed to notice when Fiona left him alone to go to her room. Once inside she turned down the bed linens and drew the draperies against the cold night air that whistled past the panes. She undressed and slipped into her nightgown before removing the pins from her hair. As she ran a brush through the thick curls she thought about Broderick’s question. She’d answered him simply enough, but it hadn’t nearly conveyed her true feelings. There were times when she ached to simply see Gray’s face. To feel those dark eyes skimming over her, sending her heart into that quick dance it always took whenever he looked at her. She longed to reach out and touch that lock of hair that constantly spilled over his forehead in the most appealing way, to hear his voice—low, gruff, terse. To watch the softness that came into his eyes, into his voice, when he cupped Chester’s head between those big hands.
As she crawled between the covers she felt a sense of shame. There were times lately, it seemed, that she was grieving more for the loss of Gray than for her own dear mum.
* * *
Gray set down his plate and watched as Chester finished the last pieces of wurst before licking it clean. The hound had already been fed in the kitchen, but he was always willing to have seconds. That done, he rested his chin on Gray’s knees and looked up into his eyes.
“That’s all there is.” Gray scratched behind his dog’s ears before picking up a block of wood from the table beside his chair. While he ran his fingers around the shape of it, Chester curled up on a rug in front of the fire and closed his eyes.
Gray reached for his sharp knife and began whittling. He’d eaten his supper in the parlor, in front of the big roaring fire. That was one of the privileges of having his own place. Ma had never allowed them to eat anywhere except at the table. The kitchen was for every day. The dining room was only for Sunday supper, and then only if they had company. She’d never allowed her rules to be broken.
Except for Flem, who broke them constantly. But that never counted in her eyes.
Gray set down the wood and picked up the cup of steaming tea from the table beside his chair, staring around as he sipped. This was a good room, big, sturdy. The floors were made of oak cut from the nearby forest and polished to a high shine. The fireplace had been made of fieldstone, hand-hewn by Herman Vogel and his father, who had come with his family from Bavaria more than fifty years earlier. The kitchen was a delight, with a huge wood-burning stove and a fancy, intricately carved table and six chairs brought from the Black Forest, though how the Vogel family had managed to bring them all this way, Gray couldn’t imagine. Herman had left most of the family belongings behind in his determination to make the trip to his daughter’s place in one wagon. Beds and dressers in the three upstairs bedrooms. Chairs, rugs, a faded sofa. He’d even left the dishes in the cupboards, and the blackened pots and pans. The only things he’d insisted on taking had been the paintings of his ancestors that had graced the walls, and the wedding quilt his wife had sewn before their marriage more than fifty years ago.
Gray studied the faded spot on the wall above the fireplace. Maybe one day he would have a painting there. A painting of a woman. He could all but see her, skirt flattened against her legs as she walked across a field of daisies. Thick dark hair swirling around the face of an angel, fair skin and eyes as blue as a summer day, reed slender, her head barely reaching his shoulder.
It annoyed him that he could see her so clearly. All he needed to do was close his eyes and she was here with him.
He picked up the wood and started cutting, shaping. He liked having his own. He liked doing what he wanted, when he wanted.
He hoped his father wasn’t too lonely. Knowing his mother, she would make things miserable until her temper had run its course. It gave him some comfort to know his father had Fiona there for company.
His hand paused. He could see her. Smell her. Hear that lilting brogue.
It was true that he liked having his own, but if he were to be honest, he’d like it better if he had someone to share it with. Not just anyone. But it would do no good to dream about Fiona Downey. He’d seen the misery in her eyes when Flem had left and seen the way she grieved, the same as Ma. She couldn’t help falling in love with Flem. All women did.
Annoyed at his thoughts, he bent to his work, cutting, whittling, until he could see the wood begin to take on the shape he wanted. He would think about springtime, and the things he would do around the farm.
* * *
“May we go outside after lunch, Miss Downey?” Afton looked up from her slate, sending yellow curls dancing.
“That’s a grand idea, Afton.” Fiona opened the door, allowing the breeze to rush in. She could all but smell spring in the air. This morning she’d almost forsaken her coat in favor of a shawl, but she’d decided to be practical.
Another few weeks and she would be able to put away her scarf and gloves and coat altogether.
It was early April and the snow had been melting for a week now. Each time the sun came out, more water dripped from the roof of the schoolhouse, forming icicles overnight that nearly reached the ground. The children made a game of breaking them off and using them like javelins to see who could toss them the farthest.
“I’m finished, Miss Downey.” Luther set his lunch bucket beside his coat and raced outside in his shirtsleeves.
“So am I.” Afton followed suit, leaving her coat on a peg by the door and dancing down the steps.
Soon the schoolyard was filled with the sounds of children laughing and shouting as they climbed trees and chased each other in a game of tag.
Because they’d been confined inside throughout the long winter, Fiona decided to allow them a little extra time outdoors to run off their energy. She was wiping down the slates when the door slammed shut with such force it startled her. When she leaned into it, she was forced to use all her strength just to push it open.
When had the wind shifted from east to north?
She looked up and was startled to see big fat snow flakes drifting about.
Putting her hands to her mouth she summoned the children inside.
“Just a few more minute
s, Miss Downey.” Edmer, upside down, was swinging by his knees from the branch of a tree.
“The air’s grown cold.” She clapped her hands to get the attention of those who’d raced beyond the outhouse in a game of tag. “I think you’d better come inside now, and we’ll stoke the fire.”
“I’ll help.” Edmer swung down from the tree and raced inside. Whenever Will wasn’t at school, Edmer had become Fiona’s official assistant. What had once seemed a chore to him now was done with a sense of pride.
He tossed a log on the fire and poked at the glowing coals until flames began to lick along the bark.
When all of the children were inside, Fiona latched the door against the wind and they resumed their classes. They were especially eager because one of their assignments had been to ask their parents and grandparents to tell them something of interest about their early lives in faraway countries. These tales were then shared with the class. Luther couldn’t wait to talk about his grandfather’s childhood in a tiny hamlet in the Alps.
Though the wind picked up, whistling past the window, rattling the door, they were so engrossed in their work they took no notice until they heard the jingle of harness.
Minutes later there was a pounding on the door. Fiona hurried over to release the latch. The wind blew the door from her grasp as Christian Rudd, his hair and coat frosted white, stepped inside in a rush of snowflakes.
“Storm coming.” He nodded toward the row of coats and boots. “Better get the children dressed. I’ll see them all home.”
“I’m grateful.” Though Fiona was startled by the amount of snow that had fallen, she had no time to think about it as she herded the children into their warm clothing before waving them toward the waiting wagon.
“You’d best bank that fire and get started for home, Miss Downey.”
“I will. Thank you, Mr. Rudd.”
He pointed to the lantern beside her desk. “You’ll need that.”
She laughed. “I hardly think so. It’s midday.”
“Trust me.” In quick strides he pulled himself up to the seat of the wagon and took up the reins. “This time of year the weather can turn in the blink of an eye. You’d be wise to secure the door and the shutters over the window before you leave. Best not to dawdle.”
She waved him off and called goodbye to the children before turning away.
Following his advice, she secured the shutters over the window. When she stepped inside the school, it took all her effort to close the door against the north wind that nearly whipped it out of her hand.
She banked the fire and slipped into her coat. Picking up the lantern she thought about what Christian Rudd had said. Though she thought it silly, she would trust his wisdom in these things. Using a small stick held to the hot coals, she lit the wick. With her gloves in place and her bright yellow scarf wrapped around her head, she stepped onto the porch and firmly latched the door.
As she walked down the steps she noted that the snow was already ankle high. How could this be? Hadn’t it only begun within the hour? Or had she lost track of time?
With the wind and snow blowing against her face, she was forced to lower her head and hunch over to avoid the worst of it. But even that didn’t help for long.
Before she’d walked half a mile the sky was so dark she could barely see a few feet in front of her. To make matters worse, the snow was now over her boots. The hem of her skirt was wet and heavy as it slapped against her legs.
To keep her mind from the cold, she thought about the fine supper that would be awaiting her at home. Rose had said she would be making cabbage soup. Just another mile or so and she would be snug and warm in the Haydn kitchen.
The snow seemed to be falling faster now. A thick wet curtain of icy chips that stung her eyes and battered her face until she couldn’t feel her lips. Her fingers had long ago gone numb, and she stepped up her pace, desperate now to reach the warmth of home.
The temperature was dropping so quickly the wet snow soon turned to swirling daggers that blinded her. Her petticoats and skirt were beginning to freeze to her legs.
She heard a sound like thunder, and beside her a tree limb crashed to the ground, snapping into frozen shards. Startled, she managed to avoid being hit. But minutes later she stepped into a snowbank that was waist high and found herself lying face down. The lantern slipped from her hand.
Dazed, she pushed herself to a sitting position. Lifting a gloved hand she stared in horror. With the loss of her only light, and the snow swirling around, it was impossible to see even her own hand in front of her face.
This was no ordinary snowstorm. She was caught in a blizzard, and plunged into darkness, with no idea where the Haydn farm could be, or which direction would take her back to the shelter of the school.
TWENTY-ONE
Gray swiped an arm over the sweat on his brow. He’d spent the morning cleaning the barn to his liking. It wasn’t Herman Vogel’s fault that it needed so much work. The old man had simply been overwhelmed by all the chores that went into keeping up a farm of this size. As his father was fond of saying, farming wasn’t for the old or the faint-hearted.
Now, after forking fresh hay into the stalls and filling the troughs with water, Gray looked around with a sense of pride. It might not be completely to his liking yet, but by this time next year he’d have put his personal mark on it. He wanted to add a workbench, where he could repair harness and equipment. And maybe even a storage cabinet for his tools.
When Chester bounded into the barn Gray looked over and began to laugh. “Where did you find that much snow? You must have been digging around the woodpile, looking for foxes.”
The hound shook himself and settled down on a pile of fresh hay to chew at ice balls that clung to the pads of his paws.
Gray glanced at the open doorway and was surprised to see the curtain of snow, so thick it obliterated the house only a few hundred yards away. He’d been so absorbed in his chores he’d had no idea the weather had turned so bitter.
“Good thing we didn’t go to town.” He stepped out and whistled to his dog to follow before leaning his weight into the big barn door. “A storm this bad, we could have ended up stuck along the trail. I feel sorry for anyone who gets caught in this.”
He was halfway to the house before the realization dawned.
Fiona. She would have been at school this morning. With no warning of what was coming, she would be trapped there with her students.
He raced back to the barn and began to harness the team.
* * *
Fiona was so cold she could no longer feel her feet. Her face had long ago gone numb, as well. Her clothes were crusted with ice and snow, the weight of them pulling at her, threatening to drag her down with every step she took. The thought of giving in and lying down was so tempting. She’d heard of blizzards, but this was the first time she’d ever experienced one. She’d heard the tales of men freezing to death in the snow if they dared to stop, and so she forced herself to keep moving, though by now she was thoroughly lost.
In the blinding white landscape, nothing looked familiar. There were no buildings, no unusual trees or boulders by which she could mark her progress. Just endless snow, snatching at her hair.
She’d lost her scarf somewhere. Snagged by the branches of a tree, or perhaps blown away on a gust of bitter wind. She’d been too cold to notice.
She had been walking for what seemed hours. She should be close to the Haydn farm by now. Though the blowing snow stung her eyes she cupped her hands around them to peer about, hoping to spot the barn. As she did she stepped on something buried in a drift. Dropping to her knees she fished around for it and held it up, then gave a little cry of dismay as recognition dawned.
It was the lantern she’d dropped so very long ago. She’d walked all that time for nothing. She was back where she’d started, halfway between school and home.
“No. Oh, please. No.” Overcome by exhaustion and despair, she buried her face in her hands.
* * *
Gray was out of the wagon as soon as the team had pulled up to the schoolhouse. After bounding up the porch steps, he could see that the door had been firmly latched from the outside and braced with a timber.
He felt a sense of relief. Fiona and the students were gone. He walked around to the side and saw that the shutters had been drawn over the window and firmly latched. A good sign that Fiona had understood the measures needed in the face of a storm of this size.
He returned to the wagon and headed the team toward home. Chester huddled close, resting his head on Gray’s lap.
Gray absently patted the hound. “I know. We’ll both be grateful to be inside, warmed by a fire, and enjoying a good supper, won’t we, old friend? Especially now that we know the teacher is safe at home.”
The words had no sooner escaped his lips than he spied something through the haze of snow. Something bright yellow, fluttering from a branch. He was out of the wagon and racing through the snow. As he snatched it up, he gave a muttered oath before tucking it inside his coat. There was no denying that it was Fiona’s.
He’d never been much of a believer, but the words of a childhood prayer played through his mind as he headed into the storm.
Be with me in the hour of my need.
* * *
“Oh, Da.” Fiona’s teeth were chattering so hard she could barely get the words out, but it seemed important that she address her last words to her beloved father. She was certain the end was near. She’d walked as far as she could manage. The weight of her frozen clothes, and the fact that she could no longer feel any part of her body, made her realize that she’d done all she could. For the past half hour she’d been thinking about Broderick Haydn’s sister, Gerda, who had frozen in her own barn, just steps away from the comfort of her own home. What had he once said to her? He’d compared the weather to a woman.
A word of warning, Miss Downey. When she seems the most beautiful, when you think she could never be lovelier, that’s when you must be wary. For she can turn on you and take everything, even your life.
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