The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  To avoid him, she’d have to keep close to the school and the Elmore house. No need to go to town. Especially not the post office, now that Dash was renting a room above it. She didn’t require postage, anyway. She’d posted one letter to a friend she’d made during her teacher training, but beyond that, she had no one left with whom to exchange letters.

  But she’d have to go into town at some point, to shop. Oh, and to go to church every Sunday. It was one thing to ignore the Almighty in her heart and mind, and another for the world to know she behaved like an unbeliever. Not that she wasn’t certain of God’s existence, but she didn’t like how He did things. How He ignored things. How He allowed the innocent to struggle and flounder.

  Back in Chicago, she and Mother hadn’t participated in Father’s crimes, but they’d suffered as a result of them. They’d lost their home, reputations, and friends. Then again, perhaps it was a gift to lose certain so-called friends. The upstanding, God-fearing folks from church had turned up their noses at the Bracey females once the news about Father was printed in the papers.

  Abby hadn’t been the one who’d peddled in counterfeit currency. She hadn’t lied to her family. She hadn’t done anything, but overnight she’d become a pariah. Clearly, appearance was more important in society than substance.

  She’d gone to the Lord in prayer, but it didn’t seem like He’d heard a word she said to Him back then. She fell into melancholy, which was something Mother had no patience for in the days before Father’s death. Mother used to go on about the fighting spirit flowing in their veins, inherited from their ancestors who sailed on the Mayflower, but once Father died, she seemed to have forgotten the boldness and faith of the women in the family who’d gone before. Abby had tried to remind Mother. She’d opened the old Bible, not just to read scripture, but to show Mother the family genealogy printed on the first few pages, going all the way back to the Mayflower. Mother had just cried.

  It didn’t seem like she stopped crying until she succumbed to pneumonia a year ago. Abby blamed Fletcher Pitch for robbing Mother of her will to live, but she also blamed God. Why did He ignore her pleas during her direst time? How could He allow her and Mother to suffer the consequences of her father’s actions?

  That was when she decided that if He could ignore her, surely He wouldn’t mind or notice if she left Him alone for a while … or always, seeing as He hadn’t wooed her back the way she’d once heard the preacher say God did with His people. There had been no tenderness in her spirit, no word from another human being, no parting of the heavens. No, God was no more interested in wooing her than Dash had been.

  Nevertheless, she had to present the image of a churchgoing woman in order to be accepted by the community. Again, appearance over substance—she’d learned that lesson. Sitting through church was part of this job.

  Further interaction with Dash, however, wasn’t supposed to be. He’d promised.

  She should have known he’d break this promise too.

  “You’re a little pale, Miss Abby.” Bynum’s words recalled her to the present. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Forgive me. I’m preoccupied this morning.”

  “I hope Maynard Yates isn’t the source of your distraction.” Hildie refilled her milk glass. “Bynum said he was poorly behaved last night.”

  “It wasn’t the warmest welcome I’ve ever received.”

  “No one likes him,” Willodean said.

  “That’s not true.” Hildie sighed. “But he is a difficult man.”

  “A crank and a coot,” Bynum added.

  “A coot!” Patty echoed.

  Hildie shot Bynum an exasperated look before returning her gaze to Abby. “Well, I’m glad you aren’t letting Maynard upset you. And that you’re not taking ill.”

  Willodean, who had been chasing Patchy Polly beneath the table minutes ago, pushed her half-eaten bowl of mush back. “I’m not feelin’ good, though. I’m too sick to eat.”

  Patty, who did everything Willodean did, nudged her empty bowl toward her mother. “Me too.”

  Hildie’s brow arched. “And this has nothing to do with you not liking mush, Willodean?”

  “No.” But Willodean’s lips twitched.

  “You ate all of yours, Patty,” Bynum noted.

  “More, pwease.” The little girl’s head tipped to the side. “Wif more m’wasses.”

  Abby chuckled at Patty’s hasty reversal, but Hildie adopted a feigned air of resignation as she ladled a small scoop of mush into Patty’s bowl. “I’m glad you’re healthy enough to attend the mayor’s birthday party Saturday night, Patty. Poor Willodean will have to stay home and miss the cake, since she’s sick.”

  “There’s cake?” Willodean’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, of course. Mrs. Queen is baking it.”

  Kyle’s mother, one of Abby’s candidates for Katherine Hoover. Abby looked forward to interacting with her at the party on Saturday, but for Willodean’s benefit, she made an exaggerated mmm. “I love a good cake.”

  Willodean straightened. “I think I feel better now. I’ll try to eat more mush, Mama.”

  “Good.” From her seat, Hildie gathered Bynum and Abby’s used utensils and plates.

  Abby rose to assist with clearing the table. “Let me help.”

  “Not part of your contract.” Hildie stood and instantly winced.

  “Is it your breathing again?” Abby whispered, not wanting to alarm the girls.

  Hildie shook her head. “Just a kick, is all.”

  Bynum rose and rested a work-rough hand on the side of his wife’s extended midsection. “Little one, you need to stop giving your mama such a hard time.”

  Hildie looked up at Bynum. “He’s stopped already. He listens to his pa.”

  “Or she, another pretty girl like you.”

  They exchanged a look so tender, Abby had to turn away. Not that they made her uncomfortable—on the contrary, they modeled a healthy marriage for their children. It wasn’t even that Abby was a boarder, neither part of the family nor a real friend. It was more that she wondered if she would ever have love in her life again. The romantic kind, but also the family kind. A wave of loss for her parents washed up from her stomach, dampening her eyes.

  She’d done an admirable job of blinking them back when Hildie patted her shoulder. “I’m packing lunches now. Tongue sandwich today.”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention. Last night I asked parents to schedule time with me so we can get to know one another. Most of the parents invited me to supper in their homes, but Micah’s mother, Mrs. Story, offered to bring me lunch today. She said she has an hour off from her work and enjoys taking walks at that time, so she asked to meet me at the school.” Abby’s stomach fluttered anew at the knowledge she’d be able to speak with one of the women who could be Katherine Hoover. Would Mrs. Story let anything slip to indicate Micah was really Fletcher Pitch’s son?

  “That will be fun,” Bynum said before pointing to Willodean to keep eating.

  Perhaps this would be a good time to glean more information about Mrs. Story and Micah from her hosts. “I understand Mrs. Story is a seamstress?”

  “An excellent one.” Hildie sighed. “I envy the items in the shop window.”

  “What do you know about her?” My, that sounded too obvious. “That is, Micah is a lovely boy.”

  Willodean watched a congealed clump of mush slip from her spoon back into the bowl. “Smartest boy in class.”

  “Quiet too,” Hildie added. “He and Geraldine, his mama, have been in Wells since, oh, right before school started.”

  The timing was right for Geraldine Story to be Katherine Hoover, as Dash had said, but Kyle Queen and his mother Sara had also come into town at about the same time. Fortunately, Mrs. Queen had invited Abby to supper in a few days. Perhaps these meals would help Abby determine which pair might be the best candidates to be Katherine Hoover and the Pitch boy.

  Hildie chuckled. “Abby? You listening?”

  “Sorry, I
was woolgathering again.”

  “Woolgathering and not hungry,” Hildie said. “I suspect this has to do with Dashiell Lassiter coming all this way to woo you back.”

  With an exaggerated head shake, Bynum stepped backward. “Gonna turn out the cows now. Want me to see to the chickens for you, Hildie?”

  “I’ll do it,” Abby announced. Anything to escape Hildie’s teasing about Dash. Besides, Hildie was rubbing her back, clearly in pain, and should stay inside where it was warm.

  “I should say no, but my back thanks you.” Hildie turned to the sink.

  Abby donned her outerwear, gathered the bucket of feed from the mudroom, and stepped outside. Her heavy layers of clothing weren’t enough to protect her from the stark cold that bit her face. She doubled her pace to the coop.

  “Colder this morning.” Bynum led two fawn Jersey cows and their calves into the paddock closest to the barn, his speech creating thick vapor in the frigid air.

  “But not too cold for them?” She tipped her head at the cows.

  “For a short time. They need exercise.”

  Abby knew nothing about the care of cattle, but they seemed happy enough to be outside for a change of scenery. The two mothers lumbered along, pink udders peeking from beneath their buff-brown bellies, while their calves pranced ahead in the snow, adding white socks to their buff legs to match the little blazes of white on their foreheads. Their jaunty steps seemed a sign of bovine satisfaction.

  Where she was deficient in her knowledge of cows, however, she knew something about feeding chickens. As a child, she’d helped the servants with that particular task in the animal pens hidden by screens of evergreen trees behind the house. That was how she’d met Dash, the groom’s son. She was eight, and when he realized what she was doing, he’d eyed her with skepticism.

  “You’ve never fed a chicken before?”

  “I’ve fed a cat. And a dog.”

  “I get to feed horses.” His narrow chest puffed with pride. “I’m going to own a bunch of them someday. Horses are better friends than people sometimes.”

  “I think I’m a better friend than a horse.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Abby shoved the memory from her brain, banishing it into the cold. Every childhood memory, even the happy ones, brought pain, because of the direction her life had taken.

  Besides, she’d have to hurry so she could get to school on time. She let herself into the little whitewashed chicken coop near the barn.

  A dozen or so Cochin hens clucked and cackled at seeing her, craning their necks and gathering close to her skirt. “Good morning, ladies, how do you fare?”

  A plump, buff-colored hen shoved a silver-laced sister aside.

  “There’s enough breakfast for all.” Abby poured the prescribed amount of grain and kitchen scraps out for them. While they pecked and scratched, she took advantage of the empty roosts to search for eggs. One small speckled egg revealed itself among the straw, and she tucked it into her coat pocket. “Farewell, ladies. Stay warm today.”

  She would do well to do the same, so she arrived at school with Willodean a few minutes early to light the stove. Once it got going and the other students arrived, the schoolhouse warmed up enough that Abby’s toes no longer ached. At least Almos had left Stripey the skunk at home, and the children attended to their lessons, although Coy chatted through sums and Kyle had the fidgets.

  At last, lunchtime arrived, and Abby released the students to play in the yard. She polished her desk with a rag to accommodate a picnic with Micah’s soon-to-arrive mother, Geraldine Story. Was she Katherine Hoover? Perhaps Abby would get the answers she sought.

  When the door opened, she looked up with a welcoming smile.

  For a second, seeing that once-familiar smile on Abby’s lips made Dash’s gut flop like a fish—caught with no hope of going back to the life he knew, but he didn’t care. That smile hooked him every time.

  The nervous thrill only lasted a moment, however. It died when Abby’s smile transformed into a bitter scowl that reduced him to the poor stable boy he once was, although to be fair, he looked the part, since he’d come from the inn. Dressed in mud-smeared trousers and a patched coat flecked with horsehair, he’d clearly been at work with horses all morning. Out of courtesy for Abby, however, he’d switched from his manure-caked boots to clean ones.

  She didn’t seem to notice his shoes, though. Her glare hadn’t left his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to catch you alone.” He rooted a few yards away from the teacher so every little witness to his visit could report he’d kept his distance. He’d learned his lesson last time about putting her in a compromising situation.

  She hopped to her feet. “You’ve found Fletcher Pitch already! He checked into the inn?”

  “Sorry, no new guests at the inn.”

  She threw her hands up. “Dashiell, you’ll be the ruin of me.”

  She’d already ruined him, where his heart was concerned, anyway. Hearing her call him by his full name didn’t help, because six years ago, she’d used it as an endearment.

  Leaving her was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and this … this chaos with Pitch had reopened all his old wounds. Self-inflicted, but wounds all the same. Even though things could never return to the way they were, he still cared for her, and he couldn’t help but believe God brought them together again for a reason. Maybe so Dash could apologize.

  But this moment wasn’t the time. “Sorry the news isn’t what either of us wanted, but—is that all the firewood you have?”

  “You came to ask me about our fuel supply?”

  “No, but look at it.” The stack of split logs piled in the vestibule wasn’t even half as high as the wall. “That won’t last you long.”

  “Wood is a precious commodity here. I’m sure someone plans to replenish it soon.”

  “I hope so. Spring’s a ways off, and you’ll burn through that long before then.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Bynum. So, you dropped by because …?”

  “We need to square a few things away before Pitch’s arrival, starting with calling him something other than his name for the sake of discretion. Let’s refer to him as ‘our friend’ when we speak about him.” Even though Fletcher Pitch was nothing of the sort.

  “That shouldn’t be too often. I don’t think there’s a need for us to speak unless something pertinent arises.”

  She was bound and determined not to resume any sort of relationship with him, wasn’t she? He couldn’t help but tease her. “Can I say ‘howdy’ if I pass you on the street?”

  “You’ve never said howdy in your life.”

  “Sometimes I do, depending on who I’m greeting. But for you, I’ll say ‘how do you do.’”

  “Are we finished here?”

  “Not yet.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. “You may not want to talk to me often, but I’ll need to seek you out every few days. It’s standard procedure. Daily reports are required by my superiors.”

  “Daily?” Her eyes widened.

  He nodded. “Let’s compare notes Saturday. Unless you determine Mrs. Story to be Katherine Hoover today, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Don’t confront her without me, though. Drop by the inn or the post office to inform me. Whatever you do, don’t send a note to me explaining things.”

  Her jaw hardened. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Good, because I still can’t read. Witless as a stone.”

  “Don’t say that—”

  “Anyway.” He forced a smile. “Folks won’t be surprised to see us converse, since it’s evident we already know one another.”

  Her eyes rolled. “And how we know one another. Hildie thinks you’re here to woo me back.”

  Excellent. “Whatever helps explain my presence here is fine with me.”

  “I don’t care for it.”

  “I’d be astonished if you did.”
/>   “But …” She sighed. “I suppose you are right.”

  The hair at his nape lifted—not from the shock of her saying he was correct about something. Nor from the cold. Someone was coming.

  He turned. A woman in a green-blue cloak and a wide bonnet with a basket over her arm turned off the road to the schoolhouse path, staring at him. Ah, yes. Last night she’d worn a yellow bonnet with geegaws sewn on it and suggested Maynard Yates was inebriated. She was a woman with spirit—and possibly Katherine Hoover.

  Abby brushed past him. “Micah’s mother, Geraldine Story. We’re having lunch.”

  Mrs. Story paused on the path to greet a blond boy—her son, a small lad he’d remembered seeing last time he visited the school. When she’d sent her son off to play, Dash doffed his hat. “Hello, ma’am.”

  “Hello.” She was a pretty woman not much past thirty, with curious light eyes, a dimpled chin, and fair curls peeking from beneath the brim of her stylish bonnet. “Miss Bracey, is lunch still convenient?”

  “Absolutely.” Abby welcomed the woman inside. “Mr. Lassiter was just leaving.”

  Not quite yet. “Mrs. Story, I saw you at the meeting last night. Did I hear you’re new to Wells too?”

  “Our relocation here was somewhat recent, yes.” Did the question make her nervous? Hard to tell when she looked down to brush snow from her skirt and he couldn’t see her eyes.

  “I’ve hardly been here two days, but it seems like a warm community,” he said.

  “Except for a certain individual, whose behavior was most distressing. Suggesting you don’t know your way around a kitchen! I’m sure you’re a fine cook, Miss Bracey.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I was taught to cook by an admirer of Italianate cooking, which has been popular in Chicago for ten years or more. What dishes are popular where—where did you say you are from, Mrs. Story?”