The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  He held on too long, waiting to be sure the baby was secure with her before lowering his arms. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “Anything for you.” She winked.

  He approached Abby, whose brows knit. “What’s wrong? We’re not leaving, leaving, are we? I signed a contract for the term.”

  Her friends laughed. Dash tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. “No. You need rest, is all. The mayor’s going to tell them about Pitch and such.”

  “He died,” she said as they made their way out of the hall. “Sara told me.”

  “At least he died with a choice for eternity, thanks to you.”

  He led her out onto the cold street, but not to the wagon. “Where are we going?”

  “You recall that ‘and such’ I mentioned that the mayor’s going to tell folks about? I’m going to tell you in the livery.”

  She eyed him askance. “Why?”

  “It’s quieter. Warmer than the street. And I thought you might like to see Five.”

  “Sounds like our childhood, talking in the stable.”

  “A little bit.” He slid open the livery door.

  She paused at the stack of crates beside the desk, which was cluttered with paper and small items. “What’s all this? These were from Burt Crabtree’s barn—Pitch’s barn. You know what I mean.” She held up a slender steel tool.

  “The sheriff and I decided to store the evidence here. These are all Pitch’s engraving tools. You’re holding a burin.” Dash pointed. “That tracing paper is used to make a screen to diffuse light when engravers work. It’s quite interesting how they form the screens, at an angle—anyway, this little bag here is a cushion, filled with sand so it weighs down the metal when they’re engraving it, so it stays still. You already saw his engravings, I think.”

  “He was gifted at it. Pity he didn’t make an honest job of it.”

  “I think he enjoyed his, er, illegal activities as much, if not more, than the engraving, though. At any rate, these will go to Washington on the next train.”

  “And you? Are you going on the next train too?”

  “It’s my job to accompany the evidence, yes.”

  She turned away. “Oh, there’s Five. Hello, girl.”

  Dash sidled beside her, perpendicular to her shoulder. His right hand cradled her cheek—soft, fuller now than when they’d met again last month in Chicago and she looked as if she hadn’t eaten well in months. Gently, he turned her face toward his. “I’m going to Washington, but I’m coming back.”

  “Why?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Because this is where you are.” He met her gaze. “I need a new place to live, since Isaac’s pretty sure he’ll be a married man by spring, so I’m going to move into Yates’s house. Not permanently. The town owns the property, but they’ll let me live rent-free until the house is ready.”

  “The house?”

  “It’s time I pursued the two dreams I had my whole life, for as long as I can remember. I’m going to buy a parcel of land here and breed horses. I’m going to start with Three there. He’s mine now—they all are. Even Jasper. Low cost to me, courtesy of the town.”

  Her lips parted. “Seven horses?”

  “It was a right generous gift of them, to be sure. But I’m investing in Wells, buying property and starting a business. Which reminds me, the best plot I’ve seen is Pitch’s. I have to raze the house and barn, though.”

  “Bad memories?”

  “That. And I’d like something a little bigger. With a wide porch. Cozy parlor. Larger kitchen, with a modern stove.”

  “His was horrible,” she agreed. “Sounds like a good dream, Dash.”

  “We’ll be neighbors, though. Me at the house, you at the school. Can you tolerate it?”

  “I suppose.” She smiled. “You mentioned two dreams, though. What’s the second?”

  His pulse thrummed in his chest. “You.”

  He shifted, coming around to face her. Slowly, so slowly she had ample time to protest, he drew closer, holding her gaze until her eyelashes fluttered closed. He touched his lips to hers, lightly, briefly, pulling back to measure her response.

  “H–how can you do that?” Her eyes stayed closed.

  His hand fell, along with his hopes. “I’m sorry—”

  “After all I said to you, after how I treated you, how can you like me?”

  “What?” Understanding crept into his brain. “Like you? I’ve loved you my whole life, Abby. There could never be another for me. I thought I was loving you by leaving you, but all I did was cause you years of pain. If you can manage to like me again, even a little, I’d like to spend more time with you.”

  Her lips twitched. “You do still need additional instruction with your reading.”

  “We need to practice that, don’t we?” His thumb brushed her cheek. Then her lips.

  She melted against him. “I was angry at you for a long time, but I never stopped loving you, Dash.”

  Then he’d never let her go again. If she was willing.

  “I’d never ask you to give up teaching, but if you’d care to court, I’ll wait as long as it takes. Does your contract expire in May?”

  “Oh yes, I did agree to no beaux, didn’t I? For the moment, I’d forgotten the matter entirely.”

  He felt a little smug at that. “So can you—could you—consider staying in Wells? After your contract is up and you’re allowed to have a beau?”

  “Yes, Dash.” She smoothed his lapels, resting her hands against his chest. “I will gladly stay here after my contract ends, knowing you’ll be here too. You are where my heart is.”

  “The month of May will be here before we know it, but just once more before then, may I kiss you?” His lips brushed the curve where her cheek met her chin. Then her jaw, just under her ear. Then her cheekbone.

  Her lips parted into a smile. “I think this once won’t hurt.”

  There was no talking after that for some time.

  By the time he finished kissing her, kissing her as he always wished he could but never dared, sweet and long and full of promises, he knew he’d been wrong. It would be a very long wait until May, indeed.

  EPILOGUE

  May

  A whisper of warm breeze trailed through the open schoolhouse windows and stirred the stray hairs at Abby’s nape. Hildie was right. Wells was beautiful in the spring. Beyond the border of the school, green fields of corn, oats, and alfalfa swayed among budding wildflowers, and the cottonwoods blossomed white. Lilting songs of birds twittered, beckoning Abby and the students outside. Come play, come play.

  Alas, there was a lesson to finish. “Here she is,” Abby said. “The Mayflower. Berthanne, Coy, Bartholomew, Josiah, you’ll need this for your graduation exam on Friday.”

  Zaida, a future teacher if Abby had ever taught one, raised her hand. “The rest of us need to learn it too though.”

  “Absolutely. It’s an important part of our country’s history.”

  Micah raised his hand. “I like the picture. May I copy it?”

  Sweet Micah seemed to be flourishing despite the winter’s events. Someday he’d learn Fletcher Pitch was his father, but for now, he was sheltered in the knowledge that Geraldine was his mother’s sister and loved him as her own since his mother’s death. Now that Geraldine had been cleared of kidnapping charges, she and Isaac—who’d inherited a great deal of money from his family, which explained his wealth, and was messy with his belongings, which is why he’d kept his door resolutely shut—had begun planning their wedding in two weeks’ time. Micah was excited to have a father at last and move above the post office.

  “I would love for you to use your talents to copy this later. For now, I’ll tell you about it. The Mayflower was an English ship that carried the first English Puritans to America in 1620. There were just over a hundred passengers, in addition to the crew. Yes, Willodean?”

  “Your people were on that boat?”

  “Indeed.” Abby lectured on some of the tr
ibulations endured by the Mayflower passengers. “History offers us many examples of people who face trials but persevere. This year, we’ve had a few of our own, haven’t we? Like the blizzard.”

  “Like Pa losing his leg,” Robert said.

  “And that bad man taking you,” Kyle added.

  “And losing Mr. Yates.” Abby paused a moment to compose herself. Later, she’d have to visit his grave in the church cemetery, where he’d been laid to rest beside his wife. It would have shocked Maynard Yates to no end to see the whole town turn out for his funeral, and she hoped he’d be pleased at how well Dash was caring for his horses, One through Six.

  Abby met the gazes of her students. “I hope we can all draw strength from God’s Word, but also through the example of those who’ve gone before us. And now, that’s the end of our school day. Only three more days until our final day of the year together. Don’t forget to invite your parents to the end-of-year program Saturday, where Florence will sing a solo and we’ll bid our graduates farewell. Class dismissed.”

  Almos whooped. “Stripey’ll be glad to see me.”

  The skunk still lived in the Sweets’ barn. “Are you sure he doesn’t want to return to the wild?”

  “He has the choice to leave the barn every day, ma’am, but he likes us.” Almos shrugged.

  “And we get to visit him,” Coy added.

  “I can’t argue with a skunk.” Abby bid her students farewell. When they’d all left except for Willodean, she erased the blackboard with a rag. “Willodean, will you close the windows, please?”

  “Sure, Miss Bracey. Hello, Mr. Lassiter.”

  Abby spun and grinned. “Dash, how was your day?”

  “We made excellent progress.” He’d worked up a sweat, building the new barn on his property next door, which he’d purchased after quitting the Secret Service—and the inn, of course. And what a barn it would be, when completed. Horse stalls and ample storage inside, and outside, large paddocks and training areas. Every day after school, he visited Abby and Willodean, swapping tales about their days and peppering her with questions about porch swings and stoves.

  The second window smacked shut. “May I go pick flowers, Miss Bracey?”

  “Of course. Don’t go far, though. We’ll walk home in a minute.”

  “A minute of your time is all I need,” Dash said when Willodean danced out the door. A smile pulling at his lips, he came to stand before her, so close she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Her head spun at his nearness, and then her leg bones turned to aspic when he cradled her jaw in his large, gentle hands.

  “Would you like me to kiss you?” His words fluttered warm on her cheeks.

  “We mustn’t. My contract, remember? No beau.”

  “I think everyone knows I’m your beau, whether I kiss you or not.”

  They’d done an admirable job of keeping things friendly between them, and not a single person had found anything in their behavior to reproach. Nevertheless, she had not been offered another teaching contract for the fall term. Abby didn’t take it as a reflection of her abilities, but rather as the town’s expectation that she would not be eligible any longer.

  And they were right. She was ready for her beau.

  “It’s time, then?”

  He pressed a kiss against her hairline. “I want to marry you, Abby.”

  It seemed she wouldn’t have a beau after all, then. She was to have a husband, which was even better.

  She pulled back, looking up into eyes she’d loved for half her life. She yearned to run her fingers through his damp, unkempt hair and then tug him down for another kiss. God of grace, how do I thank You enough for bringing us back together? What did I ever do to deserve this man?

  Not a thing. God gave good gifts, which made it all the sweeter.

  He stared at her lips. “I know it’s only been a few months since the blizzard—”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Not going to let a man ask, are you?”

  Her heart pattered in an erratic rhythm. “I thought you were asking.”

  He removed a ring from his pocket, gold set with a ruby that flashed like fire. “All the words I planned have fled my tongue. I’m not one for flowery speech, anyway. All I can say is my heart is yours, and always has been. Will you live with me and be my love? Will you be my wife, Abigail?”

  That was his plain speech? It rendered her weak in the knees. “Yes, Dashiell. My brilliant, brave, patient, kind love.”

  “Miss Bracey,” Willodean called, tugging Abby back to the world.

  She had to blink a few times. “Yes, Willodean?”

  “I’m making a wreath for your hair.”

  “I shall wear it with pride,” she answered. It was a suitable response regarding the wreath and the ring, which Dash now placed on her finger. He kissed her hand then her lips.

  Their winter had passed. Spring had arrived, bright and fresh and warm, promising a glorious summer.

  Hand in hand, they left the schoolhouse and stepped out into the sunshine.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The terrible blizzard of January 12, 1888, struck with sudden, violent force over the plains states and territories on a day so mild, people worked outdoors in their shirtsleeves and children left their coats at home when they went to school. Just as many of these children were leaving class for the day, the storm hit with a roar many described as sounding like a train or a hurricane, and strong winds and powdery snow reduced visibility to zero. Of the 235 people who perished, 213 of them were children, which is why the event has been called the Children’s Blizzard or the Schoolchildren’s Blizzard.

  Great strength and courage was shown by hundreds of unnamed men, women, and children during the blizzard, but one particular story inspired Abby’s escape from the schoolhouse. Minnie Freeman of Ord, Nebraska, decided to keep her sixteen pupils inside the sod schoolhouse when the storm hit. However, when the sod roof blew off, Minnie had no option but to lead her students half a mile though the snow to her house. Some accounts claim Minnie tied the children together with rope, although others dispute the fact. Either way, none of her students were lost. Abby’s use of twine and her grim determination borrowed heavily from Minnie’s story.

  While some teachers and students who braved the storm survived, others were unable to find their way even over short distances due to the lack of visibility. Others found shelter wherever they could. In the story, I made reference to schoolteacher Etta Shattuck, who survived seventy-eight hours by hiding in a haystack. Unfortunately, Etta succumbed to infection a month later, at age nineteen.

  I couldn’t help but be affected by the stories of heroism, compassion, and loss I encountered during my research. To read true accounts, David Laskin’s The Children’s Blizzard is a gripping, heart-rending read.

  While Nebraska wasn’t a hub of counterfeiting in the nineteenth century, every state saw its share of folks making, selling, buying, and using bogus currency. In fact, counterfeit currency is estimated to have accounted for a third to a half of all money in American circulation in 1865. While today the Secret Service is part of the Department of Homeland Security, and agents are more familiar to us as protectors of the president, this particular role didn’t come into being for several years after The Blizzard Bride ends. The Secret Service was originally formed as part of the Treasury Department to fight counterfeiting, and President Abraham Lincoln signed the bill creating the Secret Service on the very day he was killed. In one year, the Secret Service eradicated over two hundred counterfeiting operations. Within two years, the Secret Service’s role expanded to include fraud investigations, such as smuggling, mail robbery, and land fraud.

  In Dash’s day, Secret Service operatives worked long hours over large territories, or divisions. They tended to be men of good character with excellent detective skills. They also had to write numerous reports for their superiors, which wasn’t easy for Dash. Although an estimated 5 to 10 percent of the population has dyslexia—including math
ematicians, actors, and athletes—historically, reading difficulties were often attributed to poor intelligence or laziness. By 1878, however, perspective was shifting. A German neurologist named Adolph Kussmaul created the term “word blindness” to describe the reading problems he noted, and German ophthalmologist Rudolf Berlin was the first to use the word dyslexia in 1887, from the Greek meaning “difficulty with words.” There is no single experience of dyslexia, but it can include difficulties with reading, writing, and pronunciation.

  I am grateful to those who have shared their experiences with dyslexia with me, either personally, as parents, or as educators, especially Belle Calhoune, Virginia Copeland, Carrie Fancett Pagels, Tracey Ray, Janine Roche, and Cheryl Salas.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While writing is a solitary endeavor, I couldn’t have written this book without an overwhelming amount of support, prayer, and assistance. I’d like to take a moment to thank a few people who’ve given of their time to help me with this story.

  I must begin by thanking my editors, Rebecca Germany, who took a chance on me, and Ellen Tarver, who made the manuscript shine. Thanks also to my wonderful agent, Tamela Hancock Murray. Dinner’s on me!

  Debra E. Marvin, you are a lighthouse, shining wisdom and a good dose of humor my way. Thank you for brainstorming, reading, and offering ways to improve everything I write, including this story. I’m so glad God brought you into my life.

  Shannon McNear, thank you for your help and encouragement! I’m honored to be included in this series with you and Kimberley, Michelle, MaryLu, and Kathleen. I fan girl over each of you! Keli Gwyn, Suzanne Wagner, Jennifer Uhlarik, and members of Trinity Anglican Church, I thank God for your friendship and prayers during this season.

  Thanks are also due to the members of Susanne’s Soap Box, my team of influencers, who are all brilliant, beautiful, and sweet. Thank you for your help and hard work, ladies!

  Karl (my Prince Charming), Hannah, and Matthew, thank you for loving and supporting me through the dust bunnies, repetitive Crock-Pot meals, and occasional freak-out sessions. I don’t deserve any of you, but I love you with all my heart.