Oh, Violet. Dottie wanted to tell her that believing a man’s words had been her first mistake too, but perhaps that would be too cruel. She dumped the potatoes into the pot then dried her hands. She wanted to go to her, perhaps take her hand, but for now all she could do was meet her eyes. “It sounded like he truly cared for you, from what his friend said.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself for years. The truth is, he didn’t want me—if he had, he would have hopped on a train.”
“It doesn’t mean he didn’t care for you. Maybe he couldn’t come. Maybe he was injured, or…” Or, in prison.
The word darted into her brain, and back out. Prison.
Dottie shook the thought away again.
“There is someone out there for you, Violet.” The words didn’t come from inside, but rather were plucked from one of Dottie’s storybooks. Still, they sounded right in the moment, and as if her heart wanted to believe it, inside her pulsed the strange urge to hold Violet’s hand, to clasp it between hers.
Instead, she folded her arms across her chest.
Violet shook her head. “I don’t think there is anyone out there for me, Mrs. Morgan. See…I’m turning thirty in a couple of weeks.”
Thirty. At thirty Dottie had already become a widow. Not that she’d told anyone about the death notice from the prison. But, by thirty, she’d stopped believing in happy endings too.
Still, Violet didn’t carry the mantle of shame that hovered over Dottie. “There are plenty of good men out there.”
“No,” Violet said softly. “No one like Alex. He—he seemed to understand me. Or, I thought he did.”
And that was the charade that wheedled a man into a girl’s heart, wasn’t it?
“How’s your leg, Violet?” Jake stood at the door and for the first time, Dottie saw him the way Violet might—tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, eyes that held concern.
She knew a man like that once.
Gordy stepped up behind him, his mouth a tight line. “We got the fire going, but I took a gander outside, Dottie. I really think I can make it back to the farm.”
Oh, how had it come to this? Her begging him to stay?
Shoot.
“No, Gordon.” She sighed and stood up, drawing her cardigan around her. “It’s a bad idea. You’ll never make it across the slough in this storm.”
The furnace kicked on again, the motor downstairs humming as the stoker came to life.
“Dottie, listen. I can make it home—”
She rounded on him. “Of course you can, Gordon. Why listen to me? I’m just a tired old woman, working my jaws to keep myself company. What do I know about storms? Please, trot out into the snow so we can stand by the window all night and worry ourselves to death. Heaven forbid you actually care what I think.”
He didn’t answer. Not verbally. Just stared at her, with those hazel-green eyes she could never forget.
Never really wanted to, if she were honest.
“I care about you, Dottie.” He said it so quietly, with so much confidence, just like that day in the barn when the sun bled out along the prairie behind him.
She turned away. See, just an hour with this man and her past rose to strangle her. Having him all night in her home would certainly open all the old wounds.
But the thought of him perishing in the snow just might destroy her.
She looked away from him, retreating to her sink. “The storm will let up by morning. I have plenty of room here.”
He caught her arm. “Would it be better if I slept in the barn?”
The barn. He would say that. And then, just like that, she saw him, peeking out from behind a hay bale, scaring her.
Gordy Lindholm, you stay away from me!
But they’d played tag, right there in the shadows of the barn until he pinned her, one hand on either side of her shoulders, against the corral. Sometimes she could still see his smile, the heat in his youthful hazel-green eyes as he lowered his lips, brushed them to hers, quick, dangerous, tasting of fresh apples and the sweat of a summer afternoon.
Twelve, she guessed, she might have been the first time he kissed her.
“No, I don’t want you to sleep in the barn,” she said quietly, casting a look at the two young people who clearly couldn’t unravel their nonrelationship. Good. She had her own problems understanding it, and she’d been in the middle of it for nearly twenty-five years.
“Just get me two more potatoes from the bin and take off those boots. They’re turning my kitchen floor into a pond.”
* * * * *
Violet wanted to crawl under Dottie’s floorboards and hide. So much for bringing back the star—if Violet could just make it back to town tonight, she’d never bother Mrs. Morgan again.
She could hear Gordon in the back room, rifling through the potato bin. Dottie stood at the stove, opening her canned tomatoes.
Jake had taken the cloth from her ankle and exited to retrieve more snow.
What a fool she’d been to harbor those fairy-tale fantasies that had landed her here, in this cold, ornate castle, her ankle on fire, her head burning, with Alex’s messenger hovering over pitiful, rejected her as if she might crumble.
She was a soldier, after all. Okay, not a soldier, but she’d spent the night in worse situations—like that night in Berlin, when the wind dipped down to fourteen below zero, tunneling through her barracks and hollowing her out with the moan of it.
Of course, that night, she’d received the cable from home about Father’s passing.
I thought maybe if I gave him enough time, if I kept writing to him, someday he’d show up here. Her own words made her cringe and turn away as Jake re-entered the room, his cheeks flush with cold. Oh, he was a handsome man, she noticed that now too. Dark brown hair, impossibly blue eyes—the kind of blue that could stop her on the sidewalk, and they bore an emotion she couldn’t place as he came toward her. Pain? Regret?
On the stove, the teapot whistled to life. The kitchen dwarfed Violet’s back home, twice the size, with cheerful yellow paint, light blue cupboards, and wallpaper covered in daisies and cornflowers.
Dottie had a four-burner gas stove, with an oven and two warmer slots, and a tall, two-door Kelvinator icebox. In the corner sat a round Maytag gas-powered wringer washing machine on rollers. Her large porcelain sink overlooked a window and beyond that, the snowy night.
The large oak hutch, filled with a collection of milk glass and other china, appeared built into the wall and matched the oval oak table, with the large center-scrolled legs, the eight matching chairs.
This kitchen was made to serve a family larger than Dottie’s, for sure, and the feeling extended to the parlor—Violet’s gaze had followed Jake’s exit—a room papered in rich, velvety red, with an upright piano, a tall fieldstone fireplace, an oversized sculptedvelvet green sofa, a couple of red satin art-deco chairs, and blond waterfall side tables. A picture of Nelson’s grandfather hung over the mantel, and against the wall, a glass bookshelf evidenced Dottie’s career—volumes of worn books that begged long hours before the fire, the dark green afghan hanging on the quilt stand spread over her knees.
Perhaps Dottie wasn’t as lonely for company as Violet guessed. Oh, why had she decided to save Dottie—and her star—from a life that seemed suddenly richer than her own?
Violet sank her head into her hands, not sure what to despair over first. Her father’s destroyed car, the fact that she’d somehow become stranded here for the night, or—or the fact that, when Jake carried her into the house, for a moment, she’d very much enjoyed being in his arms.
Which made her even more pitiful.
She’d spent four years fighting off men in the US Army. And suddenly she swooned when a handsome man showed up between her headlights?
Maybe she’d been hit harder in the head than she thought.
Especially since Jake’s words continued to reverberate in her head. You meant more to him than you know.
It took her a s
econd, but the verb tense finally hit her. Meant. Past tense. She looked at Jake, who had knelt before her, readjusting her snow packet. “I think the swelling has reduced,” he said almost to himself.
“Jake…you said that I meant more to him than I know. Is Alex…dead?” She lowered her voice on the last word, more for Dottie than herself, but yes, for her too. She hadn’t even considered it—Alex had lived through the war, after all. A man doesn’t survive the battlefields of Europe only to be run down on the street by a trolley car or succumb to an outbreak of influenza.
The emotion on Jake’s face definitely turned toward pity, and what looked like a light sweat dotted his brow, as if it wounded him to speak of it. He leaned back, his hands on his knees. “I didn’t want to tell you this way. But, yes. I’m so sorry.”
Yes. She stared at him, not able to pinpoint the strange release inside her, as if a fist had let go. A darkness careened through her, filling her empty spaces. “I can’t believe it. During the war, deep inside, I feared it, of course. Even braced myself for it—but…” She shook her head.
“You were everything to him, and I needed to tell you that, in person.”
She met Jake’s eyes and the sadness, even compassion in them seemed to reach out, to permeate the wave of shadow inside.
“We only knew each other through correspondence, really. But…he was everything to me too.”
Jake looked away, as if embarrassed by her words. Or, perhaps, hurt.
“Did you know him well?”
He made a face, one she couldn’t read, and his voice emerged tight, constricted again, like it hurt. “All his life.”
A friend. One who cared enough to trek across Minnesota in a blizzard to tell her the terrible news.
Alex. She looked outside, at the storm buffeting the window. She could still remember him—mostly. Curly brown hair, hazel eyes, a smile that lit up as he leaned over her changing a tire, retiming an engine. Once, he’d wiped grease off her face with his thumb, told her she looked pretty in oil.
The compliment had clung to her bones, seeded too many fantasies late at night as she lay on her bunk at Fort Meade.
He’d written her nearly every week for a year after he shipped out—he’d only been at Fort Meade for a few days, really, en route to Normandy. He told her of the cities he visited—London, Paris. She’d hoped that they might cross paths over in Europe, but he’d been shipped home long before her.
She lowered the cloth from her head. Her forehead ached. Pulsed, really, like her heartbeat, a fist pounding on the inside of her head. But the bleeding had stopped. Oh, her mother would be thrilled with her appearance tonight for the—
“The dance.”
“I think we’re long past the dance,” Mr. Lindholm said. “Dottie was right. There’s no getting the truck out in this wind.” He was looking past her, however, his gaze on Dottie. She’d been rather rough on Mr. Lindholm, and the look he settled on her hinted at pain.
I care about you, Dottie.
Those words had touched Violet, so softly spoken from this grizzled farmer that they wheedled under her skin. But as far as she knew, Dottie had been single since…well, yes, apparently she’d married, but under every polite conversation about Dottie Morgan ran the undercurrent that no, she’d run off to marry some handsome gangster, gotten herself pregnant, and skulked back to Frost in shame.
Maybe Frost had simply become a good place for the brokenhearted and lonely to hide.
Dottie.
Gordon Lindholm.
Violet.
She whisked her hand across her cheek. “I’m sorry…I just need to know.” Her voice fell. “How did Alex die?”
Jake didn’t look up at her, his breath coming slow and long, almost as if he forced it through a web of pain, and she hated, suddenly, that she’d asked. “It was awhile ago. I—I should have come sooner.”
“It was kind of you to come at all. I received a Return to Sender from his address today—I appreciate knowing that he didn’t just reject my mail.”
“Oh, no, Violet. He would have never done that. He lived for your letters.”
That seemed a little over-the-top, but Jake betrayed not a hint of sarcasm.
“He hasn’t written to me but a greeting card and postcards in the past four years. Nothing of emotion or dreams, like his letters during the war.”
“Perhaps…he felt like he might be leading you on.”
She looked back at him, frowned. “I thought you said I was everything to him.”
“You are—were.” He flushed, set her foot down. Looked away from her. “I’m sorry, Violet. Alex did care for you.” He rose but still didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m going to see if I can get my suitcase out of the snow before it’s completely buried out there.”
She drew in a breath as she watched Jake leave, the opening of the door allowing a draft into the warm room.
If Alex had cared so much for her, why had he never hopped a train from Minneapolis, taken the half-day journey west to Frost? Why had his letters dwindled to postcards after he’d shipped home? Why had he stopped writing about his life, his fears and hopes?
Maybe because he’d never seen her as more than a friend. More than the woman who wore grease on her face, knew how to turn a wrench.
She tightened her jaw against the pulsing pain in her head, her ankle. She just wanted to get home, climb into bed and, at least until the throbbing stopped, forget that she’d ever believed in a happy ending for a girl like her.
Dottie came around the counter, wiping her hands. “Let’s get you bandaged up, shall we?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Gordy could make it home, he knew it. He had calculated the trail home the entire time he’d crafted her fire. He’d even stood at the window after he got the fledgling blaze going, the darkness swelling the room, his eyes on the dimming glow of his porch. He could follow the stone fence to the marsh. From there he would follow his porch light to the yard. If he needed, he’d aim for the barn, then follow it around to the guide wire.
He’d made it home plenty of times during a whiteout. He’d even lived through the Armistice blizzard back in ’40. It had caught him while out hunting, dressed for the remarkably warm weather in a lightweight wool jacket.
Then again, he’d had Nelson in tow, and the thought of the boy curled into a frozen ball in some field had fueled an inner fire that kept them both alive.
He would have died for Nelson. Sometimes, now, he wanted to die without him.
The fire had caught on the dry pine and birch logs, crackling, curling up the bark as it bit into the wood.
If only he’d stocked her porch with firewood before today. He knew Dottie’s supply had dwindled—he’d simply been negligent. If he had stocked it, he’d be sitting at home, cozy, warm.
Alone.
And Dottie wouldn’t be simmering in the next room.
Once they survived the storm, he’d restock her firewood for the bitter January winds. But tonight they needed to keep the fire lit to ensure the blizzard winds wouldn’t blow down the flue, into the house. He tromped through the kitchen for one more load of wood then returned to the parlor and fed the blaze. They’d need it hot to propel the smoke up the chimney instead of into the house.
Would it be better if I slept in the barn?
He heard his words as he returned to the kitchen, watching Dottie stir the soup. She had a meager supply of potatoes—he’d found four still-firm spuds for her to add to the remnants of her soup. He’d be surprised if the contents filled each bowl to half. She didn’t look at him as she worked, her back stiff to him.
I care about you, Dottie.
For a second in her eyes he thought he saw something break inside, a fissure of the wall between them, memory flashing through. Maybe a glimpse of the time he’d driven her home in his father’s Chevy then parked just inside the barn, where they could lie on the bed and count the stars.
Do you ever wonder what the stars might look like in Africa? Or China?
She asked it while chewing on a piece of hay, the starlight in her eyes. Those beautiful eyes could stop his breath in his chest when they caught his. That and her straw-blond hair, the way it fell over her shoulders. Sometimes, in school, he sat behind her and just imagined running it like water between his fingers.
“No. Never. Not once.” He’d rolled over, propped his head on his arm. “I’m happy here.”
“In Frost?” She looked at him, and for a moment, indeed, he lost himself.
“No,” he finally whispered. “Right here, with you.”
She giggled, but not a hint of humor embedded his tone. Funny, she never believed him. Not then, not later.
Not even now.
With everything inside him, he wanted to stay. Wanted to be in her world, just for a night, even if he had to share it with Violet Hart and this stranger, Jake Ramsey.
Truth be told, Jake’s presence was the only thing keeping Gordon from walking out the door.
But he wanted to stay with her blessing. Not… Please, trot out into the snow so we can stand by the window all night and worry ourselves to death.
This could be a very long night.
“Take your jacket off and sit down, Gordy,” Dottie said, not looking at him.
He glanced at Violet. Someone—probably Dottie—had bandaged her head.
“I think I’ll just check on those shutters,” he said, glancing at Violet. And where, exactly, did her friend run off to? The man smelled highfalutin, as if he’d never done a proper day’s work in his life. Something about him—his store-bought suit, those fancy shoes. His expensive coat…
Jake dredged up memories of TJ.
Another good reason for him to stay and keep watch.
Gordy buttoned up before stepping outside. The snow pelted his face, the wind biting his ears. In the last hour since he’d trekked over, probably five inches had accumulated. Lighter, fluffier snow than what fell before, and he sifted right through it to the crusty foundation below. The light glowed from the house, barely pushing back the night, but he saw movement, down by the tree.
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