"Passenger Celeste Norton report to Gate Two, passenger Celeste Norton report to Gate Two," the voice said, and Jane, feeling slightly nauseated, stood up. At the last minute, she scooped up the fallen newspaper and stuffed it into her purse. She would want to read the article again.
"You may board Flight 832 to Cheyenne," the ticket agent told her, and she hurried through the jet way to the plane.
As she sat in her seat waiting for takeoff, her mind flowed with replays of her life since she encountered Harry Furgott on that fall day seventeen months ago. The hospital, kind Dr. Bergstrom, and that awful social worker who had been supposed to help her. The shelter for battered women, and her job in the little restaurant in Apollonia. Her bewilderment at being forced out onto the street, and the places where she'd slept. Being fired from job after job because she had no identity. Finding Amos and hiding him in the recesses of her coat in the Chicago library, where she had so often gone to keep warm. Losing her coat in Saint Louis, and the truck driver who had given her a ride in Wyoming. She was overcome with the unfairness of it all. But finally she'd found Duncan. Oh, how happy she would be to see him again!
But what about this man, this Harry Furgott, who had virtually stolen seventeen months of her life? He had certainly wronged her. She was amazed to discover that she felt no malice toward him. The huge surge of anger that hit her after reading the article was gone. Even when she looked deep inside herself, she could dredge up none of the earlier rage.
Harry Furgott would surely be brought to justice for his crime. And she—she had a future again. She had no intention of jeopardizing it by hanging on to her anger. It was best to let it go. She hoped she already had.
The flight to Cheyenne seemed mercifully short, and Jane was surprised when the captain of the plane spoke to them over the plane's public address system and told them that they were landing just ahead of a powerful snowstorm that was sweeping out of the west. She edged forward in her seat to look out the window as they descended. The sky was the color of lead.
Her heart sank. She knew all too well from personal experience how severe a Wyoming snowstorm could be. By the time she'd claimed her luggage, no one was leaving the airport. Visibility was near zero.
Gazing out the airport window at the blowing snow, Jane told herself stoically that at least it looked as though it would be a long time until spring. Duncan wouldn't insist that she leave until then. That had been their bargain, and he was a man for keeping his word.
At first she held out hope of being able to contact Duncan at Placid Valley Ranch, but long before nightfall it became apparent that this was impossible. No vehicles were leaving or arriving at the airport. She soon learned that all hotel rooms in the area were booked by delayed passengers, which meant that she spent the night arranged across several hard seats in the airport. She slept better than she'd expected, but then there had been many a night in her past, the past she was so eager to forget, when she'd found worse accommodation. If it hadn't been for the snores of the woman on the row of seats beside hers, she would have had a good night's sleep.
In the morning she tried calling the ranch again, but there was still no answer on any of the telephones—Duncan's, Rooney's, or either of their landlines.
When someone told her that the roads would soon be clear enough for buses to get through, she elbowed her way to a counter and managed to buy a ticket for a long-distance bus that was bound for Rock Springs on 1-80. Perhaps she could talk the driver into letting her off near Durkee.
The bus was crowded, but in spite of the storm, or perhaps because of it, a holiday atmosphere prevailed, and someone offered her a chicken leg from his sack lunch, which kept her from being too hungry. Two lanes of the interstate highway had been cleared of snow, and although their progress was slow, it gave Jane time to watch out the window for wildlife. Her seatmate, an elderly man, pointed out rabbit tracks at the side of the road, and twice they saw deer turning tail and leaping away over the snow banks.
Even though he was reluctant to do it, the bus driver let her off at an interstate highway rest stop not far from Durkee. She used her cell phone to call Duncan. It alarmed her when there was still no answer.
"Towers are down," said the rotund caretaker at the rest stop. "Lines are down. It was a hellacious storm."
"Do you know how I could get to Placid Valley Ranch? Duncan Tate's place? Maybe you know someone local who could drive me there?"
"Duncan Tate?" said the caretaker. "I know him. Happens my sister went to elementary school with Duncan. You really want to go out to the ranch?"
Jane assured him that she did, and he rubbed his chin and allowed as how he could take her there when he got off his shift in an hour or so if she didn't mind riding in his pickup truck with the heating system on the blink.
Jane said no, that wouldn't bother her at all, and for the next hour she huddled against the tile wall in the women's rest room, turning the hand dryer on from time to time for warmth.
They set out from the rest stop at a crawl, and Jane thought they would never reach the Placid Valley exit. They kept passing abandoned cars, dark hulks barely visible beneath the snow. Her anxiety grew, and she hoped that Duncan, Mary Kate and Rooney were all right. It was upsetting that she hadn't been able to reach them.
The highway past the ranch entrance had been plowed, and they were able to increase their speed. The heater in the pickup kept switching on and off with a thump, and Jane frequently blew on her hands for warmth, eliciting profusely apologetic looks from the man who was giving her the ride.
When they finally reached Placid Valley Ranch, Jane was pleased to see that although the mailbox at the entrance of the driveway was mounded with snow, the driveway had been plowed. She clambered out of the truck, pulling her suitcase after her.
"If you want me to drive you down to the house, I will," said the man, peering anxiously out his side window at Jane, who was hopping from one foot to the other trying to keep warm. But the pickup's engine had developed an ominous knock, so Jane waved him off and, carrying her suitcase, began to trudge resolutely toward the house.
In the distance the mountains shadowed blue-tinged billows of snow, and the roof of the barn peeked over the trees. It seemed so long since she'd walked this road, so long since she'd seen Duncan! Her heart began to beat faster at the prospect. She wondered if he would welcome her with a kiss, or if the love he had felt for her had changed. She didn't think it would have died, not so soon, but she knew very well that it could somehow have taken a different shape, could have cooled into a feeling more akin to friendship. For friends were what they had been before they became lovers. Best friends. And she knew that friendship was not all she wanted now.
When she was halfway there, she set down her suitcase on the packed snow and rubbed her aching hands together. A puff of smoke from Duncan's chimney wended its way lazily up through the trees, and she took heart. Someone was home, someone was here; despite the unanswered phones, nothing could be wrong if there was a fire in the fireplace.
At the front gate she abandoned the suitcase and ran, mindful of icy spots after her last fall, to the front door of Duncan's house. She knocked, quietly at first, then more loudly. Duncan, she said to herself. Finally I'm going to see Duncan.
He opened the door. He was wearing his old flannel shirt, a familiar one with a frayed collar. And he wore his boots, so that he seemed even taller than she remembered. He stared down at her, nonplussed, his eyes drinking her in. He shook his head slightly as though he couldn't believe she was really there.
"It's me," she said quietly, all the meaningful things she had planned to say scattering to the four winds. "I'm home. Can you forgive me, Duncan?"
He didn't say anything, only opened the door wider and engulfed her in his arms. And then she was laughing, he was smiling and she was sobbing, and Amos came and twined himself around their ankles, purring so loudly that Jane wiped her eyes and bent to pick him up.
"I'm beginning to enjoy snow
storms. They usually bring you," Duncan said, wrapping his arms around her. Amos was crushed between them, but he seemed not to mind.
"Oh, Duncan, they found my van," she told him as he drew her inside where it was warm, and then she told him about the newspaper story that named Harry Furgott as her assailant.
"Schmidt called a couple of days ago, and I tried to call and tell you about it, but our phones have been intermittently out of order because of the weather, and I gave up trying," Duncan told her. He couldn't believe his happiness at seeing her again.
"That explains why I couldn't reach you," she said as they sat down together in front of the fire. She was overjoyed to be near him and to be back in this house, which now seemed like the only real home she'd ever known.
Amos jumped down from her lap and sat purring at their feet. It was almost as if she'd never left.
"Why didn't you wait to come when it would be easier to travel?" Duncan asked, holding tightly to her hands. He almost expected her to disappear if he didn't.
"I hadn't heard about the storm when I left for the airport. All I knew was that I had to get here. I was worried, Duncan, because of a phone call I got from Mary Kate," and she related how Mary Kate had called and told her that Dearling had been sold.
Duncan's eyes became solemn. "I would have stopped Rooney if I could have," he said. "By the time I knew about his selling Dearling, he'd already clinched the deal. Dearling's new owner is a fellow over in Scottsbluff, Nebraska. He wrote and said he suddenly had a hankering to have a llama for a pet, and Rooney called him up and told him he had a nice, tame, trainable llama available. They agreed upon a price over the phone, and the guy showed up right away and hauled Dearling away."
"Mary Kate is heartbroken," Jane said. She was sad too.
"I know, and there's not a thing I can do about it. Rooney is punishing her for letting the llamas out of their pen."
"But such a cruel punishment! Dearling was everything to Mary Kate."
"I agree. It's a shame. I'd personally give my right arm to get Dearling back, but there's no way. Anyway, I couldn't have overruled Rooney's decision. He was disciplining Mary Kate."
"Mary Kate needs love and attention, not harsh punishments," Jane said with conviction.
"I agree with you, and even Rooney admits that he was wrong. He'd like to get Dearling back as much as anyone, if only to improve Mary Kate's disposition." Duncan paused and studied her carefully. "Is Mary Kate the only reason you came back?" he asked.
"No," she said honestly. "No, it's not. I missed you, Duncan. Terribly."
She was gratified when he enclosed her in his arms. She inhaled his familiar pine scent and closed her eyes as he stroked her hair. They sat like that for a long time, and then he stood up, gently took her by the hand, and led her upstairs to his bedroom.
"We'll move your things in here, okay?" Duncan said, murmuring against her temple.
She pulled away. "I've just thought of something, Duncan. I left my suitcase out by the gate!"
He laughed, a low rumble deep in his throat. Then he unbuttoned the top buttons of her sweater and impatiently pulled it over her head.
"We'll get it later, my love," he said. "Much later."
Then he took her to bed.
Chapter 17
The next morning when Jane was passing by her old room, she noticed a large box on the bed. Curious and wondering if it was for her, she investigated and discovered from the sales slip tucked under the bow that the package was from Alice Beasley's shop.
No doubt the package was the dress that Duncan had picked up to bring back to Mary Kate. Jane had assumed that he had already given it to her.
"Duncan," she called when he passed the door of the room. "I thought you'd already given this to Mary Kate."
He stopped, leaned against the door, and looked down at the floor. "Well, I didn't," he said sheepishly after a moment or two. "I thought it would be best if you did. When you came back."
"How did you know I would?" she asked in surprise.
"I didn't. But I was hoping," he said. He crossed the floor and kissed the top of her head.
She turned and circled her arms around his torso. How well they fitted! She was still glorying in their physical proximity when he said, "Look out the window. You're going to have a chance to give Mary Kate the present right away."
Outside, Mary Kate was working her way along the tamped-down snow path from Rooney's house. Only this wasn't a bright-eyed, exuberant Mary Kate. It was a Mary Kate on whose sagging shoulders the world had settled.
"Oh, she looks so unhappy," Jane said, going to the window so that she could wave if Mary Kate looked up. But Mary Kate didn't. She kept her head down and dragged her feet when she walked.
Jane ran downstairs and met Mary Kate at the back door. When she threw the door open, she said, "Surprise!" and a startled Mary Kate's mouth fell wide open.
"You came back," Mary Kate said flatly.
"Yes, and I've been wanting to see you," Jane said, overjoyed to see her young friend again.
"Well, you didn't come over."
Mary Kate's cool welcome deflated Jane only momentarily. She was determined to make the child feel loved. With so much love in her heart now, there was plenty left for Mary Kate.
"I would have stopped over at your house in a few minutes, but you've beaten me to it. Come in, Mary Kate, you're so cold that you're turning blue."
"I think I'll go home," Mary Kate said, still resisting her overtures.
"But Mary Kate—"
"You're here, but you might not stay. And then I'll be all by myself again. Without Dearling. Or you," she said pointedly, her face shut against the world.
Jane refused to assign importance or credibility to this statement. "I'm going to bake something special for Duncan's lunch," she said. "It's gingerbread. A good friend of mine, the one I was visiting in Indiana, gave me her recipe. I was counting on you to help."
"Gingerbread?" Mary Kate asked. Jane detected a note of interest.
"Yes, and it'll be the best you ever tasted, I promise. Hurry inside, Mary Kate, or you'll freeze out there."
Mary Kate reluctantly came inside and tossed her coat over a kitchen chair.
"The coat goes in the closet," Jane pointed out as she busied herself finding pans, measuring cups and flour sifter. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Mary Kate grudgingly carried her coat to the closet and hung it lopsided on a hanger.
"I made an F on my geography test yesterday," Mary Kate announced as though it was something to brag about. "What do you think about that?"
Jane saw the challenge but rose to it. "I think it's awful. You should have studied."
"Ha! I don't care about dumb old Africa or dumb old Asia. I don't care about my dumb old teacher, either. He says he's going to have to ask Grandpa to come in for a conference." Mary Kate energetically greased the cake pan, dropping a wad of Crisco on the floor in the process.
Jane quietly cleaned up the Crisco with a paper towel, then washed her hands again. "Well," she said while drying her hands, "maybe that's what you want."
Mary Kate slanted a grudgingly respectful look in her direction. "Maybe," she said.
"All right, now we have to sift the flour. Would you like to do the honors?" Jane asked, and Mary Kate nodded. She managed the chore without spilling much, and Jane began to measure out the other ingredients.
"I don't think Grandpa has ever gone to a parent-teacher conference," Mary Kate volunteered as she swung on a cabinet door.
"Why not?"
"Never had to, I guess. Maybe he'll have to now. He'll have to go get the teacher out of the teachers' lounge, I'll bet. That's where he stays all the time."
Jane privately thought that if she had a student like Mary Kate in any classroom where she was in charge, she'd probably take up permanent residence in the teachers' lounge, but she thought it might be better to change the subject.
She handed the bowl with the batter in it to Mary Kate and sa
id, "How about stirring that for me? Seventy-five stirs, and try to keep the batter in the bowl," she cautioned before running upstairs to get the present.
When she returned, Mary Kate was counting, "Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three," and Jane let her count all the way to seventy-five before she produced the beautifully wrapped package from behind her back. Mary Kate was so surprised to see it that she almost dropped the bowl.
"Wow! Is that for me?" she gasped. Jane deftly removed the bowl of batter from Mary Kate's hands before slipping the box into them.
Mary Kate's eyes were as wide as saucers as she unceremoniously tore the ribbon and paper off the box.
"Oh!" she exclaimed as the dress spilled from the box in a flutter of pink organdy. "It's my pink dress!" She held it up and danced a madcap dance from one end of the kitchen to the other.
"Do you like it?" Jane asked anxiously. Mentally she was running up darts in the bodice and shortening the skirt to fit Mary Kate.
"Do I! It's the most beautiful dress in the world, Jane. The very most beautiful. It has sleeves you can see through and everything."
"I'll have to alter it to fit you," Jane said, holding the dress up to Mary Kate's bony shoulders.
"That's okay. You're a good sewer. When can you do it?"
"After we put the gingerbread in the oven," Jane said.
"I'll go show Amos my dress," Mary Kate said, and ran to rout Amos from his napping place on the living-room couch.
Duncan came downstairs and watched Mary Kate as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror beside the front door. "I take it from the squeals that Mary Kate likes the dress," he said.
"She loves it," Jane said as she tucked the pan of gingerbread into the oven. "It only needs a few alterations here and there to fit her perfectly."
"I was thinking," Duncan told her, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Since the loom you owned is presumably waterlogged after spending a year and a half under water inside your blue van, we'll have to get another loom for you. Why don't you order it?"
"I will. And do you know that I received three more requests for my llama wool from hand knitters back East? Not only that, Moonglow says she wants to try it. If I get some of the fiber artists at Shanti Village interested in llama wool, that's a good, steady market."
Until Spring Page 23