The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  Dash chuckled into his cup. He’d rendered Abby speechless. In nearly twenty years of knowing her, this was a first.

  She flushed pink as a berry, which was not a first for him. Dash had brought her to a blush on plenteous previous occasions. But she’d be purple with rage later, when she learned why he was here, not hiding as he ought to be, in full view of half of Wells.

  “Miss Bracey?” The mustached general store owner, a fellow named Knapp, if Dash recalled, raised his hand. “You were saying about the primers?”

  The color in her cheeks faded a shade. “Yes, pardon me. The primers are fine in content but worse for the wear. I recommend that the school board consider replacing them in the near future, as finances permit. Otherwise, all is excellence—especially your children. It has only been three days, but I find them to be bright, kind, and curious.”

  Curious about his visit, perhaps? Dash hid a smile as he took another sip of the bitter coffee.

  “One last thing before I conclude.” Abby stepped from behind the polished podium at the front of the hall. She made a fetching sight against the vibrant yellow paint, which softly reflected the lamps’ glow and emphasized the tinge of red in her hair. “The stove in the schoolhouse has a flat top, which I’ve used to warm my teakettle. I thought we might put it to another use as well, if the children brought ingredients for a warm snack one day a week—anything simple that can simmer all morning, like hot apple cider, mush, or stewed fruit. Culinary skills are useful for both boys and girls.”

  Abby then folded her hands over her stomach, looking every inch the prim schoolmarm as she stood at the front of the attendees. “And now, if it’s well with you, Mayor Carpenter, I thought I might address any questions from the floor.”

  “Excellent notion, Miss Bracey.” A distinguished, well-dressed gentleman with a balding pate and thin lips rose—the mayor himself, apparently. “Perhaps I might start with a statement rather than a question. Mrs. Carpenter and I appreciate your interest in our children and in our community, first by suggesting this meeting, and second by proposing ways to meet with each family privately to discuss our children’s progress. I shall be honored to host you at our home for supper next week.”

  “Thank you, Mayor.”

  “And now, questions.” The mayor gestured to the gathered crowd with a flourish.

  A woman wearing a floppy bonnet raised her hand. “My Florence has a beautiful singing voice. Will she have an opportunity to sing at school?”

  Memories of school programs rushed into Dash’s brain. They were far more fun than book learning had been.

  “Yes, Mrs. Johnstone. I thought we might have a choir for our end-of-year program. Florence is a lovely girl, and I cannot wait to hear her sing. In fact, I would love for all the students to find ways to use their talents this term, whether they are musical, artistic, or in another area.”

  “Miss Bracey?” A woman with plump cheeks waved.

  “Yes? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Sara Queen, Kyle’s mother.”

  Abby’s face changed. Perhaps this woman was one of the candidates for Katherine Hoover. Dash committed Mrs. Queen’s face to memory as Abby continued speaking. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “I like the idea of the children practicing cookery. I work at the Wells Café, and I’d be happy to donate supplies for your use.”

  “How kind, thank you.”

  Abby turned to address another raised hand. “Yes, sir?”

  A lean, wiry-built man in his middle years stood, bracing his hands on the chair back in front of him. Older than the other parents, he nevertheless emanated strong interest in the proceedings. “I ain’t a parent, but I got something to say. These youngsters are a bunch of hooligans, makin’ so much noise they scare my horses.”

  Abby’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you live on one of the farms adjoining the school?”

  “Nah, he lives in town,” a man announced.

  “So your objection isn’t to noise made at recess.” Abby’s head tilted. “I’m not sure I can control their behavior outside of school, but I’ll remind the children about showing good manners and keeping their voices down in public.”

  The man scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “They ain’t gonna listen to no citified gal. I say instead of gettin’ new primers, the school board looks for a qualified teacher. A man.”

  Dash’s stomach soured.

  The mayor rose again. “Now, Mr. Yates, that’s not appropriate.”

  Yates rolled his eyes. “Your offspring need discipline, and she’s talkin’ manners and singin’ and hot apple cider. Sounds uppity to me.”

  “Sounds like you could use a course in manners too,” a redheaded woman announced with a scowl.

  Yates shook a finger at her. “Don’t get smart with me, Mrs. Ford.”

  She stood. “I don’t need to get smart, Maynard Yates. I’ve been smarter than you since I was born, just like every woman here, you ol’ coot.”

  Abby gaped at the pair, who were nearly toe-to-toe. A few folks clapped, some laughed, and one man hooted. The mayor, however, covered his eyes with his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, please.”

  “Y’all are fools.” Yates waved his hand in dismissal.

  “I beg your ever-lovin’ pardon?” Mrs. Ford enunciated.

  Dash set down his cup and stepped farther into the hall, fixing his gaze on Yates’s hands to ensure he didn’t do something reckless, like reach for a weapon. The man’s fingers flexed, but unless he was a quick draw, Dash would have ample time to disarm him should he draw a pistol from his coat pocket.

  Abby held up her hands, signaling for quiet. “If I may? I appreciate your opinion, Mr., er, Yates, is it? But I am certified, with four years of teaching experience. I assure you I am instructing the children in mathematics, history, geography, and other subjects beyond warming food on a stove. In addition, I intend to honor my contract for the term. If the school board wishes to find a male for the position after that time, I understand. But I have no intention of leaving my position early.”

  Her gaze met Dash’s. She wanted him to hear that last bit and hear it good.

  “Why do you keep talking about cookery? You cain’t cook, so you want to practice with the young’uns?” Mr. Yates snorted.

  Someone gasped. Abby’s head dipped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sayin’ you don’t have the skills required to get a husband, so you had to become a teacher.”

  Dash couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “That’s enough.”

  “I ain’t done speakin’ my piece,” Yates said.

  “Yes, you are.” A light-haired fellow with the build of an ox rose and extended his arms to escort Yates out. Dash tensed, ready to assist.

  Yates offered a humorless chuckle and held up his hands. “I’m goin’. Hope that little girl lives up to her big words.”

  Enough was enough. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk about a respectable lady that way?” Dash gripped Yates’s elbow and none-too-gently guided him into the red-walled lobby.

  Yates made no further protest as Dash nudged him out into the night. It was cold, but Dash couldn’t feel it, angry as he was. He had some not-too-redeemed words he’d like to lay on Maynard Yates. Talking that way about Abby—any woman—Lord, it just riles me up.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Abby,” the thick-built man was saying when he returned to the hall.

  “It’s all right.” She was a fine actress, the way she smiled.

  “How distressing that he came intoxicated like that.” A woman in a wide yellow bonnet that matched the walls frowned.

  “You and your little boy are new here, so you haven’t learned yet. He’s just mean,” someone else said.

  “Hates women.” Mrs. Ford was her name, wasn’t it? “Poor wife o’ his was probably happy to go to the grave to escape the likes of him.”

  “Not now, Ginny.” Her husband patted her arm.

&
nbsp; Something ticked in Dash’s brain. The woman in the yellow bonnet was new here, and had a son? Perhaps she was another of Abby’s candidates to be Katherine Hoover. He memorized her features. Jotting notes would be obvious and, well, he didn’t jot notes. Ever.

  Abby held up her hands to regain attention. “If there aren’t any other questions, I’ll close the evening by restating how much I’d enjoy sharing coffee or a meal with each family to get to know you. In the back of the room, I’ve left a schedule and a pencil, if you’d like to pick a date and time.”

  The oxlike man moved to stand beside Abby but faced the crowd. “On the same table is an urn of coffee and a plate of Mrs. Dean’s delicious oatmeal cookies. Help yourself. Would you care for a cup, Miss Abby? Extra milk, like usual?”

  Dash’s muscles tensed again. The brawny fellow was mighty familiar with her, using her Christian name and knowing how she liked her coffee. Had she found an admirer already?

  “Thank you, Bynum, yes.” Abby smiled, and then she was swallowed up in folks eager to converse.

  So Abby was comfortable enough with this Bynum to call him by his first name too. Well, she’d best remember she wasn’t here for romance. She was here on behalf of the Secret Service. Besides, she’d signed a teaching contract, and those always had clauses that women couldn’t court, didn’t they? She’d said as much at the schoolhouse. Abby might need a reminder that she had a job and this Bynum fellow wasn’t part of it.

  Stop it. Let her be happy. That was what he’d wanted six years ago. Right, Lord? I left so she’d ultimately be happier?

  He rubbed his temple. Cure me of this jealousy, if You have a mind to. I don’t like how I am right now, feeling things like this.

  Puffing out a long breath, Dash picked up his coffee, scanning for the woman in the yellow bonnet. Ah, there she was, chatting with another woman across the room. What would happen if he strolled up to her and called her Katherine?

  If she wasn’t Katherine Hoover, she’d think him an idiot. And if she was … she’d deny it and be gone by first light. Welch would have his head. God, would You reveal Katherine and the boy before Pitch arrives? We don’t want anyone hurt—

  A calloused hand thrust in front of Dash. The burly man who knew how Abby liked her coffee. “Good evening.”

  Dash’s stomach churned with acid, and not from the coffee. “Hello.”

  The man’s grip was tight as a vise. “Thanks for stepping in with Maynard Yates. Despite his manner, he’s all talk. Not nice talk, but talk is all it is.”

  “My pleasure.” Literally. The man was horrid to Abby and womankind.

  “Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Bynum Elmore.”

  Elmore. As in Willodean? So this man wasn’t knowledgeable about Abby because he had designs on her. He was Willodean’s father, Abby’s host. Sweet relief shot down to Dash’s fingers. “Dashiell Lassiter.”

  “Lassiter, eh?” Bynum rocked on his boot heels. “I think I know who you are.”

  Keen to learn how Abby had explained his presence to her host family, he feigned mild interest. “Oh?”

  “You’re the old beau passing through town. Railroad business?”

  “Not quite. How’d you know who I am?”

  “Because you’re a stranger and you’re mighty protective of our schoolmarm, escorting Yates outside. And you haven’t taken your eyes off her since you walked in.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Protecting innocents was part of his job—not officially, of course. The Secret Service paid Dash to identify and ensure the arrests of those who created and traded in counterfeit currency: boodle carriers, dealers, and shovers. But on occasion, he’d had to fight his way out of a tangle. He was fully prepared to do what was necessary to keep his asset safe.

  Abby was more than an asset to the Secret Service, though. She was … well, best not to think overmuch on it.

  His distraction must have shown more than he’d like, because Bynum patted his shoulder. “I don’t mean to overstep, but you’ll be all right, so long as you don’t do anything to hurt Miss Abby. We’re all fond of her already.”

  “I don’t want her hurt, trust me.” That was why he was here.

  Bynum seemed about to speak, but the storekeeper Knapp tapped him on the shoulder to inquire about an order, allowing Dash to slip away from what would probably be an interrogation into his intentions. Mingling around the room, he met a few folks curious about who he was and why he’d come to the meeting, but a few vague words put them off well enough. Meanwhile he kept an eye on Abby, who mingled among the parents.

  When the crowd had thinned and he’d finished his second cup of coffee—he’d be up all night, but he’d needed something to do with his hands—Abby marched over, hands clenched, her smile for any onlookers as phony as a wooden nickel. “What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting folks, same as you.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re drawing an awful lot of attention for someone who says he has no intention of doing so. Maybe you don’t care since you’re leaving in the morning. Which begs the question, why aren’t you in your hotel room, packing to go on your merry way?”

  “I’m not staying at the hotel. I’m bunking in the spare room above the post office, boarding with a fellow named Isaac Flowers. Know him?”

  “The postmaster with the good teeth, of course I know him.”

  “You’ve noticed his teeth?”

  “It’s kind of him to put you up for the night, I suppose.” She ignored his question about Isaac’s snow-white grin.

  “Oh no, I’ve signed a monthly lease.”

  Was that a sputter from her pretty lips? “Monthly?”

  “I need a place to lay my head, since I found a job this afternoon.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t need a job. You already have one.”

  He glanced around on the pretense of finding somewhere to place his coffee mug, but thankfully, no one stood within earshot. It wasn’t easy to hear, anyway, over the scraping and clattering of the few remaining menfolk stacking chairs. “I had to explain my presence here somehow, didn’t I?”

  “No. You could just go.”

  “Not happening, as long as you’re here.” Her eye roll made him grin. This was more fun than he’d had in a long while. “Besides, it’ll be good to be with horses again.”

  “You’re working at the livery?”

  “Actually, I’m the new hostler at Wells Inn.”

  “I didn’t think they had a hostler.”

  “They didn’t until today. Widow Miller runs the place with her two boys, who can’t be around horses for some reason, so they’ve been using the livery for their guests’ needs. They weren’t happy with the service, though.” He shrugged. “Good for the investigation, eh? I’m hoping any strangers passing through Wells will check into the hotel, and I’ll be right there to tend their horses.”

  He could tell she understood he meant Pitch, but didn’t like his plan. “This is ridiculous.”

  “My job?”

  “That you’re still here. Not the employment part.” For the first time, her eyes softened. “You planned to breed fine carriage horses when you grew up, remember?”

  He remembered a lot of plans he’d harbored in his youth that didn’t come to pass. “I do. But the job doesn’t matter, Abby. If you aren’t leaving, I’m not either.”

  She huffed. “I don’t need you.”

  He scanned their surroundings once more. No one close enough to hear their lowered voices. “Actually, I think we need each other. To catch our villain, I mean. I’ll watch for him at the inn and in town, and you continue to glean information from your students and their parents.” He thrust out his hand. “Looks like we’ll be neighbors as well as partners.”

  “Pah!” She ignored his hand and spun away in a rustle of brown skirt.

  Dash burst into laughter, but not hard enough to make his eye water. He was still grinning when he returned to his cozy room above the post office.

  Despite
having to associate with a rougher sort of individual, and sometimes getting into scrapes, not a single operative had been killed while on duty. May it ever be that way, Lord. But it wouldn’t surprise Dash if someone murdered him on this assignment. Not Fletcher Pitch, dangerous as he was. Oh no. It would be a miracle if Abby didn’t kill him. Even if it was just with her glaring eyes.

  He’d take it, just to be around her again.

  CHAPTER 5

  As it had for most of the night, Abby’s stomach clenched tighter than a knotted ball of twine when she made her way down to breakfast the next morning. The sun hadn’t yet risen and the window was coated in frost, but two lamps illuminated the tidy kitchen decorated with blue chintz curtains and a blue-and-pink rag rug. Hildie poured her a cup of fragrant coffee. “This’ll get you going. Drink up.”

  Abby flashed a smile at her busy host and took the cup. The warmth felt good on her fingers after washing up in the frigid water in her bedroom.

  While Abby added cream to her coffee, Hildie set a steaming platter of ham on the table beside a tureen. Abby took her seat across from a sleepy-looking Bynum, and after grace, while Hildie chatted, she dutifully finished a bowl of cornmeal mush laced with molasses.

  “It’s bleak now, but just wait until you see Wells in the spring, Abby. It’s the most beautiful place on earth.” Hildie’s brows pulled low. “You didn’t touch the ham. Would you rather have more mush? Bynum, pass the molasses.”

  A gallon of molasses wouldn’t increase Abby’s poor appetite. “I’m not hungry this morning, that’s all.”

  How could she be hungry when anxiety cinched her stomach closed tighter than a sugar sack? Two things kept her awake half the night, and one, of course, was the news that Fletcher Pitch was coming. His search for his son leading him to the doorstep of her schoolhouse should scare the corn mush out of her, but instead, she felt something equally as potent but far different. Eagerness.

  This must be how Patchy Polly felt last evening when she cornered a mouse in the parlor. Knowing it was only a matter of time. She would see Pitch brought to justice.

  The other, less invigorating thing on her mind was Dash putting down roots—however shallow—in Wells. He’d be here until Fletcher Pitch was identified, and Abby could only hope it was fast, because she could not tolerate running into him around town, thank you very much. His hostler duties would keep him occupied part of the day, of course, but Wells Inn was not that large.