The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if it’s the best time to do this.”

  “Six years ago would have been the best time for it.”

  He didn’t respond, so she twisted toward him, a physical reminder she was here and she was owed an explanation. “Why did you leave like that, Dash?”

  “I can’t tell you what you want to hear.”

  “Say something, then.” Anything. He’d dragged her to this quiet spot and offered his coat as if they’d be here for a while, but he said nothing more. No crumb of insight. No reason for him shirking away from the common courtesy he’d owed her as his practically betrothed.

  Deep breathing didn’t ease the bitterness churning in her gut. She barked out a humorless laugh. “Perhaps you’re right, Dash. I’m thankful you revealed your true self before I married you.”

  “Dim-witted Dash, my true self, all right.”

  “Stop it. You’re diverting the conversation, and I resent your intimation that I would ever have judged you on your reading and writing. Dim-witted Dash, indeed.” Her hands shook with rage. “What you are is Deceitful Dash. Deceitful and viperous, mendacious, cruel—”

  “I think you’d better keep dim-witted on that list of yours, because I don’t know what ‘mendacious’ means.”

  “Look it up in the dictionary.”

  They both knew he would struggle mightily to do that.

  He snuffed like a horse. “That’s low, Abby. But I deserve it and worse, leaving without saying goodbye.”

  “You shouldn’t have left at all.” The last two words hung heavy in the thin, cold air.

  It took him a long time to meet her gaze. “Well, like I said, I thought it best.”

  She waited again for an explanation, a story, a sign of regret. Nothing came.

  And probably never would.

  It was time to toss this—whatever it was between them—to the dustbin. She removed his warm coat from her shoulders and dropped it in his lap. “Once upon a time I knew you well, Dash, and we shared everything. Dreams, aspirations, struggles. Yet you couldn’t tell me the truth when you stopped loving me. I never took you for a coward, but I guess behind that badge you’re hiding somewhere, that’s what you are. A coward.”

  The words tasted victorious, sugar sweet, for a moment. Then her tongue recoiled at the bitterness filling her mouth.

  She’d launched the words as weapons, well chosen in their intent to wound as deeply as possible. Only now that it was done did she recognize them as cruel, crueler than she ever imagined she could be. Words like that could never be taken back.

  But what was worse, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Especially when his eyes narrowed. “And you, Abigail Bracey, have become an unforgiving, hardened, vengeful soul.”

  She snorted. “Vengeful? You mean because I want to bring Pitch to his knees?”

  “Quiet, Abby.” He swiveled to look around.

  The street was empty. “No one can hear me, so answer my question. We’re both working to catch him. Why am I vengeful and you’re not?”

  “I’m trying to bring him to justice. Is that what you want, or do you want him to suffer? To take God’s work into your own hands and repay Pitch for what he did to your father?”

  “How can you ask that? You and I are doing the same thing.”

  “Are we? I’m trying to serve the law, and through it, God and His people. Doesn’t sound like God plays much of a role in your life anymore, though.” He sounded so pious.

  “Because God stopped intervening.”

  “The way you want Him to, maybe. But who are you to determine how He should act?”

  Oh! She sputtered a moment before finding her tongue. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dash. You don’t know me at all.”

  “I did once, when you lacked the strength to take me as I was. But you’re right, I don’t know you anymore. I don’t like who you’ve become. I guess I did us both a favor, leaving Chicago when I did.”

  Abby rooted to the bench, watching Dash stride off on his long legs, leaving her once again. She shook, but no longer from rage. From spent emotion, yes, but also cold. She felt it now.

  Once he was gone, she bustled back inside town hall.

  Hildie stood inside the vestibule door, one hand on the small of her back. Relief flickered across her features. “There you are. It’s about time to cut the cake.” She reached for Abby’s arm and gasped at the contact. “You’re like ice. How long were you outside?”

  “Not long.”

  “Long enough to turn your fingernails blue. Where’s Mr. Lassiter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh dear. You argued.”

  “Let’s sample that cake, shall we? Kyle’s mother has a way with desserts.”

  Hildie sighed. “I never could say no to anything sweet.”

  Abby could only nibble the mayor’s birthday cake, but half of her students crowded the table for second helpings. Hardly a morsel was left, and Kyle’s mother received plenty of attention and praise. Once their plates were empty, folks began to disperse into the cold night, including Abby and the Elmores. Abby nestled beneath a heavy, rough-textured blanket with Willodean and Patty in the back of the wagon. Both girls were asleep almost at once, so the adults didn’t speak, so as not to wake them.

  The moment they were in the house, however, Bynum carried both girls to bed in his strong arms and Hildie beckoned Abby into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea before bed? It’ll warm your bones.”

  “Thanks, but tea past supper keeps me awake.”

  “We don’t have to drink anything. I thought you might want to talk about what happened with Mr. Lassiter.” She smiled. “I’m a good listener.”

  That may be, but Abby would be a fool to confide in Hildie about anything. After losing her friends in Chicago, she’d closed herself off to deep relationships. She’d made new acquaintances in teacher training, but they were shallow, and Abby withheld any information about her father, sure if they knew they’d reject her just as her Chicago friends had.

  Much as Abby liked Hildie and Bynum and their children, she’d created a similar boundary with them, not telling them much about herself. She’d had to, because she was lying to them for the sake of the investigation. When they learned why Abby had really come to Wells, they’d reject her, and it would hurt. No, it was better to keep a sturdy fence between them and stick to lighter topics of conversation.

  “Thanks, Hildie, but you should probably get some rest.”

  Hildie waved a hand. “I’m wide awake. The baby’s doing the five-step schottische.”

  “Funny baby. I’m exhausted, though.”

  “Oh.” Hildie shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow then, if you want to talk.”

  “Thank you, but I probably won’t.” Maybe now Hildie wouldn’t pester her further.

  Hildie busied herself with straightening her cuff. “I see.”

  “Good night, Hildie.”

  Abby went upstairs, donned her flannel nightdress, and climbed between the cold sheets, curling into a ball to warm her toes. An icicle lodged inside of her, though, poking at her. Maybe Hildie had been hurt by Abby’s refusal to talk. But Abby had a right to privacy, didn’t she? Then again, maybe Dash was right that she was a hardened soul. But if so, whose fault was that?

  She smacked her fist into her pillow.

  He’d also said she lacked the strength to accept him as he was. How dare he say something so flat-out wrong? They’d had differences, sure. His father worked for hers. Her father wanted her to marry someone wealthier, with better connections. Ironic, considering how well connected he was with the likes of Fletcher Pitch.

  But she never cared that Dash was a groom’s son. She supported him, encouraged him, fought for him. Loved him more than her own life. When Father had offered Dash a job in the bank, she’d told Dash not to take it. He didn’t need to abandon his dream of breeding horses. She wanted to marry him even if it meant living simply next to a
stable until his business flourished and they could afford a house.

  But Dash had accepted Father’s job offer, to save up money, he’d said. She’d worried about the arrangement. Dash had always worked with his hands. Horses kept him sane, whereas numbers and letters drove him halfway mad. Abby buoyed him in the effort, regardless.

  And then after a few weeks, he disappeared from the bank. And her life.

  Since he’d reentered her life, she’d imagined what it would be like to confront him about it. In her visions, she’d been controlled, no longer the victim of his abrupt departure. In reality, her anger spewed out, and now that it was spent, she felt hollow, boneless, like everything that had been holding her upright was gone.

  But he needed to know what his decision had done to her, didn’t he?

  She shouldn’t have said some of the things she said, but he shouldn’t have blamed her for not accepting him—a lie if ever he told one. And calling her names?

  You are unforgiving, though. You refuse to even entertain the notion. And seeing Fletcher Pitch brought low has been on your mind every day for four years.

  Abby rolled over in a huff.

  The night was long and cold, and thankfully, everyone was too tired from the party to linger in the frosty churchyard the next morning after Sunday services—even Dash, who left quickly. All four Elmores napped in the afternoon, but Abby used the quiet to plan the coming week’s lessons, including a sketching project where the children would draw their own faces and write a paragraph about whom they looked like in their family. She must remember to procure some twine from which to hang the finished products to brighten the room.

  Artistic expression was not her only reason for assigning the task, of course. Maybe either Kyle or Micah had been told he looked like his father, and she would at last have a tidbit of information about Fletcher Pitch’s looks—hair color or build or something.

  The sooner they figured out how to apprehend Pitch, the sooner Dash would leave Wells. It couldn’t come soon enough for Abby.

  For the next few days, Abby focused on her classroom duties as well as assisting around the house. She tended Willodean and Patty, fed the chickens, dried dishes, and anything else Hildie would allow. She also ran into the post office to buy postage she didn’t need, paying with her “emergency” five-dollar bill in order to receive change from the charming but now suspect Isaac, who’d passed on Pitch’s counterfeit currency. Knowingly or unknowingly?

  Isaac had made a quip about how Abby would have done better to break her large bill at the general store first, but hopefully he didn’t suspect her motives. With the skill of a seasoned actress, she’d grinned, thanked him, and gone home, laying out the four dollar bills in change, and stared at them. Felt the paper’s thickness, texture, weight. And couldn’t tell if one of them was counterfeit.

  She had little else to do in the evenings, quiet as Bynum and Hildie had become lately. Hildie didn’t ask about Dash again. In fact, she didn’t ask much of anything, or invite conversation. At first Abby assumed the baby was taking all of Hildie’s strength, but Wednesday evening after Abby donned her brown coat to walk into town for supper at Mayor Carpenter’s, Hildie didn’t look up from setting the table when Abby said goodbye.

  This wasn’t about Abby rejecting Hildie’s offer to talk, was it? Guilt needled her abdomen, but it couldn’t be helped. Abby had to protect herself, and that meant guarding her privacy.

  Nevertheless, she offered a truce in the form of a smile. “I won’t be late.”

  Bynum appeared in the kitchen, dressed in his hat, scarf, and coat. “Team’s hitched. Ready, Miss Abby?”

  He’d hitched the team? “Oh, no, Bynum, I’m walking. No need for you to drive me. You’ll be late for supper.”

  Willodean was in the parlor chanting, “Elk stew, elk stew.” It was close to ready, judging by the smell, rich with onion and herbs.

  Hildie shifted to lay out spoons. “Can’t exactly let you walk to town and back in these temperatures, now can we?”

  “If the temperatures drop any more, I’ll stay in town, unless the mayor offers to drive me back.”

  Bynum shook his head. “We’re the ones being paid to care for you, Miss Abby. It’s our responsibility. I should’ve driven you into town for your supper last week. Wasn’t right of me to let you walk.”

  “It’s my choice. I didn’t want to inconvenience you, but I see now that I have. I should have asked you before scheduling these private meetings with parents. I’m sorry.” She turned, but Hildie had slipped out of the room, silent as a cat.

  She called out a goodbye before stepping outside with Bynum.

  Once on their way, she cleared her throat. “I truly didn’t mean for you to have to hitch the horses and drive me out, and then return for me later.”

  “I won’t come back. I’ll wait. Nurse a cup of coffee at the café.”

  That was even worse. “You’ll miss supper.”

  “Hildie will keep a bowl warm for me.”

  “I feel awful. I truly didn’t think this would affect you. I don’t mind the walk. Besides, your farm is close to town. It hardly takes any time at all.”

  “Like I said, it’s our job, Miss Abby.”

  Until the past few days, Abby hadn’t felt like a job to the Elmores. She’d felt almost like one of them, part of an extended family. But everything changed when she’d turned down Hildie’s offer of tea and sympathy.

  Abby’s heart was heavy when Bynum dropped her off at the Carpenters’. He glanced at the two-story house. “I’ll come back in an hour. Don’t rush, though. I can wait for you out here.”

  “I insist you do not, Bynum. I can’t have you and the horses sitting outside in the cold. The café is less than a block away. I shall collect you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” She hopped from the wagon unassisted, her bustle waggling from the effort.

  She fixed a smile as he drove away.

  At fourteen, Bartholomew Carpenter was one of her older students, but he was the baby of the family, according to his responses to her assignments. In her attempts to learn more about Kyle’s and Micah’s fathers, she’d gleaned copious amounts of trivia about her students’ parents, but never the answers she truly sought, which would lead her to identifying Fletcher Pitch.

  Tonight, however, held no ulterior motives, nothing beyond getting to know the Carpenters better. She should set aside her anxious thoughts about Pitch and, yes, Dash too and attempt to enjoy herself. She mounted the porch steps and rapped on the door.

  After an evening of genteel conversation about Bartholomew’s skill at geography and a filling feast of chicken and dumplings, Abby finished the last bit of her custard tart. “This has been wonderful. Thank you for having me.”

  “Thank you for meeting with families.” The mayor leaned back in his chair. “I love to see the folks of Wells learning more about one another.”

  “Speaking of such, I must inquire about your recent dealings with a certain someone.” Mrs. Carpenter, a full-figured woman whose dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, folded her hands beneath her chin.

  Oh no. Not more questions about Dash. Abby set down her fork.

  “Maynard Yates.” Mrs. Carpenter’s voice was rich with curiosity.

  Not Dash? Abby released a pent-up breath.

  Mrs. Carpenter leaned forward. “We heard you tricked him into dancing with you and wondered how you accomplished such a thing.”

  “And why you’d want to,” Bartholomew muttered.

  “Bartholomew,” his mother scolded.

  Because I saw myself in him. She couldn’t say that, though. “He and I didn’t get off on the best footing. I thought to try again.”

  “He isn’t on good footing with anyone,” the mayor said with a sigh.

  And no one ever said why. Abby bit her lip. She didn’t approve of gossip, seeing as she’d been the subject of it on numerous occasions, but perhaps a bit of explanation might help her understand.
“May I ask, seeing as you’re the mayor and know a great deal about everyone, well, I noticed three headstones for folks named Yates when I walked through the churchyard. Are they his people?”

  “His brother, wife, and son.” Mrs. Carpenter lifted the delicate blue coffeepot. Wedgwood, if Abby wasn’t mistaken. “More?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Amazing you could read the stones. He’s never tended them that I could tell. They’re covered in snow all winter and hidden by weeds in summer.” The mayor tutted. “Upkeep is important for town pride.”

  “How sad that he lost his family.”

  “It wasn’t all at once.” Mrs. Carpenter sipped her coffee. “His younger brother, Eugene, died first, from fever, wasn’t it, dear? Or he drank bad water. I can’t remember, as I was a schoolgirl then. But it was sudden, and Eugene was supposed to marry Maggie. Date was set and everything. Then he died, and she up and married Maynard. It caused a little talk.”

  The mayor cleared his throat.

  “What? It’s not gossip. It’s true.” She turned back to Abby. “They married, but their baby died within days, and they never had another, more’s the pity. Or maybe not, because about that time, Maynard got mean. To Maggie, to her friends, to anyone who said a nice word about Eugene. Then to everyone.”

  “Why?” Bartholomew leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  The mayor cleared his throat again, far louder.

  “Well.” Mrs. Carpenter’s cheeks pinked. “I suppose that’s all the facts I have on the subject.”

  “I must be going, anyway. Bynum is waiting for me at the café.” Abby rose.

  “Well, isn’t that lovely of him?” Mrs. Carpenter led Abby to the foyer and handed Abby her outer garments. The males in the family followed her out.

  “Thank you again for the delicious supper. See you in the morning, Bartholomew.”

  Bartholomew snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot to tell you. Mama said I could bring a jug of apple cider tomorrow to heat on the stove, like you suggested at the meeting.”

  “Wonderful, thank you.”

  “Have you a large pot?” Mrs. Carpenter lifted a finger. “If not, I can send one with you tonight.”