The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  “No, we’ll be fine, thank you. That reminds me of one last matter I’ve neglected to ask, though, Mayor Carpenter. Our wood supply at school is getting low.”

  He smacked his forehead. “I meant to inquire about it, but the matter slipped my mind. Tomorrow I shall ask a few of the men to replenish it. Have you enough to finish the week?”

  “Oh yes.” That business seen to, she thanked them again. “Good night.”

  Bundled to her ears, she marched out into the night for the short walk to meet Bynum at the café. Only Main Street boasted streetlights, but sufficient light from kerosene lamps spilled from house windows to illumine her steps. Few people were out and about, but the hour wasn’t late, nor was she afraid of the dark.

  As she walked, she considered tomorrow’s lessons. Mathematics, of course. Preparation for Friday’s spelling test. The art project, and oh, she mustn’t forget twine. And she must carve out time for the pot of apple cider. It would be a treat but also serve as some of the children’s first lesson in cooking. Perhaps the experience of warming a sweet beverage would even encourage some of her pupils to pursue more difficult tasks at home.

  She turned onto Main Street. The inn was just ahead, and beyond that, the café. Both were lit from within and without. A man strolled the inn’s drive to the road, whistling. Dash.

  What was the name of the tune? Something decades old and lilting, like a folk dance. She hadn’t heard it in six years, but the melody caught her up short. Memories she’d buried unearthed, like cicadas pushing up from beneath the ground, loud and insistent, impossible to ignore. Dash whistling for the horses. Dash smiling at her. Dash’s eyes going soft before he kissed her.

  His head turned toward her. The whistle stopped midchorus.

  They stood like that for the span of several breaths. And then he turned away, walking in the opposite direction.

  But what if she’d come here tonight to report something about their investigation against Pitch? Didn’t he care about that?

  Maybe he was still too upset with her. She’d called him a coward and a liar, and told him to turn to a dictionary when the last time he’d tried in her presence, he became so flustered he couldn’t find the m’s and ended up in the w’s. School was a tortuous experience for him. What had become of her, that she could fling that at him like that?

  He was right about her. She was horrible.

  She stood on the dark, quiet street a full minute, holding her aching chest.

  “Miss Bracey?” A female voice called from the inn’s porch.

  Mrs. Story, Micah’s mother, toddled down the steps toward her.

  “Hello, ma’am.”

  “Seems we’re both silly enough to be out on a cold evening. I had a delivery for the hotel—late, I know, but a curtain tore this morning and they paid double to have it repaired today. Oh my, you look upset. Is something wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. “It’s nothing.”

  “Clearly not. Can’t I be of help? I don’t mean to pry, but you look so sad—”

  Abby stepped away from Mrs. Story’s outstretched arm. “I’d like to be alone, please.”

  “Of course.” Her arm lowered, as did her gaze.

  Abby marched past, arms folded over her chest, feeling worse than she had a minute ago. Needing another moment to compose herself, she passed by the café. Bynum could wait a bit longer.

  Tears fell thick and hot, warming her cold cheeks. She swiped at them, but her kid gloves did little to absorb the wetness streaming down her face. Breathing deeply didn’t stop the flow this time. She walked as she blotted her eyes, blind to obstacles.

  “Hey.”

  She recognized the voice even if she couldn’t focus through her tears. “Mr. Yates. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “You ain’t the first to pretend that, despite the fact that I’m standing in front of my own livery.” His tone was colder than the bitter gust of wind swirling around her skirt.

  She couldn’t help it. She choked out another sob.

  “Hey, you weren’t joshin’. What’s with the waterworks, missy?”

  Her lips parted. Would anyone in town believe Maynard Yates was inquiring into her well-being? A watery chuckle escaped her lips. There was indeed something soft in him after all, but he’d get the same answer she gave Mrs. Story. “It’s nothing.”

  He made a disbelieving noise. “Didn’t take you for a liar.”

  If he only knew she’d lied to everyone about why she and Dash were in Wells. She’d lied to herself about the sort of person she was too. “Very well, it isn’t nothing, but it’s nothing that can be helped.”

  “Must be that hostler fella. Did he do somethin’ untoward?”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s the past catching up to me, is all. I keep hoping I’ll escape it altogether someday.”

  “It’s been twenty-five years, but someday never came for me.”

  That prospect was bleaker than the muddy snow clumping on the sides of the street. Twenty-five years? That was when his baby died, from what she recalled of the headstone. A long, long time.

  According to Mrs. Carpenter, he hadn’t started out as a cantankerous curmudgeon, but he’d changed somewhere along the way.

  So had she, just as Dash said.

  After Father’s death, she’d stopped praying. Stopped reading her Bible. Stopped wanting God as part of her daily life.

  Stopped wanting anyone in her life who could know her well enough to hurt her. That was why she hadn’t wanted to talk to Hildie or Geraldine. Abby had hurt them both. She hadn’t meant to, but she had to protect herself from future pain.

  Is that what Mr. Yates had done once upon a time? Tried to protect himself? Perhaps the wall he’d built to shield his heart had also done too good a job of keeping people away. All the while, bitterness planted into his heart and spread its roots like tentacles, squeezing out any joy in his life.

  She’d tended the plant of bitterness too. Nourished it with years of resentment. Hatred.

  A heavy fatigue fell over Abby. Hate was a word she never used regarding her own emotions—no one did. Hate was wrong, everyone knew that. But in truth, when she turned her back on God, she’d allowed hate inside her heart. She hated Dash—and Fletcher Pitch, and maybe even Father for what he’d done to her and Mother.

  That hatred—that bitterness, thirst for vengeance, dissatisfaction—hadn’t brought her one iota of good. Not a moment of sleep, not an instant of peace. Loathing had left her empty, aching, unfulfilled.

  She looked at Mr. Yates. Really looked, at the dark, deep pouches beneath his eyes, the set of his downcast mouth, the tight angles of his crossed arms. Was this her future, if she allowed her hatred and bitterness to erode her inside for ten, twelve, twenty-five years, as he had done? Meanness could become her involuntary response, just as it had Mr. Yates’s. Oh yes, she could see her future in the weary curves of his shoulders.

  What about her eternal future? She hadn’t given much thought to what would happen were she to die unprepared, and oh, she was unprepared. Did hate and bitterness follow a person to the grave and beyond?

  She didn’t want that. Not for eternity, not for another second.

  Her hands clutched together over her aching chest. What could she do to help Mr. Yates? To help herself?

  Nothing. You can do nothing but accept Him. No works can save you.

  The once-familiar, silent voice echoed in her head and her heart. She didn’t ignore it this time, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. She couldn’t weed hate out of her heart like a dandelion. How did one stop hating?

  The Good Book says to love your neighbor and your enemy alike.

  But it’s hard, she prayed consciously for the first time in years. I can’t just forget what Dash did, leaving me like that. Embarrassed. Empty. Alone.

  Still, the echo of the voice remained in her head. Love. And love meant forgiveness.

  She licked her lips. “Have you ever tried to forgive, Mr. Yate
s?”

  “You sound like the church.”

  “I’m just asking, because I don’t want to forgive Dash. That would be like … excusing him for what he did.”

  “Now, that don’t sound like the church.”

  “Nope.” Her laugh was shaky.

  “I ain’t got a mind to forgive either. What she did was wrong and don’t deserve mercy.”

  She. A woman who’d hurt him bone-deep, the way Dash had hurt Abby. “Your wife?”

  He answered by spitting in the snow.

  So that was what had happened twenty-five years ago. His baby had died and his wife had somehow caused him additional pain. The specifics didn’t matter, because for the first time, Abby was not alone in her grief over being hurt by the one she loved. It didn’t take away the ache but soothed its edges, like a balm. There was indeed a comfort in sharing one’s heart with another. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  His posture stiffened. “No, I do not. You’d probably take her side.”

  “Because I’m female?”

  “Because everyone took her side, and they don’t even know the truth.”

  “I might not.”

  He scowled. “I ain’t tellin’ you, nosy woman. I told one person, the pastor, and it did me no good. He said to forgive and love my wife, but she didn’t love me.”

  Without knowing what the departed Mrs. Yates did or whether or not she loved her husband, Abby couldn’t offer any words of comfort. All she could do was reach out and pat his arm.

  He flinched like no one had touched him in a long time.

  Years of being untouched and untouchable. No, Abby didn’t want to be like this someday. But she didn’t want to be hurt by others again either.

  It wasn’t a voice in her head this time, but an awareness of facts she hadn’t considered. Others had hurt her. Not God. She had expected them to treat her with kindness because they were Christians, but they had failed her. Was it because they were hypocrites, like she’d always believed, or because they were imperfect people?

  Abby wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Mother had talked about their ancestor who sailed the Mayflower, as if it meant their family had more to be proud of than others. But what if the legacy of her ancestors who sailed on the Mayflower was faith? They came to America to worship God, didn’t they?

  How had things become so twisted?

  Abby had done her fair share of twisting, acting as if God had abandoned her. But she’d left Him, not the other way around.

  It was real to her now: He was still close at hand, waiting. Forgiving, because it wasn’t as much about what she had done as what He had done for her. Wanting her to forgive and live in freedom. She knew it as certainly as she knew her name.

  Forgiveness wasn’t quite the issue right now, though. Forgiveness was a fruit of the tree, not its root. The root was her obedience—or disobedience, in this case. She had to return to God as the first step to changing into a new person.

  And there was only one way she could see to achieve that. In His strength, with His help.

  I’m sorry I turned my back on You, but here I am. A long way from You, still as sore and aching inside as ever, but I want things to change. I want to be friends with You again.

  Something like hope warmed beneath her rib cage. She turned back to the man she never thought she’d call a friend, but he was the one she’d been given to share her heart with tonight. “When I get back home, I’m going to open the Bible, Mr. Yates. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to forgive anyone right away, but I’m going to ask God to help me.”

  “And that hostler fella? You gonna have a talk with him about it?”

  The idea didn’t sound palatable, but at the same time, it sounded right. “I … think I have to.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t think I’m goin’ to talk to my Maggie.”

  How could he? Dash was alive, but Maggie was dead, so—

  “I haven’t been to her grave once. Never.”

  “Oh, I see.” He meant he’d speak to her headstone. Tell her in person, as it were. “Even if you can’t speak to her the way you could when she was alive, you could consider speaking to God about it. Perhaps if you and I pray, we might both have a sense of peace.”

  “You’re a pushy gal.”

  “I’m a teacher. I’m accustomed to issuing instructions.”

  “And you make a decent molasses cookie, I s’pose.”

  “You ate one?”

  “The ones I could clean off.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry for shovin’ ’em to the ground.”

  She grinned. “I forgive you.”

  “Don’t get ideas that I felt guilty and that’s why I ate ’em. They just made a faster supper than beans. Appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone that. Or … anything else we’ve discussed.”

  “Of course … I’m grateful for your confidence as well. I’ve needed someone to whom I could speak my mind.”

  He harrumphed.

  “I’d better go. Bynum Elmore is waiting for me at the café.”

  “Sure.” He sounded irritated she was ending their conversation, but irritated was a far cry from feisty. “G’night, missy.”

  She paused before she entered the café. “Are you going to look at a Bible tonight?”

  “Maybe. But don’t get no ideas about me goin’ to church on Sunday.”

  “I think maybe is a good place for both of us to start, Mr. Yates.” Maybe was far better than never.

  CHAPTER 10

  Snow dusted them on the drive home, but Abby’s burning heart flooded her with warmth. After asking Bynum about his time in the café, she twisted on the bench to better look at him. “I apologize for you having to drive me into town and back tonight—”

  “We’ve already talked about this, Miss Abby.”

  “I know, but with Hildie so close to delivering, it won’t do for you to be hauling me hither and yon. I will arrange for my upcoming appointments to take place on weekends or during lunch hour. You and Hildie and the girls have been so kind to me. The last thing I’d ever want to do is inconvenience you.”

  “Thank you, but we’ll manage things.”

  “I’d much prefer to stay home evenings with you. Not to be a bother, of course, but to be of help when the baby comes.”

  His brows lifted in surprise. “I know Hildie will appreciate the assistance. And the companionship.”

  “I intend to be a better friend to her.” Even though the closer she grew to Hildie, the more she’d miss her once Pitch was caught and Abby left Wells.

  Abby repeated her intentions to Hildie once she returned home. Hildie fussed with her cuffs, something she must do to avoid making eye contact. “That’s right kind of you.”

  She didn’t trust Abby yet. Maybe she was still hurt, but in time hopefully Abby could prove to Hildie that she cared. In the meantime, she could pray about it. But first she needed a Bible. Surely they wouldn’t mind if she borrowed the one in the parlor.

  It felt heavy and cool in her hands as she carried it to her room. Once she opened it, the thin, delicate pages rustled at her touch. Where to start? There was something about grace in Ephesians; she remembered that. Saved by grace through faith and not works.

  There it was, in chapter two. “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.”

  She ended up reading the entire epistle, and might have read more had her bedside candle not sputtered. It was cold, though, and her fingers were like icicles. She snuggled deep under the covers.

  Lord, we’re talking again. I suppose You may have been trying to talk to me for the past few years, but I’ve not been a good listener. I ask for Your forgiveness, and I ask You to help me forgive. I don’t precisely want to, but I know it’s important, for both me and Dash. Fletcher Pitch is another matter entirely. I’m not sure I can forgive him, ever.

  Did God mind her frankness? Abby shrugged. He knew her mind. She might as well be honest
with Him.

  Will You also help me with Mr. Yates? How may I prod him toward peace? I’m so glad he ate my cookies, Lord.

  She fell asleep thinking about him brushing dirt from them.

  The next morning, she dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to assist Hildie. The kitchen was empty, but breakfast bubbled on the stove—mush by the sweet, corny smell of it. Hildie’s voice carried from the girls’ room. They must be dressing and Bynum must be outside doing chores. Abby grabbed her outerwear and the pail of food for the chickens before stepping onto the back porch.

  Drip, drip, plink. The icicles above the back porch trickled drops onto the stairs. Her boots squelched the watery snow along the path to the henhouse. My, things had warmed up, hadn’t they? The sky was gray and a light southern wind nipped her cheeks and nose, almost as if spring was on its way.

  Bynum exited the barn, leading out the cows. “Morning.”

  “Good morning. Is spring upon us?”

  He laughed. “We’ll be up to our knees in mud, just you wait.”

  Mud sounded wonderful, if it meant sunshine too.

  No eggs awaited her in the henhouse. Ah, well. The chickens might be inspired to lay a dozen today.

  This gift of a milder day was like a symbol of the new start she’d begun last night. Abby knew she had a long journey ahead of her, of learning, repentance, and hopefully forgiveness. She’d taken her first steps, however. Like the icicles above the porch, she was thawing.

  Later, she’d have to seek out Dash. He may not like her anymore, but she couldn’t allow their harsh words to stand between them.

  She’d also look for Mr. Yates and see how he fared. Perhaps he’d considered looking at a Bible last night too.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Hildie peered out the window. “My word, are those icicles melting?”

  “They sure are. We’d best watch our heads today when walking beneath them.”

  Willodean allowed mush to fall off her spoon in clumps. “If they’re melting, then it’s too warm for me to wear a coat to school.”

  “It’s not that warm,” Abby cautioned. “Maybe a few degrees above freezing.”