The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  “I … didn’t assume, Abby.” He expelled a long breath. He’d hoped she’d never learn the truth. But what else could he do? “Your father would have cut you off without anything. Not just financially, but altogether. He disliked me that much.”

  Her head shook. “That’s not true. He warmed to you, remember? So much so that he offered you that position at the bank. But you abandoned that too.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that.” He squeezed her fingers. “He gave me the job because he knew I couldn’t do it, Abby.”

  “Nonsense. You said you were doing fine.”

  “I lied to spare you, and because I intended to make it work.”

  “But Father said you had a future at the bank.”

  “Me? Working with numbers? Factoring interest rates at top speed for impatient customers? No, Abby. I was doomed to failure.”

  “You were supposed to be talking to people about loans, not working numbers.”

  “That’s not how it happened.” He puffed out another long breath, one that carried a lifetime of disappointment with it. “You know what a dimwit I am.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Numbers and letters aren’t everything, Dash. You know about caring for horses and how to tell counterfeit dollars from real ones. I don’t know a thing about those. Does that make me a dimwit?”

  He had to smile. “No, but my problem is different. You know that, Abby.”

  “Maybe if you’d talked to Father, he would have offered you a different position.”

  “I tried. That’s when he told me what your life would be like, married to me. And that if we wed, he’d shut his doors to you.”

  “He said that?” Her head dipped.

  “I’m sorry, but yes. I despised him for it, but at the same time, I knew he was right. You deserved a husband who could provide for you and wouldn’t cost you your family. So I promised him I’d keep you safe, knowing the only way to achieve that was to leave you alone. He told me a clean break was best, to just go, and he’d explain things to you.”

  Her eyes blazed. “So that’s why you didn’t tell me. But you should have.”

  “You loved your father. I couldn’t turn you against him.”

  “I loved you too. Which is why I dressed in your favorite pink dress and waited for you so we could tell my parents we wanted a June wedding.” She stared at the tablecloth. “I waited so long I feared you’d been in an accident, and at that point Father told me you’d quit your job and left town—and he assumed you’d told me. I suppose that last bit was a lie to make you look worse in my eyes.”

  Guilt stabbed him in the gut. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The irony of it all is it didn’t work. What Father wanted? My ‘security’? He left us despondent, rejected and alone. If I’d married you, I doubt I would have experienced any of those things.”

  Maybe not. “I still would have failed you, you know. I can scarcely read or write.”

  Her chin lifted. “Well then, it’s a good thing I’m a teacher. I’m trained in instruction.”

  What was she saying? “You want to teach me?”

  “I’m going to teach you, Dash, once Berthanne and Almos are located and we’ve helped our neighbors. It’s not as if we can watch for our friend right now. Nor can I teach. My schoolhouse is in shambles.”

  “About that. I thought I’d help repair the roof.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You have two other jobs to occupy you. You don’t need a third.”

  “I think I have time to do more than one thing.”

  “Even learn how to read?”

  He met her smiling gaze in the flickering lamplight. “Even that, I suppose.”

  He finished his soup, still holding her hand. He tingled down to his toes, and he was certain it had nothing to do with frostbite.

  CHAPTER 15

  By nine the next morning, Bynum called at the Knapps’ for Abby and brought her back to the farm. It was hardly the smooth, flat ride from town Abby had grown accustomed to. The snow wasn’t even, and some places were icy.

  Bynum pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the porch, and the front door squeaked on its hinge as Hildie rushed out. “Oh mercy, I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me too.” The Knapps’ parlor sofa was a vast improvement over Burt Crabtree’s floor, but her aching hips would be glad to be in her own bed tonight. More than that, however, she was relieved to see Hildie.

  “Thank you for protecting our Willodean during the storm. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

  Abby embraced her hostess—gently, of course, so as not to hurt the baby. “I was so worried about you, Hildie. You and Patty and Bynum. The wind blew in so fast.”

  Hildie pulled back. “I was taking down the sheets. The first gust about blew Patty away.” She smiled as if it was a joke, but Abby could only imagine Hildie’s fear at trying to rescue her little one in that storm.

  Abby stomped snow from her boots before going inside. “Did you sustain damage?”

  “Bynum’s Jerseys.” Hildie’s eyes moistened.

  Those sweet calves and the mamas! “Oh no. Bynum loved those cows.”

  Hildie pulled a hankie from her sleeve. “It’s hard, but we’ll start again.”

  “And I will help however I can. I meant what I said the night before the storm. I’m here and I intend to be a blessing, not a burden. I’m—I’m sorry I was so distant for a while.”

  “I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “You weren’t prying. You were showing compassion.”

  Hildie’s mouth stretched into a genuine smile. “I wouldn’t be showing much compassion on your cold bones if I kept you standing on this porch any longer. Come inside.”

  The kettle whistled in the kitchen. “That’ll be hot water for tea, but you’ll want to freshen up first, I expect.”

  “Yes, thank you.” After living in the same clothes for two days—had it only been two? It felt like a lifetime—Abby was eager to wash her face and change. Hildie poured some of the hot water into her floral teapot before dumping the remaining contents into a pitcher. Abby carried it up to her room, accompanied by Willodean, who held a soft towel and the floral soap Hildie saved for Sundays.

  It felt like luxury, washing with warm water and fragrant soap. She took extra care everywhere the snow had touched with its needling fingers: her hands, her face, oh, how wonderful it was to press a warm cloth against her eyes. They felt better today, but they were still tender. So was the knot on her head. Abby donned her thickest pair of woolen stockings and tucked her knife into the drawer with her underthings. She wouldn’t need to protect herself against Fletcher Pitch today.

  Once she’d dressed, she hurried downstairs. Hildie had a teacup ready for her. “Something to invigorate the body and warm our hands.”

  “I’ll take a cup,” Willodean said from her spot at the table sorting dried beans.

  “Me too,” Patty added. She helped with the sorting, but her beans formed blotchy shapes.

  Hildie shook her head. “You girls may have cider.”

  Abby found the cider jug and poured portions into two clean jam jars, all the while lifting silent prayers for Berthanne and Almos. May the men find them quickly today, Lord. Guide their steps, sharpen their vision. Forgive me for sending them out…Lord, may it not have been to their deaths.

  “What’s wrong?” Hildie took the cider cups and offered them to the girls.

  “Just praying for Almos and Berthanne.”

  “We all are.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Drink your juice, girls.”

  Willodean slurped a sip. “We had tea at school, Mama, but Miss Bracey said you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I don’t. I imagine it warmed you up inside.”

  “A little, but not much. We didn’t drink tea at Mr. Crabtree’s. Just water. We also ate beans and fried mush but no green vegetables because Mr. Crabtree didn’t have any.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have enough to share.”

  “No, he rea
lly didn’t have any.” Abby shook her head. “I don’t think he cooks beyond tins of beans and ham. He had cornmeal but no lard or butter.”

  Hildie examined the girls’ progress with the lima beans. “We’ll have to invite him to supper to thank him for keeping you all safe.”

  “That would be kind.” Abby sat beside Patty and watched her chubby fingers create shapes with the beans.

  This was such a comfort, this quiet, gentle time together in a warm kitchen. No investigation into which of her students, Micah or Kyle, was Fletcher Pitch’s son. No thoughts of Pitch at all, just agreeable company and the absence of strife. At times over the past two days, she hadn’t known if she would experience such homey pleasures again, or if she’d have a chance to make things truly right.

  Hildie sat down by Willodean. “Why are you smiling, Abby?”

  Was she smiling? “I’m grateful for the moment, is all. It’s a wonderful thing, to be back with friends.”

  Hildie met Abby’s gaze and held it for long, wordless seconds before she smiled. “It is indeed, my friend.”

  Willodean looked up. “Friends are good.”

  “You’re my best fwend,” Patty said, patting Willodean’s arm.

  Hildie and Abby exchanged a warm smile.

  The girls finished their cider and pranced to the parlor to find the cat. Abby poured water atop the lima beans. “Speaking of friends, I’m eager to visit Mr. Yates.”

  Hildie’s mouth twisted. “He’s your friend?”

  “Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but yes.” Maybe she should use this opportunity to confide in Hildie. Not everything, of course. But something. Her heart raced like a rabbit’s as she resumed her seat. “We have a lot in common.”

  “Is he from Chicago?”

  “I don’t think so. I meant in our pasts.”

  Someone knocked on the front door. Abby and Hildie exchanged glances. They hadn’t heard horses. They hurried to the entry, and Hildie swung the door open. Dash stood on the porch, eyes wide, hat in hand.

  “We’ve found them. Berthanne and Almos.”

  “Found them,” Abby repeated, her voice a whisper. “Are they … oh Dash, are they alive?”

  Had Dash forgotten to say? “Yes, sorry. Not a cold finger or toe. Or a whisker, as far as Stripey is concerned. They found shelter at a neighbors’ house.”

  “Whose?” Hildie beckoned him inside.

  “The Reinharts’. Haven’t met them yet, but they’re an older couple to the north of the Sweet farm,” he said.

  “The Reinharts aren’t on the way home from school for those two.” Hildie’s brow furrowed. “Did the storm confuse them?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. They’d taken a roundabout route to kill time so their folks wouldn’t know they were sent home early.”

  Abby’s pulse pounded in her chest, pushing sweet relief through her veins. “Thank God.”

  Hildie blew out a breath. “Amen to that. Care for tea? It’s hot, but I can brew coffee if you prefer.”

  “Tea’s fine.” Anything to warm his bones.

  Hildie hung Dash’s coat on the tree and led them into the kitchen. Willodean and Patty came too, and Willodean pointed at the chair closest to the stove for him. Grinning his thanks, Dash took a seat, allowing the heat to warm him. “Thank you.”

  Abby poured him a cup of tea and sat beside him. “Why didn’t anyone find the children yesterday?”

  “The Reinharts had some high drifts to contend with.”

  “I heard you say Stripey lived.” Willodean leaned on his chair.

  “Yes, and while I don’t think they were thrilled by their four-legged guest, he stayed in the cellar and didn’t spray anything.”

  The little girls found that hilarious. Not so much the big ones, but they smiled. His gaze met Abby’s as she swiped a tear. “What is it, Abby?”

  “God’s good.”

  “Yes, He is.”

  Hildie set out a chipped plate of cookies. “Where’s my husband?”

  “He went to search for someone’s cow, and he said he’ll be home shortly.” Dash reached for a cookie. Its sugar sweetness made a perfect complement to the tea.

  “No molasses in these,” Abby said.

  “I can tell.” He grinned.

  Hildie looked between them, biting her lip. “You must stay for lunch, Mr. Lassiter. We’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted.”

  Should he? Dash looked to Abby for permission. Both knew this was about more than a neighborly lunch. For Abby and Dash, this would be the first normal thing they’d done together since deciding to move toward peace. She nodded.

  “I’d love lunch. The inn’s not expecting me back until afternoon.”

  Abby pushed back her tea. “In the meantime, Dash, would you like to, er, study?”

  “I’d love to, er, study, if Mrs. Elmore doesn’t mind.”

  Hildie burst into laughter. “Depends on what you mean by study.”

  “Oh bother, I didn’t mean anything like that.” Abby’s cheeks enflamed.

  Dash should rescue her from her embarrassment, even though it brought the most endearing flush to her cheeks. “She’s trying to spare me from humiliation, Mrs. Elmore. You see, I’m not a good reader.”

  “I’m not either. I prefer my ladies’ journals to Abby’s thick books any day.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t do well with your journals, either.” Dash shrugged. “I’m hopeless.”

  “Nothing’s hopeless. I’m proof of that.” Abby rose. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You really can’t read?” Willodean’s head tilted at an adorable angle. “Not well. My writing’s pretty bad too.”

  “Hostlers don’t need reading and writing, Willodean,” Hildie said.

  But Secret Service operatives did, and while Dash figured he wouldn’t leave here today reading or writing, at least he’d have some time with Abby.

  She returned with a slate and a primer. He hated those things. Memories of painful recitations made his palms sweat. He wasn’t a boy anymore, though. He’d proven he could meet all sorts of challenges, with God’s help. He could give this another go too.

  She scooted in her chair. “Ready?”

  He’d never be ready, but he nodded.

  She opened a book. “Read this to me.”

  It was a book for babies, with big font and a picture of a calf. Dash swallowed his pride. Deep breath.

  “Take your time,” Abby said.

  “It’s a cow, Mr. Lassiter.” Willodean climbed onto his legs.

  “Moo.” Patty giggled.

  He tweaked their curls. “Thanks for the help, ladies.”

  Hildie leveled Willodean with a look. “Come, let’s find the cat.”

  Willodean settled deeper into Dash’s lap. “Patchy Polly’s sleeping in the parlor, Mama. I wanna stay here.”

  “No.” Hildie crooked her finger.

  Mumbling, Willodean crawled off Dash’s lap and trudged out of the room with her mother and Patty.

  The Elmore females may have left the kitchen, but Dash’s shame hung thick in the air. “This is useless, Abby.”

  “Pfft. How did your father teach you to shoot a rifle?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything. So, did he hand you the rifle and tell you to figure it out?” He rubbed his forehead. “You know he didn’t.”

  “Remind me again. You were shooting game birds. And …” She motioned for him to finish the story.

  “I missed every target, so he told me to slow down. Not to look ahead of the bird but at the bird. And once I hit one, he said I’d done well but had to keep practicing.”

  “And it worked, because you became an excellent shot.” She leaned closer to whisper. “How did you come to be able to distinguish genuine currency from counterfeit? Especially Pitch’s?”

  He’d told her it was the feel of the paper, hadn’t he? Ah. She hadn’t forgotten but wanted him to focus on things he could do well, not w
hat he couldn’t do. “Some bad bills are thinner paper than the government’s. His is the tiniest bit thicker, such high quality others don’t notice at first touch. Some see imperfections in counterfeits, but I feel a difference in the paper.”

  “I can’t do that.” She stabbed her index finger into the tabletop. “I got four dollars from Mr. Flowers and they felt the same to me.”

  Her suspicious mind! “It was one dollar, Abby. That doesn’t make him a—”

  “My point is,” she interrupted, “I couldn’t tell a difference, but you can.” She sat back, looking satisfied. “You have many talents, Dash. Things that come easy, like horses and feeling paper. Other things require more effort, like shooting. Or reading. So, as your father said, slow down. Don’t look ahead of the bird—or the word, as it were. Let’s practice.”

  All right, then. “This word’s easy. Here. Here a is, um, yo—I think it’s young com. Cow. Not com.” He puffed out a breath. “Abby, it’s a tangle of weeds to me.”

  “I know. Try the next line.”

  “The—I know it says calf because of the picture.”

  “Copy the word for me.” She extended the slate.

  He did it, and she pointed at the last letter. “That’s backwards.”

  Argh. “I didn’t mean it to be.”

  “I think I know what this is. Your m’s and w’s, and other letters being backwards.”

  “Isn’t it called stupidity?” He laughed at himself.

  “No, as I’ve told you a million and one times. It’s called word blindness.”

  “My vision’s fine.” He thought, anyway.

  “I didn’t give it the name. Some doctor did, in an article I read. He says some people read words out of order or confuse letters that look similar, like m and w. Or b and d. Or letters seem to move around on the page.”

  That didn’t happen for him, but the swapping letters? Sounded right. “What does he say to do about it?”

  She sighed. “Not much.”

  Dash burst into laughter. “Wonderful.” He swiped a tear from his eye.

  Abby laughed too. “But I say we can do something, or at least try. When you learned to shoot game, your father had you slow down. Let’s try that, focusing on one letter at a time. Then one word at a time. When you finish a word, ask if it makes sense, just like you did with cow. You’ve always compensated for your reading struggles, memorizing math facts and Bible verses. I think you can compensate when it comes to reading too.”