Winter Dreams
Trana Mae Simmons
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Copyright 2011 by Trana Mae Simmons
Winter Dreams originally published by
Berkley/Jove as part of the Homespun Line,
in 1997
Tennessee Waltz Excerpt Copyright 2011 by Trana Mae Simmons
Tennessee Waltz originally published by
Berkley/Jove as part of the Homespun Line
in 1997
Smashwords Edition
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, or by any means existing now or in the future, in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
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Trana Mae Simmons proves her versatility as she leaves her traditional settings to take her reader to Minnesota on a great historical journey…Winter Dreams is a dream of an Americana historical romance. Reviewed by Harriet Klausner - 4+ Stars
Winter Dreams is a fast-paced historical romance that brings alive the grueling endurance required of dog [sled] racing…[Simmons'] last masterpiece was in Tennessee and, like this novel, well worth reading. Reviewed by Romance and Women's Fiction Exchange
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Discover Other E-book Romances by
Trana Mae Simmons http://www.tranamaesimmons.com/
Chrissy's Wish
Forever Angels
Tennessee Waltz
Town Social
Available Soon as E-books:
Witch Angel (from Belgrave House)
Spellbound (from Belgrave House)
Southern Charms (from Belgrave House)
Montana Surrender (from the author)
Bittersweet Promises (from the author)
Mountain Magic (from the author)
***
Paranormal Mystery E-Books Writing as
T. M. Simmons http://www.iseeghosts.com/
Dead Man Talking
Dead Man Haunt
Dead Man Hand (available soon)
True Ghost Story E-books Writing as T. M. Simmons:
Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I
Ghost Hunting Diary, Volume II
Ghost Hunting Diary Volume III (available soon)
***
Dedication
To my sister, Annie, with love for all her help with housework
while I'm busy writing — even helping me proof!
Much, much appreciated, Sis.
***
Chapter 1
Grand Marais, Minnesota
October, 1909
Sandy glared across the wide expanse of polished desk at Tom Goodman. The other man leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Thoughts racing like a wolf snared in a wilderness trail trap, Sandy damned Goodman for taking advantage of him when he was down on his luck.
But Goodman didn't know how broke he was, and Sandy had enough pride left to not want his potential employer to realize he had him over a barrel. He also needed to be sure Goodman didn't probe into the reason he'd left Alaska and hightailed it to a town in Minnesota few Alaskans even knew existed. By necessity, he had made the trip in record time, even with stopping to pick up his sister, Cristy.
The problem was, he couldn't swallow the new information — the information Goodman conveniently failed to disclose until after Sandy arrived.
"Let me get this straight," Sandy said. "I knew from your telegrams the position in your shipping company wouldn't open up until next spring, so I agreed to train your sled dogs over the winter. But you forgot to mention two things to me. One, your dogs aren't the Malamutes I'm used to — they're this new breed of Husky invading both Alaska and the States. And two — the 'musher' I'm supposed to train to run in an Alaskan race four months from now is your daughter?"
Goodman pursed his lips and nodded, a twinkle fleeting through his eyes and a corner of his lips quirking. "That appears to be about it. We've already discussed everything else as to the arrangements. You'll have living quarters at our home, Ladyslipper Landing, which is just a little northwest of town." His voice grew sterner. "And make no mistake, Sandy, the kennels are for the most part my daughter Laura's responsibility, but I keep a sharp eye on what she's doing. She's my only child."
Sandy leaned back in his chair, a disbelieving whoosh of breath escaping. If the man was so damned protective of his daughter, what the hell was he doing agreeing to the ridiculous idea of her competing in an Alaskan race?
"Mr. Goodman . . . ."
"Tom, please," the older man broke in. "After all, we'll be in contact quite a bit down through the coming months. This is a very small town, with only a population of a little over three hundred people, and most of us are on a first-name basis. Besides, when you call me 'mister,' I think of my father."
"Fine," Sandy conceded. "But listen, Tom. Do you have any idea how dangerous it could be for a woman to run in one of these Alaskan races? Good lord, man! We're talking a week on the trail, solely accountable for yourself and your dogs!"
"I understand they have checkpoints and overnight accommodations set up at periodic spots. Besides, you'll be running with her, with me paying all your expenses. Laura has her heart set on this. In fact, she won't agree to set a wedding date with her fiancé, David, until she makes an attempt at this race."
Sandy stared at the man, incredulous. Tom Goodman didn't look like a fool. At somewhere around his mid-forties, he was still fit and could probably handle a team himself for an entire week. Gray had infiltrated his hair, liberally in his sideburns and enough in the rest of it to lighten what must have been a dark auburn color in his youth. Yet along with his confident demeanor, the signs of aging seemed to bespeak experience and knowledge, not a weakening or physical laxity.
Knowing from his friend, Ted, in Alaska that Tom Goodman was filthy rich — had even more money than Sandy's former father-in-law — Sandy had expected to find a man in an expensive suit and with condescending manners. Instead Tom Goodman wore a pair of wool trousers and a red plaid shirt similar to what lumberjacks favored. A heavy parka hung on the coat rack in the corner of the office. As in Alaska, the fall evenings in Minnesota could be extremely chilly, with nights of biting cold.
Sandy started to speak, but thought better of it when he realized he was on the verge of calling the man an utter idiot. He couldn't afford to antagonize Goodman. Blowing out a breath instead of the ill-advised words, he gazed around the office, playing for a little time. Instinct told him that Goodman saw through his ploy when the other man pursed his lips and nodded his head slightly, yet Tom allowed Sandy time to think over his decision.
Unlike Tom's practical appearance, the office reflected wealth. Sandy had passed at least a dozen various smaller offices built from logs or weathered clapboard on his journey to the huge log complex housing Tom's place of business. In this room, which he used for his office, floor to ceiling windows opened the view to the grandeur of the Lake Superior Harbor and the rugged shoreline north of them. Sandy had also s
een the Goodman name on several of the gray-planked, weathered warehouses beside the docks when they arrived by ship that morning.
According to Ted, Tom owned a shipping company, a logging and lumber company, and even employed some commercial fishermen. He had his finger in every successful pie in Grand Marais. Now he seemed to want to spend some of his excess money on his daughter and her sled dogs, since it was a fairly expensive undertaking to ship an entire team clear across the States, then north to Alaska and back here — two teams, with Sandy accompanying her. He should have an idea of the cost, since he'd just completed a one-way journey of that type with his dogs himself.
And Sandy having to return to Alaska as part of the job he so sorely needed had been the other thing Tom forgot to mention. That couldn't happen, but if he admitted that to Goodman right now, he might as well give up any chance of landing the position.
"Why me?" Sandy asked.
"You came highly recommended by Ted Erickson," Tom replied without hesitation. "Ted did a fine job for me as my right hand man in my shipping company, before he got itchy feet and headed up to Alaska. He said he wanted to sow his wild oats before he started looking for a wife. I sent him an inquiry, and it was a real stroke of luck when Ted told me that you had the qualifications for both the dog trainer and shipping management positions I need to fill."
"I can handle your shipping position," Sandy agreed. "It's the same type of job I had in Alaska, and I kept things organized enough to give me time to train and race my dogs. But my dogs were beaten in the last race I ran — by a team of Huskies."
"Ah, those Huskies," Tom said with a chuckle. "I've heard there's some resentment directed at the breed, mostly from established mushers — the ones who've used Malamutes and Eskimo dogs from the beginning."
"Some?" Sandy muttered. "I'd call that an understatement."
"Laura's been working with her Huskies for several years now. She was one of the first breeders to import a couple pair after they were discovered in Siberia, and we saw some skepticism here, too, when her dogs first arrived. But I think you'll find she's put together a hell of a team."
Sandy stood, prepared to leave. "I'll have to consider this turn of events. Can I get back with you tomorrow?"
"Of course." Rounding the desk, Tom walked beside him to the door, where he extended his hand for a leave-taking. "I'll be in my office here in the morning by eight."
Briefly, Sandy shook Tom's hand, then left the office, closing the door behind him carefully rather than with the sharp thud his emotions dictated. No sense burning any bridges by flagrant discourteousness to Goodman. He'd sort all this information out overnight and be sure he made the best decision by tomorrow.
What sort of woman could Tom's daughter be? He visualized a somewhat homely tomboy, who's fiancé was probably content to postpone their wedding. Money had bought more than one less-than-comely female a husband. But women like his dead wife, Colleen, drew men with their beauty as well as their trust funds.
Colleen had been lovely with her auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. Despite her snooty parents, she had also been one of the most loving and giving women Sandy had ever met. It still hurt him almost beyond bearing whenever he remembered Colleen's dim, pain-filled eyes and ravaged body as she slipped away from him. She'd left him their wonderful six-year-old daughter, Tracie, however, and Tracie was already showing signs of the same beauty her as mother — both in her face and in her bubbly personality.
He looked for Tracie now, scanning the snow-covered street filled with dog paw and sled runner tracks, as well as deeper impressions of horses' hooves and wagon wheels. Up the street he saw a team of huge draft horses pulling a wagon of freshly cut logs. Virgin pine, some of the trees were too large for even four men standing in a circle to reach around. As soon as a little more snow covered the ground, the wagons would be exchanged for lumber sleds in order to continue the work as long as possible into the winter months. Most of the other transportation waiting at the various storefronts was either dogsleds or smaller wagons. None of those horseless carriages had made it this far north — less than a hundred miles from Canada — although he'd seen a few of them in Duluth.
He didn't see Tracie up that way. When she had asked permission to wait outside while he reported to Tom Goodman, his daughter had assured him that she would remain within seeing distance. An obedient child, she would keep her promise.
His sister, Cristy, had remained down on the docks while Sandy and Tracie walked on into town, insisting she would verify that all of the dogs were unloaded and every piece of their baggage taken from the ship's hold. He assumed she was as much interested in making sure none of her art supplies were left on board as anything else. He smiled when he saw her still down on the shore, standing beside a wind-weathered warehouse. Staring out over the water, she was probably mentally setting up her easel, her artist's eye panning the distance and transferring the sights to the canvas square in her mind.
Though he was supposedly now responsible for her, since their parents had died just a few days before Sandy left Alaska, he had no idea how he would have handled Tracie on the trip without his newly-matured younger sister's help. Even though he and Tracie had to make allowances for Cristy's daydreaming propensities when her muse visited, having to rebutton Tracie's dress bodice once in a while, for the most part he and his sister had bonded in a deep friendship in addition to their blood relationship.
Ah, there was Tracie. Red braids bobbing on her back and green muffler dragging, she skipped down the walkway on the other side of the street. One mitten dropped out of her coat pocket as Sandy watched, kept from being lost because Cristy had sewn a sturdy ribbon between the pair. She reached the end of the walkway, and he started to call to her before she went down the steps. A wagon pulled by draft horses rumbled up the street just then, and he waited for it to pass before he called out.
As soon as he could see Tracie again, he caught sight of the snow-white sled dog not twenty feet from her. One of those damned Huskies, it bounded to its feet in a confrontational stance, which Sandy recognized all too well from his years of dealing with dogs. The sled it was hitched to, tilted on its side and anchored with a snow anchor, kept it in place, but Tracie wandered on down the steps. A gull flying overhead snared his daughter's attention, and she lifted an arm, probably chirping to the bird though he couldn't hear her from this distance. Her meandering steps led her closer to the dog.
"Little girl, stop!"
Sandy barely noticed the woman who emerged from a store near the other end of the street. Her shout blended with his own yell at Tracie as he pounded across the rutted ground to rescue his daughter, and from the corner of his eye he saw the woman drop her armload of packages and race in the same direction. At his charging approach, the white sled dog growled viciously, jumping and straining against its harness. Any other time Sandy would have dominated the dog into submission, but not when it was his daughter and not himself in danger.
Tracie froze, her teal blue eyes wide in trepidation as she stared back and forth between the two people racing toward her. The woman, closer from the beginning, reached her first and scooped Tracie into her arms. Sandy's booted feet slid on the frozen earth, and he barely kept from sending all three of them crashing to the ground when he gathered his daughter — along with the woman who held her — into his arms and swung them around to place himself between them and the snarling dog.
"Heavens," the woman said as she gazed up at him, her mouth right in line for him to kiss if he would have bent his head, "I do apologize for Blancheur."
"That's your damned dog?" Sandy snarled.
She nodded, a touch of fear in her green eyes. Damn, she looked more than a little bit like his dead wife with that auburn hair and sea-green eyes. He hoped Tracie didn't notice that. It was bad enough that Tracie had found him discussing the fact of today being the one-year anniversary of Colleen's death with Cristy on the trip up from Duluth this morning.
When she tried to ste
p away from him, he realized he still had his arm around her in a firm grip. A stab of consternation went through him when he felt a reluctance to remove it, and he counteracted that by jerking it free and almost snatching Tracie from the woman's arms. Then she spoke a sharp word to the Husky, which quieted immediately.
Politeness demanded he introduce himself, but Sandy didn't give a damn about that at the moment. His heartbeat needed to calm and his senses stabilize while his brain took a moment to translate the fact that his daughter hadn't been mauled. He clutched Tracie tight, and against his will, studied the woman without apology for his examination, since she didn't appear to be in a hurry to move away.
He could see calling her a woman might be stretching it. She appeared to be barely out of her teens, if that. Possibly it could be her slight stature detracting from her true age, because she couldn't be over five foot two, a couple inches shorter than his wife had been.
The greenish color of her eyes reminded him of the summer sea off the Alaskan coast, and she met his gaze expectantly now, her fear of him evidently gone and replaced by an anticipation of him introducing himself. When a cloud overhead uncovered the sun, he finally realized her hair was a much darker red than he'd thought at first — darker than Colleen's and Tracie's.
She'd opened her blue-gray, full-length cloak, although she still wore her mittens. The dark emerald gown beneath the cloak appeared to be made of wool, the hem of her skirt caught on the top of one of her boots, which were of a rather mannish style. What curves she had were less than voluptuous, and she didn't appear to have any false padding on her figure, such as extra petticoats.
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