“Yan Li?”
The girl raised her face and the most wonderful smile spread across her mouth. Winifred caught her breath. Happy? The girl was ecstatic. She bent and quickly kissed the smooth cheek.
Sam, too, was unusually sunny this morning. When he entered the kitchen with the pancake platter, Winifred stopped him and kissed his cheek, too. Then stepped over the kitten and headed for the library.
From the kitchen she heard murmured words in Chinese and a burst of delighted laughter. Oh, my. For some reason, she felt like crying. What on earth was the matter with her?
She read for a while, then heard a funny thumping noise coming toward her. She looked down, and there was Rosemarie scuttling across the floor on her hands and knees with Yan Li in pursuit.
The baby crawled over to Winifred and slapped at her shoes, cooing happily. Yan Li brought the laundry basket and settled the baby into it, close enough for Winifred to jiggle it if she cried.
Which she did the minute Yan Li left the room. Not a big wail, as if she were hungry, just a little whimper of discontent. Another new tooth, maybe.
Winifred smiled at herself. She worried over Rosemarie as if she were her mother, not just her aunt. Another small cry and she scooped her niece into her arms.
She tried humming a song, but it didn’t help. Next she tried singing the words. “Mama’s little baby loves short’nin’...” No use. This little baby didn’t love anything at all this morning.
The whimpers grew louder. In desperation Winifred rose, settled her in the laundry basket and went to the piano. At the very first chord, Rosemarie went quiet, and Winifred glanced over at the basket.
The child’s blue-green eyes were wide open, her head cocked in apparent interest. Winifred’s heart rolled over. “You like music, do you, little one?”
She began to play, first a Brahms waltz, then another, and all the while Rosemarie cooed and gurgled with happiness.
Zane returned from driving Darla home, stepped quietly into the library and stopped short. His baby daughter was staring at Winifred at the piano with such absorption he had to chuckle.
Winifred broke off midphrase. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“For God’s sake, don’t stop playing. You seem to have discovered a cure for teething babies!” He plucked Rosemarie out of the basket and settled her on his lap in the upholstered wingback chair by the fireplace.
“You don’t mind my playing the piano? I mean playing pieces that Cissy must have played?”
“I don’t, no. You play differently. And I’ve missed the music since Celeste—since she died.” He brought the baby to his shoulder, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
Winifred turned back to the keyboard. An hour later when she looked up, Zane was sound asleep with Rosemarie slumbering peacefully against his chest. She left them there and tiptoed into the kitchen to ask Sam to make a fresh pot of coffee and some toast for Zane when he woke up.
Chapter Nine
Winifred sighed and rolled over in her bed when a persistent tap at her bedroom door woke her. The door opened and Zane wheeled in the bassinet with Rosemarie snuggled under the pink flannel coverlet.
“Winifred, I have an emergency. My nurse, Elvira Sorensen, has been shot.”
“Shot!” Winifred sat straight up. “Who shot her?”
Zane blew out a long breath. “Her husband. He’s in the jail now. Marshal Johnson will take him to Boise in the morning.”
“Oh, Zane. Will she live?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try my damnedest.” He bent to kiss the baby and quietly closed the door behind him.
* * *
Zane did not leave the hospital for the next thirty-six hours. Elvira lay in a coma, the bullet lodged so deep in her breast he couldn’t risk probing for it until she was stable. If she made it at all. He sat at her bedside, paced up and down the hall, consulted with his partner, gray-haired Samuel Graham and sweated out the hours.
“Let’s wait another twelve hours, Zane,” Samuel said. “See if she regains consciousness.”
“Hard to do, Samuel. Every hour that passes she gets weaker. If we went in now, at least she wouldn’t feel it.”
“If we went in now, she might never feel anything ever again. Go home, Zane. Get some sleep.”
“Can’t. I’ll stay with her till morning.”
“I’ll stop by your house on my way home and let them know you’ll be late.” The older man turned to go.
“Oh, Samuel? Would you ask my houseboy if he’d bring some of those pancakes his wife makes?”
An hour later, Winifred arrived carrying a basket of warm pancakes and a quart jar of hot coffee wrapped in flannel. Her hat and long black coat were dusted with snow.
Zane stepped past Elvira’s hospital room and took the basket. “Snowing again?”
“Just started. How is Mrs. Sorensen?”
“Fighting hard.”
“Will she—?”
“Don’t know. Can’t operate yet. Winifred, thanks for the coffee and the food. Now go on back to the house. No use your getting your toes and fingers frozen.”
Winifred looked at him oddly, then stretched up on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek.
He stared at her, wondering if he’d dreamed what just happened. “What’s that for?”
“I don’t know. I just felt... I don’t know.”
As tired as he was, Zane smiled. “You’re one helluva puzzling woman, Winifred.”
She blushed crimson and turned away.
“Winifred.”
She halted but did not turn toward him. “One helluva woman,” he said again. “Thanks.”
Hours later, Zane stumbled through his front door so tired he could scarcely see and so drained his mind couldn’t focus. Sam met him at the bottom of the staircase, a plate in his hand.
“You hungry, Boss?”
“Hell, I don’t know. What meal is next?”
“Breakfast. You miss supper.”
Zane ran his hands through his hair. “It’s still dark outside. Got any coffee?”
“Make fast. Toast, too.”
“Just coffee. Bring it upstairs, could you?”
“Right away, Boss.”
“Is everyone asleep?”
“Baby in Missy Winifred’s room, but she wait up for you.”
For some reason Sam’s words spread warmth into his chest but he was too exhausted to analyze why. He tramped up the stairs to his bedroom, threw himself across the quilt and laid his arm across his eyes. He heard the tap on his door and it swung open.
“Leave it on the nightstand, Sam. And leave the lamp on downstairs and the door open. I don’t want to light a candle. Afraid I’ll knock it over. And thanks, Sam.”
“It isn’t Sam, Zane. It’s me.” Winifred sat down on the bed beside him. “How is Mrs. Sorensen?”
“Alive. We got the bullet out. I’d like to shoot her husband for putting her through this.”
Sam slipped in and quietly set a tray of coffee and toast on the nightstand. When he left, Winifred started to rise, but Zane reached out his hand and grasped her arm. “Stay. Please.”
He felt her stiffen, and without thinking he wrapped both arms around her. “Don’t go.”
“I must, Zane. It’s very late, and I—”
“Please.” He pulled her forward and splayed his fingers on her bare neck. He guessed she had on a night robe of some sort—it felt silky. She smelled of soap and lemons.
His hand moved to the hairpins holding her coiled braids in place; slowly he began to slip them free, then unbound the braids and combed his fingers through the thick waves.
“Zane,” she said softly. “Stop. You’re so tired you aren’t thinking clearly.”
“I know
exactly what I’m doing.”
“You’re exhausted. And you need to eat something. Here, have some toast.”
“I’d rather have this. You.”
She jerked upright.
He groaned. “Forget it. You’re right, I’m not thinking clearly. I hardly know what I’m saying.”
She broke off a piece of toast and poked it past his lips. “Eat.” Obediently he chewed and swallowed.
“It’s been an awful night, Winifred.”
She offered another piece of toast, and then another, and raised his head for a sip of coffee.
“More,” he murmured. When she replaced the cup on the tray he pulled her down until her breasts grazed his shirt. “Winifred, don’t go. Not yet.” He smoothed his hands down her silk-swathed arms and felt her tremble. With a small sound she lay down beside him on the quilt, and he found himself thanking God he had a bed wide enough for two.
If he had the energy, he’d rip off her nightgown, but he didn’t. Instead he just held her and wondered vaguely what the hell he was doing.
She said nothing, and after a while he heard the door close and the dark envelop them. The last thing he remembered was her scent and her soft breathing at his side.
Hours later when he awoke she was gone. Of course. In God’s name, what had he been thinking?
The gray light outside the window told him it was already dawn. The baby must be fed and changed, apologies made to Winifred.
He gritted his teeth and rolled away from the light. He couldn’t face any of it just yet. He shucked the rest of his clothes, gulped the now-cold coffee and ate the last slice of toast. Then he crawled beneath the quilt and closed his eyes.
Zane slept around the clock. Winifred kept the baby downstairs with her so her hungry cries would not wake him. Sam retrieved the tray of coffee and Yan Li made more for her breakfast. Both of them urged Winifred to eat something, but she couldn’t.
She’d spent half the night beside Zane, but she knew he would never remember any of it, or the things he had said. He’d been up two straight nights; he must have been only half-conscious.
With a start she plunked down her coffee cup. She would never forget any of it. She would never forget how she felt when Zane touched her skin, unpinned her hair. She’d felt shaky inside, and so happy it was...it was like a strange and beautiful dream.
She must not feel such things for this man! He was her sister’s husband, her brother-in-law. Such relationships were impossible.
Late in the morning Zane finally came downstairs, his shirt rumpled and his uncombed dark hair falling into his eyes.
Winifred heard his voice from the library where she sat on the floor next to Rosemarie in her basket.
“Sam?”
“You call, Boss?”
“Any coffee left?”
“Oh, yes. Fresh pot. Also good eggs Yan Li cook.”
Zane collapsed into a dining chair and let Sam and Yan Li fuss over him. Winifred had breakfasted hours ago, but she came in from the library and sat down across from him.
“Dr. Graham stopped in an hour ago. He says Mrs. Sorensen is doing well.”
Zane nodded. “I’d still like to shoot that sonofa—”
He broke off as the doorbell rang. Sam streaked to the entry hall, and Winifred heard his voice, then the voice of Charlie Kincaid, the stationmaster.
“Telegram for Miss Von Dannen.”
Winifred half rose from her chair as Sam laid it in her hand. She ripped it open with shaking fingers and felt the blood drain from her head.
Zane looked up. “What is it?”
“Millicent, my fellow professor at the conservatory—she has had an accident. Her wrist is broken and she has committed to a concert in ten days. She wants me to play in her place.”
“Can you do that? Just step in at the last minute?”
“I—I will have to try. But it means I must return to St. Louis as soon as possible.”
“There’s a train for the East every day at noon,” Zane said. “I’ll drive you to the station.”
Winifred was packed and ready in an hour. Leaving this time was more difficult than she’d expected. Sam pressed a packet of cheese and cold chicken into her hand, and Yan Li hugged her, sniffing back tears.
But the worst part was Rosemarie, who cried and clung to her neck until Yan Li pried her arms free and cuddled her against her shoulder.
Winifred closed the front door against the baby’s wails and walked resolutely down the porch steps. Everything in her screamed “stay,” but of course she could not. She had professional obligations to fulfill.
And there was something else. While she adored her niece, she knew she had no business being in Zane’s life.
He handed her into the buggy and wrapped a fur robe about her knees. They rode in silence down the hill to the station, and he went inside to purchase her ticket.
She watched his tall form disappear into the station house and felt a queer heaviness settle under her breastbone. He was a good man. A wonderful man.
She would miss him.
They waited for the train without speaking. As before, Zane paced up the tracks and back, his hands jammed in the pockets of his overcoat, the wind ruffling his dark hair. Each time he returned to her side he held her gaze, his gray eyes somber.
At last the locomotive whistle sounded. Winifred started forward, but Zane stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Winifred, about last night...”
“It’s all right, Zane. I understand. You were exhausted, and I—”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I remember everything I did, everything I said. I meant every word.”
“Zane—”
“Oh, God, Winifred, don’t stop me or I’ll never get this said. I—I care about you.”
“Of course. I know you do. I am Celeste’s sister.”
“No, dammit, that’s not what I mean.” He curled his hands about her upper arms. “That’s not all of it.”
She looked up into a face tense with unspoken feeling. “What, then?”
“I—”
The locomotive whistle obliterated his words. The train slid past until the passenger car rolled to the platform, and Winifred moved forward.
Zane stepped ahead of her, swung her valise onto the iron boarding step and then turned back to her. He didn’t speak, just gripped her shoulders, pulled her into his arms and caught her mouth under his.
His kiss shattered her equilibrium, left her dazed and trembling and suddenly unsure of where she was or what she was doing. If his lips had moved over hers for one more second, she would never have boarded the train.
He turned her away from him and propelled her onto the iron step.
He mouthed his last words: “Come back.”
January 9th
Dear Zane,
My concert is over. I did not play brilliantly, as I would have preferred, but Pierre de Fulet, the orchestra conductor, gave me a solo curtain call and afterwards I found bouquets of beautiful flowers heaped in my dressing room.
Poor Millicent is having a difficult time with her broken wrist. It is not healing well, and I am taking all her piano students for the new term. I am also filling in for her on two more concert engagements. Heavens, I am feeling tired already.
The snow has not let up for a single day since my return. My students arrive half-frozen and only after massive doses of hot chocolate do their fingers thaw enough to play a decent scale. Unfortunately, my upcoming performances are at least one day’s journey farther east, and the trains are abominably heated. If you are fortunate enough to sit near the stove, you won’t freeze, but otherwise the weather is miserable.
My father is not well. He is eighty-seven now, and the doctors say his heart is weakening. I try to spend as man
y evenings with him as I can, but with all the concerts I am playing that is not nearly often enough. It is amazing to me that he has lasted these many years since Mama died, and for a good many of those he had two rambunctious girls underfoot. Papa was forty-seven when he married Mama, and he was almost sixty when I was born.
I must close now and do some much-needed practicing of my Beethoven. His concertos are the most demanding in my repertoire.
Winifred
February 13th
Dear Winifred,
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and the Jensens are holding another barn dance. At least it will be warmer than the last one, at Christmas. I recall wishing I had a muff such as you ladies wear!
Sam’s kitten has grown into a sleek, overfed, much-petted creature that is absolutely terrified of mice. The best-laid plans, etc. etc. Rosemarie has taken a great liking to the worthless puss and pets her for hours and sings songs to her.
Yan Li is rapidly learning English. Not only is she a fine cook, she is very intelligent and good-natured. No matter how many of my patients track mud into the entry hall, Yan Li never frowns. Sam worships her.
My nurse, Elvira Sorensen, is recuperating slowly but has made me promise not to replace her. She insists she will work at the hospital until her dying day. Her husband has been sent to the federal prison in Boise. Seems he was wanted for a murder in Idaho. Elvira certainly deserved better.
I suspect Rosemarie has a gift for music, as she hums and chatters songs of her own making with words that are unintelligible to all but the cat, who meows along with her and purrs when she stops. She will be walking when you return in June!
You are coming in June, are you not? Sarah Rose and Rooney Cloudman are expecting you at their wedding.
Yours, Zane
April 17th.
Dear Zane,
I have been so tired of late I cannot recall if I mailed a letter to you in March. I am more in demand for concerts and recitals than ever before, even when Cissy and I were a piano duo team. I have seven concerts between the end of this month and the end of May—three with full orchestra.
Millicent is able to teach again, but our combined students total twice as many as last year at this time. I wonder where all these young pianists are coming from?
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 9
