Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 6

  His wife’s sister. He was attracted to his sister-in-law!

  When they reached the house, he tossed the reins to Sam and bolted for his office and the brandy decanter.

  * * *

  After supper that night, Zane went outside to rock in the porch swing in the soft evening air, sweet with honeysuckle. Then, to his horror, Winifred joined him.

  They said nothing for a long time, then she drew in a steadying breath and lightly touched his arm.

  “I must leave, Zane.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “I have a concert in two weeks, and I must prepare.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve grown to love Rosemarie. I would like to come back at Christmastime. If I may.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I will go tomorrow, then. The train leaves at noon.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. “I’ll drive you to the station in the buggy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We will miss you. All of us—Rosemarie and Sam and...and me.”

  There was nothing more to say. He felt as if a candle were being extinguished. It made no sense.

  He rose abruptly, stalked inside the house and tramped upstairs to hold his baby daughter in his arms.

  Winifred waited until his footsteps faded, then slipped through the front door and into his office and searched until she found the brandy decanter.

  * * *

  At eleven o’clock the following searingly hot morning, Zane drove Winifred to catch the train. Neither spoke. At the station he helped her down and carried her valise into the station house while she purchased her ticket.

  He watched her fold the ticket into her reticule and felt his gut clench. He was torn about her leaving. He would miss seeing her across the table at breakfast, miss watching her rocking his baby daughter to sleep, watching her thrash across the swimming hole learning to swim.

  Oh, hell, he’d just miss her.

  Yes, he was still grieving for Celeste. Yes, he was lonely. He’d thought he was so numb with grief he was dead inside.

  But he’d miss Winifred.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t be around her. Shouldn’t be around her. He was glad she was leaving.

  The train was late and every minute they waited was awkward. Zane walked the length of the platform, stopped where Winifred stood waiting, her valise beside her, then walked another length. When he returned to her side she did not look at him.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Winifred?”

  She looked up at his voice. “Yes, Zane?”

  “I’m glad you came. I dreaded it. Dreaded meeting you, at first, but...”

  “But you’re glad I am leaving.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

  “Yes. And no.”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t explain. Please don’t.”

  He nodded. He couldn’t explain even if he wanted to.

  Suddenly she pivoted away from him. “There’s the train. I hear the whistle.” She moved toward the tracks. He grabbed up her valise and followed.

  The locomotive engine whooshed past, slowing to position the passenger car in front of the loading platform. Winifred kept her back to him until she reached the iron boarding step, then turned to face him. With one hand she reached for the valise he carried, and with the other she reached for him.

  He enveloped her hand in both of his, opened his mouth to say goodbye and found he had no voice.

  She smiled at him again. “You don’t have to say anything, Zane.”

  He cleared his throat. “Come back,” he said.

  She pressed her lips together and inclined her head. Tears shone in her eyes.

  September 20th

  Dear Zane,

  My concert on the seventeenth went well—actually better than I expected. I didn’t have a speck of stage fright, as I usually do. Cissy never had qualms about performing; I was always the one with shaking hands and a fluttery heart. I played some of her favorites—Brahms waltzes and a Beethoven sonata or two. No Chopin.

  My teaching load at the conservatory will increase with the new term beginning in January. I have plenty of students already—more than the other professors—and one or two intermediates show considerable promise. Often I look at them and wonder if I was ever that young. They are so serious, so disciplined, so full of hope.

  Next month I will play in Chicago with an orchestra, and after that in New York City and then Boston. My career in music—the life both Cissy and I dreamed of since we were in pinafores—is terribly important to me. Even more, now that Cissy is gone, and that is strange in a way because I could never have imagined doing this without her. But it is everything to me now, perhaps because... Oh, I don’t know, really.

  I am working very hard, harder than last term, with many more concert engagements. By November I will surely need a rest.

  One of my fellow faculty members, Millicent Erhard, has invited me to her home in Rochester for two weeks; she promises lots of music “for fun.” That will be a relief.

  Kiss Rosemarie for me.

  Winifred

  October 3rd

  Dear Winifred,

  Rosemarie thrives, though half the county is down with influenza. I have been at the hospital day and night as our permanent nurse, Elvira Sorensen—did you meet her?—came down with it last week and I am training another woman who is not nearly as conscientious. Good nurses are hard to find.

  You will not believe this next: Sam is getting married! He has been saving the salary I pay him, and adding his winnings at fan-tan, which he plays with Uncle Charlie—the baker, remember? Three months ago he sent to his family in China for a “respectable girl with not a loud voice.” He included money for her fare to Portland, and she should arrive before Christmas. I am enlarging Sam’s room off the kitchen and installing a small bathroom for them as well.

  I would like to give him a wedding gift, but do not know what would be appropriate. Perhaps you will have some ideas.

  One of my patients, a farmer by the name of Peter Jensen, is holding a winter dance in his barn on Saturday. He wants me to come in case a fight breaks out. Why not the sheriff, I wonder? But Sam is urging me to “get out of house.” The weather will be crisp. I have given up brandy so must make do with hot cider.

  I wonder what you will think of New York City, and Rochester. It should be snowing by then. I also wonder if you can ice-skate. It was my greatest pleasure in the winter when I was growing up, and it cost little so it was no strain on Mother’s finances.

  Zane

  PS: Sam has adopted a stray kitten “for mice in the pantry,” which I don’t believe for one minute.

  Chapter Seven

  A snowy November passed slowly, with nothing for Winifred to do but practice for her next concert and teach. She thought she would go mad cooped up inside until the trip to Rochester with Millicent. But the week away from her duties passed quickly, and now nothing could assuage her restlessness.

  Her piano students performed flawlessly at the winter recital the conservatory held each year, and in mid-December the term ended. As soon as she could escape the endless faculty meetings to plan for next term, she purchased her train ticket and wired Zane.

  Just think! Rosemarie might be crawling by now. She shopped for a frilly dress for her and tiny soft slippers to match, then on impulse bought a handsome quilted comforter for Sam and his new bride and had it shipped via Wells Fargo. It should arrive before she did. And, she hoped, before Sam’s new bride from China made her appearance.

  The night before the train departed for the West she found she couldn’t sleep. Rosemarie would be almost five months old by now. She missed the baby’s grip on her forefinger. She missed holding her in her arms and singing
nonsense songs to her. Missed seeing her grow and change. She even missed Zane.

  He wrote that he swam in the river right up until the first frost. It was a wonder he didn’t catch influenza. Or perhaps he had, and that was why there had been no answer to her telegram.

  At four in the morning she could lie still no longer. She climbed out of her narrow bed and began to pack her valise.

  * * *

  The train from the East was late, held up in Colorado by an avalanche across the tracks, Charlie, the stationmaster, explained. Zane hoped Winifred had a warm winter coat and gloves or a muff to protect her hands. He paced back and forth on the platform, then went inside for hot coffee and the latest news, then began pacing again.

  He guessed he was nervous. He hadn’t been this nervous when Winifred had first arrived in Smoke River last August, but he hadn’t known her then. He shouldn’t be nervous now, but there it was; his heartbeat wouldn’t calm down and his palms were damp.

  When at last the arriving locomotive sounded a warning whistle, Zane stepped forward. The train chuffed to a stop amid a cloud of white steam and sat huffing on the track while the passengers debarked. He held his breath until he saw her, swathed in a long black coat and wearing a black fur hat. She looked so beautiful his chest ached.

  “Winifred!”

  She spotted him and waved one hand. They fought their way toward each other through a throng of people, and by the time they were within shouting distance both spoke at once. Steam puffed out of their mouths.

  He stopped a scant foot in front of her and started to laugh. “We look like smoke-eaters,” he said.

  “Or polar bears. Oh, Zane, I’m so glad to see you!”

  He said nothing, just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She spoke, but her voice was muffled against his overcoat. Then she raised her face and smiled at him.

  “I am dizzy with the altitude again. But this time my corset is not so tight because I do hate your smelling salts!”

  “Good,” was all he could say.

  She rubbed her gloved hands together. “Out here in the West you have weather that is too hot and weather that is too cold. Is there nothing in between?”

  “Yes, we have fall. But you went away before that. And spring is nice. Just right for swimming.”

  She laughed. “You mean you don’t swim now, in the ice and snow?”

  “Only if I’ve had too much hard cider.” In one hand he hoisted her valise—larger this time—and grasped her elbow with the other, steering her toward the waiting buggy.

  When they arrived at the house Zane walked her to the front door, then drove the buggy around back to the barn. Sam met her with Rosemarie in his arms.

  “Welcome back, missy.” He held the baby out to her.

  Her heart stuttered as she gathered her niece in her arms.

  “Oh, you’ve grown so big! And teeth! Let me look—why, you have three, no, four front teeth.”

  “Another come soon,” Sam announced with a dimpled grin. “Much smart baby. Chew on toes.”

  Winifred buried her nose in the child’s soft neck and breathed in the sweet scent of her skin. “Now that I am here, little one, you can chew on my fingers. Would you like that, my darling girl? Would you?”

  “Of course she would,” a masculine voice said. “She even likes my fingers, which must taste of alcohol or iodine.”

  Sam whisked her valise upstairs and Zane helped her out of the heavy winter coat, laid it over the banister and turned to her. “Are you hungry? Or thirsty?”

  “Both,” she said.

  “A sandwich? Or some hot soup? There’s leftover tomato soup from dinner and some cold chicken.” He shucked his own coat while he spoke and laid it over hers.

  “Both,” she said again. “Oh, it is so good to be here!”

  He lifted Rosemarie out of her arms and propped her against his shoulder. “Where did you get that hat, if I may ask?” He reached out and ruffled the dark fur.

  “From a fancy store in downtown St. Louis. Do you like it?” She took it off and offered it to him.

  “Makes you look like a Russian Cossack.”

  “Da.” She gave him a mock salute.

  He laughed. “March,” he ordered. “To the table.” He took the chair opposite her, the baby nodding against his shoulder. “Sam,” he said, when the houseboy padded down the stairs. “Could you warm up the soup?”

  She felt giddy all of a sudden. From the altitude? From the enveloping warmth in the room? From...

  Oh, Lord. She dared not think what the cause might be.

  Sam set a bowl of steaming tomato soup before her, then brought chunks of warm bread and a plate of butter. “Make chocolate cake, too. And special cookies.”

  “Why, Sam, I didn’t know you could make cakes.”

  “Bride come day after tomorrow.” He beamed with such joy Winifred prayed that whoever the girl turned out to be she would be deserving of this unusual man.

  Zane chuckled. “I never saw a more nervous groom. Unless,” he added with a sigh, “it was me, when I married your sister.”

  As Winifred watched, the smile on his face faded, replaced by an odd, puzzled expression.

  “You eloped with Cissy, as I recall. She never told me where you were married.”

  “In the chapel at the medical college. She was afraid to tell you beforehand.”

  Winifred said nothing. Cissy must have been blinded by love. “Were you happy, Zane?” The question popped out before she could think.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  All at once she felt drained. Four days on the train had tired her more than she realized. “Sam?” she called. “Could you make me some tea and bring it up to my room?”

  “Try the mint tea,” Zane murmured. He shifted a fussing Rosemarie to his other shoulder. “Bring her some mint tea,” he called to the kitchen. “And it’s time for Rosemarie’s bottle.”

  She preceded Zane up the stairs to the same room she had occupied last summer, and Zane disappeared into his adjacent bedroom with Rosemarie. No doubt the bassinet still rested by his bed. Heat spread through her chest like warm molasses. Zane had loved Cissy. And he loved his daughter.

  Rosemarie had four new teeth, she marveled. And Sam was bringing a new bride all the way from China! Life moved on. And she...well, she was playing seven concerts this coming year and increasing her teaching hours. She would be so busy she wouldn’t have time to think, but it was the life she had wanted.

  She sank down onto the yellow quilt and closed her eyes. Her life at the St. Louis conservatory and on the concert stage was what she’d dreamed of ever since she was five years old and playing on her first piano. And later, with Cissy, they planned for such exciting things—concerts abroad and tours throughout the United States.

  Sam tapped on the door, set a tea tray on the dresser and stole into the hallway as silent as a shadow. Then she heard Zane’s bedroom door open and a happy gurgle from Rosemarie.

  Oh, Cissy, I am so sorry you are missing this. So very, very sorry. You gave up so much to be with Zane, and then bear his daughter. If there is a heaven, dearest sister, I hope more than anything that you are at peace.

  * * *

  The next morning Winifred found herself studying the dining room, then moving into the library and assessing it as well. Nothing suggested that it was Christmas, not a decorated tree, no festive ribbons festooning the doorways or winding up the banister, not even a single sprig of holly. She had brought presents, but there was no Christmas tree to put them under. She decided to do something about it.

  After breakfast she asked Sam to find a tree she could decorate.

  “Will ask sawmill man,” he said. “Bring in afternoon.”

  Sure enough, during Rosemarie’s nap, the Chinese man dragge
d a fragrant Douglas fir into the library and set it up on a wooden stand. Winifred stared at it for a full half hour before deciding how to adorn the bare branches.

  That afternoon, while Zane was at the hospital, she paid a visit to the dressmaker, Verena Forester, and returned with seven yards of red ribbon. Quickly she cut it into short lengths and tied pretty red bows onto each tree branch. When she finished, it looked so beautiful her throat hurt.

  Then she fashioned a lacy star from four white paper doilies and spread a red tablecloth beneath the tree. On top she laid the gaily wrapped presents she had brought from St. Louis.

  “Much pretty,” Sam observed, then turned a worried look on her. “Boss won’t like.”

  True, Zane might not appreciate it, but she didn’t care. Rosemarie would love it!

  At supper that evening Zane didn’t say a word about the tree until she asked him about it point blank. “Do you like the Christmas tree I decorated?”

  “What tree?”

  “In the library. Go look.”

  He returned a few moments later, his eyes shiny. “That was good of you, Winifred. Celeste had boxes of fancy ornaments stored up in the attic, but I never liked them much. And after she—Well, I like your red ribbons. Very original.”

  His words brought a rush of heat into her chest. If she didn’t know better she’d think she was moved by his approval.

  But she did know better. Winifred Von Dannen was too old to be moved by Christmas trees or red ribbons or a busy physician’s approval or anything else. Still, she found herself smiling at him.

  And later, when Rosemary gurgled and pointed a finger at her creation, Winifred felt her own eyes fill with tears.

  * * *

  Zane drove Sam to the station to meet the train bringing his houseboy’s new bride. They arrived two hours early because Sam was fidgeting so much he kept the house in an uproar and Zane couldn’t stand it any longer. The houseboy had changed Rosemarie’s perfectly dry diaper twice, spent an hour combing and rebraiding the long black queue that hung down his back, pressed and re-pressed every dress Winifred had brought with her and even steamed her green velvet gown and hung it in the empty hall closet, so nothing would wrinkle it. Unconcerned by all the bustle, the kitten curled in the corner, asleep.