Alex always was trouble—his mother said so with a glint in her eyes, but she shooed them both out the door.
They’d lost count of the warm days, this crisp late-March snap of cold charming them to see only the shiny layer of ice. Deep under the smooth surface, however, water channeled through tunnels of warmth. Pressure from the top would add cracks, weaken their skating rink.
They hiked out on their blades, across the street to play knights, fighting with sawed-off poplar branches, then raced around the shoveled rink, the snow like blue diamonds. His toes had turned numb by the time the sun began to drift to the horizon, casting perilous shadows upon their playground.
He grabbed a rock, used his sword to knock it around. Alex headed back to the bench.
Jake heard the crack as he rounded the far edge of the snowbank.
Probably, the snow had warmed the ice underneath, weakened it, and the cracked webs grew in front of him as he watched them, mesmerized for too long.
When Jake sprinted toward shore, the ice collapsed beneath him.
The water was a thousand icy needles, searing him whole. He opened his mouth to scream and water filled his lungs.
He went down in his heavy wool jacket, tried to kick to the surface, but banged his head on the ice. His eyes burned when he opened them, his lungs on fire. He slammed his mittened hands against the ice.
Then, he was being dragged through the water, out of the hole, his head cresting the surface. He breathed in, coughed, but managed to grab the jagged side of the ice.
Alex had him by the scruff of his coat. He scooted back as he pulled Jake from the water, then rolled him away from the hole. Jake found his knees, coughed out more water, but began to crawl, scrambling away from the hole.
He heard it crack again, a shot splicing the twilight, then Alex’s shout as it crumpled under him. He turned just as Alex splashed into the dark water.
“Alex!” The cracking spider-webbed beneath him, and he scrambled back as it dissolved just beyond him.
Alex hadn’t surfaced. “Alex!” He scrambled to his feet, still coughing, his coat saturated, already shivering.
The water had sucked him under.
Alex was strong, wasn’t he? A Russian boy, a year older than himself. He’d survived the Bolshevik revolution with his mother, escaped, and started a new life in Minneapolis. “Alex!”
Jake turned and fled for his house on his skates, banging into the back entrance, screaming.
Their butler, a burly man from Ireland, had finally pulled Alex out, almost ten minutes later. Gray and not breathing. They pushed the water out of him, and Jake’s father blew oxygen into his lungs as Alex’s mother undressed him and held him to her chest in front of the fire.
Jake had turned himself into a corner, shivering under his blanket, and wept.
Dottie tucked another blanket around him as Violet returned from the kitchen. “Tea’s ready.”
Dottie went to fetch it and Violet sank down on a chair. She gave him a strange look. “Alex told me once that he fell through the ice, and his best friend saved him. Said he came onto the ice after him and nearly died when he fell in himself. Said his best friend was a real hero.”
She had eyes that could swoop every word from his chest, but this time, her story held them fast.
“That was you, wasn’t it?”
He tried to hide the horror from his eyes. Dottie came into the room carrying a cup of tea. She sat next to him and lifted it to his mouth. He sipped it, the heat traveling to his chest, where the boy had begun to shiver.
He didn’t look at Violet.
Oh, Alex, what did you tell her?
“No,” he said finally. “That wasn’t me.”
But she got up, pulled the chair toward him, and sat close enough to put her hand on the boy’s cheek. “I still think you’re a hero.”
* * * * *
Dottie set Jake’s empty cup in the sink, rinsing it. The spray rounded in the cup, hit her face, and she jerked back. But perhaps the water would hide the way her eyes burned, filmed with tears. She lifted a towel, pressed her face into it.
Oh, God simply wasn’t going to let her forget her sins, was He? He was going to make her watch this little boy die.
“Dottie.”
She didn’t lower the towel at Gordy’s soft voice. She couldn’t let him see her cry. Ever. She turned back to the sink, tossed the towel on the counter, then added soap to the water and began to clean the cup.
Gordy stepped up behind her. Too close. She could smell him—a hint of the barn, yes, but woodchips and smoke from the fire, and so much of that comforting masculine aura that she knew as well as she knew the color of the dawn over the eastern fields behind his house.
She drew in a breath. He couldn’t see her anyway, couldn’t see her hands shaking, the way the cup rattled as she set it on the counter.
He reached around her and touched her wrists. Held them. “Dottie, are you okay?”
She drew in a breath, seeing his hands holding her arms. Strong, steady hands. Hands that she trusted.
Not that she’d ever tell him.
But, in reality, he probably knew.
She shook his grip away and reached again for the towel. “Yes, of course,” she said, and her voice nearly backed her up. She turned.
If she took one step, she’d be in his arms. She could almost see herself curling her arms up around his, folding herself against his chest, lifting her face to meet his. She’d let herself have this moment too many times over the past twenty-plus years. Powerful moments when she tucked herself in the comfort of memory, now even more dangerous when he hovered so close. She pressed her hand on his chest to back him away. “I’m just worried about him.”
“Jake seems to know what he’s doing.”
“Someone needs to tell his mother he’s here.”
“Do you know him?”
She nodded. “I think his name is Arnold Shiller. This—this is his storm house.”
“His storm house?”
“They send me a notice every year. I threw out…I never dreamed—”
“No wonder he came here.”
She pinched her lips tight then went to stand by the door, peering in at Jake. Violet sat next to him, pressing her palm on the boy’s frozen cheek. “Do you think he’ll live?” Oh, he had to live.
Her eyes burned again, and she drew in a quick breath.
When she turned, Gordy had poured her a cup of tea, was handing it to her. She took it without meeting his gaze. “I think his father was in the war with Nelson. I see his mother around town. She’s—she’s not well.” Dottie slid onto a chair, staring out the window.
After a moment, Gordy pulled out the chair opposite her, sat down. He set his tea on the table, ran his wide thumb over the handle. “You’re remembering the Armistice Day blizzard, aren’t you?”
She closed her eyes. Why, thank you, Gordy, for dredging up that horror again.”
“Three days, by yourself, wondering if I’d bring Nelson home safely.”
“Of course you would bring him home safely,” she snapped. But yes, she’d sat right here, for three days, watching the world turn white and bury them all alive. “It would have been…well, maybe I wouldn’t have gone out of my mind if I’d known you’d made it back to your place safely.”
A tick of the clock.
The thunder of her heart.
Then, “I know,” Gordy said quietly. “I should have brought him straight home. I’m so sorry.”
She glanced up at him. Really? And all these years, she’d thought he’d grabbed his one opportunity to pay her back. To make her sit by the window, waiting, just like he’d done all those years earlier. “So many people died. You saved his life.”
Her own words, emerging softly, startled her as much as they apparently did him. He frowned at her, as if words had abandoned him.
“I never thanked you for that.”
“What was I going to do, Dottie. Let the boy freeze?” He turned away, toward the window, his voice sharp.
Right. She should have known better than to offer up gratitude, even forgiveness. After all, this was Gordy Lindholm. He didn’t know how to forgive.
She glanced back out to the parlor. Then outside. “I’ve got to get word to his mother that he’s okay.” She got up. “The Dersheids have a telephone. Maybe I can—”
“Stop thinking with your heart and use your head. You can’t go out there in this storm—you’ll get yourself killed. Besides, I can guarantee you that the Shillers do not have a phone, so unless you’re prepared to hike out to their farm—”
“Maybe I am.” She found her feet, leaving her teacup. “Maybe that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Oh please.” He skidded his chair back, following her. “Just stop, and think this through for one second. Why do you have to always be so impulsive!”
She turned on him, her finger at his arrogant chin. “Me? Impulsive? I haven’t been impulsive for over twenty years.”
“Once was enough.”
“Oh, for cryin’ in the sink—I make one impulsive decision and you can’t forgive me for it—even twenty-seven years later.”
“Your one impulsive moment cost me my family!”
She stilled, his words shuddering through her. His jaw tightened and he looked away, closing his eyes as he shook his head. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes you did. “
“You should have married me.”
“You should have asked.”
“I did!” His eyes were reddened now. “I did, Dottie.”
“Was that what that was? Because it seemed more like a tumble in the hay, and a command, issued by a desperate boy.”
Oh, she hadn’t meant to make that moment sound so sordid. And, when he swallowed, the hurt filling his eyes, she was right there, back in the barn, startled by the force of his ardor, as if he had something to prove to her. Her heart turned to fire as he lifted his eyes to hers, his voice low and tunneling through her.
Don’t leave Frost. Marry me, Dottie. I’m the one you want.
She gritted her teeth against the memory. How his words had stirred her ire.
He’d been correct, of course, but she couldn’t allow him to be.
She pushed past him, grabbing her father’s parka, his rabbitfurred hat.
“You’re not going out there.”
She ignored him.
“Fine.” He grabbed his coat off the peg, that flimsy wool one, and shoved a stocking cap on his head.
“You’ll freeze in ten minutes,” she said.
“Fear not, I’m angry enough to keep me warm for the next year!”
She shook her head, shoved her feet into her boots. They were still soggy from the jaunt out to the barn, but she didn’t care. She zipped up the parka, grabbed her mittens.
Gordy wound a muffler around his neck. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
“No one asked for your help.”
He winced at that, and she hated her words. But it was too late now, wasn’t it?
She wrenched open the door. The wind blew her back in, but she righted herself and stepped out.
Oh, a person could slip into the frothy white waves and be buried in a minute. She blinked back the ice that hit her eyes. She should grab a scarf.
No, she should turn around.
But Gordy stood, blocking her path. So, she stepped out into the whiteness, put her head down, and hiked down the driveway. If she followed the stone wall that would bring her to the road, she could just…
The wind ate her breath, the snow knives on her exposed flesh. She’d get lost and perish and prove Gordy right. Again.
She was impulsive. And she did think with her heart. And she did…
She did cost him his family. Their family.
Her eyes filmed, began to freeze.
Gordy, I’m sorry.
She turned, almost ready to say it, when her feet slipped on the ice below the snow. She grabbed out for Gordy as her feet lifted, her arms windmilling.
He grabbed at her, tried to right her, but the force of her fall skidded his legs out from beneath him.
They landed hard in a pile of parkas and icy drift. Snow tunneled down the neck of her jacket, into her mouth. But Gordy had cushioned most of her fall with his body. She lay half on him, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her.
“Oh,” she said softly as the snow drifted around them.
He rolled over onto his side, meeting her eyes. He had snowflakes in his lashes, collecting on his goatee. “Are you okay?”
She drew in a breath. Shook her head. “I used to believe that even though I did it wrong, everything turned out right.” She closed eyes. “Please, just leave me out here in the cold.”
But he didn’t move, and when she opened her eyes, they were again in the hay mow, heat radiating from his gaze, right to her core. His golden-hazel eyes ran over her face, her eyes, then stopped at her lips.
Then, suddenly, as if they were teenagers again, he touched his lips to hers. Sweetly, reserved, even tentative, although she knew behind that touch lay a hunger she had once loved to stir. He tasted of toothpaste and smelled of the soap in her shower, and she closed her eyes and let the years drop away.
Yes, Gordy, I’ll marry you.
Around them, the wind moaned, shivering the pine trees.
But…wait. No. He’d had his chance. Then, he’d sneaked into her life and stolen her son. Had practically sent the boy to war armed with the skills of a sniper.
More than that, this wasn’t Gordy forgiving her. It was him using his devastating charm to derail her, to have his way and keep her from trekking out into the storm.
She opened her eyes, pressed against his chest. “No, Gordy. No…” She scooted away, shaking her head.
He wore panic in his eyes, not unlike so many years ago. His voice dropped, low, husky. “Dottie, c’mon. Haven’t we fought long enough?”
The question stilled her, and she waited, her heart in her throat, for more. For a simple,
I still love you
.
It would have been enough.
Then, he drew in a breath, his jaw tightening. “Stop being so stubborn.” Stubborn.
Same old Gordon. She should have expected it. She untangled herself from his arms, climbed to her feet. Stared at the blizzard. It seemed to be only growing more violent. “Stay away from me, Gordon Lindholm.”
She turned, left him in the snow, and hiked back to the house.
* * * * *
He’d been wounded. Violet tried to wipe the image of the scars on Jake’s chest from her mind, tried to see him again as whole, and the harbinger of bad news.