“From the dance hall. But listen, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just needed to talk to Violet. I didn’t mean for her to drive into the tree.”
Violet stared at him. “I don’t even know you—what could you possibly have to say to me?”
The man glanced at Violet, then to Dottie and even Gordy, as if they might have some sort of answer, or aid in their postures. But Gordy just wanted to wrap the man around that fender out there for taking down Dottie’s tree. And Dottie, well, she seemed to be angrier about Gordy landing in her kitchen with his melting boots than about her beloved fir.
“Well?” Violet said, voicing Gordy’s exact tone.
“I have news about—about your friend Alex.”
Whoever Alex was, and whatever information this cad might have about him, turned Violet white. Gordy had the strangest impulse to go and stand behind her. Or in front of her.
“What do you know, Jake?”
Jake? Yeah, a real troublemaker name. This guy had Minneapolis written all over him, with his slick suit, the thin tie at his neck. Probably drove one of those nifty new Lincoln Coupe de Villes. Gordy had seen one at the state fair last summer, all shiny chrome, slick black running boards, a sleek blue body the color of the sky.
Yes, this joker reeked of too much dapper, too much TJ, and Gordy narrowed his eyes, glad he smelled a little like the barn.
“Listen, it’s not a conversation we can have here, Violet.” Jake crouched before her, pressed the rag back to her head. “We need to get you back to town, let a doctor look at your head, maybe even your knee.”
Gordy wanted to hurt someone at the expression on Violet’s face.
“He married someone else, didn’t he?” Violet said softly.
Oh boy, if those weren’t words to make a man run… Gordy glanced at Dottie, wondering if she, too, could hear the past.
“Can we talk about it later?” Jake said, his gaze darting to their audience.
Violet narrowed her eyes at Jake the messenger. “What are you, his brother, here to deliver the bad news? Well, don’t get your knickers in a knot. I didn’t ever think I was anything to him anyway.”
Oh, please. Even a man who’d spent the nearly forty-eight years of his life singing to his cattle could see through that lie.
“No, I wasn’t his brother. I’m just a friend, but you meant more to him than you know,” Jake said softly.
Gordy rolled his eyes.
She held up her hands. “I don’t want to know, okay? It’s fine, I don’t really care anyway.”
Yep, he should have stayed home, next to the fire, with the memories of his spaniel, because Gordy had walked right into the nightmare of his past. In Jake’s expression Gordy saw too much of himself—a boy with desperation on his face, in the clench of his jaw, the rise of his chest. Gordy couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him when Violet pressed on his chest. “Please, go home, Jake. And tell Alex that I hope he lives happily ever after.”
The idiot got up like he might actually obey.
Gordy shook his head. He might be a farmer, but he had years of practice reading the nonverbal communication of a wounded woman. Whoever this Alex had been, he’d broken her heart into a thousand ugly shards. And Jake was about to repeat every one of Gordy’s mistakes.
Not that Dottie was any great help. In fact, true to form and just like Violet, Dottie did what she did best when people bared their hearts and stood bleeding before her.
She kicked them out.
“Stop. Enough of this blathering. I don’t care whose brother you are or what Alex did or even that Violet can live without the both of you. I want you out of my house. Now.”
She whirled around and pressed her finger into Gordy’s wool jacket. “That includes you, Mr. Lindholm. Get out of my house. You don’t belong here.”
Her voice wavered, however, on the last sentence, and she didn’t look at him.
Then she retreated from the room into the parlor.
And, although he could recognize the symptoms of a woman’s broken heart, it didn’t make him good at figuring out what to do, because Gordy just stood there.
What he should have done—twenty-six years ago, now—was to catch her, stop her…even follow her.
But he’d never been any good at catching her or at sticking around to weather the storms either.
He turned to Jake. “We’ll hike back to my place and I’ll fire up the truck,” he said. “Let’s go, before the storm traps us here.”
No, he simply didn’t have the courage to be trapped in the home of the woman who blamed him for the death of her only child.
CHAPTER THREE
With everything inside him, Jake wanted to run back outside, to that moment when he’d seen Violet’s car careening toward him, and jump out of the way.
He just wanted to start over, to break free of his lies.
To be a man worthy of Violet’s esteem. Even, her affection.
His chest burned and he guessed he might be turning pale. The hike to Dottie’s house hadn’t helped, not to mention the adrenaline of the crash, the cold air constricting his lungs even more, drawing out the mucus, fisting his chest muscles. He fought to breathe as he stood, in through his nose, out through his mouth.
He just had to calm down.
Why hadn’t he let her drive by, out of his life, where she belonged? He had no right to stand in front of her, to deliver this news.
Or rather, this lie.
He married someone else, didn’t he?
Her broken question had glued the truth inside him; he could taste the bitterness of it in the back of his throat. But worst of all was the expression on Violet’s face, the hurt in her eyes. Yes, he wanted to spool back the moments, all the way back to the moment when…
When he’d read the letters she’d written to Alex and determined to take his place. At least until the war ended, until she came home. Just to encourage her, lonely soldier serving behind the line in Europe.
Somehow, however, he’d lost himself along the way, until he ended up here, in the kitchen of some angry woman, lying round and round to the woman he loved.
Yes, loved. Because how was he supposed to read her letters and not care for her, not admire her courage, not dream up her laughter, not wish for her happiness.
Perhaps even in his arms.
Standing here, in front of her, only made it worse. Because, from the moment he picked her up, held her to himself, let her arms tangle around his neck, he’d known what a bad idea he’d harbored, nurtured, even embraced when he hopped on the Burlington-Northern and headed west to Frost.
He wanted to run his hand along her creamy white face, ease the hurt from her beautiful violet-gray eyes, tangle his fingers in her dark hair. She had a strength, a confidence about her that glued his heartbeat to his chest, made his breath tight, even without the help of his injury.
And she smelled like the faintest hint of roses, not unlike her letters. He wanted to cry with the joy of seeing her.
What a wretched man he’d become.
“Violet, it’s not— Alex isn’t marrying anyone else.”
She met his eyes. Took a breath. “Oh. You’re saying he just didn’t want me in his life. What, did he send you to do his dirty work?” She gave a huff of what sounded like disbelief. “He needn’t have bothered.”
Her tone scraped him raw and he wanted to blurt it out—
He’s dead! Alex is dead!
Before the urge could spur the words out, Jake felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by the voice of Gordon Lindholm. “C’mon, son. We need to leave if we hope to get her home before this storm hits.”
He wanted to round on this man, spurt out words he’d spent most of his life censoring in his head. No. He didn’t want to leave her like this—
“It’s getting worse out there—”
“Go without me!” Jake shook off his hand, and winced at his tone. The entire room went quiet. And now his chest tightened. He just had to calm down. Slow his breathing before his old wounds rose up to choke him.
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just want to make sure Violet is okay.”
“Please, I don’t want to know any more about Alex, or why he sent my letter back, thank you.” She turned to Gordon. “You’re right. We should get going if we’re going to hike out to your farm and get back to town.” She stood up and he saw her wince.
“You can’t walk anywhere.” Jake put his hand on her elbow, eased her back down to the seat.
He tried to remain gentle as he bent down, picked up her foot, and raised her pant leg to ease off her boot. She groaned and closed one eye, and he felt the wince like a fist in his chest.
See, he’d made everything worse. Her ankle had already begun to swell. “You should have told me you hurt your ankle. I would have put ice on this immediately.” He almost sounded angry, and it was too late to school it.
“I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize I needed to report my injuries to you.”
He pursed his lips. But she’d been reporting her injuries to him for two years, without knowing it. He drew in a breath.
Her voice softened. “I didn’t really notice until I stood on it. If you remember, you carried me in here.”
He looked at her, reeling in his emotions. “Indeed. My fault, for sure. I was so focused on your knee and your forehead, it didn’t occur to me to check if anything else was injured.” He put her leg down, stood. “She needs snow on her ankle. Then, we’ll leave.” He stood up, rounded to face Gordon. “I’ll be right back.”
He needed a few moments outside, anyway, just to clear his head. He took one of Dottie’s towels from the counter, stepped outside, filled it with snow. The bracing air swept the cotton, the panic from his brain.
The truth will set you free.
The words thrummed in his head. Yes. If only he believed them.
He returned inside, snow in the well of the cloth, folded it, and knelt before Violet. Gordon stood by the window, arms folded, watching him like he might be Violet’s father.
“Just hold still.” Jake lifted her ankle, pressing his thumb along the swelling as he positioned the snow-packed towel against it. She winced.
“Sorry. But I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
His chest burned. The few minutes outside hadn’t helped, either, the cold air constricting his lungs even more, drawing out the mucus, knotting his chest muscles. He fought to breathe as he stood—in through his nose, out through his mouth.
His body had always refused to play fair.
“Thank you, Jake,” she said, leaning back, closing her eyes.
Oh, she was beautiful. More than he’d guessed from Alex’s descriptions. Slim, but shapely enough in those brown pants and her dark green cardigan. He could imagine her in her WAAC uniform—no wonder Alex had chased her across Fort Meade. She had dark chocolate, slightly curly hair and green eyes that had the capacity to whisk his breath away, if it weren’t already lost. And those lips—heart shaped, red, and so expressive, even now as she caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He wanted to run his thumb along her lip—free it. “It’ll stop hurting soon. Would you like me to bring you into the parlor, set you on the sofa?”
“No, I’m fine here. I should help Mrs. Morgan—”
“Dottie.” The woman returned from her escape into the next room and now glared at Violet. “We’re not at the library, Violet. Dottie will do.” She glanced at Jake. “And for you too, young man.”
“Jake Ramsey,” he said in return. “I’m very sorry for the trouble—”
“Let’s go.” Gordon pushed up from the table.
Outside, the wind shook the house, and a shutter banged loose, slamming against the house.
Dottie made a noise of exasperation. “Wait, Gordon.” She sighed and drew her cardigan around her. “This is a bad idea. You’ll never make it across the slough in this storm. Why don’t you…take my truck into town?”
Gordon looked at her, then Jake. He made a face. “Dottie, your driveway is covered by a tree.”
Yes. The tree he downed. Nice, Jake.
The furnace kicked on again, the motor downstairs humming as the stoker came to life.
The shutter continued to bang against the house.
Dottie stared at Gordon, wearing an expression Jake couldn’t decipher. She drew a breath, her lips puckering to a tight knot. Then, “I knew it. Just knew it.”
“Knew what?” Gordon said.
The undercurrent of tone between these two told Jake more than he wanted to know. Hurt. Betrayal.
He didn’t need his years of training to know that these two had once had something between them.
“I can make it back to my house, Dottie,” Gordon said, almost an anger in his tone.
Her eyes sparked, although her voice cut down to a razorsharp whisper. “And if you don’t? Who’s going to go out and fetch you? Is that what you think I want? To have you tromp back to your house so you can perish in the snow? Do you think I want your death on my conscience?”
Jake froze. Gordon didn’t answer. Not verbally. Just let a muscle pull in his jaw, drew in a breath.
She held up her hand. “It’s done, Gordon. Now, we could use a fire in the hearth.” She glanced at Jake, who wanted to take a diving leap for the door.
“I’ll make another batch of soup,” Dottie said and brushed past them.
Gordon glanced at Jake. Jake raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t just stand there. Fetch some wood,” Gordon said, and thundered out to the back room.
“Wait—” Violet said. She caught Jake’s arm, her hand on his wool coat. “Just tell me, is he okay?”
He. Alex. He could hear the lie, roaring to life, prowling in the back of his throat.
Jake cast a look toward the door. “I should help build the fire.” His voice still sounded tight and he turned away from her, following Gordon to the back room. What if he left—right now? Just walked away from the rest of the story. Hadn’t he done enough damage? His appearance had wrecked her car, banged up her face, crushed her knee, twisted her ankle, and now stranded her in the home of a woman who appeared like she might, any minute, throw them all out.
Gordon pushed past Jake as he walked into the kitchen with an armful of wood. He’d slipped off his boots, his jacket. “You’re getting low out there, Dottie. Sorry.”
Sorry?
Dottie didn’t look at him as she rummaged around in her pantry.
They acted like an old married couple—estranged, perhaps—but with a rhythm about their relationship that suggested ancient familiarities.