A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection Page 11

  James would not be swayed, and there was no way to escape this mess unless she made a ruckus and yell—not an option with someone as kind as James. After all their years of friendship, she had to let him speak, however miserable the prospect made her.

  “But boyhood infatuation has changed, blossomed, right here as we’ve been together. I cannot imagine my life without you. I love you, Caroline. Truly. I’m in love with you. Will you—”

  His voice caught, and took a steadying breath. His thumb stroked the top of her hand. It only made her heart beat faster.

  Then, right there in the middle of the snow, he dropped to one knee. Caroline tried to urge him back to his feet. “Get up. Please. You’re going to soak your trousers and catch your death of cold—”

  “Then you care about me? About my well-being?”

  “Of course I do. You’re a dear.” Only after she’d spoken the words did she realize what he meant—did she love him? “But not in the way you—

  “Will you do the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?” The words came out in a rush, as if they had been rehearsed a thousand times.

  And there it was. She’d dreamed of her first proposal—the first of many, she’d dreamed—but the young man asking for her hand wasn’t supposed to be James. How could she reject his offer and expect him to be her friend after?

  But she couldn’t very well accept him, either. She didn’t love him that way. Marriages of convenience and necessity happened often—several of her neighbors had them, and by all accounts, they were “successful.” But she wanted nothing to do with being bound to someone out of either convenience or necessity. She wanted passion, love.

  She shook her head. “James, I’m—” Now it was her voice that caught. She was already mourning the loss of what they’d had and would lose—what they’d lost after their kiss and what would be lost to them forever after tonight. “I can’t. I’m so, so sorry.”

  With that, she abandoned the dish tub and the cookhouse. She ran blindly through the snow to the foreman’s house, where she flew inside and slammed the door, caring nothing about stopping to stomp the snow off her boots on the porch before entering. No, she had to find some semblance of asylum, even if it meant dripping melted snow all over the tiny house.

  Mr. Hansen sat in a rocker by the fire, a pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not feeling well. I should go lie down.” Caroline headed toward the back room, where her bed was, but as she crossed the space, Mr. Hansen apparently had other ideas.

  “I’m thinking you look touched by cupid, I do—but upset over the direction of his arrow.” He chuckled, his chest shaking as she whirled around, hand on the door to the room as she gaped at him with disbelief. He stroked his beard, removed the pipe, and smirked at her.

  “I—I—” Why could she not form a complete sentence?

  Mr. Hansen shook his head and clucked like an old gossipy woman. “You young things, always making everything worse for yourself than it needs to be. Just say yes to the boy. You’ll both be much happier—trust me on that account.”

  He knew? He didn’t even ask which boy. Presumptuous man. Anger boiled inside her. How dare he give her advice on love and marriage? This gray-haired, wrinkled man, who’d been married not one, but four times. A biting retort hovered on her lips, but she opted to not disrespect her employer and instead managed through clenched teeth, “I plan to head for home in the morning, as I believe my services are no longer needed. If you could arrange transport, I would be grateful. Good night, Mr. Hansen.”

  Chapter Five

  Fortunately, Mr. Hansen took Caroline’s declaration seriously, arranging for her to be driven home on the next load of wood headed to town the following day. She packed up her few possessions and climbed onto the back of the wagon with the stack of fallen trees, refusing a spot on the bench up front. She may have made the mistake of spending time alone with a man without a chaperone, but she wouldn’t do it again—particularly in public.

  The ride home felt twice as long as the ride to camp, and maybe it was somewhat longer, what with the added snow. She purposely kept her eyes fixed on her lap until she figured they’d certainly traveled enough miles to be beyond the road crew. Only then did she raise her eyes to look at the canyon and its snow-covered trees. And there was James, filling a hole in the ground, shovel in hand. He glanced up, did a double-take, and then his gaze locked on Caroline’s. She swallowed against the knot in her throat. They were far enough apart that speaking wasn’t an option, but she could see a new tension pinching his eyes, a gentle downturn of his mouth.

  I did that. I made him sad.

  He raised a hand and waved. Caroline couldn’t sit there without responding; she hesitantly lifted a mitten-covered hand in return. It felt like lead.

  With a lurch, the wagon turned from the Wood Camp road onto the main canyon road, throwing her to one side of the wagon as it veered hard left. By the time she’d righted herself, her vision had blurred with tears. She blinked hard and wiped them away, but James was no longer in sight.

  ~*~

  Caroline should have been glad to be home, but not even seeing Bertha’s improvement raised her spirits. Her mother was a breath away from calling the physician for Caroline. “You’re so melancholy all the time,” she said. “What if you caught something at Wood Camp?”

  “I caught nothing, Mother,” Caroline said. “I’m just tired. “ But inside she added, I caught nothing but a guilty conscience.

  So it was with pleasure and relief that Caroline saw her best friend Sarah arriving one day with word of an upcoming dance at the city dance hall, in just three days, and it would go well past midnight. For the first time in far too long, Caroline felt excited. She would spend the evening twirling about the floor with as many young men as she could. She would laugh and flirt and fly across the floor until her sides and her feet ached.

  The day of the dance, Caroline went to Sarah’s house, gown in tow, and the two young women got ready together. They curled their hair with tongs. Sarah wove a pale pink ribbon throughout Caroline’s dark hair, creating a stunning effect.

  “Too bad we don’t have fresh flowers this time of year,” Sarah said, tilting her head as she studied Caroline’s hair. “You would look devastating with a sprig of baby’s breath tucked behind your ear.”

  An hour later, they entered the dance hall and discarded their wraps in a side room. Caroline watched the milling crowd, heard the small band at one end, and a thrill fluttered in her chest. Women twirled in a reel, wearing colorful dresses and hairstyles. Clusters of attendees hovered at the edges.

  Sarah clutched her arm. “Isn’t this better than the boring old Wood Camp?”

  “It is,” Caroline admitted, her voice breathy with excitement. The Wood Camp had held a few evening reels, but it was only ever the men clapping and dancing alone by the fire—assuming they were fortunate enough to have a fiddler. Of course, she could never participate in such an activity, not as the only female. Even if Mrs. Hansen had agreed to dance, it wouldn’t have been proper—two women with nearly twenty men? And after Butch arrived, she’d shunned all the men . . . except for James.

  But here, oh, it was much different: plenty of men and women both, and the chance to dance with lots of different partners.

  Yes. Different partners. Lots and lots of partners. That’s what she needed—a bit of fun to distract herself from the awful moment behind the cookhouse with James—and of the final moment she’d see him on the wintery road as she left. Her stomach turned on itself at the memory of his voice, his pleading eyes, as he knelt in the snow and asked for her hand. How he’d begun the moment with confidence and a glint of happiness—love?—in his eye, but she’d left him, run away, and hadn’t spoken to him since. She felt like a coward, like she’d shoved a dagger into his heart.

  But it wasn’t my fault, she argued. He should have known I never meant anything to come of it. Al
l we had was a harmless flirtation—a harmless kiss—and before that, a pleasant friendship. I never meant more than that. He ruined all of it.

  But even she couldn’t quite agree with herself. James was a good man, just not . . . well, not what she imagined her future husband would be like. James was an open book, easily read and comprehended the first time through. She wanted someone with a little mystery, someone with a little unpredictability in them. Excitement. No life of drudgery and boredom for her.

  As sweet and kind as James was, her future lay with someone else.

  Another flash of memory, of a different evening came to her mind, when he’d found her crying in the cookhouse after the incident with Butch. The way he’d spoken to comfort her, his strong embrace, his kiss . . .

  She inhaled sharply. Stop it. That kiss meant nothing. It was a moment of weakness for us both; he took it too seriously. But the swirl of butterflies in her middle wouldn’t agree.

  “Here,” Sarah said, nudging a cup of punch toward her. Caroline had been lost in her own thoughts long enough that she hadn’t noticed Sarah’s absence. She welcomed the interruption as well as the cause for it.

  “Thank you.” She took the cup and sipped the pale pink drink.

  “It’s already sweltering in here,” Sarah said, waving her hand before her face to cool off. “Strange that it’s winter, but hot enough in here to fry bacon.” She laughed and drank her punch, downing it in a less-than-feminine manner.

  Caroline smiled and forced herself to sip from her cup in spite of her thirst. Even the mention of bacon made her ache; she’d forever think of James complimenting her on her perfect, crisp bacon at the Wood Camp. Her eyes watering, she tilted her head to the ceiling and blinked, willing the tears not to fall.

  I said no for a reason. I won’t marry just for security, just to avoid being an old maid.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice. “Miss Simpson? May I have the next dance? A mazurka is about to start.” It was Lawrence Campbell, a young man she’d known for years. But she hadn’t realized he’d grown so tall, nor that his voice had lowered so much. Surely he hadn’t changed so much since she’d left for the Wood Camp? Or had she just not noticed young men like Lawrence before she left?

  Tall, with thick blond hair, broad shoulders, and a cleft in his chin. He was handsome. Lawrence. Who would have thought? Better yet, the mazurka brought couples into an almost closed dance position. She’d even get to touch his waist briefly. It was almost—but not quite—as scandalous as the waltz.

  Only after she’d taken in Lawrence was she aware that the music and dancing had stopped temporarily—the reel had ended, and new couples were taking the floor for the mazurka. A bald man with a pink face was calling for partners to take the floor.

  “We’ll be starting in just one more minute,” he said, almost like a threat, as he held up one finger high and showing it off to the room, first to his left and then to his right.

  “Miss Simpson?” Lawrence said again. This time he glanced over his shoulder at the bald man and then the floor, which was filling quickly. The fiddler and other players were ready to begin a new piece.

  At the sound of Lawrence’s deep voice, a rush went through Caroline. This was her chance to show that she was moving on, available, and ready to enjoy her time as a young woman before settling down. Not that she intended to “settle” for anything. How she’d find a way out of secluded Cache Valley, she’d never know. At least the railroad spur had come to town. She could save money—somehow, maybe doing sewing and mending and odd jobs—and buy a ticket to . . . where?

  Caroline shook her head, refusing to think of either the past or the future. The present was all that mattered. Lawrence was waiting for an answer. She quickly gathered her senses and flashed a wide smile.

  “I’d be honored, Mr. Campbell.” She thrust her half-full glass toward Sarah. With a prayer shot heavenward that she didn’t look as ready to cry as she really felt, she said, “Yes, of course.” She took his arm, and he led her to the floor.

  The dance with Lawrence passed in a delightful blur, her feet keeping time, her skirts swishing across the floor. Every time they faced each other, he smiled at her, and she smiled back. At first, each touch of his hand, covered with callouses from physical labor, reminded her of James, of the blisters he’d gotten fixing the Wood Camp road, the ones she’d cleaned and bound after his first week when his hands weren’t used to the new work.

  The dance ended, and as the room applauded the band, she was able to stop thinking about James. Again. She had to find a way to keep him from her mind once and for all. It was only guilt for hurting his feelings that she kept thinking of him. Nothing more.

  Lawrence bowed formally, which made her laugh. She curtseyed, and then he took her arm and brought her back to Sarah, who still stood where Caroline had left her, looking every inch green with envy.

  “I don’t suppose those feet have a polka in them?” Sarah asked him with a musical lilt in her voice. She cocked her head coyly, waiting for an answer—and knowing that a polka was next.

  Lawrence looked between the girls, and Caroline saved him. “I’m sure he’d be happy to escort you onto the floor.” She shot him a grin, assuring him that she wouldn’t be jealous. And she wouldn’t be. She had every intention of dancing with as many eligible men as she could tonight.

  Lawrence had no sooner walked off with Sarah than Matthew Cook appeared, asking her to join him for the polka, and just in time. And so it went. Dance after dance, Caroline twirled across the floor. Every time she was certain that she couldn’t take another step, that her feet ached too much, and that she was too out of breath, another handsome man snagged her arm, and she was off again—and loving every moment of it. At times, she wondered what dances couples enjoyed in big cities like New York, rather than the old-fashioned ones played every time here in Cache Valley.

  As a quadrille began, she released her partner’s arm as part of the pattern on the floor, and found herself turning in a circle, holding a familiar calloused, gentle hand. Her eyes flew up to James’s, and she had to squelch a little gasp.

  No reaction. None. Don’t you dare.

  The moment passed quickly as the pattern changed and she returned to her partner, Michael Bradford. During the rest of the dance—especially when she and James touched—avoiding a hot flush creeping up her cheeks took effort.

  When had James gotten back in town? Of course, it made perfect sense; the roads didn’t need to be constantly fixed when they were covered with snow and loads and loads of wagons weren’t being taken down the canyon. He probably could have left camp weeks before she had, but he’d stayed . . . why? For her?

  Somehow she managed to nod at him, smiling ever-so slightly then look forward in the direction they were moving. She hoped that outwardly, she looked calm and composed, because inside she was nothing but a disturbed hornet’s nest, buzzing in circles around and around. She was sure that if the music didn’t end soon—and it surely had several minutes to go—that her heart would leap out of her chest. Or she’d collapse on the floor—from exhaustion or emotion, she wasn’t sure which. How had she not seen him at the dance before now? Had he just arrived, or had she been so involved with her partners that she hadn’t noticed him on the floor?

  Without warning, the band’s two horns squeaked to an abrupt halt, the three strings sharp, and the piano halted, all before the rest of the room had any idea what was going on. Caroline and Michael both cringed at the screeching sounds and turned as one toward the band, as did the entire room, to find the source of the disturbance.

  A man wearing a winter coat, snow still on his shoulders, stood where the bald man had earlier. He pulled off his knit cap and raised his hands, motioning them downward to quiet the room. Soon the hall was silent save for the dancers’ breath, which was gradually returning to normal.

  “There’s been a snow slide up the canyon,” he said, puffing as if he’d run a mile being chased by a bear. His cheeks w
ere bright pink; he’d been out in the cold for some time. The throng murmured in surprise and worry. Based on the man’s movements, facial expression, and tone, something was wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong. Something clenched in Caroline’s chest as she waited for the noise to die down and for him to go on.

  He took a deep breath, evening it out so he could speak loudly and reach the entire room. “A team went up to Wood Camp to get to work before spring. They got caught in the slide. Appears we’ve got at least two men buried in the snow. We need as many able men as possible to come right away to help in the rescue.” A roar of dismay went up as several men headed toward their coats and hats, when the man stopped them.

  “Wait!” He yelled this, his voice somehow reaching above the chaos. Everyone turned. “It’s a dangerous job we’ve got. We’ll be digging through a snow slide, and who knows but what we’ll trigger another slide and lose some men who came to rescue those already buried. Consider carefully before you volunteer. For those going, meet me out front in twenty minutes in full winter gear and with shovels, lanterns, and any other supplies you may have, including food. This may take days.” He looked over the crowd. His mouth trembled, as if he fought back emotion. “That’s all,” he managed, but it was quiet, and Caroline could barely hear him even though she stood only feet from the band.

  An odd, numbing shock washed over her as she watched people rush around her and the band members hurriedly putting away their instruments. Men said goodbye to their crying wives. The dance had clearly come to an abrupt end. Shaken, Caroline determined to find Sarah and her parents so they could go home.

  Turning one direction and then the next, she scanned the crowded room for Sarah or her parents, but her eyes instead caught familiar curly brown hair—James moving toward the door, with a purpose in his step.

  No! Caroline cried inside. James could not go with the rescue party, risking his life. What if he were to . . . She ran across the floor, reducing the distance between them, hoping to reach James before he made such a terrible, dangerous decision. His mother saw him too, as she ran up from behind, reaching him first. She stopped him, taking him by the shoulders and turning him around.