A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection Read online

  “You can’t,” she said. “You’re my only son.”

  “I have to. So many other men have wives and children at home. I . . . don’t.” He gently but forcefully removed her hands from his shoulders. He kissed her cheek, and she reluctantly moved to the side, nodding as if she understood. She stood right in front of Caroline. If he were to raise his eyes even a fraction, he’d see her.

  His mother lowered her hands and clasped them to her chin. “Please, James . . . please promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.” As he spoke, James turned his head looked directly at Caroline, as if he’d known exactly where she’d been standing. Maybe he did. His eyes look pained—not unlike the night she’d turned him away . . .

  She willed the memory to leave her mind, but it clung to her as their eyes locked for a few seconds—an eternity that lasted for the briefest breath.

  James still gazed at Caroline as his mother cried into her hands. “I have to go. Maybe I can help one man return to the one he loves.”

  He was speaking directly to Caroline, no question. His words were for her and her alone. If she hadn’t spurned him, he wouldn’t feel the need to leave, endangering his life. He was being stubborn and . . . and yes, courageous. What if he was doing this solely because he didn’t have a loved one waiting for him besides his mother?

  What if I had accepted his offer? Would he have stayed behind for the sake of his fiancée—for a loved one at home who needed him?

  Before she could gather her wits about her, he turned and was gone. His mother wept even harder. Caroline wanted to do the same, drop to the floor, even, and sob openly. Or run after James and tell him he couldn’t go. Never. He couldn’t.

  Because . . . well, because he can’t. That’s why.

  Chapter Six

  All thoughts of finding Sarah and her parents had fled. Caroline stood by the door, heedless of the chill as she watched several sleighs heading out, away, shrinking from sight. She stayed there until the last was a speck on the horizon. Her chest felt oddly heavy and hollow all at once, as if her heart rode on one of the sleighs, and lead had filled its place. As if she’d never feel quite whole again unless her heart returned, safe and sound.

  I love him. I really, really love him. The words echoed in her mind, and for the first time, she didn’t fight them or qualify them. James didn’t resemble the man of her fantasies—never would—but suddenly that didn’t matter. Only his well-being did. He held her heart, and if he were hurt or killed by a snow slide, she’d never recover.

  It’s my fault he left. It will be my fault if something dreadful happens to him. Oh, what a fool I’ve been!

  Who cared of adventures and dashing men and trailing beaus on a string? Living here in the valley would never be drudgery if it was with James. She knew that now. But would she ever have the chance to make it so?

  “Caroline, come. You’ll catch your death of cold.” Sarah’s voice pierced the haze, and her warm touch made Caroline blink and turn to face her. Her friend’s brow crinkled with concern. “You look unwell—ready to faint. Come. We must get you home.” She put her arm around Caroline’s waist.

  “I’m fine,” she tried to protest, although she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t well. Indeed, she felt so weak that had Sarah not come when she did, Caroline may have dropped right to the floor as Sarah had predicted.

  “Come,” Sarah said again, this time gently leading Caroline away from the door and to a bench along one wall. Her father arrived a moment later and spread her wrap across her shoulders, which he must have retrieved from the coat room.

  “Thank you,” Caroline managed, holding it together in front and wishing it would warm the cavity inside her that seemed filled with ice.

  Sarah’s mother fussed over Caroline, bringing her a drink, stroking her hair, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Part of Caroline wanted to scream and demand she be left alone in her misery, but she didn’t have the strength, and she knew Sarah’s mother only meant well, so she submitted to the woman’s well-intended ministrations.

  Somehow she got home and ready for bed, but every movement felt forced, empty. She couldn’t. Her parents stayed up later than she did, talking in a flurry over the disaster in the canyon. Lit candle in hand, Caroline climbed the stairs to her bedroom, secretly grateful that they weren’t talking to her about the accident, that they were too caught up in their own emotions to notice that she moved about like a ghost.

  In her room, which she shared with Bertha, Caroline didn’t go to bed at first. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to disturb her sister, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, something that didn’t often happen. In reality, Caroline knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and the idea of lying awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling for hours on end, made her shudder. She set the candle on the windowsill, sat on the small bench beside the window, and gazed out at the wintery night. The moon itself felt cold and hard with its silvery light, not like the warm glow she remembered from the night James had proposed.

  James. She closed her eyes, and for the first time since the dance had broken up, tears fell. Caroline leaned against the window pane as she cried, almost glad for the biting cold on her forehead. It seemed wrong that she was safe and warm in her home, while so many men were out in the brutal cold, going up the canyon to either save the men in the slide or retrieve their bodies. To come home . . . or get caught in a new slide triggered by their movements.

  She tried to calm her emotions by breathing through her mouth. All that did was fog up the window, making it hard to see out of. She brought up her forearm and wiped her breath away with her sleeve. She couldn’t see the canyon road from here, but a clear view outside gave her an odd sense of comfort, as if it brought her the slightest bit closer to James, who was out there, somewhere.

  Oh, please keep him safe. Please. At least long enough to tell him I was wrong. That I love him.

  But she could see part of a crossroad and Main Street below. There was a good chance that any rescue party would pass by that way. It could take days before anyone returns, she reminded herself. Yet she gazed on.

  As a little girl, she’d knelt on the floor against this bench, clasping her hands and whispering prayers. She’d had such faith. Caroline looked at the floor, half expecting to see a six-year-old version of herself in a little blue nightgown, praying for whatever weighed on her heart. Caroline remembered praying—intently—for something, even crying. But today, she couldn’t fathom what could have caused such pain in her little heart.

  I never knew pain until this night.

  Caroline kept vigil at the window, not leaving her spot once, keeping her eyes trained on the sliver of Main Street, all night. She pulled her knees to her chest, leaned against the wall beside the window, and rested, as much as she could, all the while thinking of her hopes and dreams and what she could say to James if she ever saw him alive again.

  ~*~

  She didn’t think she’d fallen asleep until someone nudged her arm and she awoke with a start.

  “Were you here all night?” he mother said, concern lacing her voice. She whispered, surely to avoid waking Bertha, who still slumbered in the bed she and Caroline shared.

  Caroline merely nodded, heartsick and weary, unable to explain what was wrong with her. She felt as if speaking of her love for James would somehow diminish it, at least for now. She wouldn’t speak of it to anyone unless it was James himself.

  Which means I may not ever tell a living soul.

  “Come, rest in bed,” her mother urged. “You look so tired.”

  Caroline gave a sharp shake of her head. “No. I can’t leave the window. Not until I know . . .”

  When her voice trailed off, her mother’s eyes lit up with understanding. Her gaze went to the window, and she took a step closer. “Are you looking for the rescue party then?”

  In part, yes. All Caroline could do was nod.

  Her mother leaned close and kissed Carol
ine’s temple then whispered in her ear. “He will come back, right as rain. You’ll see.”

  With that, her mother stood, straightened Bertha’s blanket, and walked out of the room. Caroline turned to stare at her mother’s retreating figure. How did she know? Had she always known, when Caroline herself didn’t, not until last night? Oh, how blind she’d been! How could she have not understood?

  Her mother didn’t bother her further. She brought food and drink at times throughout the day, but didn’t so much as ask whether Caroline planned to clean the chicken coop or churn the butter or help around the house in any other way. Caroline ate a bite of food here and there, but had no appetite; everything tasted bland, like paper. She spent the next night at the window as well.

  The following morning, her mother woke her again, but this time with an eager shake of her shoulder. “Caroline! Caroline, wake up. Mrs. Holmes next door says her husband returned with one group last night—and that James was in the company.”

  “He’s . . . alive?” She hardly dared say the word.

  Her mother nodded, eyes watering. “The other companies are still in the canyon, but so far, the only men they’ve lost were the two originally caught in the slide—bless the poor King and Osterholdt families.”

  “He’s alive.” Caroline said the words a second time, trying to hear them and believe them. “Is he home?”

  “I believe so, yes,” her mother said.

  Caroline jumped up from her place on the bench. Her muscles ached from being cramped in the same position for so long, but she cared nothing for that; James was alive, and he was home, at the neighboring farm!

  Still in her nightgown, she shoved her stocking-covered feet into her boots, flung a knitted shawl about her shoulders, and raced out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. Her hair had been in a long braid, the same braid down her back that she’d put it into when she’d gotten ready for bed after the dance. Hair stuck out from it at odd angles, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was James.

  She raced past the barn, around the corn field, and eventually through the hole in the fence between farms that she and James had used as children to travel between the two lots. Heart pounding, she put all her strength into her legs, flying through a spud field and an orchard before reaching the back of the family house. She rapped hard half a dozen times if once, then stood back to wait, breathless.

  That’s when she caught a glimpse of herself in the side window—night clothes, boots, part of her legs showing above the boots, hair standing on end, dark circles under her eyes. What would James think of her showing up in such a disgraceful condition? What would his mother and father think? She glanced back toward her family’s farm; should she hurry home and avoid the humiliation of being seen like this?

  But no. She tilted her head up to the bedroom window where James had always slept. He was up there right now, probably sleeping hard after a night, a day, and a night of straight work. It was early in the day, but his mother was already working in the kitchen; Caroline could see the glow of candle or a lamp or two through a window.

  The door opened suddenly with a click and a squeak, drawing her attention back to the door. “Caroline? Is that you?”

  The voice wasn’t female, and it wasn’t old. It was . . . dare she hope . . .

  “James?” Her voice came out as barely as a squeak.

  He opened the door all the way then pushed the screen door open on its creaking hinges. “Caroline, it is you. What in tarnation are you doing here, like this?”

  He wasn’t happy to see her; he was embarrassed. She shuffled her feet and swallowed, her throat having suddenly grown thick and dry. “I—I—never mind. I’ll be on my way. I’m glad to see you home safely.” Likely the greatest understatement she’d ever heard, and it had come from her own lips. Feeling her face flush hot, she whirled around, wishing she could escape gracefully instead of tromping away through two feet of snow.

  “Don’t go.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn around. She closed her eyes, not trusting herself to speak without revealing her true emotions. James would never want her now that she’d disgraced herself like this. Would he?

  “Caroline, come here. You don’t look well.”

  Slowly, fearing her heart would fail her, she pivoted to face him again, knowing that she looked atrocious and had come here in a manner that no young woman hoping to have a beau—or fiancé—would ever dream of. Yet when she met his gaze, she saw the same thing that had been there before when he’d kissed her. After he’d kissed her. Outside the cookhouse when he’d knelt in the snow and took her by the hand.

  He still loves me.

  “Please come inside,” James urged. “You must be freezing.”

  She shook her head. Not that she wasn’t cold—she was; she could hardly feel her toes, and the winter chill had bitten her nose and the tips of her ears something fierce. But she didn’t feel cold, not inside. The icy hollow in her chest was melting, the light that had left her life when James drove off into the night had returned. Hope. That’s what it was. And love.

  But he was a proud man. He might love her—she could tell by the look in his eye, and if a man loved her when she looked and acted opposite of what a ladylike young woman should, then he’d always love her. How to close the gap?

  She licked her lips, knowing what she had to do. It wouldn’t be easy. It would take a healthy dose of humble pie. But she would do it.

  Caroline stepped closer to the house and held out her hand. Eyebrow rising with curiosity, James stepped beyond the screen door, which shut behind him with a metallic clang. “What is it?”

  She held his warm, calloused hand in both of hers, hardly able to believe that it was still warm—alive!—and here, in her hand. How did she get to be so lucky?

  Before her courage failed her, she dropped into the snow on one knee.

  James gasped. “What’s wrong? Have you caught cold?” He must have thought she’d fallen from weakness, not that she’d intentionally knelt on one knee.

  Instead of answering his question, Caroline licked her lips again and forced words from her mouth. “James, would you do me the honor of making me your wife?”

  Nothing but silence for at least the span of five heartbeats. She prayed that no one else had seen what she’d just done; she’d be the laughing stock of the city if anyone knew that she had proposed marriage to a man.

  He hadn’t answered. Maybe he didn’t want her after all. When she could stand the silence no longer, she looked up, face hot, arms trembling from the building emotions inside her. James’s brow had drawn together into a look of confusion.

  “I don’t understand. I thought—”

  “I was wrong,” Caroline interrupted. “I do love you. I didn’t know it. Not until I thought I might have lost you forever.” Her voice caught, and she took two steadying breaths before going on. “I cannot imagine living my life without you. I love you James. I do. And I want to be your wife. If you’ll still have me. I’ll—I’ll understand if you don’t, after the way I treated you.”

  James urged Caroline to her feet. He took both of her hands in both of his and gazed into her eyes. Forget melting; her insides simmered and boiled over. “I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

  He leaned in. Caroline met him halfway, knowing what was coming. Her stomach flipped three times before their lips touched. Their last kiss had woken something inside her, but it paled in comparison. This time she knew he loved her, and she knew she loved him in return. And that made each touch, each movement of his lips on hers, mean ten times more than the other kiss ever could have. He released her hands to wrap his arms around her. She reached around his neck, gently pulled his face closer to hers as the kiss deepened into something she hadn’t known could exist.

  She could have contentedly stayed in his arms forever but finally managed to pull away from his lips—those lips that fit hers like a puzzle piece—and say, “Is that a yes?” She thought that the kiss had given
her his answer, but she needed to hear the words. “Will you marry me, James?”

  He stroked her hair; she closed her eyes and reveled in his touch, not thinking of her disheveled hair. A shiny tear appeared in his eye, tumbled over, and tracked down his cheek. She reached up with a finger and wiped it; he closed his eyes at the touch. She cupped his face in her hand and took in the face of this amazing man who’d waited for her heart, not knowing if his feelings would ever be requited.

  “Yes,” James said. “I’ll marry you, Caroline Campbell. Nothing would give me more joy.” She pulled back enough for them both to peer at her snow-covered boots. “And I’ll try very hard to never tease you about the manner in which you asked for my hand.”

  She laughed, full and warm, the first time in days, if not weeks. “I won’t mind teasing at my expense if it means having you.”

  James stepped over to a bush beside the house, where he broke off a thin twig. He returned to Caroline, who watched in confusion as he first held it between his palms and blew on the twig to warm it then formed it into a circle, tied the ends with a knot then broke off the rest of the twig. “I’ll get a better ring for you soon, but until then, here’s something little so everyone will know you’re taken.”

  He slipped the makeshift ring onto her left hand then kissed it. She’d keep the ring forever, tucked inside a jewelry box, or perhaps on a chain. She never wanted to forget this moment.

  She hoped the thrills jumping inside her body when he touched her would never die. He kissed her hand, then her wrist, and her forearm then shifted to her ear, her jawline, her chin, and finally, her lips.

  About Annette Lyon

  Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, the recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction and the author of nine novels, a cookbook, and a grammar guide as well as over a hundred articles. She’s a senior editor at Precision Editing Group and a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, editing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor. Find her online at http://blog.annettelyon.com and on Twitter: @AnnetteLyon