Anne pulled herself to her feet and looked around, realizing suddenly that she didn’t know where she was. Which direction was the Gustafson farm?
She had no idea. Brushing dry leaves from her grey skirt and red cardigan, she walked back to the road. She looked both ways, sighed, and began to walk. She’d survived far worse in the last six years. She would survive this too.
Chapter Two
Erik’s mother pushed the kitchen curtains aside to stare out the window, worry lines furrowing her brow.
“It’s getting late. She should be back by now.”
Erik felt the same concern. Anne had been gone over an hour. The sky was beginning to cloud over, and when he returned from watering the cows he’d felt the chill wind that had replaced the previously warm afternoon breeze. Her thin cardigan would be no protection against the elements.
“Maybe she just needed to be alone for a while,” he said. He hoped that was the only reason she’d been gone so long.
Ingrid stirred a pot of soup on the woodstove. “I don’t believe Anders didn’t tell her about Signe. It’s not like he had forgotten her.”
“From Anne’s reaction to the letter, I’d say she had no idea there was another girl back home,” Astrid replied.
“And even if she did, it was Anders who was being unfaithful, not her,” Erik said.
Ingrid faced him, her eyes hot and angry. “You’ll take any opportunity to blame him, won’t you? Why are you so angry with him?”
Erik threw up his hand. “Yes, of course. Our sainted brother can do no wrong. He only proposed to a girl, dragged her halfway across the world, and then abandoned her as soon as she arrived.”
“Yes, he made a mistake, but he’s still my brother, and I love him. And Signe’s my best friend. They belong together.”
“I wish her luck. I wonder how long it will take him to change his mind about being married to her.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
“Anders only cares about himself. He always has.”
“That’s enough, Erik.” Astrid used the tone of voice that had always stopped him cold as a child. “You’ve been through a lot, but so has Anders. He’s your brother. Don’t let the war come between you.”
“This has nothing to do with the war. It’s about having to clean up Anders’s mess yet again. Look what he did. He got himself engaged to an English girl but didn’t tell any of us, including Signe, until he got word she was on her way. And then he disappeared. He didn’t even have the decency to face Anne himself. Now the three of us are left to care for her.”
Ingrid flinched. She’d been almost as devastated by the news of Anders’s engagement to an English girl as Signe. But still she defended him. Anders had been the Golden Boy of the family from the day he’d been born. Their father had always made sure Erik knew how much smarter, better looking, and more athletic he believed Anders was. Ingmar Gustafson had enjoyed watching his sons compete for the affection he doled out so sparingly.
Astrid slipped on a thick sweater. “I’m going to look for her.”
Ingrid set her wooden spoon in the wash basin. “I’ll come with you, Ma.”
“You two check the barn and the outbuildings. I’ll walk out to the main road and check the dugout,” Erik said.
Ingrid looked at him in shock. “The dugout? You don’t think she’d actually harm herself?”
The thought of Anne being so despondent over Anders’s rejection that she’d drown herself in the manmade pond they used to water the cattle made Erik’s insides go cold. “I just know we need to find her before it gets dark.”
His sister nodded and followed their mother out the door. Erik grabbed his cane and hobbled after them.
He walked down the lane, his leg aching more with each step. The pain fueled his anger, at his brother, at the war, at himself. He hated that his injury made him less able to look after the farm. Jobs he’d once handled easily had become next to impossible. Now that Anders had deserted them, his mother and Ingrid did all they could to help, but Astrid was getting older, and by next summer Ingrid would be leaving to marry her fiancé, John, who farmed five miles down the road. It wasn’t fair that either of them should have to work like hired hands because he couldn’t do his share anymore.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d have to sell the farm once Ingrid left. If that happened, what would he do? How would he take care of his mother? He kicked a stone with his good leg. Who’d hire a cripple like him?
Erik neared the end of the lane, but there was still no trace of Anne. Where could she have gone? He looked toward the dugout, which was clearly visible from here. Could she have wandered over, lost her footing, and fallen in? Or would she deliberately enter the pond? He couldn’t believe someone strong enough to survive the London blitz would now throw away her life because of his brother’s rejection.
At least he hoped not. She was far too young and far too beautiful to die.
Just as he was about to make his way across the pasture to the dugout, a flash of red on the main road caught his eye. Erik breathed a sigh of relief. Anne walked toward him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself to fend off the cold wind.
“I lost my way,” she said. Her red-rimmed eyes told him she’d been crying. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six. We…my mother was worried about you.”
She closed her eyes in misery. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cause her concern. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not. We all understand.”
“Even Ingrid? She doesn’t like me, does she?”
“Signe is her friend. Ingrid thinks she’s being loyal.”
“I’d probably feel the same way if I were in her shoes.” She sighed. “I should get back to the house before I cause your mother any more worry.”
As they began to walk, a sharp, sudden pain knifed through Erik’s leg. He stumbled, then doubled over his cane as he tried to catch his breath, waiting for the pain to subside.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Humiliation heated his face. The last thing he needed was for Anne to witness his weakness. “I’ve still got pieces of shrapnel in my leg.”
“And when they move, they cause you tremendous pain.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s sit down and rest a minute.”
He had no choice but to let her lead him to the side of the road and ease him down to sit on the edge with his legs resting against the slope of the ditch. She sat beside him.
“I’m sorry about your leg. Did it happen at Dieppe?”
He didn’t want to talk about it. “We should get back.”
“A few moments won’t make any difference.” She plucked blades of grass from the ditch. “Have you spoken to Anders?”
“I have.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is he…is he happy?”
He wouldn’t lie to her. “He says he is.”
She ripped the grass stem in half. “And Signe? She’ll be good to him?”
His heart broke for her. “She will.”
“That’s good.” She jumped to her feet. “Do you think you can walk now?”
“Yeah.”
She offered him her hand. Erik looked at it for a moment, then at her face. Not a trace of pity marred her beautiful features. He took her small, soft hand in his and was surprised at the strength with which she pulled him to his feet.
“You’re a lot stronger than you look.”
She laughed, the first genuine sound of amusement he’d heard from her. “Probably comes from spending the war lifting men twice my size.”
“Anders said you’re a nurse. Are you planning to continue nursing now that the war is over?”
Her smile disappeared. “I hope not. I’ve seen enough misery to last me the rest of my life.”
He nodded. After witnessing the blood bath at Dieppe, he knew exactly what she meant.
“How far is it to the house?” she asked.
Erik leaned on his cane. “Not far. Wait. You’ve got dried leaves stuck in your hair.”
He pulled the offending leaves from her hair, letting his hand linger on the silky tresses. She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes huge and round. But she didn’t move or stop him from touching her. With her porcelain skin and fine bone structure, she looked like a delicate English rose, yet he detected a strength in her that would put any man to shame.
“We should go,” she whispered.
Erik dropped his hand. What was he doing? This beautiful English rose was still in love with his brother. His handsome, fit, unscarred brother. She didn’t want him.
He’d do well to remember that. He’d already been rejected by one beautiful English girl because of his scars. Another rejection would be more than he could bear.
****
Erik walked silently beside her all the way back to the house. Anne glanced at him from beneath her lashes. What exactly had passed between them a few moments ago? His touch had been so gentle, so reverent, so sensuous it had frightened her, even as it left her wanting more.
What was wrong with her? She’d just been told her fiancé didn’t want her. How could she take pleasure in another man’s touch only hours later?
It must have been the shock of hearing Anders had married someone else. She had no other explanation for it.
As they reached the farmyard, Ingrid and Astrid hurried to them, Astrid throwing her arm around her shoulders.
“Are you all right? Where were you?”
“I’m so sorry. I got disoriented and couldn’t find my way back.”
“You poor thing, you must be exhausted. Let’s go into the house. Ingrid has a nice beef soup on the stove. We’ll soon set you to rights.”
Astrid’s kindness overwhelmed her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up with her head on Astrid’s lap and let her look after her as if she were her own mother. But she no longer had any claim on this family, and no right to seek comfort from them.
When they reached the kitchen, she turned to Ingrid. “I didn’t know Signe was waiting for Anders. He never talked about her. But Erik tells me she’ll be good to him.”
Ingrid blinked at her, surprised. “Yes, she will. She loves him.”
“That’s good.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished things had turned out differently, she knew Anders was now part of her past. She had to go on, alone. “How can I help? Shall I set the table?”
“Of course,” Ingrid said. “The bowls and cups are in the cupboard to the right of the wash basin. Spoons are in the top drawer.”
Anne found everything she needed and in a few moments had the table set, while Astrid cut thick slices of homemade bread. She helped Ingrid fill the bowls with soup. Her stomach growled.
The soup tasted even better than it smelled. And the bread, which she slathered with a generous dollop of butter, melted in her mouth. After six long years of rationing she’d almost forgotten how wonderful white bread with butter could taste. She’d had her first egg and toast in months on the
Mauritania,
the ship that had brought her and dozens of other war brides from England. They had all been overwhelmed by the quality and quantity of food on the ship. But after the first couple of days, the seas turned rough and she’d been too seasick to eat anything more.
After they finished their soup, Astrid made tea. While they waited for it to steep, Anne cleared her throat.
“I’ve decided what I’m going to do. I’ll write one of the Red Cross ladies who escorted us from Southampton. I’m sure she’ll be able to help me get the money I need for a return ticket to England.”
Astrid nodded. “If you think that’s best, then it’s what you must do. I’m sure your family will be happy to have you home again.”
“No.” Even after five years the pain could still blindside her. “They were all killed in the blitz, early in the war.”
“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.”
“My mother’s parents were living with us because my grandfather needed extra care. He wasn’t well enough to hurry to the bomb shelters when the sirens went off, so my father dug an Anderson bomb shelter in the back garden, big enough for all of us—my grandparents, my parents, my younger sister, and me. It worked well, until our house took a direct hit. I would have been with them, but I’d traded shifts with another student nurse whose boyfriend had one night of leave. I was at the hospital that night.” The guilt of not dying with them, of being the only one to survive, still haunted her.
Astrid reached across the table and took her hand. “There was nothing you could have done for them.”
“No, I suppose not.” She needed to change the subject. “Perhaps you know of a room I can rent in Emerald until I can book my passage.”
“Rent a room?” Astrid looked horrified. “We couldn’t let you do that. You’ll stay with us as long as you need to.”
“I don’t want to impose.” She looked at Ingrid and then at Erik. “I’ve got a little money, enough to rent a room, at least for a while. And I could probably get work somewhere.”
Ingrid shook her head, the previous animosity Anne had seen in her eyes all but gone. “No. There’s no need for you to leave. Is there, Erik?”
Erik fixed her with his blue gaze. It mesmerized her once more, making her feel as if he were again stroking her hair. She blinked to break the spell.
“No,” he said at last. “There’s no need for you to leave at all.”
Chapter Three
Smoke billowed from the woodstove as Anne frantically pulled blackened loaves of bread from the oven. Ingrid raced into the house, milk from her pail spilling onto the floor. She grabbed a tea cloth and pulled out the last loaf.
“What on earth happened?”
“I don’t know. I added wood to the stove just as Astrid said. But then it started to smoke.” The heat made Anne’s face damp with perspiration. She had no experience with baking, much less baking on a woodstove. It was impossible to control the heat on the iron beast.
“I think perhaps you were a little too generous with the wood.” Ingrid examined the charred bread lying on the lid of the oven. “It’s not so bad. We can salvage some of it.”
Anne hung her head in embarrassment and shame. She felt completely out of her element. Everything was so different here. “I’m sorry.”
Ingrid waved off her apology. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
Astrid arrived with another pail of milk. “Oh, dear. I should have stayed and helped you stoke the stove. It takes some practice, I’m afraid.”