Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (6 page)

She closed her eyes but couldn't sleep. Was Zane so put out with her he wouldn't let her visit again?

In the morning, the bassinet was gone. Winifred sat bolt upright in bed and stared at her closed bedroom door. Zane must have come in while she slept and rolled the bassinet back to his bedroom. At least that meant he was home. She prayed he wasn't angry with her for moving the baby to her room. And for once she could do what she'd waited days to accomplish, make an apology.

She dressed in a light blue dimity wrapper, hurriedly braided her hair and pinned the coils at her nape and sped down the stairs to breakfast.

Zane rose as she entered the dining room. A telltale smear of purple juice on his lower lip hinted that he'd sampled her pie this morning. Something inside her began to sing.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. One of your patients brought some blackberries yesterday, so I—”

His dark eyebrows rose. “Are you saying
you
made the pie?”

“Yes, I... Sam showed me how and—”

His sudden smile startled her into silence. “I'm surprised,” he said. “And impressed.”

Winifred knew she was blushing. The distinctly odd expression in Zane's gray eyes confirmed it. Instantly she found it hard to breathe. He looked and looked at her without speaking until the flesh on her bare forearms formed tiny goose bumps.

“Winifred?”

“Y-yes?”

Zane watched her eyes widen. They were like Celeste's, yes, but a shade darker. And at this moment they looked...apprehensive.

“I owe you an apology.”

The morning air was already stifling, and the sun had scarcely cleared the mountains to the east. Perhaps that was why her cheeks were so pink. He loosened his shirt collar in the oppressive heat.

She looked down at the tablecloth, at the door leading to the kitchen, everywhere but at him. He held his breath until she spoke.

“I rather thought I owed
you
the apology. I had no right to...” She swallowed and looked up at him, her eyes shiny. “Perhaps a child's place really is with her father.”

“Perhaps,” he suggested quickly, “we should forgive each other and have breakfast.”

A beaming Sam slipped into the room, a platter of eggs and bacon in one hand, the coffeepot in the other. “Have biscuits, too,” he announced. “And jar of apricot jam from Missy Madsen. For ulcer, she say.”

“Ah, yes.” Zane nodded. “Sent her home yesterday to rest. Apparently she made jam instead. Sometimes I wonder what good a physician's advice is.”

Winifred continued to study him.

He saw that she was struggling to articulate the question in her eyes. “What is it, Winifred? What do you want to ask?”

She blinked and licked her lips. “How do you know I want to ask anything?”

“I am a doctor. I was trained to read people's eyes and facial expressions. Often they reveal more than heart rates or blood pressure, or even fevers.”

He wished she wouldn't run her tongue over her lips that way; something inside him flickered to life when she did it. Something he didn't want to think about.

God in heaven, every fiber of his being ached to hear Celeste's voice, feel her warmth beside him at night. His brain could acknowledge that she was gone, but part of him still could not accept it. Maybe he never would.

The lazy morning heat pressed down on him. He didn't want to move; he just wanted to escape to someplace cool and green where he didn't have to think.

An idea popped into his brain. He discounted it immediately, then shook his head. Yes, why not?

Chapter Six

“W
inifred, would you care to go swimming this afternoon?”

She frowned. He could see her hesitation, but the more he thought about it the more he thought it was a good idea. He knew she didn't like him and he'd hurt her feelings. He wanted to make it up to her in some way. He pressed on. “It's beastly hot, and I have no duties at the hospital until evening. I often go to a place, we call it a ‘swimming hole' out here, where the river widens into a pool, like a lagoon. I go there often in the summer, usually on horseback.”

“I'm afraid I have nothing proper to wear for riding. Or for swimming, either.”

“Sam can find you something. Besides, no one else ever goes to this spot, so no one will see you.”

“No one but you.” She sounded half tempted and half disapproving.

“I won't look, I promise.”

“I do not believe you, Zane. But it is too tempting to escape this awful heat, so yes, let's do go swimming.”

Zane held back a smile. Celeste's older sister was more adventurous than Celeste had been. More open to trying new things, like baking a pie. And more tolerant of human error.

Or was she? He watched her stuff the last of her toast in her mouth and gulp down her coffee. He knew nothing about her, really. Every day she surprised him.

She rose from the table and started for the kitchen. “Sam? Could you find a riding skirt for me in Celeste's closet? And maybe...”

Her voice faded. Zane sat in the humming silence for a full minute. Celeste's riding clothes would never fit her older sister. Winifred's build was not delicate like his wife's.

Winifred was more shapely. More fluid when she moved. More...handsome, that was the word. And Lord help him, she was much more uninhibited in both her speech and her actions.

He got to his feet and headed for the stable. He'd take the buggy instead. It was too hot for horseback riding.

* * *

Winifred was silent for most of the drive out to the swimming hole, and finally it got under Zane's skin. What was she thinking about? Was she still angry about the abominable way he'd spoken to her three days ago? He tried to keep his mind on guiding the gray mare hitched to the buggy, but the woman who sat next to him on the leather seat kept capturing his attention.

She was interested in everything, the larches and sugar maples starting to turn scarlet and gold with the onset of fall, the red-tailed hawks that soared above, the deer they startled in the copse of birches as they approached the river, even the hazy purple mountains in the distance. Finally, she started to talk.

“What are those little yellow-and-brown birds in that tree?”

“Chickadees.”

“And that big blue one with the long tail?”

“That's a blue jay. Steller's jay, it's called.”

She laughed. “I should have guessed by the color.” They rode in silence for another mile, and then she pointed at something on the ground. “What is that tangle of green fronds over by the riverbank?”

Zane had to laugh. “Mint. You've never seen mint growing in the wild? When we leave I'll cut some to take to Sam. He dries the leaves and brews outstanding mint tea.”

“And that—” She broke off and sent him a sidelong glance. “I'm asking too many questions, aren't I?”

He chuckled. “Not nearly enough.” He had to admit he liked showing things to her, explaining things. Celeste had shown little interest in the countryside.

“How do you know all these things? Did you grow up in the West?”

“I grew up in a small town in New York. Albany.”

“I grew up in a city. St. Louis.”

“I'll wager you've never gone swimming in a river, have you?”

There was another long silence. “I've never gone swimming at all,” she confessed. “Is this swimming hole very, um, deep?”

Zane shot her a look. Winifred couldn't swim? Why had she agreed to come?

The lane narrowed to mere wheel tracks, then curved around behind a stand of ash trees and emerged fifty yards from the lazily flowing river. He pulled the horse to a stop and climbed down.

“Over there.” He waved one arm. “We walk from here.”

Winifred clambered out, clutching a rolled-up bit of clothing. Celeste's bathing costume, he guessed. He'd never seen her wear it.

The lagoon-like pond where he liked to swim lay tucked in a bend in the river, screened by drooping willow and cottonwood trees. The water looked cool and inviting. Without thinking, he stripped off his muslin shirt, then stopped short.

She stared at him as if she'd never seen a man's bare chest before. Good God, perhaps she hadn't. Once again her cheeks turned rose-red. It never occurred to him that she might be...modest.

“Winifred, I—”

“Do you swim, um, naked?”

“Usually, yes. Today I'll keep my underdrawers on if you'd feel more comfortable.”

She didn't answer for a long moment. “I will, uh, change into Cissy's bathing costume behind that shrub.” She stepped over to a large huckleberry bush.

Zane shucked his trousers, sprinted to the water and dove in. Out of courtesy to Winifred he stayed facing away from her until he heard a soft splash behind him. When he turned he caught his breath.

She stood poised at the river's edge, swishing the toes of one foot in the water, and good God almighty, she filled every inch of Celeste's bathing garment. He turned away and swam to the far end of the pool, then stroked to the opposite end.

Before he reached it, he heard a yelp and a loud splash. When he looked back she was chest-deep in the river.

“How does one swim?” she called.

“Just put your arms out and bend forward and then shove off from the bottom.”

To his surprise she did exactly as he said. Her head disappeared underwater, broke the surface, then sank once more. Just as he started to stroke toward her, she reemerged, her arms flailing, water spewing out of her mouth.

But she didn't call for help. Instead, she thrashed forward, trying to keep her head above water.

“Kick your legs,” he yelled.

Suddenly she was ploughing through the water, her arms making sloppy waving motions, her eyes scrunched tightly closed.

“Winifred,” he shouted. “Open your eyes.”

“Can't,” she called. “I'll drown.”

That made him laugh out loud. She'd come this far; he'd let her discover the rest for herself.

He stroked to the far end of the pool and back again, then methodically swam ten or twelve additional lengths. When he pulled himself onto the sandy bank he was breathing hard.

Winifred was clumsily propelling herself in a ragged circle, but she had opened her eyes. Zane lay back on the warm sand and laid his arm over his face. He didn't want to watch her come out of the river. She'd be wet, and the too-small swimming suit would hide nothing. He couldn't help smiling at the picture he imagined, but he wouldn't embarrass her by actually looking.

He'd seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of women's bodies; but this woman was different. For one thing, she was his wife's sister.

But God, how he wanted to see her!

After half an hour she splashed out of the water with a triumphant cry. “I did it! I can swim!”

Zane kept his eyes closed.

“Did you see me? I was really swimming, wasn't I?”

“You were really swimming, Winifred. Congratulations.”

Droplets of cool water hit his chest and still he didn't open his eyes. “Better get out of that wet suit,” he ordered.

He prayed she would do just that. The temptation to open his eyes was overpowering.

He managed another sixty seconds, then caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she ducked behind the huckleberry bush. He groaned, got to his feet and dove into the water again for twelve more laps. When he emerged, Winifred sat on the bank, the skirt of her blue dimity dress hiked up to her calves, her bare toes digging into the sand. She looked like a happy child.

A lump as big as an orange lodged in his throat. He had never seen Celeste look that young and unguarded. Never.

He propelled himself out of the river and strode past her to yank on his trousers and shirt. He was still short of breath, but this time he knew it had nothing to do with swimming laps.

On the drive back to town, Winifred chattered on about teaching herself to swim, about the chickadees, about gathering the mint, about everything. Zane held onto the traces so tight his knuckles ached but said nothing. His breath came in short gusts, his brain swirled with a thousand thoughts. Outrageous thoughts.

His wife's sister. He was attracted to his sister-in-law!

When they reached the house, he tossed the reins to Sam and bolted for his office and the brandy decanter.

* * *

After supper that night, Zane went outside to rock in the porch swing in the soft evening air, sweet with honeysuckle. Then, to his horror, Winifred joined him.

They said nothing for a long time, then she drew in a steadying breath and lightly touched his arm.

“I must leave, Zane.”

“I thought as much.”

“I have a concert in two weeks, and I must prepare.”

“Yes.”

“I've grown to love Rosemarie. I would like to come back at Christmastime. If I may.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I will go tomorrow, then. The train leaves at noon.”

He said nothing for a long moment. “I'll drive you to the station in the buggy.”

“Thank you.”

“We will miss you. All of us—Rosemarie and Sam and...and me.”

There was nothing more to say. He felt as if a candle were being extinguished. It made no sense.

He rose abruptly, stalked inside the house and tramped upstairs to hold his baby daughter in his arms.

Winifred waited until his footsteps faded, then slipped through the front door and into his office and searched until she found the brandy decanter.

* * *

At eleven o'clock the following searingly hot morning, Zane drove Winifred to catch the train. Neither spoke. At the station he helped her down and carried her valise into the station house while she purchased her ticket.

He watched her fold the ticket into her reticule and felt his gut clench. He was torn about her leaving. He would miss seeing her across the table at breakfast, miss watching her rocking his baby daughter to sleep, watching her thrash across the swimming hole learning to swim.

Oh, hell, he'd just miss her.

Yes, he was still grieving for Celeste. Yes, he was lonely. He'd thought he was so numb with grief he was dead inside.

But he'd miss Winifred.

On the other hand, he couldn't be around her. Shouldn't be around her. He was glad she was leaving.

The train was late and every minute they waited was awkward. Zane walked the length of the platform, stopped where Winifred stood waiting, her valise beside her, then walked another length. When he returned to her side she did not look at him.

Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. “Winifred?”

She looked up at his voice. “Yes, Zane?”

“I'm glad you came. I dreaded it. Dreaded meeting you, at first, but...”

“But you're glad I am leaving.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

“Yes. And no.”

She held up her hand. “Don't explain. Please don't.”

He nodded. He couldn't explain even if he wanted to.

Suddenly she pivoted away from him. “There's the train. I hear the whistle.” She moved toward the tracks. He grabbed up her valise and followed.

The locomotive engine whooshed past, slowing to position the passenger car in front of the loading platform. Winifred kept her back to him until she reached the iron boarding step, then turned to face him. With one hand she reached for the valise he carried, and with the other she reached for him.

He enveloped her hand in both of his, opened his mouth to say goodbye and found he had no voice.

She smiled at him again. “You don't have to say anything, Zane.”

He cleared his throat. “Come back,” he said.

She pressed her lips together and inclined her head. Tears shone in her eyes.

September 20th

Dear Zane,

My concert on the seventeenth went well—actually better than I expected. I didn't have a speck of stage fright, as I usually do. Cissy never had qualms about performing; I was always the one with shaking hands and a fluttery heart. I played some of her favorites—Brahms waltzes and a Beethoven sonata or two. No Chopin.

My teaching load at the conservatory will increase with the new term beginning in January. I have plenty of students already—more than the other professors—and one or two intermediates show considerable promise. Often I look at them and wonder if I was ever that young. They are so serious, so disciplined, so full of hope.

Next month I will play in Chicago with an orchestra, and after that in New York City and then Boston. My career in music—the life both Cissy and I dreamed of since we were in pinafores—is terribly important to me. Even more, now that Cissy is gone, and that is strange in a way because I could never have imagined doing this without her. But it is everything to me now, perhaps because... Oh, I don't know, really.

I am working very hard, harder than last term, with many more concert engagements. By November I will surely need a rest.

One of my fellow faculty members, Millicent Erhard, has invited me to her home in Rochester for two weeks; she promises lots of music “for fun.” That will be a relief.

Kiss Rosemarie for me.

Winifred

October 3rd

Dear Winifred,

Rosemarie thrives, though half the county is down with influenza. I have been at the hospital day and night as our permanent nurse, Elvira Sorensen—did you meet her?—came down with it last week and I am training another woman who is not nearly as conscientious. Good nurses are hard to find.

You will not believe this next: Sam is getting married! He has been saving the salary I pay him, and adding his winnings at fan-tan, which he plays with Uncle Charlie—the baker, remember? Three months ago he sent to his family in China for a “respectable girl with not a loud voice.” He included money for her fare to Portland, and she should arrive before Christmas. I am enlarging Sam's room off the kitchen and installing a small bathroom for them as well.