Love Blooms in Winter (7 page)

Straightening from his task, he started when he saw Tom and then put a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, sir, but you gave me quite a fright!”

“No, please. I’m sorry to have startled you.” Tom smiled warmly as he extended his hand. “Name’s Tom Curtis, and I’m looking for Mae Wilkey. I don’t know if she’s a Miss or Mrs.”

“Mae?” The gentleman’s gaze roamed the now empty churchyard. “She was here a moment ago.”

“Oh?” Tom turned to follow his gaze. Disappearing buggies met his efforts.

The man smiled. “I’m just filling in for the pastor this morning. He has a touch of dyspepsia.” He straightened his vest. “Which reminds me, I must be getting on home. The missus will have dinner on the table, and she hates it when I’m late. Mae is probably already home. Jeremy has a big appetite, and he loves his Sunday fried chicken.”

Jeremy. So it was “Mrs.” A play by Thomas Morton came to mind:
Speed the Plough
or something like that. There was a character by the name of “Mrs. Grundy”—a lady with a prudish personality. He’d only read the play because his teacher had made him, but this Mae Wilkey sounded like her. He bet she looked like her too. Nose in the air. Straitlaced. Priggish.

“I’m sure she will welcome you inside so you can get out of the chill, and she’ll have plenty on her table to share.” The man pointed down the road. “She lives in that white house with the blue shutters.”

Tom couldn’t miss it. The buildings and houses were built so close you could spit on the neighborhood. Nodding, the pastor stepped back to let Tom precede him down the steps. Sunday fried chicken. Right about now, if he were home, he’d be sitting down to a plate piled high with his favorite meat at the boardinghouse.

Instead, he was in Dwadlo, North Dakota, looking for possible kin. The idea still didn’t make a lick of sense.

Tom thanked the man and set off down the road. Smells of pot roast, fried chicken, and fresh coffee lingered in the mild air. Everything in Dwadlo was shut tighter than a tick burrowed in. The local café’s “Closed” sign hung in the window in observance of the Lord’s Day.

He counted the houses as he walked. He couldn’t remember ever being in a smaller town, and the homes had been built within a couple hundred feet of the train depot. He thought with all the available land that folks would have spread out a bit.

Everything appeared to be tiny in comparison to Chicago dwellings. One house on the left had a large shed or some sort of outbuilding that sat near the back of the lot. The sound of rushing water met his ears, and he figured a river sat behind the house. Dogs and cats milled about the yard.

Tom focused on the house with the blue shutters. This must be the place, from what the pastor said. Resentment crowded him before he rejected the feeling. He should thank Mrs. Wilkey instead of begrudging her. If this Pauline Wilson was family who needed him, he would want to know and be of help, but the letter had come out of nowhere, and he was having a hard time accepting the news. Exactly what could he possibly do? He couldn’t move her into his boardinghouse.

Even if he left there and found a bigger place, Pauline would be alone almost every day in Chicago. It was a shame that someone in the area didn’t start a home for aging people who were unable to care for themselves. In his travels he’d seen such establishments starting to spring up in Florida, Wisconsin, and Illinois.

Before he reached the house, a dog spotted him and bound out into the street, barking. Others followed. Backing away, Tom said, “Git!”

Three of the larger dogs took turns jumping up and planting dirty paws on the front of his shirt. Wet tongues lapped at him while small dogs tangled around his feet, yipping. Memories of being bitten when he was a boy flooded his mind and sudden fear gripped him. Stumbling, his satchel went flying, spilling its contents. He fell to the ground in a sea of fur, unable to fight off the animals. “Git! Git!”

Barks and yelps grew and the animals turned aggressive, latching onto the hem of his heavy coat. More dogs joined the fray. He was amazed they were only biting his clothing and not his flesh. Turning his back, he tried to push the animals off him. When that failed, he shouted louder. “Get off me!” The scuffle seemed to go on forever before he heard a sharp whistle.

The assault immediately stopped and the animals trotted off. Stunned, Tom lay on the ground, head spinning. His right hand felt the tears in his coat. He finally shifted his gaze to see the source of his rescue.

A young woman with the warmest brown eyes he had ever seen loomed above him—if a five-foot woman could loom above anything. She wore a long black cloak and huddled against the cutting wind. She spoke softly with concern on her pretty face.

“Are you hurt?”

He grunted. “Define hurt.”

Kneeling beside him, she took the hem of her skirt and gently wiped his face. He much preferred the faint fragrance of jasmine lingering on the woman’s skin than the animal smells lingering on the ground.

“My goodness. Those dogs are a pesky lot, aren’t they?”

Pesky wasn’t exactly how he would describe the all-out assault. “Are they rabid?” He searched the retreating animals for the frothing mouths or aggressive behavior of the dreaded disease. He knew that from childhood.

“Goodness no. They’re healthy. Just boisterous.”

Slowly sitting up, Tom held his head in both hands. “They came out of nowhere.”

She assisted him to his feet. “Are there any lasting effects?”

He saw her focus on a long tear in his coat sleeve, and he checked for any open flesh wounds. “No, ma’am. My coat and shirt are torn, that’s all.” He bent to gather his personal belongings strewn over the yard, along with his extra clothes, which were now muddy as well.

“Those are easy to fix. If you have a moment, I’ll mend the tears for you and then wash the mud off your things. I’ll hang them in front of the stove, and they will dry in no time. Have you had your dinner?”

“I ate some jerky earlier.” He dusted mud and snow off his knees.

“Jerky? For Sunday dinner?” Gripping his arm, she turned him toward the road. “You’re coming with me.”

Ordinarily Tom would protest, but his clothes did need mending, and if the aroma of frying chicken came from her house he wasn’t going to argue—plus, she was pretty. Dogs howled in the background. “Does the dogcatcher live there?” he asked as they started to leave.

“No. That is the home of a lovely woman, and she can’t turn any animal away. It started out innocently enough. Folks dump their strays here, and I’m afraid she’s now let her compassion eat her out of house and home.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tom followed the woman across the road and then up the path leading to a small front porch. He was so busy checking to see if the dogs were at his heels again that he followed her without being aware of his surroundings. When she opened the door, he spotted a youth standing in front of the cooking stove. Tom’s gaze fixed on the table, where a heaping plate of fried chicken was surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, beets, and green beans. His empty stomach growled.

“Please make yourself at home. I’ll get you something to wear while I mend that shirtsleeve—and your pants are all dirty. I’ll wash those also.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” His eyes roamed the cozy kitchen. He breathed in the fragrant smells mingling in the room. He unbuttoned his coat, keeping an eye on the boy. He didn’t say a word, but a friendly smile welcomed him. The woman returned with a shirt and a pair of trousers.

“These will probably be too small. Our father was short in stature, but I’ll have your clothing mended and washed in no time. I’m the town’s postmistress, but I’m also pretty handy with a needle and thread.” She pointed to the room she’d exited. “You can change in there.”

He knew without trying on the garments that they wouldn’t fit, but he took them from her and walked to the small room where a bed, chest of drawers, and women’s clothing were strewn about. Closing the door, he stripped out of his muddy garments and put on the clean ones. When he emerged, he felt like a fool. The shirtsleeves were three inches too short, and the pant legs only came to the top of his boots. The woman discreetly studied his attire.

“Oh. Well, the repair will only take a minute. Sit down, please.” She stepped to the sideboard and removed a cup.

Tom pulled out a chair and sat down. The boy remained quiet, lost in his cooking.

“Hope you like chicken.”

“One of my favorites.”

She moved quickly and efficiently around the kitchen. A moment later she set eating utensils in front of him and moved to the large coffeepot shoved to the back of the stove, addressing the boy. “The dogs tore this gentleman’s coat sleeve and muddied his trousers and the extra clothing he was carrying. After dinner I’ll mend and wash the garments and hang them to dry.”

Nodding, he laid his turning fork aside and moved to sit down at the table.

Tom reached for the plate she offered and looked appreciatively at the delicious-looking food in front of him. This meal alone was worth the journey. Where was the husband?

“Jake usually joins us on Sunday, but he wasn’t feeling well today.”

Nodding, Tom opened his napkin.

She sat down and smiled. “It’s a joy to feed a hungry man.”

“Oh?” After spearing a couple of drumsticks he picked up the bowl of cream gravy. “Your husband has a hearty appetite?”

Shaking her head, she laughed. A clear, pleasant sound. “I don’t have a husband.” Her gaze tenderly focused on the young boy. “It’s just me and Jeremy.”

Nodding to him, Tom ladled beans on his plate. So far the lad still hadn’t said a word. He just kept smiling at him. “You look to be a mighty fine cook, ma’am.”

Color crept up her neck. “Actually, Jeremy does most of the cooking around here.” Grinning at the boy, she admitted, “Sometimes he’ll let me bake a chocolate cake, but not often.”

Lifting his gaze, Tom focused on the young male, aware of the deep affection in her eyes. “Well, Jeremy, this is by far the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.” The boy beamed, a blush infusing his youthful cheeks. Tom ate in silence as he tried to guess his age. Early teens? Mute perhaps? The woman’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the General Store. Are you new to the area?”

“Arrived on the morning train.” He disposed of the two legs quickly and reached for a chicken breast. “You?”

“Born and raised right here in Dwadlo. Jeremy is my brother.”

Brother and sister. It made sense. “You said you’re Dwadlo’s postmistress?”

She smiled. “Afraid so. Not very exciting, is it?”

“No. It’s a fine job. Could you pass the beets?”

She picked up a bowl and handed it to him. “What brings you to these parts in the dead of winter?”

“Pauline Wilson. Do you know her?”

Her cup slipped to the table. He reached to sop up the coffee when her hand grabbed his. “Are you Tom Curtis?”

When he tried to pull away, her grip tightened.

“Are you?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Tom Curtis.” His eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. If she recognized his name, then she must be the one who’d written the letter. “Are you Mae Wilkey?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank goodness you’ve come.”

Mentally shaking his head, he took a bite of potatoes. This was Mae Wilkey? She wasn’t the woman he’d imagined. This woman spoke in soft tones, seemed eager to help, and if her brother’s facial expressions meant anything, the young man loved his sister deeply.

Springing from her chair, she moved around the table and began heaping more chicken and beets on his plate. “I was about to despair of my letters ever reaching you.”

He should have known by the way she was wielding food like a weapon that he was in for it. His hand blocked a third hot biscuit. “Please, ma’am. I’ve about had my fill.”

Sinking back to her chair, she drew a long breath and expelled the words. “Thank you, God, for answered prayer.”

“So this…Pauline you wrote about. You said she’s getting up in years?”

“She’s in her nineties, and until a year ago she was doing quite well, but lately she’s become very feeble. She falls often, she forgets to eat, and she roams the house at night and sleeps all day—not to mention that her mind isn’t quite right anymore.”

Tom had seen the likes and it wasn’t pretty. “Ma’am, what makes you believe I’m Pauline’s kin?”

“Yours was the only name and address I found in her desk. I’ve never heard her speak of family. She never married that I know of, and she mostly keeps to herself these days, but she’s always been a good neighbor. I stop by every morning and evening to check on her, but she needs more.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “She needs hot meals and more frequent baths. I feel certain she hasn’t long on this earth, and having family to make personal decisions would mean the world to her.”

“What kind of decisions?”

“Legal ones. Someone to care for her.”

Shoving back from the table, he said, “Ma’am, I’ve racked my brain, but I can’t remember a Pauline in the family—there may be, but I’m not recalling her.” He shook his head. “However, if my name and address were in the drawer, it seems likely I had some connection to her.”