Chapter Nine

The pristine touch of heaven blanketed the ground, slumbered between every branch of the jack pines. Life took on the sluggish pace of a snail through the first week of March and so did Rory. Most days, she ventured out with the children to make snow angels, catch cold flakes on her tongue or gaze at the icy prisms falling against the windowpanes.

Today, huddled near the kitchen window with Aaron and Sarah, she pointed to the glass. "Look fast before they melt."

With the innocent tone of a child, Sarah asked, "Why?"

"They’re all different in design, not one alike."

Aaron snorted. "You sound like Ma. She calls them miniature masterpieces."

"How do you think I learned about the miracle?"

"Mother says people are like snowflakes."

"Indeed, they are, Sarah. We’re like the snowflakes with our own unique traits."

Aaron crossed his eyes and followed one to his tongue. "Thank goodness, we’re not as fleeting."

In unison, they turned toward the long drive when a horse whinnied.

"Someone is coming." Aaron cupped a hand over his brow. "I best get Pa."

Rory’s heart leaped and she couldn’t keep her eyes off the advancing rider. "No need. I believe I recognize him."

Standing as still as marble statues, Dawson brought his horse to a halt ten feet from them. "Let me guess, human snowmen?"

Sarah giggled and Aaron took his hand down and elbowed Rory in the ribs. "Ma says we’re supposed to ask visitors to come into the house."

Jolted out of her trance, Rory managed to say, "It isn’t spring yet."

"Sounds as if you’re disappointed."

"No-no, not at all, surprised to see you. Is everything all right at home?"

Dawson waved a hand in the air and dismounted with fluid grace. "Fine, I stopped by for a short visit on my way here."

"Oh."

"Who is he, Rory? Are you going to ask him in or not?"

Rory gathered her senses. "You do remember Dawson Finch, don’t you, Sarah? He helped with the new barn."

"Hello Sarah. And you’re Aaron, aren’t you?"

Aaron nodded and offered his hand. "Yes, I am. Hello . . . again. I think the snowflakes we were catching froze Aunt Rory’s brain. Do you want to come into the house and sit for a spell?"

"That sounds nice."

"Run along, children, tell your mother we have company." Rory gave them a nudge toward the house and stepped toward Dawson. "Forgive my manners. I didn’t expect you to-to return until April." She wanted to kick herself for stammering like a schoolgirl. "You-you finished the building project early?"

"No, we’re not done. I have to go back tomorrow."

"You came back for a day?"

"For two days."

She stared at his beautiful face, searched his eyes.

"I couldn’t wait until April to . . .."

Say it, say, ‘to see you again.’

"To see you again."

Her knees knocked and not from the cold. With a smile, she reached for his hand, squeezed and led him toward the house. "I’ll bet Isabelle is watching us through the kitchen window."

"Does that mean I can’t kiss you?"

She put her head down, aware of the desire twisting in her gut, aware of everything about him. "Don’t you dare."

Her sister opened the door. "Dawson Finch, if you aren’t a bright ray of sunshine on a wintry day!"

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Caldwell."

"Come in out of the cold, and please, call me Isabelle." She turned toward the kitchen for a moment. "Anne, set another place at the table, please." With a quick glance at Rory, she spoke to Dawson again, "You’ll stay for dinner, of course."

"Been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal. Smells delicious."

"Come along you two. Rory, take his coat and hat; he can warm up by the hearth. Jon should be in from the barn soon."

Throughout the meal, Rory found it difficult to keep her eyes off Dawson. With so many people clamoring for his attention, she couldn’t get a word in. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be alone with a man. With him.

Jon brought out the brandy when they finished eating and filled six short glasses. "Pass them along now to Dawson, Rory, Clark, James and my lovely wife." He cleared his throat and lifted his glass. "Here’s to friends far and near."

A chorus of voices rang out. "To friends far and near."

"What’s the word on the war where you are, Dawson? Talk of more states seceding from the Union?"

"After losing South Carolina in December, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Texas and Louisiana are threatening to join them."

Jon sketched a somber expression. "They call themselves the Confederate States of America."

Isabelle clucked her tongue against her cheek. "It’s sad to see our country torn apart."

It wasn’t the first time Rory had heard the men in the county speak of war, but like Isabelle, the thought terrified her. She caught Dawson’s eyes. "What do you think, will there be a war?"

"If the politicians have their way, yes."

Clark leaned forward in his chair. "If I remember my history lessons, South Carolina was one of the first states admitted to the Union."

"The ninth," James interjected.

"I say the eighth state," Clark tapped his glass on the table. "Bet my morning chores on it."

James thrust forward a confident chin. "You’re on."

Jon looked to Rory. "What say you, lass, the eighth or ninth?"

She scrunched her lips. "History was not my best subject, but I’ll go along with James. The ninth."

"Clark is right; South Carolina was the eighth state admitted, May, 1788."

A hush came to the room and all eyes fell on Dawson.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to stun you into silence." Dawson looked around the table. "History was my best subject and I read a lot."

Isabelle and Rory exchanged glances and her sister offered a shrug. She seemed as surprised as Rory over Dawson’s grasp of historic events. Rory realized she’d misjudged the man from the onset. The more she knew of him, the more he astonished her.

Jon put his hands out, palms up. "No need to apologize, son."

"I’m happy you’re here to back me up.” Clark scratched his head as if perplexed. “I seldom win a bet against Rory or Ma."

"Here. Here!" Isabelle boasted a smile. "As it should be when you challenge women."

Jon scratched his beard. "I say it’s a shame, a downright shame, all this talk of secession and war."

Dawson raised his glass, put it to his lips and drained the last drop. "I best be heading home. I’ve a long ride ahead of me tomorrow." He tipped his head toward Isabelle. "Thank you for the meal."

"Oh, do come again, Dawson. We enjoyed your visit."

"You can count on it, ma’am." Sudden warmth crept up Rory’s neck when he looked at her. "Until spring, then."

Blinded by the brilliance of his smile, she rose from the table and retrieved his coat and hat. Handing him the items, she uttered a feeble, "Safe journey."

Rory dressed for bed, her dazed mind reliving the day. Everything seemed surreal about Dawson’s sudden visit. After climbing beneath the covers, she called forth his face, every perfect feature. Like a thunderbolt, a thought struck her. She had missed him more than she realized. She missed him right now. Was he testing her feelings or questioning his own? Why didn’t Isabelle warn her about love and the tumultuous emotions of the dreadful affliction? God help her . . . had she fallen in love with the man? She closed her eyes and beckoned sleep.

And prayed she’d find him in her dreams.