CHAPTER ONE
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September 15, 1917—Split Falls, Iowa
Not once in eighteen years had Hattie Waltz considered praying for a plague. But if a swarm of locusts intervened, she’d not complain. That’s how much she hated the idea of singing in public. A train whistle blared, and she jumped, her button-top boots clearing the platform.
“Don’t fret.” Daddy locked both hands onto her shoulders, his voice full of confidence. His straw hat rode low, and he wore his good coveralls, not his old pair with the patched crotch.
“Do you remember the last time I sang in public?” Hattie had tried to replace the ugly memory with a pretty substitute. But no such luck.
“You had a touch of influenza. We all did. That’s in the past. You sing like your mama, and she had the most beautiful voice in the world. Sing for her.”
Hattie gulped the brisk Iowa air deep into her lungs.
“If your Mama were here, she’d say, ‘Never let fear swallow your talent.’ Ain’t that right, Button?”
“I suppose.” She’d do anything for Mama, even if it meant one scary step toward conquering her stage fright. Still, she stalled. “I don’t suppose you’ll swap places with me.”
“Nobody wants to hear my caterwauling.” Daddy’s warm chuckle eased her nerves, at least a little. “I brought along this peach crate. We want folks to see your pretty face.”
At five-foot-nothing in her church shoes, Hattie tended to blend into the mix. Daddy helped her climb onto the wobbly perch, and she held her breath until the instrumental cue. Her stomach gurgled and her mouth watered, a telltale sign she was about to—
Then a miracle happened.
She sang to the dozens of spectators, recognizing half their faces.
A three-piece band, heavy on the bass drum, boomed “My Country’ Tis of Thee,” almost overpowering her lyrics. A few poignant words must have crept through the din to pluck at fragile heartstrings. Ladies scavenged through pocketbooks and overcoat sleeves for hankies.
Months ago, President Wilson had declared war, luring men to boot camps across the country. In less than an hour, they’d bid ten locals goodbye, all scheduled to depart on the eleven o’clock train.
A stage-shaking gust caught Hattie’s skirt, rippling the garment sideways. She wiggled her hips to rearrange the material back into place which only inched the hem higher. Torn between bending to adjust her clothing or pretending not to notice her dilemma, she fumbled the lyrics. A slow burn started in her neck and crept to her cheeks.
Coal smoke and valve oil dusted the air as the final chorus soared. Mayor Carmichael had handed out miniature flags, and a dozen folks waved theirs in the feisty breeze. She fiddled with hers.
A second squall almost knocked her off the crate, driving her skirt even higher. To divert the audience’s attention, she shot her arm high, swooping her flag left and then right. Her ploy worked, and soon a sea of patriotic symbols shot toward the heavens, banding together in a rhythmic sway.
After a quick eye drop for an apparel check, Hattie froze. A pearl button had popped off her shirtwaist, exposing a less-than-Sunday-best corset. She clutched the front of her dress, tugging the garment closed and toward her heart. Likewise, men across the platform tossed back shoulders and slung hands over their loyal hearts.
Nobody appeared to notice her dilemma except Arno Kreger. Tall and proud, he raised one eyebrow. She broke their eye contact, hefting her chin. Ignore him. He doesn’t matter anymore.
Off to his right, a handsome stranger, measuring no higher than Arno’s shoulder, offered a dazzling smile. She returned his grin, curving her lips upward around the lyrics. Based on his fancy three-piece suit and paisley tie, the man didn’t plant corn or milk cows for a living.
The minute the song ended, she hopped off the crate, snagged her overcoat from the platform, and secured the buttons. Applause thundered. She grinned in appreciation, accepting the compliments while inching from the spotlight.
“Same as always, you done me proud.” Daddy patted her arm then left to buy feed at the grain elevator.
She searched for her fellow Knitting Brigade member—Lena Kreger. A hand cupped her shoulder, and she wheeled around to stand nose-to-chest with a human wall. Arno.
“I have to say your singing voice has improved over the years. I especially appreciated how—” Midsentence, his cousin tugged on his pantleg. Garbed in a corduroy overcoat and smart hat, she held one hand behind her back. “Molly! How’s my favorite four-year-old?” Arno asked.
“I’m five.”
“Impossible.”
That’s when the tickling started. A fit of giggles and squirms followed.
Hattie laughed, too, picturing Arno as the sweet little boy who’d snared her heart long ago, not the firebrand she barely knew these days. Last week, he’d crashed his daddy’s tractor after a night on the town, and she’d not spotted him at church services in a month, not that she was the congregation’s attendance tracker.
Molly’s mother raised a hand in acknowledgment and continued her conversation with a trio of women nearby. Hattie waved back.
“I made you something.” With a bounce to her tiptoes, Molly presented a crumpled paper heart.
“For me?” Arno crouched to the child’s eye level.
“It’s to help you remember me while you’re gone.”
“I could never forget about you, Molly,” His words carried a tender tone, while his big hand cupped her little cheek.
More than anything, Hattie longed to ask—What about me? Instead, she pursed her lips to hold the worry inside where it belonged.
He dropped one knee in the grass to fish something from his pocket. When Arno opened his fist, a brass compass rested in his palm.
“I know what that is. Father has one.” Sunshine glinted off the metallic rim. Little fingers reached for the gleamy object. “He says it helps him find his way.”
“My opa gave me that compass way back when. Now, I’m giving it to you.”
“Thank you. I’ll love it forever.” Molly’s arms circled Arno’s neck before she squealed and raced to her mother’s side.
The sweet exchange hooked Hattie’s heart, opening it wider. “You’re her hero.”
“Don’t say that.” He stood, sadness turning his eyes to pale blue. “I’m not even close.”
Those four little words kicked at Hattie’s gut. According to his sister, he blamed himself for their brother’s death and hadn’t found a big enough brush to sweep away his guilt. “Sure, you are,” she whispered.
A wry smile twisted his lips. The combination of a sun-kissed complexion, corn silk-colored hair, and spellbinding eyes often turned women’s heads and hearts alike. Hattie wasn’t an exception. “Before our interruption,” Arno nodded toward Molly, “I was about to pay you a compliment.”
“Really?” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. They’d barely spoken in two years, and now he wanted to offer praise?
His right brow arched high. “I particularly appreciated how you sang and, at the same time, fought to control your skirt and hide the gape in your blouse.”
Had he been as sweet as a strawberry dipped in sugar two minutes ago, or had she imagined his entire conversation with his cousin? “How inconsiderate of you to mention my mishap.”