Arno drew in a calming breath before facing his foe. “Did we lie, Clyde?”
CW cursed, dropping into Karl’s vacated chair. “Don’t call me that.” The soldier hiccupped and then propped an elbow on the tabletop before cradling his head in his hand. His eyes closed.
“Let’s get out of here.” Arno led Karl toward the exit.
“Wait, mister,” a female hollered.
Arno and Karl turned. Hyland charged after them.
“You’ve not yet settled your bill, fella, and you’re not leaving until you do.” The waitress raised her voice loud enough to turn a roomful of heads and then parked herself in front of CW, blocking his path.
“What a nincompoop,” Karl said, shaking his head on the way out the door.
Before camp, Arno had set a goal to avoid fistfights no matter the circumstance, but with Hyland and Jordane stoking his ire most days, how long until fists flew?
Back at the barracks, Arno shuffled toward his cot. On the middle of his bed sat an envelope. The return address belonged to Hattie Waltz. Pulse racing, he tore it open.
November 6, 1917
Dear Arno,
Ever since we last spoke, I’ve thought about our parting words. You claim you’ve changed, and I asked you to prove it. Words are flimsy but actions strong. Ten days have passed since I visited Camp Dodge, and I’ve received zero correspondence from you. In my estimation, that’s no action.
Something else about our last conversation also troubles me. Twice now, you’ve mentioned how well you know me. Other than talks at the train station and boot camp, we’ve not spoken in two years. We truly knew each other once, but that doesn’t mean we know each other anymore.
Although it’s probably foolish to dredge old news, I had a crush on you for years based on a kindness you showed me back in grammar school. Then, on my sixteenth birthday, we almost kissed. Deny the claim all you want, we both know it’s true.
Instead of that almost-a-kiss spurring me toward a deeper infatuation, it opened my eyes. I’m not that love-struck little girl any longer, and you’re not that sweet boy who stole my heart. We’ve changed.
To prove my point, here are three little things I wager you don’t know about me.
I consider my singing ability a gift I don’t deserve or appreciate. Although it’s a pleasure to excel at something, I sometimes feel like a puppet on a string. To sing in public scares me to death. It’s disappointing to feel so ungrateful, but it’s the truth.
Although Mama died during childbirth, I want a houseful of children one day but not necessarily tomorrow.
I’m not courting Barrett. One day, I may, but for now, we’re merely acquainting ourselves.
I’m unsure why I feel obliged to share three little things, but I do. I’ve prattled on for far too long, and it’s time to wrangle Hawk into bed.
As always,
Hattie
P.S. Here’s a proverb to ponder. “Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure and whether it be right.”
Arno stared at a page teeming with words he thought he’d never read from a woman he truly didn’t know. Not yet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
Hattie snuggled in the middle of her fluffy bed, a quilt tucked between her chest and chin. Her toes tingled from the cold. Arno’s unopened letter rested on her nightstand atop a stack of novels.
Jeb had dumped the mail on the kitchen table in the early afternoon, snatched a handful of oatmeal raisin cookies, and then left to tinker on the Buick’s motor. After rolling out a pan of biscuits, Hattie’d divvied the mail into piles—rubbish, personal, and business. When her fingers brushed Arno’s ivory envelope, she froze.
The postmark read Little Rock, Arkansas, but Lena had already recited that detail a day prior. Although tempted to rip it open, she buried the precious letter under her bed pillow for a private read later.
Preoccupied with the waiting epistle, she’d carried out one chore after the next in a distracted state—dusting the mantel with her skirt hem and pouring sugar instead of flour into her biscuit bowl. When dusk dropped, she plated the pot roast, rushed supper, scrubbed the dishes, and hurried Hawk’s bath before the iron cook stove. Then she excused herself for a night of reading upstairs, failing to mention the nature of her reading material.
After a king-sized gulp, she picked it up and drew a letter opener underneath the flap.
November 20, 1917
Dear Hattie,
No doubt you noticed the Arkansas postmark, but that’s probably old news, knowing Lena. We passed through a dozen or so nothing towns along the route. The minute you blink, they disappear. Plenty of folks turned out to greet us between home and camp.
Most of the soldiers here hail from Ohio, Alabama, and, naturally, Arkansas. Overall, we hitch together well but found ourselves in an awful chewing match yesterday at dinner over which is the best state. Based on noise levels, I’d say it’s us. Everyone claims life at Pike is a chore, but we’re hardy stock, and I’m guessing we’ll survive.
Your letter surprised me. You’d left the impression you’d never write. When I told you my trouble-seeking days remain in the past, you doubted it. The way I see it, it’ll take time to determine which of us is correct.
You’ve always struck me as brave. After reading your three personal disclosures, I see that hasn’t changed. Without question, your voice is a gift. Don’t feel guilty for not wishing to perform on cue. That sounds downright annoying.
Encouraged by your lead, here are three little things you don’t know about me:
Ever since Oliver died, I don’t think I’d make a good father.
One of my favorite memories is singing with him, especially with Pa on the fiddle.
The news you and Barrett aren’t an item, at least not yet, fills me with hope. I’m uncertain what I’m hoping for when it comes to you and me. What do you want? Did you note how I didn’t presume to know the answer?
Time to peel spuds, so goodbye for now.
As always,
Arno
P.S. The following proverb reminds me of you. “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” I’m not calling you old. I’m calling you wise enough to chair the Brigade.
With a wide-open grin, she tossed her blanket over her head, savoring Arno’s thoughtful words, sinking into the warmth of her covers. But then she remembered another important tidbit from the letter—the part dealing with fatherhood.
Before she could reread the letter, her bedroom door banged open, minus a knock or a may I enter?
Hattie yanked the blankets from her face to expose Jeb’s lazy grin. “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know it’s common courtesy to announce yourself before charging into a female’s bedchamber?”
“And don’t you know it’s polite to sit with your family after supper?”
“Oh, bother.” The sooner she determined his motive, the sooner she’d return to Arno’s epistle. “Did you want something?”
He flopped onto the foot of her four-poster bed, smelling all woodsy like an evergreen forest. “Did you enjoy Arno’s letter?”
The siblings stared at one another until Hattie cringed, remembering who’d collected the mail, at least it hadn’t been Daddy. “It’s private and personal.”