“What do you figure he’s catching Hades for—being captured by the enemy or badgering you during inspections? Either way, you’re to blame.”
The two clomped up the stairs, raising a racket on the wooden steps. “I’d say he deserves whatever the captain dishes out.”
When Arno passed CW’s bunk, the man sprung to his feet and then shadowed him down the corridor. “I got a bone to pick with you two.”
The room grew quiet as a country road, with several soldiers turning their attention toward the shouting.
Tired of the man’s lip, Arno whipped around and bumped his chest against CW’s. “Pick away.”
He had one split second to regret opening his mouth before he ducked, avoiding a right cross.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
December 13, 1917, Split Falls
Bundled from head to foot, Hattie traipsed to the mailbox through a foot of snow. Powdery drifts slowed her steps. Between the woolen scarf wrapped around her face and a downy cap riding low, only her eyes met with winter’s icy sting.
The wind howled like a pair of coyotes signaling one another. The first cried long and loud, and the other whispered soft wails. A whiff of manure from the stockyard clashed with the landscape’s pristine beauty.
They’d not received mail in days. Nonetheless, only two envelopes waited in the box, both originating from Little Rock.
Back inside, she filled a cup with steamy tea and sat in her sewing chair. Its hand-embroidered cushion had flattened over the years. Frayed threads interrupted the floral design. Still, it served its purpose. Betty Lou nuzzled onto her lap, purring low and loud. The scent of fresh yeasty bread circled the cozy room.
She turned over the envelopes. Arno’s penmanship bordered on illegible while Barrett’s was award-worthy. The two men, different as yes and no, expected two dissimilar things. Barrett desired courtship and Arno …
What Arno wanted from her was anyone’s guess.
December 7, 1917
Dearest Hattie,
I hope you’re fine with me calling you dearest because that’s what you’ve become, the most precious person in my life. It’s your face I picture every evening before bed. Your photograph is smudged and tattered. I fall asleep with it under my pillow every night.
Hattie gripped Mama’s old pearls. Tears stung. If Barrett uttered the truth, and she leaned toward believing him, his tender words opened her heart wider. Not since Mama had anyone delivered such a touching tribute on her behalf. Daddy and the boys loved her, but Barrett’s sentiments filled an unnamed void.
Before returning to his letter, she stole a glance at Arno’s envelope poised on the windowsill, waiting for a fair shake.
I continue to work hard around camp, wanting to prove myself and earn the higher officers’ respect. Now that I’m a corporal, I’m rubbing shoulders with Captain McKenzie more. I hope to one day match his temperament, conduct, and respect from all circles.
Arno Kreger continues to drum up trouble for himself with fisticuffs and such behavior. I hope he’s not turning your head.
She fanned her face with the stationery. It wasn’t true, was it?
I’ve earned a Christmas furlough. If all goes as planned, I’ll be on the December twenty-third train set to arrive in Split Falls at noon. I’ll make lodging arrangements at the hotel in town. My parents moved back to Louisiana. Iowa is too cold for their blood.
Although I’m sure you’re busy with the holidays, I sincerely hope you’ll carve out some time for me. I’d love for you to meet me at the train station. I don’t expect to horn in on your family’s functions. Of course, I won’t refuse any offers.
Previously, you rejected the idea of courting. Any chance you’ve reconsidered? As much as I want to know your answer, don’t respond by letter—save your reply until we’re face to face. A yes sounds sweeter in person.
Soon, I’ll ask you the most important question of your life. In the meantime, ready yourself!
Fondly,
Barrett
Emotions tangled into a hundred different knots. Ill-equipped to unjumble even the simplest ones, Hattie stewed over the more personal nature of Barrett’s letter. Over time, his epistles had improved, with a smidge less attention focused solely on himself. No doubt, his army world ranked more exciting than her run-of-the-mill life, but he rarely inquired about her opinions or day-to-day happenings.
With each rock of the creaky chair, Hattie grew more and more convinced the key to gauging her compatibility with Barrett hinged on side-by-side time. And Christmas, brimming with holiday parties and cozy hearthside conversations, offered the perfect setting to either weed out nonsense or plant a foundation. She’d be able to determine if Barrett possessed lifelong potential or failed to reach that high mark.
One-sided relationships never prospered. Hattie’s firsthand knowledge ranked her an expert on the topic. Betty Lou stretched, hopped to the floor, and abandoned the kitchen. On the edge of her chair, Hattie drew a settling breath before opening letter number two.
December 7, 1917
Dear Hattie,
How’s the weather in Iowa? Winter blew into Camp Pike with a sleet storm. Thanks for the socks you knitted. Overall, it’s warmer in Arkansas, but this cold snap means business.
Hope all is well with the Brigade. Did you settle on a January fundraiser? Here’s my idea—a kissing booth. No doubt, you’d raise a heap of money! Hattie, are you blushing?
Once again, she fanned her face with the letter. Maybe Arno knew her better than she suspected.
The army pays us for the odd jobs we perform around camp. I’m now an experienced window washer, potato peeler, payroll worker, and camp guard, plus a dozen other titles. Too bad they don’t pay us for letter writing. We’d all be millionaires.
Ready for some good news? I’m coming home on a Christmas furlough December twenty-third on the noon train. If you aren’t too busy then, perhaps you’ll pencil me in for ice skating at the creek.
You have no idea how I enjoy our three little things, or two big and one little, every combination. My latest revelations follow.
My favorite food is Mother’s cinnamon coffee cake, enough said.
I like your laugh. Sometimes you snort, and other times, not a single sound squeaks out. Only your shoulders quake. I’m grinning at the memory.
There’s a good chance I’ll regret writing this, but I’m unable to stop thinking about you. I’ve tried to talk myself out of falling for you, but I’m afraid it’s a lost cause. I certainly hope you’re not offended by my admission. If so, I apologize.
I’m counting the days until I’m home again. Are you eager for the same?
As always,
Arno
Silent snowflakes swirled against the window, gracefully dancing with one partner, then the next. Warm tears dribbled, smearing Arno’s signature. How many nights had she dreamt about this moment, the day he finally returned her affection? In a secret corner of her mind, she’d always hoped their honest and open letter exchange might morph into more than a disguised flirtation.
Then a disturbing thought dawned, and she grabbed Arno’s epistle to reread his third confession. I’ve tried to talk myself out of falling for you. What? His behavior resembled Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s in Pride and Prejudice, the character’s most unbecoming trait.