Hannah Alexander
Hideaway Home

www.millsandboon.co.uk

We wish to honor our loved ones who risked

everything for our country’s freedom

in World War II: Ralph Hodde, Larry Baugher,

Irwin Baugher, Loy Baugher, Cecil James,

Leonard Wesson and Glen Jones.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

We’re so grateful for our editor, Joan Marlow Golan, her exceptional staff and for our agent, Karen Solem, who help us make our books the best they can be.

We thank Lorene Cook, who helped us establish the authenticity of our story and patiently answered late-night calls with questions about “the way it was back then.”

Ray Brown, Barbara Warren, Lee McCormick, Soni Copeland, Mike Hemphill and Jackie Bolton shared their memories, their knowledge, their expertise and their historical material for this story. We will always be grateful for their generosity.

Chapter One

Something was wrong. The news hadn’t reached California yet, but Bertie Moennig knew something had happened. She couldn’t pinpoint when she’d decided she wasn’t jumping to conclusions, but her instincts had never failed her. She would have to wait and see.

It frustrated her no end, because she didn’t like to wait for anything. Still…in the midst of this wretched war, she’d grown accustomed to it.

Bertie paused in the noisy workroom of Hughes Aircraft to untie the blue bandana from her head. Her hairnet had ripped this morning, too late for her to get a replacement, and there were strict regulations about keeping long hair restrained.

Now, half of her bun had fallen down over her neck and shoulders. As if this plant wasn’t already hot enough! Folks liked to chatter on and on about the wonderful weather in Southern California; those folks must’ve never worked in a busy, noisy aircraft plant on a sunny day.

Another trickle of perspiration dripped along the side of Bertie’s face, and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder while fiddling with the bandana. She’d take a summer afternoon on the farm in the Missouri Ozarks over working in the heat of this plant any day.

Not that she disliked California. She loved it most of the time—the weather, the ocean, the mountains—but it could be a challenge for a country girl to get used to the crush of people and traffic, even after living here for eight months.

In Hideaway, Missouri, Bertie would’ve ridden her bicycle the three miles to work, but here she saw more cars passing by the apartment than she would see in a year back home. The crazy pace of Southern California had shocked her upon arrival and—

“Hey, hillbilly!”

She winced at the sound of the barrel voice approaching from behind her. Looking around, then up at the department supervisor, Franklin Parrish, she braced herself for yet another earful of complaining.

“Yessir?”

“Get back to work. And get that hair up,” he snapped, looming too close, as he always did. He eyed the blond hair that fell around her shoulders, then his gaze wandered.

Even though he mocked her Ozark accent and figures of speech, he made no secret of the fact he liked her figure well enough.

She tied her hair back on top of her head. “A man in your position should mind his manners, Mr. Parrish,” she said quietly, wishing Edith Frost, her roommate, was here. She’d have an extra hairnet.

Franklin leaned closer to Bertie, his face flushed like that of a child who’d been caught snooping in his mother’s purse. “And you’d better mind who you’re talking to, hillbilly. I can turn you out of here by signing the bottom line of a little sheet of paper.”

Bertie met his gaze, trying hard not to show her irritation. After three hundred hours of instruction in St. Louis, she’d been sent here as a trained machinist at the company’s expense. If he fired her for no good reason, he’d have to answer for his actions.

“You want these parts to pass inspection, don’t you?” she asked. “We still have a war to win against the Japanese, and I aim to help win it.” She knew she should smile to take the bite out of her words, but she held his gaze, straight-faced.

Franklin glowered. Bertie nipped on her tongue to keep it from getting her into deeper trouble. Franklin grunted and walked away.

Bertie sighed. Someday, she’d go too far, but she didn’t think that day had come yet. Years ago, her mother had tried to tell her that a woman could get more accomplished with honey than with vinegar, but Bertie had found that the two mixed well together. That was especially true for a woman working in a man’s world.

Besides, Mom never had depended strictly on honey to get what she wanted. When she was alive, Dad used to brag to the other farmers down at the coffee shop that his wife was full of more sass and vinegar than any plow mule in the county. Just recently, he’d accused Bertie of taking after her mother a little too much.

Those words had made Bertie proud, and it had given her courage to know that she had some of the same strength of character as Marty Moennig.

She felt a pang of homesickness. She missed her father and couldn’t stop worrying about him. She’d tried to place this dread in God’s hands several times last night and this morning, but her mind kept grabbing it back again. Where was he?

She also missed Red Meyer like crazy, and thinking about him raised her anxiety even more. Though Red was somewhere in Italy, cleaning up after the surrender of the Germans last month, she knew she would feel closer to him if he was back home in Hideaway.

Of course, if Red was back in Hideaway, she’d be there, too. So many memories…so much she missed. She wanted to be able to step out of the house and stroll around the victory garden in the backyard. Had Dad even been able to plant one this year? He was all alone on the farm, with so much work to keep him busy.

Fact was, she worried about both the men in her life. News of Red hadn’t come often enough to suit her lately. He’d stopped writing to her. Just like that, the letters had quit coming. She was pretty sure the Army hadn’t suddenly stopped sending soldiers’ mail home.

Charles Frederick Meyer didn’t like being called anything but Red. With a head of brick-colored hair and a blue gaze that looked straight into the soul, he was strong and kind, and quick with a smile or a joke.

Bertie could usually spend much of her workday thinking about him, dreaming of the time they would be back together again. That was easier to do now that the war with Germany was over.

But if he was out of danger, why wasn’t he writing?

Red Meyer stared out the train window at the lush Missouri Ozark landscape, nearly lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the passenger railcar. The train took a curve, and he got a better look at the cars ahead of him. Four cars forward, one lone figure with the straight, stiff posture of the military, made his way to the rear exit.

Looked like at least one other person on this train was as restless as Red, but he didn’t have the luxury of pacing along the aisles from railcar to railcar.

Instead, he tugged one of the envelopes from his left front pocket and pulled two folded pages from the raggedly slit top. Gently, he unfolded the sheets and looked at the handwriting.

He didn’t read the words right off. He didn’t need to. He practically had this letter memorized—maybe not every single fancy swirl and dotted i, but he could see an image in his mind of Bertie Moennig leaning over her stationery, chewing on the end of her pencil, eyes narrowed. It had been her first letter to him, and it was well nigh three years old. The smudges and worn corners of the pages showed how often he’d handled them.

Dear Red,

I’m sitting here at the station in Hollister, watching your train pull away, trying hard not to get the paper wet with my tears. If you ever show this letter to anybody, I’ll make you pay when you get back home.

He’d laughed at that when he first read it, but he’d not been able to see the page very well for a few lines, himself.

I already miss you so much I want to run after the caboose and hop on, the way we did ten years ago. Remember how much trouble we got into when the train didn’t stop until it reached Springfield?

Red nodded to himself. He remembered. Gerald Potts had had to drive up to get them, and then all the way home he’d lectured them about the stupidity of risking their lives for a lark. Neither of them had ever told Gerald that his own son, Ivan, was the one who’d dared them to hop that train in the first place.

We’ve been friends for so long, Red, I can’t imagine going on without you. You can make me feel better no matter how bad things are, even with Mom’s funeral only weeks past. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through it without you.

He squeezed the pages between his fingers and stared out at the passing countryside. He couldn’t remember a time when Bertie wasn’t in his life, whether she was socking him in the mouth for picking on her in their Sunday school class, or kissing him goodbye twelve years later at the train station, chin wobbling, eyes promising more than he’d ever dared ask of her. A future.

He looked back down at the letter, swallowing hard as he recalled her face, her voice, the love he’d held on to for so many long, hellacious months.

Red, you remember that talk we had on our first real date? You should, since it’s only been a couple of months. You told me you’d always thought you’d end up a bachelor, because you never thought you had anything special to offer a woman in marriage. But you are somebody special, and don’t let anybody ever tell you different.

His eyes squeezed shut. He’d never loved her more than he did right now. She’d been so true to him all this time. Her letters…they’d been his lifeline. Her love was what kept him going and kept his determination strong to do the right thing by her, though it was the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.

I’ve heard they treat soldiers rough in the Army, but you’re strong enough to take whatever they throw at you. Don’t you forget you’re more of a man than most men ever even dream of being. You’ve got more heart in you than anybody I’ve ever known, and you’d make a fine husband. The woman who marries you will never be sorry. Just make sure you get home alive to get married.

I’ll be waiting here for you, and I’ll be writing so much you’ll probably get tired of reading my letters. If anything happens to you, it’ll be happening to me, too, so you’d better take care. You have both our lives in your hands.

If he’d smiled at all during these past three years, it had only been because of her. Oh, sure, he’d let himself joke with the guys, or at least chuckle at their jokes, but it was because thoughts of home kept him going—thoughts of Bertie.

He didn’t pay any attention to the man in Marine uniform coming down the aisle, until that man plunked himself down in the empty seat next to Red.

“On your way home, soldier?” came an awfully familiar voice.

Red’s head jerked up. He looked with surprise into the face of his good friend Ivan Potts, in the flesh.

Before Red could say anything, Ivan had him in a bear hug and was thumping him on the back so hard it felt like Red’s spine might snap in two. The man had the muscles of a plow horse.

“I didn’t know you were on this train ’til I caught sight of your face in the window when we went around that last curve.” Ivan’s grin showed the contrast of his white teeth against dark-tanned skin. “Thought it was you, anyway.” He rubbed his knuckles over Red’s scalp. “Can’t miss this color, Charles Frederick.”

“Well, if this don’t beat all.” Red tucked the letter back into his pocket, trying not to let it catch Ivan’s attention. He shoved the cane out of sight beneath his seat with his foot. Happy as he was to see one of his closest friends alive and whole, he wasn’t ready to do any explaining. Not yet.

Chapter Two

Red grinned at his old buddy—the first time his face had felt a smile in days. He almost expected to feel his lips crack, but they held firm. It was good to see Ivan all decked out in his uniform, with medals aplenty, some as golden as the hair on his head.

“Man, oh, man, I’ve missed you,” Red said.

“Same here. Heard you won the war on your side of the world,” Ivan said, clapping Red on the shoulder. “Now come and help us with ours. The Pacific’s still hot.”

Red felt his smile slip. “You’re not home for good?”

“How I wish!”

Red’s stomach clenched with fresh worry. He’d been relieved when he first saw Ivan, alive and well. “You’re home on leave, then?” That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

Ivan nodded. Something seemed to darken in the deep brown of his eyes. “One week, then I’m back in the trenches.”

“Maybe we’ll have won the Pacific by then.”

The grin returned. “Isn’t going to happen without my help. I want to make sure the blue star my folks have in the window at home doesn’t get exchanged for a gold one.”

“I think you’re too ornery to die,” Red said. “But you’d best take care, anyways.” It might destroy Gerald and Arielle Potts if anything happened to their only child. They’d always doted on him.

Ivan had been the most rambunctious of Red’s friends throughout their school years, leading the gang when it came to childish pranks, overnight hunting parties and outhouse tipping. He’d given his poor parents a lot of grief. Red recalled one night when Ivan had sneaked a cow from the barn of a local farmer into a high-school classroom. It wasn’t discovered until the morning—along with a big mess.

“I’ve made it this far.” Ivan’s voice snapped Red from his memories. “I plan to make it through this war alive.”

Once more, Red eyed the decorations on his friend’s chest. Ivan Potts had a right to be proud of the medals he’d earned. He’d proven himself to be a man in this war, and his parents would be more than proud.

Red’s medals were packed away in the duffle under his feet. He wore his regular uniform instead of military dress, and he had kept his head down most times on the trip home, hoping nobody’d notice him and start asking questions. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about the war. Or talk about anything, for that matter.

War sure changed people.

All his life, Red had started conversations easily with strangers, never running out of something to talk about. But that had been a different Charles Frederick Meyer.

Ivan glanced out the window. “We’re getting close.”

Red nodded, rubbing sweat from his forehead as the sunlight beat down through the window. “It’s nice to be nearing home, sure enough.” The hills got a little taller, the valleys deeper in the southwest part of Missouri.

“I can’t wait to be back for good,” Ivan said. “How about you, Red? Are you coming home to stay, or do they have plans for you over on our side of the world? To hear Bertie tell it, the Army can’t do without you.”

Red warmed at that but he didn’t know what to say now. “War’s over for me, probably.” He couldn’t bring himself to explain why.

It’d be easy for a man in his shape to think he wasn’t worth much of anything anymore, since he probably wouldn’t even be able to do the work that needed doing at home now, much less help tidy things up after the ruin of a whole continent. He’d wanted to be there still, liberating the prisoners and helping set things in order again.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the June morning sun, but he opened them again quickly, and caught Ivan watching him.

“I don’t think the war will ever be over for us,” Ivan said, his voice suddenly soft. “It follows a guy wherever he goes.”

Red nodded. The nightmares…

“Thanks to Bertie and her friends, I’ve kept up with your whereabouts most of the year,” Ivan said. “How’s Italy?”

“Hardly anything there anymore,” Red said. “Except the mud and rubble of wrecked buildings. Always the mud. Heard you took Iwo Jima.”

Pain crossed Ivan’s features, and Red knew he’d said the wrong thing. Would life ever get back to the way it had been, when everyone didn’t have to tiptoe around minefields of conversation?

“You don’t have to answer that,” Red told him.

Ivan nodded slowly. He swallowed and met Red’s gaze with a fierce stare. Then he looked down and swallowed again.

“We were landing on the beach,” he said, his voice so soft Red had to strain to hear. “Next thing I knew, the night sky seemed to explode all around us.”

Red winced. He knew what that meant.

“Five of my best buddies were killed before I could move.” The words seemed to spring from Ivan—fast, hard, his voice low—as if he’d been bottling them up inside.

Red studied his friend, but didn’t see any signs of damage, no Purple Heart. “But they didn’t get you.”

Ivan shook his head. “Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if I’d gotten a bullet, too.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” But Red understood.

Ivan glanced at Red, eyes narrowing. “What’s your worst memory?”

Red couldn’t tell him. He could probably never tell anybody. So he pulled out another recollection. “German soldiers surrounding our fire support team.”

The surprise didn’t show in Ivan’s eyes as much as it did in the sudden jutting of his strong chin—as if bracing himself for details. “You were captured.”

“It’s been a couple of months.” Even now, Red could picture in his mind the grim, white faces of his captors. He could feel the fear licking at his insides, almost feel the rough hands shoving him and Conner and Beall through fields of mud.

“When?” Ivan asked. “Why didn’t I hear about it? Bertie would have told me about it in a letter.” He looked at Red’s uniform for the first time. “Where are your medals?”

Red shrugged. “It don’t matter. I’m alive. Before word could be carried back home that we were prisoners of war, we escaped in the middle of the night.”

Ivan gave a low whistle. “If that doesn’t beat all.”

“Just in time, too. I got the impression, picking up on some of their words, that they’d planned to kill us soon.”

“You speak German?”

Red nodded. “I learned some words from my pa years ago. I hadn’t even realized I remembered them until I listened to our captors talking to one another. There were five of them and only three of us. I thought we were goners.”

“How’d you get away?”

Red shrugged. He couldn’t talk about the whole thing. “The fifth night, after a long day’s march, we got loose from our bonds.” He couldn’t go into more detail without explaining more than he wanted to.

Ivan waited, eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. “Just like that?”

Red nodded. He’d never thought much about the humanity of the enemy. That wasn’t something they talked about in the foxholes or on the scoutin’ trail. All they did in the foxholes was curse the enemy, and do everything they could to make sure he died.

The rattle-clack-rattle-clack of the train filled the silence for a few long moments as the two men sat steeping in the ugliness they’d seen.

“Don’t mention that bit about the massacre to my parents,” Ivan said softly. “Why worry them about something that’s already happened? They’ve worried enough about me in the past three years.”

“Reckon there’s lots our families are never gonna know about.”

“Sometimes it seems the farther I get from the war, the more I remember,” Ivan said.

Red knew what he meant. All that loud commotion clattered around in his mind, along with pictures of mangled or dead friends. He still felt the pain of his own wounds—both in his flesh and in his heart.

“Maybe we have to remember,” Ivan said. “A man’s got to stay on the alert.”

Red agreed, but he couldn’t help wondering if he was already going soft. Since he was a German by blood, he couldn’t hate his former countrymen.

It was hard not to hate them when he heard about all those concentration camps, the awful things they did to other human beings. Torture? Gas chambers? Trying to stamp out a whole race of people? Genocide, it was called. Devilish. Straight out of the pits of hell.

As the thoughts started tormenting him once again, Red did what he always did to take his mind from them. He patted his shirt pocket, thick with letters.

Ivan, of course, knew without asking what was in Red’s pocket. “You still writing to Bertie?”

Red grimaced. “She’s been doin’ most of the writing.” Especially the past few weeks.

His sweet Bertie had a heart as tender and beautiful as spring violets, a face to keep a man alive through the worst of war, and a voice as warm and spicy as hot apple cider.

But he couldn’t keep thinking like that…not about her bein’ his.

“That little gal had a regular letter campaign going, you know,” Ivan told him. “She had all her friends writing to me, and any time I’d mention a buddy who hadn’t received mail in a while, sure enough, in a week or so he’d get a note from some stranger out of Culver City, California. Our Bertie’s all spunk. If she was president, this whole war would already be won.”

Red felt a quick rush of pride. “She’s kept me going, that’s for sure.”

“How’s Miss Lilly been getting on without you?”

“You know Ma,” Red said. “She says she’s doin’ fine, but it’s hard to tell ’cause she never complains.”

Ivan chuckled. “Strong as a Missouri mule and the best cook in Hideaway.”

Red returned his attention to the scenery sliding past the window. Now that Ivan had brought up the subject, Red remembered that he had someone else to fret about.

Until he was called up, he’d helped his mother run the Meyer Guesthouse in Hideaway. It had been a family operation since his pa’s death.

Lilly Meyer never let on about how hard it was to keep the place going without Red’s help—but he knew business must’ve gone slack without him to serve as fishing guide, hunting guide and storyteller, along with all the other chores he’d done for her every day.

Fishing along the James River had been a popular sport among their best and wealthiest customers, many of whom returned to Lilly’s guesthouse year after year for the fishing. These guests had gotten the Meyers through the depression.

But how much of the work could Red do now?

Ma’s letters were mostly filled with the goings-on in town, until this last one. Even the handwriting seemed to lack her usual pizzazz. Kind of shrunk in on itself, hard to read.

Red couldn’t quite figure it. Seemed like Ma was trying to avoid the subject of Hideaway altogether. Maybe Drusilla Short was telling tales again. That woman was the orneriest old so-and-so in the county, exceptin’ for her husband, Gramercy. Last time Red had been home on leave, Mrs. Short had the nerve to spread the rumor that Red was AWOL.

Ma, of course, had nearly come to blows with the old gossip about it—and Ma wasn’t a fighter, unless someone tried to hurt one of her kids. Then, she could whup a mad bull, and she was big enough to do it.

Red glanced out at the peaceful countryside, at the cattle grazing in a valley. Pa had actually taken on a mad bull twelve years ago—and lost. That ol’ bull had been raised on the farm as a pet, but then had turned mean, and caught Pa in the middle of the field where he couldn’t get away in time.

Ma had been left to raise Red and his brother and sister alone.

What was up with Ma now?

And how was Red going to break his news to Bertie?

Chapter Three

Bertie thought about her father as she held the fine sandpaper to the gear shaft turning in the lathe. She moved the paper back and forth to wear the metal of the shaft to smooth, even perfection—to ten thousandths of an inch of the final recommendations.

She couldn’t help feeling, again, that something wasn’t right back home. At seven o’clock, on the second Sunday night of every month since she’d come out here, she’d telephoned Dad. If she couldn’t reach him right away, he would phone her, and every time except once, he had been sitting beside the phone, waiting for her call. By the time their short talks were over—long distance cost too much to talk more than a few minutes—half of Hideaway knew what was happening in her life.

Everyone on their telephone party line got in on the call. It aggravated Dad half to death, and he wasn’t always polite to the neighbors. But that didn’t stop the townsfolk from picking up their phones, even when they knew the specific ring was for Dad and not for them. They were always “accidentally” interrupting the conversation.

Last night Bertie had tried four times, with no answer from Dad. He never called back. She’d talked to the Morrows, the Fishers and the Jarvises, but not to Dad. Nobody seemed to know where he was. Mrs. Fisher did tell Bertie that a couple of Dad’s best cows and five of his pigs had gone missing two weeks ago. Bertie had heard Mr. Fisher in the background, telling his wife that if Joseph Moennig wanted his daughter to know about the lost animals, he’d tell her himself.

Mr. Fisher was one of the few people in their Hideaway neighborhood who believed in minding his own business. His wife, poor thing, held a dim view of her husband’s antisocial behavior.

Why hadn’t Dad mentioned the animals in his letters?

Mr. Morrow didn’t have much to say about the matter, which struck Bertie as unusual. He’d never lacked for opinions before.

If Bertie didn’t know better, she’d start getting a complex. First, no letters from Red Meyer for six weeks, and now even her father wasn’t answering her calls.

She’d written Red’s mother, but though Lilly Meyer’s reply had been chatty and filled with news, she hadn’t given Bertie any useful information about Red, except that he was “takin’ a few weeks of rest from the battle.”

But where was he doin’ his resting? And if he was getting rest, why couldn’t he write to her? Was he having so much fun on his rest that he didn’t want to waste time on her?

Bertie heard news about the war from everyone but Red.

Until VE Day last month—Victory over Europe, May 8, 1945—which would always be a day of celebration, Bertie and Edith had kept up with the news from the European front through their favorite magazine, Stars and Stripes. They had especially loved war correspondent Ernie Pyle, who’d informed readers about all the things Red never wrote about—such as the living conditions of the men who were fighting so desperately for freedom.

How she missed those articles now that Ernie was dead. How the whole country missed him!

“Roberta Moennig, you know the boss is tough on daydreamers.” Emma, the utility girl, came by with more parts to work on the lathe.

Bertie’s hand slipped, fingers rapping against the shaft, and she yelped when she accidentally did a quick sanding job on her fingertips.

“Hey, you all right?” Emma asked.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Bertie had too much on her mind right now. She’d developed too much of a worry habit.

Emma hefted the parts onto Bertie’s table. “What’s got your goat? Keep this up and Franklin Parrish’ll be chucking you out the door.”

Bertie grimaced and picked up a shaft. She placed it in the lathe, tightened it in, and started polishing it. Today her concentration was about as sharp as a possum hanging from a tree limb.

“Got another letter from my soldier last night,” Emma said, leaning her elbows on Bertie’s worktable, obviously of a mind to gab a while, in spite of the whine of the lathe’s motor, and her own just-issued warning about Franklin.

Bertie nodded, wishing Emma would leave it at that, hoping the noise of the lathe would keep the conversation short.

“You heard from that man of yours lately?” Emma asked, raising her voice.

Bertie frowned. “Not for a few weeks. You know how the mail gets bundled up for days at a time, then a bunch of letters comes at once.” Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded overly bright.

Emma gave Bertie a narrow-eyed look. “Red’s never gone this long without writing to you, has he? He still a scout with the Army?”

Bertie suppressed a sigh and turned off the lathe. “He’s called a fire support specialist.”

“I thought it was a forward observer.”

Bertie released her pent-up breath. How many times had she corrected Emma about Red’s title? She didn’t want to sound boastful, but she was proud of Red and what he did. He’d received several commendations for his skills—and his bravery. It was the bravery that worried her something awful.

Emma stepped closer, her pinched face and mouse-brown eyes sharpening with concern. “You don’t think he’s…I mean…you think he’s—”

“Hush, now.” Bertie gently patted Emma’s thin arm. “Honey, you know we can’t start thinking that way. Gotta have some faith that God’s in charge. Our men are helping to win this war. Besides, bad news always seems to travel faster than good these days. If something had happened to him, we’d know by now. I got a letter from his mother a few days ago.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed even more as she nibbled on her chapped lower lip. “That man that got killed? You know, that reporter out in the Pacific? He wasn’t even a solider, Bert! It’s dangerous all over, and men are being killed every day, and what with our own president dying, it feels like everything’s out of control.”

“Nothing is out of control,” Bertie assured her. “President Truman knows what he’s doing. He’s a Missourian, born not too far from my hometown. He’ll see things through. We Missourians are made of tough stock.”

Emma didn’t seem to hear her. “Lives can be cut short just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “It could happen to anybody.”

Bertie shook her head. She didn’t need to hear this kind of talk right now. “It could even happen to you or me if Franklin catches us chatting instead of working,” she said with a wink to keep her words from sounding too harsh. “He’s already threatened to fire me once today.”

To Bertie’s relief, Emma nodded, sighed and returned to her cart. Bertie turned on the lathe again, which she shouldn’t have turned off in the first place; there was no standing around talking except at break time.

At least once a week, poor Emma got all perturbed about her soldier. Every time, Bertie prayed for them both. She’d offered to pray with Emma, but that seemed to be going too far.

As it was, Bertie often felt overwhelmed with the amount of work she and Edith Frost had volunteered for these past months. During her free time, Bertie signed people up for war bonds, and she and Edith helped with the blood drive, which included giving their own blood as often as they could.

So many of her hometown friends had left for the war as boys and had returned as men. Three men from her hometown had returned in caskets.

She switched her attention back to the shaft in her lathe, trying her hardest to shake off the worry that Emma had helped stoke like the cinders of a woodstove.

Red sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor in the swaying railcar, growing more and more conscious of the cane he’d shoved beneath the seat and the attention of his friend, Ivan Potts.

It would be easy to reach down and pull out the cane and show it to Ivan. Everyone in Hideaway would know about it by tomorrow, anyway, so why not show it first to someone he knew he could trust?

But something kept him from it. It was almost like another bad dream—if he kept pretending the problem wasn’t there, maybe it would disappear.

Like the war?

Ivan peered out the window, then stood and gestured to Red. “Why don’t you come up to my car with me? I’ve got to collect my things before we get off. Dad said he’d be waiting for me at the station, and I bet Mom will be with him. You can catch a ride with us.”

Red hesitated for a few seconds, then declined. Ma would want to pick up Red herself, so they could spend the long ride back home catching up, just the two of them.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a ride,” Red said. “Ma told me she’d see to it I got picked up.”

Ivan nodded, then grinned. “Lilly probably cooked your favorite meal, knowing you were coming back today.”

“If she had time. She’s been awful busy.”

“But if I know your mother, she’ll have her famous chicken and dumplings waiting at the table for you as soon as you walk in the door.” Ivan licked his lips. “And blackberry cobbler with enough butter in the crust to make a grown man cry.”

Red couldn’t help grinning at his friend. “Could be.” Ivan loved a good meal, and though his mother was brilliant and kind and an excellent hostess, her finger pastries and cucumber sandwiches didn’t exactly stick to the ribs.

“Think Lilly could be persuaded to set an extra place at the table for me?” Ivan leaned toward Red, looking like a hound about to tree a coon. “My mom has a party planned for my homecoming tonight, but man, oh, man, Lilly’s chicken and dumplings for lunch would make the whole ordeal worth enduring.”

Red sometimes kidded Ivan that he was not his mother’s son. Arielle Potts was a cultured lady—an accomplished hostess, who loved to entertain. She was a savvy political wife who enjoyed helping her husband campaign for mayor of Hideaway—not that there’d been much campaigning to do. Gerald Potts’s only opponent had been Gramercy Short, who likely didn’t get more than a total of ten votes, all from his relatives, and there were probably at least two dozen Shorts in Hideaway.

Ivan, on the other hand, would rather go huntin’ with Red and his coon dogs any night than socialize with the town’s high and mighty.

“Sure,” Red said, “come on over. Even if Ma hasn’t made chicken and dumplings, the meal’s bound to be good.”

Ivan nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Ivan had the kind of face that revealed his thoughts several seconds before he spoke them. And he always spoke them. He didn’t believe in keeping things to himself. As long as Red had known him, there was most often a hint of humor in Ivan’s eyes, not quite mischief, but almost.

As Red watched, all humor left Ivan’s face, and the darkness entered his expression again. Red didn’t have any trouble knowing what was going through his friend’s mind.

“Red, the war’s taken something from us that we might never get back.” He glanced up and down the aisle at the other passengers.

Red waited without speaking. This wasn’t the time to talk about it. Not now. Not on this train with other people listening. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking that if he spoke aloud what had been on his mind the past few weeks, it would make everything that happened over on those deadly fields too real.

“I think it’s hit you harder,” Ivan said at last. “Hasn’t it?”

Red swallowed. “Not sure what makes you think that. We’ve all been through a lot.”

Ivan leaned closer and waited until Red met his gaze. “Because I know you, buddy. You bury things down deep inside. Me, I sit by myself and write my poetry and get it out of my system. You should see the stack of poetry in my duffle bag. I’ve probably sent poems to half of Hideaway, and several of Bertie’s friends in California.”

“You oughta try to get them published. You’ll be rich.”

Ivan laughed out loud at that. “You think there’s money in poetry? My Daddy taught me how to make a living, don’t you worry. And don’t change the subject.”

“Thought the subject was poetry.”

Ivan sobered. “You’ve lost something, Red.” His words were soft and gentle, but they felt like broken strands of chicken wire digging into Red’s heart. Ivan didn’t know the half of it. “It’s like all the laughter’s dried up inside of you.”

Red didn’t know what to say. He’d not seen much to laugh about.

“Find some way to get this war out of your system,” Ivan told him. “Don’t let it keep you down.”

Red nodded toward the window. “We’re getting close. Better get your things. I’ll see you for dinner.”

Ivan frowned. “Lunch, Red. Noon meal is lunch.”

“Not where I come from.”

“You come from here, same as me.”

“Your mother comes from Baltimore.”

Ivan chuckled and gave Red a playful sock in the arm. It was one of their favorite arguments.

To Red’s shame, he felt only relief when Ivan shook his head and walked back up the aisle toward the door that led to the forward car.

Chapter Four

Thoughts of Red once more filled Bertie’s mind as she struggled with a misshapen part. She tossed it to the side so Emma could pick it up to send back for repair.

Time to switch the lathe to a higher gear and get some of these parts finished. Hurriedly, she turned off the machine, released the tension on the v-belt, and reached down to move it to a larger v-pulley. Her hand slipped. The belt which hadn’t come to a complete stop, grabbed her forefinger. Before she could react, her finger was snatched into the pulley.

Pain streaked up her arm. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as she jerked her hand back.

Blood spread over and down her fingers, and for a moment, because of the pain, she thought all her fingers had been mangled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to keep from passing out, then turned to look around and see if anyone had noticed what had happened.

No one looked her way.

She reached for the bandana on her head. Her hot hair once again fell over her shoulders as she tore off a strip of the cloth and dabbed away the blood. To her relief, only her index finger was torn.

Maybe she could take care of this herself, without going to First Aid.

But she discovered she would have no choice. The blood kept flowing from a fair-sized cut over her knuckle. There was no way to deal with it on her own.

She used what was left of the bandana to tie her hair back into a ponytail, her movements awkward.

Reluctantly, she went to find her supervisor for permission to go to First Aid. She’d catch an earful this time.

Red peered out the window at the passenger cars curving along the track in front of him. He thought he saw Ivan’s blond head in one square of window, but it was too far away to know for sure.

He couldn’t say why he was relieved that Ivan had gone back to his seat. It’d been good to see his friend, to know there was someone else, someone he knew, who could understand what he’d gone through.

But then, looking into Ivan’s face, Red had been able to recall the war that much clearer, when what he really wanted to do was forget it, not be reminded of every detail, every death. There were too many.

Rubbing his fingertip across the corner of one of the envelopes in his pocket, Red resisted the urge to pull them out again. He knew what the letters said. He had most every word memorized. He could see Bertie Moennig’s face against his closed eyelids—her sweet, saucy smile, her thick, fair hair, and turned-up nose.

The letters he’d gotten from her were nearly falling apart, he’d read them so often. The latest ones, of course, were full of questions, full of worry and wondering why he hadn’t written. Those were the ones that ate at him.

He remembered one letter he’d gotten last year, soon after he returned from leave. It had been even harder than leaving the first time, and it’d apparently been hard for Bertie, too.

I’ve made a decision, the letter had said. I’m going to learn how to be good at waiting, because I know there are some things—some people—worth waiting for. Dad and Uncle Sam are urging me to take some training and work in one of the defense plants, and I think I’ll do it. I want to do all I can to help win this war, and get our men home again. Write me soon, Red, and let me know you’re okay.

He’d written to her then, telling her how much he already missed her, how proud he was of her. He’d written more during just one week of war than he’d done all through school. Bertie had always been so good for him.

Problem was, he didn’t know what to write now. Whatever he told her, it wouldn’t be something she’d want to read. And she didn’t need to know. Not yet.

He’d even told Ma not to let Bertie know about his injury. What good would it have done? Ma, of course, had argued, but he knew she’d done what he’d asked.

Thing was, he’d seen too many hearts broken already in this war. Too many of his buddies had died, leaving wives alone to grieve as widows, leaving mothers brokenhearted over their dead sons.

He’d also seen too many friends going back home as damaged goods, to wives who’d have to take care of them the rest of their lives. He couldn’t do that to Bertie.

Nosiree, Joseph Moennig had a good farm that needed running, and what with his son, Lloyd, off in Kansas with a wife and family, his only daughter Bertie would be the one to take over the farm someday. She’d need a husband who was whole to help with that. A woman like her wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone.

Red closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, because the thought of Bertie loving another man almost made him sick to his stomach.

Bertie watched the suture needle prick the skin of her knuckle in the first stitch. She jerked, in spite of her determination not to. How embarrassing! All this time she’d followed all the safety rules, been so careful about every single movement. And now this.

That was what happened when a person got in a hurry. She’d known better.

“That hurt?” asked Dr. Cox as he tied the stitch.

“Not at all. You do what you have to do.”

“Are you left-handed?” He started the next stitch.

“No, sir.”

“Good, because I would have to warn you against using your finger any more than necessary. Flexing that knuckle will make the healing time longer.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I have letters to write.”

He worked quickly, his fingers moving with precision. He was the company doctor, and had probably done this a lot. “You have a beau in the war?”

Bertie hesitated. Was Red her beau? She nodded. It was how she thought of him, even if he couldn’t seem to write now that he was on leave.

“Is he from Missouri, too?” Dr. Cox asked.

Bertie blinked up at him, her attention distracted from the needle. “How’d you know I was—”

“I pride myself in my ability to pick up on an accent within seconds of meeting someone. Southern?”

Bertie stared into his kind eyes. “You mean Southern Missouri? Yes, Southwest, almost into Arkansas.”

“Ozarks, then. Your beau is from the Ozarks, too?”

“He sure is.” Bertie felt herself relaxing. “We grew up in the same town along the James River.” How she wished for those times again. “We went to school together and were close friends for as long as either of us can remember.”

The doctor smiled. “Think you’ll get married once this war is over?”

Bertie felt herself flushing at the thought. She’d considered it a lot. In fact, the thought of marrying and settling with Red was one of the things that had gotten her through her homesickness, her worry, her fretting. Until now.

“My father wouldn’t mind,” she told the doctor. “Red comes from a good, solid family. Dad knows Red real well.” There were times Bertie had felt as if Dad preferred Red’s company to her own. “He’s already like a son to Dad.” She grimaced. “Why am I telling you all this? You don’t want to hear my life story.”

Dr. Cox chuckled. “Sure I do. It keeps your mind off what I’m doing, and when you’re relaxed, I can work better.”

“Do you see many more patients now that so many doctors are helping in the war?”

“I sure do. Two of the other doctors with offices in this building are on hospital ships somewhere in the Pacific.” He looked at her. “I love hearing stories from my patients, especially those involved in the war effort. Now,” he said, fixing her with a pointed stare, “you were telling me about Red?”

She smiled at him, relaxing further, enjoying the chance to talk about her favorite subject. “Before Red’s father died, the Meyers had two hundred acres of prime farmland along the James River. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Meyers sold off a parcel of land every couple of years to the town, which was expanding and needed more room.”

“To help get her family through the depression?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, even though Red warned her not to sell. He feels they could’ve gotten by without selling. It would’ve been worth more with the James River becoming part of a new lake, with a dam south of a tiny burg called Branson. That would’ve made her property lakefront. Now I guess it doesn’t matter, though, since they had to put the plans on hold for the dam when war struck.”

“Sounds as if Red is a smart man.”

“Yes, but he comes by it honest. Lilly, his mother, opened their big house to paying guests. She did so well with it she was able to help send her two older kids to university in Kansas City.”

“What about Red’s education?” Dr. Cox asked.

Bertie shrugged. “He didn’t go to college.”

“Why not?”

“He knew his mother needed help with the guesthouse. He loves working with livestock, and he’s won blue ribbons at the state fair for the cheese he cultured from their cows’ milk.”

“So he gave up his opportunity to go to college to help with the family business,” the doctor said. “He sounds like quite a man. It looks to me as if you and your young man are a perfect match.”

She shrugged, studying the neat work the doctor was doing on her hand.

Dr. Cox paused for a moment, frowning at her. “Am I detecting some hesitation about him?”

She shrugged. “We only started dating a few weeks before he went off to war.”

“Maybe it took the war to show him how much he cared about you.”

Then why had Red stopped writing now that the war with the Germans was over? “I know why everyone suddenly wants to see stardust,” she said. “Life’s too scary right now. When all this began, a body didn’t want to think he might go off to some strange land and die without ever knowing if someone besides his folks could love him. Later, when he comes back alive and whole, he might change his mind. He might find someone he likes better.”

Dr. Cox placed salve over the sutured wound, then gently wrapped gauze around her finger. “I like my theory better.”

Bertie looked into the doctor’s sincere gray eyes. “I hope you’re right.” But he didn’t know enough about Red to judge.

“There you go, Roberta,” he told her as he finished bandaging her finger. He gave her final instructions for sutures to be removed in ten days.

She thanked him and walked back out to the waiting room, where she found Connie, the company nurse, reading a magazine and chuckling at a “Joe and Willie” war cartoon.

Connie looked up at Bertie and grimaced at the bandage on her finger. “Guess you’ll be put on special duty.”

“No need,” Bertie said. “I’m right-handed.”

Connie got up, shaking her head. “You don’t know Franklin Parrish, kiddo. Last gal who cut herself was transferred out of his department. He’s about as easy to work with as a porcupine. You may find that out soon enough.”

Chapter Five

The train slowed at a long uphill curve, and Red saw Lake Taneycomo gleaming in the sunshine out his window. Not much farther now. He started watching for familiar landmarks: the big cedar that’d been hit twice by lightning and lost most of its branches, but kept on thriving; the rocky cliff that looked like half a huge teacup—one of the area’s bald knobs, where it was rumored that the old vigilante gang, the Bald Knobbers, sometimes met when preparing to raid a farmer’s land.

He remembered riding the train to Springfield with his mother and listening to stories from old-timers about the places along the tracks that had been raided by that gang, the owners forced from their land with threats of beatings or burned homes—or death.

That had happened just before the railroad came in. It had become evident later that the vigilante gang had had inside knowledge about its course. Many men became rich when they later sold their ill-gotten land to the railroad.

Red closed his eyes, wondering when his mind would stop wandering to brutality and the ugliness of humankind. When he looked again, the first buildings of the tiny burg of Branson came into view.

The train continued toward the Hollister station, a short jaunt south. He wasn’t sure what kind of a ride his mother would’ve arranged, what with the gasoline rationing and so few cars in town, anyway. Could be she’d come for him with the horse and buggy, unless she was in a hurry to get back to the house, and was able to convince one of the neighbors to take a car out of hibernation long enough to drive her.

Lilly Meyer always said one of the big draws of the Meyer Guesthouse was her horse and buggy. In this new world of modern cars with all their speed and fancy buttons and gadgets, Ma believed her guests returned to Hideaway year after year because they wanted to be taken back to a time when life wasn’t so hectic.

Red knew how it felt to be lulled into a sense of peace by the clopping of horse hooves instead of a smoking tailpipe.

Many who did have automobiles in Hideaway had followed Lilly Meyer’s lead and parked their cars for the rest of the war. They rode their horses or bicycles to town when they needed to shop or have a haircut or deliver goods. The gasoline was left to the farmers in the rest of the country, who needed to supply food to the troops.

Most farmers around Hideaway still used mules as their power source for plowing and wagon pulling, cutting hay and reaping corn. This way they didn’t have to fret about the shortages as much. They could save for other things.

Red had discovered just how well-off he and his neighbors had been in Hideaway by talking to other soldiers who’d come from farms across the Midwest. His hometown had five hundred and fifteen of the best people he’d ever known. That was why the population had doubled in the past ten years, smack dab in the middle of the depression, and that was why it would keep growing long after the war ended. Why, he could even see it doubling again in time, maybe to a thousand or more.

The train stopped at the Hollister station. He looked out the window for signs of his ma. Other men in uniform left the train, including Ivan, who glanced back in Red’s direction and waved. They’d see each other soon enough. Ivan could never resist Ma’s cooking.

Red waited, watching happy reunions taking place on the train ramp. Two soldiers and an airman stepped off, uniforms proudly decorated, as Ivan’s was. Many were probably home for good after the victory in Europe.

Home. It was the one thing everyone in the field dreamed about and talked about most.

Until now, Red hadn’t been any different. He slid his left hand down the side of his thigh to his knee, where shrapnel had ripped into the muscle and bone. He’d been held in the stateside hospital for three weeks, with daily injections of some new drug called penicillin that was supposed to kill the infection.

He didn’t know how well it had worked. The surgeon had told him the bone looked good, the infection gone, but for some reason his brain didn’t seem to be getting the message he was healed. He couldn’t put all his weight on his left leg yet. Smart as the surgeon was, he wasn’t God.

Red still didn’t see his mother or anyone he recognized who might be here to pick him up. And so he stayed put, the darkness of the past few weeks haunting his thoughts.

Dark and heavy. Dark and hopeless.

Here he’d been thinkin’ that Bertie would be better off without him, but wouldn’t that be the same for everybody else, as well? Nobody needed a lame soldier taking up space, Ma least of all, with all the work she needed done.

The last of the passengers disembarked, and the crowd on the platform began to thin. Red looked on glumly as Ivan greeted his parents in the parking lot.

Ivan’s father, Gerald, broad-shouldered and smiling—teeth gleaming so brightly Red could see them from where he sat—gave his son a bear hug. Both men towered over the fair Arielle Potts, whose Swedish coloring Ivan had inherited.

Ivan gestured toward the train, and they all glanced toward where Red sat watching them from the shadows. He didn’t think they could see him, looking from the bright sunshine into the darkness of the railcar, but he waved back.

The three of them climbed into a shiny black Chevrolet.

After most others had left the train, Red hefted his duffle over one shoulder and reluctantly grabbed the cane, forcing away his brooding thoughts. He dreaded seeing the look on his mother’s face when she saw him with his cane for the first time.

Sure, Ma knew about the injury, but to see her youngest hobbling on a cane like an old man? No mother should have to witness that.

Finally, out of the window, he saw Lilly Meyer come riding up in a buggy pulled by the big bay gelding Seymour, and Red felt a rush of relief.

Ma’s broad, sun-reddened face showed him she’d spent a lot of time outside in the vegetable garden—one of Red’s jobs when he was home. She guided Seymour carefully through the crowd in the parking area, waving to several acquaintances along the way.

Even before the gasoline rationing of the war, Lilly Meyer had held with her horse. She wasn’t afraid of cars. She wasn’t afraid of anything. She just always loved her horses. Pa had tried to teach her how to drive when he was alive, but she would have nothing to do with it. She didn’t mind people thinking of her as a little backward.

In fact, Ma was the envy of the town with a business that had thrived through the depression and kept going during the war.

Hay and oats weren’t rationed here because the farmers raised their own. Neither were garden vegetables or milk from their own cows, or meat and eggs from their own stock. In his travels, Red saw what the rest of the country had had to do without. He couldn’t believe how blessed he’d been all those years.

Red grabbed the metal soffit over the door and tried his hardest not to grimace. As he stepped down, he saw his mother look at his cane, then his leg. The pain in his leg was nothing compared to what he felt when he saw the look in her eyes.

“Now, Ma, don’t you go worrying about me,” he greeted as he rushed to hug her. Ordinarily, he’d pick her up and twirl her around—well, maybe that would be called lumbering her around. Lilly Meyer was, after all, nigh on three-hundred pounds. He couldn’t lift her now, but he wrapped his arms around her bulky form and was grateful for her strength.

She clung to him for a long few seconds, and this surprised Red. Their family’d not been much for shows of emotion.

She drew back at last, and he saw tears on her cheeks. She patted the moistness on his uniform collar with alarm.

“Now, look what I did,” she said.

“It’ll dry, Ma.” His mother didn’t cry. Even at Pa’s funeral, she’d been as strong as a man, setting the example for Red and his older sister and brother, Agnes and Howard, not to show a trembling lip or damp eye. The Meyers wore brave faces for the rest of the world, no matter what.

Her double chins wobbled as she looked up into his eyes and brushed her fingers across his cheek, like he was a little boy again. “It’s going to be okay now. My hero’s home.” She glanced around them. “And none too soon, either, from the looks of things,” she muttered.

“What’re you talking about?” he asked. “The war’s half over.”

“Germans aren’t exactly the best-liked people in Hideaway right now, especially since we’re hearing about all those death camps.”

“But we’re not German, we’re American, Ma.”

“We’re German enough for somebody to hate us.”

“Who’s been snubbing you?”

She sniffed once more, then composed herself. “That ol’ Drusilla Short says I’m a Nazi sympathizer. Thinks I oughta surrender and be locked up and my guesthouse shut down.”

“Since when did anyone ever listen to that woman’s opinion?” Red patted Seymour on the nose and received a welcoming nudge that knocked him off his stride.

“Since two nights ago when someone threw a brick through our window that nearly conked poor John Martin on the head when he was reading the paper,” Ma said.

“John!” Red paused before he climbed in beside his mother. “He okay?”

“Fightin’ mad, but other than that he’s just got a mark on his noggin from some flying glass. Tough young buck.”

Red clenched his hands into fists as anger streaked through him. “Who do you think did it?” If he found out, he’d hobble out and bang some heads. They’d never try to hurt his mother again.

“You know bullies are cowards,” she said. “They don’t show themselves. And our house ain’t the only target for mischief. It’s been going on a couple of months. Mildred went missing last month.”

Red stared at his mother. The loss of one of Ma’s two milk cows would’ve been a huge blow to her. “You never told me that. You never found her?”

“Nope, but Joseph Moennig loaned me one of his. Said he’s got his hands full with all the farm work now that Bertie’s in California.” She nodded. “That Joseph is a good man. But he paid for his goodness two weeks ago. Some of his own stock went missing.”

“His cattle?”

“A couple of cows and some pigs, and you can bet they were taken off to market and sold. He’ll never see them again, and they were the best of his stock.” She shook her head. “I’m tellin’ you, Red, this place is in for troubled times. Want to know why I was late gettin’ here?”

“I figured you had a good reason.”

“Somebody decided Seymour needed to be let out of his corral sometime last night. If he wasn’t such a homebody, no tellin’ where he’d be by now. As it was, I found him washing his feet down by the river. I saw a chalk mark on the side of the shed. It was that broken cross the Nazis use.”

“A swastika?”

“That’s the sign.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope. Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that ol’ Dru Short’s been hurling lies about us, and now we’ve got bricks through our window and Nazi signs on our stable?”

“Is the sheriff doing anything about the thefts?”

“Not that I’ve seen. Mayor Gerald says he’ll not let ’em get away with this, but he can’t stop it if he don’t catch nobody.” She patted Red’s arm. “Not to worry now. You’ll take care of it. You’ll find out who’s doing this, if anybody can.”

Red climbed into the buggy, glad for the sturdy handles he grasped to pull himself up. He felt more helpless than ever. What was happening in Hideaway?

Chapter Six

On the short ride back to the plant with Connie, Bertie slid Red’s last letter out of her purse. She’d studied it over and over when she’d received no new letters, thinking maybe it held a hidden reason why he hadn’t written again.

Sometimes she nearly convinced herself he’d met someone else—not that there was much chance of meeting a woman in the muddy trenches where he’d been stuck for so many months. Still, she’d heard there were women aplenty in the towns where the men went when they were on leave.

In all his letters, Red had never made any promises to her about the future. What if he’d met some Italian beauty off in that foreign world? From what she’d read in letters from other soldiers, a man could get mighty lonely, mighty desperate in the midst of war.

She carefully unfolded the letter written nearly six weeks ago. It was two pages of awkward words that had gripped her heart and convinced her for sure that she loved him and he was the only one for her.

Bertie, you keep asking me if I’ve gotten a chance to see Italy. I’ve seen more of this place than I’ve ever wanted to see of any country, anywhere, anytime. I’ve seen whole orchards battered to kindling wood. I’ve seen people living in bombed buildings, starving, begging us for food.

I see your face every time I close my eyes, and can almost hear your voice every time I pull your picture out of my pocket.

Funny, ain’t it? I always thought of all Italians as dark haired, dark eyed. That’s not true. Some are as blond as you are, with skin like yours. I’ve been into some towns a few times, and I can’t tell you how often I thought I’d seen you in the crowd on the street, and I’d run toward you and call your name, and when I got there, I’d find a stranger watching me like they thought I was about to shoot them.

She looked up from the words, as the warmth of them flowed through her. Instead of the California highway, she saw the lines of Red’s smiling face—he was most always smiling or laughing at something—never at someone else, most times at himself.

She wanted to cry over his loneliness for her. And yet she felt reassured. A woman couldn’t read such heartfelt words and doubt a man’s love for her.

Straightening the fold in the page, she read on.

These people aren’t the enemy. They were dumb, maybe, and weak when they should have been strong, but how can I say what I’d have done in their place? They’re defeated now, you can see it in their eyes, and especially in their land.

There’s times I can hear your laughter or your voice in the middle of the night when the shells are whizzing through the sky, and that voice keeps me from going plumb out of my mind.

Bertie, if I get home alive, it’s because of you. I feel like I have somebody waiting for me. I feel like I have a future. So many of my buddies’ve gotten their Dear John letters—their women didn’t want to wait around. All this time, I keep on getting letters from you. I never expected different, but I want you to know something. If I don’t make it home, it’s not because you didn’t pray hard enough, it’s because the evil caught up with us, after all, and the old devil won a battle. Like you keep reminding me, he won’t win the real war.

You take care out there in California. You never know what could happen in a place like that, so close to the ocean. The enemy can reach you better there than he can in Missouri. Don’t let that happen.

If anything happens to me, I want you to be happy. Marry somebody you know I’d approve of, settle and have that passel of kids you’ve always wanted. And know that there was one soldier who went to his reward fighting for the best gal in the best country in the world.

I kinda like you.

Your Red

She folded the page and slid it back into her purse, and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. No promises, for sure, but he never “kinda liked” anybody else. He’d always been good at understatement. But she knew Red Meyer better than most anyone except his mother. He never made a promise until he knew for sure he’d be able to keep it. And then he kept it.

Just because he hadn’t written in the past few weeks didn’t mean he’d forgotten about her.

This letter was filled with his affection for her, his abiding friendship. She’d read love letters received by her friends at work that didn’t show as much love as this letter did.

Could the man who’d placed his life in her hands stop writing because he’d met another woman he liked better?

She knew things were different now, and she couldn’t help worrying about how lonely a man could get. But Red wasn’t the type to lead one woman on with letters while courtin’ another. It wasn’t his nature. He was constant, steadfast, not a ladies’ man at all. He was a man any lady would be proud to marry, who would put a lot of joy and laughter into her life—as he had always done in Bertie’s.

She couldn’t help smiling when she remembered how Red had changed after he’d first asked her out on a bona fide date more than three years ago. Always before, he’d seemed as comfortable with her as he was with his old bluetick hunting dog. Then, suddenly, when he came to pick her up with the horse and buggy for a drive down to the lake, or when he and Ivan double-dated with her and Dixie Martin, John’s sister, and went to the cinema in Hollister in John’s tan Pontiac, Red got all tongue-tied. He didn’t know how to talk to Bertie.

He opened doors for her, paid for her meals and movie, treated her like she was someone special, but he stumbled over his words and his face flushed more easily.

His awkwardness touched her. She felt honored that he thought that much of her.

“We’re here,” Connie said, interrupting Bertie’s thoughts. “You want me to walk back to the department with you in case Franklin decides to strangle you?” She grinned. “That way I can administer first aid quicker.”

“I can handle him,” Bertie assured the nurse.

She wasn’t so sure of herself once Connie left, but if Red could depend on thoughts of her to get him through the horrors of the battles he’d fought, she could keep him in her heart as she tried to deal with Franklin.

Red took the reins from his mother and guided Seymour toward the road that followed the course of the White River back to Hideaway. It would be a long ride.

“Let’s check on Joseph on our way home,” Lilly said.

Red looked at his ma. “He sick or something?”

“Nope, I’m worried about him, is all. I didn’t see him outside anywhere on my way here, and Erma Lee Jarvis called out to me from the garden as I passed their house. Joseph didn’t answer Bertie’s calls last night.”

“Calls?”

“Four times, according to Erma Lee.”

“He never misses her calls.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Something could be up.”

Red flicked the reins to urge Seymour forward at a quicker walk. “Why didn’t the Jarvises check on him last night?”

“You know how tetchy Joseph can be when a body tries to coddle him. Besides, he gets tired of the neighbors always listening in on his calls with Bertie. He can be sharp at times, you know.”

Red nodded. Yep, Joseph could be that. Bertie called him grumpy, but she knew better. Joseph tried hard to be a tough ol’ farmer, but he was a man with a soft spot for those he was closest to.

Red remembered when one of Joseph’s prize milk cows took out after Bertie for petting her new calf. That poor ol’ cow got sold so fast, she never saw it coming.

“It’ll be good to see Joseph again.” Red cast his mother a quick glance. She looked worried. “He been around in the past day or two?”

“I saw him at church. He was lookin’ forward to his daughter’s call.” She shook her head. “That’s another reason it’s so strange he never answered. Hope he’s not had any more trouble with cattle rustling.”

Red flicked the reins again, and Seymour broke into a trot. Red tried not to worry, but worry seemed to’ve become a part of him since going off to war.

Joseph had always seemed partial to Red, and taught him a lot about being the man of the house, looking out for his mother, taking on a lot of the workload. He’d shown Red everything from stacking firewood the right way to handling newborn calves to plantin’ a garden.

Joseph had also written to Red at least twice a month all the time he was in Europe. Nobody would take Pa’s place, of course, but Joseph Moennig came the closest. He had to be lonely with Bertie out in California.

Red cast another curious glance at his mother. Well, maybe Joseph wasn’t always lonely. Ma would see to that. And it didn’t seem she’d mind all that much.

“I can’t do much right now to help him on the farm,” Red warned her.

“He won’t care none about that, he’ll be worried about you.” She sighed and shook her head. “Can’t deny it’ll be a relief to share the load a little.”

“What load’s that?” Red asked.

She jerked her head toward his leg. “Since you didn’t want Bertie to know about your injury, I couldn’t tell nobody about it. Somebody’d have blabbed for sure. You’re gonna be a shock to all our Hideaway friends, Red. Nobody even knows you got shot.”

He nearly groaned aloud. Why had he done that to his poor mother? “I didn’t get shot. I got hit by shrapnel. They’ll know soon enough.”

“Guess that means you need to have a talk with Bertie before long, because you’re sure not going to keep this thing a secret now. You’re back in the States, you can pick up a phone and call her. She’s really gonna be hurt you didn’t tell her about this right off.”

“I couldn’t, Ma. I didn’t know how it’d all work out, and you know how she worries.”

“You can tell her now.”

Red nodded. “Guess I could.”

“You know, I never did like keepin’ this thing a secret from her, especially when she asked about you time and time again.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“I’ve never been a liar, and keeping this from her felt like I was lyin’.”

He sighed. “I know, Ma. I know.”

“And you never did tell me why you did it.”

“She’s gone through a lot, Ma. Her brother moved away, then the war hit, then her mother died. And now she’s all alone in California without any kin nearby.”

“And now her beau’s stopped writing to her,” his mother said, giving him a pointed look.

“I’d rather have her wonder about a few missed letters than know about this.” He tapped his leg.

“It’s gonna heal fine,” Ma said.

Red didn’t argue, but he couldn’t agree, either. That’d be lying. For the past few weeks, he hadn’t believed anything would be fine again. But no reason to try to tell his mother that.

Still, she was right. He had to tell Bertie about this leg. He dreaded doin’ it, because it would change everything. Could be that was why he hadn’t said anything about it yet—pure selfishness. As long as Bertie didn’t know there was anything wrong, in her mind, at least, they were still together at heart.

But when he told her about the leg, he’d also have to tell her his decision about the two of them. He still didn’t know how he could bear it.

“So you might as well get it over with,” Ma said. “She’s hurtin’ out there in no-man’s-land, all alone, thinkin’ her man’s done dropped her like a hot biscuit.”

Red started to speak, and he couldn’t. He swallowed hard, feeling his mother’s sharp gaze. “I will, Ma. Soon as she’s had time to get home from work tonight, I’ll call her and tell her all about it.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother nod, saw her mouth open to speak, and he cut her off.

“I heard tell you’ve cooked Joseph a meal or two lately.” He hoped she would let him change the subject.

When he glanced at her, his eyebrows nearly met his hairline at the sight of the blush that tinted her face.

“Bertie tell you that?” she asked.

Red nodded. Bertie had written a lot of things in her letters that he’d never realized before—about her dreams of living on a farm and having kids, of maybe someday having her own guesthouse like his mother’s.

He’d also learned how much Bertie admired Lilly—and Red. It was a funny thing about Bertie—when they were growing up, Red had treated her about the same way he treated all his buddies. Like a guy. Never took much notice of her any other way until they were nearin’ high school. Then he’d struggled for years to come to terms with his feelings.

Even when the war hit, spurring him to finally ask her out on a real date, they’d never talked about feelings and such, not the way she wrote about them now. They’d talked baseball scores and fishing, and, of course, they’d talked about the war.

“Joseph never says anything about how he’s doin’ alone out on the farm,” Lilly said. “Used to be he wouldn’t even let me bake him a pie, but lately, he’s helped me out with a few things—like when Mildred got lost—and he hasn’t minded when I cooked a few things up. He’s still as stubborn as a mule.”

“His daughter has some of his stubbornness,” Red said, unable to keep his thoughts from settling on Bertie, same as they’d done throughout the war—same as they’d done for nigh on twelve years or so.

“Soon as he heard about the brick in the window, he came to town and helped shore up the hole,” Ma said. “Then he went looking for signs of the scoundrels.”

“Maybe he’s figured something out by now,” Red said.

“Could be the two of you need to put your heads together.” She nudged him. “Seeing as how he’s practically your father-in-law.”

Red noticed that his mother’s teasing grin didn’t reach her eyes. She was worried about that, he could tell, and he could almost hear her unasked question.

Joseph Moennig and his daughter weren’t the only stubborn ones. Ma could be hard to live with when she wanted something she couldn’t get. Like a certain young lady for a daughter-in-law.

Also, that brick and the missing cow had scared Ma worse than she would let on, but Red knew if he pushed, she’d clam up. Best to talk about other things for a while. And so they did, throughout the hour-long ride back to Hideaway.

Chapter Seven

The dirt road to Hideaway from Hollister skirted the southern ridge of hills that formed bluffs above the James River. Simply named the Hideaway Road, it continued on from Hideaway to Cape Fair, where it was called the Cape Fair Road. The Moennig farm was barely a quarter mile from Hideaway.

Being near town was the reason the Moennig place had electricity, while most of the farms in rural Missouri didn’t. For the last few years, the Moennigs also had indoor plumbing and hot and cold running water, another rarity around these parts. Before that, they’d pumped their water out back of the house, heated it on the wood cookstove in the kitchen, and bathed in a tin washtub, like most other folks out in the country.

As Seymour kept up a steady trot down the road, Ma chattered about the young men coming back home from the war, about who’d been discharged early, and hinting that some of the discharges hadn’t been honorable.

“You mean like Hector Short?” Red asked. No wonder Drusilla was so mean. Her own son was a scoundrel, bringing embarrassment to the family.

“I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him around here,” Ma said. “If I had, I’d’ve suspected him of throwing that brick through the—” Her voice broke off. “Would you listen to me? I’m getting as bad as Drusilla. I need to wash my mouth out with lye soap.”

Red turned Seymour in at the Moennig driveway and kept going until they reached the corral gate. Then he stopped the horse and frowned.

“The gate’s open. Did you notice that when you came by earlier?” he asked.

“Nope, you can’t see this gate from the road.” She gestured back toward the tall hedge around the front of the yard. “That isn’t like Joseph, even if he didn’t have cattle in the corral.”

“Hello!” Red called as he reached for his cane. This time of day, Joseph would usually be out in the field, working the hay, or in the garden.

Ma gasped, then put a hand on Red’s arm, gripping him hard. “Charles Frederick.”

He turned to her, startled at her use of his full name. She was staring at something out in the cattle lot behind the barn. Red saw a patch of blue. A human shape, red-checked shirt and blue overalls.

Red tossed the reins to his mother and scrambled from the buggy, then reached back for his cane. Without a word, Ma pulled it from beside her on the wagon’s running board, passed it to him, then gripped the railing beside her to get out.

“You stay right here,” he said.

For once, she did as he told her.

As he hobbled along the rutted driveway toward the back fence, he felt chilled to the bone. If only this was just another nightmare he’d wake up from any minute.

But it was real. He’d seen too many images like this.

He felt sick as he stepped into the cattle lot and got a close look of Joseph Moennig. The side of Joseph’s face was so white it seemed to reflect the hot, late-morning sun.

Red dropped awkwardly to his good knee next to his friend and gently rolled him to his back. Joseph stared without sight toward Heaven—his new home.

“Roberta Moennig.”

Bertie caught her breath, and looked up at Franklin.

“Yessir,” she said, taking care to turn off the lathe and keep her hands away from the moving parts. Her wound was beginning to ache as the pain killer wore off.

Franklin’s broad face didn’t have the usual scowl she’d come to know and dislike. When she met his eyes, he looked away. Then she realized he’d called her by her real name instead of hillbilly.

“You want something?” she asked.

“Your injury doing okay?” he asked, his voice still gruff, but sounding almost sincere.

“I’m fine.”

She started to return to her work, but then he spoke again. “You need to report to the front office. Talk to Charlotte.”

She stared at him as a chill traveled across her shoulders and down her arms. “What’s she want to see me for?”

He avoided her look. “You’ve…got a call.”

“What kind of a call?” Had he actually followed through with this morning’s threat to dismiss her?

It couldn’t be. Franklin enjoyed firing people, didn’t he? Right now, he didn’t look as if he was enjoying himself too much.

“Just get to the office,” he muttered, turning away.

She nodded and left her worktable. She refused to beg. If she got fired, she’d find another job easily enough. Hughes Aircraft wasn’t the only place in town that could use a trained machinist.

Still, she wished she’d watched her mouth a little closer with Franklin this morning. Sass and vinegar weren’t always a good thing.

Minutes later, she stepped into the business office, abuzz with so many typewriters clattering and telephones ringing. Most folks in the plant wanted an office job, but not Bertie. Give her a machine over a typewriter any day. Machine work made more sense to her, and she loved operating a lathe, forming the parts that would be used to build the airplanes that would help win the war. She felt she was doing something useful. Of course, the people working in the office were useful, too.

If she couldn’t work with machines in the shop, give her a barn full of milking cows rather than a typewriter in a stifling office. In fact, she’d pretty much prefer anything over being cooped up in an office all day.

A woman with dark hair tied severely away from her face was the first person Bertie encountered when she walked through the door. The woman didn’t stop typing, didn’t even look up, when Bertie approached her desk.

“Help you?” the woman asked.

Bertie paused, waiting for eye contact.

When the woman finally looked up, her fingers continued their clattering across the typewriter keys. “What do you need?” she snapped.

“I’m Roberta Moennig, and I was told to report to Charlotte. You care to point her out to me?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she stopped typing. The sharpness vanished. “I’m Charlotte,” she said in a voice suddenly gone soft. She paused, eyeing Bertie. “Why don’t you have a seat, Roberta.” She pointed toward the chair in front of her desk, then picked up a telephone receiver from the desktop and handed it to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, placing a hand on Bertie’s shoulder before rising from her chair and walking away.

Bertie stared after her in confusion, aware that others in the office had stopped their work and shot glances toward her. Something wasn’t right.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Hello?” she said into the telephone receiver. “Who is this?”

“Bertie? It’s me. It’s Red.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she gasped. It was him! Here she’d been thinking about him and…“Red! Where are you? I’ve not heard from you in so long I was beginning to wonder if you were okay. What’s…why are you…” She frowned. “Are you okay? Why are you calling me in the middle of the—”

“I’m…home.” His voice was gentle, uncommonly soft. “I’m back home in Hideaway.”

“For good? You’ve been released?”

“I’ve been discharged.”

“I wondered if they’d send you home after Germany’s surrender, but since I never heard a word from you in six full weeks, I couldn’t help wonderin’—”

“Bertie, we’ll have a long talk about that later, but I didn’t call to talk about me right now.” He paused. “Ma picked me up at the train station, and we stopped by your Pa’s place to check on him.” Another pause.

Bertie leaned forward. She hated the solemn sound of Red’s voice. “What is it? Is Dad all right? Is he sick?”

“Bertie, I’m sorry. I…” He cleared his throat. “I found him…he’s gone.”

Chapter Eight

For a moment, Bertie didn’t grasp what Red meant. She was dreaming—or this wasn’t really Red. It was some kind of practical joke.

“I don’t understand,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. “H-how can you find him if he’s gone?”

“I found his body.”

She shook her head, unable to let the words sink in. It couldn’t be…She’d been worried about him last night when he didn’t answer her call, but this?

“Bertie? You there? You okay?”

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Red, I didn’t—”

“Your father’s—he’s dead,” Red said. “I found him myself, out in the cattle lot behind the barn.”

She gasped, and her vision went dark for a moment. She became aware of someone standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder, placing a glass of water on the desk in front of her. She looked up to see her friend and roommate, Edith Frost, looking down at her, dark hair mussed, dark eyes narrowed in concern.

“What’s the water for? And what’re you doing here?” Edith should be home asleep. Her shift wouldn’t begin for a few more hours.

“Charlotte called me,” Edith whispered. “She wanted me to be here for you.”

“Bertie?” Red said, his voice growing gruffer. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m…I’ll…”

“What’s happening out there?” he asked.

“Would you just…give me a minute?” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Dad,” she whispered.

It was true. It must be. But reality clashed hard against denial. “No, this can’t be,” she whispered. “Not Dad. He wasn’t fighting in the war.”

“He’s been fighting a war, all right,” Red said.

“How?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

“I wish I knew for sure.”

“What do you mean? Was he sick? What happened?”

“There looks to be a…an injury to the side of his head.”

She frowned. “And he was in the cattle lot? Could be the bull got him, but ol’ Fester’s never been a mean—”

“Not Fester. Not an animal…not a four-legged one, anyway. It looks like…like something small hit him in the side of the head, Bertie.”

Bertie nearly dropped the phone. “Something like what?”

“I’m not sure yet. The sheriff’s out there now, along with the mayor.”

She heard something in his voice, some thread of doubt, as if he was hiding something from her, unwilling to say what was on his mind.

“You’re saying somebody killed my father?” she heard her own voice, loud with shock, saw the surprised faces of the people standing around her, and felt as if the floor was buckling beneath her.

“I’m not saying anything yet.”

“Oh, yes you are. That’s what you’re thinking, I can tell.”

“Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth. I’m gonna find out what happened,” Red promised. “You hang on out there, you hear?”

Bertie took a few deep breaths and managed to keep her hands from trembling. “What are you thinking, Red? Talk to me!”

Edith slid a handkerchief into Bertie’s hands and placed an arm around her shoulders, but Bertie wouldn’t let tears fall.

“Don’t you worry, Bertie,” Red said. “We’ll see to it your father has a good, Christian funeral.”

She took a few more breaths. “Red Meyer, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t know, yet, okay? I don’t know what happened. Give us time to figure things out on this end, and I’ll call you. You stay put, though. You don’t need to be traipsing back here. We’ll take good care of your pa’s body.”

“Don’t make any plans until you know how soon Lloyd and I will be able to get there. I’ll have to call him right away.” Her brother would be working on his in-laws’ family farm in Kansas this time of day, but someone should be able to get to him.

There was a short silence, then Red cleared his throat. “Bertie?”

Again, the tone of his voice alerted her. “What?”

“I don’t think you oughta come to Hideaway right now. Lloyd neither.”

“Of course I’m coming. You can’t call and tell me my father is dead, then think I’m not coming home as soon as I can get there.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t grieve, Bertie, I just think you need to do it out there in California. It’s safer there.”

Her grip tightened on the telephone receiver. “What do you mean, safer?”

“I already told you, I can’t say for sure what happened to your father, but it might not be safe here right now for you or Lloyd, not until we know for sure what happened.”

She waited for him to continue.

“Could just be my own reaction to the war,” he said, “expectin’ trouble when there isn’t any, but I can’t help thinking the war’s brought out some enemies we didn’t know anything about, even here in Hideaway.”

She felt a chill down her spine. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to explain more, wasn’t sure she could take much more information today. Oh, Lord, someone might’ve killed my father?

“You hear what I’m saying?” Red asked. “You stay put and stay out of trouble right where you are.”

“I can stay out of trouble, but I’ll be in Hideaway while I’m doing it,” she said. “That’s where I’m going to be as soon as I can get there, and don’t you try telling me different. I’m not some helpless little thing who can’t take care of herself.”

There was a quick grunt of irritation over the line, then, “Bertie Moennig, you might cause more trouble than I can handle if you come traipsing into town right now. I never said you was helpless, but don’t be daft, either. Stay put!”

The sharpness of his words pierced her anger. But even though part of her could see the wisdom of his words from his point of view, she wasn’t him. She couldn’t do what he wanted her to.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Red Meyer. I won’t be a burden to you.”

“Now, Bert, you know that isn’t what I meant, I was only trying to—”

“You’d better give me some space when I get there, because I’m comin’. Don’t you dare treat me like I don’t belong.” She returned the phone receiver to its base, and pressed her forehead to the cool desktop for a few seconds.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

Edith’s voice was soothing, but it also cautioned her. Sorrow and self pity too often formed a partnership, but it wasn’t going to happen this time. Not with Bertie Moennig. She couldn’t afford that weakness.

The door opened, and she looked up to see Franklin walk in, his beefy shoulders grazing the sides of the door frame. For once, his presence didn’t threaten her.

“I won’t be back to work today,” she told him, bracing herself for an argument.

“I know. I’ve already got someone on your job.” He glanced around at the office workers who hovered near. Though he wasn’t their supervisor, they scattered back to their desks.

He crossed the room and leaned over Bertie. “I’m sorry about your father. Are you going to be okay, hillbilly?”

The sudden, unfamiliar note of gentleness in his voice surprised her. “Thank you. I’ll be fine, but I have to catch a train to Missouri.”

He nodded. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

She hesitated. She may not be back. Yes, she was needed here, but she would be needed on the farm at Hideaway with Dad gone. Cows would have to be fed and milked, the crops gathered, and she couldn’t expect Lloyd to leave his in-laws in the lurch so he could tend to everything.

“Hillbilly?” Franklin said sharply. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve got a farm to run now, and the troops need food as badly as they need airplanes.”

“Not sure I can keep your job open for you.”

“I’m not askin’ you to.”

He ran a thick palm across his forehead. “I’ll tell you what, you give me a call when you decide.”

She gave him a wry look. “I thought I was about to get fired today.”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth, and his eyes wandered downward. “That’s what I wanted you to think. You work better that way.” He gave her a wink, then turned and left, his thick shoulders grazing the sides of the door frame once more.

Edith stepped up beside Bertie. “Well, what do you know? That slave driver might have a heart, after all.”

Bertie allowed herself to be distracted. “Don’t count on it. He just knows good help when he mistreats it.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

A quick swallow, a deep breath, and Bertie regained control of her emotions. There were things to do. “All I need is a train ticket to Missouri.”

Edith nodded. “We’ll make that two tickets. I’m not letting you go by yourself.”

“You have a job to do,” Bertie said.

“I have a friend to sustain, and that is more important to me than my job right now.”

“You have a war effort to support,” Bertie repeated. “I’m going alone. Don’t you argue with me, Edith Frost.”

She had to make arrangements to get home to Hideaway.

Chapter Nine

Red stared at the telephone receiver, then replaced it in its holder on the wall of the dining room. Curious paying guests returned their attention to their noontime meals at the long table. He’d tried to keep his voice down, but it hadn’t worked very well.

Most of the guests were lodgers for a day or two, maybe a week at most. Two he recognized from years past, four of them he’d never seen.

Then there was John Martin, a good friend who’d been lodging at the Meyer Guesthouse for years, ever since he’d started teaching school in town. On weekends he went to the family farm several miles out, to help his father and fifteen-year-old brother work the fields while his older brother, Cecil, fought in the Pacific Theater. With school out, John continued to work in town during the week, helping build new classrooms.

Ivan Potts was also at the table. He and John had both been so shocked to see Red’s cane and his limp, their reactions would have been almost comical if Red was in the mood to laugh. He wasn’t.

After a couple of short words from him, both John and Ivan knew better than to ask about his injury in front of the guests.

It was awkward trying to take care of business with strangers hearing everything he’d said to Bertie over the telephone.

Ma was working in the kitchen, pulling dessert out of the oven. She hardly ever sat and ate with the lodgers and other customers. No time. No help. As soon as she got all the food on the table, it was time to start cleaning up.

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