Fay arced the ax high and brought it down hard on the log, accomplishment spreading through her as sure as the large crack split through the log. She shoved the two pieces aside and set up another piece on the stump they used to split. They wouldn’t need firewood for a while, now that spring was in full swing and summer on its way—of course, in Wyoming, you never knew. An April shower could turn just as easily into an April blizzard. But wood always needed to be split and set aside to dry for the following winter. Splitting wood helped Fay express her frustration. It was the one farm chore she didn’t mind that much, even when it left her shoulders sore and her hands raw.
She swung again, picturing Oliver’s enthusiastic expression as he explained all that nonsense about farming for profit. He’d been so eager, talking on and on about how to help people. How to revolutionize farming and make it all profitable again. She’d leaned across that table and lapped it all up, letting his words spark hope and excitement inside her. Why, if they followed his bright ideas, she’d be working on this farm until she turned eighty.
Crack! Another log splintered in two and fell to the sides. Wiping some sweat away from her forehead, she lifted another log onto the stump, but instead of swinging right away, she leaned against the ax, catching her breath.
Oh, she hated Oliver Burns and his silly dimple. And the fact that tears stung in her eyes. They’d had such a wonderful evening. She’d really thought things could go somewhere. But he didn’t understand her or her family at all.
“Hey, Fay!” Sam’s voice called, and she looked up to see him jogging into the yard from the barn. He paused, frowning when he saw the pile of wood she’d split. “Thought Vee wanted the boys to do that after school.”
Fay glared at him. Sam held his hands up in surrender and backed away a step or two. “Well, maybe you can make it up to her by taking the boys to go deliver milk,” he said.
Fay sighed and laid down the ax. “Sure.” She might as well get used to all this rotten stuff. At the rate they were going, she’d be farming all her life. Forget about having any fun or moving to a city or dancing all night at The Twilight Café. She pulled off her work gloves and headed for the truck to load up the milk they often sold to some of their neighbors. When Jack Junior and Peter came, delivering milk wasn’t so bad. All she had to do was drive up and down the road. They got in and out of the truck and took the milk to the doors.
By the time she had the jugs loaded, Jack Junior and Peter were home from school. She hollered at them to get changed into their work clothes as they tumbled off the bus.
“Was that the boys I saw coming home?” Vera said, coming around the corner of the house.
“Yeah, I need them to help me deliver milk.” Fay leaned against the truck door while she waited for them to return.
“Oh, I was going to tell them to get busy on the wood.” As Vera said it, her gaze trailed to the pile sitting around the splitting stump. “Hmmm.” She arched her eyebrows at Fay and added, “I suppose they could stack it when they get back.”
Fay colored, half-embarrassed for her tantrum and for getting her hopes up about a man because he wanted to help the farm. Of all the silly reasons to fall for a man. Mr. Burns had been doing his job. It was downright ridiculous of her to get all worked up when he—but really it was the SCS—had let her down.
“I had some time today,” she said sullenly.
Vera chewed on her lip and then leaned up against the truck with Fay. “Sam told me what Mr. Burns said about the fields and how SCS can’t help like we thought they could.”
Fay nodded, the disappointment still swirling around her, although she couldn’t figure out if it was because she’d likely have to work at least another year with her brothers or because it would never work out between her and Oliver Burns.
“Sam thinks the profits from those fields will have to go back into the farm instead of hiring somebody new. Without extra money from somewhere, it’s going to take a lot longer than we thought to expand the farm again.” Saying it out loud brought a lump of emotion to her throat. She had hoped too much. All through the war she’d told herself she could get through the backbreaking labor and the stress of farming with Mom and Vera and the occasional teenage boy if it meant her brothers would come home and take it all over. In the back of her mind she’d known she’d have to help for a bit. But the possibilities of being free from it had stretched before her, waiting for her to snatch them. Now that time stretched out before her too.
“Seeing as how you’ve already done enough work for today, why don’t you take the rest of the evening off? I’ll drive the boys around to deliver milk.” Vera patted Fay on the shoulder and moved her away from the truck.
“That’s okay. It’s just driving. It’s not hard.”
“I almost forgot. Joey Gibson called. That’s what I came out to tell you. He wants to know if you’ll go to that church social with him tonight.” Vera didn’t move from her new position in front of the door. The boys came out of the back door of the farmhouse and hopped into the back of the truck with the milk.
Fay scowled at the thought of going to the church social with Joey. Next to Oliver Burns, he seemed like a boy. And still a farmer. “I’d rather not.”
Vera bit back a smile. “Go anyway. You might have some fun, Fay, and you’re sorely in need of it.” Without waiting for any more protests, she climbed into the truck and started it up with a rumble. She waved as she pulled out and onto the road, the boys shouting goodbye to Fay too.
Fay watched the truck disappear behind the dust it kicked up before turning to the house. Well, the church social was an excuse to put on a pretty dress and do her hair. She might as well take advantage of it.
***
“Wash up for dinner, please,” Vera told Jack Junior and Peter as they came in after finishing the milk deliveries.
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said with a salute and disappeared down the hallway to the bathroom.
Vera took a long breath of the beef-stew-scented air of the kitchen. “Smells good, Mom,” she said, moving to the sink to wash her own hands. “Would you like me to set the table?”
A knock at the door interrupted. “I’ll set the table; you get the door. Your father’s still out with Sam and Andrew.” Her mother reached for the plates.
To Vera’s delight, Dominick stood on the top step when she opened the door. “Well, good evening, Dominick Whitaker,” she said, reaching for his hand and pulling him inside. “What a pleasure to see you.”
Dominick drew Vera into his arms and kissed her soundly. “Good evening to you too,” he said.
His kiss for a greeting meant a good mood. Vera’s heart lifted. He’d greeted her like that more and more and with less and less of the old memories hanging over his eyes.
“I thought we might take the kids down to the social and get them some pie. Ruby Baldwin said her grandpa was making root beer,” he said, his hands lingering around Vera’s waist.
Vera hesitated. She and Dominick rarely went out alone more than once a week, and since he’d taken her to dinner already this week, she worried about leaving the kids with her parents again. But her and Dominick taking the kids was a lot like . . . a real family again. She could picture him teaching her boys how to fish or carrying Audrey on his shoulders, but she didn’t dare get her hopes up too high, and she didn’t dare let her children expect it. They liked Dominick, but so far Vera had kept the interactions in the social sense to a minimum, and while she had explained to Jack Junior and Peter that she and Dominick were good friends, she hadn’t ventured telling them more than that.
“What is it?” he asked when her hesitation slipped into several more moments of silence. He dropped his hands and stepped back to take a better look at her.
Vera glanced toward the kitchen, where her mother directed the boys in finishing to set the table. “Do you mind if we take a quick walk?” she asked. Dominick furrowed his brows at her but shook his head. “Mom?” Vera called. When Kathryn’s figure came into the doorway between the two rooms, a smile broke out on her face. “We’re going for a walk. We’ll be back soon,” Vera said.
“Go ahead. I’ll save some stew for you both.” She disappeared back through the doorway without another word.
Vera grabbed a coat from the rack beside the door, and Dominick opened the door for her, following her down the steps into the cool spring-evening air. “What is it?” he asked again, once they made their way across the lawn and toward the road.
Vera angled herself toward him as they walked, the words rolling over in her mind. She began by taking his hand and saying fervently, “I love you, Dominick.”
He nodded. It wasn’t too momentous. They had said it before. “I love you too, darling.”
“I know. And you know that I need a husband. I’d like that man to be you. But I also know that you’re not sure you’re up for that, which I understand. Until you are, I can’t let my children see you as more than my friend—and going to the social together would be more. Especially with everyone in town speculating and adding their opinions.”
Dominick stared up the road for too long. So long that Vera’s insides started to flutter around, and she wondered if she’d said it all wrong. “Of course,” he said. “I didn’t think of it that way.” He let out a long sigh. “I wish . . . I’d like to be a husband and father, but—”
Vera stopped and turned to face him. “You’re a good man,” she said with feeling, clutching the front of his coat. “You are.”
Dominick reached up to take her wrists, and he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t, Vera. You don’t know . . . you don’t know what I’ve done.”
Her chest burned at how he thought so little of himself. He was never anything but gentle with her, and Jack Junior talked of him in the best terms as a teacher. He respected Dominick and so did Vera. She pulled herself toward him.
“Every man in this country has ‘done’ something. It was a war.” She gulped. She didn’t like to talk about Jack with Dominick, but in this case she made an exception. “You won’t spoil my opinion of you. Jack told me things too. Of how he’d had to shoot men when he’d stood so close he could see the fear in their eyes, and how they were just scared kids. He—” She choked off. Remembering how Jack had sobbed because of it made her stomach turn. It had broken down the man she thought could never stop smiling.
Dominick wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not the same,” he mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back to look up at him. “How can I know? You won’t trust me to. You won’t tell me.”
He sighed, heavy with regret. He broke away and turned toward the house. “Would it be all right if I had dinner with you?”
Vera put her hand into his. “Dominick . . .” She pulled him to a stop. They couldn’t go on seeing each other if he didn’t believe himself good enough to marry her—if he never would. The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. For her children. For her. For Dominick too. “If you can’t tell me—if you can’t trust me, then perhaps we’d better stop—”
“Not tonight, Vee.” He shook his head at her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Not tonight . . . but what about dinner?”
She rested her head against his chest and gripped his shirt in her fingers. No. Not tonight. It would have been best, but she couldn’t force it. “Of course. That’s different. Dinner is fine.”
They walked back slowly, leaning on each other. Heaviness weighed her down, as though she had walked to the end of the happy days she’d spent with Dominick. She’d helped to bring a smile to his face more often than not. He’d seemed so much lighter, and he’d lifted her as well. She sighed, and he kissed the top of her head. He whispered, “I know,” as though he’d read her mind and agreed with the heavy thoughts there.
By the time they reached the house, they had straightened and entered with smiles that neither of them felt.
***
Dominick didn’t mind the quiet moment he had to himself here on the top step in front of the Larson’s house while Vera put the children to bed. Since beginning to spend more time with Vera last winter, he’d found comfort in this house. Sam usually avoided him if he was around, so despite the high number of occupants for such a small place, he’d never felt more at peace than when he spent time there. With the warmer weather, Mrs. Larson had opened a window in the kitchen, and the sounds of the house drifted out to him. It reminded him of growing up, of all the good memories he’d left in California. He’d come to Bellemont for a new start in a simple place, not somewhere busy like San Diego. And his mother had remembered a different man than he was. He couldn’t go back and have her always asking if he was okay and when he’d start smiling more. She wasn’t the type of woman to understand that Dominick couldn’t change the man he’d become since the war.
He did miss San Diego though, especially this winter. The soft sand on Torrey Pines Beach, the sound of waves lapping outside his window. If he could have that here in Wyoming, his life could be complete. That and Vera, and both seemed impossible.
The door creaked and Dominick sat forward, out of the way of whoever was coming out. Maybe Vera to say good night. However, Mr. Larson stepped across the skinny beam of light coming from the porch light above the door.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“No, sir.” Dominick had to chuckle at the older man asking permission to sit next to Dominick on his own front porch.
With care, Mr. Larson lowered himself onto the step. Dominick held back from offering a steady hand. He didn’t know Mr. Larson well enough to know if he’d appreciate that or if it would wound his pride. They sat in silence, both staring out into the darkness. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Not between two men as comfortable inside themselves as Dominick and Mr. Larson were.
Dominick could make out only dim shapes in the yard, thanks to the almost-black night and only the lights from the house to illuminate anything. He looked forward to the coming of summer and the light lasting well into the evening. Short winter days had never suited him.
“Interesting what the war took from all of us, isn’t it?” Mr. Larson said, breaking the silence. He folded one arm over his chest and waved what was left of the other before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “Thought when I came out of the first one all right, I’d lucked out for the long haul.”
“I didn’t know you’d seen action in the first World War.” Dominick leaned back again, resting against the door behind him.
“I didn’t. I got in on the tail end, and things were winding down by then. I was a kid out of school and didn’t know much about what war was really like. Downright unlucky, I’d say, to get caught up in it again. Guess I could blame it on this farm. Kept me in too good a shape for the army to turn me down, even at almost forty-five.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Funny how the war made sure I’m not much use to the farm now.”
Dominick couldn’t comfort him. He agreed with Mr. Larson about the war taking away too much. Dominick had seen far too much of that. “How did you lose your arm, sir?”
“Bullets. Shattered too many bones and shredded too much skin to make it worth much of anything. Took one to the chest too. Can’t say I’ve felt the same since.”
“I know that feeling.” It surprised Dominick that his own chest tightened. He hadn’t felt the same since the day he’d found out about Ondine and Laurent—everything had changed then. His life had turned upside down, and he couldn’t remember how to be happy anymore. How to believe in anything.
“I’m lucky—well, Katie hates it when I don’t say blessed. I’m blessed that it got me home to her that much sooner. Lucky—blessed, I mean—to have that woman. Hardy Wyoming girl. Shoulda sent the likes of her to Germany. She would’ve had Hitler treed long before we managed it.” He chuckled to himself and then pinned Dominick with a stare. “And the times I’ve come closest to feeling normal have always been next to her.” He turned to the blackness before them.
Mr. Larson was onto something. The closest Dominick had come to being happy again, to believing he could be happy again, had been since he met Vera. “You’re probably right,” he said.
The door nudged against his back, and Dominick hopped up then reached out for Mr. Larson’s good arm to help him up without thinking this time of what it would do to the man’s pride. To his surprise, Mr. Larson grasped his hand and stepped off the step next to him.
“Oh,” Vera said, a half-smile on her face. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, no,” Mr. Larson said, moving away from Dominick and back onto the steps. He climbed them slowly and shuffled carefully by Vera to go inside. “I was coming in. Getting cold out here, and your mother doesn’t like me out without a coat.” He nodded at Dominick. “Good night.”
“Night, Mr. Larson.” He lifted a hand to wave, still somewhat startled over the man accepting his help so easily. Could it be so simple? Could getting back on his proverbial feet, being the husband Vera deserved and the father he wanted to be—could that be as easy as taking Vera’s hand and trusting she could hold him up? But how could she shoulder such a burden? How could he ask it of her?
She closed the door behind her father and stepped down to the bottom of the steps where Dominick still stood. “It is getting chilly. Will you come inside?”
Dominick rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her gently. “Good night, Vee.” Mr. Larson had left him with much to consider, and he needed to mull it over. A future with Vera—one that he wanted—and one with her children suddenly felt within his grasp. In fact, falling in love with her had included falling in love with her children, come to think of it; they were so much a part of her it seemed silly to try and separate them. It seemed too much to hope that someday he could measure up . . . with Vera’s help. At least, Mr. Larson seemed to think he could.
“Dominick . . . ?” she pressed.
He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night.”
“Good night, then.” She rested her hands on his for a moment before he turned to his Ford, got in, and drove away.
***
It was just Fay’s luck that Oliver would come to the social. She had kept an eye on him as he mingled among the guests so that he wouldn’t catch her off guard. Although she suspected she had concocted that excuse so she could watch him, even if he’d ruined all her plans. Right now he was talking to old Mr. Cropper with his face all lit up and enthusiastic like he’d been the night he told her about how he would change farming, and darn it if his enthusiasm for his work didn’t make her beam with pride anyway.
“Fay, would you like some more to drink?”
Fay whirled so quickly away from getting caught staring at Oliver that the remainder of her punch flew out and splattered Joey’s crisp blue shirt.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cried, grabbing her handkerchief and dabbing at him. “You surprised me, is all.”
Joey took her hand and stopped her, an easy smile on his face. “No harm done, Fay.”
Now why couldn’t tingles spread through her arm at the way he held on to it against his chest? She sighed in defeat. Because he was a farmer. Because he didn’t have half the excitement for it as Oliver had for his job. And the dimple—he was missing that, too.
“Hello, Miss Larson. Mr. Gibson.”
Though her heart jumped at the sound of Oliver’s voice, Fay forced herself to react more calmly than she had a moment ago. “Hello, Mr. Burns,” she said in a cool tone.
“May I have a word with you, Miss Larson?” he asked.
He had contrition written all over his face, but it wouldn’t do Fay any good to let him talk his magic at her again. His idea of changing farming and her idea of changing farming were too far apart.
“I’m sorry. I’m here with Joey this evening, and it would be quite rude,” she said. “I’m sure we can talk another time.”
Oliver colored and nodded. “Of course. Good evening to you both.” He nodded to a confused Joey and turned away, stopping to chat with another man who stood a few feet away.
Fay turned her gaze so Oliver wouldn’t catch her watching him again. “I would like something more to drink.”
Joey took her cup, his eyebrows furrowed. “If you need to speak with Mr. Burns about farm business, I understand.”
Fay’s insides tightened. In what world would a man assume a woman needed to spend time at a church social talking farm business? “No,” she snapped, which only increased Joey’s confusion. “Tonight is for fun,” she added with a forced smile, and he relaxed.
She shouldn’t blame Joey. For more than four years, everyone in Bellemont had known that Fay took care of business out on the farm. It would be hard to change people’s opinions about that here. Moving to a new city, starting over . . . a lump formed in her throat, but she got the better of herself. She’d waited four long years for the boys to come home, hoping every spring when she planted that it would be the last she had to take care of by herself. She could wait one more.