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Blake chuckled. “He put a stop to that when he started school. He’s in sixth grade now. He saddles his own horse every school-day morning and rides it to town. You’ll remember Hanna’s sister Britta. She’s his teacher now. She says he’s the brightest student she’s ever taught.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Kristin’s gaze followed the flight of a nightjar, the moonlight glinting on its white-barred wings as it swooped after insects. She took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Mason, have you?”
She sensed a sudden rise in tension. Mason Dollarhide, their half-brother by Joe Dollarhide’s first wife, had left Blue Moon twelve years ago in the dead of a winter night. The reason why was known only to the families involved—but surmised, perhaps, by longtime residents of the town.
“I haven’t heard from Mason since he disappeared,” Blake said. “I don’t even know whether he’s alive. His mother is still running the Hollister Ranch. She could be in touch with him. But that’s all I know—or care to know.”
“What about Joseph? People talk. Sooner or later the boy’s bound to learn the truth. Have you told him anything at all?”
“You mean have I told him that Mason seduced an innocent girl and got her pregnant—and that I married her at my father’s insistence, to save her honor and keep her child in the family?Have I told him that Mason is his father?”
Blake kept his voice low, but the words rasped with emotion. “How do I dump all that on a boy who’s just beginning to find his way in the world?”
“You tell him the rest of the story,” Kristin said. “After you married Hanna, you fell in love with her. You learned to love her baby, and you became his father in every way but one. People have survived far worse beginnings than that.”
“You’ve never been a parent, Kristin. You can’t imagine what it’s like, having to hurt a child you love—especially if it means telling them they’ve been lied to all their lives.”
“I’m aware of that. And no matter what I might think you should do, he’s your son. I promise not to meddle in this—it’s your decision.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Blake turned away from the rail as Hanna stepped out through the double glass-paned doors, which had been left partway open.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Her smile was genuine. “Elsa says she won’t say her prayers and go to sleep until her daddy comes to tuck her in. I’m afraid we’ve spoiled her.”
“It’s fine,” Blake said. “We were about to go inside anyway, weren’t we, Kristin?”
“Yes. It’s getting chilly out here.” Thankful for an end to the awkward conversation, Kristin followed her sister-in-law into the parlor. She had liked Blake’s wife from the beginning. Hanna was as strong as she was pretty, without an unkind bone in her body. And she was Alvar’s sister, with the same blue eyes and wheaten hair—a gentle reminder of the boy Kristin had loved.
“It’s been a long day for me,” she said. “I think I’ll turn in early, maybe read for a while. Thank you for giving me back my old room, Hanna. That makes me feel right at home.”
“You are home,” Hanna said. “This house is as much yours as it is ours. We’d be happy to have you stay forever.”
Not that she intended to stay, Kristin reminded herself as she climbed the stairs to her cozy room at the end of the hall. As a doctor who’d taken an oath to do no harm and to keep in confidence anything she might see or hear in her practice, the last thing she wanted was to be torn between that oath and family loyalty. In the smoldering conflict between the Dollarhides and the Calders, with its history of flare-ups, she couldn’t allow herself to take sides.
Nor could she live with her family in a remote hilltop house that could be out of reach for her patients, especially in case of a nighttime emergency. Finding a place close to town and getting set up with an office, a reliable auto, and maybe access to a horse and buggy was going to take time and effort. But she would take on the challenges tomorrow. Tonight, she just wanted to rest.
Dressed in her nightgown, she selected a random book from the shelf above her head—The Last of the Mohicans,by James Fenimore Cooper. Snuggling under the covers, she opened the book to the first chapter. When she was growing up, the story had been one of her favorites. Rereading it now brought back the memory of being a young girl again. Except that she was no longer a girl. And she’d seen horrors that, by comparison, would make the dangers faced by Hawkeye and Cora seem like a game of hide-and-seek.
By the end of the chapter, she was drowsy enough to put the book aside and switch off the bedside lamp. For a time, she lay quietly, gazing at the moon-cast shadow of the pine that grew outside her window. Little by little, her body relaxed. Her breathing slowed and deepened as the fog of sleep drifted over her—and with it came the dream.
She stood at the entrance to the hospital tent, wearing long rubber gloves, a cap over her hair, and a bloodstained white apron. The frigid winter wind carried the odors of gunpowder, raw earth, rotting animal carcasses, smoke, and blood. From the far side of the next ridge came the rumble of exploding mortar shells falling on the American soldiers in their trenches.
Her eyes scanned the crude road that had been hacked out of the hillside from the battlefield to the hospital. Anxiety tightened a knot in her stomach. Where was that ambulance with its load of wounded men?
It was a regular thing for her nurses to double as ambulance drivers. But she should never have sent Marie Farman out with the vehicle. Only a few days ago, Marie had revealed that she was pregnant by a soldier who’d died. She was set to be transferred to a safer posting. But the girl had insisted on taking her turn as driver today. Now the ambulance was overdue.
From over the ridge, she could see flashes of light against the dawn sky. The blasts seemed to be getting louder. If the troops were falling back, the hospital would need to be moved as well, wounded men and all. It would be prudent to prepare her staff for bad news.
Now, at last, she caught sight of the ambulance coming around the hill and down the road. With a sigh of relief, she turned back toward the tent to alert the nurses and doctors inside.
At that instant, a shell, flying over the ridge, made a direct hit on the ambulance. The roar of sound and flame obliterated the vehicle, the wounded men in the back, and the driver.
Abandoning all caution and common sense, Kristin raced toward the burning remains. That was when another shell struck the hospital tent. The force of the blast knocked her flat on the ground. She screamed . . .
Her body jerked awake.
She lay shaking in her warm bed. She was home, safe in the cozy upstairs room of her girlhood. But that dream, like so many lost faces, would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she waited for her pulse to stop racing. She had long since learned that going back to sleep would be impossible. She didn’t like depending on alcohol—a habit she was struggling to break. But a drink would settle her quivering nerves.
