Home Fires
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
by
Jana Richards
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Home Fires
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jana Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-240-8
Published in the United States of America
FLAWLESS
“The reader is skillfully transported to 1942 occupied France....Whether or not a reader is familiar with (or even interested in) this particular historical era, she will find
FLAWLESS
a terrific read both for suspense and romance.”
~Judy Nickles, The Word Place
“I was rooting for Madeleine and Hunter right from the start....The conflicts and main plot are set up directly at the start, and the reader can concentrate on the romance, breathlessly waiting to see if Madeleine and Hunter can escape the dangers they face—together.”
~Deniz Bevan,
The One Hundred Romances Project Blog
~*~
BURNING LOVE
“This story was a lot of fun to read!...This was a delightful book, and one that is easy to recommend.”
~Mary, Bitten by Books Reviews
“What a great read!...If you are looking for a sweet tale of true love,
BURNING LOVE
is perfect for you! There are so many great additions to the plot from evil realtors to vain angels, from Divine intervention to home repairs, that you won’t be able to put it down!”
~M. Dobson, Sizzling Hot Book Reviews
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of my father,
John Wagner,
a Canadian veteran of World War II.
Thanks, Dad.
Chapter One
October, 1945
Anne Wakefield checked the clock in the Emerald train station’s waiting room, her stomach clenched with anxiety. She’d been waiting nearly an hour and there was no sign of Anders. With every second that passed, her fear increased. Had he been in an accident? Did his car break down? Or had he decided an English bride was no longer part of his plans?
The station master looked at her, then at his pocket watch, his eyebrows rising as if he too had his doubts about her fiancé. Anne turned away, embarrassed.
The last telegram she’d received from Anders said he would pick her up at the train station in his home town of Emerald, Saskatchewan, a tiny village on the Canadian prairies. From there he would take her the two miles to his family’s farm. But he still hadn’t arrived. She remembered Grace, one of the other young British women who’d traveled with her on the special war brides train across Canada. When they’d arrived in Toronto and her husband wasn’t there to meet her, Grace phoned his home only to be told to go back to England because he didn’t want her anymore. The Red Cross had made arrangements for Grace to go back to England. Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Was Grace’s fate to be hers as well?
The door to the station opened and a tall, powerfully built man entered. Anders! She jumped to her feet and took several steps toward him before she realized the man wasn’t her fiancé. Though he had the same broad shoulders and carried his height with the same pride, this man used a cane and walked with a pronounced limp. When he removed his cap she saw his hair was dark brown instead of blond like Anders’s. A jagged scar ran down the left side of his face from temple to jawline. Profound disappointment made it almost impossible for her to speak.
“I’m...I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Are you Anne Wakefield?”
Anne lifted her head and looked into eyes the same icy blue as Anders’s. But where her fiancé’s eyes laughed and teased, this man wore an expression of seriousness. She wondered if he ever laughed.
“Yes, I’m Anne. Who are you? Do you know Anders? Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Erik Gustafson, Anders’s brother. I’m sorry to be so late picking you up, but if you’ll come with me, everything will be explained.” He gestured toward her belongings. “Is this your suitcase?”
She put her hand on his arm to stop him from picking it up. “Wait, please. Where is Anders? Is he all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
Erik glanced at the station master. Anne followed his gaze. The man nodded at them, making no effort to hide the fact that he was avidly listening to their conservation.
“This isn’t the place,” he said in a quiet voice. “If you come with me to the farm, my mother will explain everything.”
Anne stared at him for a moment, dread building inside her. What news was so awful it had to be delivered in private?
She had little choice but to hear this news. She removed her hand from his arm and nodded. “The rest of my luggage is on the platform.”
He picked up her suitcase. “Come with me.”
Anne retrieved her coat and purse and followed him out the door while the station master directed a young man to carry her small trunk. Erik struggled with her suitcase, leaning heavily on his cane, but she stopped herself from offering to take it from him. Her wartime experience as a nurse had taught her that injured soldiers didn’t want to be treated as invalids—or worse, as useless burdens.
She attempted some conversation. “Anders told me you’d been wounded and sent home, but he didn’t say where you’d fought.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “Dieppe.”
She waited for him to say something more, but he was silent until they reached an old farm truck.
“Here we are,” he said.
While Erik and the young man hoisted her luggage into the back, Anne climbed into the truck. A moment later Erik pulled himself up into the cab, a move that caused him pain, if the tight expression on his face was any indication. She looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. Though she’d just met Erik Gustafson, she already knew he wanted no pity from her.
He drove out of Emerald and down a dusty dirt road bordered on both sides by tall pine trees and poplars whose golden leaves trembled in the wind. In places the forest dropped back to reveal a farmer’s field or a hay meadow. This part of Saskatchewan was far different from the wide-open, empty plains of the south she’d seen earlier in her trip. The trees reminded her of the English countryside. A pang of homesickness struck, making her wonder why she’d ever left.
An awkward silence settled over the truck cab. Just when Anne had worked up the courage to ask how much farther to the farm, Erik pulled off the main road onto a tree-lined country lane. The branches parted to reveal a white, two-story house with a wide veranda, ringed by a short hedge. A freshly painted red barn stood on the opposite side of the farmyard.
Erik stopped next to the house and slowly climbed from the cab, his movements stiff. Anne followed him, her stomach knotting in apprehension. Two women emerged from the house and came toward her. The older woman greeted her with a warm smile.
“You must be Anne,” she said, grasping her hand. “Welcome to our farm. I’m Astrid Gustafson, Anders’s mother.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Gustafson. Anders has told me so much about you.”
“Please call me Astrid.” She turned to the younger woman. “And this is my daughter Ingrid, Anders and Erik’s sister.”
Ingrid stretched out her hand, but offered no warmth in her welcome. After a perfunctory shake, she dropped her hand, leaving Anne feeling cold and confused. What had she done to deserve this animosity from Anders’s sister?
“Where is Anders? Erik said you would explain everything.”
Astrid averted her gaze, looking uncomfortable. “Please come inside the house. I have a letter for you from him.”
Anne took a deep breath to calm her growing fears. After months of anticipation and yearning to begin her new life, all that awaited her was a letter. She followed Astrid into the house.
They passed through a porch containing a large box filled with firewood and stepped into an immaculate kitchen dominated by a cast iron woodstove. Anders had explained there was no electricity on the farm, nor was there a telephone or indoor plumbing. A row of cupboards lined one wall, with a bright red water pump perched next to a wash basin. White walls and sunny windows framed by yellow and white gingham curtains gave the kitchen a cheery expression.
Erik pulled out a chair for her. “Maybe you should sit.”
Anne nodded, grateful for his consideration. Her shaking knees wouldn’t hold her upright much longer.
Astrid retrieved a sealed letter from inside a cupboard. “This should explain everything.”
Anne took it with trembling hands, removed the single page from the envelope, and slowly unfolded it.
October 22, 1945
Dear Anne,
There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to jump in. I’ve married someone else. Signe and I have known each other since we were kids, and when I got home I realized she was the one I wanted to marry. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.
I regret hurting you, but I’m convinced a marriage between us would not have worked. Thank you for all the kindness you showed me in England. You’re a great girl. Best of luck.
Anders
Anne read the letter quickly, then read it again, scarcely able to believe the words. Married! To someone else! Finally, she folded the letter and carefully placed it back in the envelope. She looked up at Astrid, shock and numbness making it difficult to breathe.
Astrid’s blue eyes were full of sympathy. “I’m sorry. We just found out a short time ago from Signe’s family. That’s why Erik was late picking you up.”
“Where is Anders now?”
“He and Signe have gone to the city, to Saskatoon. He has a job at a flour mill there.”
“He must have told you about Signe,” Ingrid accused. “He must have told you they were practically engaged before he left.”
Anger began to build inside Anne. How could he do this to her?
Mostly he’d spoken of the farm, of his parents, of his brother and sister and the fun they’d had growing up. He’d been homesick, and talking about the farm helped him through the worst times. When he received word his father had died, she held him while he cried.
But not once had he talked about a girl back home. If he had, she wouldn’t be here now.
She got to her feet, her anger propelling her forward. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to walk for a bit, to think.”
“Are you sure, dear?” said Astrid. “I could make you some tea.”
Anne almost smiled. How very English a sentiment to believe that a cup of tea could cure any ill. Coming from Anders’s Norwegian-Canadian mother, it seemed strange, but somehow comforting.
“Thank you, but no.” She turned toward the door. “I just need some air. I won’t be long.”
“But Anne—“
“Ma, let her go.” Erik exchanged a glance with his mother.
As Anne turned to leave, her gaze met Erik’s. The pity in his eyes made her want to lash out at him. She didn’t want his damn pity. She wanted…she wanted…
She wanted the love and security of a family again. She wanted love that would never waver, no matter what.
Willing her knees to hold steady, she made her escape, pushing open the door and hurrying out to the garden. As soon as she reached the graveled yard, she broke into a run.
She ran until a stitch in her side prevented her from going any farther. She walked into the trees next to the lane, where, sinking onto a carpet of dry leaves, she let the tears she’d been holding back overtake her.
Why couldn’t Anders love her? Was everything they’d shared, every word of love, a lie? How could he desert her so callously? Was there something wrong with her?
She cried until she had no tears left. Wiping her wet cheeks with the heel of her hand, she wondered what to do next. Where would she go? Her logical mind told her the only possible course of action was to return to London. Humiliation filled her when she thought of having to explain to everyone that her Canadian fiancé had rejected her. But there was no other solution. Once more she’d have to pick up the pieces of her life and carry on.
