|
|
|
|
 |
She is beautiful . . .She is smart . . .
But Claire Holladay is going to die.
When Claire hears that she has until September to live, she decides that she will live life to fullest. She heads West, enjoying things she has never done before. And when she loses her heart to Billy West, Claire finds out how hard it is to walk away from the one thing she wants the most.
The sequels to DANCE ON THE WIND -- Billy West finally has his own story.
Coming June 2004 Mary Costner will have her story, titled WHISPERS ON THE WIND.
"A spellbinding novel by a bright new talent. Don't miss it!"
Joan Johnston - NY Times Bestselling Author
"Brenda K. Jernigan's novel contains romance,
adventure and magic."
Publisher’s Weekly
"If Brenda K. Jernigan's name is on the cover of a book, I guarantee it will be a good read."
Debbie Kepler - A Romance Review
DANCE ON THE WIND - "Brenda Jernigan delivers a fast-paced adventure with well developed characters and a fresh approach to a classic plot line. You won't want to put down this tale that touches your heart."
Romantic Times Magazine
DANCE ON THE WIND - "The characters had me hooked from the beginning.
This book touched my heart and will definitely be one of my recommends."
Cindi Streicher – Waldenbooks RWA Bookseller of the Year 2002 |
|
 |
|
Prologue
He’d been drunk for three damn days.
Billy West lay on a small cot, staring at the cracks in the off-white ceiling, willing himself to remain perfectly still for fear his head would exploded at any small movement. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into this time.
He’d done some stupid things in his life, and he had a real bad feeling that this one ranked right at the top. Problem was he wasn’t none to sure what he’d done or where in the hell he was.
The sound of someone in the distance swearing, followed by the jingle of keys gave Billy a clue. He’d bet if he turned his head slightly, he would see bars and more than likely, he’d be on the wrong side of them, but the effort was just too much, so he went back to counting the cracks above his head . . . anything to stay conscious.
The only thing Billy did know for sure was that he felt lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut – that is – after the wagon had run over him at least a couple of times. He managed a slight smile at that thought.
There had been happier days. Billy remembered when he thought he’d known it all as he left the safety of his sister’s and brother-in-law’s ranch. Now he was reluctantly forced to admit he hadn’t known nearly as much as he’d thought he did.
Unfortunately, he had to learn everything the hard way. The next time he chose a friend, he would damn well be careful. No more trusting. If he ever bumped into Bad Joe Green again, Billy would skin the man alive and enjoy every minute of it.
"You look like shit, kid!"
Billy winced at the loud voice, intruding on his misery. Billy recognized that voice. And he knew it wasn’t a voice that was going away.
"Are you going to lie on that cot and feel sorry for yourself all day?" Brandy asked.
Shit. Billy thought. Bad enough Thunder was going to see him like this but now his sister was here, too! And she didn’t sound none to happy. With a great deal of effort, Billy shoved himself up into a sitting position and immediately grabbed his head to stop the throbbing as the sheriff unlocked the cell and ushered Thunder and Brandy into the cell.
"Call me when you’re done," the sheriff said on his way out of the room, his keys sounding like church bells to Billy’s ears.
"I thought you were old enough to take care of yourself," Brandy started, "but I’m beginning to have second thoughts. Don’t you remember what it’s like to live with a bunch of drunks?"
Billy peered at his sister through eyes that felt like sand. It appeared Brandy was just getting worked up because she’d started to pace while Thunder casually crossed his arms and leaned against the bars. He probably knew his wife had to get her anger out of her system. Billy had learned that a long time ago.
"Now look at you--" Brandy stopped and glared at Billy for a moment. "You’re no better than they were."
Billy knew she referred to the gunslingers he’d lived with before Father Brown had taken him in. When they got all liquored up, they would beat him, and he’d been much too young to defend himself. Thank goodness, they had all been killed, and he had been sent to the orphanage. Finally, Billy said, "You’re getting mighty worked up, sis."
"You’re darn right I am! I didn’t bring you halfway across the country for you to end up like this." She threw her hands up and sighed. "And smelling of rotgut."
"Well, Joe Green swindled me and ran off with all the money I’d saved for the past year!" Billy’s voice grew louder as his temper returned. He staggered to his feet and then reached for the wall so he wouldn’t fall. "And you know what that leaves me? Shit! Absolutely nothing."
"We’ve had nothing before, Billy." Brandy’s soft voice took some of the anger out of him.
"This is different. ‘Sides, all I did was start drinking. Come to think of it why am I in this stinking place?"
Thunder straightened and said, "You’re in trouble, kid."
Billy frowned as he looked at his brother-in-law. "For getting drunk? When did that become a crime?"
"Since you busted up the saloon and took a horse that didn’t belong to you," Thunder answered.
"Do you think I’d still be here if I’d stolen a horse? I’d be in another county by now."
Thunder shrugged. "Probably not. Which is what I pointed out to the sheriff. If he is going to accuse you of being a thief, he needs the evidence. So I got him to drop the charges," Thunder said.
Billy grinned. "It pays to have a lawyer in the family."
"And I paid the saloon for the damages," Brandy added.
If it were possible to feel worse, Billy did. He’d let down the two people he loved most. And he had nobody to blame but himself. When he left the ranch, what had been his parting words been . . . "he was going to go where the wind blew him." Well, this time it had blown him in the wrong direction. But he vowed that things would change.
"I’m obliged. I promise you’ll not have to bail me out of jail again," Billy said, meaning it, and watching as his sister smiled her approval.
They had been though a lot together back in Independence, Missouri. He and Brandy had been orphans and, Farther Brown, the priest who’d been keeping them had died. Billy had felt pretty low then, too. Especially when they’d found out they were losing their home, and would have absolutely nothing. That he and Brandy had survived at all had been a miracle.
He realized now that he’d been acting like life didn’t mean anything to him. When he knew damn well it did. He was a fighter, not a quitter.
"I got a proposition for you, kid," Thunder said breaking into Billy’s thoughts. "I have been doing some legal work for a gentleman named Ben Holladay. He’s known as the Stagecoach King, and he’s thinking about extending his line into Denver. I mentioned you, and Ben said if you were good with a gun that he could use a good man."
Slowly, Billy straightened so he wouldn’t jar this throbbing head. "What do I have to do?"
"First, let’s get you out of here and cleaned up. Then I’ll take you over to meet Ben."
Maybe this would be a new beginning, Billy thought.
He needed something . . . and it damn sure wasn’t a drink.
Chapter One
Fairhaven, New York
Claire Holladay’s heart beat franticly.
"Calm down, Claire," she whispered to herself. "Everything will be all right. You’re just letting your imagination run away with you."
It was a cold winter’s day as she sat rigid in the cane-back chair, waiting for Doc Worden to return to his office.
It was the waiting that was making her nervous – not that odd look on the doc’s face during the examination.
It was just nerves. That’s all.
This had been an unusually cold New York winter, or so it seemed to Claire. The old potbelly stove crackled and popped as it spread warmth throughout the room. But today she couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and her hands were like ice as she rubbed them together.
She rose and moved over to the inviting warmth and held her hands out a few inches from the stove to warm them. She glanced around the room. How many times had she been in this familiar office?
Too many to count.
However, some things never changed. This office was one of them. She liked the familiar feeling she got every time she entered the room. The medicine smell, the old brown desk . . . She stepped over and looked at the corner of the desk. A small "CH" had been carved in the corner of the wood, put there by a brave child of ten. She could remember it as if it were yesterday. She had wanted to give Doc Worden something to remember her by.
Claire had figured that she’d be walloped for that little stunt, but punishment wasn’t forthcoming. Instead, her family had taken measures to carefully scold her like they always did when she did something wrong. Because of "her condition" they always treated her with kid gloves. It was almost like she didn’t exist.
She was different.
Claire frowned.
She didn’t’ want to be different. She wanted to be normal.
A tickle started deep in her throat. She coughed and coughed and finally eased down upon the chair to catch her breath. She held her chest as she took a deep breath and reached for the glass of water that was on the edge of the desk. She carefully took small sips of water until her spasms were under control. At least, this time she didn’t have to take any medicine. Once again, she was the prim and proper Claire Holladay.
A child crying in the next examining room caught Claire’s attention. She smelled the ether just before the child’s cries faded into a whimper, followed by silence. Claire hoped it was nothing serious because she knew firsthand what it was like to be sick.
Looking back at the faded brown desk, she noticed how messy it was kept. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t ever remember all the papers being stacked nice and neat. And the groups of brown bottles which sat in one corner had to have been there for the last ten years.
It was really a shame when a doctor’s office felt like home. She sighed. This waiting was making her nervous.
The doorknob jiggled before it swung open, and Doc Worden came into the room. He’d shed the brown tweed coat that he wore in the winter. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a stethoscope hung around his neck.
Instead of taking his chair like he normally did, Doc Worden ambled over to the desk and leaned back against the wood. He folded his arms across his chest, then looked at her over wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. "Sorry I took so long. It seems Mary Ann tripped and cut her knee."
"Oh, that sounds painful."
"She’ll be fine," he said in an off-handed manner, as if his mind were someplace else. He drew in a deep breath as he rubbed his chin. Claire noticed that he seemed to have a fascination with his shoes, for he had yet to look at her.
And he was frowning.
A knot started to form in Claire’s stomach. Doc Worden was taking much too long to talk about the pains she’d been having in her chest. What was he having such a hard time saying? And why wasn’t he looking at her?
"I thought I could do this," he said finally in an odd sounding voice.
Claire swallowed hard. "D--do what?"
Slowly, Doc Worden brought his head up and his gaze settled on her. He had the kindest eyes. The same ones she’d learned to trust. He ran his right hand through his hair and finally said, "There isn’t anything else I can do for you, Claire." He sighed.
"I--I don’t understand. You have always taken care of me."
Reaching over, he took her hands in his soft, warm hands. "I know. But the truth is, I cannot make you well. I’ve tried for a very long time. But Claire, you’re going to die."
Claire gasped. She jerked her hands from his and gripped the chair for support. She felt as if all the blood had seeped from her head, leaving her light-headed. "I—I I’m going to die?" she asked in a horse whisper.
This was not fair, she wanted to scream.
"I am afraid so, child. Consumption is a strange disease that we don’t understand. You know how bad you cough at times, and you told me you have begun to have night sweats. I expect violent pains over your left chest will be next. When you start coughing up blood . . ." he paused, and she could see that he was choked up. He looked as helpless as she felt. "The only thing I can do is to give you opium in the form of an atomized spray to relieve your coughing. And maybe if you stay in
bed . . ."
He didn’t bother to finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Claire knew . . .
He kept talking, but she had tuned him out. Who wanted to stay in bed all the time? She felt like her body and mind were separating. None of this should be happening.
She should be hysterical.
She should be weeping.
But all she could feel was this cold empty feeling inside her as if somebody had sucked all the air from her lungs. "How long do I have?" she finally managed to ask as she pushed herself to her feet.
"I-I’m not sure. Perhaps, until September," Doc Worden said and handed her a new bottle of medicine.
Claire nodded. Then she stood and hugged the doctor. His arms wrapped around her in a strong hold. Somehow his hug said it all. He was saying goodbye to her.
"Thank you for all you’ve done."
When Doc Worden released her, he had tears in his eyes as he nodded.
Claire gave him a small smile before heading for the door. She had just turned the doorknob when he said, "You take care of yourself, and remember when the pain gets too bad, I’ll give you more opium."
She turned back, tears brimming in her eyes as she said, "I will take care . . . until September."
***
Five days later, Claire sat by the window looking at the large icicles that hung from the eve of her upstairs bedroom. There was one very large one in the center of her window.
The numbness she’d felt for the last few days had started to lift and a weird feeling she couldn’t put her finger on remained.
Her family had wept when she’d told them. Then they’d looked at her with such sympathy and pity that she had finally broken down and wept, too.
It took her two days of crying before her tears had finally dried. She had wept for all the things that she’d miss. She'd never get married . . . never have that little house and children. She cried for the injustice of it all. She was too young to die. But finally she had quit feeling sorry for herself and dried her tears, swearing from this day forward that she’d never cry again.
Claire summoned the courage to tell her fiancé, David Ader. They had been engaged for two years. He had wanted to wait until he had his mercantile store running properly before they married. She shut her eyes and remembered two nights ago when David had came to the house.
"Claire," David had said as she’d entered the parlor. "I haven’t heard from you in over a week, so I decided I’d come and see if everything was well." He placed his hat on a chair then stepped closer to her. He took her hands in his when she finally stopped in front of him, placing a kiss on the back of her hand. He was dressed in his usual no-nonsense plain brown suit.
"No, everything isn’t all right," Claire said.
"Well, you do look a bit peaked, my dear. It isn’t that dreadful cough of yours, is it?"
Claire looked at him for a long moment. "Yes, David, it is my cough."
"I hope you have asked Doctor Worden for more of your medicine. It always makes you feel better." David loosened his bow tie, his brow pulled into an affronted frown. He finally said, "You wouldn’t believe what a day I had." He reached for her hand. "You should come down to my store more often Claire and not stay in the house."
As usual, he had only listened to her for a moment before he started talking about his business.
"I’m going to die."
David let go of her hand while at the same time taking several steps backward to put some distance between them. Evidently, he was afraid he’d catch whatever she had.
"I--I don’t understand," he stammered in bewilderment. "Look at you, other than your color, you look fine."
"I have consumption, David. Doc Worden told me a few days ago. He hadn’t been sure up until now." Claire waited for David to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. That he’d love her no matter what. But the look on his face told her everything. She could see the loathing in his eyes. There was no love, only pity. He wanted to get out of the house as soon as he could. And it was now apparent that he wanted nothing to do with her.
"What are you going to do?" David finally asked.
She made sure her expression became a mask of stone. "I’m not sure," Claire said honestly, and then with the courage she didn’t know that she possessed, she said, "David, I think that it’s better that we end our relationship." She saw the relief that washed over his face at the same time a knife stabbed through her heart. The fact that she could be rejected by someone who was supposed to love her hurt. It hurt more than she’d ever been hurt.
"I think that is the wise thing to do, my dear," David said. Then he turned and gathered his hat from the chair. "I do hope that you’ll, somehow, get better." And with those parting words David had left her house and her heart. He hadn’t even bothered to kiss her goodbye. No kiss on the cheek. No handshake. No nothing.
Claire sighed, weary of the thought as she traced a "c" in the dew on the windowpane. She had hoped that he would take her into his arms and assure her that everything would be all right.
But he hadn’t.
Claire could still picture David’s face. After the look of relief, she saw pity in his eyes. She never wanted anyone to look at her like that again.
She wiped the moisture off her finger and again focused on the large icicle. A drop of water clung to the very tip, waiting to fall. It looked as if it were hanging on for dear life.
Just waiting.
Something inside Claire snapped. She sat a little straighter in her chair as a strange kind of warmth spread through her. A light . . . a spark from deep within her had ignited, and realization washed over her. It was the light that she’d been missing.
The spark of hope. It had been taken away from her.
She was much like that tiny drop of water . . . hanging on with her bare fingertips, waiting to die.
Well, no more.
She would not sit around and wait. Everybody needed a spark, and she would hang on to that spark as long as she could.
Abruptly, she got to her feet, tossing the quilt to the side. A plan began to form, and if it worked she’d be changing her life forever.
Fetching her cloak from the peg on the door she slipped it on and went downstairs.
***
Margaret Holladay was strolling through the foyer when her daughter came down the stairs, her bouncing soft hair framing her heart-shaped face. Margaret smiled. What a beautiful young woman Claire had become. Her hair was as black as soot and her porcelain skin made her look like a fragile doll. And in many ways Claire was very fragile, waiting to be broken by the disease that had plagued her over the last few years.
Margaret sighed. She wanted to reach out and pull her daughter into her arms and assure her that she’d stand by her no matter what. But Margaret held back, not wanting to upset her daughter. How could anything so beautiful be so sick?
Margaret’s heart ached for her daughter, and she felt utterly helpless as to how to help Claire.
"Why are you not in bed resting?" Margaret asked.
"I’m sick of resting and being told to do this or that. I’ll not rot in bed anymore," Claire said.
"But you know what the doctor’s instructions were."
"Yes, but I don’t care."
Margaret saw a glow in Claire’s expressive aquamarine eyes. "I see you have on your cloak. Where are you going?" Margaret asked as she handed her daughter a gray wool scarf and a fur muff.
"I’m headed down to Harpers," Claire told her as she wrapped the warm scarf around her neck and reached for the doorknob.
"I thought you’d given up that reporting job." Margaret said. She’d never liked the idea of her daughter working at a magazine when there were much more dignified jobs for young ladies.
"No, I didn’t quit. I am not a quitter, Mother," Claire’s chin rose. "As a matter of fact, I have just had a brilliant idea that I want to tell my editor about."
Margaret knew how headstrong her daughter could be. "Well, at least let me summon the coach. You’ll catch your death."
Claire swung around and gave her mother a half-smile. "Mother, I’m going to die anyway." Claire’s laughter could be heard all the way down the icy steps.
Margaret almost smiled at Claire’s jest. She didn’t want to lose her daughter but she had to admit that she liked the spark she’d just seen in her daughter’s eyes. Anything was better than the blank stare Claire had worn upon returning from the doctor’s office.
*****
A few snowflakes began to fall as Claire walked toward the stable. A path had been cleared, so it was easy to walk though the snow. She felt so alive as the snow crunched under her boots. The air was crisp and felt good in her lungs. This was so much better than sitting in her room thinking and wondering and –- worse -- waiting. She had done way too much of that. And she wasn’t going to let her condition stop her from living anymore. She’d been careful and done everything that Doc Worden had wanted and what good had it done her?
The carriage ride down to the ferry town took about a half hour. They boarded the ferry, then Claire stepped out of the carriage as the driver placed wooden blocks behind the wheels. She stood at the side rail and looked out over the river as the steam boat made its way across the river.
Once they were off the ferry, the carriage was on its way through the streets of New York City. Soon they were passing between the tall rows of business buildings. Finally, they reached the five-story building home of her publisher Harpers. Once she was there, she instructed the driver to return for her in about an hour.
She straightened her cloak and entered the red brick building, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Pausing at the top to catch her breath, she realized how weak she’d become by staying in bed so much.
When she regained her composure, she hurried down the hall to the familiar glass door that said Harper’s Weekly. She strode into the office.
"Good Morning," Claire said to Alice, the receptionist. "Is Ann in her office?" Claire asked.
"She sure is," Alice said with a bright smile. "How are you feeling this morning?"
Claire smiled as she removed her wool cloak and hung it on the coat rack. "Much better, thank you."
"We’ve been worried about you," Alice told her.
"Thank you," Claire replied and then went to Ann’s office. She rapped lightly on the door but didn’t bother to wait for an invitation.
Ann glanced up as Claire burst into the small office. "What are you doing out of bed? I thought you were going to stay home."
Claire sat in the straight-backed chair across from Ann’s desk. "I have had the most wonderful idea, and I couldn’t wait to run it past you."
Ann’s eyebrows arched. "Oh, really."
"Really, I’ve decided that I want to write articles about the West."
Ann looked over the small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. "How are you going to do that from here?"
Claire gave her editor a slow smile. "This is the best part . . . I’m going to do it from out there, not from here."
Ann leaned back in her chair, completely startled. And it was hard to startle Ann. "But—"
"I can wire you the articles. It will be something fresh. Exciting. What do you think?"
"Well—"
"I know . . . my health. But look at it this way. I can die out there just as easily as I can die right here in New York. I have nothing to lose."
Ann frowned, then she said, "I don’t like to hear you talk about—about—well-- you know. However, you do have a point and it would be something different for the magazine."
"What do you think Henry will say?"
A thoughtful smile curved Ann’s lips. "He’ll probably moan and groan and then rephrase the whole thing like it was his idea. And if it is his idea -- he’ll love it. I’ll ask him after you leave, but what about your parents? Have you brought up the subject with them?"
Claire frowned. "Not yet. I wanted to talk to you, then wire my Uncle Ben before I tell my family."
"Uncle Ben?"
"He is my father’s brother. He owns the Overland Stage, so I should be able to get quite a few articles from him."
Ann leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. "It sounds so very exciting. I almost wish I were going instead of staying behind this desk all the time.
Claire stood. "You can always come with me."
Ann gave her a wistful look from under her brown bangs. "Oh, how I’d like to, but who would make sure that the magazine got printed so our customers could read your fine articles. No." Ann sighed. "I suppose I’m doomed to sit behind this ugly brown desk. However, I do hope that you’ll have the time of your life." And then Ann must have realized what she’d said, for she blushed a tomato red, "That was a figure of speech."
Claire gave Ann a slow smile. "I intend to. No more being careful. I’m going to have fun. Now I had better go send that telegram. Give Henry my best."
*****
A week later, Claire received the telegram from her uncle that she’d been waiting for. He said he couldn’t wait to see her and that she could stay as long as she wanted. Claire shouted for joy.
Tonight she would break the news to her family over dinner. She took a deep breath for courage then smiled as she thought this would be one dinner were there wouldn’t be a lull in the conversation. She could hear their protests now.
When she reached the dining room, her family had already been seated. "Hello, father," Claire said as she took her seat at the long, mahogany table. One of the maids had made a centerpiece of evergreen with holly and red barriers.
Donald Holladay was a large, man and still nice looking for his age. He had a beard that ran along his jaw line, and his hair was black like Claire’s except for a few gray hairs.
He ran a prosperous shipping business with his three sons: Heath, Albert and Bobby. They also raised thoroughbreds so there was never much idle time around Green Hills.
Heath and Albert barely glanced her way as she sat down across from them. Bobby, the youngest of the boys, sat beside her. He had already snatched a roll before taking his seat, and was tearing off small bites as his brother spoke.
They were discussing one of their ships that had gone down in a bad storm three days ago. Claire pulled out her small pad of paper and a pencil and began jotting down notes as their plates were served. What a good article this would be, she thought as she scribbled bits and pieces down. She could see the headlines: "Ship Lost at Sea". A tingle started racing through her body as it always did when she began writing a good article. Maybe she would, one day, give Samuel Clemmons a run for his money. She had seen him several times at the magazine but had yet to meet him.
"You shouldn’t be writing at the table, dear," Margaret scolded. "It’s considered bad manners."
Claire put down her pencil, then unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap, feeling much like a twelve-year-old who had been reprimanded by her mother. Somehow, her family refused to let her grow up. They had been overprotective because of her illness. "Writing stories is what I do, Mother. The ship sinking will make a good story."
"You should be writing about women’s things, like fashions or the latest hair styles," Bobby piped up from next to her and received a swift kick from Claire under the table.
"Women do have other interests, brother dear."
"It isn’t ladylike, Claire," Margaret pointed out, "And boys," she shifted her attention to the other three, "that will be enough business discussed at the table." Margaret looked to her husband for help. "Say something, Donald."
"Your mother is right. Business shouldn’t be discussed at the dinner table," Donald said in an offhanded manner before taking his first sip of tomato soup.
"All right, Mother," Albert said, reaching for a roll. "So what else do we talk about?"
Claire couldn’t believe that the perfect opening had been handed to her. "I have something."
Heath, the oldest at thirty and set in his ways, looked at her. "We’re all ears, puss."
"I’m going out West," Claire said.
Her father choked on his soup. A spoon clattered on the fine china as he snatched up his napkin. Suddenly, everyone was talking at once.
Bobby jerked his head sideways to look at her. "You’re what?"
"But you’re sick," her mother cried.
Heath shook his fork at her. "That is the craziest idea you’ve ever had."
"Well, I might be crazy, but I’m still going, and for the very reason that you just said, Mother. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it my way. I intend to live life to the fullest over these next few months."
Margaret dropped her soupspoon. "Donald, speak to your daughter."
"When you bring up a topic at dinner, puss," Heath said as he buttered his biscuit, "you choose a dozy."
Claire wanted to stick her tongue out at her brother, but didn’t get the chance as her father spoke
.
"Have you thought about how hard this trip will be on you?"
Claire nodded. "Yes, father, I have. I wired Uncle Ben, and he is sending one of his men to escort me west."
"No daughter of mine is traveling across the country with a perfect stranger. I’ll not have people talking about you," Margaret said.
Claire glanced at her mother. "I am a grown woman."
"An unmarried grown woman."
"I’m sure Uncle Ben wouldn’t send somebody he didn’t trust," Claire argued.
"We’ll have a talk with him once he gets here," Heath said.
"I have the perfect solution," her father said. "Why not send Aunt Ute. She is an experienced world traveler and can help Claire get settled. Ute will be the perfect chaperone." He smiled at his idea and added, "She’d box the ears of any man who made advances to Claire."
"She is also a nurse," Margaret added. "Excellent idea, Henry."
Claire watched as her family talked amongst themselves as if she weren’t there. Would they ever let her do anything on her own?
Probably not.
The whole group was way too protective, so it was probably for the best that she was getting away. Claire smiled. She knew they loved her, but she had to go. And she really didn’t mind Aunt Ute. She was a large German woman who came from the old country. She had a wonderful sense of humor, and she didn’t take any guff from anyone.
"I think that Aunt Ute is a wonderful idea," Claire said.
"Good. Then it’s all settled. You’ll be leaving next month," her mother said as if the whole idea had been hers.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
