“Okay,” she said when the job was done. “Let’s go in.”
He headed for the still-open doors to the pasture. “I’ll just shut these.”
“No. Leave them open. The walls cut most of the wind, so it won’t be too cold in here. And Buttercup can move around a little, and have access to the snow when she gets thirsty.”
He shrugged and turned to follow her out—which was a problem as the door to the breezeway was locked from the outside. They ended up having to go out the big doors. Hunched into the wind, with the snow stinging their faces, they slogged through the deepening snow around the side of the shed and back through the gate that enclosed the paddock.
Once under the partial shelter of the breezeway, they raced for the back door, the wind biting at them, tearing at Katie’s heavy skirts.
It was locked. Katie knocked good and hard. No one came.
Justin wore a bleak look. “What now?”
“No problem.” Katie took off her right glove and felt along the top of the door frame, producing the key from the niche there. She held it up for him to see before sticking it in the lock and pushing the door inward onto an enclosed back porch. He signaled her ahead of him and followed right after, pulling the door closed to seal out the wind and snow.
By then, it had to be after six. It was pretty dark. Katie flipped on the porch light and gestured at the hooks lining the wall next to the door that led inside. “Hang up your coat,” she suggested, as she set her gloves on a small table and began undoing the jet buttons down her front. The porch wasn’t heated and she shivered as the coat fell open. “Whew. Cold…”
“I hope it’s warm in there.”
“It is,” she promised as she shrugged out of the long gray coat and hung it on a hook. He hung his beside it. She swiped off her hat, shook out her hair and tossed the hat on a porch chair.
“This way.” Katie unlocked the door and pushed it open into the museum’s small, minimally equipped kitchen area. Lovely warm air flowed out and surrounded them.
“Much better,” Justin said from behind her.
She led him in, hanging the key on the waiting hook by the door and turning on the light.
The long counter was spotless, and so was the table over by the side windows. A few cups dried on a mat at the sink. No sign of Tildy or Anna.
They moved on into the big central room, which a hundred years before had been the only schoolroom. The room was now the museum’s main display area—and pitch-dark. Years ago, when rooms were added on around it, the windows had been closed up. Katie felt for the dimmer switch near the door, turning it up just enough that they could see where they were going.
The light revealed roped-off spaces containing nineteenth-century furniture arranged into living areas: a bedroom, a weaving room, a parlor, a one-room “house” with all the living areas combined, the furniture in that section rough-hewn, made by pioneer hands.
“No sign of your friends,” Justin said.
“They probably got worried about the storm and went home.”
A quick check of the two other display rooms confirmed their suspicions. They were alone.
“No cars out there,” Justin said once they’d reached the front reception area, where trays of sandwiches, cookies and coffee, tea and grape drink waited for the crowd that wasn’t coming. “Remember? The parking lot in front of the building. It was empty.” She did remember, now that he mentioned it. He asked, “What now?”
It was a good question; too bad she had no answer to it. “I guess we wait.”
“For?”
She wished she knew. “For the storm to die down a little so we can leave?”
He gave her a humorless half smile. “Was that an answer—or just another question?”
Katie put up both hands, palms up. “Oh, really. I just don’t know.”
Justin studied her for a moment, wearing an expression she couldn’t read. Then, out of nowhere, he plunked himself down into one of the reception chairs and started pulling off his boots.
The sight struck her as funny, for some crazy reason. She laughed—and then felt stupid for doing it when he glanced up from under the dark shelf of his brow, his full-lipped mouth a grim line. “These damn boots are at least a size too small.”
Katie winced. “Sorry.”
With a grunt, he tugged off a boot. “For what?”
She sank to a chair herself. “Oh, you know. Caleb shouldn’t have roped you into this. And I should have spoken up and called the whole thing off.”
He dropped the boot to the floor, pulled off the other one and set it down, too. “Are you capable of that?”
“Excuse me?”
That dry smile had gone devilish. “Speaking up.”
She sat straighter and brushed a bit of lint off her skirt. “Now and then, absolutely.”
His smile got wider. “Like with the horse.”
She nodded. “That’s right.” Blowing out a weary breath, she let her shoulders slump again. “But back in the hall—oh, I just hate getting up in front of a lot of people. Especially a lot of people who’ve had too much beer.”
“I hear you on that one.” He looked down at his heavy wool socks—and wiggled his toes. “Now, that’s more like it.”
Her own feet were kind of pinched in the narrow lace-up shoes. What the heck? She hiked up her soggy skirts—which gave off the musty scent of wet wool—and set to work on the laces. When she had both shoes off, she set them neatly beside her chair, smoothed her skirt down and straightened to find him watching her. There was humor in his eyes and something else, something much too watchful. She found herself thinking, What’s he up to? And then instantly chided herself for being suspicious.
What could he be up to? Except wishing he hadn’t let Caleb talk him into this.
The watchful look had faded from his face as if it had never been. He asked softly, “Now, isn’t that better?”
“What?”
“Without your shoes…”
She felt a smile tug at her mouth. Oh, really, he was much too good-looking for her peace of mind. She answered briskly, “Yes, it is.” And she picked up a tray of sandwich triangles from the reception desk. “Help yourself. It’s probably the closest thing to dinner we’re going to get.”
He took one and bit into it. “Ham and American. With mayo. The best.”
“Oh, I’ll bet.” She took one for herself and gestured at the big stainless steel coffee urn, the hot water for tea and the glass pitcher of grape drink. “And coffee. Or a cold drink…”
He got up. “You?”
“Coffee sounds good. With a little cream.”
He poured them each a cup, splashed cream from a little stoneware pitcher into hers and handed it over with a courtly, “Mrs. Caldwell.”
She played along. “Mr. Caldwell.” Really, she was grateful he was taking this so calmly.
He sank into his chair again and sipped the hot brew. “Now we’re married, I think you’re going to have to call me Justin.”