Hideaway Home. Hannah AlexanderЧитать онлайн книгу.
Just recently, he’d accused Bertie of taking after her mother a little too much.
Those words had made Bertie proud, and it had given her courage to know that she had some of the same strength of character as Marty Moennig.
She felt a pang of homesickness. She missed her father and couldn’t stop worrying about him. She’d tried to place this dread in God’s hands several times last night and this morning, but her mind kept grabbing it back again. Where was he?
She also missed Red Meyer like crazy, and thinking about him raised her anxiety even more. Though Red was somewhere in Italy, cleaning up after the surrender of the Germans last month, she knew she would feel closer to him if he was back home in Hideaway.
Of course, if Red was back in Hideaway, she’d be there, too. So many memories…so much she missed. She wanted to be able to step out of the house and stroll around the victory garden in the backyard. Had Dad even been able to plant one this year? He was all alone on the farm, with so much work to keep him busy.
Fact was, she worried about both the men in her life. News of Red hadn’t come often enough to suit her lately. He’d stopped writing to her. Just like that, the letters had quit coming. She was pretty sure the Army hadn’t suddenly stopped sending soldiers’ mail home.
Charles Frederick Meyer didn’t like being called anything but Red. With a head of brick-colored hair and a blue gaze that looked straight into the soul, he was strong and kind, and quick with a smile or a joke.
Bertie could usually spend much of her workday thinking about him, dreaming of the time they would be back together again. That was easier to do now that the war with Germany was over.
But if he was out of danger, why wasn’t he writing?
Red Meyer stared out the train window at the lush Missouri Ozark landscape, nearly lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the passenger railcar. The train took a curve, and he got a better look at the cars ahead of him. Four cars forward, one lone figure with the straight, stiff posture of the military, made his way to the rear exit.
Looked like at least one other person on this train was as restless as Red, but he didn’t have the luxury of pacing along the aisles from railcar to railcar.
Instead, he tugged one of the envelopes from his left front pocket and pulled two folded pages from the raggedly slit top. Gently, he unfolded the sheets and looked at the handwriting.
He didn’t read the words right off. He didn’t need to. He practically had this letter memorized—maybe not every single fancy swirl and dotted i, but he could see an image in his mind of Bertie Moennig leaning over her stationery, chewing on the end of her pencil, eyes narrowed. It had been her first letter to him, and it was well nigh three years old. The smudges and worn corners of the pages showed how often he’d handled them.
Dear Red,
I’m sitting here at the station in Hollister, watching your train pull away, trying hard not to get the paper wet with my tears. If you ever show this letter to anybody, I’ll make you pay when you get back home.
He’d laughed at that when he first read it, but he’d not been able to see the page very well for a few lines, himself.
I already miss you so much I want to run after the caboose and hop on, the way we did ten years ago. Remember how much trouble we got into when the train didn’t stop until it reached Springfield?
Red nodded to himself. He remembered. Gerald Potts had had to drive up to get them, and then all the way home he’d lectured them about the stupidity of risking their lives for a lark. Neither of them had ever told Gerald that his own son, Ivan, was the one who’d dared them to hop that train in the first place.
We’ve been friends for so long, Red, I can’t imagine going on without you. You can make me feel better no matter how bad things are, even with Mom’s funeral only weeks past. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through it without you.
He squeezed the pages between his fingers and stared out at the passing countryside. He couldn’t remember a time when Bertie wasn’t in his life, whether she was socking him in the mouth for picking on her in their Sunday school class, or kissing him goodbye twelve years later at the train station, chin wobbling, eyes promising more than he’d ever dared ask of her. A future.
He looked back down at the letter, swallowing hard as he recalled her face, her voice, the love he’d held on to for so many long, hellacious months.
Red, you remember that talk we had on our first real date? You should, since it’s only been a couple of months. You told me you’d always thought you’d end up a bachelor, because you never thought you had anything special to offer a woman in marriage. But you are somebody special, and don’t let anybody ever tell you different.
His eyes squeezed shut. He’d never loved her more than he did right now. She’d been so true to him all this time. Her letters…they’d been his lifeline. Her love was what kept him going and kept his determination strong to do the right thing by her, though it was the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.
I’ve heard they treat soldiers rough in the Army, but you’re strong enough to take whatever they throw at you. Don’t you forget you’re more of a man than most men ever even dream of being. You’ve got more heart in you than anybody I’ve ever known, and you’d make a fine husband. The woman who marries you will never be sorry. Just make sure you get home alive to get married.
I’ll be waiting here for you, and I’ll be writing so much you’ll probably get tired of reading my letters. If anything happens to you, it’ll be happening to me, too, so you’d better take care. You have both our lives in your hands.
If he’d smiled at all during these past three years, it had only been because of her. Oh, sure, he’d let himself joke with the guys, or at least chuckle at their jokes, but it was because thoughts of home kept him going—thoughts of Bertie.
He didn’t pay any attention to the man in Marine uniform coming down the aisle, until that man plunked himself down in the empty seat next to Red.
“On your way home, soldier?” came an awfully familiar voice.
Red’s head jerked up. He looked with surprise into the face of his good friend Ivan Potts, in the flesh.
Before Red could say anything, Ivan had him in a bear hug and was thumping him on the back so hard it felt like Red’s spine might snap in two. The man had the muscles of a plow horse.
“I didn’t know you were on this train ’til I caught sight of your face in the window when we went around that last curve.” Ivan’s grin showed the contrast of his white teeth against dark-tanned skin. “Thought it was you, anyway.” He rubbed his knuckles over Red’s scalp. “Can’t miss this color, Charles Frederick.”
“Well, if this don’t beat all.” Red tucked the letter back into his pocket, trying not to let it catch Ivan’s attention. He shoved the cane out of sight beneath his seat with his foot. Happy as he was to see one of his closest friends alive and whole, he wasn’t ready to do any explaining. Not yet.
Chapter Two
Red grinned at his old buddy—the first time his face had felt a smile in days. He almost expected to feel his lips crack, but they held firm. It was good to see Ivan all decked out in his uniform, with medals aplenty, some as golden as the hair on his head.
“Man, oh, man, I’ve missed you,” Red said.
“Same here. Heard you won the war on your side of the world,” Ivan said, clapping Red on the shoulder. “Now come and help us with ours. The Pacific’s still hot.”
Red felt his smile slip. “You’re not home for good?”
“How I wish!”
Red’s stomach clenched with fresh worry. He’d been relieved when he first saw Ivan, alive and well. “You’re home on leave, then?” That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.