Merlin was having words with Turtle when I entered from the hall. Merlin was extremely pleased with himself, his tail pumping violently while he barked fit to clear the chimneys of soot. Turtle, too, was dressed for heavy weather work. He needed the padding to roughhouse with Merlin. The kitchen chairs had been knocked askew and the heavy wood bucket had been pushed back under the kitchen sink.
“Good for you, Turtle,” I cheered as Merlin made a lunge which Turtle dodged expertly. “He had to give up that sort of play with me when he was eight months old or there would have been crushed Carlysle to spoon up from the floor. And he loves to fight.”
“This dog has ‘an insufficiently aggressive temperament’?” asked Regan Laird dryly, hands on his hips, watching the dog’s snarling face.
Turtle looked up just long enough to be distracted. Merlin took advantage and sank his teeth into the sergeant’s forearm.
“You overgrown son of a bitch,” Turtle roared. “Leggo.” Merlin promptly obliged.
The sergeant rubbed his forearm thoughtfully, frowning at the dog with new respect. He had felt that bite even through the layers of clothing.
I was laughing too hard to be sympathetic although I did hand signal Merlin to sit. He didn’t want to but he did.
Glancing at the major, I caught my breath, my laughter trailing off. He had turned up his jacket collar, preparatory to braving the cold outside, and only his good profile showed. I abruptly gave up all hope that I could ever interest him in little old Little Bit.
“Ready, Major?” Turtle picked up an ax from the kitchen table, the edge gleaming with newly sharpened steel. “Keep the coffee hot, Bit,” he enjoined me and the two started out.
Merlin whined expectantly, rocking back and forth as he reluctantly maintained the sit. I waved him out.
“Wait a minute. I want him here with you,” the major objected, extending his leg across Merlin’s path. The shepherd stopped, whining plaintively.
“Oh, for Pete’s sweet suffering sake,” I exclaimed in exasperation. “And what panzer division are you expecting today?” I waved out the window at the snow-fast land.
The major deliberated, shrugged, and slapped the side of his leg to encourage Merlin. The three stamped out through the back. As they lurched up the slippery slope behind the house into the scrubby beach pines, I saw a sled trailing behind the major. High slatted sides had been fastened on to make it an excellent wood carrier on either snow or sand. Once it must have been young Regan’s and I wondered what kind of a boy he’d been.
“Maxim two,” I muttered to myself, “the infantry moves on its belly and they will be mighty hungry ‘footsojers’ when they get back probably on their bellies.”
I brought the meat in from the freezing porch and eyed it. I might just as well pop it into the oven now. Eventually it would have to thaw. I found a pan and, a little dismayed at the size and solidity of the meat, put it in the oven, closed the door, and crossed my fingers.
I remembered seeing some dried apples so I put them to soak and got out piecrust makings. Oh, but it was nice to have butter to cook with again.
When I put the pie in, there was the barest hint of tan on the meat. Fork testing proved that approximately one thirty-second of an inch had thawed. This was a hopeful sign. I fed the stove a few sticks of wood and did dishes. It then occurred to me that men were men in blizzard and in war. I went to find what I could do with the state of the major’s socks, et cetera.
This little job was taken care of and distributed neatly, festooning the bathroom, after a solid hour of scrubbing and rinsing in the tub. The pie had cooked perhaps a trifle too crisply brown but it smelled heavenly. The meat was doing far better than I expected so I fed the stove again and went to straighten up the study.
One of the nicer things about a good fire is that it burns. It burns dust, cigarette butts, and dirt. By the time I had finished, the major’s room actually looked respectable. I had also changed the sheets after an intensive recon for a linen closet. I was coming down the stairs with fresh towels when I saw what must have been a snow mirage. 1 covered my eyes with my hand for a moment and looked out again.
The figure plodding down the road was no mirage. It also walked like an infantryman. I caught the glint of metal at the shoulder, but the face was hunched in the protection of the collar, chin tucked down so that I couldn’t distinguish any features.
The more I looked the more apprehensive I became. It was ridiculous to assume the man was looking for any other house but this. All the others were boarded up tightly and no one would survive in this weather without a fire. Our chimneys were all blooming with smoke.
The stranger was no one I knew. Not even Warren. Not that you’d have caught Warren walking very far. Certainly not in weather like this. Warren loudly bemoaned the fact officers no longer rode thoroughbred steeds into battle, spurring valiantly into the fray, saber held high. He was a frustrated Jeb Stuartite. However, he had accepted the jeep as an endurable alternative to walking.
No, this wasn’t Warren but it was someone looking for the major. I deeply regretted my generosity with Merlin. I’d have faced my mythical panzer unit with no qualms with that shepherd at my side.
The man had come abreast of the house now. He looked towards it, examining the sloping approach. He made a decision and started up, removing his hands from his pockets as the tricky footing required additional balance. He slipped and went down on one knee. As he got to his feet I saw his face for the first time. He was no one I knew but his face, not handsome like the major’s, was attractive and there was an openness in the exasperated determination on his face that I liked.
I threw back the bolts on the front door and pulled it open.
“May I help you?” I asked, conscious of the triteness of that remark.
He looked up, startled, grinned broadly as he brushed snow off his legs.
“You sure can, Mrs. Laird,” he agreed warmly with a trace of a southern accent in his tone. “You are Mrs. Laird, aren’t you?” he asked with concern when he saw the startled expression on my face.
“No!” I said flatly, wondering did I look that old in the light.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but this is Major Regan Laird’s house. Or did I take the wrong turn?” and he looked over his shoulder at the road in dismay.
“No, this is the right house.”
He was almost to the front door now, and the ground under the drifts was even. He got up to the windswept front stoep and stamped the snow off his boots and trousers.
“Actually, while I do want to see the major, I was told that his ward, James Murdock, would be here.”
“That’s right.”
“I served with the lad’s father in France,” he said quietly, “and I wanted to see him.”
“That does you credit,” I said, gesturing at the drifts and trying not to sound sarcastic.
He regarded me with a disconcerting directness in his clear light-green eyes.
“May I come in? I’d hate to cool the house off,” and, at my invitation, he pushed the door wider and stepped in.
“There’s not an appreciable difference in this part of the house,” I explained, suddenly aware of the load of towels in my arms. “Follow me, Lieutenant ?”
“DeLord, Robert DeLord, ma’am.”
The towels fell in a mosaic on the floor as I turned to stare at h im.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m sorry. Did I do that?” he apologized, bending quickly to pick up the towels before the snow from his boots could melt into them. I held out my arm stupidly while he piled them up.
“The kitchen is warm,” I managed to say and, in a daze, led the way.
“Apple pie,” he exclaimed, sniffing deeply as he entered. “That smells good and proper.”