March 1919

Alberta, Canada

“Next stop, Flat Rock,” the conductor announced, pausing at Maryelle’s side. “Your journey is almost over, Ma’am. I wish you all the best.”

Maryelle sat up straighter, her chest impossibly tight as the train slowed and puffed to a halt. She leaned toward the window for a closer look.

“It’s nothing much to look at, I’ll grant you,” offered the woman across the aisle. “But you’ll find it a pleasant enough spot.”

Maryelle peered through the soot-covered glass, hoping for some sign she would like this place. Apart from a huddle of trees to the right, it was the same as the last dozen stops. But it wasn’t buildings or scenery that brought her here; it was Kingston Brown, her husband. Her heart picked up its pace, and she smiled. She would have gone to the heart of darkest Africa if it meant she could be with Kingston. Would the war have changed him? Would he find her unsuitable now that they were in Canada, not London? Would their love be as strong and sure as she remembered it?

Suddenly, as she made her way to the door, she couldn’t breathe. What if Kingston hadn’t come? What if he’d changed his mind about her? About their love?

She’d heard of other Canadian soldiers who had found solace in the arms of English girls during the war, even married them, only to abandon them when they returned to home soil. She and Lizzie, her traveling companion, had been inundated with stories from both sides of the coin. Their trip had seemed interminably long, but Maryelle wished now she’d had more time to prepare herself for this reunion.

“Ma’am?” The conductor reminded her he was still waiting for her to step down.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

She glanced up and down the platform and saw Kingston immediately. She would have recognized him anywhere. Tall and slender, straight as a rod, exactly as she remembered him. He hadn’t seen her as he hurried along the platform checking in the car windows. And then his gaze slid to her. Their eyes met. The air sucked from her lungs.

His blue-green eyes were exactly as she remembered. As mercurial as the Mediterranean Sea.

He took three quick steps. “Maryelle.”

At the sound of his voice, rough with emotion, she dropped her bag and flung herself into his arms. The two-year separation was over. She had come home.

He swept her off her feet.

They clung together in an embrace that threatened to crush her ribs, but she welcomed the assurance he was here and still wanted her. She tipped back her head to drink in the sight of him.

“My brown-eyed English miss. I thought you’d never get here.” She knew he didn’t mean the late arrival of the train; he referred to the endless separation of the past two years since he’d been shipped to France and then home.

“Let me look at you.” His eyes flashed so green she smiled.

“Mr. Canada, your eyes are turning green.”

“It must be the trees.”

She gave a joyful little laugh. It was a little game they’d played. She said she could always tell his mood by the color of his eyes. And he insisted they only reflected his surroundings, not his feelings. “There are no leaves on the trees yet.”

“Then it’s the grass.”

There was no grass within a hundred feet. Her laugh was smothered by his kisses. She clung to him, letting his firm mouth cleanse her of the pain and fear of the last two years.

“Your bags, Ma’am.”

She jerked back, her cheeks burning as she remembered how public their reunion was.

The man chuckled. “Don’t let me interrupt. You go right ahead and let this young man know how much you missed him.”

To her utter surprise and amazement, a sob shuddered through her, and tears gushed from her eyes.

“Oh, sweet Maryelle, don’t cry,” Kingston crooned, pressing her face into his coat front.

She wrapped her arms around him and hung on like a drowning person to a life preserver. Kingston stroked her hair and cradled her close. She tried to stop the flow, but her worry and loneliness had been bottled up too long and would not be controlled.

“Let’s get out of here.” Kingston edged her to a wooden wagon bench and climbed up beside her.

With one last shuddering sigh against his chest, Maryelle stopped crying. “I want to see what Flat Rock looks like.” She hiccoughed.

Kingston laughed. “Then best you sit up and take notice real quick. No wait—I have a better idea. I’ll turn around, and we’ll take the grand tour.”

Pressed to his side, she dashed away her tears.

A long row of small frame buildings lined either side of a wide dusty street. Rough wooden signs with the name of the business swung gently. A collection of wooden houses surrounded the shops until the open land absorbed the town.

“It’s not London,” Kingston said.

She thought of the stately brick buildings, the lovely old cathedrals, the never-ending city, and the crowds of people. “I’d say it’s not, but I like the open spaces. Reminds me of the trips Dad and I would take into the country. I always loved those trips.”

At the mention of her father, Kingston’s arm tightened around her.

She gave a shaky sigh, but now was not the time for sadness. She was home at last, and she immediately loved Kingston’s country.

They took a side street out of town.

“My sweet Maryelle,” Kingston whispered. “You’re even prettier than I remember you.”

“And I’m thinking the war must have damaged your eyesight.”

He laughed. “Still the saucy miss too.”

“I’ve never been saucy,” she protested. “I can’t help it if I happen to know my own mind.”

“I’m glad you do.” He grew still. She tipped her head to study him. Worry, like pinpricks, trickled up her spine at the serious look in his dark green eyes. Finally he said, “And I’m hoping you’re as sure about how you feel about me as you were in London.”

She choked back a sob; she would not cry again, but she hadn’t imagined Kingston being as fearful as she about whether or not their love had survived the war. It gave her a sense of sureness. Grinning so wide her eyes stung, she hugged him. “Kingston Brown, I love you as much now as I did when we married—no, a thousand times more.”

“Ah, my sweet Maryelle. How glad I am to hear that.” He smiled at her in a way that made her insides tingle. “Now tell me everything.”

During her two months of travel, they’d been unable to communicate. “You and this other war bride were able to travel together?” At her nod, he sighed. “I was so relieved to know you wouldn’t be alone. What was she like?”

“Lizzie? A sweet, gentle young woman from a close family. I think she’s going to miss them very much. I wanted to see her husband; but with all the delays, we got there in the middle of the night. I’ll have to wait for her letter to hear how things went.”

“Maryelle, my lovely, I know you’ve left behind everything dear and familiar to you, but I promise I’ll do my best to make up for it.” He pulled her back to his chest. “I hope it will be enough.”

His eyes flashed the color of sun-kissed water, making her forget everything but her love for him. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “It’s been so long. There were times I wondered if I’d ever see you again. It’s a miracle you survived the war—that I survived.” Before he had been shipped to France, they’d had four days of honeymoon bliss and, before that, weeks of companionable courting, and now she had him to hold again.

“Praise God we did. And now it’s over, and we can build our lives together. You and I are part of the new future. But first things first.” He pulled the wagon under the shelter of some barely budded trees and tied the reins. “I have missed you every minute of every day.” He buried his fingers in her hair. “My Maryelle, sweetest rose that ever bloomed.”

Kingston, with his sweet talk, had always filled her heart with gladness. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed it, having locked it away to keep from drowning in her loneliness; but, suddenly released, her need for it leapt into a yawning abyss that almost frightened her. She wasn’t sure she could control the love flooding her heart. “I have missed you beyond reason,” she said before he finally kissed her. She wanted to hold him forever.

Kingston cupped her face in his hands. “Let’s walk for a bit. I’m determined to hear what’s happened since I last heard from you.” He jumped from the wagon and lifted her to the ground. His gaze went up and down her length, finally resting on her face.

Maryelle saw his eyes had grown as dark as pine needles.

“You’re all in one piece, I see.”

“You expected me to arrive in bits and pieces?”

“No, miss smarty pants.” He sobered. “But a lot of people have changed drastically. I know things got tough in Britain. I guess I was afraid you’d suffer. You probably did, but it doesn’t show. On the outside at least.”

She laughed. “I will take that as a compliment.” Perhaps they’d talk about the past later or perhaps not.

“It’s a mighty poor compliment for someone as fine looking as yourself, but it is a compliment nevertheless.” He grabbed her hand and led her along a grassy path. “I assure you there will be more and better compliments to follow.”

“Kingston, how has it been since you came home?” She’d only had one letter since he returned to Canada, six weeks before she began her journey to join him. “Is everything as you expected? Are you happy? Why didn’t you write more often? I could get your letters right up until I left. I worried things had changed. Between us.” She gulped back the fears that wouldn’t be quieted even by having his arm around her shoulders.

He paused beneath a lone sprawling tree with feathery seed clusters hanging like fine old lace and pulled her under the dangling branches, leaning against the trunk, his booted leg tipped against the bark.

Maryelle’s chest tightened with loving him. He was so handsome with his reddish brown hair—the color of old brick, she’d once told him—and his unusual eyes—Canada green, she’d dubbed them.

He looked so relaxed. There had always been something about him—the way he moved and the way he spoke—that said he was comfortable in his life.

“I’m extremely happy to be home. I’ll admit it’s hard to settle back into civilian life after being in the trenches in France.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to decide which is reality—the war or now.”

“The war is something that will always have had a hand in the shape of our lives. I’m thankful it is finally over. I hope I never hear another siren as long as I live.” A shudder snaked across her shoulders. “And those horrible silver cigars.” She used the name many used to describe the German zeppelins that had threatened London.

“The war to end all wars.” He took her hands. “Thank the Lord both of us survived that and the flu epidemic.”

“And the farm?” It had been his goal post while he fought in the mud and disease of the trenches.

“The farm is still here.”

“You expected it to move?”

He tweaked her nose. “I suppose I wondered if there would be a place for me when I got back. After all, Dad managed without me for three years.”

“So, in your wonderfully illuminating way, you’re telling me you’ve found you’re still needed on the farm?”

“You’ve guessed it right. How keen of you.”

She laughed. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”

“I don’t believe you have.” He caught her chin and tipped her head back. “But me first. Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.” He bent and captured her lips again with gentleness. When he would pull away, she wound her hands around his neck and would not let him go.

Laughing, he said, “Isn’t this a lot better than a bunch of sweet words?”

“I’ll take both.”

He sank to the ground, his back against the tree, and pulled Maryelle to his lap. He kissed her nose. “You are my sweet English rose, fairest bloom that ever grew.” He kissed her eyelids. “You are my sunshine and my sky.” He pressed ten kisses to her temple, then trailed more down her cheeks, and buried several under her chin. “Light of my life, joy of my heart, sweetness of my soul.” He lifted his head, cradling her face in his palms. “Maryelle Brown, my wife and my joy, I love you.”

Her throat tightened. How she loved this man who seemed to have no limit to the number of ways he found to express his love. She wished she could be so articulate with her own feelings, but her emotions swelled inside her rather than flood out as did his. She pressed her open palms to his shoulders as if the action would somehow let her emotions flow from her heart to his. “Kingston Brown, my dear and lovely husband, I love you more than anything, including life. I will do my very best to make you happy.”

“I can’t imagine being any happier than I am right now. It’s like getting married all over.” His kiss was sweet and gentle.

She would have stayed pressed to his chest all day, but Kingston shifted. “I suppose we should go home. My family is eager to meet you, and there’s always work to be done. I sometimes think Dad saved it for me the whole time I was gone.”

At the mention of his family, she jerked upright. “Ah, into the lions’ den. Best get it over with.” She laughed in an attempt to remove the sting from her words, but inwardly she wondered how his family would take to her. Would they resent her as an outsider? Or welcome her with open arms? “How much farther?”

He scrambled to his feet, pulling her up. “It’s not far.”

“Seems ‘not far’ is a favorite expression of you Canadians, and it can mean anything from a five-minute walk to a four-day ride on a fast horse. Why didn’t you tell me Canada was so big?”

“I tried, but it’s hard for anyone to understand. It’s another five miles or so.”

“I guess I’ll get used to the distances.”

“No doubt you’ll find lots of things you’ll have to get used to.”

She tugged his hand, forcing him to stop and look at her. “That sounds dreadfully ominous. Are you trying to warn me of something?”

“Of course not.” He laughed and stroked his finger down her nose. “I only mean everything will seem different to you. You’ve always lived in a big city. Now you’ll be living on a farm. Your country is old with tons of history. Canada is new and fresh. We’re still writing our history.” He shrugged. “It’s a lot different.”

“I like that, ‘writing our history.’ ”

He lifted her arm and twirled her around. “That’s you and me, Mrs. Brown. We’ve just begun to write our history together. We’ve a whole lifetime of discovery ahead of us.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. “Together forever, you and me.”

“Have I told you how much I missed you, Mr. Brown?”

He tightened his arm around her. “Not in almost five minutes.”

Kingston pulled the wagon to a halt on a small hill. “There it is, dead ahead. Your new home.”

Maryelle clutched his arm and studied the buildings several hundred yards away—a two-story rambling house surrounded by trees, a hip-roofed red barn, several smaller buildings scattered around the yard. Through the distance she heard a childish voice calling.

“My new home.” Suddenly the enormity of the step she was about to take shook her. She faced Kingston. “My hair. It must be all tossed up.” She dug a brush from her bag and struggled to pin the loose strands back into place. “How does it look?”

He grinned. “You look delightful, delicious, and totally desirable.”

“Exactly how I want to look meeting your family for the first time.”

He grabbed her in a crushing hug. “Exactly how I want you to look for me every day.”

“Be serious.” She pushed him away. “I don’t want your parents to think I’m some English tart. Is my hair tidy?”

“I suppose you’re right. Here.” He took the brush from her hand. “Let me fix it.”

She turned on the seat so he could brush the strands into place and pin them. This side of Kingston had surprised her at first, his casualness at doing things she would have considered privately female, but how she’d missed it.

“I’d forgotten how good you are at this.” Her voice quivered as his touch turned her bones to warm wax.

He dropped the brush in her lap and kissed her neck. She leaned into his chest, enjoying the way his breath tickled the curve of her neck. “It has been too long.”

He turned her so he could look into her face. “My beautiful brown-eyed love. I’d like to take you away and have you all to myself for the rest of our lives.” He sighed. “But as that isn’t possible, what do you say about us getting ourselves home?”

“I’d like to say I’ve changed my mind. I prefer your idea. Let’s run away to the mountains or the beach or wherever you Canadians run away to. But, as you say, that’s not about to happen so”—she turned to face forward—“lead on. To whatever lies ahead.”

She stiffened her backbone—after all, she wasn’t British for nothing. A stiff upper lip and calm courtesy had seen many a Brit through a difficult time. But before she had time to fill her lungs adequately, Kingston pulled up before the house.

“Here we go,” he murmured as he lifted her down.

“Death or victory,” she vowed, repeating one of the cries of the British during the war.

“I hope it won’t be that bad.” Kingston laughed. “Let’s go inside.”

She nodded. In truth, if an escape had offered itself at that point, she knew she would have taken it.

He led her through a small, cluttered entryway into a large, overly warm kitchen. Strange faces and the smells of cooking food—turnips, potatoes, and fried meat—surrounded her. Despite her nervousness, her mouth watered.

Kingston pulled her to his side. “Maryelle, this is my family.”

She blinked. There seemed to be so many of them.

“Mother, this is my wife.”

Maryelle focused on this woman who had given Kingston life. Heavyset; hazel eyes, much darker than Kingston’s; and an unsmiling expression. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” Maryelle said and held out her hand.

Kingston’s mother wiped her hands on her apron as if to indicate they were far too dirty to be shaking hands with this stranger. Instead she gave a quick nod.

“Pleased to meet you.” Her expression remained unchanged.

Maryelle ran her hand over her hair. Was it all tossed about? She traced her finger over her cheeks. Was her face dirty? “What would you like me to call you?”

“Mrs. Brown will do just fine.”

Kingston’s hand dropped to the back of her neck, his warm touch fortifying her.

“This is my father.” She faced the older man, not as tall as Kingston, but heavier built. His eyes were deep blue.

“You can call me Dad.” He took her hands in both of his. “So you’re the young miss who stole my son’s heart?”

“I’d say it was the other way around.” Her heart rebelled at calling another man Dad, the loss of her own parents still too fresh. She’d call them Father and Mother Brown.

Kingston drew her farther into the room. “I’ll start at the top and work down. This is my sister, Lena, two years younger than me.”

“That would make you twenty,” Maryelle murmured.

Lena’s gaze was fierce. “That’s right.” She turned away without saying hello.

“Next sister in line is Katherine, who is, what, sixteen?”

“I’m seventeen now,” she informed Kingston. Then to Maryelle she said, “Hello.”

For a moment Maryelle thought she caught an uncertainty in Katherine’s expression. Who could blame her? Despite her marriage to their brother, Maryelle was a total stranger.

“And this strapping young lad of almost fifteen is my brother, Angus.”

Angus kept his face down, hiding behind a mop of brown hair.

“Angus,” his father said. “Speak to the young lady.”

The boy jerked his head up, mumbled hello, and ducked away again.

Kingston’s touch on her neck grew firmer.

“And these are the little ones. My youngest sisters. Come on, girls—say hello to Maryelle.”

Two little girls stepped forward, holding hands.

“Jeanie is six years old.”

The child said hello. Maryelle decided this child was most like her mother—brown hair, hazel eyes, a round face, and a steady, unblinking look.

“And this is Lily, who is five.”

“Well, Lily, I’m pleased to meet you.” This child had the reddish hair and blue-green eyes of her eldest brother as well as his warm gaze.

The child regarded her with curiosity. “We thought you was never going to get here. What took you so long? Kingston’s been home lots of time already.”

Lena squeezed Lily’s shoulder. “Don’t ask so many questions.”

Maryelle laughed. “I don’t mind.”

Lena scowled.

Maryelle dropped her gaze to the child. “I thought it was a long time too.”

“So did I,” Kingston added. “Way, way too long.”

“Dinner’s ready and waiting,” Mother Brown announced.

Kingston drew Maryelle to a chair at his side, taking her hand and holding it in his lap as they sat down. She clung to his strength. Everything was so strange. Even the meals had different names. Dinner in the middle of the day!

She took a slow breath. Everything was strange—everything but Kingston. With him at her side, she could face anything. She would learn to know his family, and they, her.

Father Brown said a blessing, and the food was passed.

Maryelle stared at the abundance, mounds of boiled potatoes, a full bowl of cooked carrots, thick slices of fried pork. It had been months since she’d had more than a sliver of meat. “These potatoes are so nice and white. The ones we get this time of year are full of black mold.” She took a mouthful of carrots. “And what lovely carrots. So sweet and fresh.”

“We grow them ourselves. These are out of the root cellar.” It was Kingston who answered her. He turned to the rest of the family. “I told you how Maryelle owned a green grocer’s shop in London. She is very astute about vegetables.”

“What’s a green grocer shop?” Lily demanded.

“A shop—” Maryelle began.

“Store,” Kingston explained.

Maryelle smiled at him. “Yes, a store where one sells vegetables and produce.”

“Oh.” The child tilted her head. “How come you talk so funny?”

The other girls tittered.

“Girls,” Father Brown warned. “Mind your manners, hear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Lena answered, her tone indicating she wasn’t one whit sorry.

“Have some bread.” Kingston held a plate toward her heaped with light, golden slices.

Maryelle turned a piece over and over. “How fortunate that the baker can still get such lovely flour.” She felt every eye upon her.

Lena snorted. “We make it ourselves.”

Maryelle tried again. “How lovely. Could you teach me how?”

“I’m sure someone will be glad to teach you.” Kingston draped his arm across the back of her chair. “Right, Mom?”

His mother regarded him across the table. “It’s not something one learns overnight.”

“I’m a quick learner,” Maryelle said.

“She surely is,” Kingston said.

She ducked her head and ate in silence, feeling as if she’d been spit out and washed up on foreign shores.

“We’ll be fixing the loft floor this afternoon,” Father Brown announced, a few minutes later. “That is, if Kingston thinks he can tear himself away from his wife.”

Kingston straightened and faced his dad. “I’ll be out as soon as I take Maryelle’s luggage to our room.”

Father Brown’s announcement signaled the end of mealtime. The girls sprang to their feet, and each gathered an armload of dishes.

Following their example, Maryelle piled plates. Lena took the dishes from Maryelle’s hands. “No need for you to get your hands dirty.”

“I want to help.”

Father Brown had already ducked out the door, Angus hard on his heels. Kingston called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a few minutes and show you our room.”

Maryelle stood alone, facing one fierce young woman.