For a long time Rose had believed she hated this place.
Nowâ¦maybe not. The memories had faded, even the worst of them. At least to a livable degree.
Sheâd learned not to expect more than adequacy from her life.
Rose straightened, folding the edge of her sweater over and holding the awkward bundle of tomatoes to her abdomen. She walked to the back door, feeling nearly as unwieldy as a pregnant lady.
Unexpectedly, the comparison made her smile. Sheâd pushed the pregnancy to the back of her mind for many years, but returning to her hometown had brought it all up again. There were times she had to consciously work to keep her feelings to herself. Aside from a small circle of peopleâher nonsupportive family, the despicable Lindstroms, Pastor Mikeâit was still a secret to Alouette that sheâd once been pregnant.
She didnât suppose that the townspeople would be too surprised to learn the truth. Theyâd always believed the worst of Wild Rose.
Dear Reader,
The residents of Michiganâs Upper PeninsulaâYoopersâpride themselves on being hardy, independent people. (Ya, you betcha! Surviving five months of winter takes fortitude.) After her thorny appearances in the previous NORTH COUNTRY STORIES, Wild Rose Robbin was an interesting character to embrace. Evan Grantâwho is caring, patient and very normalâturned out to be the perfect hero to tame this wild woman. But itâs his shy daughter, Lucy, who needs Rose the most and teaches her how to open her heart.
This time around, I had fun writing about a few of the Yoopersâ favorite winter pastimesâhigh school basketball, Christmas shopping, sledding andâ¦snow shoveling. Although winter passes much too quickly in this book, Wild Rose does get to fulfill her dream of having A Family Christmas.
Happy holidays!
Carrie
P.S. To learn more about the NORTH COUNTRY STORIES miniseries, visit my Web site at www.carriealexander.com and sign up for the Get Carried Away e-newsletter.
THE WOMAN WAS THERE AGAIN, sitting cross-legged in the grass at the edge of the high-school sports field. At a distance, so that she might have been passed off as a loiterer, not an observer. But Evan Grant had been keeping his eye on her for many monthsâever since the previous basketball season.
She was called Wild Rose.
And she was watching. Always watching.
Evan ambled past the long-jump pit. Two boys were stalling nearby, tightening the laces on their running shoes. He stopped to get them up and running. With loud groans, they joined the team members who were already jogging around the track that circled the field.
Evan was in sweatpants and sneakers himself, so he followed the group for half a lap, hectoring them like a drill sergeant until they were moving at a faster clip. The boys showered him with a chorus of complaints. Theyâd rather be in the gym, shooting baskets.
Calling encouragement to the stragglers, Evan peeled off at a jog and gradually slowed to a stop. He was now near the watcher, within speaking distance.
He didnât look directly at her. He surveyed the field. It was early September, the weather was warm and the new school year had just begun, but already some of the trees showed tinges of rusty color. His basketball team was not in top shape after a lazy summer. But this was only their first practice and before fall had really arrived heâd have built up their endurance.
In Evanâs peripheral vision, the woman called Wild Rose hunched over a sketch pad. Disheveled hair as black as a crowâs wing blew across her face. Her hands made quick, furtive movements. Slashes of the pencil, a scrub with the eraser, nervous fingers brushing aside crumbs that reminded him of the strawberry-flecked crusts his pouting daughter had crushed into her eggs that morning.
He drew closer. âYouâre Rose Robbin.â
The name was odd. It brought to mind storybook illustrationsâa mother robin in a kerchief, plump with feathers, brooding over a nestâaccompanied by bouncy lyrics about bob-bob-bobbinâ in the springtime.
At his voice, Rose bolted like a thoroughbred at the starting gate, but she didnât go far. Guilt was stamped across her face.
The guilt was what bothered Evan.
He was responsible for these kids. While he couldnât imagine the woman approaching any of them, she did have a certain reputation, so the question remained.
What interest did she have here?
He might have asked that outright, except there was a hint of vulnerability in her expression that made him want to treat her gently.
Rose flung back her head. Storm-cloud-blue eyes glared beneath the swoop of dark hair she impatiently pushed aside. âYeah, Iâm Rose Robbin. So what?â
Evan squinted. Being of fair mind, heâd tried to overlook what townspeople said about her. But there was no denying she was one of the hardscrabble Robbin familyâsupposed tough nuts and bad characters, all of them. She could handle herself. Perhaps heâd imagined the vulnerability out of a penchant for helping othersâwounded females especially.