"Were you here all night?" he mother said, concern lacing her voice. She whispered, surely to avoid waking Bertha, who still slumbered in the bed she and Caroline shared.

Caroline merely nodded, heartsick and weary, unable to explain what was wrong with her. She felt as if speaking of her love for James would somehow diminish it, at least for now. She wouldn't speak of it to anyone unless it was James himself.

Which means I may not ever tell a living soul.

"Come, rest in bed," her mother urged. "You look so tired."

Caroline gave a sharp shake of her head. "No. I can't leave the window. Not until I know . . ."

When her voice trailed off, her mother's eyes lit up with understanding. Her gaze went to the window, and she took a step closer. "Are you looking for the rescue party then?"

In part, yes. All Caroline could do was nod.

Her mother leaned close and kissed Caroline's temple then whispered in her ear. "He will come back, right as rain. You'll see."

With that, her mother stood, straightened Bertha's blanket, and walked out of the room. Caroline turned to stare at her mother's retreating figure. How did she know? Had she always known, when Caroline herself didn't, not until last night? Oh, how blind she'd been! How could she have not understood?

Her mother didn't bother her further. She brought food and drink at times throughout the day, but didn't so much as ask whether Caroline planned to clean the chicken coop or churn the b.u.t.ter or help around the house in any other way. Caroline ate a bite of food here and there, but had no appet.i.te; everything tasted bland, like paper. She spent the next night at the window as well.

The following morning, her mother woke her again, but this time with an eager shake of her shoulder. "Caroline! Caroline, wake up. Mrs. Holmes next door says her husband returned with one group last night-and that James was in the company."

"He's . . . alive?" She hardly dared say the word.

Her mother nodded, eyes watering. "The other companies are still in the canyon, but so far, the only men they've lost were the two originally caught in the slide-bless the poor King and Osterholdt families."

"He's alive." Caroline said the words a second time, trying to hear them and believe them. "Is he home?"

"I believe so, yes," her mother said.

Caroline jumped up from her place on the bench. Her muscles ached from being cramped in the same position for so long, but she cared nothing for that; James was alive, and he was home, at the neighboring farm!

Still in her nightgown, she shoved her stocking-covered feet into her boots, flung a knitted shawl about her shoulders, and raced out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. Her hair had been in a long braid, the same braid down her back that she'd put it into when she'd gotten ready for bed after the dance. Hair stuck out from it at odd angles, but she didn't care. All that mattered was James.

She raced past the barn, around the corn field, and eventually through the hole in the fence between farms that she and James had used as children to travel between the two lots. Heart pounding, she put all her strength into her legs, flying through a spud field and an orchard before reaching the back of the family house. She rapped hard half a dozen times if once, then stood back to wait, breathless.

That's when she caught a glimpse of herself in the side window-night clothes, boots, part of her legs showing above the boots, hair standing on end, dark circles under her eyes. What would James think of her showing up in such a disgraceful condition? What would his mother and father think? She glanced back toward her family's farm; should she hurry home and avoid the humiliation of being seen like this?

But no. She tilted her head up to the bedroom window where James had always slept. He was up there right now, probably sleeping hard after a night, a day, and a night of straight work. It was early in the day, but his mother was already working in the kitchen; Caroline could see the glow of candle or a lamp or two through a window.

The door opened suddenly with a click and a squeak, drawing her attention back to the door. "Caroline? Is that you?"

The voice wasn't female, and it wasn't old. It was . . . dare she hope . . .

"James?" Her voice came out as barely as a squeak.

He opened the door all the way then pushed the screen door open on its creaking hinges. "Caroline, it is you. What in tarnation are you doing here, like this?"

He wasn't happy to see her; he was embarra.s.sed. She shuffled her feet and swallowed, her throat having suddenly grown thick and dry. "I-I-never mind. I'll be on my way. I'm glad to see you home safely." Likely the greatest understatement she'd ever heard, and it had come from her own lips. Feeling her face flush hot, she whirled around, wishing she could escape gracefully instead of tromping away through two feet of snow.

"Don't go."

She stopped but didn't turn around. She closed her eyes, not trusting herself to speak without revealing her true emotions. James would never want her now that she'd disgraced herself like this. Would he?

"Caroline, come here. You don't look well."

Slowly, fearing her heart would fail her, she pivoted to face him again, knowing that she looked atrocious and had come here in a manner that no young woman hoping to have a beau-or fiance-would ever dream of. Yet when she met his gaze, she saw the same thing that had been there before when he'd kissed her. After he'd kissed her. Outside the cookhouse when he'd knelt in the snow and took her by the hand.

He still loves me.

"Please come inside," James urged. "You must be freezing."

She shook her head. Not that she wasn't cold-she was; she could hardly feel her toes, and the winter chill had bitten her nose and the tips of her ears something fierce. But she didn't feel cold, not inside. The icy hollow in her chest was melting, the light that had left her life when James drove off into the night had returned. Hope. That's what it was. And love.

But he was a proud man. He might love her-she could tell by the look in his eye, and if a man loved her when she looked and acted opposite of what a ladylike young woman should, then he'd always love her. How to close the gap?

She licked her lips, knowing what she had to do. It wouldn't be easy. It would take a healthy dose of humble pie. But she would do it.

Caroline stepped closer to the house and held out her hand. Eyebrow rising with curiosity, James stepped beyond the screen door, which shut behind him with a metallic clang. "What is it?"

She held his warm, calloused hand in both of hers, hardly able to believe that it was still warm-alive!-and here, in her hand. How did she get to be so lucky?

Before her courage failed her, she dropped into the snow on one knee.

James gasped. "What's wrong? Have you caught cold?" He must have thought she'd fallen from weakness, not that she'd intentionally knelt on one knee.

Instead of answering his question, Caroline licked her lips again and forced words from her mouth. "James, would you do me the honor of making me your wife?"

Nothing but silence for at least the span of five heartbeats. She prayed that no one else had seen what she'd just done; she'd be the laughing stock of the city if anyone knew that she had proposed marriage to a man.

He hadn't answered. Maybe he didn't want her after all. When she could stand the silence no longer, she looked up, face hot, arms trembling from the building emotions inside her. James's brow had drawn together into a look of confusion.

"I don't understand. I thought-"

"I was wrong," Caroline interrupted. "I do love you. I didn't know it. Not until I thought I might have lost you forever." Her voice caught, and she took two steadying breaths before going on. "I cannot imagine living my life without you. I love you James. I do. And I want to be your wife. If you'll still have me. I'll-I'll understand if you don't, after the way I treated you."

James urged Caroline to her feet. He took both of her hands in both of his and gazed into her eyes. Forget melting; her insides simmered and boiled over. "I've never wanted anyone else."

He leaned in. Caroline met him halfway, knowing what was coming. Her stomach flipped three times before their lips touched. Their last kiss had woken something inside her, but it paled in comparison. This time she knew he loved her, and she knew she loved him in return. And that made each touch, each movement of his lips on hers, mean ten times more than the other kiss ever could have. He released her hands to wrap his arms around her. She reached around his neck, gently pulled his face closer to hers as the kiss deepened into something she hadn't known could exist.

She could have contentedly stayed in his arms forever but finally managed to pull away from his lips-those lips that fit hers like a puzzle piece-and say, "Is that a yes?" She thought that the kiss had given her his answer, but she needed to hear the words. "Will you marry me, James?"

He stroked her hair; she closed her eyes and reveled in his touch, not thinking of her disheveled hair. A shiny tear appeared in his eye, tumbled over, and tracked down his cheek. She reached up with a finger and wiped it; he closed his eyes at the touch. She cupped his face in her hand and took in the face of this amazing man who'd waited for her heart, not knowing if his feelings would ever be requited.

"Yes," James said. "I'll marry you, Caroline Campbell. Nothing would give me more joy." She pulled back enough for them both to peer at her snow-covered boots. "And I'll try very hard to never tease you about the manner in which you asked for my hand."

She laughed, full and warm, the first time in days, if not weeks. "I won't mind teasing at my expense if it means having you."

James stepped over to a bush beside the house, where he broke off a thin twig. He returned to Caroline, who watched in confusion as he first held it between his palms and blew on the twig to warm it then formed it into a circle, tied the ends with a knot then broke off the rest of the twig. "I'll get a better ring for you soon, but until then, here's something little so everyone will know you're taken."

He slipped the makeshift ring onto her left hand then kissed it. She'd keep the ring forever, tucked inside a jewelry box, or perhaps on a chain. She never wanted to forget this moment.

She hoped the thrills jumping inside her body when he touched her would never die. He kissed her hand, then her wrist, and her forearm then shifted to her ear, her jawline, her chin, and finally, her lips.

About Annette Lyon.

Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, the recipient of Utah's Best of State medal for fiction and the author of nine novels, a cookbook, and a grammar guide as well as over a hundred articles. She's a senior editor at Precision Editing Group and a c.u.m laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she's not writing, editing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor. Find her online at http://blog.annettelyon.com and on Twitter: @AnnetteLyon

Other Works by Annette Lyon.

Lost Without You.

http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Without-You-ebook/dp/B003VIX1IG/ At the Water's Edge http://www.amazon.com/At-the-Waters-Edge-ebook/dp/B004NIFOEC/ House on the Hill.

http://www.amazon.com/House-on-the-Hill-ebook/dp/B005LJYZNI/ At the Journey's End http://www.amazon.com/At-The-Journeys-End-ebook/dp/B005LJYZRO/ Spires of Stone http://www.amazon.com/Spires-of-Stone-ebook/dp/B005LKE870/ Tower of Strength http://www.amazon.com/Tower-of-Strength-ebook/dp/B005LKE8IO/.

Band of Sisters http://www.amazon.com/Band-of-Sisters-ebook/dp/B005LKE8MA/ The Newport Ladies Book Club: Paige http://www.amazon.com/Paige-ebook/dp/B008SFPMSY/.

Chocolate Never Faileth http://www.amazon.com/Chocolate-Never-Faileth-Annette-Lyon/dp/1608610470/ There, Their, They're: A No-Tears Guide to Grammar from the Word Nerd http://www.amazon.com/There-Their-Theyre-No-Tears-ebook/dp/B004HO5G86/ The Golden Cup of Kardak.

http://www.amazon.com/Golden-Cup-Kardak-ebook/dp/B005FH2JJI/ Visit Annette Lyon's Amazon Author Page.

http://www.amazon.com/Annette-Lyon/e/B001K8ET9O/.

Caroles on the Green.

by Joyce DiPastena.

The Ring.

England, December 24, 1151.

"Father, must we feast like this every night? I shall be quite fat by Epiphany."

Lord Stephen answered his daughter with barely a glance. He swirled the mulled wine in his goblet and mumbled around a mouth full of roast capon. "Ask Isabel. We will do what your sister thinks best."

Isabel sat between her father and younger sister at the high table on the dais of the great hall of Weldon Castle. She smiled at Agnes, but beneath a white tablecloth stained with grease and sauces from their meal, she tapped her toe impatiently in response to her sister's question.

"Had you eaten more than three bites of tonight's feast," Isabel said to Agnes, "I might feel myself reproved by your complaint. I have spent a month planning these festivities and a good fortnight laboring over the menus for our guests. You were too busy flittering about like a bird to help me, and now you peck at your food like one. A willow reed would have to double its width to compete with your slender figure."

"I would not flitter so if you would give me something more amusing to do than embroider more shirts for Father," Agnes said with a pout on her pretty fifteen-year-old lips.

"Like what?" Isabel asked, though she already knew how Agnes would answer.

"Like do sums. I am ever so much more clever with numbers than you are, but you will not let me near the household accounts, even when you have added the columns so many times that your eyes grow red and it gives you a headache."

"Sweetness, your husband will have clerks to add sums for you, as we did before Edmund Clark retired to the abbey."

Agnes twisted a lock of golden hair about her finger as she did when she was vexed. "That was four years ago, and every time Father wishes to engage a new clerk, you say that Edmund mismanaged the spice accounts, and you will not let us be cheated again by dishonest or incompetent servants. So you add and add and add, double and triple checking, when I would be sure of the correct sums on the very first try."

"I let Edmund teach you to read," Isabel said. "I a.s.sure you, reading is vastly more enjoyable than adding numbers. Come, Agnes, let us not quarrel about this now. Father has agreed to let us dance some caroles after dinner. You will like that."

Isabel had flirted before with the idea of dancing the lively circle songs, which were frowned on by the Church, but she had respected their father's hesitance until this year. Once she had made up her mind to find a husband for Agnes, she had firmly factored dancing into the Christmas celebrations, winning their father's consent by promising to keep the dancing circ.u.mspect and private-as though she would be caught doing anything as undignified as dancing on the village green like her father's serfs, even were the green not covered with snow. Carole dancing would be the perfect opportunity to watch Agnes interact with prospective suitors.

The soft strains of recorder, rebec, and viol floated down from the musicians' gallery, weaving their melodies in and out of the steady patter of conversation rumbling through the hall. Isabel nibbled on a mushroom pasty, savoring the smooth richness of the cheese that flowed over her tongue as she studied by turns the knights who ate at the sideboards below the dais. She had made certain to sprinkle a fair sampling of handsome young men among the graying men and women of her father's generation. Perforce many of them had brought their sisters, but Isabel held little fear of any of them posing a serious threat to Agnes's delicate beauty. She had invited a few knights on her own behalf as well: Sir Theo of the shy smiles, who had sent her that pretty posy of periwinkles and white violets at the end of last summer; Sir Eustace of the smoldering eye and flattering tongue, who had made her feel desirable again after the debacle of her courtship with- "You do not mind that I asked Sir Lucian to join us, do you?" Agnes asked, apparently following Isabel's gaze to the broad-shouldered knight wearing an acorn-shaped cap atop his dark blond curls. The exotic embroidery worked around its brim bespoke of an Oriental influence favored by many knights returned from the last Crusade. He would have been the most handsome knight at the feast had it not been for his slightly off-kilter nose. A stir of guilt squirmed in Isabel, but she tamped it firmly down.

It was your own fault, Lucian de Warrene.

"I only invited him because Ronwen begged me to," Agnes said, nudging Isabel's gaze away from Lucian to the flaxen-haired woman who sat on Lord Stephen's left. "And because you told me you were at quits with him. Are you truly? Because I would never, ever have agreed to it otherwise." Agnes drew Isabel's hand beneath the tablecloth and squeezed it fiercely, whispering, "It frightened me, Bel, to see you weep so. Did I do wrong?"

Isabel felt her smile become more strained as she met her sister's anxious eyes, but she kept the corners of her lips relentlessly turned up. "Nonsense, dearest. They were tears of relief that I came to my senses before it was too late. Sir Lucian and I should never have suited each other in the least."

She made no effort to lower her voice to match her sister's. Lord Stephen thumped down his goblet and turned to his eldest daughter with rare sternness. "You may do as you will with Sir Lucian, Isabel, but you have given me your word-"

"Yes, yes, Father, I know. I told you I would choose a husband by Epiphany, and I will."

Lord Stephen grunted and returned to his roast capon.

Isabel saw her cousin Ronwen smirk. This marriage mischief had been her doing. Lord Stephen had been perfectly content to let Isabel walk in her mother's slippers after the Lady Felicia's death four years ago, directing the affairs of their family, until Ronwen had come to live with them. Lord Stephen had made a few half-hearted suggestions for marriage partners for his eldest daughter through the years, but he accepted Isabel's rejection of each, allowing her to reach the age of nineteen still unwed. Isabel suspected he had actually been pleased when a promising courtship by their neighbor's son, Sir Lucian de Warrene, had unraveled, for she knew her father was far too indolent to go through the trouble of finding himself a new wife when he had a perfectly capable daughter to maintain the tranquil flow of his life.

Isabel and Lucian had grown up together as little more than casual friends, but had reunited with a fresh perception of each other after Lucian returned from the Crusade with his father. The formerly rawboned squire had become a bronzed, muscular young knight who carried himself with a compelling self-a.s.surance. Ronwen, sent to join her uncle's daughters by a disinterested brother when her parents died, had strutted and simpered and fluttered her flaxen lashes in vain, trying to win Lucian's attentions away from Isabel. But time had accomplished what Ronwen's flirtations had not. Provoked beyond bearing by Lucian's high-handed manners, Isabel had at last declared him intolerable and banished him from the castle and her sorely tried affections.

It had not surprised Isabel that Ronwen had swooped in to pick up the shattered pieces of Lucian's heart. It had appalled her, however, to discover Ronwen to be so insecure in the knight's budding devotion as to feel as if the only way to secure him safely and permanently was to see Isabel married to another man.

"You really mean to do it, Bel?" Agnes whispered, clearly wishing not to draw Lord Stephen's attention again. "Marry one of these men?"

"Any one but that one," Isabel murmured, nodding her head in Lucian's direction. This time she kept her voice soft as well.

"I thought you would talk Father out of it again."

"I tried. But Ronwen told him he was selfish to make me a spinster merely for the sake of his own comfort. She was right, of course, about Father being selfish, but when she added that men would think he had sired a termagant whom he could not marry off, her words stung his pride as well as his conscience. Just because he is lazy does not mean that he wishes to admit it. He cares for the world's opinion enough that he will no longer listen to me, especially when he thinks he has another daughter to take my place when I am gone."