Hidden Dreams Read online

  MARY ANNE IS ON THE RUN.

  Her father’s been murdered, and now the mob’s after her, too. Leaving New York City behind is the only way to stay alive. Yet Mary Anne Lamont finds herself stuck in Maple Notch, Vermont, when her car crashes straight into Wallace Tuttle’s truck. Wallace and his family offer her warmth and welcome, no questions asked. But she doesn’t dare give them her real name—not without risking their safety too.

  At first, Wallace chides himself for being distracted by the glamorous flapper. Mary Anne certainly doesn’t fit his image of a future wife. But underneath the bleached bob and big-city ways is a courageous, caring woman. When the danger she’s been running from draws close, Wallace must risk everything to prove his faith in Mary Anne, in God’s plan, and the dreams they’ve come to share.

  With unspoken assent, they headed back to the cabin. “I suppose you’ll be needing this now.”

  Mary Anne dug the sketchbook out of her pocket. Her fingers brushed his as she placed it in Wallace’s hands. Her touch sent a longing through him, a desire to walk hand in hand with her through the trees.

  She cocked her head to one side, light playing on skin that had tanned under the summer sun.

  The sketchbook dropped to the ground as he intertwined his fingers with hers and drew her close. He looked into her eyes, asking permission.

  No stop sign appeared, only yield. Beneath the maple trees in the middle of the Vermont woods, he gently touched her lips with his, claiming them as his own.

  She stepped back without speaking. She didn’t have to. A shy smile lifted her lips, and a new light shone from those lobelia-blue eyes.

  DARLENE FRANKLIN

  Award-winning author and speaker Darlene Franklin lives near her son’s family, including four precious grandchildren, in cowboy country—Oklahoma. Her daughter Jolene has preceded her into glory. Darlene loves music, reading a good romance and reality TV.

  Darlene Franklin

  Hidden Dreams

  I wish to dedicate Hidden Dreams

  to my beloved son, Jaran Franklin, who has met

  the change in my circumstances with grace and love.

  I couldn’t have made it without you.

  I also want to thank Mary Alward for her support.

  I borrowed her grandmother’s name

  for one of my characters.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Maple Notch, Vermont

  March, 1927

  Marabelle Lamont had never expected March to end the way it had after it started with such hope. If she didn’t know better, she might think nature was playing some kind of early April Fools’ prank.

  The dark road ahead of her and the cup of coffee in her free hand reminded Marabelle of her present reality. The waitress at the restaurant in Burlington had gladly let her keep the cup. Marabelle had hated counting out change for the bill.

  Dad had anticipated better days ahead when he bought the Victoria coupe two weeks ago. But using the car already sprinkled too many crumbs on the path she needed to hide. Pulling out a hundred-dollar bill would cement the memory. Only the changing letters of the town names gave any clue that she was making progress on her wild flight to Canada.

  The hotel nestled next to the restaurant had tempted Marabelle—no, not Marabelle; she needed to use her birth name, boring old Mary Anne—to stop for a few hours. But registering for a room would require sensitive information, like identification and her signature. Awkward questions would be asked, such as why was a woman all alone asking for a hotel room when it was only a couple of hours past dawn?

  As it was, she gained a few valuable tidbits of information while she forced herself to thoroughly chew each bite at the restaurant, as if she had all the time in the world. The breakfast was glorious—two slices of bacon served with fried eggs and pancakes covered with the marvelous syrup that made Vermont so famous. Most important, Marabelle learned she was near her goal of slipping over the border into Canada a few miles past St. Albans. Only one town lay between her and freedom: Maple Notch, Vermont.

  Marabelle—Mary Anne—checked her appearance in the rearview mirror. Still pretty jazzy, even if she looked as pale and romantic as one of Valentino’s sweethearts on the silver screen. She had tied a scarf over her bleached bob and worn her one remaining older dress since she had replaced most of her wardrobe with fancier clothing. She hoped that an ordinary Mary Anne wouldn’t stand out, even if she was a young woman heading north to destinations unknown. If only the new car her father had bought her wouldn’t garner attention...but she feared it did in this rural setting.

  She set off once more, heading for Canada. To her right, in the increasing morning light, a bubbling stream winked between the trees. It was too bad she couldn’t take the time to linger and enjoy the beauty around her.

  She wished she could shed her identity as easily as she’d left the city. To do that she’d have to empty her suitcase of everything she owned. She wouldn’t mind that, but with the border ahead, she’d need her documentation, so she couldn’t lose herself so blithely. The farther she drove, the less traffic she saw. She hadn’t passed a single car since her last stop. With God’s favor, maybe she wouldn’t until she had crossed the border.

  This drive would be lovely in different circumstances. The beauty of the forest thrilled her, with the delicate greens of maples, oaks and birch, and the slightly darker green of new pine needles crowded against the bluish haze of spruce. Up ahead, tucked among the spring colors, she spotted a patch of red. Not a red maple tree, but one of the romantic covered bridges she had heard about.

  The road swerved to the right and to the left, and then the entrance popped in front of her, much closer than she expected. Too late she saw the speed limit sign. Ten miles an hour? She was doing at least thirty. She hit the brakes as she entered the dark tunnel. Her front wheels gripped rickety boards and the bridge walls closed in on her car, like a clamshell on a hapless minnow.

  The car skidded on the wooden decking, and she wrenched the wheel back to the center.

  * * *

  Wallace Tuttle tapped on his brakes for form’s sake as he approached the old bridge. The drive from Grandpa Tuttle’s farm to town provided welcome thinking time. With oncoming traffic so rare, he could practically drive it blindfolded. Tuttles had been going this way since before the Revolutionary War.

  Nothing else moved along the road, but he always checked. He glanced at the shadowy entrance to the bridge and didn’t spot any movement there, either. The bridge accommodated only a single lane of traffic but that rarely caused problems.

  Seconds after he steered the truck into the darkened passage, a blue car barreled straight at him. He braked, the truck skidded and metal crashed into metal at the center of the bridge, bringing both vehicles to a halt.

  His breathing stopped, then starte
d again. He tapped one foot on the floor, then the other. Both legs were working. Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, he checked his chest, legs and arms. They appeared sore and bruised, but nothing was broken. Praise the Lord.

  He stared toward the other vehicle, now diagonal across the twilit bridge. Squinting, he spotted a head slumped over the steering wheel. That car had been racing toward him at twice the speed of his vehicle. It was purely foolish to race onto a dark bridge without checking for oncoming traffic first. The other driver hadn’t even turned on the headlights.

  His truck door screeched as he opened it, and he stepped cautiously across the boards strewn with broken glass. His right knee caved a little, and he stumbled a bit, reaching for the nearest wall for support. This high-rolling stranger—it had to be a stranger, since no one in Maple Notch owned such a fancy car—would cost him time and money. The only other bridge over the Bumblebee River lay miles to the north.

  He approached the other car with care. It was a marvel, the kind that screamed the sort of lifestyle that went with the driver’s white-blond hair. Maybe she had drunk some of the illegal whiskey rumored to make its way through Chittenden County before taking the wheel.

  She stirred, straightening slim shoulders and revealing a blood-streaked arm. Wide blue eyes opened for a second, grabbing his spirit with a soundless cry of fear and pain.

  “Daddy.” With that single word, she slumped against the door.

  Chapter 2

  The word tore at Wallace’s heart. The surface sophistication suggested by dyed hair and deluxe vehicle hadn’t protected the poor young woman. Rough skin showed beneath the torn silk of her dress.

  He struggled to open the door, then reached for her wrist, noting her fast and erratic pulse. He ran quick hands over her exposed arm, finding only broken skin. Aside from a few scrapes here and there, only a bloody lump at the back of her head caused him major concern. He ran tentative fingers over the bump, and she moaned, jerking away from his touch. His pulse quickened.

  “I’ll go get you help.” With a last gentle touch of her shoulder, he retraced his steps to his truck. The front tires had flattened, so he didn’t bother getting into the cab. Should he leave her in the car or risk moving her to the bed of his truck? Leave her, he decided. The sooner he got to the farmhouse where he could call for help, the better.

  He trotted down the road at a decent pace, although his muscles ached. He remembered how the stunned young woman had called for her father in her distress. For some reason, God had cast him in the role of Good Samaritan today. He would do his best.

  * * *

  A cool washcloth brushed over Mary Anne’s forehead, tickling her to semi-wakefulness. She kept her eyes closed, trying to orient herself to her surroundings.

  “I wonder who she is.” She didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

  “She didn’t have any identification on her that I could find,” said a woman this time.

  Someone checking for identification...Mary Anne moved her lips but no sound came out.

  “From New York, according to her car tags. Probably the city, from her accent.” The second male speaker sounded vaguely familiar, like a radio personality never seen in person.

  “She’s one blessed lady for you to find her like you did.” A large, callused hand probed her head, and she turned away at the pain caused by his touch.

  The second man grunted. “If we hadn’t ‘met,’ she wouldn’t have been in an accident to start with.”

  Accident...car. Pain in her forehead kept Mary Anne from putting sense to the words. She felt an overwhelming sense of danger, a need for secrecy. Someone said she didn’t have identification? Good.

  She was lying in some stranger’s house. She could feel crisp linen sheets and the weight of a quilt or coverlet covering her. The bed stretched out on either side of her, wide enough for a double bed. Odors unfamiliar to her, city girl that she was, of fresh grass, moist air and animals, wafted through a nearby window. A child’s laughter, a dog’s bark, the soft lowing of a cow greeted her ears.

  Facts clicked into place. Vermont. An old covered bridge. The accident. That much came back to mind, and she groaned.

  “She’s coming around.” The second man spoke. Bodies shuffled, and she felt a shadow pass between her and the window, then the warmth that must be the sun’s returned.

  Mary Anne forced her eyes open and squinted against the brightness of the noontime sun. A man with a black bag stood by her right side, a stethoscope draped around his neck. A slender, dark-haired woman stood across from him, dipping a washcloth into a water basin and replacing the one on Mary Anne’s forehead. A younger man, with the same dark hair and good looks as the woman, hovered at the end of the bed. His muddied and torn jeans suggested he was her rescuer.

  “Where am I?” Her words came out thick.

  No one answered. “What do you remember?” The doctor tapped his chin with his finger.

  Why wouldn’t they answer such a simple question? “Where am I?” Even she could hear the panic in her voice.

  “You’re with friends.” The woman wrung out the washcloth and placed a reassuring hand on Mary Anne’s arm. “Let me go get you some tea.”

  The two men exchanged looks, a frown creasing the young man’s brow.

  The doctor said, “You have a nasty bump on your head. I’m going to ask you a few questions to help me determine the degree of injury you’ve received. So, do you know what day it is?”

  “Wednesday? No. It must be Thursday.”

  “What year is it?” the doctor persisted.

  “1927.”

  “And who’s the president?”

  Why was the doctor continuing with these silly questions? “Herbert Hoover.” She could almost hear her father saying “the dirty rat” and tears hovered behind her eyelids. She blinked them back.

  The doctor nodded as if satisfied with her answers. Leaning forward to stare into her eyes with a scope, he asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Renewed danger signals warned Mary Anne to be careful of what she said, but the narrowed gaze from the man at the end of the bed suggested only the truth would do. “I was driving down the road and came across a covered bridge. And as soon as I turned onto the boards, a truck ran into me.” That’s where I met him. “That was you, wasn’t it? Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He didn’t sound very pleased about it. “Where were you heading?”

  “Burlington.” She said the first town that came to mind.

  The frown returned to her interrogator’s face. “You were heading in the opposition direction from Burlington.”

  “Oh, Wallie.” The woman came back through the door, bearing a cup of steaming tea on a saucer. “Burlington’s not that far away. I bet she just got lost up here in the woods.” She held the china to Mary Anne’s lips.

  Mary Anne welcomed the sweet tea as an excuse not to say more.

  “What is your name, dear?” The woman took a seat next to the bed. “Let me introduce myself first. I’m Clarinda Finch, and you’re at my farm.”

  Mary Anne didn’t miss the glare she sent the young man’s way, daring him to comment on her introducing herself. Three pairs of eyes looked at Mary Anne, waiting for her to reciprocate with her name.

  “I’m Mary Anne Laurents.” The name came easily to her lips, even while her brain registered the lie. “And you’re right, I did get turned around. If you’ll just tell me where I can get my car, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  The young man barked a laugh, and the doctor shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re certain what’s going on with your head.”

  Am I your prisoner?

  “Your car is stranded on the bridge, along with my truck.” No wonder the man was frowning. “All the traffic for twe
nty miles around has to find another way across the river until we can get them towed.”

  Car? Towed? Without transportation, she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to.

  Clarinda made a shooing motion with her hands. “You two get out of here. Even without a medical degree, I can see Mary Anne needs rest and a bath, and I’m the one to help her with that. Thank you for coming when we called, Doctor. I will let you know if her condition changes. And Wallie, why don’t you take care of getting a tow truck?” She followed the men to the door and shut it behind them.

  Sitting beside Mary Anne, Clarinda patted her arm. “I feel I must apologize for my excuse of a brother. Anybody with half a brain could see you’re worn out and scared to death.”

  At Clarinda’s kind words, Mary Anne burst into tears.

  * * *

  “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” Winnie Tuttle, Wallace’s younger sister, whistled as she saw the coupe he was checking out for damage.

  He nodded his appreciation for the car’s elegance. “Not much call for fancy cars like this around here.”

  “I’d like to have a car like this someday.” Winnie had jumped at the chance to help Wallace clean it after she returned from her ice skating practice. “Where do you think she’s from?”

  “New York. Maybe Brooklyn.”

  “These bags aren’t fancy.” Winnie struggled to lift a battered cardboard suitcase out of the trunk but managed to lay it gently on the floor.

  “Not everything in New York is fancy.” Wallace lifted the other suitcase, as heavy as his bags had been when he came home from college. He set it next to the first bag and studied the coupe. Painted as blue as the American flag, with a black roof, it was mighty handsome.

  “But this car is fancy. I know. And you said she had that white hair.” Winnie fingered her own dark locks, which she often complained of as ordinary.

  Winnie was strong, a figure of earth and water, equally at home on a horse’s back or on the ice. Not like the fragile beauty who remained abed, protected by Clarinda’s strict warnings to leave her alone.