Baby It's Cold Outside by Susan May Warren Page B

folded it, and filled her own fork. Yum, indeed. “Do we have enough for the others?”
    “Why should we keep breakfast to ourselves?”
    She didn’t answer. Good thing he’d made the coffee too strong, because she needed something to blame for the sting in her eyes.
    He looked past her to the window as he reloaded his fork. “The storm doesn’t seem to be letting up. We may be stuck here all day today.”
    If God was merciful, He’d send a sudden spring thaw.
    * * * * *
    Call him a pitiful man, but Gordy had always dreamed of waking up in Dottie’s house. Always dreamed of smelling breakfast frying in the kitchen, always dreamed of sitting down at the large oak table, having her join him, asking him what his plans for the day might be.
    “I’m going to get the Ford Ferguson running, and then maybe clean the barn.” Not exciting conversation, even in his head, but it didn’t have to be. In his head, they were an old married couple, so comfortable with each other, they didn’t need to speak. He might slide his hand over to hers, wrangle her sweet elegant fingers between his, despite the roughness of his work-worn hands, and meet her beautiful blue eyes.
    And then, their son would bounce into the kitchen from the barn, wearing his work jacket, carrying in a bucket of milk. “Hey, Dad.”
    The image had the power to turn his chest into a knot as he stared at the brown paneled ceiling of Dottie’s den.
    But he’d never been Dad to Nelson . Just Gordy. And, most of the time, that felt like enough. More than enough, really. Because as Nelson got older, he spent nearly as much time at Gordy’s farm as he did with Dottie. And it never seemed that she resented it.
    He remembered the day she waved to him from the porch, smiling. As if she might invite him in. Nelson, about sixteen, had even suggested it.
    “Ma always makes too much food anyway.”
    But, like always, whenever he got too close, the hurt would rise to strangle him. “Naw. I have chores.”
    He couldn’t ever quite erase from his memories the look of disappointment on Nelson’s face.
    Gordy had managed to sleep the entire night on the dark leather sofa, warm enough under a wool blanket. Now, as he sat up, clad in his thermals, the cool room shook him awake. Back to reality.
    He had a farm to run, a cow to milk.
    And if he stayed much longer under the roof of Dottie Morgan, his longings might devour him whole.
    He stood at the window, gauging the weather, and shook his head. He couldn’t even see Dottie’s barn across the drive, the snow heavy and blinding. And, in the night, a thin veneer of ice filmed the window, pasted the cracks.
    So much for milking. Harriet was nearly dry anyway, and skipping her milking would seal her fate. Maybe by this afternoon…
    He pulled on his wool trousers, then his flannel shirt, buttoning it before he opened the door, peeking into the hall. He heard voices in the kitchen—so Dottie had already risen, probably to make breakfast. He tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom. Last night she’d issued them all toothbrushes and towels. At least he could make himself presentable.
    It took an eternity for the hot water to reach the shower. He washed up, wishing he had clean clothes, then scrubbed his hair dry with a towel, staring in the mirror.
    He didn’t usually care about his appearance, but this morning, in Dottie’s oval mirror, he appeared ancient. Saggy around the jowls, his beard grizzled, like an old hermit, his eyes tired. Once upon a time, in that visage had been a man who had made Dottie laugh, who had coaxed her onto his Ferguson tractor for a drive out to the back forty, who had believed she’d say yes to his proposal of marriage.
    He drew his hands down his face. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut.
    He needed the last twenty-seven years back.
    What if—what if this were his one chance to remind Dottie of what they could have had? What if—what if today he wooed her back into his arms?
    He stared at the