Wistful in Wisconsin

their eyes met and a connection was established. She knew, deep in her soul, that nothing would be right unless she was with this man.
Lilah had fallen deeply in love with him. Her hero. She had no future without him.
Sighing, she remembered that moment. Seeing the kindness in his ice blue eyes, she’d burst into tears. He’d produced a blue bandana from his back pocket and handed it to her.
Morrison, the Pinkerton agent, escorted her home to Chicago by train the next day. Her father had hired him when he realized Lilah had disappeared. After searching her room, he found the advertisement calling for singers in a Northern Wisconsin theater.
Thank the Lord she’d left the advertisement. It directed the detective to this town. Fred, she learned later, had already noticed her sudden absence. If only she’d mentioned the reason she’d come north when they sat together in the small café. He’d smiled and, as she remembered it, flirted with her. Nothing in their conversation became as personal as her reason for being there.
The quiet that comforted her when she jerked awake seemed to press heavily against her. It was all wrong. She followed The Lovelorn’s advice. Why was she still alone every night, an unmarried, frightened woman?
No matter that darkness told her it was too early to get up, Lilah reached for her house shoes and her heavy blue velvet wrapper. As she donned it, Lilah thought idly that it was much too nice to wear as she baked. She’d go to the mercantile that day to see if they had a plain one, maybe wool.
Since she started the day this early, she could make a Danish ring. She’d need to let it rise and then fold it during the next few hours. That work would absorb her mind. That and the pie she’d planned to make. Well, she’d change that, too. Instead, she would make peach hand pies.
Maybe Carl Sittig would be able to sell the extras for her. If not, she’d try the café.
Not that she needed the money. With the large legacy from her grandmother, she had funds aplenty. She hated seeing the food go to waste so she would sell it for that reason. At least, she would offer those places what Fred couldn’t eat.
Fatigue must have made her forget. She had agreed to visit Myra Sittig that day. With four children and a husband, certainly the woman would welcome a gift of pies and the remainder of the Danish ring.
As her hands worked the dough, she remembered Helga teaching her to make this recipe. One of the beneficial things her father had done for her was to let her spend all the time she wanted with the Norwegian woman. Even though Helga worked as a cook in the house next to theirs, her father and stepmother ignored the friendship.
She and the cook met over the short rock wall that separated the back lawns. Lilah had been young enough that she was still playing with her hoop, trying to get it to roll over the uneven, grassy yard. The woman stepped out to cut herbs from her small kitchen garden and noticed the young girl, almost a young woman really.
Noticing that she had an adult’s attention, Lilah threw down the hoop and stick to run to the wall. She waved her arm and happily cried, “Hello! I’m Lilah.”
A relationship was born with that action. The cook needed her so she could learn English. She really hadn’t been that much older than Lilah—only ten years or so—and was lonely in this new country. She enjoyed having someone to pass the time with. Lilah craved adult attention and a friend in whom she could confide. They both benefitted.
Until Helga left to be a mail-order bride in Minnesota.
Long days passed after that. Lilah had grasped the possibility of life as a singer as a lifeline, rescuing her from the doldrums. She’d sent Helga a letter, describing the possibility and asking for advice. When, a month later, no response came, Lilah bought a train ticket and left home.
A knock pulled her from her reverie. When she didn’t immediately go to the back door, it came again hard and insistent. With the kind of purpose only trauma could create in a woman, she grabbed the large butcher knife from the block near her on the counter. Holding it in her right hand, ready to strike, she eased the door open an inch or two with her left and whispered a prayer for strength.
“Morning, Miss Levitt. Everything okay with you?”
Fear raced through her. Facing her was the new deputy, Erik Hansen. Burly and tall, she could see why Fred hired the man. Something about Hansen put her off. Lilah hadn’t known exactly what it was until this morning. Seeing him so soon after her nightmare, she saw it.
The man closely resembled the horrible lumberjack from her dream, her would-be rapist. She couldn’t hold that coincidence against the man, her rational side urged. The primitive, protective part of her brain refused to let her dismiss the similarity so she refused to open the door wider. There was no way she would let this man into her home, not when she was alone.
When she stared overly long, the deputy cleared his throat. “I saw your light. It bein’ early, I got to wondering if you needed a doctor or such.”
Lilah’s grip on the knife tightened. The reflexive movement didn’t make sense. No matter, she felt danger radiating from the man.
He put a hand on the door. When he’d pushed it open a few more inches, the deputy glimpsed the knife and froze. “You don’t need that with me.”
Hansen’s voice seemed warm. Underneath any niceties, Lilah sensed a hardness that chilled her. Refusing to ever play the fool or victim again, she held tight to the knife.
“Leave me alone. If