The One Winter Collection. Rebecca Winters

can’t make it stop snowing by standing there.”

      “I stopped wishing it would stop after you beat me at Scrabble last night. It has to last at least until the rematch. Do you want to set it up for tonight?”

      He was happy to see the consistently worried look was gone, even though the continuation of the snowfall meant she wasn’t going anywhere tomorrow, either.

      He had turned on the radio with supper. What was going on outside his window was a part of what was being called the Storm of the Century. Some of the secondary roads were closed, including The Cowboy Trail, 22, which his driveway joined.

      “Honestly, Amy? I’m too tired to pit my wits against you. How do you do it by yourself?”

      They were moving back and forth between their two worlds seamlessly. She and the baby had come with him today to do chores. They had all squeezed into the cab of his tractor as he moved large bales into the pasture for his cows. Then they had played with the horse again. Despite not being able to use her one hand, she had executed a pretty passable trot.

      Inside, it was her world. She loved to cook. She had shown him how to make bread and cookies, a simple cream soup. The baby was an unbelievable amount of work: diaper and clothing changes, baths and feedings. How did she manage all this by herself?

      “It never seems like work to me,” she said and came and sat down in the chair opposite him. “It’s what I always wanted. Babies. A cozy kitchen. Bread baking.”

      This was getting easier all the time, too, conversation flowing between them with the ease of old friends.

      “What made you want that?” he asked.

      She turned and smiled at him. “I know. I know. It’s a hopelessly traditional, old-fashioned vision in a modern world. It’s not what my parents hoped for me at all.”

      “Really?” He sensed she was going to trust him with some parts of herself that she did not reveal often.

      He needed to be worthy of that trust. He closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t look at her lips, and pulled his plate of toast close so that the scent would override hers.

      “My parents were both business analysts. Their skills were sought after all over the world. I grew up in Germany, Japan, California, France.

      “We always lived in the best houses in the best neighborhoods, but it never felt like home. I don’t ever remember having a home-cooked meal, unless our current house came with staff, which they sometimes did. And then it was hardly roast beef and potatoes. Baked Sockeye salmon with a lemongrass sauce.

      “I was always in private schools with loads of activities, depending which country we were in. I’m something of a reluctant expert at figure skating, gymnastics, badminton, swimming and soccer. But really, from the youngest age, I remember craving home.

      “I craved a sense of family. I was an only child who wanted six brothers and sisters. It was probably unrealistic, my vision based on watching TV families, reading magazines. But unrealistic or not, I started cooking and baking when I was about thirteen. And I had my own ideas about what I wanted my room to look like, wherever we were, and it did not mesh with the designer’s idea of teenage girl. I wanted homemade crafts on the walls, a crocheted blanket.

      “It was my mother’s worst nightmare.”

      Ty laughed. “At thirteen you were crocheting blankets and baking cookies, and that was your mother’s worst nightmare? She wouldn’t have wanted to know me at thirteen.”

      “Oh! Tell me about that!”

      “Stealing sips of whiskey. Smoking behind the barn. Sneaking out of the house. Taking the truck without permission. Terrorizing the neighborhood girls.” He felt the ripple of sympathy for his dad again.

      “I’m not saying one more word about my boring childhood!”

      “Please?” he wheedled. “I like hearing about you at thirteen.”

      “I’m not sure why. I taught myself how to cook and crochet. I got a sewing machine and learned to sew. My mother was appalled by my fascination with all things domestic. I had my own little world.”

      “Boys?” he asked.

      “Terrified of them, while writing secret love letters to the ones I liked best. Never mailed, of course.”

      “Of course.” He laughed. He could see her as just that kind of girl: sweet and shy, the kind guys, dumb prisoners to raging hormones that they were, overlooked again and again.

      “We were back in Canada when I finished high school—still no boyfriend—and by then, I was dreaming of babies to fill up my little fantasy cottage. But I did what my parents wanted. I went to university in Calgary, as per my mother’s plans, but in my second year a boy had finally shown interest in me.

      “Poor guy. Before he knew what had happened, I had him cast in the starring role of my secret fantasy. I dropped out to get married. My parents, surprisingly, approved of Edwin, possibly because his family owned a company that traded on the New York Stock Exchange.

      “Edwin was still going to university, so we lived with his parents.”

      “You were newlyweds and you lived with his parents?”

      “Actually, at first it seemed as if I was in heaven. His mother was like Martha Stewart on steroids.”

      “Martha who?”

      “Stewart. She has a television show. And a magazine. She’s the world’s leading expert on all things domestic, from removing wine stains from white linen to making Halloween punch with the illusion of a dismembered hand floating in it.”

      “Terrifying,” he said drily.

      “The Halloween punch or Martha?”

      “Both. You were telling me about your in-laws.”

      “They had lived in the same house for twenty-five years.”

      “That’s not long. There have been Hallidays on this place for over a hundred.”

      Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Amy got a distinctly dreamy look on her face.

      “For somebody like me who never had a home, a family in the same place for so long was like a fairy tale coming true. And then it was all about cooking, and stunning crafts, and décor, and creating an environment that whispered sweet welcome.

      “But somewhere along the line, I realized it was all about how everything looked, and not about how it felt. Cynthia’s perfect home, her perfectly cooked meals, her crystal collections and towels folded in precise thirds—everything looked so perfect and felt so plastic.

      “And, I’m afraid that describes my marriage, too. I thought it was the house, so as soon as Edwin finished university, I wanted to move out. But he said it was too much pressure. He’d been appointed CEO of one of the family companies, and that was his life.

      “Honestly, I felt as if I was back with my parents. He worked. I was invisible. I thought the baby would help.”

      “Ah.”

      “It helped me. I didn’t feel so alone. I finally had something to live for.” She said softly, reluctantly, “It was not what I had hoped my marriage would be.”

      “My first clue—living with his parents. My second clue—he wanted to live with his parents. Pretty hard to chase each other around the house shrieking with amour when Mommy and Daddy are looking on.”

      “We managed to make a baby,” she said primly.

      “Miracle of miracles.”

      “I’ve never said this to another living soul.”

      He said nothing, waiting.

      “The baby was wonderful. Other than that, I’ve never felt so lonely. My own parents had decided to retire.