Hideaway Home. Hannah Alexander
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Hannah Alexander
Hideaway Home
MILLS & BOON
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We wish to honor our loved ones who risked
everything for our country’s freedom
in World War II: Ralph Hodde, Larry Baugher,
Irwin Baugher, Loy Baugher, Cecil James,
Leonard Wesson and Glen Jones.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
We’re so grateful for our editor, Joan Marlow Golan, her exceptional staff and for our agent, Karen Solem, who help us make our books the best they can be.
We thank Lorene Cook, who helped us establish the authenticity of our story and patiently answered late-night calls with questions about “the way it was back then.”
Ray Brown, Barbara Warren, Lee McCormick, Soni Copeland, Mike Hemphill and Jackie Bolton shared their memories, their knowledge, their expertise and their historical material for this story. We will always be grateful for their generosity.
Chapter One
Something was wrong. The news hadn’t reached California yet, but Bertie Moennig knew something had happened. She couldn’t pinpoint when she’d decided she wasn’t jumping to conclusions, but her instincts had never failed her. She would have to wait and see.
It frustrated her no end, because she didn’t like to wait for anything. Still…in the midst of this wretched war, she’d grown accustomed to it.
Bertie paused in the noisy workroom of Hughes Aircraft to untie the blue bandana from her head. Her hairnet had ripped this morning, too late for her to get a replacement, and there were strict regulations about keeping long hair restrained.
Now, half of her bun had fallen down over her neck and shoulders. As if this plant wasn’t already hot enough! Folks liked to chatter on and on about the wonderful weather in Southern California; those folks must’ve never worked in a busy, noisy aircraft plant on a sunny day.
Another trickle of perspiration dripped along the side of Bertie’s face, and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder while fiddling with the bandana. She’d take a summer afternoon on the farm in the Missouri Ozarks over working in the heat of this plant any day.
Not that she disliked California. She loved it most of the time—the weather, the ocean, the mountains—but it could be a challenge for a country girl to get used to the crush of people and traffic, even after living here for eight months.
In Hideaway, Missouri, Bertie would’ve ridden her bicycle the three miles to work, but here she saw more cars passing by the apartment than she would see in a year back home. The crazy pace of Southern California had shocked her upon arrival and—
“Hey, hillbilly!”
She winced at the sound of the barrel voice approaching from behind her. Looking around, then up at the department supervisor, Franklin Parrish, she braced herself for yet another earful of complaining.
“Yessir?”
“Get back to work. And get that hair up,” he snapped, looming too close, as he always did. He eyed the blond hair that fell around her shoulders, then his gaze wandered.
Even though he mocked her Ozark accent and figures of speech, he made no secret of the fact he liked her figure well enough.
She tied her hair back on top of her head. “A man in your position should mind his manners, Mr. Parrish,” she said quietly, wishing Edith Frost, her roommate, was here. She’d have an extra hairnet.
Franklin leaned closer to Bertie, his face flushed like that of a child who’d been caught snooping in his mother’s purse. “And you’d better mind who you’re talking to, hillbilly. I can turn you out of here by signing the bottom line of a little sheet of paper.”
Bertie met his gaze, trying hard not to show her irritation. After three hundred hours of instruction in St. Louis, she’d been sent here as a trained machinist at the company’s expense. If he fired her for no good reason, he’d have to answer for his actions.
“You want these parts to pass inspection, don’t you?” she asked. “We still have a war to win against the Japanese, and I aim to help win it.” She knew she should smile to take the bite out of her words, but she held his gaze, straight-faced.
Franklin glowered. Bertie nipped on her tongue to keep it from getting her into deeper trouble. Franklin grunted and walked away.
Bertie sighed. Someday, she’d go too far, but she didn’t think that day had come yet. Years ago, her mother had tried to tell her that a woman could get more accomplished with honey than with vinegar, but Bertie had found that the two mixed well together. That was especially true for a woman working in a man’s world.
Besides, Mom never had depended strictly