The Heart’s Theft
This winter in the Yorkshire Dales was merciless: forty below froze the world solid, and at night, the cold bit deeper still, as if nature itself tested mankind’s endurance.
“William, wrap up warm! Wear that jumper I knitted for you, the wool one,” Catherine urged her husband as she saw him off to work.
The cold couldn’t halt the farm’s demands—hungry, impatient cattle still needed tending. William, nearing retirement, went about his day as always. Catherine stayed behind, expecting their daughter and grandson, but the girl called from the city:
“Mum, we won’t risk the journey till the freeze lifts. We’ll come next weekend.”
“Good thinking, love. Imagine if the coach broke down in this? Keep safe—both of you,” Catherine replied, swallowing her worry.
Setting the phone down, she drifted into memory. Half a century ago, when she was young Cathy, she’d ventured into the countryside with her friend Margaret to visit Margaret’s grandmother. Back then, the cold had clawed at thirty-five below, but youth had laughed it off.
“Come on, Cathy, come with me to Gran’s!” Margaret had coaxed. “Winter break’s dull alone, and you’ll see our village. True, it’s a trek from the main town, but we’ll manage!”
Both sixteen, Cathy had convinced her mother and packed for the trip. Bundled up, spirits high, the frost meant nothing. The coach took them as far as the market town, but the driver refused to go further:
“End of the line! Road’s buried, not even the plough’s got through. Won’t risk it,” he grunted, ignoring the passengers’ protests.
Cathy and Margaret, like the rest, stepped out.
“Cathy, it’s another eight miles to the village,” Margaret sighed. “No walking in this. Let’s go to Aunt Louise—Mum’s sister. She’ll put us up tonight. Mum suggested it, just in case.”
So they did. Aunt Louise fed them hot stew, honeyed tea, and tucked them into a tiny guest room. By morning, a neighbour, old Fred, agreed to take them in his cart. Aunt Louise had arranged it the night before.
“Fred, fetch the girls. They need to reach Gran’s.”
“Course I will!” he chuckled. “Like the wind, they’ll go!”
Cathy and Margaret climbed in.
“Tuck in tight under this, else you’ll freeze!” Fred tucked the heavy horse blanket around them and clicked his tongue.
The cart skimmed the snow-laden track. Past the town stretched pine woods, then endless moors under white. The path was rough, drifted in places, but the horse trudged on.
“Fred, how old are you?” Margaret asked, breaking the quiet.
“Seventy-five next spring,” he grinned. “Still spry! Summers, I tend sheep—best life there is. Moors in bloom? Like heaven. You ought to see it.”
**A Storyteller’s Soul**
Fred was beloved in those parts. Kind, open, he spun tales so vivid the cold and miles melted away. They chatted of trivial things until, squinting, Fred said:
“Down this very road, girls, I brought my Annie home. Fifty years back, near enough. Stole her, you might say.”
“Stole her?” Margaret gasped. “Tell us, Fred!”
“She’s the one who waved us off?” Cathy added.
“That’s her, my Annie,” he nodded, eyes alight. “Back then, she was just a lass, like you.”
They hushed, clinging to each word.
“Long time ago,” Fred began. “I rode to that village I’m taking you to. Sent by my father to see Uncle Matthew. Twenty-five I was, unwed, searching for a lass to set my heart afire. None in our town fit.”
Arriving, he’d met Uncle Matthew’s son, Tom, his own age.
“Tom took me to the village dance that night. Music loud, girls pulling me in—but then I saw her. Small, golden plait down her back, cheeks rosy from the cold, shaking snow from her shawl.”
“Tom, who’s that?” Fred had asked, staring.
“Annie, Gregory’s daughter. Sweet, but her father’s a brute. Folks steer clear,” Tom warned.
Fred didn’t hesitate. They danced till dawn, laughing, talking. Annie was fire and light. Later, walking her home, Tom left them at the gate.
After that, Fred rode in often. Annie filled his thoughts. But when he spoke of marriage, she wept:
“Father won’t let me leave. Says I’m too young, that there’s a local lad for me. Forbids me to see you.”
“No, Annie. You’re mine,” Fred swore. “Wait for me.”
**Flight by Night**
Fred fell silent, gaze lost in the snow. Margaret nudged him.
“What happened next?”
“Next—refusal,” he sighed. “Gregory barred his door. Said his girl wasn’t leaving. But I knew Annie loved me. Life without her? Empty.”
Fred told Tom to pass word: in three nights, he’d come for her. Under cover of dark, he waited at the village edge. Annie slipped out with a bundle, trembling as she leapt into the cart.
“Father’ll chase us down,” she whispered.
Fred drove hard—but hoofbeats thundered behind. Pursuit. He could have fled, wed her elsewhere. But shame stopped him.
“Annie, I won’t hide from him,” he said, reining in. “Not how a man acts.”
Gregory, purple with rage, charged the cart. Lashed Fred with his crop—but the lad stood firm.
“You come near my girl again, I’ll kill you!” Gregory roared.
“Sir, kill me if you must, but I love Annie. We’re nothing apart,” Fred said.
Whether the words struck true or Gregory recalled his daughter’s joy, he relented.
“Mother’s taken ill, hearing Annie’s gone. Turn the cart. We’ll settle this proper.”
Fred trusted him—harsh as he was, Gregory kept his word.
“Blessed us in the end,” Fred finished, smiling. “Came back proper, wed her proper. Fifty years this spring.”
“Like a novel!” Cathy breathed.
Years had passed, but Catherine still remembered that ride. Old Fred, his tale of stolen hearts. Back then, he’d seemed like time itself—now she knew: true love outlasts it all.
**The Heart’s Theft**
27 May
8509
7 min
This winter in the Yorkshire Dales was merciless: forty below froze the world solid, and at night, the cold bit deeper still.
