The Stolen Heart
The winter in the Yorkshire Dales that year was merciless—cold so bitter it froze the land solid, temperatures plunging below minus twenty at night, as if nature itself meant to test the limits of human endurance.
“John, wrap up warm! Wear that jumper I knitted for you, the woollen one,” urged Catherine as she saw her husband off to work.
No matter the freeze, the farm wouldn’t tend to itself. The cows, hungry and restless, demanded care. John, nearing retirement, gathered his things without complaint. Catherine stayed behind—she’d been expecting their daughter with the baby, but the girl had called from Manchester:
“Mum, we won’t risk the roads till the freeze lifts. We’ll come next weekend.”
“Best not chance it, love. What if the bus breaks down in this cold? Look after yourself and the little one,” Catherine replied, masking her worry.
Hanging up, she stilled, lost in memory. Another winter flashed before her—fifty years ago, when she was young Kate, setting off with her friend Victoria to visit Victoria’s gran in a remote village. Back then, the cold had nipped just as sharp, but youth had laughed at frost.
“Come with me, Katie! It’ll be an adventure,” Victoria had pleaded. “Gran’s place is proper isolated, but we’ll manage!”
At sixteen, they’d been fearless. Kate’s mother had relented, bundling her in layers before the journey. The bus took them as far as the next town before the driver refused to go further:
“That’s it, ladies! Road’s blocked—wouldn’t risk it.”
They’d stepped off, stranded.
“Gran’s village is still miles off,” Victoria groaned. “Auntie Liz lives here, though. We’ll stay the night, sort it in the morning.”
So they did. Auntie Liz fed them hot stew, poured them honeyed tea, and tucked them into a small back room. By dawn, a neighbour, old Fred, had agreed to take them the rest of the way by cart.
“Fred’ll see you there, girls,” Auntie Liz assured them. “He’s got the best horse in town.”
“Wouldn’t say no to company!” Fred beamed as they climbed aboard. “Tuck yourselves under that blanket—won’t have you turning to ice!”
The cart lurched forward, cutting through the snow-dusted lanes. Beyond the village, pine woods gave way to endless white moors, the path uneven but the horse steady.
“Mr. Fred, how old are you?” Victoria asked, eager to fill the silence.
“Seventy-five next spring,” he chuckled. “Still fit as a fiddle. Tend sheep in summer—best views in England. You ought to visit then!”
Fred had a storyteller’s soul. His tales warmed them better than the blanket, until suddenly, his gaze turned distant.
“This road’s where I stole my Annie,” he murmured.
“Stole her?” Victoria gasped. “Go on, then!”
“Annie—the woman who waved us off?” Kate guessed.
“The very same,” he said, eyes alight. “She was just your age then.”
The girls leaned in, breathless.
“Back when I was twenty-five,” Fred began, “my father sent me to my uncle’s in that village. I hadn’t wed yet—no lass had caught my eye. Then I saw her at the village hall. Small thing, golden plait down her back, cheeks pink from the cold.”
“Annie?” Victoria whispered.
“Aye. Uncle’s lad, Tom, warned me off. ‘Her father’s a brute,’ he said. But I danced with her all night. Walked her home. After that, I rode back every week.”
His voice thickened. “Then one day, she wept in my arms. ‘Father’s promised me to another,’ she said. ‘He’ll never let me go.’”
Fred’s jaw set. “I told her, ‘Wait for me.’”
The cart jolted. Victoria clutched Kate’s arm. “What happened?”
“I asked for her hand proper. Her father near threw me out. ‘She’ll marry local,’ he spat. But I knew Annie’s heart. So I sent word—three nights later, I’d come for her.”
Fred’s hands tightened on the reins. “She slipped out after dark, bundle in hand, shaking like a leaf. ‘He’ll follow,’ she kept saying. And he did—heard the hoofbeats before we’d cleared the village.”
Kate’s pulse raced. “You didn’t run?”
“Turned the cart around,” Fred said, quiet. “Told him straight: ‘I love her, sir. Kill me if you must, but I’ll not live without her.’”
A beat. Then—
“He let you go?”
Fred smiled. “Next Sunday, he gave us his blessing. Married sixty years now.”
“Bloody hell,” Victoria breathed.
Years on, Catherine still remembered that ride. Fred’s story, his courage, how love had defied even the harshest winter. Back then, she’d thought youth was a forever thing. Now she knew—real love was the thing that lasted.
***
The Stolen Heart
27 May
8509
7 minThe fire crackled softly as Catherine stirred the kettle, her eyes lingering on the wedding photo of John and herself—proof that some hearts, once stolen, are never returned.
