Before you read this, I should explain. I love this story. I love it so much that I want to fix it. I am thinking of rewriting it from the beginning with more accuracy and better detail. I wouldn't be changing the actual story itself, just some of the telling will be different. So, this is my experiment. It's been nagging at me all day and I had to write it down. I figured I would upload it. So this would be the new way Jo meets Tom. The timeline would be slightly different, but I'll figure that out later.

Enjoy. And if you think I should go on with this, let me know!

It had been a long day. The winter was still holding on with an icy grip even though it was the middle of March. It seemed like a constant layer of heavy gray clouds hung over the city. I missed summer. I loved the sun and the warm weather. I missed seeing leaves on trees and blue sky. It would be a definite improvement not to have to wear three layers of clothing and heavy boots.

As I looked at the fresh snow that had fallen only the night before, I mentally made a note to stop on the way home after work and pick up some bread and milk on the way home. My brothers would be rambunctious by the time I returned and my mother would not have had time to slip out.

Unsurprisingly, the horses were being extremely uncooperative with us today. They seemed to like the cold as much as I did. It had been a while since they'd been out and had been able to run around without having to step through at least half a foot of this awful snow. One of the mares, a rust colored girl, nudged at my shoulder as I swept the floor of the stables.

"You know me too well, Daisy." I laughed, reaching into the pocket of my heavy flannel coat, a jacket that had belonged to my late stepfather, and I withdrew a carrot. "Don't tell the others, okay?" I whispered, pressing a kiss to her soft white nose before checking the time. It was nearly noon. I informed Mr. Swan, the groomer that I was going up to the main office area for lunch.

"Don't know why you come out in this godawful weather anyways, little girl." He replied gruffly, shaking his head. "You work too hard for a kid of eighteen."

"I'm nineteen now, Carl." I reminded him. "January, remember?"

"Still too young, Missy. You should be out havin' fun with kids your own age. Fallin' in love." He sighed, finishing brushing the black stallion named New Moon. "Go, get lunch before you waste away. You're skinny enough as it is." I grinned at him and rubbed my gloved hands together before bursting back out into the winter and towards the main farm house. Parson's Farm was not a fancy stable, but it was family owned, breeding and housing some of the loveliest horses in the area.

I had been employed here since my third year of high school after my stepfather had been killed in a tragic accident. My mother had been close to giving birth to my second brother and had been unable to work. It had been a stroke of luck, landing this job with these people who were good and fair and paid rather well for someone who had barely been able to pick up the horse's waste to somebody who could ride, train and groom them as well. I loved horses. They were calm and lovely creatures.

I was surprised to find the office area of the house empty, stomping the snow off my boots and removing my heavy coat, gloves and scarf and dropping them in a pile near the door.

"Mrs. Flaherty?" I called tentatively, wondering where she had gone. I noticed a piece of paper on the counter.

Jo,

Had to run into town. Will be back by 3. Hold down the fort.

-Jean

I moved into the kitchen and opened the ice box to remove the sandwich I had packed myself for lunch. My long hair was coming loose from the braid I had put it in earlier in the morning. I could feel the tiny wisps of red curls around my face and forehead. I sat on the wooden stool at the desk and quickly devoured the sandwich while flipping mindlessly through the daily paper. There was really nothing of interest in it, save for a puzzle and a story about a successful art dealer donating money to the Museum of Art. The door opened, bringing with it a gust of icy wind which took my paper straight out of my frozen hands. Sighing, I moved to retrieve it while the man who had come in approached the desk.

"Sorry about that." His voice was pleasant and even. I shrugged, standing and looking up at him. I must have stood up too quickly because I got extremely light headed and stumbled, catching myself on the desk.

"No problem. Can I help you?" I asked amiably, folding my arms in a businesslike manner.

"I'm not sure." He told me, studying me with a cautious grin. He was a very handsome fellow, with shaggy hair, a gleaming dark gold color, and a young face with a shadow of slightly darker stubble on his jaw. Standing well over my height, he looked down at me with a contemplative expression on his face. I shuffled uncomfortably.

"If you're looking to purchase a horse, my boss should be back in a couple of hours." I informed him. "If you want to—"

"I'm not here for horses." He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "I was told I could find someone here."

"Okay…" I replied, raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Who?"

"A Dawson. J. Dawson." He answered. I masked my shock with a swallow, gripping the edge of the desk so hard, I was sure my knuckles had turned white. "Can you tell me where to find him?"

Him?

"What do you want with Dawson?" I challenged, gauging his reaction. Nodding, he turned and set a briefcase on the counter and quickly pulled out a piece of paper with a charcoal drawing on it. I nearly gasped. I had sold that drawing only a week before to the director of the Museum of Art.

"Call me curious. Kid's got talent." He flashed a brilliant smile at me and for a fleeting moment, I wished my mother were here. "Can you help me?"

"Depends." I responded, wanting to know more about him before I outed myself.

"Stubborn little thing, aren't you?" He tilted his head, looking at me in fascination.

"You have no idea." I answered, chuckling despite myself. "I get it from my mother. She's worse than I am."

"I must say, you have a particularly striking shade of hair." He observed, noting what must be a wild mop of curls by this point. I brushed it back futilely.

"Thanks. You can have it." I quipped, eyeing him. "I'll need to know your name before I give you any information." I added.

"Of course." He nodded, handing me a business card.

Thomas Rose

Art Dealer, Architect, Artist

"You're that art dealer everyone's been talking about." I exclaimed, looking at my abandoned newspaper. "You donated money to the museum."

"Guilty." Mr. Rose nodded, beaming again. His eyes were a striking shade of light blue against the healthy glow of his tanned face.

"What the hell are you doing in Cedar Rapids?" I asked dryly, glancing out the window at the second round of heavily falling snow.

"Just passing through actually. I find the most interesting art is usually in the most unexpected places. Someone recommended the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art to me and so, here I am."

"Where are you from?" I asked again. I knew I must sound like an obnoxious six year old, but the questions fell from my lips before I could stop them.

"Originally? Wisconsin." He laughed. "I've lived in Philly for the past couple of decades, though."

"Couple of decades?" I heard myself cry. "How old are you?"

"Pretty ancient. Thirty-nine." He pretended to shudder, making me roll my eyes even though I couldn't help but smile. "So, Miss? Can you help me find Dawson?"

I nodded, gingerly taking my drawing from him and running my fingertips over the paper. It was no one in particular, just a little girl I'd seen in town with her father. She'd been chattering his ear off in the way that very young girls do while he patiently listened as if she was the most interesting person on earth. It had enthralled me, inspiring me to draw this scene.

"You're looking at her." I said, letting out a long breath. A swell of nerves balled up in the pit of my stomach, though I wasn't really sure why. I swallowed and he stared at me as if he'd heard wrong. People were always surprised to hear I was a girl. "J. Dawson at your service." I went on, extending a hand to him and biting my lower lip, a nervous habit of mine. "Josephine." Shaking my head, I corrected myself. "Jo."

"You drew this?" He asked incredulously. "Unbelievable talent. Truly." I must have blushed about fourteen shades of red. "How old are you?"

"I just turned nineteen two months ago in January." I replied, fiddling with my braid.

"Nineteen…" He repeated in a soft voice, giving me that bemused look again. "Well, this does change things." He said, making my stomach drop.

"What do you mean?" I asked, flattening my hands on the smooth wood of the desk.

"Josephine, I—"

"Jo." I insisted. It wasn't that I didn't like my given name, it's just that I was never called that. Ever since birth, I'd been Jo. Just Jo.

"Okay, Jo." Mr. Rose looked slightly uncomfortable. "I would like to propose that you come and study under my mentorship in Philadelphia as my apprentice. Have you considered a career in art?"

"Of course I've considered it." I said, laughing. "I've also considered being the Queen of England, but that's not going to happen, is it?" Sighing, I shook my head. "Look, Mr. Rose…it's just me, my mother and my two younger brothers. I help support them."

"What about your father?" He inquired quietly. My eyes widened at the painful memory of losing my stepfather. I'd never known my own real father. He'd been gone since long before I was born.

"My stepfather died a couple of years back." I explained. "He was shot." Mr. Rose's eyes darkened.

"God, how awful." He mused, cringing. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." My voice was barely above a whisper. "And…my natural father died before I was born, so…it's just us. Momma and I and the boys."

"What does your mother do?" Mr. Rose asked.

"She's a teacher now. She teaches piano on the side. She used to be a movie actress…she was even in a couple of pictures."

"Really?" He looked impressed. "Any I'd know?"

"I doubt it." I laughed. "It was a long time ago."

"What's her name? Maybe I've heard of her." He offered.

"Rose." I told him. "Rose Dawson." His brow furrowed as if he were trying very hard to remember her name from film. "Her most famous role was Beth in The Lilac Tree."

"I don't recall." He sighed, shrugging. "Listen, Jo. Please consider my offer. Talent like yours shouldn't be wasted."

"I…I'll talk to my mother." I assented, swallowing again.

"You should." He carefully placed my drawing back into his case and smiled down at me again. "Nineteen years old, huh?"

"Yep." I agreed, sighing.

"My telephone number and address are on the back of my card. Do not hesitate to call me, Jo. Any time." His eyes softened as he met mine. "Everything is going to work out."

"How do you know?"

"Just a gut feeling. I'll talk to you soon, Jo. And please give your mother my regards." He started toward the door.

"I…I will." I stammered, walking him walk away. I wasn't sure why, but I had the strangest urge to run after him and tell him yes, of course I would come to Philadelphia and follow my dreams, whatever they may be. Mr. Rose paused at the door, looking back at me one last time with a penetrating stare.

"I'll see you soon, Jo." He smiled again and left, leaving another gust of frigid air in his wake. With shaking hands, I pocketed his card and picked up the newspaper, opening it again, trying to figure out a way to tell my mother what had happened.