Coming Up Roses (2 page)

"I never heard of a happy crier before."

Kate shrugged.

"You're s'posed to cry over sad things, or when you get hurt, but I ain't never seen you do it. Why come is that, Ma?"

"Because I don't let myself."

"So why do you let yourself cry when good things happen?"

Kate wasn't sure she could answer that. "Happy tears sort of sneak up on a body."

"So you don't know they're comin'?"

"That's right. Who expects to cry over wonderful things? No rhyme nor reason to it, the first thing I know, I'm all weepy eyed and everybody thinks I'm crazy."

"I don't."

"That's because you love me. I'm a strange one in everyone else's books. It's female hysterics, I reckon. At least that's what your—" Kate hesitated, not at all sure she should mention Joseph again. "That's what lots of folks claim, anyway."

"What's female hysterics?"

Kate pinched some dough to test the texture. "It's a perplexity to me, but I reckon I've got an incurable case. I thought about getting myself some Goff's Giant Globules. The advertisement I saw in the Morning
Oregonian
says they're the strongest female nerve tonic known."

"You gonna order some?"

Kate gave the dough a final stir. "Not likely. They cost a whole dollar for two weeks' treatment." She leaned over to kiss Miranda's forehead. "With you around, I'd lose the farm trying to cure myself of happy tears."

Miranda stretched to touch the bottle of Knight's Apple Cider. "You don't need them old globules, anyhow. Your happy tears make your eyes shine purdy, and they go away fast."

"Thank goodness for that."

Drawing the cider bottle closer, Miranda asked, "What's this for? I ain't never tasted nothin' so plumb awful sour."

Realizing that Miranda must have sampled the cider earlier, Kate snatched the bottle away. "I swear, Miranda, you'll be needing a dose of lemon milk for your upset stomach before these crullers are done. Leave off, now, and keep out of things. You can't eat sweets if you're sick."

"If crullers is sweet, how come sour stuff goes into 'em?"

The child could ask more questions than voters at an election speech. "Truth to tell, the recipe calls for a tablespoon of dry wine, which we don't have, so I'm substituting. And, once again in answer to your question, it beats the sass out of me why a dash of something so sour is called for."

"What's wine?"

"Sinners' swill, and don't be asking what that is because you don't need to know."

Curiosity gleamed in Miranda's brown eyes. "Wine is what our new neighbor is tryin' to grow, ain't it? Mrs.

Raimer said."

"He's going to grow grapes. Wine is the drink he hopes to make from them."

"And wine is sinners' swill?"

"Yes, little ma'am, that's exactly what it is, and that'll be the end of the subject."

Kate wiped her palms on her white apron and stepped to the stove to check her kettle of lard to see if it was hot enough for frying.

"Is that how come we didn't take him a loaf of welcome bread? Because he come here to make sinners' swill?"

"Came, not come. And, yes, that's why. I want no truck with a drinking neighbor, which a man who plans to build a winery must surely be."

Satisfied that the melted lard was plenty hot, Kate returned to the table to fetch her dough. As she dropped dollops of it into the sizzling grease, a loud
thunk
resounded through the house. Another quickly followed. It sounded as if someone was out in their yard chucking stones at the house. Kate glanced up, and Miranda went perfectly still.

Her eyes large with alarm, Miranda whispered, "You reckon he heard you and comed over here to throw rocks at us?"

Kate smiled reassuringly as she set the bowl of dough on the warming shelf. "If he has, I reckon we'll just throw them back. Don't be a goose, Miranda. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Miranda slid off her elevated perch. "You ain't seen how big and mean lookin' he is."

"And you have? Don't tell me you've wandered over there?"

Before Miranda could answer, something struck the house again and distracted Kate. With the child following in her wake, she went to investigate, feeling a tad uneasy in spite of herself. It was bad enough that their new neighbor, Zachariah McGovern, was probably a drinking man, let alone big and mean. She had troubles enough running this farm without adding an inebriated, cantankerous, and oversized neighbor to the list.

Kate was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her when she opened the front door. A large yellow-and-white dog was digging gigantic holes in her rose garden along the fence, the damp, well-turned earth flying in wide arcs behind him. Miranda caught her breath and gave a dismayed squeak.

"Consternation!" Kate ran across the stoop and down the steps. "Shoo! Bad dog!" The dog, seemingly oblivious to her cries, never paused in his excavations. Kate snapped her apron at him. "Shoo, I said! Confound it, look what you've done. Go home. Go on, git!"

Throwing up a thin little arm to shield her face from the flying dirt, Miranda followed Kate into the yard. "Make him stop, Ma. Hurry and make him stop before he digs it all up!"

Kate was trying, but the dog didn't seem particularly intimidated. Her pulse skittery with building anger, she raced back into the house for her broom. She'd show that ill-mannered mongrel what for, and next time he'd think twice about digging holes at the Blakely place.

T
he leather of the saddle squeaked as Zach McGovern stood in the stirrups. His sorrel gelding snorted and tossed his head in protest at the uncomfortable shift of his rider's weight.

"Just keep your shirt on, Dander. I won't be but a minute."

Zach took off his hat, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and squinted into the feeble sunlight. He hoped to spot his dog, Nosy, who was half collie, half Australian shepherd, and all ornery. Damned dog, anyway. He ought to let him run, that's what. It'd serve Nosy right if a neighboring farmer shot his no-account ass off.

Even as he thought it, Zach knew he couldn't head home and leave the dog to whatever fate might befall him. For all his pranks, Nosy was a sweet old mutt. The problem was that he killed chickens. Not maliciously, never that.

It was more a case of overzealous chase and pounce, during which the chickens lost enthusiasm for the game. But Zach didn't reckon an angry farmer would care what Nosy's intentions were. The end result, no matter how you looked at it, was dead chickens, and that was a shooting offense in farming country.

Zach sighed as he took the measure of the neighboring spreads that dotted the hills along the North Umpqua River . Spotting Nosy in the thick line of oak and fir trees along the stream was hopeless, and at this distance, the odds of his being able to tell a dog from a sheep in the fields weren't much better.

If he were Nosy, which direction would he head? Going on the assumption that Nosy had probably followed his infamous nose straight into the first peck of trouble he happened upon, Zach supposed he ought to check at the closest farms first. He lowered himself back onto the saddle.

Wasn't that a fine kettle of fish? Ever since coming here nigh unto three months ago, he'd been planning to drop by and introduce himself to his nearest neighbor, the widow Kathryn Blakely. Talk in town had it that she was about as pretty as could be and badly in need of a husband since her first had got himself drowned in the river.

Not a strong-natured woman, according to the gossip, and given to nervous spells, but so beautiful that no man in his right mind would give a tinker's damn once he looked at her.

Zach doubted Kathryn Blakely was as comely as rumor claimed. Well-meaning folks had a way of exaggerating a widow woman's attributes when an available bachelor was within earshot. Times were just that hard. But Zach didn't value a woman's looks overmuch, anyway. Being a widower and lonely, not to mention none too pretty himself, he considered anything on the uphill side of ugly a good prospect. He had hoped to scrub up and put on his Sunday best before moseying over to meet her, though. Nosy's escape from his pen had scotched that.

Using his fingers as a comb, Zach tried to smooth the front of his hair, not bothering with the back since that would be covered by his hat. Then he did a half-assed job of wiping his face with his sleeve. God only knew what he must look like after working behind the plow all day. Damned no-account dog, anyway.

As he drew near the Blakely farm, the sound of a dog's excited barking, interspersed by high-pitched shrieks, told Zach he had found Nosy long before he could actually see him. Judging by the noise, he also guessed that the mutt's nose had once again led him straight into trouble.

As Zach rode up the rutted drive to the weathered, two-story white house, he could finally see what all the commotion was about. Nosy had discovered a new pastime, digging holes. From the looks of things, the dog found it far more entertaining than chicken chasing, and Zach could see why. Nosy had a found a woman instead of a chicken to play with him.

Adding to the overall ruckus was a little girl, no bigger than a mite, who was dancing about, waving her spindly arms and screaming. It didn't appear to Zach that the child's shrieks were likely to make the dog leave off anytime soon. And Kathryn Blakely's swings with her broom weren't exactly what could be termed powerful dissuaders.

Instead of clobbering the mutt, as he so richly deserved, she drew the broom up short every time she swung. A stranger to blows of any kind, Nosy seemed to think this new game of swing and duck was all for fun.

With all the noise and confusion, Zach's slow approach went unnoticed. He drew his horse to a stop several yards shy of the flower bed, which cut about a ten-foot swath along the fence, extending out into the yard some six feet.

Just having come from his own place, where the work was piled knee high to a tall Indian, he couldn't help but notice that the Blakely farm was in equally sad shape. It wasn't just that the house needed painting. The front porch was buckled and sinking at one end, the fence that bordered the rose garden leaned and swayed in the brisk breeze, and the barn looked as though a sneeze would blow it over.

Zach returned his attention to the well-tended rose garden, which struck a strange contrast to the ramshackle condition of everything surrounding it. It was none of his concern, but to his way of thinking, a widow's time might be better spent on something other than flowers. Trying to survive out here without a man, she'd find herself rose rich and food poor come winter if she didn't get her priorities straight.

As he refocused on Kathryn Blakely, Zach's serious thoughts gave way to amazement. While he had been looking elsewhere, she had somehow managed to get her coronet of braid tangled in the thorns of a rosebush that climbed the trellis behind her.

Zach took in the damage and wondered why she persisted in darting after Nosy. True, the dog had dug some considerable holes, but none had unearthed the rosebushes or were so close they were likely to harm the roots.

The dog probably wouldn't do any irreparable damage in the time it might take for her to untangle herself.

There was just no figuring women. At least Zach had never had a knack for it. She obviously held the dirt around her roses in mighty high regard, and whether or not that made sense to him was beside the point. Damned dog. So much for his chances of getting off on the right foot with Kathryn Blakely.

And wasn't that a shame? Rumor hadn't lied. Even in a threadbare, somber black dress and smudged white apron, she was just about the prettiest little gal Zach had ever clapped eyes on. Her sable hair was as shiny as hot fudge before it lost its gloss. Even narrowed in anger, her eyes were the biggest thing about her face and the softest brown he had ever seen.

A man of lofty stature with considerable bulk, Zach had always fancied taller women with more substantial builds, but Kathryn Blakely was proof that small didn't necessarily equate to less. Though delicate of frame, she was well proportioned and pleasantly rounded in all the right places.

Nosy barked and executed some more fancy footwork to avoid another swing of the broom. Set off-balance, Kathryn Blakely did a sidestep and was brought to a reeling stop by the rose branch that was still tangled in her hair. Zach winced and decided he'd better bring this to a stop before the fool woman hurt herself.

The instant Zach shifted in the saddle to dismount, Nosy spotted him and promptly ceased his mischief. With a whine of greeting, the dog dropped to his haunches, tongue lolling, his expression angelic.

Kathryn Blakely, still anchored, twisted to look up, her large brown eyes filled with surprise. A blush of what Zach guessed to be embarrassment dotted the flawless ivory of her cheeks. The little girl threw a frightened glance over her shoulder, gasped, and then skedaddled toward the barn like a pebble launched from a bean flip.

Kathryn Blakely gazed after her fleeing daughter with unmistakable longing in her expression, but held her ground. Not, Zach was sure, because courage bolstered her but because the rose branch would snatch her bald-headed if she did otherwise.

The combined reactions of mother and child, not to mention Nosy's, made Zach feel none too welcome. "It looks like my dog has stirred up a peck of trouble." He finished dismounting and looped Dander's reins around the saddle horn. "I'm so sorry about this. He got out of his pen when I wasn't lookin' and took off."