Sixty Acres and a Bride (7 page)

R
OSA COULDN’T MAKE
the chickens lay eggs, and she couldn’t make the crops grow faster, but she could sew.

Carded, spun, and dyed—the wool was finally ready. She lovingly caressed the skeins of thread as she pulled a chair to the front porch, took one of Mr. Bradford’s crisp, clean pillowcases in hand, and got to work. Rosa didn’t pause to measure or consider placement; she’d had long enough to plot this design.

A string of hibiscus blooms connected by a lively green vine and, hovering above it, a violet-crowned hummingbird—that’s what she would embroider. She’d noted the colors on a silk parasol of Molly’s, and when she saw the same shade of rojo worn by Mrs. Lovelace at church, she knew what color the hibiscus would be. Singing as she went, she fashioned a melody of which she hoped her hummingbird would approve.

Louise stepped from around the side of the house holding a shovel.

Rosa paused. “Are we planting more?” She hopped to her feet and laid aside the pillowcase. “Good. I don’t think we have enough—”

“No, we’re not planting more. We’re out of seed.” Louise jabbed the sharp end of the shovel into the soil. “I wish I knew how much our crops will bring. We probably won’t know until the day arrives.”

“Until then, we’ll do all we can,” Rosa said.

“And pray it’s enough. You get started on those linens. I’m going to the cellar to see what needs killing in there. From the way the wind whipped up, we might need it tonight.”

“Cellar? The hole in the ground?” Rosa shuddered as she sat. Putting dirt above your head before you were ready to stop breathing was tempting fate. “Do you need help?”

“No, honey. I know how you hate being crowded. You do your fancywork. We want something to take to Deacon next week.” Louise rolled up her sleeves and stomped resolutely away to face whatever critters were denned up at the bottom of the stone steps.

Why did they want to go below ground? You couldn’t drown or get buried standing above soil. But Louise had forecasted the weather correctly. That morning had been hot—unusually hot with a stifling wind from the south, but now, although the cool breeze was welcome, it was relentlessly charging from the north, capable of carrying off any loose thread Rosa left outside her basket. The western sky was full of towering clouds that looked like the piles of fleeces she’d bundled at Uncle George’s, and they were sailing closer and closer to their homestead.

Also sailing closer was a carriage with two occupants. Rosa strained to see who they were. Only family or neighbors rolled down their road, so a passerby always meant a visit of some sort. As they turned their matched bays up the drive, Nicholas Lovelace stood and waved his hat. “Hello, the house,” he cheered while his sister jerked on his coattail to pull him down.

They squabbled all the way to the porch. “You must excuse my brother.” Molly held on to her hat until they rolled to a stop. “When he leaves town, he quite forgets his manners.”

“Oh, it’s just Rosa. As if she knows anything about manners,” Nicholas drawled.

“That’s no excuse for you to be a Philistine. Really. What would Mother say?”

Rosa shrugged prettily while Nicholas stuck out his tongue. She laughed. Although a man full-grown, he was as playful as a child.

“Won’t you come in?” she offered.

“No, we mustn’t interrupt your work.” Molly tilted her head and inspected Rosa’s clothes. “No mourning gown on today? I heard you were stunning in black.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Don’t look at me.” Nicholas set the brake and flinched at an ominous clap of thunder. “I was shocked to see you decked out like a widow.”

“But I am a widow, and I have a nice dress, thanks to your sister. We sized Molly’s pattern down until it worked perfectly.”

Molly sat a little straighter and seemed to suck in her stomach.

“I’m glad you could get it small enough to fit you, Rosa.” Her bottom lip jutted, but then with a shake of her head, her good humor returned. “Is Mrs. Garner here? The other Mrs. Garner, I mean. I declare, we have no shortage of Mrs. Garners around here, do we? Louise, Rosa, Mary—”

“But there’s always room for one more, right sis?”

Molly dimpled. “We really can’t stay long, so please make our excuses to Louise. I also need to apologize to you. I’m afraid I wasn’t at my best during the sheep shearing, but I wanted you to know I’m delighted to have another young lady in the vicinity. I think we should make every effort to become the best of friends.”

“Thank you for coming.” Rosa clasped her hands behind her back. Was Molly sincere? She
had
expended a healthy effort to ride so far with a storm approaching. Maybe the girl liked her after all.

“Nick, let’s go. The storm’s going to catch us if we don’t hurry.”

Nicholas crossed his arms. “Then let’s go home. We won’t outrun this storm if we ride out to Palmetto. They aren’t expecting us anyhow.” He rolled his eyes at Molly’s cold stare. “Stop looking at me like that. I swear, you could shrivel a grape into a raisin.”

“But that was the whole point of coming out today. If we turn around now, all we’ll accomplish is ruining my new gown in a downpour.”

With effort Nicholas released the brake. “Got to get to Weston’s before the humidity frizzes her hair.” He winked at Rosa. “Too bad we can’t stay here. It’s a sight more comfortable lounging in your parlor than sitting all straight-backed at Weston’s. I’d send Molly on alone, but escorting her about the countryside is my only excuse to not work at the mill today. Good deal for me.”

“Come back anytime.” Rosa couldn’t help but like the thickset man. He was steady, the same every time she talked to him. He didn’t pull her close one minute and run away the next. Not that she was judging anyone, but it was a comfort to know where you stood.

So they were going to Weston’s? Rosa waved good-bye to the young man and the fair-haired buxom lady on the front bench of the wagon, her yellow leather boots peeking out from under the skirts blown by the wind.

Had Weston’s first wife looked like Molly? If so, they would’ve made a striking pair—the kind of match that makes people anxious to see their offspring. One could pick them out of a crowd as belonging to each other.

Rosa looked nothing like Molly Lovelace.

Rosa was dark and lean. Her body was petite and lacked the roundness of Molly’s figure. Like as not, her straight black hair could be found pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. Molly’s hair was braided, curled, teased and tortured into performing all manners of amazing feats. She put a hand to her face. Would anyone here think her pretty?

Yet, perhaps she was better off than Molly. At least she didn’t have false expectations. Rosa pitied the girl. Unless there was an understanding already in place, her chances of becoming a Mrs. Garner didn’t look promising.

How easy for a woman to pin her hopes on a friendly smile, an expression of concern, or a shared moment. Rosa thought of Mack and how he’d always teased her as he whittled on a pendant. He was making it for his sweetheart, he’d said, and winked. How big should it be? Should he carve his initials in it, a heart, a rose? Oh, the hours she’d pondered those questions and their significance.

Rosa gathered her embroidery before the rain began to fall. If only she could warn Molly without being accused of having ulterior motives. Rosa could tell her what it was like to be married without love. Yes, she’d never admit to Louise that her marriage had been lacking, but neither would she accept an arrangement like that again. Mack might’ve been a wonderful man, but because of her, he was an unhappy one.

She pushed the picture of Mack from her mind, but another man with expressive eyes and a bad haircut wasn’t so easily dismissed. No wonder Molly had her cap set for him. He was strong, rich, and well-mannered, which matched with the practical girl’s husband checklist. She knew all that before meeting him.

What Rosa hadn’t expected was a man she could spend all day looking at: the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled, his determined, stubble-covered jaw, and his mouth . . . lips that were meant to smile a lot more than they had recently. And that was probably what made him so intriguing. Every account she’d heard had portrayed Weston as a confident man of means and a community leader who was devoted to his family, and that’s what everyone, including himself, wanted to believe. How could everyone else miss the insecurity that tracked across that handsome face when he heard himself praised? Molly thought he was moody, but did she really know how wounded he was?

Weston was strong of body and character, but he seemed to fear the reputation he’d worked so hard to earn. Rosa thought of his words, that he hoped she wouldn’t lose her good opinion of him, and then she remembered her resolve. She would pray for him. She’d pray that God would bring to him a friend who would help him heal, who would allow him to occasionally shrug off the mantle of family messiah and tend to his own wounds. She’d pray that God would take his weakness and turn it to wholeness, so he could be a safe haven for his family.

And while she was at it, she’d pray that Molly would find another man and leave poor Mr. Garner alone.

I
CAN’T BELIEVE THEY DIDN’T STAY.
They have no business trying to make it to Weston’s. They’re going to get drenched, if not worse.” Louise bustled into the kitchen, motioning for Rosa to follow. She took the kerosene from the pantry and topped off the hurricane lantern, filling the kitchen with the scent of fuel. “You run upstairs and get some quilts, but hurry down. And stay away from the windows.”

Rosa scurried upstairs and grabbed two blankets off the quilt stand. As she passed the window a violent motion caught her eye. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the treetops were swinging around like the tip of a whip. The panes in the window rattled, as if they too were trying to flee the approaching onslaught. Where did that wind come from? She’d never seen anything like it.

In the kitchen, Louise laced on her dirty boots. A basket of biscuits and a can of peach preserves rested on the table. “We need to secure the yard.” She pulled hard on the long laces. “Don’t leave anything out there that could blow away . . . or worse, blow toward us.”

Rosa nodded, dropped the soft quilts on the table, and ran to the chicken coop. When she opened the coop door, the muggy odor surprised her. When had it grown so humid? The chickens were already huddled inside, skittish but strangely quiet. Their dark speckled feathers quivered as they gathered close together. She closed and fastened every door, window, and peephole she found. The coop, the privy, the barn—all closed tight before the first fat raindrops fell.

At the first drip, Rosa thought a June bug had splat on her arm, then another, then another, but the large wet splotches were rain, thrown down with a vengeance. She ran toward the house, only to meet Louise on her way out.

Pointing, she yelled above the din, “Rosa, get those buckets in the barn! We can’t leave anything that might blow through a window!”

A wooden bucket blow through a window? But Louise sounded frantic, so Rosa did as she was told, even though it meant lifting the heavy crossbeam in the barn doors again. The drops were falling faster and faster, plastering themselves over her bare arms and making her clothing heavy.

“Wait!” Louise stopped her from pushing the beam into place. “I forgot the ax.” She slipped inside the barn, reappeared with it in hand, and dropped it down the open mouth of the cellar on their way back to the house. Rosa filled her arms with quilts and waited in the protection of the porch for Louise to pull the door closed. Lightly at first, then in growing intensity, Rosa heard a pinging noise. Something was hitting the house. To her astonishment she noticed small white balls hopping in the lawn.

“Hail!” Louise took a quilt from Rosa. “Cover your head and run.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. The fierce blast drove rain right through her clothes. Chunks of ice stung her skin as they were hurled from the monstrous clouds above. She’d never known such fury existed. Reaching the crude gap in the ground, Rosa paused, her throat closing up as surely as the ground could, but Louise didn’t wait. A bump from her mother-in-law sent her into the hole. Rosa stumbled on the slick stone steps and caught herself against the rock wall on the way down, with Louise right behind her pulling on the door, fighting against the gusts until it almost slammed on her head, then sliding the bolt into the wood frame and plunging them into darkness.

Rosa huddled on the dirt floor, afraid to move. The stale air made the room seem even smaller than it was. As sure as the beam crushed her when she was a child and cut off her air, now panic constricted her lungs, making breathing a struggle. The sound of the bolt played over and over again in her mind. She was locked in. Underground.

Lightning raced through the cracks between the door and frame and made it possible for her to see Louise fumbling with the phosphorus match to light the hurricane lamp.

“Surely they stopped at Mary and George’s! They wouldn’t try to go all the way to Weston’s. Why didn’t they stay?” Louise’s voice shook in the darkness. Finally a flare lit her face, and she adjusted the wick, illuminating the damp den. “I don’t know how I could face Adele if something happened to them.”

Rosa pulled herself against the crumbling wall. With the quilt wrapped around her, she forced herself to answer. “I’m sure they did. Molly wouldn’t risk ruining her dress.”

Louise huffed. “If it meant getting holed up at Weston’s for the night, she might, from what I gather.” She searched for a dry corner of her blanket to mop up the streams of water running down her face. “Just as well, I suppose. He’d keep her out of trouble.” The door rattled against the bolt with each gust. The thunder rumbled unceasingly, punctuated by closer lightning strikes that made Rosa’s hair stand on end.

Louise set her supplies on an empty shelf that held preserves in better days and wiped them dry. “Forgive me, Rosa. I shouldn’t be talking about Molly like that. She’s a good girl. I’m just frustrated with her.”

Rosa nodded. Louise would be the last to think poorly of someone and the first to lose control of her tongue, but Rosa wasn’t concerned with idle words. Not while cornered underground. “What’s the ax for?” Rosa asked, trying to ignore the intensifying squall outside.

“It’s in case we get trapped down here.” Her voice held no sense of panic.

Rosa produced enough for both of them.

“Trapped?!”

“If a tornado heads this way, we could have the whole house sitting on top of that door in the next hour. Not that the ax is foolproof, but it’d increase our odds of getting out.”

Rosa wished she hadn’t asked.

“Don’t worry. They aren’t as common as you might think. Remember how the train sounded? As long as you don’t hear that, we can ride it out down here. The storms do enough damage above, but only a tornado would pluck us out.”

As if listening for its cue, the wooden door strained against the bolt holding it down, but this was no gust of wind. Rosa startled. Was that a voice? Above the clamor she heard someone yell. They looked at each other in surprise, and then Louise leapt to her feet. “Did they come back?” She fumbled with the latch.

A rush of rain blew in. Rosa turned her face to avoid the blinding gust. When she looked again a single set of cowboy boots, slick and shining in the lantern light, descended the steps behind Louise. They didn’t belong to Nicholas, and the soaked canvas pants stuck to legs too spindly to belong to—

“Do you remember Mr. Tillerton, Rosa?” Louise used a voice better suited for a plush drawing room than the desperate straits they were in. The man pulled the lock into place, halting the malevolent force that entered with him, and shook like a
lobo
flinging water off his wolfish coat.

His eyes flashed, aroused by the fury of the storm he’d just battled. “Sorry to arrive unannounced like this. I got caught away from home.”

“I’m glad you found us.” Louise offered her blanket to him, but he gallantly refused. “Did you get your horse in the barn?”

“No, ma’am. There wasn’t time. The hailstones are coming down hard, and the lightning is striking close by. I rushed in to determine that you were safe.”

He took the lantern from the shelf and sat next to Rosa, keeping the light at his far side. “Don’t worry about the storm.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll get used to them, but I’ve got to say this doesn’t bode well for your garden. These hailstones will decimate the young sprouts.”

When had he seen their garden? She felt more and more crowded. With a bounce of her shoulder, she dislodged his hand.

“Our sprouts? Surely you’re not wishing ill on us, Mr. Tillerton?” Louise’s indignation was clear, even through the near darkness.

“Absolutely not! It’s a brave thing you are trying to accomplish here, and I wish you success.”

The storm had reached its climax, every ear-splitting crash ringing like the gavel of the great white throne judgment signaling the end of the age. Rosa’s nerves teetered on the edge of control. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

Without warning they were plunged into darkness. “The lantern!” Louise cried.

Rosa’s arm was grasped firmly through the quilt. With skill Tillerton’s hand followed her arm to her knees and brushed downward, fumbling through her skirts. She rolled away from him with a gasp and kicked back as hard as she could, gratified to make solid contact.

“Uff!”

Then she heard nothing but the fading rumbling outside.

“I’m sorry. The lantern is on the other side of me,” he said. “Give me just a minute.”

Rosa made no reply but scrambled away, feet tangled in the quilt. He mustn’t find her again.

“What’s happened? Do you need another match?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve got it.” The flame sputtered to life. He held it aloft to expose Rosa crouched against the shelving, every muscle taut, ready for battle. Like a rabbit trapped in its lair, she had nowhere to run, but she would fight with what puny weapons she possessed—her fingernails, her teeth—if she had to.

Louise pulled her quilt tighter around her. “It’s going to be all right, Rosa. I know you hate little rooms, but you’re safer in here than in the storm.”

“And you left your quilt behind in your panic, Mrs. Garner.” Tillerton held it out to her.

Rosa shook her head. If that was the game, she wasn’t playing. She might not tell anyone he’d insulted her, but she wouldn’t go along with the charade.

She shivered in her wet clothes. The shelving dug into her back, but she wouldn’t move closer to him.

Outside, the storm weakened. Rosa could hear the rain cascading down, but the thunder stomped its way further down the road. The worst had passed.

Without waiting for Louise, Rosa scrambled across the cellar and forced open the door. Bursting out onto the yard, she gasped like one deprived of oxygen. How dare he lay a hand on her! The rain was drenching her, but she wasn’t going for shelter. She’d rather fight in the open. She wouldn’t be trapped again.

Louise appeared, followed by Tillerton.

“Rosa, what are you doing? Let’s get to the house.”

“No! Not until Mr. Tillerton leaves.”

“Rosa!” Louise’s quilt dropped from over her head. “That is rude. You apologize at once.”

Tillerton’s clothes were plastered to him, his bony frame looking like a wet cat’s. “She’s just overwrought, Mrs. Garner. I refuse to be offended. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go comfort my wife. She’ll be concerned if I’m not home soon.”

Louise nodded and scurried to the house for shelter. Rosa waited until she was out of earshot and then called out, “Tillerton!”

He turned, his fake smile still fastened on his cruel lips. “What? Do you want more?”

“You will never treat me that way again. Do you understand me? Never!”

His eyes roved over her wet dress, making her nauseous. “Pulling a married man aside to have a private conversation? Tsk, tsk. What will Louise think?”

Rosa looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, there stood Louise under the shelter of the back porch, arms crossed, lips pinched tightly together.

He swung into his saddle. “Don’t take it so hard. I didn’t make the rules. You’ll learn how to play.”

Rosa stood her ground until he had crossed the pasture and was no longer on their land. She had survived her first prairie storm but discovered there were perils more dangerous than tornados.

The lightning passed and the hail ceased, but the rain still soaked his slicker when Weston started out. Poor Pandora. She couldn’t understand why he took Smokey and left her behind, but she didn’t care for high river crossings, and he would span at least one tonight.

The clouds behind Weston threw their flickering light on the soaked landscape before him. Riding across the rolling prairie he was exposed to the world . . . and to the heavens. He spent a moment studying the turbulent June sky. There was nowhere to hide out here. He was a solitary figure, completely removed from human contact.

Which was fine with him.

Oh, he did what he was supposed to do, else people would ask too many questions. He went to church on Sunday, and he ground out a prayer over supper, although Jake had taken on that duty after hearing the same weak platitudes for months on end, but Weston knew he was trying to disguise the condition of his heart. To be honest, he was hiding. The Bible said that God is truth, and Weston wasn’t ready to face the truth.

The white and tan speckled hides of his cattle were visible, peacefully sheltered under trees along the swollen creek. Longhorns could take care of themselves. Still, Weston wouldn’t sleep easy until he’d checked on his livestock after the storm.

Protection was a big deal to Wes. If he had a ewe stray from the flock, he brought her in. If he had a new ranch hand learning the ropes, he’d keep him from any real danger because Weston would hold himself responsible if the greenhorn got injured. Most of his life was spent, in one form or another, protecting those under his care.

He worked across the pastures, finding nothing but downed branches and swollen streams. From the western forty he could see George and Mary’s house. Everything looked to be in good condition. Did they know the barn door was open?