Sixty Acres and a Bride (9 page)

Louise sighed, pulling herself back to the present. “Fairly well, I think. A few shingles off, branches down, but no harm done.”

Rising to watch Eliza play, Rosa remembered their visitors the night before. “Did Mr. and Miss Lovelace make it to your house?”

“No, but we saw them this morning at Uncle George’s. They got caught in the storm and waited it out there last night.”

“Oh, I was worried about Molly’s dress.”

Eliza’s head snapped to fix Rosa with a penetrating stare. She shrugged her shoulders wickedly and winked. “Mary loaned her a skirt and shirt. That’s what she was wearing this morning, but Wes still got to see the dress, sopping wet and hanging across the line.”

Rosa looked down. She hadn’t meant to ridicule the girl. She could feel Louise’s disapproval. First opportunity she had she would talk to Molly. She didn’t deserve to be a laughingstock.

Weston cleared his throat. “Need I remind you that I’m still in the room? Aunt Louise, may I look around outside? Although I don’t seem to be hampering the conversation, I’d feel more at ease not being present for it.”

“Please do. Rosa and I were gathering broken branches when you arrived. We can finish that ourselves, but if you’d replace the shingles, I’d be beholden to you.”

They spent the next few hours completing the work Louise and Rosa had begun earlier. Eliza, not dressed for yard work, volunteered to put dinner on, claiming that their servant Octavia never let her cook at home. By the time the sun was high overhead and steam was rising from the ground, they knew why.

“I started with more beans, but most of them are stuck to the bottom of the pot. If you’re still hungry, I’ll do some more scraping.” Eliza followed the others to the square table.

“No thanks, sis. I don’t reckon I’ll be hungry for more of your beans.” Weston’s shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the knees of his canvas pants were scarred by the texture of the roof. Once again he could pass for a rough-riding cowboy instead of the gentleman Rosa had observed in the parlor earlier.

“Well, they aren’t my favorite, either, but there’s really not much in the pantry to choose from. I don’t want to pry, but do you have enough to make it till the garden produces?”

Louise’s back straightened. “We’ll do fine. Next week we’re going to Lockhart to buy more goods. Rosa did some fancywork for Mr. Bradford, so we can settle our account and bring home more victuals. Besides, with just the two of us, we don’t need much.”

Rosa caught Weston inspecting their pantry from his seat at the table. She rose and pulled the curtain closed. Their supplies didn’t concern him. They’d be fortunate to raise enough food to get them through the next harvest, but she didn’t need his stricken expression to remind her that, in all likelihood, turning a profit was out of the question.

He didn’t comment on her gesture but turned to the window instead.

“Your barn is in good condition. Do you have any plans for it?”

Louise snorted. “Plans? Not this year. I think we have our hands full with the garden and getting this place back in shape.”

Weston nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever wrestled with sheep?”

Rosa’s foot got tangled with the broom leaning in the corner and sent it crashing to the floor.

“Mercy, Rosa!” Louise put her hand to her heart. “Be careful. You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . .” She stopped and glared at Weston, but his expression was as innocent as a newborn’s as he waited for Louise’s answer.

“Eli always ran cattle, not sheep. They take more looking after, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do. That’s why I could use your help. I have a handful that got chewed on by coyotes. It’s an ongoing problem, and I hate to ask George to care for them because he’s too busy with the rest of the flock.” He took another bite of bitter beans and choked it down with a gulp of milk. “Maybe you, and particularly Mrs. Garner, would enjoy giving them some tender, hands-on care. I wouldn’t want you to get too tied down with them, but if you’d like to wrap your arms around the problem . . .” He focused his attention completely on his bowl of beans. The innocent expression was slipping.

Louise looked at her, a question plastered on her face. The heel of Rosa’s boot tapped quickly against the wood floor. He was a devil, but a practical one. She loved her chicks and was eager to try her hand with any other animals available. Besides, there weren’t a lot of opportunities for two women to increase their profit this far from town. But would they be expensive to keep?

As if reading her thoughts Louise spoke. “From the looks of things, Rosa is on board, but I don’t know if we can afford to feed more mouths around here. Will they graze or do we need to buy feed?”

“They’ll graze. In fact, you won’t have to worry about trimming the lawn, just pen them around the house when the grass gets up. I’ll send the antiseptic. If you can save them, they’re yours. If not, you gave them more of a chance than they had with the rest of the flock.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Louise sprang to her feet and gathered the dishes. She filled the pot with water and set it on the hot stove to soften the charred remains of dinner. “Rosa, to celebrate, why don’t you get that flute of yours and treat Wes and Eliza to a concert? Eliza always loved her music lessons, but she’s probably never heard anything like your flute.”

“That would be wonderful, Rosa! I’ll be in there directly, but I can’t let Aunt Louise scrub the pot out. That mess is my doing.”

Rosa left the room and clamored up and down the stairs, unconcerned with the ruckus she raised. But when she returned with tlapitzalli in hand, she found only Mr. Garner on the settee, lost in thought.

“Oh, it’s quiet in here.” Determined not to make any more noise, she silently perched on the piano stool, toes barely able to touch the ground, and mentally ran through her favorite songs. What would they want to hear? What did she feel like playing? Long forgotten songs from her memory took form. Unconsciously she swung back and forth on the revolving stool, pivoting on her tiptoes, eyes lifted to the ceiling in thought.

“Thank you for agreeing to take the sheep.” The deep voice interrupted the trilling melody playing in her mind. She stopped rocking as gracefully as she could.

Rosa raised an eyebrow. “You’re thanking me for your generosity? You’re welcome, I suppose. But why are so many of your sheep getting attacked? Don’t you have burros with your flocks?”

“Beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Burros?”

“No, we ride horses.”

“I mean to keep the coyotes away. They need burros at pasture with them.”

Weston leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in interest. “Really? You think burros are better than sheepdogs?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know much about dogs, but burros will trample a coyote or a pack of coyotes. Doesn’t matter much to them how many there are. And you don’t have to feed burros. They graze with the sheep.”

His smile twisted to one side as he looked her over. Something amused him. Was he laughing at her? She surely deserved it. Here she was, the world-famous sheep wrestler telling the landowner how to care for his flocks. They were in a stare off, each trying to read the other, until he nodded. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I remember a Mexican man who brought his burro to the house once. My bird dog ran out with me, and the burro liked to chase it clean up the steps and into the foyer. Yep, it would make more sense to throw some donkeys in with the flock. I’m afraid the dog food we leave out attracts the coyotes anyway.” Leaning back into the faded seat cushion, he crossed his arms. “Then it’s settled. I’ll try it.”

Through the door they could hear Louise and Eliza merrily chatting away. In all likelihood, no dirty dishes remained, but the aunt and niece had much ground to cover before visit’s end. Rosa turned her flute in her hands and wondered if some music might remind the two ladies of their family they’d banished to the parlor.

“Make it do the dove song,” he suggested.

Her brow wrinkled. “Dove? I don’t know that bird.”

“Yes you do. I’ve heard you play it.”

“How does it sound?”

He shifted in his seat, and shot her a quizzical look. “I’m not the performer, but if you insist. It sounded like ‘coo-coo.’” He tilted his head back and hammed up the call a few more times.

Her head cocked like a robin’s watching a worm. “That’s a
paloma.
You heard me, you say? When did you hear me play a paloma?”

“I think you can do it. You should try.”

Shaking her head, she persisted. “You said you heard me. When did you hear me play?”

He pulled at his collar with one finger, and then the words tumbled out like the chicks from the henhouse. “Last night after the storm. I rode out to make sure you . . . and Aunt Louise . . . were all right. Just wanted to check on things. Went by George’s, too. I rode by everyone’s.”

“You were here?” She bit her lip.

“Your window was open, and I heard the music. I could’ve sat there in the rain and listened to it all night. And now, after hearing your story—” He leaned forward, bridging the space over the hand-knotted rug. His words slowed. “I think I understand better. I think that’s why it meant so much to me, because we’ve both been through—” He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry if that distresses you. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Rosa kept her eyes lowered, afraid to meet his, and tried to overcome her emotions.
He was here last night? If only he’d been here an hour earlier, how different things would have been.
If Weston had sat by her in the cellar instead of Tillerton, she would have felt secure instead of threatened; honored instead of debased. She wanted to cry at the futility of it all, shocked again by the blackguard’s actions. What had Tillerton accomplished besides humiliating her?

After a morning of Weston’s presence and Eliza’s lively company, she felt safe again. The menace lurking over the next property line had been forgotten, but now the incident was brought back fresh—the humiliation of being used in such a way.

If only she could tell Weston. The muscles of his arms strained his plaid shirt. His capable hands sat idle for the moment, but she was certain they could handle the likes of Tillerton. What would he do if she told him? Would he feel obligated to act on her behalf? Would he put himself in danger for her?

He would.

Last night he rode over in the middle of a thunderstorm to see that they were safe. He came back, first thing in the morning, to check on them again. He gave George and Mary the aid they needed to preserve their land and their dignity. He advised her to only work on Garner land so she wouldn’t be exposed to low men. With that record it really wasn’t a question of whether he would act for her, but when. He would right a wrong—any wrong—if one had been committed in his territory.

But she didn’t want him to know. No use piling more scandal to her already growing list.

“Mrs. Garner, have I upset you?” Worry etched his face. “I apologize if that was uncouth—”

“Oh no.” She laid a hand on his arm to reassure him. “Not at all. You . . . you’re always welcome here. . . .” He stared at her hand. Was she being inappropriate again? Rosa jerked it back. Her chest rose in a deep, shaky breath as she composed her answer. “It was just the storm. I was scared.” She traced a design on her flute with her fingernail. “The cellar, you know. It’s so small and dark.”

“That’s difficult for you, isn’t it? I wish I would’ve been down there with you, if it would’ve helped.”

“You can’t be everywhere.”

“And yet I feel like I should be.”

Rosa had no answer.

“Where did that sister of mine go?” he muttered. “Eliza!”

The chairs scraped across the wooden floor. The table creaked as someone leaned on it to rise from their seat. Footsteps sounded. But Rosa’s thoughts were far from the women entering the room.

What would it be like to be loved by a man like Weston Garner? To know he chose you? To know you possessed some precious trait, some beautiful element he held dear? Rosa turned toward the window. She had caught a glimpse of a treasure and didn’t want it to vanish unexamined. Would she ever be pursued, instead of fled? Would she ever experience the vast difference between being resented and being cherished?

Hearing Louise’s request as from a distance, Rosa put her flute to her lips. Futile questions sowed discontent. She would be fine. One could live without love. She’d done it before.

W
ELL, SHOW ME WHAT YOU’VE GOT.”
Mr. Bradford swept nonexistent dust from his countertop as Rosa hoisted her carpetbag onto it.

The moment she’d anticipated for weeks had finally arrived. She prayed her work would be good enough for Mr. Bradford, pleaded that God would make him like it. They didn’t have long now, and they were counting on a quick sale. But she needn’t have worried.

Snapping the latch open and lifting out a tablecloth, Mr. Bradford whistled low. “Land sakes! If the ladies don’t knock my door down to get these, I have no business working retail.”

“Does that mean he likes them?” Rosa whispered to Louise.

“Like them?” Deacon Bradford interrupted. “Dear girl, they’re exquisite. How you crafted such fine detail with wool thread is beyond me. It makes me wonder what you could do with silk.” He pulled the pillowcases out and, after examining the work, placed them with their mates. “And the colors . . . But here is a test.” He nodded to a woman approaching the door of the mercantile. Taking a tablecloth and two napkins in hand, he met Mrs. Schwartz, the newsman’s wife, who sailed through on a mission.

“Mr. Bradford, I’m looking to acquire a lamp and thought that a painted glass would be just the thing. Do you have any in stock?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do, but if you don’t mind, would you please hold these for me while I check in the back for the lamps? The linens just arrived, and they’ll make a nice display in the storefront—if I can get them there before they sell out.” He turned to go but wasn’t fast enough.

“These are for sale? They’re beautiful.” She held a napkin up in the sunlight. “How many come to a set?”

“Um . . . there are only two napkins presently, but for a loyal patron we could specially commission a set. How many do you need?”

“Napkins? Twelve at least. Maybe a few dish towels would be nice in a complementary design. This tablecloth is just the right size already. Can I take it?” She was already fumbling in her purse, lamp forgotten.

Rosa covered her mouth in astonishment. Louise threw an arm around her shoulder and gave her a silent squeeze. They tiptoed to the hardware department to give Mr. Bradford the room he needed to negotiate a price without Mrs. Schwartz seeing them. Rosa didn’t mind the anonymity. She’d much rather have gold in her pocket than praise in her ears. Too bad she couldn’t pay the county land office directly in napkins and call it even.

As soon as the woman departed, Mr. Bradford found them. “What’d I tell you?” He opened a jar of licorice and offered each of them a piece before selecting one for himself. “We’ll have no problem selling these,” he said, taking a bite. “If I still had my own store, I’d start selling them to the other mercantiles around. As it is, we might keep you local for now. Once this market is saturated . . . But listen to me, I’m didn’t mean to bore you with business talk.”

Rosa wasn’t bored at all, but he wasn’t talking to her. He was smiling over her head at Louise.

Louise dimpled and brushed her red hair back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford. I haven’t changed since school. Numbers don’t mean a thing to me.”

“Does zero mean anything to you, because that’s where your account stands now, and I owe you more to boot. Is a dollar fifty fair, Rosa? I’ll trade you the work you did on this batch for a dollar fifty plus the balance on the account.”

Looking around the store, she saw that a dollar fifty would go a good ways toward buying the supplies they’d come after. With the account paid off, she should be able to put money up from the next batch of linens. How many napkins would she need to embroider to make a hundred sixty-six dollars?

Louise broke into her reverie. “You’re more than generous, Mr. Bradford. She’d find something to sew on anyway. It might as well give us some pin money.”

Pin money? These funds weren’t for trivial purchases, but to keep them from being homeless. Time kept rolling toward August fifteenth, and the money hadn’t accumulated. But it didn’t do any good to be frustrated with her mother-in-law. God hadn’t given the woman a lick of sense about money. Concern over the finances was shouldered by Rosa alone, but she’d have to remember to speak up more quickly in these situations. She couldn’t let Louise negotiate for them.

“I do enjoy sewing, but with all the work we have to do in the garden, and now with the sheep, I don’t know how much time I’ll have. Those things have to be tended to if we are going to keep our ranch.” Would Louise take the gentle hint?

Mr. Bradford sure did. “Yes, and depending on how fast you sew, it might be worth your time or it might not.” He chewed on the licorice. “Tell you what, Mrs. Schwartz caught me off guard. Maybe she would have paid more for those napkins. I don’t know, but I’ll try to do better next time. You finish that order at two bits a napkin and then make me a slew of samples with different designs and colors. We’ll let them pick the design they want and do only custom orders from then on out. We can charge more that way, and we won’t have any surplus sitting around. We can do the same with the pillowcases. Does that sound reasonable?”

“So my commission on these napkins was two bits each. Next time it’ll be higher?”

He shrugged. “If they’ll pay more.”

“Rosa, you know Mr. Bradford will treat you fairly,” Louise said. “You can trust him.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Mrs. Garner, but your daughter-in-law is sharp. She knows that it’s best to get the details before you strike hands.” He scratched his chin, probably not realizing that he was still staring at Louise. He blinked as he caught himself. “But there is one more project I’d like her to take on, if you have no objections.” Bradford disappeared behind a display of canned goods and returned with a bright rose bolt hoisted on his shoulder. He dropped it on the counter. “What do you think of this color? It’s new, called magenta.”

Rosa ran her fingertips over the shiny material—too fragile to work for pillowcases or table linens—amazed by how it turned from lavender to pink to nearly violet.

“They say this dye was discovered in Italy, but you’ve got some of it in those napkins.” Mr. Bradford smiled. “I think you like it. Too bad no one else in this town does. They’re all afraid to wear it, afraid that the color is too strong for them. They’re probably right. So if you’ll use it, I’ll send a few yards home with you. A welcome-home gift.”

“I can take this?” she whispered. Since leaving Mexico she hadn’t seen any colors this bold and beautiful.

Louise smiled through tears at Deacon. She unfurled the bolt and draped it over Rosa’s shoulders. “You’ve never had taffeta before, have you? Then it’s settled. You must make yourself a gown. This color will be magnificent on you . . . when you’re out of mourning, of course. No one else would do justice to this hue.”

“For me to wear?” Rosa had never seen anything as exquisite as this shimmering fabric and would’ve never dreamed of using it all for a gown, but she wasn’t going to let them change their minds now. “I will use it. It will be glorious. Thank you, Mr. Bradford. Thank you so much. I can’t wait to tell Molly when I have dinner with her. Magenta? Is that right?”

Deacon took a pair of scissors and sheared off a generous amount. “So are you eating with Molly? I’d hoped to treat the two of you to dinner. The noon clerk will relieve me shortly.” He wrapped the material with brown paper and tied it up tightly.

Louise’s black skirts twisted as she spun to Rosa, eyes bright. “Wouldn’t you rather meet Molly without me? I imagine that would be agreeable to everyone, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll have a splendid visit without having to endure my rambling.”

Louise’s rambling didn’t bother Rosa. It’d saved her from having to converse on many occasions, but from the expression on Louise’s face she could hardly refuse.

Who looked more eager for her answer, Louise or Mr. Bradford? “Go have your dinner with Mr. Bradford. Molly won’t mind.”

They didn’t ask twice. Mr. Bradford handed his apron to the stunned clerk walking through the door, and they were off.

“Mother will be so pleased we had this rendezvous. She really wants us to be friends, you know, since she and Mrs. Garner are so close.” Molly dipped her spoon daintily into the creamy potato soup and blew on it from perfectly pouted lips. “And you must have a confidante. No girl should go through life with only her mother-in-law with whom to share her deepest secrets.”

Did she have any secrets in this county? Rosa couldn’t lace up her boots without someone commenting on the color of her stockings. And if she was the type to share secrets, she’d find someone more discreet than Molly.

“So it’s for the best that Louise—oops—Mrs. Garner, I mean, couldn’t come. Don’t misunderstand, I love her with all my heart, I really do, but this gives us a chance to gossip without her. Now, I’ve received extensive training on identifying eligible men. Have any of the young bachelors in town caught your eye?”

Rosa couldn’t hide her disapproval.

“Don’t pout at me, Rosa. I mean, you’re still dressed as black as a crow, but a girl must plan ahead.”

Molly waved the waiter down for more sweet tea, gave him an effusive thank you, a touch on his arm, and settled into her task of filling Rosa in on the local swains—their attributes and failures. Rosa tried to remember names and descriptions, but they all ran together.

“Molly, by August I may not even live in Texas, and, as you pointed out, I’m in mourning. Don’t you think it’s premature to be choosing a husband for me?”

“No, I don’t. You should be laying the ground work, even now. First, you need to identify a target. Personally, I’d rather you aim for a Mexican. It’d be awful if we found ourselves at cross purposes. . . .” Molly looked up at Rosa through curled lashes. When Rosa didn’t respond, Molly continued. “But if you want to expand your options, I understand. Once you’ve set your cap for a man, you must determine what he likes and where he goes. Men really are simple creatures. Unlike us, they can say what they think, which is quite helpful. Nevertheless, I think you’d benefit from my assistance. Since everyone is a complete stranger to you, it might take a while to discern their interests.”

Especially since Rosa couldn’t even discern what “setting your cap” or “cross purposes” meant.

The hovering waiter took their bowls and asked if there was anything else they wanted. Molly requested two pieces of pecan pie and reminded him to place the bill on her father’s account.

“For instance, Rosa, if he plays an instrument, you might join a musical society. If he’s handy, you might find him at a barn-raising. If he’s a lawyer, you could get a job at the courthouse—not a good example. That one didn’t pan out.”

“But I’m not interested in that sort of courtship. If a man admires you, he should seek you.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “What if he doesn’t know he loves you? What if he’s committed to bachelorhood? Many happy brides have married men who had no plans for matrimony.”

“You mean they tricked them?” Was Molly planning something against Weston? Rosa’s heart thudded.

“Tricked, swayed, wore down. It hinges on being in the right place at the right time. One moment of weakness for the poor fellow, and he’s committed.”

The pies arrived. Rosa poked at the crust, her mind a jumble of alarm.

Molly stared at her. “Aren’t you going to taste it?”

Rosa managed to get a lump into her mouth and wash it down with water.

“Mm . . .” She faked appreciation. Her eyes watered and her throat constricted. She couldn’t eat another bite without setting Molly straight.

“Never trick someone into marrying you.”

“People do. Happens all the time.”

“But he won’t love you. If it isn’t his idea, he’ll resent you.”

“My stars, Rosa! I’m not going to compromise a man. What do you take me for?” Molly’s eyes widened. She shoveled in another bite of pie. “I’m talking about making myself irresistible or setting the mood. About finding what he wants and becoming that.”

“I don’t understand. What if you catch him? What if he marries you and then regrets it? Would you want that kind of union? You’re beautiful and smart, Molly. If a man doesn’t appreciate those qualities, you don’t want to make a spectacle of yourself hounding him, do you?”

“Beauty is an asset—intelligence a liability. Believe me, if I had any say in the matter . . .” Molly rolled her blue eyes. “Let’s just say that until I’m wed, I won’t have achieved anything of value in the eyes of my parents. At my age, I’m getting frightfully close to being a disappointment, but don’t you worry. I wouldn’t do anything to humiliate my family. I do have some pride.”

Rosa finished her pie with relief. She wasn’t sure what Molly was capable of, but it didn’t sound like Weston was in imminent danger. Good thing. The Garner family didn’t need two members providing fodder for scandal.