Spring Rose: Historical Western Romance Read online

  Agnes scanned her surroundings and touched the hat on her silver and brown head, ensuring that it was still pinned properly to her scalp. That was another thing that a woman traveling alone needed to be certain of - her appearance. She needed to be an example of a proper lady for other ladies and she needed to be appealing enough to the stronger sex should assistance be required.

  A woman in a plain dress of green and white passed and nodded her head. Agnes returned the gesture with a faint, ‘Good afternoon.' She scanned her meager surroundings, concentrating her attentions on the mercantile. If anyone had information about the town, it would be the proprietor.

  Agnes gracefully walked down the street until she had entered the store with a flourish of her skirts. The mercantile was quaint, and it wasn’t the quality she was used to from where she was from.

  “May I help you?”

  Agnes assessed the woman behind the counter, her pleasant yet stiff smile, and her unassuming husband. She at least assumed he was her husband. Some women took it upon themselves to do the jobs of men. She knew about that first hand.

  “I’m looking for Mary Rose Jenkins.”

  Ruddy and Laura exchanged a look before Ruddy came around the counter. “Well, it’s no longer Jenkins. It’s James.”

  Agnes rolled her eyes. “That impertinent girl went ahead and did it I suppose?”

  “She got married. If that’s what you mean…then yes.”

  “Well, where is she?” Agnes straightened her back and stared at Ruddy with a haughty glare. He didn’t care for it; haughty glares that he was forced to endure were reserved for his wife.

  “She lives on her farm. It’s nearly an hour’s ride from here.”

  Agnes huffed impatiently. “Will the stagecoach go that far, do you know?”

  “No Ma’am…but…I could take you.” Ruddy despised his generous words. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a wagon for an hour with the less than genteel woman.

  Agnes looked at him from his head to his toes, leaving Ruddy feeling like a less than satisfactory servant.

  “I suppose that will have to do.” Agnes turned and moved towards the door of the store, calling out as she moved. “My trunk and carpet bag are still on the stagecoach. They won’t take care of themselves, you know.”

  Ruddy turned to his wife and leaned over the counter. “Can you believe that woman’s gall?”

  “No wonder Rose is so standoffish! She didn’t have a proper upbringing!” Laura hissed back.

  “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” Ruddy sighed and took off his apron, exchanging it for the jacket his wife held out to him. He shrugged into it and made sure the lapels were lying flat, before buttoning the two front buttons. When he walked outside, the sky had turned overcast, and judging from the way the woman was bossing the stagecoach driver around, he imagined the sun had chosen to hide.

  “I’ll bring my wagon around.”

  “Yes, please hurry. I would like to see my daughter before sundown.”

  Ruddy exchanged an uneasy look with the driver who was currently on top of the coach unhooking her trunk. Ruddy could only imagine Rose’s surprise when he showed up with her. A trunk and a carpet bag only meant one thing: an extended stay. The thought caused him to grimace. As if Rose didn’t have enough on her shoulders.

  * * *

  Rose lifted her head and frowned at the darkening sky. The clouds were taking on an ominous full look. Maybe it was just as well. She had stockings to darn and Cyrus had torn another shirt. He had been adamant the day before that he wanted to pick wild strawberries he had seen growing near the creek bed. He just hadn’t counted on the briars and brambles he would have to fight through to get to them.

  Rose stared across the field to where he struggled with the plow straps on his shoulders. The mules looked back at him and puffed air from their long noses. The patch of ground was rough, but Cyrus was determined to turn in and plant a row of lima beans. Rose had cautioned him that they were already to June, and it was a bit late for that, but he had laughed in his good-hearted way and told her that one row wouldn’t matter if they failed. But one row turned into three additional ones, as he planned to not only plant the lima beans, but a row of peppers, as well as a row of radishes. He assured her that they were all hearty and the first frost might not kill them if they were still growing then. He hadn’t been through a first frost in northern Michigan.

  Rose felt a twinge in her stomach as she stared at him. Her fondness for him was growing, and it felt dangerous; reckless even. Yes, he was her husband, and a handsome one at that, but men were deceivers. They rarely held anything at face value. He could change at any moment, although he hadn’t shown signs of doing so yet. If anything, he had been nothing but helpful, attentive, and good natured. Still, the shoe could drop at any moment.

  Cyrus stopped and wiped his brow. He looked to where his wife was standing completely still staring at him. He lifted an arm and offered her an exaggerated wave and smile. He wished he knew a way to reach her. He wanted to pour affection on her that had nothing to do with tending herds, or stripping earth of its weeds. He wanted to balm and then heal her hurts. He shook his head and wiped at his brow again. He couldn’t heal her. Only Lord Jesus could do that. He prayed he would be the conduit, the means by which the Lord worked.

  Rose turned suddenly and looked towards the house. She had heard horses. Horses other than her own. She didn’t see anything at first, but movement crested the hill beyond, and a wagon came into view. Ruddy’s wagon. Ruddy with a passenger. What was that? A female? Rose swallowed and felt sick.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” she murmured.

  Cyrus trotted over to her, the mules temporarily forgotten.

  “Looks like we have company.”

  “Yes.” Rose licked her lips, her eyes on the approaching wagon. She gave him a tight smile, her brown eyes lifting to his face. “Go ahead and finish up before you come to the house.”

  “Alright.” He looked at her uncertainly. “Are you okay?” He glanced at the approaching wagon and could make out Ruddy’s face, and beside him sat a frowning woman who possibly was in her fiftieth year, but it was hard to tell from that distance. Rose’s paling face told him it may be the visit from her mother that was loosely expected.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be at the house.” She moved away and began crossing the distance to the house.

  She arrived at the wagon as Ruddy helped her mother from the wagon seat. There was no warm greeting from her mother, no gushing emotions born from the years of separation. Agnes stared at her daughter with a twist of her lips

  “I hear you went through with your foolish plans.”

  “Yes.”

  “And is that him?” She squinted towards the field where Cyrus was still struggling to tame the hard patch of rebellious earth.

  “Yes.”

  “At least he’s tall.”

  “I’ll just place your trunk in the house,” Ruddy said and handed Agnes her carpet bag with no apology.

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “We’ll see,” Agnes retorted and surveyed the front of the little house. “So, this is it?”

  Rose felt herself stiffen. It may not be the brick and mortar home of her youth, but it was a sturdy house, and far nicer than some of the abodes of other settlers. It was the one good thing Virgil had left her with.

  “Please come in, Mother.”

  Agnes followed her daughter inside and looked at her surroundings with a critical eye.

  “I hope you’re making tea.”

  Rose stilled her hands from that very task. Her mother had an uncanny way of needing to speak a command even if her wishes were being carried out right before her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t dream of serving you coffee, mother.”

  Agnes sat stiffly at the wooden table, watching her daughter’s every move. She parted her lips, causing a smacking noise to break the near silence.

  “I see you have allowed your skin to tan from
not wearing a bonnet or using an umbrella.”

  “It’s a little hard to run a farm and not get some sun on your skin.”

  “At least you don’t look like whit leather. Yet.”

  “Was father’s services nice?” Rose gently changed the subject. To discuss herself with her mother would be instant reprimands and degradation.

  “Yes. Quite proper. Your sister is expecting again.”

  Here it comes.

  “Really? What is this the third or fourth?”

  “Third. They’re hoping for a girl this time.”

  “How old are the boys now?”

  Agnes narrowed her eyes slightly. Rose imagined the acrid remark about how she should know such a thing for herself, but blessedly her mother declined from uttering the thought.

  “Thomas is nine, and Samuel is eleven.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I hear so little from her that I had forgotten.” Rose stood by the stove and waited for the kettle to boil. It seemed such a waste to start a fire within just for one kettle of tea. Since her mother was there, she might as well start dinner. She wouldn’t be satisfied with just beans and cornbread Rose was sure.

  “Tell me about the circumstances of father’s death.”

  Agnes waved a hand dismissively. “Why speak of the dead? Will the circumstance bring him back?” Her eyes were cruel and angry.

  “No, but as his daughter, I would like to know.”

  “He took a fall, Mary Rose. His legs didn’t heal well, and he was confined to bed. As a result, he developed pneumonia. It killed him inside of a week.”

  Rose turned away. She didn’t want to think of her father wasting away in a bed in pain. Not even if it were for only a week.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” Agnes’s soft voice caused Rose to turn and look at her mother in surprise. The grief and pain were raw on her face, and she suddenly looked ten years older. Rose came to her and sat across the table, reaching a hand for her mother’s. Agnes reluctantly took it and squeezed. “He regretted making you marry.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.” She nodded her head once. “I didn’t come to the realization right away. It wasn’t until the second year you were gone, and we hadn’t seen you, that we realized it was a mistake. Your scarcely seen letters told us that things weren’t right here.”

  Rose’s lips formed a thin line. She didn’t want to talk about that; not with her. The kettle whistled shrilly, and she rose to fix the tea.

  “Was he so terrible to you?”

  “He was…a hard man.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  Rose brought two cups and saucers to the table, casting a worried glance towards the window. The wind was picking up at a rapid rate, and it howled across the yard. She could hear Cyrus’s raised voice as he attempted to herd the chickens to their coop.

  “And what of this one? Are you faring better?”

  “Cyrus is a good man.” Rose meant the compliment with a whole heart. By societies standards he was exemplary. She, however, was still waiting for him to unbuckle his belt and teach her a lesson.

  “Is he a hard worker?”

  “One of the hardest that I have ever seen.”

  “Good. I’m glad this foolhardy thing you have done has worked out. I still cannot understand why you didn’t just come home when your first husband died.”

  Rose looked at her levelly. “I helped Virgil make this place what it is. I wasn’t about to let the bank have it. I had worked too hard.”

  “And how are you faring financially now?” Agnes held the delicate saucer in her hand and lifted the tea cup to her lips with the other.

  “I struggle, but now that I have consistent full-time help, I think we will begin to see a profit.”

  The front door opened with a gale force of wind. Cyrus spun quickly and slammed it shut. He looked at the two women with wide hazel eyes, the first fat raindrops ringing clearly against the tin roof.

  “It’s going to be a bad one.”

  Rose stood. “Do you need help with the animals?”

  “No. You can sit back down. I took care of it. The cattle will just lay low, they are too scattered for me to get them all.”

  “The bull? Did he come in?”

  Cyrus shook his head and grinned. “Now you know he’s the orneriest of the bunch.”

  Rose’s lips lifted at the corners. “Yes, I suppose that is accurate. Would you like tea?”

  “Please.” He took a seat beside Agnes and smiled cheerfully. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Tell me; how are you getting on with my daughter?”

  “Just fine. She’s the perfect partner for this farm.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you were actually coming since your letter was so vague, but we do have an extra room prepared for you.” Rose turned her attention to Cyrus. “Would you mind taking her bag and trunk up to the room?”

  “Not at all,” he said and began moving the said items up the stairs.

  “I see you have a hand pump. That’s convenient.”

  “Yes. Virgil didn’t want me to waste precious work time to fetch water.”

  “I’m guessing you have an outhouse?”

  “We do, just behind the house. Of course, you can use a chamber pot for your room if that’s more convenient. I do when it’s cold.”

  “Thank you, Rose.”

  Rose slid a cup of tea towards her husband’s place at the table and sat back down.

  “You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  “I will stay a spell, and then I will travel back to the coast. I may stay with your sister for a bit before I decide what to do about the house.”

  Rose frowned. “Why not live in it?”

  “I could, but I fear that is a bit much for a lonely widow.”

  “You’re still involved with the various charity things, I’m sure. You would still have that.”

  “I would…” She allowed her voice to trail off as Cyrus entered the room again. Rose was sure there was more to be said, but it would have to wait until Agnes herself was ready to talk about it. No amount of coaxing would part her lips unless she was ready.

  “Rose, you should make that wonderful Shepard’s pie for our supper tonight. I’m sure a hearty meal will be just the thing to wipe away any travel fatigue from your mother.”

  “Yes, that would be a good idea.”

  “I was hoping for something a little…more elegant.” Agnes tested, her eyes lifting to her daughter’s face.

  “Why did you come, Mother?” Rose said sharply, ignoring the scandalized look Cyrus gave her.

  “I came to see my daughter and to try and persuade her from making a ghastly choice. Again.”

  “I had no choice the first time.”

  “No. You did not. I would have hoped you would have learned.”

  Rose stood, the wind and pounding rain a deafening cacophony above and around them. She looked at Cyrus pointedly.

  “My stomach is a bit sour. I think I will lie down.”

  Cyrus rose, his face morphing into one of concern.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. Please just make sure mother has what she needs.”

  Chapter 7

  Rose dreamed of a faceless man with long arms reaching for her. He spoke to her without benefit of a mouth, his words were like hisses and grunts before syllables finally formed and translated in her mind.

  “Why do you pretend?” His bare milky white arm reached for her.

  “Pretend at what?” Fear clenched Rose’s stomach, but she kept her face smooth, only her eyes belied her emotional condition as they rolled and darted looking for an escape.

  “You pretend to be unaffected. That makes you a liar. Do you know who owns the liars?”

  “Who?” Rose whispered.

  “Me.”

  Rough hands shook Rose awake, fingers biting into her shoulder in an urgent gesture for her to respond. Sh
e blinked several times before staring into Cyrus’s frantic face.

  “What? What is it?”

  “We have to go to the cellar. The storm quieted, but another came right on its heels, worse than the first.”

  To punctuate his words and give them heavier meaning, the house shook against violent thunder, and something hard struck the sides of the house and window shutters.

  Cyrus continued as he helped her from the bed, his hand firmly in hers.

  “The storm…this one…blew in from an odd direction. The clouds are hanging low and dark. I think we might actually get a twister.”

  “A twister!” Rose’s eyes bulged as she bent to retrieve her boots from the floor. She shoved her feet into them. “Surely not here!”

  Cyrus nodded solemnly. “I think so. Come. We need to get in the cellar.”

  “You will have to help Mother.”

  “I’ll carry you both if I need to.” Cyrus looked at her darkly before letting go of her hand. He hesitated before grabbing her face in both hands and kissed her.

  Rose was startled, but it soon gave way to a deep fire that he had single-handedly unleashed. His lips against hers were warm, and they were finally claiming her as his wife.

  “I have grown overly fond of you, Rose,” he said, laying his forehead against hers. “I want you to feel the same about me.”

  “I…”

  Agnes called from downstairs, the panic pushing her voice to higher octaves.

  “What are you doing? The house will fall!”

  “Come.” Cyrus took Rose by the hand and hurried her down the narrow staircase. “We’re here, Agnes. We will have to get to the cellar.”

  “I can’t go out there!” Her brown eyes were perfectly round, and Rose could see the glint of tears.

  “We’ll help you. We’ll hold on to each other.” Rose looked at Cyrus as the wind began to settle and there was an eerie, heavy quiet around them.