Sweet Briar Rose

by Lena Goldfinch

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Sweet Briar Rose

  Lena Goldfinch

  Six Sundance Publishing

  For Dad.

  In loving memory.

  Chapter 1

  Boothbay, Maine, October 1880

  Rose walked across the beach, her eyes seeking out pieces of driftwood to bring back home. She had a good bundle started under one arm, her bonnet dangling from her fingertips. A cool salty sea breeze lifted a few loose strands of hair off her face, bringing with it the smell of dried seaweed and something else...perhaps the hint of a storm later.

  The horizon was darkening with gathering clouds, even though it was still morning. The tide lapped at the beach, chasing away shorebirds sticking their beaks into the sand. A few gulls cried out, circling above, likely looking for a morsel of clam to steal.

  Rose bent to pick up a nice length of driftwood. It was too pretty for the fire. A soft smoky-gray color. Smooth and sinuous under her finger’s touch. She could imagine one end as a mermaid’s tail. If her mother were still around, she’d call such thoughts “fanciful.” But Rose’s father would always encourage her to keep whatever pieces she wanted, so she could carve them later and sell them in the village shops. He called her little sculptures “charming.” She smiled to herself as she added the stick to her bundle. Papa was sure to like a mermaid.

  The breeze turned sharper, tugging at her heavy wool skirts. Urging her on as if there were something to hurry to.

  Rose lifted her head. Coming toward her at a run was a youth in white sailor’s broadcloth.

  Her heart seized up, then loosened free, allowing her to rush toward him. She was the only one out on this stretch of the beach. He had to be coming for her. Something had to be terribly wrong.

  She dropped her bundle of driftwood, scattering it at her feet. Her bonnet fell from her fingers.

  Her shoes and stockings were back on the boulders. Her feet bare. The shells and rocks dug into her feet, but still she ran, holding her skirts up so she didn’t trip.

  The boy met her, panting from his run. She recognized him. One of the boys who worked for her father. Robbie O’Brian, or something-or-other?

  “What is it?” she asked, one hand pressed to the stitch at her side. Her stays were too tight for running.

  “Your brother...sent me.” He stood before her, chest heaving. He must’ve run the entire length of the beach from the harbor. “There’s been an accident. Your father.”

  Rose stared at him, but all she could feel was the beach tipping away from her. The storm clouds gathering. The sudden mist of rain. It may as well have been ice. Her heart was frozen.

  A few days passed in a dazed maelstrom of funeral preparations. Days of tears spent, of wandering around feeling lost. Rose remained behind after the seaside service. The beach was empty now. All the mourners had gone home, leaving only their footprints in the sand. She’d wanted to invite them over to the house for a funeral breakfast. She’d planned to, earlier, but somehow in all the planning, she’d lost heart. The invitation never sent out. Her own quick breakfast—dry toast and black tea with milk—lay heavy in her stomach.

  Before her, the sun rose over the ocean, sending a golden glow of light out along the horizon. The sun itself was a muted fire of brighter gold, burning steadily. A new day. She watched the shorebirds wading through the shallows with their beaks thrust down into the sand, searching for whatever morsels of nourishment they could find. Just another day for them. They couldn’t know her life had changed completely.

  And the ocean... Rose had never seen it quite this color. It was always shifting and turning depending on the light. Today it was quicksilver, a sheet of soft glistening gray. It lay still as a mirror, with only the gentlest waves stirring its surface. The only sounds were the ocean’s constant surging and breaking and the ever-present calls of gulls spinning through the skies.

  She never tired of this place, even in the midst of all her numbness. It still didn’t feel real. She had to keep reminding herself that Papa wasn’t going to be at the dinner table. Or needing his shirts washed and pressed.

  He’d never be back.

  She’d chosen her best wool suit for the funeral. Its slim-fitting coat and skirt were no longer a flattering cream with narrow braided piping in a cheerful robin’s-egg blue. She’d dyed the fabric midnight-black, top to bottom, for mourning.

  Warmer now in the sun, Rose loosened the shawl from around her shoulders and let it fall to her elbows. Funny how she could feel anything besides the awful chill that had tagged along with her since the news of Papa’s death.

  He would rest forever in the ocean now, as had been his wish. It was appropriate, him being a man of the sea, but where did that leave her? She had no grave to tend, no place to leave flowers like other daughters. And every time she stood here at her favorite spot, she’d be forever reminded of this sad day and the awful moment when Robbie had run to bring her the news.

  Even sadder, now she was alone.

  Frank had deserted her. He’d left a note—a note of all things, in his tortured cramped handwriting—telling her he was going to live with Mother. He’d left all the funeral arrangements to Rose and simply gone. He’d sailed aboard the ship for their father’s burial at sea, but he hadn’t attended the seaside memorial service today. He hadn’t even waited for her to awaken from her hard slumber so he could give her a last embrace.

  Why? Why would he do that? Just leave. Going to Mother, who had hated the life of a captain’s wife. Who’d left to return to “society.” And now Frank was joining her. The coward.

  The business was in shambles, Rose had learned, due in large part to Frank’s mismanagement and to their father’s worsening memory. Papa had begun to lose his balance occasionally as well, which was why the accident happened in the first place. A slip on the deck, striking his head. Even though the ship had been docked in the harbor, his tumble into the water had likely killed him instantly, or so the attending physician had said. He’d assured her Papa hadn’t suffered. Perhaps the good doctor had only said that for her benefit, to spare her? She didn’t care to think of any other scenario.

  The house would be sold by the bank soon, to pay off debts.

  And where did that leave her? She wouldn’t run to Mother in New York, like Frank had. Rose had no wish to spend the rest of her days with the woman who had done nothing but criticize her from birth.

  Rose, you spend entirely too much time alone on the beach.

  Wood carving is not a proper occupation for a young lady.

  Her hair had been too untidy, always.

  Her habit of walking barefoot in the sand, a scandal.

  But what did her mother’s disappointment in her matter now, considering her present uncertain future?

  Soon Rose would be without a home and with no prospects besides her wood carving. How far would her earnings from her sculptures go? Not far enough to feed and shelter her.

  Inside the pocket of her suit coat was a newspaper clipping that Angela, her good friend from school days, had handed to her, folded over, yesterday.

  An ad to become some stranger’s bride, to help him “build a family” out west. To become his “companion of the heart.” Or so th
e ad said. His choice of words seemed oddly romantic given the nature of his appeal—an advertisement in The Marriage Papers. Rose couldn’t imagine anything less romantic than advertising for a marriage of convenience.

  What sort of prospect was that for any woman? For Rose, it would mean leaving her life here, everything she’d ever known. Leaving her beloved ocean and crossing to the deep unknown of the western part of the country. Colorado. Where there was no ocean. They had their mountains, of course, but how could ragged lumps of earth possibly compare to endless stretches of water?

  Still, as she stood here alone, it was the only opportunity she felt even the slightest flicker of interest in pursuing. There was really no other good option but to answer the ad.

  Companion of the heart? They didn’t even know each other’s names, let alone their hearts. Rose may have once dreamed of romance, but now was not the time for dreams. Now was the time to be practical.

  Chapter 2

  Sweet Briar, Colorado, November 1880

  Emmett Southerland left his forge for the day and leaned outside against the cold stone wall of his growing business, Southerland’s Blacksmith and Horseshoeing. He looked over the small town of Sweet Briar. Main Street, such as it was, was deserted.

  The few cramped storefronts that lined the road were closed for the night, their windows black as pitch within. The awning-covered boardwalk was quiet, the only sound an echoing hum in his ears from hammering all day. His hands tingled with lingering numbness, a feeling so familiar he was barely aware of it. Smoke and metal—the unique smells of his work—clung to his clothes, tingeing the fresh air.

  He dug a peppermint stick from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. Though his hollow stomach tightened in protest—he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, hadn’t had time to stop—the sugary treat would have to hold him over until supper. He still had some cold ham in the icebox and jars of pickled beets and green beans. He only had to heat up one plate and not cook a whole meal. Another supper alone. With only his dog for company.

  Up the way, a long dirt road led out of town, disappearing into the thick forest of majestic pines and graceful aspens stripped bare of leaves. Most folks lived outside the town limits, on the ranches that lined the valley. It made for quiet evenings like this one, everyone having gone home by now.

  The Rockies in the distance were a dusky blue and purple in the fading light, soothing his eyes after a long day bent over the heat of a blazing red fire, working iron into horseshoes, fire tools, and door hinges. The sun had already eased down behind the mountaintops, and the sky was darkening with streaks of purple.

  Peaceful, but lonesome.

  His family in the rolling foothills of Virginia seemed so far away, especially when he had the place here entirely to himself at night. The other business owners in town were sitting down to supper with their families, most likely. And here he was alone, an unmarried man, more than ever aware that he was trying to make a go of a business in Colorado. In a town no bigger than a speck on the railroad map. Set in a valley known for this spectacular view of the Rockies.

  Was there anything in this world as beautiful as these mountains?

  She was sure to fall in love with them the moment she set eyes on them.

  Rose.

  It had to be one of the most beautiful names ever. Her portrait too—a soft-focused photograph, in familiar tones of cream, caramel, and rust—was of a natural beauty. He retrieved her photograph from his inside coat pocket to peer at her face again, as he often did in the evenings.

  Dark hair, pearly white skin, her eyes some lovely pale color. Were they blue or green? He imagined them a mixture of both, like the ocean she’d written of. Her far-off expression could only mean she was thinking of marriage and a new life with him.

  Surely.

  Emmett’s lips twitched at his fanciful turn of thoughts. He couldn’t help himself. He’d always been his mother’s son. His father called them both dreamers and romantics, two fools who loved tales of adventure—and romance—almost as much as they loved horses.

  And so, from the first, Emmett had looked at Rose and fallen instantly in love. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing, to give his heart so completely to a woman he’d only seen once, and that just an image of her. A single moment in time captured on glossy paper. But there was something about her. Some immediate and instinctual connection to her. To her spirit and heart. There was a sweetness of expression, a goodness about her that surely couldn’t be faked. From the demure way she folded her hands on back of the wing chair the photographer had used as a prop. To the graceful curve of her cheek and neck.

  She’d chosen to wear a simple white linen blouse with a stand-up lace collar. Her skirt was some dark color, navy perhaps. He couldn’t see much of her womanly figure behind the chair, unfortunately, but what he could see were her slim feminine shoulders and arms. And the nip of her waist, where her shirt tucked into her skirt. He longed to span his hands around that waist and draw her in close. Maybe nuzzle that spot where her neck and jaw met, right below her ear. Would she let out a laugh, saying his beard tickled? Or perhaps take in a sharp breath? He thought about that an awful lot. Perhaps too much for his peace of mind.

  He was also eager to explore all the facets of her character, of course, to learn the things she loved. Her letters, brief though they were, had already given him a glimpse of her thoughtfulness and depth of sensitivity. He could easily see from her picture that his lady possessed a certain sweet natural beauty.

  Not that appearances always faithfully portrayed a person’s character, but in Rose’s case, he was convinced hers did.

  She was lovely and true and she was for him. His heart’s true companion.

  Rose.

  He stared down at that lovely face of hers and urged the trains that would bring her to him ever faster. He urged the winter storms to stay away. She couldn’t get here soon enough.

  Chapter 3

  December 1880

  The train wheels let out a high-pitched metallic screech as the locomotive slowed. Startled out of an exhausted reverie by the sudden noise, Rose peered out her window. The view outside appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

  There was no sign of even one building, as far as she could see. Just rivers of snow alongside the tracks, where she imagined an entire wagon could be swallowed in the deep powdery drifts and never found again. Hulking pine trees drooped over the train, forming a tunnel of sorts, their branches laden with snow, threatening to crack and fall on their heads at any moment.

  Emmett Southerland had warned her the town was small, but she’d come from a seaside village that wouldn’t be considered large by anyone’s standards. She’d thought Sweet Briar would be much the same. What she wasn’t prepared for was this. Barren wilderness.

  The journey through Colorado had been eye opening. She’d never imagined the lofty wonder of the Rocky Mountains. Or the harrowing stone-faced cliffs that the train had skimmed along. Several times she’d been convinced they would topple from one of those knife-edges into gorges deeper than the mountains were high. She’d worn crescent-shaped holes into the wooden arm of her seat from gripping so tightly with her fingernails.

  But here, they were slowing to a stop—in what appeared to be a valley of snow. A place of pines, evidently, and aspens with pale bark and bare wispy branches that seemed ill-suited to the weather.

  And...just about nothing else.

  She took a deep breath for courage, but the air in their car was thick with smoke from the coal potbelly stove, and its heat too close. Her limbs felt heavy with weariness and dread. The fur-lined wool coat of her black traveling ensemble, which had once seemed so comfortable and warm when temperatures had plummeted, now felt too hot. She opened the top button at the base of her throat, but it did little to relieve her discomfort.

  Out the opposite window, a building came into view. And then another. Civilization. The sign above one building read Southerland’s Blacksmith and Horseshoeing. She leaned
into the aisle, disturbing a pair of bleary-eyed businessmen, in an attempt to see better.

  That was it. Her new home.

  She couldn’t see nearly enough to satisfy her curiosity. Just sturdy stone walls, a snow-laced steeple roof with a cupola, and two barn doors that were barred shut, so she couldn’t get even the slightest peek inside. As best she could tell, there didn’t seem to be a house attached. So where was she to live?

  Where were they to live? She and Emmett.

  And what would he be like in person?

  He’d sent a photo of himself, standing at attention before a stone wall. She now knew it had been taken in front of his blacksmith’s shop. A wide-brimmed hat had cast his face in shadows. Not that there was much to see besides a full beard and mustache. And a thick head of hair that came nearly to his shoulders.

  He’d seemed to her a mountain man in his woolen plaid shirt, suspenders, and black work trousers. The blurry portrait had offered little clue to the rest of his features. She hadn’t even been able to distinguish his eyes, much to her disappointment. She wondered if she’d even recognize him when he came to meet her.

  In all honesty, she wouldn’t have come at all if her decision had been based solely on that single blurred photograph. She had no reason to suspect Emmett was anything other than a “decent, hardworking man of means,” as his ad had claimed he was. He looked...clean. He’d had good posture. That much she could discern.

  But it was his letters that had convinced her. He’d won her over with words. His intelligence plain in every stroke of his boldly formed script. He was obviously a man of faith, of sensitivity and honor. Traits that hadn’t quite shone through in his photograph. But then, what did his appearance matter? Their union would be one of practical necessity, not any finer emotions such as love.

  A wave of lightheadedness struck Rose. One not entirely due to the oppressive heat, but also to her unsteady nerves. Her father would have urged her to be brave, to think of this as one grand adventure. So she must strive to be brave. And strong. For his sake.