Sweet Briar Rose

by Lena Goldfinch

  The train blew out a cloud of steam that whooshed by the windows. They’d apparently ground to a halt outside a quaint red-brick train station while her attention had been focused across the street.

  And on the station’s snowy platform, standing alone, was one man.

  Emmett stood on the snowy platform, waiting for the train doors to open. This was it. Rose’s train. Finally.

  He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, then immediately removed them. He didn’t want to appear unwelcoming. But he didn’t know what to do with his hands either. He let them fall to his sides and immediately balled them into fists, then had to flex his fingers out. Never had he felt so self-conscious. And that was only making things worse.

  He’d dressed in his Sunday trousers, a neatly pressed shirt, and suit jacket. He’d even worn a flat black ribbon tie, which he almost never wore. He’d wanted to look his best, but of course all that was covered up by his massive winter coat. And he couldn’t very well have worn his nice church shoes in this wintry mess, so he’d pulled on his snow boots, which laced up to his knees.

  The end effect, he was afraid, was that he looked no different from a trapper come down from the wilderness.

  A porter exited from the front of the train. He stamped down the platform in a blue railroad uniform, with a matching heavy coat that came down to his knees. As he walked a line down to each door, he pushed snow off the platform with his shoes. Emmett had been doing much the same for the past hour, but it was fruitless. Waves of snow kept coming through. The train had arrived during a lull though, which was nice. He and Rose wouldn’t have to fight sheeting snow to greet each other.

  Walt, the station master’s son, had been out clearing the platform all day. Presumably he was taking a break to fill his stomach. Perhaps he’d thought he had plenty of time since the train had arrived a good hour later than scheduled.

  Emmett had waited and worried that whole time, praying his Rose and her train hadn’t gone off the bridge. It had happened before, trains disappearing over the edge, going off the tracks. People getting hurt. Or killed.

  But now her train was here.

  As if alerted to its presence, Walt, a stocky broad-shouldered youth of fifteen, came sprinting out of the train station with a shovel and a hastily applied wool cap. He righted himself from a near slip, nodded to the porter and Emmett, and began clearing snow. His shovel scraped loudly over the packed-down icy bits.

  “Over here!” The porter waved Walt over to one set of train doors. “Then we have trunks to unload.”

  As soon as he cleared the passenger area, Walt muscled down the platform with his shovel toward the baggage car.

  The porter opened the passenger doors and took a carpetbag from a young lady waiting on the other side. He offered his hand to help her onto the platform. She stared down at the steps, adjusting the ribbons on her fur-lined bonnet, as she exited.

  Emmett couldn’t see her face, but it had to be Rose.

  He strode over to wait before her, his hands thrust into his pockets. He removed them again, flexed his hands.

  “Rose?” he asked.

  She lifted her head and looked directly at him. At the sight of him, she faltered a step, and the porter supported her with a hand at her elbow.

  “Are you all right, miss?” the porter asked, pausing to sweep an assessing glance over Emmett. Evidently he wasn’t impressed by what he saw, for he lowered his voice and asked her, “Do you know this man?”

  “It’s me, Emmett.” Emmett straightened, offended by the implication that he was some untoward character, bent on harming an innocent young lady. He addressed his words directly to Rose. “Emmett Southerland. I’m here to meet you.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Southerland—Emmett.” Rose visibly collected herself. She’d used his first name to reassure the porter, Emmett guessed. It hadn’t come naturally to her lips. But he’d noticed right off she had a pretty voice, with the soft melodic tones of an alto. An easy voice to listen to.

  “Miss?” The porter checked with her again, evidently not convinced he was leaving his passenger in good hands.

  “I’m fine.” Rose’s polite smile fooled no one. If anything, she looked even more uncertain than she had initially. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  The porter cast one more dubious glance at Emmett, then tipped his hat. “You can collect her trunks down the platform there,” he said, gesturing. “Perhaps that young man shoveling can help you load them into your...” He looked around for a wagon or horse-drawn sleigh. His gaze landed on the side of the platform, where Emmett had left his gear.

  “Sled,” the porter finished with a decided frown.

  Rose’s gaze had landed on the sled as well. Emmett wondered what she was thinking—that he was too poor to afford a wagon? It was too difficult to tell.

  Emmett resisted the urge to inform them both that he had a wagon—and a very nicely equipped sleigh—but he hadn’t wanted to hitch his horses, since it was only a short walk across the road. Besides, he rather looked forward to pulling a load of heavy trunks on the sled himself. He had too much nervous energy humming through his veins. And too little work—besides shoveling out his own place—to distract his mind.

  A gust of bitter-cold wind swept up the platform. He saw Rose quickly clutch the collar of her coat to her neck.

  “If you’ll come with me, my lady?” Emmett said quickly, raising his voice to be heard. “Let’s get you out of this weather.”

  Chapter 4

  Rose watched as Emmett looped a long leather strap around his waist and used this to pull the sled laden with her many trunks and carpetbag across the snow-covered road. She waded along behind him, lifting her skirts as discreetly as she could. With each step—despite her care as she followed in Emmett’s tracks—the deep snow spilled over the tops of her winter boots and soaked her stockings.

  She shivered. It was clear why Emmett had chosen to wear tall boots, the tops of which disappeared under the hem of his bulky coat. The constant driving wind plastered her travel clothes against her front. It whistled in her ears, making conversation impossible. Emmett didn’t seem inclined to speak anyway, focused as he was on pulling the sled.

  She imagined curious townsfolk staring at them from inside the stores that lined Main Street, or what she imagined must be Main Street. There were no street signs that she could see with the wind whipping snow into her face. A horse-drawn sleigh whooshed by them, bells jingling. A heaping load of wooden crates was piled in the back, apparently enough supplies to last the driver and his family for months.

  The sky was white as sailcloth. The cold snuck into her collar and up the cuffs of her fur-lined coat. She could easily believe more snow was on the way. It looked like it had been snowing nonstop for days. They’d had snowstorms back home on the shores of Maine, of course, but she hadn’t expected quite so severe a storm upon her arrival.

  As if on cue, more snow began to fall, not light fluffy flakes, but sheets of tiny ice pellets, cold and crystalline, biting at her cheeks. Rose pulled her coat more tightly around her. She longed for a hot cup of lemon tea to warm her from within. Or—even better—some hearty chicken soup... Perhaps some buttered bread as well. She hadn’t eaten since her early breakfast, and that was many hours ago. Her stomach rumbled painfully.

  At this fresh blast of snow, Emmett surged forward, then paused to glance back at her. “Are you all right?” he yelled to be heard above the wind. His tall frame looked no more than a dark shape of a man through the snow.

  She merely waved him along, not wanting to stop, not wanting to lose their momentum.

  It was quite considerate of him to check on her, but she imagined their best course was to get inside as quickly as possible. She kept her eyes on the stone blacksmith’s shop diagonally across the road.

  On a sunny day, this would have been no more than a pleasant stroll. In knee-deep snow, however, it took some time to cross over—longer than she might have imagined, given it wasn’t th
at far. It took even longer for Emmett to get her and all her belongings into his house—there was, thankfully, a house—beside his blacksmith’s shop. It was a narrow wood-shingled structure, not made of stone like his business.

  She stood to one side of the front door as he dragged her belongings inside and then disappeared into the storm again, saying he needed to stow his sled. While she waited for his return, Rose shook snow off her clothes and looked around. The lower level was one long room deep, with iron tools, knobs, door hinges, and such neatly arrayed on wooden display racks all around the perimeter. It seemed a shop of sorts for Emmett to meet with his customers. In the back corner stood a black potbelly stove, emanating heat. On the other side was a serviceable staircase, dark and steep, with uncarpeted pine risers, leading to what she imagined were the living quarters above.

  Nothing grand, but then she hadn’t been accustomed to “grand” back home either—

  A scraping noise came from above, then a thump at the top of the stairs.

  The slow creak of a door opening.

  The hairs lifted on Rose’s nape.

  Emmett entered just then, bringing with him a gust of wintry air. He slammed the door shut and cast a concerned look at the stairs, which did nothing to ease Rose’s sudden anxiety.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Before he had a chance to answer, she saw.

  Coming down the stairs was the largest animal she’d ever seen up close. A mongrel with a great amount of brown fur. Its head was enormous. Its teeth too, most likely. For it was a beast of an animal. Like pictures she’d seen of grizzlies.

  At the sight of her, the beast practically tumbled down the last few stairs, its sharp claws scrabbling against the wood. It let out a low growl, hackles raised. Rose stood stock-still.

  “Oh, enough of that,” Emmett scolded the dog lightly. He had his hands full, carrying the last load. Her heaviest trunk. “Miss Rose is to be your new mistress.”

  Rose swallowed uneasily, both at the intimidating size of the creature and at the idea that this was to be her new home. And she was to be its mistress. Because she was meant to be this man’s wife.

  She’d known that, of course, intellectually. She’d agreed on this course with her eyes open. It was the sole reason she’d crossed so many miles of country by train. But it was one thing to embark on a journey, and it was another to face the consequences on the other side. A rugged-looking mountain man with, apparently, no visible facial features. And a dog who seemed more bear than canine.

  Usually, she liked dogs, and they seemed to have an affinity with her as well. This one, however, looked as if it wished to swallow her whole.

  “And who might this be?” she asked in her most proper voice, her tone deliberately light. If only she could find some humor in the situation, perhaps it would calm her nerves. It would do no good to show the dog her fear. Or the man.

  “This, my lady, is Boston. He’s really quite tame.”

  That was the second time Emmett had referred to her as his lady. It seemed quaint—almost medieval—and not a little disconcerting. She’d never been anyone’s lady.

  Emmett was a bit of a surprise. She’d expected more roughness from a bachelor blacksmith. Less refinement. Yet he spoke with the most impeccable manners, and there was something almost...courtly about him, qualities that belied his daunting appearance. Although, she’d already known something of his refinement from his excellent penmanship and phrasing. He was obviously well-educated.

  The beast of a dog lumbered over to Rose and began sniffing the hem of her skirt with interest. He licked at a clump of snow she’d dragged in with her.

  Perhaps to discern if she would taste good.

  “Boston?” Rose repeated the dog’s name faintly. She seemed to have lost her breath.

  “I inherited him from the previous owner,” Emmett explained, with the shrug of one impressive shoulder, “a man from Massachusetts.”

  “I see.” Rose continued to stand very still. The warmth of the potbelly stove was finally beginning to penetrate her bone-deep chill, but with the delicious heat came more snow melting and trickling down into her boots. She felt thoroughly damp and weighted down by her heavy traveling clothes. She longed for a moment of privacy to change into a dry dress and woolen stockings, but at the moment she didn’t dare move.

  The dog presented her with his massive head as if he wished her to pat him. She hesitated, then reached out cautiously to place her hand over the dome of his skull.

  “He’s so soft,” she said in surprise.

  “And he wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

  “Hmmm...” she offered noncommittally.

  “His growl is intimidating, and his bark is even more vicious. And he’s big, as you can see. All of which should deter most anyone who might want to break in. Even a bear might think twice to attack him.”

  “I can well believe that,” Rose said with feeling.

  Boston sat with a heartfelt groan, revealing his age. Standing was evidently an effort for him, perhaps a sign of joint pain. She’d seen it in their old Irish water spaniel, Chap, before he passed a few years back. Boston leaned his weight against Rose’s legs and lifted his eyes to hers. They were the gentlest, most soulful eyes—eyes the color of cinnamon.

  “Oh, you are a gentle soul, aren’t you?” she said, melting a bit herself. She patted his head some more and received a rather humorous grumble of approval from the dog.

  “He likes you,” Emmett said, sounding pleased. If she weren’t wrong, he’d been anxious about this first meeting between his dog and future wife. She supposed with good cause. If they hadn’t gotten along that would have greatly complicated matters.

  “Do you?” Rose asked the dog. She bent a little to scrub her fingers through his thick neck fur. He leaned against her more heavily, his gaze turning adoring. Dogs were such simple creatures. Perhaps why she liked them so much.

  “This is peaceful country,” Emmett told her, “but we have had our share of trouble over the years. Should you wish for extra protection tonight, old Boston here can sleep in your room and guard your door.”

  “Guard my door from whom? You?” she asked, only partly teasing. They weren’t married yet. Had only known each other through letters. And now, in person, for no more than the time it had taken them to meet on the train platform and cross the snowy street.

  Emmett blinked at her in obvious confusion. His store was only dimly lit from filtered daylight coming through the two ice-frosted windows that flanked the front door and from one lantern sitting on a waist-high worktable. His hat shadowed his face, so she still couldn’t discern the color of his eyes.

  “Me?” He set down her trunk with a thud against the wood-plank flooring. He’d been holding it throughout her introduction to Boston, as if he hadn’t noticed how incredibly heavy it was. She’d packed it with her sculptures, finished and unfinished, and with driftwood she’d collected for future pieces—though she hadn’t finished a single piece since Papa died.

  In the first weeks after his passing, she’d been consumed by grief and practical matters. The funeral, packing the house, and selling what she could. Answering Emmett’s ad. Those things had needed doing. But even more recently, when she had a spare moment, she’d rummage through her collection, only to find that nothing spoke to her. It was as though the best part of her was broken.

  All the fanciful images that had danced through her head seemed to have vanished. There were no simple shorebirds, no mermaids, no mythical sea creatures of any kind. Perhaps she’d never make anything ever again. Then what? Who would she be?

  Still, she’d brought it all along, and now poor Emmett was going to have to shoulder her heavy trunk up a flight of stairs. She almost opened her mouth to apologize, but he began speaking again.

  “Why would you need protection from me?” Emmett removed his hat and tapped the snow onto the floor. There were already several small puddles forming there from their snow-covered boots and her stack of
trunks. His face remained in shadows, but she could see that his hair was thick and dark, like his copious beard and mustache. Perhaps he’d combed his hair neatly earlier, but now it was rumpled from his hat. Still, it was a nice rich mahogany.

  “I’m teasing,” she said, with no small amount of embarrassment, wishing she hadn’t voiced her concerns at all.

  “Are you?” He obviously didn’t believe her. His tone, in fact, conveyed some disappointment, and she wondered what he had expected her to do. Throw her arms around him immediately?

  Emmett stood among Rose’s trunks and swallowed his disappointment. He hadn’t expected her to confess her undying love for him the moment they met, but he had hoped she’d at least developed some sense of trust in him from his letters. He’d even included letters of reference from the local preacher and several clients.

  “I hadn’t meant for you to stay here—with me—unchaperoned,” he told her, stiffening. He was not unaware of the rules of proper society and why she might be concerned about staying here alone with him.

  “I—” She was about to protest again that she’d been teasing. He was sure of it.

  He was equally sure she didn’t mean it.

  “I’m sorry the arrangements are what they are.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, wanting her to understand. “The preacher and his wife had agreed to host you for a time. So we can do our courting in person and get to know one another better. Before the wedding. But they’re traveling, and the storm has delayed them. The pass to the west is blocked. There was an avalanche, which isn’t unusual this time of year. They’re staying the night with relatives. Pastor Stone telegraphed to say they expect to arrive ‘as soon as the Good Lord permits.’”

  Emmett reached inside his coat to offer her what little proof he had. He pulled out the telegram, with it came her portrait.