She edged in front of one of the narrow windows to each side of the door and peered out. There he was, returning with a long-handled shovel, scooping snow as he went. She watched him.
If she intended to stand here, she should at least get her gloves.
The most sensible thing would have been to return upstairs and continue feeding the fire with what was left of the broken crate. She should bake her loaves as well, while she could. Prepare a meal for Emmett. She didn’t think he’d eaten anything since their meal together yesterday afternoon. He must be nearly starving by now.
She should return to the kitchen.
But she stood transfixed.
Again, images drifted through her mind, like the fresh swirls of snow at her feet. Just over there, a few steps away, Emmett had defended her trunk of sculptures. He’d assured her she’d sculpt again. Of course, he couldn’t know that, but he seemed to believe it. She recalled his courtly manners when she arrived, his gentlemanly care for her, providing hot water for her to freshen up and hearty food to fill her empty stomach. He’d wakened in the early morning hours to investigate the invasive cold. And he’d been so determined to venture outside in the worst of weather to fetch firewood for them.
Despite his “courtly” manners, he was clearly built for labor. He seemed to have no hesitation tackling the most difficult and unpleasant tasks, like fighting through frigid temperatures to dig them out of the snow.
But there was one memory that filled her mind completely. She could almost feel the touch of his hands on hers, feel his comfort and...and love. Amazing as that seemed. A man who knew her merely from a few exchanged letters and a portrait.
Which he kept in a pocket over his heart.
It was extraordinary. Truly.
Perhaps that was what had led her to step so trustingly into his arms and lay her head against his chest. She’d let him cradle her there, embracing her.
No one had held her like that after Papa died. Not even her brother, though they’d shared a grief-filled embrace. They’d both been hurting. This had been something entirely different. She’d felt held, protected, and allowed to rest for a moment. Emmett’s comforting acceptance had flowed through her and stirred up...feelings. Where before she’d simply been numb.
He’d thawed her. For indeed she’d been frozen since that fateful day on the beach when that young sailor had run to her with the news. Dread had filled her in that moment and never left. It had gotten stuck within her. It was almost as if she were in the middle of an endless nightmare, one where you never woke up. One where you didn’t even know you were still asleep.
Was she awake now? Had Emmett done that for her?
She recalled his letters then, his fine penmanship and this quality about him...
She hadn’t stopped to examine what it was before. She’d simply deemed him a decent man, one who wouldn’t mistreat her. Someone she could possibly risk crossing the country to marry. A desperate leap, in and of itself. She’d told herself to be sensible. Practical. So that was what she’d done. She’d made this choice out of necessity.
There had been other ads she could have responded to. Other men.
But there had been something about Emmett. Something that had called to her even in her slumber.
Something beyond him seeming to be “non-threatening” and “decent.” Beyond his fine penmanship. She smiled to herself at the absurd thought. No woman married a man for his fine penmanship, after all.
No, deep inside, she’d recognized that Emmett had another special quality. Responsibility, yes. That was a trait she admired, and one he obviously possessed. He clearly owned and operated a successful business. He’d quite openly shared his financial circumstances, his plans for the future as the town grew. His substantial savings had, honestly, factored into him being a sensible choice.
It was more than that though. Even in his letters, he’d come across as caring.
He was a considerate man. A generous man.
From what she knew of him now, she suspected he’d never call attention to those qualities himself. He likely didn’t even think of himself that way. He simply was that way.
She should feel more secure, surely. That she’d made the right choice in coming here. In Emmett himself. And part of her did.
So why did it feel like she was falling through air?
Boston looked at her quizzically, raising his brows in that humorous way of his.
“Oh, Boston. What’s happening to me?”
Outside, the small town of Sweet Briar was buried in snow nearly waist deep. Emmett hadn’t seen a storm this severe in the five years since he’d moved here. There was a glossy stillness to every surface that made it look as if everything was iced in place. There was no road to see now, just an expanse of white. Every rooftop of every house was laden with deep snow.
Every branch of every tree seemed encased in glass.
The sky was clear and blue.
The morning sun broke over the mountains, lighting everything up with a sparkle.
The slightest breeze generated a tinkling sound, ice against ice.
Magical in its own way.
It was pretty. But deadly. Any of those limbs could come down without warning.
Emmett heard an ominous creak. Then the crack of a branch breaking in the distance.
At first there wasn’t a soul about, then he saw a dot a long ways downhill. Some other man shoveling. Mr. Crosby, at the grocer’s, most likely, though Emmett couldn’t tell for sure at this distance.
He raised a hand in greeting and received a wave in return. It was a sort of camaraderie.
They would survive another storm.
It was all part of living here in the shadow of the Rockies.
Emmett had worked hours just to clear a path between the house and the woodshed and to dig out the door. Paw prints marked his trail and disappeared into the woods, traces of Boston’s wanderings from earlier. He hadn’t wandered about for very long in these temperatures. He’d simply done what he’d needed to do, then stood at the front door to be let in. He was inside now, likely keeping Rose company.
Emmett placed one last log on top of his heaping pile on the sled. He was strapping himself in and preparing to trudge his way over to the front door when a voice hailed him.
“Mr. Southerland!”
He turned to see Walt, the station master’s son, tramping toward him in snowshoes and a long bulky coat. He was waving a slip of paper.
“Telegram,” he said, breathing heavily. “It’s from Pastor Stone.”
“It’s good to have you back, Walt,” Emmett greeted him. “We haven’t had much chance to speak since you returned, have we? What with the storm. How was your trip to your aunt’s?”
“Too long,” Walt said as he approached, his expression purposeful.
Emmett waited until the youth stopped beside him, then took the telegram from him. He looked down at the paper.
“It says, ‘Hope to return in day or two,’” Walt recited. He paused, then added, “‘Stop.’”
Emmett lifted his brows. The telegram had to be transcribed, he knew, but it seemed a bit forward of Walt to quote the contents aloud. Messages were meant to be transcribed and forgotten, to Emmett’s mind, for at least an illusion of privacy. Not openly discussed.
He proceeded to read the message, which was just as Walt had announced, down to the letter.
“Thank you, Walt. How are you and your father faring with this storm?”
Walt’s gaze had strayed to Emmett’s house, as if he were attempting to peer inside the windows.
“Gotta clear more snow at the station.” He shrugged. “Dad says they’re inspecting the tracks. Trains are queued up in Denver, waiting.”
Emmett followed the direction of Walt’s gaze. There was Rose, pretty as a picture, standing in view of one of the narrow shop windows that flanked the front door. She seemed curious, but not as curious as Walt.
If Emmett could have asked her silently to hea
d upstairs out of view, he would have. It wasn’t that they’d done anything wrong, but Walt was frowning. Like he was storing up information. It was no secret he was a bit of a gossip.
“That woman,” Walt said, nodding toward the window. “She came in on yesterday’s train, didn’t she?”
Walt knew she had. He’d been on the platform clearing snow. He’d helped load Rose’s luggage onto the sled. He’d watched from the station, most likely, as they’d crossed the road and disappeared into Emmett’s house. What suppositions he made weren’t too difficult to guess.
“Yes. She came in on the train,” Emmett said simply.
“She spend the night here?”
“She did.” Emmett hesitated. He didn’t want to encourage Walt’s curiosity, but he also felt honor bound to explain. He didn’t want folks in town passing judgment on Rose. She was innocent of any wrongdoing. It had never been his intention for her to stay here with him before they got married. Circumstances had simply intervened. “She was meant to stay with the preacher and his wife, but they’ve been delayed. You know that, don’t you?”
Walt nodded. As one of the town’s two telegraph operators, he was very likely aware of the contents of Pastor Stone’s first telegram.
“Now, do you think folks in town need to be whispering about that young woman?”
“What?”
Emmett stared into the boy’s eyes. If he could put the fear of God in him, he was certainly going to try.
Walt swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Now, if the preacher had gotten back here in time, there would’ve been no need for Rose—my intended—to stay here, in her own room, by herself, last night. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Walt said.
“Good.” Emmett brushed his hands together, clearing off bits of snow packed on his gloves, effectively ending the conversation.
“But it seems she could have stayed at the grocer’s…” The boy couldn’t seem to let this go. With his stocky frame and stubborn frown, he reminded Emmett of a bulldog. “The Crosbys have that room they rent out,” he pointed out.
“They’ve rented it to a young surveyor fellow,” Emmett said. “He’s here through April.” Evidently Walt’s father hadn’t informed him of all the goings-on in town during his absence, perhaps to discourage gossip.
“There’s Widow Hammond or the Mullens—” It seemed Walt was prepared to go through everyone in town.
Emmett held up one hand, stopping him. He was running low on patience. He was cold and hungry. All he wanted to do was finish his task here and get into some dry clothes. Warm himself up. Eat as much as he could to fill his cramped stomach. It was so empty, he felt it was threatening to turn itself inside out.
“Mrs. Hammond didn’t answer her door,” he said. “I didn’t check with the Mullens, I admit, because I had snow to clear. And then preparations to make since the train was coming.”
He’d hurried to make his room ready for Rose, a chore made difficult because Boston kept getting underfoot. He hadn’t known at the time that the train would be delayed. How could he have?
“Rose was exhausted from her journey,” he continued. “The snow was coming down. And it didn’t let up until near dawn this morning. What kind of man would I be if I’d marched that sweet lady up and down town, in the snow, knocking on every door?”
“She going to marry you?” Walt demanded, though not belligerently. He seemed unmoved by Emmett’s explanations. Only one thing mattered, apparently. He felt it necessary to hold Emmett accountable for his actions.
Emmett wasn’t answerable to a fifteen-year-old boy, but he’d always liked Walt, despite his flaws. The boy was a little headstrong and nosy, but he was also a hard worker. He watched Boston at times, the rare instances when Emmett had to leave town.
Now it seemed Walt had taken it upon himself to watch out for Rose.
That wasn’t the worst trait for a boy to develop—looking out for the interests of others, neighborly like. Emmett couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same if their roles were reversed, especially where Rose was concerned.
So Emmett took a moment to gather his patience.
The boy had asked if they were to be married. That was simple enough. He hoped.
“As soon as our good pastor gets back, we’ll arrange it,” he assured Walt.
At last, the boy dipped his head and headed for the train depot. When Emmett turned back toward the house, he saw Rose with her hand cupped against the window, watching. Had she heard their conversation?
If she had heard, perhaps that explained her look of concern—the way her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. The last thing he’d said was they’d arrange the wedding when the pastor got back.
Was she having second thoughts?
Before he’d come outside, she’d said she appreciated him saying they “didn’t have to decide anything yet.” Her comment had stuck in his thoughts while he was shoveling snow. He remembered saying that, but at the time he’d been talking about the simple task of unpacking her trunks and deciding where things went. Evidently, Rose had taken it to mean much more.
Did she want out of their arrangement?
There was only one way to know. He was going to have to ask.
Chapter 10
Rose had returned to the kitchen and was now watching the fire and baking her bread. She heard Emmett banging around downstairs, bringing the sled in. She watched from the stairs as he unloaded what looked to be a pile of wood that would last several days. Then he disappeared outside again and returned with yet another load.
She did her best to stay out of his way as he retrieved a copper tub from the kitchen, brought it downstairs, then returned again with the tub full of logs. He got a fire roaring in the cookstove, moving with swift efficient movements.
With that done, he turned to stacking the remaining logs against the back wall. Rose helped where she could, though it seemed the best help was giving Emmett room to move. He was a force of nature. Unstoppable. He knew what he needed to do and was doing it with a doggedness that didn’t invite interruption.
Apparently, he intended to stockpile enough wood for a whole week, for he disappeared again to the shop and returned with another full tub. He set it beside the cookstove.
Only then did he stop to take a breath. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time since he’d come in.
“Thank you, Rose, for your help.” He nodded to the wood piled by the door. He sniffed appreciatively as he unwound a wool scarf from his neck. He still had on his boots, but he must have left his enormous coat and hat on the pegs downstairs. All around the floor, the snow he’d tracked in was quickly turning to slush. “Is that bread I smell?”
He had bits of frozen ice in his beard and eyebrows. The thin strip of bare skin under his eyes looked red and chapped, as did his nose.
“I’ve got a meal for us.” She pointed to the table, where she had two plates laid out, filled with heated sliced ham from the larder, and pickled beets and green beans, which she’d found in jars on the shelves. She had just finished preparing nice thick slices of buttered bread, still warm from baking.
“I should get cleaned up first.” His clothes must have been heavy and wet with melting snow. He probably wanted to change into something dry and warm. But he hadn’t taken his eyes off the food. He sniffed again, drawing in the scent of bread that lingered in the air. It did smell nice. Fresh bread, right out of the oven. She was grateful she’d been able to keep the fire going long enough to bake her loaves.
“Why don’t you eat first?” she urged. “You must be hungry.”
“Beyond hungry,” he admitted with a tired half grin.
“Then sit. I’ll pour the tea.”
While Rose tended to the tea, she was aware of Emmett washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He wiped them dry with a clean towel, rubbed his face and beard dry as well, then sat at the table. He propped his elbows on the tabletop and bent his head slightly over his plate,
breathing in the aroma of the food. He seemed incapable of moving. If she didn’t hurry she feared he’d fall asleep right then and there, face down in his ham.
Rose quickly served their two mugs of tea, fortifying his with a liberal amount of honey.
He took a grateful sip, then ate the slice of bread she’d given him. He finished it in four bites, then started on his ham, beets, and green beans. He worked through his food with the same fixed precision as he’d brought in the wood.
He was done before she’d even eaten her bread.
Seeing what she’d portioned out for him wasn’t nearly enough, Rose filled his plate again from the stove and sliced off two more large hunks of bread.
“That’s the best bread I’ve ever eaten,” he said, before tucking in again.
“I expect anything tastes good when you’re as hungry as you are.” She was amazed the bread had risen so nicely after she’d dropped the loaf pans onto the stove.
“No, that’s some fine bread. I can’t make it nearly that good.” When he’d finished eating, he pushed his plate away and sat back, weariness etched around his eyes.
“Well, I’m glad you liked it.”
“I need to check on Claire—Mrs. Hammond,” he said, as if stirring himself to remember. “She lives up the street a ways. She didn’t answer the door yesterday when I stopped by. At the time, I didn’t make much of it, but Walt mentioned her earlier. And now I’m worried. I just want to check and see if she’s all right. She’s a widow. Her grown son recently took off to San Francisco, leaving her completely alone.”
“I could come with you,” Rose offered.
“Have you ever used snowshoes?”
“No, but I’m willing to try.”
He nodded, seemingly pleased.
“I’ve got to get myself cleaned up first.” He stood.
As Emmett crossed to the attic stairs, Rose left the dishes on the table. She grabbed the pitcher of hot water she had waiting for him on the stovetop and rushed after him.
“Are you following me up?” His deeply pleasant baritone was tinged with amusement. He’d paused, one hand resting on the rail and one foot on the bottom step.
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