Sweet Briar Rose

by Lena Goldfinch

  “No,” she said, flustered.

  “I think I can make it up by myself.”

  “Of course you can. You’ve just forgotten your hot water.”

  “So I have.” He shook his head at himself. Rose felt what he likely most needed was to sleep until he couldn’t sleep any more, but he was already making plans to go out again. To check on a nearby widow.

  “It’s good of you to check on your neighbor.” She tilted her head to look up at him.

  Emmett didn’t seem to register the compliment in the slightest.

  “Rose—” He turned away from the stairs, bringing himself nearer to her. He lifted his hand to her cheek and brushed a loose strand of her hair back. “Thank you for your help today. For keeping the fire going. For making that delicious food.”

  “It was the least I could do. You—you did so much more.”

  Awareness rippled over Rose’s whole body. Emmett was so close. He was so very tall and powerful looking. And they were quite alone in this house. She’d never been alone like this with a man before. Other than her father and brother, which hardly counted. Not that there was anything improper about the way Emmett was looking at her or in his simple touch, but she became quite discomposed.

  She almost felt compelled to touch him as well.

  What would it feel like to slide her fingers over his arm? To cover his hand with her own?

  Or to rest her head against his strong capable chest again...

  Emmett’s gaze, for one second, fell to her lips.

  Rose’s breath snagged in her throat. Again, she felt the oddest sensation of falling, weightless, through air.

  Emmett seemed to recollect himself and pulled away, letting his hand fall to his side.

  “I need to ask you something...” Honestly, it wasn’t clear he wanted to ask her anything. A man couldn’t have looked more reluctant.

  A shiver of dread shot through Rose. “What is it?”

  A small eternity passed. His mouth opened, compressed, then opened again, but no words came out.

  “You don’t like the beard, do you?” he asked finally.

  Rose blinked at him. She was quite certain that wasn’t what he meant to ask at all.

  “It’s a...fine beard.”

  “Rose.” Now that he’d asked his nonsensical question, it appeared he wasn’t going to accept a polite answer. He took the pitcher from her hands and waited.

  “I don’t particularly care for beards,” she admitted, feeling a bit at a loss with her hands empty now. She couldn’t tell him that his beard had been prickly against her face when he’d held her before. To do so would only draw attention to the embrace they’d shared. Her cheeks grew hot at the memory. It had been a sweet embrace, and she’d enjoyed being held by him immensely. To mention it seemed awkward, that was all.

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head, embarrassed for some unknown reason. Why should it matter if she didn’t care for beards? It didn’t mean she didn’t care for him.

  She was also sure that wasn’t his real question.

  “That’s not what you were going to ask me, was it, Emmett?” she asked softly.

  “Perhaps now’s not the best time.”

  “You’re tired,” she agreed. What question needed to wait until a better time? Something difficult to ask. And what would that be? Something unpleasant.

  “I’m not tired,” he protested.

  Truly, men. He was practically falling down.

  “Then I’d just as soon you ask me now, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, my imagination will provide a hundred unpleasant possibilities, and I’ll get absolutely no rest until you do ask.”

  “A hundred?” His chuckle, low and somewhat subdued by weariness, was a pleasurable sound.

  “Or more.”

  “All right.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Emmett.” Now she was the one prompting him.

  “What you said earlier...about making decisions. What did you mean?”

  The air rushed right out of Rose’s lungs. She needed to be completely honest with Emmett, didn’t she? He deserved that.

  But she didn’t want to voice her doubts aloud. She felt differently now anyway. It seemed a lifetime had passed since last night.

  Since then, she’d had all sorts of thoughts and feelings about Emmett. And...reactions to him.

  “What I meant was, that I—” Rose struggled to pull her thoughts together. Looking directly at Emmett was an impossibility. “That is, I—”

  And now she was envisioning being held by him. Wondering what it would have been like if he had kissed her. He’d looked like he might a few moments ago.

  That odd sensation of weightlessness returned, confusing her.

  She really must get control of herself.

  Rose moistened her lips. The truth was the only best course, wasn’t it? The truth about why she’d come, and how she’d been feeling. Last night. Not now.

  It wasn’t like she could confess to experiencing a certain attraction toward him.

  Besides, that wasn’t what he’d asked.

  “After my father died, I had to do something. You know that. And so I answered your ad. You know that too. It wasn’t like either of us expected a love match. So I came here with every intention of being business minded and practical.”

  Surely he’d done the same. He’d put an ad in the paper. What man did that expecting true love?

  “Practical?” He’d grown rigid as a statue as she spoke.

  Too late Rose recalled the precise wording of his ad. Emmett had wanted to “build a family” out west. He’d wanted to find a “companion of the heart.” The wording of a romantic. That’s what she’d thought. She recalled his letters too. How caring he’d seemed.

  He carried her photo over his heart.

  She hurried on, “But...so...I confess to feeling some...doubt last night. I suppose I was overcome from the long train ride, and everything here was so new and unfamiliar. I missed home. I felt alone, adrift...”

  Perhaps she was saying a little too much. His expression had turned quite grim.

  “And?” he asked quietly.

  “And you...you were so kind to say that we didn’t need to decide anything right away.” She finished with a breath of relief. There, she’d said it. She’d ended with the best part, with her gratitude for his kindness and patience.

  Why then had he winced when she said kind?

  Why had his grip turned into a stranglehold around the pitcher handle?

  “All right, Rose,” he said. His shoulders fell slightly, making her aware there’d been tension there.

  Only, he didn’t seem precisely relaxed at present. Or pleased. Nor did she feel as if her words had made matters any better between them. All he’d said was “All right, Rose.” What did that mean?

  She watched, confused and feeling no small amount of disquiet, as he ascended the steps, his every footfall heavy.

  Upstairs in the attic room, Emmett yanked clean clothing out of the chest of drawers and tossed it all on the bed. He stripped off his weathered clothes with abandon, throwing them into the corner instead of hanging them out neatly to dry, as he normally would have.

  He cleaned himself thoroughly at the washstand, raking the warm soapy cloth over his skin. It should have been bliss. The warmth. The pleasant scent of sandalwood. But he felt none of it. This was just another job to get done.

  As he washed, he kept glimpsing his face in the oval mirror above the washstand.

  Kept seeing his beard.

  It did perhaps grow a little too high on his cheekbones. Perhaps it was a bit too untamed. He trimmed it now and again, but mostly he enjoyed the ability to neglect it. He’d been clean-shaven so many years back in Virginia. He supposed he’d looked upon having a full face of hair as a right of freedom that came with moving out west. Being independent. His own man. Many of the men here grew out their beards. Here in town, almost every man had at least a mustache.

&
nbsp; It wasn’t as if his appearance was odd.

  It wasn’t as if other townsfolk stared at him in passing. At least he didn’t think they did.

  But Rose “didn’t particularly care for it.”

  And despite what she’d said about having doubts, her opinion still mattered to him. God have mercy on him.

  He couldn’t help remembering how she’d pulled slightly away from him when he’d been holding her in a comforting embrace. That had been bliss to him, the embrace, but apparently it hadn’t been for her. His beard hadn’t tickled her or made her laugh, as he’d once imagined. He was an idiot. Rose had been too polite to say so, but he’d been able to discern that the prickliness of his beard had irritated her skin.

  She didn’t particularly care for a beard.

  Words carefully chosen not to offend.

  As for her feelings about marrying him, well, she’d answered that question too. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t care for her answer. It was clear she’d been painfully honest with him. Her eyes had been completely free of deception.

  She was having second thoughts about their marriage. Second thoughts about him.

  Emmett found his hands were clenched rather tightly around the soapy cloth. Water rained down at his feet. But he didn’t care. He balled up the cloth and threw it blindly into the corner with his wet clothes.

  He took a breath and looked up at the whitewashed rafters.

  He recognized his anger for what it was. Rose had hurt his tender feelings. He’d wanted her to arrive and express her love for him.

  His own expectations and wants had clouded matters.

  Of course he wouldn’t want her to marry him if she didn’t want to.

  But it hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  It felt like a loss and it hadn’t even happened yet. Just the threat of her leaving had him throwing things around. Raging about like a grizzly.

  He needed to rein in his emotions. Letting go for a few moments had been freeing. But throwing things was contrary to his nature. That wasn’t how he saw himself. It felt so foreign that he found himself toweling off in a much more restrained manner and getting dressed.

  He walked around the room and gathered his clothes, hanging them to dry over the footboard of the bed until they could be properly washed. He wrung out the sopping washcloth in the ceramic basin and draped it over the bar on the side of the washstand. Used the damp towel to mop up the mess on the floor.

  With that finished, he stood before the mirror and gave himself a good hard stare. His hair had grown a bit too long, hadn’t it? His hand went to his face, angling it to one side, then the other. His beard was rather full and unruly.

  Maybe he didn’t care for it either.

  Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever believed he looked good in it.

  So many years of facing himself in the mirror with smooth skin and his features fully revealed had left its mark. The reflection he saw didn’t even look like him. Still. After years. Not like how he thought of himself.

  So it wouldn’t be entirely for Rose if he decided to shave.

  Not entirely for Rose at all.

  Chapter 11

  Rose paced her room while she waited for Emmett to change. Boston lay on the floor, half watching her, half snoozing. The old boy was quite good company. Curled up on the rug next to the bed, assured of himself and his place. Not like her.

  It had taken her no time to find an extra pair of wool socks to pull over her stockings for when they went snowshoeing. She’d never done it before. Would she make a fool of herself? Her balance was good from walking on sand and along the breakwater back home. And she was fit enough to walk for miles if need be. She was used to that.

  But she’d never strapped those odd-looking contraptions on her feet.

  She’d seen that young man tramping across the snow in them. He’d made it look simple, if inelegant. There must be some skill involved in not falling onto one’s face, surely. Perhaps she was being vain, but she didn’t want Emmett to think poorly of her.

  A loud thump sounded above her head.

  Rose strained her ears. Was that a grunt of pain? That thumping noise… Had Emmett fallen?

  He’d looked beyond exhausted.

  Hadn’t she thought he might fall into his plate?

  And now he was upstairs alone, silent as death. Possibly having struck his head.

  Boston lumbered to his feet. They shared a look of concern. Weren’t dogs supposed to know when something was wrong?

  “Emmett?” Rose called as she rushed into the kitchen, her voice hoarse. Not hearing a response, she flew up the back stairs, leaving poor old Boston at the bottom. The door to the attic was open. She stepped inside and took in the space in one quick glance: narrow bed, side table, dresser, a washstand. Light streaming through the windows.

  She expected to find Emmett out on the rug. Perhaps taken ill, exhausted from his labor in the cold. Suffering the effects of exposure, or dehydration.

  He was merely standing at the washstand. She drank in the sight of him. Whole and unharmed, wearing a fresh white long-sleeved undershirt and work trousers. His suspenders looped down at his sides. In one hand he held a razor about the length of his palm. In the other he was pressing a towel to his cheek. Bright red blood was rapidly seeping into the white fabric.

  “What have you done to yourself?” she gasped.

  He looked at her reflection in the mirror. His eyes revealed only the smallest flicker of surprise to see her in his room. Even if he hadn’t heard her calling to him, he’d surely heard her racing up the stairs. She hadn’t exactly crept up on him.

  That thump she’d heard—had it been him bumping into the washstand, perhaps?

  “I’m shaving.” Emmett continued to stem the flow of blood with his towel. The white fabric was rapidly turning crimson.

  You don’t like my beard, do you?

  He’d asked her that before coming upstairs.

  “What?” Rose wobbled slightly. Was he shaving for her? “I—I just said I didn’t care for a beard. That’s all. It’s only that I prefer to see a man’s features. And...I do confess that I am curious to see your face. But...but I’d never ask you to shave. You’ve cut yourself.”

  It must’ve hurt. She’d heard Emmett’s grunt of pain. As if he’d kept himself from crying out. Like men did, covering their pain. Her father would’ve done the same. Not wanting her to hover over him or worry. And, just the same, she would have ignored Papa’s protests and come to his aid. She’d shaved him many times, when his hands were too unsteady to handle a razor safely.

  That’s what women did.

  “If you want a beard, that is entirely your choice, Emmett.” Rose ignored her hesitation at his state of undress and crossed to his side. She took the cloth from him briskly, trying to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. She applied pressure to the cut, near his cheek. He must have started from the top instead of shaving his neck first. Apparently, he’d trimmed the fullness down, then made several deep swathes, revealing the skin beneath. It would look strange for some time if he wished to grow it back.

  “You mustn’t let my opinion sway you,” she continued, her mouth going dry at his nearness, his warmth coming to her through his undershirt. “If you want a beard, have a beard. Wearing a beard and mustache is the present fashion, after all. And I can see where it would be most practical here in Colorado. In the winter especially, for warmth.”

  She was rambling.

  “And you’re a ‘practical’ woman, aren’t you, Rose?”

  My, he almost sounded bitter. Had she made him feel that way?

  She’d told him she’d come here with every intention of being business minded and practical.

  She’d told him she hadn’t expected a love match.

  If only she could take those words back.

  “I have only striven to be honest with you,” she said, perhaps a trifle defensively.

  His eyes met hers in the mirror. They were intelli
gent eyes. The kind of eyes that noticed things. Such a nice clear gray.

  And he probably had an equally nice face. His nose was certainly fine. Such a noble, straight nose. Something she hadn’t really noticed before.

  He didn’t look at all bad in that soft white cotton undershirt either. The way it clung to his broad shoulders, to his strong muscled chest, and to the flat plane of his stomach. At the neck, it was open one button. The hollow of his collarbone seemed almost a tender place. She wondered if the skin there was as smooth as it looked.

  He’d noticed the direction of her gaze. His expression shifted to one of intense interest.

  Rose swallowed and looked away, embarrassed.

  “I could shave you,” she offered, rallying slightly. She straightened her spine and pressed the cloth more firmly to his cut. The blood seemed to have stopped flowing now. “I used to shave my father sometimes.”

  Emmett took the towel from her, without touching her hand, and dropped it into the bowl of sudsy water set into the washstand before him.

  “I’m capable of shaving myself, Rose.”

  And now she’d offended him. Somehow. Perhaps by implying he was inept with a razor and was going to hurt himself. Likely. He was a man used to living on his own. Why should he need her?

  Still, she hesitated. The cut was no longer bleeding, but the suds in his bowl were rapidly turning pink.

  “I don’t mind,” she said softly.

  He relented a little, loosening his stiff stance. “I don’t mind either, but I’m not going to cut myself again. I promise. The blade just slipped. It happens.”

  “All right.” She backed toward the door and turned, leaving him.

  At the top of the stairs, she glanced back, catching him watching her with a thoughtful gaze.

  With those eyes of his that seemed to miss nothing.

  Eyes that were such a very nice shade of gray.

  After Rose left, Emmett brought the blade down across his face again and again, carefully, until his beard and mustache were gone. He trimmed his hair a good two inches shorter too, using a small pair of scissors he kept in his shaving kit. He’d done it so often he didn’t have to worry about cutting it crooked. When he was done, he checked his appearance in the mirror and couldn’t stop himself from grinning.