Sweet Briar Rose

by Lena Goldfinch

  He’d said she had a grown son. Did that mean she was old enough to be Emmett’s mother?

  Or did it simply mean she’d married young? A “grown son” could be a boy of fifteen.

  As Rose nodded to acknowledge Emmett’s words, she wondered if what she was feeling was the sting of jealousy. Jealousy over Emmett’s relationship with this woman she hadn’t even met yet. A woman he was concerned about. Which was so sweet and responsible of him, checking on his neighbor, making sure she hadn’t taken ill or something.

  He let go of Rose’s hand—now that they had safely stopped and there was no risk of her falling—and knocked on the front door.

  They stood waiting, but there was no response.

  He banged more loudly, using the side of his fist against the wood. Then he removed his glove and tried again. There was still no answer.

  “Claire?” he called out. “Are you all right in there? It’s me, Emmett.”

  Just Emmett. Not “Emmett Southerland, the blacksmith.”

  There was no explanation like that. She would know who Emmett was, because he called her Claire.

  He didn’t announce Rose, of course, because the woman wouldn’t know her anyway. How would he introduce her? Had he already told Claire that he was expecting a bride to join him from Maine? Claire might already know he’d placed an ad in the newspaper. Emmett might have read Rose’s letters aloud to her, of an evening, and they might have smiled companionably together.

  Which raised the question why Emmett hadn’t asked Claire to marry him.

  Unless he had. Unless she’d refused him.

  The images racing through Rose’s mind made her frown to herself.

  Perhaps she was being silly. Perhaps Emmett—as he most likely would have—had kept this whole marriage business to himself. Until he was sure of her.

  Emmett tried the doorknob.

  “It’s locked,” he told Rose worriedly.

  “Is it usually open?”

  “What?” He looked at her, a fine wrinkle between his brows revealing his confusion at her question.

  “Is it usually unlocked?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think it would be unlocked. Claire lives on her own. Of course she would keep it locked.”

  Rose almost grinned at him. He obviously had no idea if Claire kept her door locked or unlocked. But she also felt his worry creeping into her. Where was Claire? Why wasn’t the woman answering the door? Perhaps she was inside, sick in bed, unable to answer...

  Perhaps she’d ventured out in the storm at some point and gotten lost. The snow had been blinding. The temperatures now could be deadly.

  “Is there a door at the back?” Rose bent to peer inside the front window. There didn’t appear to be a sash that lifted open. There was only one solid square frame around a grid of smaller glass panes. All she could make out of the gloomy interior were the shapes of parlor furniture.

  “There are white sheets covering the furniture,” Rose said, squinting to see better. “At least, I think there are.”

  Emmett joined her at the glass, bringing them even closer together, side by side. He tugged his glove back on, and then he too pressed his hand against one pane and peered inside.

  “There’s a sheet over the sofa,” he confirmed. He looked over at Rose with an air of relief and repeated, “There’s a sheet over the sofa. Claire wouldn’t have covered the furniture, surely, unless she were going away for some time.”

  “And she failed to tell you, that’s all.”

  His expression of sheer bafflement spoke volumes. “Why would she tell me?”

  “It seems you’re quite close,” Rose murmured. Huddled as they were, nearly cheek to cheek, she didn’t feel the need to speak loudly to be heard.

  “I barely know her,” he said. “I knew her husband more, Bill. He came into the shop regularly, up until his death. They had me come for supper a few times.”

  “You call her Claire,” Rose pointed out, feeling foolish and a tiny bit exposed. “I thought... Well, I thought you might be close.”

  “It’s a small town.” He shrugged. “It’s not unusual to dispense with formalities.”

  “I see.” Rose straightened and attempted to seal off the cuffs of her coat by intertwining her gloved hands. Her black fox muff would have been welcome right now. She’d considered digging it out of her trunk, but then decided it would only hamper her movements while learning to snowshoe. She might have fallen on her face, unable to catch her balance.

  Besides, with her hands stuffed into a large furry muff, Emmett wouldn’t have been able to hold her hand all the way over here. She’d quite enjoyed that, despite his distressing air of withdrawal.

  “What exactly do you imagine my relationship with Claire Hammond has been?” Emmett suddenly demanded.

  “Nothing!”

  “She’s a respectable woman,” he informed her, his tone a trifle defensive.

  “And you’re a respectable man,” Rose said soothingly, hoping all her mean jealous little doubts about his relationship with the widow were carefully concealed behind her composed expression. Hoping she sounded more trusting than she could actually claim.

  Had she really doubted Emmett? Well, she hadn’t precisely doubted him... But, truly, could anyone blame her—any woman in her position, that is—for having certain feelings?

  “Should we search inside anyway?” Rose asked, attempting to change the subject. “Do we know, from a few white sheets, that she’s not inside?”

  Emmett was staring, probing her for some hidden answers to whatever questions he had. What precisely could he see in her eyes?

  Rose let her eyelids fall shut for a second, pained, ashamed of herself. If only she could pull her scarf up over her whole face. What right had she to imagine Emmett having any kind of relationship with any woman? Especially since she’d told him not an hour ago that she needed a week to decide if she would indeed marry him.

  She had no right.

  It seemed the only thing she’d ever done was hurt him.

  “I’m sorry, Emmett,” she mumbled miserably.

  “What’s that?” He leaned closer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said more loudly. “I have no right...no right at all...to be...jealous...of you, when I have given you no answer. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re jealous?” Perhaps noticing her vain attempts to keep the chill from sneaking up her cuffs, Emmett gently wrapped his hands around her wrists. Warmth permeated her immediately. But not nearly enough. The cold was settling into her bones. They needed to move soon, just as Emmett had warned earlier. Only now, he seemed to have forgotten his warning.

  “Should we try to look inside?” she asked for a second time.

  Emmett seemed to finally hear her question. He studied the window frame as she had.

  “It doesn’t open,” he said.

  “But there may be another door. Around back, perhaps?”

  Emmett dragged his attention away from Rose, from what she’d revealed only moments ago.

  She was jealous.

  Of him and Claire.

  If only she knew how ridiculous that was. Not that Claire was an unhandsome woman, but she was her own woman. A hardy mountain-raised woman, who was still very much in love with her husband, though he’d been gone nearly two years. Emmett had never once had any inkling of feelings for her. Not of the romantic variety.

  But if Rose were jealous, could that mean she was beginning to feel some inkling of affection for him?

  It was dizzying. This back-and-forth between discouragement and hope.

  If only he could have bored into her eyes to find the answer. He’d tried. She’d only seemed mortified.

  Still, it seemed a little encouraging. Maybe, in a week’s time, her answer could be yes.

  She’d also asked a very good question. Should they try another door, just in case the sheets over the furniture didn’t mean Claire had left? He suspected she was visiting relatives for Christmas, only a couple of weeks awa
y now. She had people in Wyoming, he thought. Maybe she’d gone to them for the holidays. Or maybe she’d followed young William, Jr. to San Francisco.

  He wondered if Claire was thinking of moving, now that her husband was gone and her son had moved off. She had no family here in Sweet Briar. Maybe she would consider selling this fine house.

  A house with a parlor…and a front porch, where a man could set up a swing for two. Only steps away from his blacksmith’s shop across the road.

  The Hammonds had a nice dining room as well.

  He hadn’t been in their kitchen, but he had no reason to think it was nothing but fine too, like the rest of the place.

  Emmett stepped back to give the place a really good look.

  The house, being across the street from his shop, backed onto the train tracks and not the hill. So there was no sheer incline behind the house, no ten-foot depths to swallow a man whole. A hazard he’d hesitated to tackle even in snowshoes.

  “I’ll go around,” he finally told Rose, giving her a smile to reassure her. “I’ll be right back.”

  If he thought she was going to wait there, protected somewhat from the worst of the wind, he was wrong. As soon as he began to trek around the side of the house, she was right there behind him, galumphing along in her snowshoes.

  A great gust blasted around the house, whooshing loudly.

  “You could wait up on the porch!” he called over his shoulder.

  “I want to come!”

  “All right then,” Emmett murmured to himself, secretly pleased Rose wished to accompany him.

  She’d been jealous of Claire and him.

  You can’t be jealous if you don’t care.

  He wondered if Rose would like this house.

  He’d already begun to dream of them moving in here. Together. After they married. It would be nice for old Boston here too. He could lie out on that covered porch in the summer, enjoying some good shade.

  After checking the back door and peering into more windows, Emmett found the house empty, and there were more sheets covering the dining table.

  “Claire’s little dog,” he said suddenly.

  “What?” Rose asked.

  “Little Jim-Jim. A white terrier. If he were here, he’d be yapping like mad. He’d be jumping up on the door, making a terrible racket.”

  “But he’s not,” she said with clear relief.

  “He’s not,” he agreed. “Claire’s left, and she’s taken Jim-Jim with her.” Now that he thought of it, he couldn’t recall the dog barking yesterday when he’d stopped by. He hadn’t peered in the windows then. He’d simply knocked several times and returned home, his mind distracted by thoughts of Rose’s arrival.

  “Let’s head back.” Emmett took Rose’s hand securely in his. It was time for them to return to his place. And it was time to stop dreaming about this house. With a porch swing, and his own four-poster bed, big enough for two.

  His father had always lamented him being a romantic dreamer.

  He would have said Emmett should have already learned his lesson with Rose. He would have urged him to stop dreaming.

  Emmett glanced over at Rose, with the ends of her pink scarf flying merrily out behind her, her concentration fully on each awkward stride. Biting her lip, likely, though he couldn’t see the lower half of her face. The sight of her made him smile. His Rose. That’s how he thought of her.

  What if he liked being a dreamer? Did that make him any less of a man?

  It was surely better than hanging his head and brooding, worried Rose was going to say goodbye in a week. When he could choose instead to hope.

  For immediate purposes, however, all he needed to be concerned about was warming up by the fire. And making some food. Something nice and hot.

  Chapter 14

  By the time they got back to the house and contrived together to make a meal—crispy butter-grilled sandwiches with cheddar and ham on thick slices of Rose’s fresh bread, along with sliced canned tomatoes, sprinkled with salt and pepper—Rose was beginning to think there might be something wrong with Emmett.

  He didn’t appear ill, not by any means.

  Nor did he appear to be any worse for wear given all his hours spent in the cold and his many hours of labor. His lack of sleep didn’t seem to be affecting him either. He should be practically falling down. Instead he was humming as he washed the plates and handed each one to her.

  He just suddenly seemed...cheerful. He’d seemed so distant toward her when they were preparing to leave the house to check on Claire. Now it was as if all her words that had gone awry earlier—about her not liking his beard, and not being ready to make a decision—had simply disappeared. Surely he hadn’t forgotten, but perhaps he’d been able to set them aside.

  Rose was already becoming accustomed to the sight of his shaven face. With that lovely manly cleft in his chin. And the dimples in his cheeks. His nice gray eyes. Even more pleasant now, for some reason. And, well, everything. He was quite handsome, with such an arresting appearance.

  In fact, his face was rapidly becoming dear to her. It was as though she’d known him for years. She saw his goodness in that face, his generosity and kindness. She saw strength, hard work, and now even good cheer. And so much more.

  She tried not to stare.

  Had she truly admitted to him, out loud, that she’d felt jealous of him and Claire?

  He hadn’t brought it up again, but she feared he must think her quite the goose. Here she had, not an hour before, prevaricated as to whether she still wished to marry him. He’d pressed her for a time when she’d tell him her decision.

  And she’d told him a week.

  A week in which to make a decision that would impact the rest of their lives.

  It had seemed not nearly enough time.

  Though apparently it had taken him no time at all, beyond reading her letters and meeting her at the train station. Of course, that had been the plan all along. That was why she’d come here in the first place. So it was only she who had stirred things up with her words of doubt. It was only she who had trouble making a decision.

  With that thought in mind, Rose hung up the towel she’d used to dry their plates and said, “If you don’t mind, Emmett, I’d like to freshen up in my room. And I may need to rest a spell.”

  It wasn’t so much her lack of sleep, as a need to be alone.

  She didn’t tell him that, naturally.

  “Of course. Is there anything else you need?” Every time Emmett moved, she caught a tantalizing whiff of sandalwood, so mildly peppery and woodsy. It smelled divine.

  “Not at the moment.” Rose forced a rather strained smile, which she hoped he would take for tiredness. At some point she longed to take a full bath, but that would require heating buckets of water on the stovetop and carrying them to the bathtub. There was a pump in the bathroom, she’d found upon inspection, but no running hot water. Not that she’d been horribly surprised to learn that. Not here in tiny Sweet Briar.

  For now, all that preparation seemed like far too much work. So she simply took one of the pitchers of hot water they had prepared earlier from the stovetop and excused herself. She’d simply have to be satisfied with a quick freshening up at the washstand in her room.

  She left Emmett behind with Boston: Emmett stretched out in his chair, long legs extended toward the fire, the old dog resting at his feet, looking so at home. Both of them watching her. Emmett in particular eyed her with a sort of speculative interest as she hurried off to her room. She had no idea what he was thinking, though she feared it might have been all the silly things she’d said earlier today.

  In her room, Rose washed quickly and propped herself up on the bed with every one of Emmett’s letters in hand—and his photo as well, though it did him little justice, truth be told.

  She sat there and read every word he’d written, reliving the moments when she’d received each letter. Only now, she could picture Emmett quite vividly, as if he were hovering at her elbow, readin
g aloud to her in his wonderful rich baritone.

  My dearest Rose, began each one.

  More phrases leapt out at her:

  I cannot wait until the day that you arrive. To see you, finally, in person.

  Today I thought of you as I looked off to the mountains. I wondered if you were looking off to sea. Dare I hope you were thinking of me?

  If you have any cares or questions, please, Rose, do not hesitate to ask. Until we meet in person. The day cannot arrive too soon.

  And many, many more.

  His words came alive to her as never before, though she’d read them over and over many times. In the end, she was left with a haphazard pile of papers clutched to her chest. And she was weeping silently.

  Was it possible she’d been half in love with Emmett before she arrived—and she simply hadn’t been aware of it? Or had he won her over since her arrival?

  Was it love—could it be love—after such a short amount of time?

  She was afraid that indeed she could have been half in love before she arrived. Half in love, but sleepwalking. She was afraid she was even more in love now. Which meant her answer to Emmett was going to have to be yes.

  Which meant she was going to have to tell him.

  After all her bluff and blunder, she was going to have to march into the kitchen and tell that—handsome, kind, wonderfully considerate—man, “Yes, after all, I find I do love you, Emmett Southerland. And I wish to be your bride. If you’ll still have me.”

  Rose leaned her head back against the headboard and sighed.

  After all that had passed between them, what would he say to that?

  Evening came, and still Rose had not emerged from her room. Emmett had called for her to join him for a light supper earlier, but she’d given no response. There was no light under her door now, just the darkness of the night creeping in. It got dark so early in the winter. It felt like midnight even though it was only eight o’clock.

  “Rose?” He tapped softly on her door. Boston bumbled in close, as he was like to do, and wedged his big head between Emmett’s thigh and the bedroom door. He snuffled noisily at the seam of the doorframe and at the wooden vent in the foot of the door that let the heat of the fire in when the door was shut. The old dog obviously wished to be let inside. He loved his Rose. He loved her softer voice and softer touch. Likely. He’d had his time with his master and now wanted to claim his fair share of time with Rose too. It was nice to see.