“I know, and I thank Him.” A rush of love for his twin threatened to overwhelm Marcus. To cover the emotion-filled moment, he resorted to humor. “I could give you all kinds of brotherly advice,” he began, “but I won’t. Instead, I’ll just say this. If you ever write the story of your life, you can call it School Bells and Wedding Bells. After all, you are a schoolhouse bride!” The door flung open. Charley January, who would walk Merry down the aisle, and Sammy Reilly, Brit’s best man, came in. “Time to get this shindig started,” Charley gruffly said. He turned bright pink when Meredith Rose kissed his freshly shaven cheek. Sammy chortled, then went with Marcus to find Brit.
Meredith Rose picked up her bouquet of Christmas roses. Brit had smiled when she asked how he had managed to get them; then he quietly said, “I have ways.”
She took Charley’s arm and stepped into the schoolroom that held so many good memories. She stopped short. Fragrant cedar boughs tied with red ribbon framed every window. Fat white candles glowed with a lovely light—but it could not compare with the light in the eyes of the man who held her future in his strong but gentle hands. What cared she for satin gowns, priceless lilies, jewels, and fine houses? Her home would be a spacious log house that kept out the storms of life. She and Brit needed no “charm from the sky,” to hallow that home. God had directed them to Last Chance to give them a new beginning.
And from his place at the front of the schoolroom, Brit waited for his bride. His heart swelled with love for the white-clad figure coming toward him. Surely no man had ever been more blessed. The God who had given His Son to the world had granted the desire of Briton Farley’s heart by bestowing on him a “Merry” Christmas.
ROSE KELLY
by Janet Spaeth
Dedication
For my sister Pat, who understands me and still loves me!
Chapter 1
Jubilee, Dakota Territory—1879
Jubilee!
Only an inbred sense of decorum kept Rose Kelly from pressing her nose against the window of the train like an excited child.
She had been on this train much too long. Every shudder and shimmy made her tense, knowing that the dreadful grating of metal on metal was about to begin. She’d have no teeth left if the train didn’t come to a complete stop soon. Her jaw ground right along with the shriek of the brakes and the wheels on the tracks.
The train grated to a squealing halt, and Rose tried to restrain herself from elbowing her way to the front of the passengers disembarking.
Jubilee!
Despite her exhaustion—who could sleep on a train that joggled and jiggled and screeched the way this one did?—she was anxious to see this place that would be her home for the next six months.
She’d been watching through the train window as Jubilee came into view. It was a tiny whistle-stop town in the Dakota Territory, a cluster of buildings huddled protectively together on the open prairie. In winter, such proximity might be a blessing. But now with the glorious summer sun pouring over the grassy expanse, such closeness seemed an excess.
The crowd surged forward, and she felt herself being propelled toward the exit. She grasped her signature bag, a tiny thing embroidered and beaded with pink and red roses, and let the movement carry her.
Suddenly she was squeezed out into the front, to the open door…and she stepped into air. The footing she thought would be there wasn’t, and she dropped suddenly toward the platform.
The crowd pushed again, and in a most ungainly and unfeminine move, she was launched into a very solid shape. Two arms came out of nowhere, it seemed, and caught her just before she hit the platform’s surface. Strong arms. Tanned arms. Muscular arms.
“Careful, miss.”
She looked up into blue eyes that exactly matched the Dakota sky behind him. The wind ruffled his hair, as blond as summer wheat.
He quickly dropped his arms…and his gaze.
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t injured,” he muttered. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked, and she realized that she was still clutching his arms.
Rose considered her rescuer as she released her grip and adjusted the front of her traveling suit—quite the thing back in Chicago. This man might be a good resource for her needs.
“Is someone coming for you?” he asked, but his words were more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer. His forehead knotted into a frown. From the lines etched there, Rose thought that expression must be a perpetual state with him.
“No.” She looked at her surroundings. Even with all the research she’d done before coming out, nothing had prepared her for this.
What she’d seen from the train had been deceptive. Jubilee was more than a nervous clump of buildings. It was a genuine town with genuine buildings and genuine people walking on genuine streets.
Oh, there was a rough, raw edge to it, but Jubilee was definitely a town that would still be on the map in a century or two.
“Miss?”
With a start, she realized that she remained standing in front of the train exit and was being buffeted by the other passengers trying to leave the train.
“Are they all coming here?” she asked as a passenger’s oversized carrier bashed her leg. She’d have a large bruise there by nightfall.
Taking her arm, he adeptly moved her out of the human traffic. “Just for a moment.” A trace of a smile lit those sky-blue eyes. “I suspect they’re anxious to feel solid land under their feet.”
“I know how they feel.” Even though she was standing on a very flat, very stationary platform, her body still vibrated from the long ride. “This is the first real stop we’ve made today. The fresh air is wonderful. It gets a bit close inside the car after a while. I do believe I’d have gotten off even if this weren’t my destination.”
“You’re visiting here?” Again, an inquiry that wasn’t one.
“No.” She pulled herself up to her full height. It wasn’t much, just a bit over five feet. “I’m here on business.”
A shadow of a frown wrinkled his brow. “Business? Here in Jubilee?”
His thoughts couldn’t have been more obvious if his forehead were transparent. She could see him trying to figure out what kind of business would bring her to a town like Jubilee. Etiquette struggled with curiosity, and etiquette won. He did not ask. She did not tell.
“Do you have lodging?” he inquired. “The best hotel in this area is the Territorial.”
It’s also the only hotel, she thought but didn’t say. She had reservations at the Territorial, choosing what she hoped was some degree of privacy that she might not get in a boardinghouse.
“Would you like some help with your bags?” he asked.
Her reporter’s eye had already taken in not just the obvious physical attributes of the man but the subtleties, as well. He didn’t seem to be dangerous or aggressive. Her instincts weren’t perfect, but they were generally good. Yet a certain wariness was, of course, in order.
“I can hire a wagon. I’ll need to do that anyway.” She glanced around. “If you can tell me where I might find one?”
“Clanahan’s down the street is really the only place where you might find something like that. He has a few that he picked up from folks abandoning their claims and going back east again.”
She visually measured the distance against the weight of her bags, then surveyed her surroundings as she realized she couldn’t possibly carry her belongings that far. The area looked safe enough, although one could never be sure.
He must have seen her indecision, because he said with a touch of amusement in his voice, “You do know that the Territorial is across the road, don’t you?” He pointed to a brick building behind the station.
How could she have missed it? It was the tallest structure in town.
She easily found her two bags. They were the only pieces of real luggage left in the pile of cartons and wrapped bundles on the platform. He reached for both of them, but she was faster and grasped the smaller of t
he bags herself. “I can carry this myself.”
He didn’t answer, but she was sure she saw a flicker of admiration on his face.
The hotel was far beyond what she had imagined she’d find in Jubilee. Three stories tall, constructed of brick so new that it was still hard-edged and clean, it was a sentinel on the prairie.
“This is it,” he said unnecessarily as they paused beneath the large sign: TERRITORIAL HOTEL. ROOMS.
She dropped her bag and secretly flexed her fingers. The handle had pressed into her palm so completely that her fingers were numb. Had the hotel been much farther, she might have had to swallow her pride and let him help her carry the bag.
“Thanks for your help.” She stretched her hand—the one that still had feeling in it—toward him.
“You’re welcome.”
He turned and began to walk away. But he returned. “You might need some more help with these bags.” He easily hefted them up and carried them into the lobby toward the desk, where he deposited them. “Matthew can take care of them from here,” he said, motioning to the young man behind the desk. “By the way,” he added, “I’m Eric Johansen.”
“Rose Kelly. It’s been nice to meet you, and thanks again for your help with my bags.” She smiled at him as a terribly rogue thought drifted into her head: Too bad you’re only staying here six months, Rose Kelly. He’s got awfully nice eyes.
Eric watched her through the window as she dealt with the Territorial’s desk clerk. Matthew would take good care of her. He was a fair and decent man—Eric had seen that side of him often in church.
He had known from the moment she stepped off the train—and into his arms—that she was traveling alone. Her gaze hadn’t swept the crowd at the station; instead, she’d raised her eyes to the buildings and beyond. That single movement had been quite telling.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Simmons, their heads together and their eyes staring directly at him. They hid their mouths behind their hands, but he knew what they were doing—undoubtedly talking about him and pairing him up with the guest.
He realized he probably shouldn’t have carried her bags into the hotel, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t leave her standing on the street.
With a quick sweep of his hat, he acknowledged the two women. Perhaps a direct response was best to forestall the rumors that were certainly already making their way through town.
They could talk all they wanted to. He had no time for a woman in his life, not now and, really, not ever.
He turned back to the station across the street, aware of the fact that he’d totally forgotten to pick up the plow part that had come on the train.
No, he had no time for women. Not even for someone with eyes that sparkled with green and golden flecks and with hair that caught the summer sunlight like new copper.
He shook his head. Next thing he knew, he’d be abandoning farming for poetry.
It was time to bring his head back to earth. Fast.
Rose surveyed her room. It was more than she’d expected. Actually, it was quite lovely in a basic sort of way. Although it admittedly couldn’t hold a candle to the suites of her favorite Chicago hotel, the extremely elegant Palmer House, it certainly outshone the grimy rooms she’d seen in New York and Boston. The absolute newness of it was quite charming.
She sank to the bed and took stock of her situation. It was amazing that she was even here.
She’d never had even the vaguest intention of coming out to the Dakota Territory to begin with. If only she hadn’t overheard her editor, George Marshall, at the Chicago Tattler telling one of his male reporters that no woman could do what he had in mind.
Those had been fighting words, and she’d barreled right in, arguing with Mr. Marshall, the whole time having no idea what she was shouting about.
Her daddy had always said that Rose was born with the Kelly temperament—yell first, ask questions later—and while her mother sighed helplessly into her apron and turned back to an endless array of diapers and socks when Rose announced her plans, she’d caught a glimpse of a smile on her father’s face. He was proud of her.
It was her natural inquisitiveness, he’d told his friends, that made her a crackerjack reporter, and he had puffed out his barrel chest proudly when he told them of her accomplishment. His daughter, he proclaimed, was heading off to the land of wonder and adventure—the Dakota Territory.
Her mother hadn’t been so convinced. Although Katie Kelly was not one to speak up, especially against her husband, her face spoke volumes. One eyebrow could shoot, quite independently of the other, to her hairline to indicate displeasure. Her eyes, once a warm kitten gray, were now faded and dim beneath lines etched deeply over the bridge of her nose.
But Rose saw something in her mother’s eyes that escaped the gaze of her rambunctious brothers—the way the eyebrows settled and the gray softened when a baby was placed in her arms. Rose had seen the work-worn hands smooth a delicate blanket, noted the pain as a callused finger caught a fragile thread. And the sadness with which the baby was returned to the mother.
Katie Kelly had wanted babies, grandbabies, but Rose had wanted more.
She wanted to live in a whirlwind of excitement, always moving, always on the go, always finding out about things.
When Mr. Marshall had almost laughingly offered Rose the job of covering the fashion gossip scene, she’d seized it eagerly. Almost every week she attended a party, and eventually the elite of the city took her presence at their functions as a societal coup.
Everybody wanted Rose Kelly at their gatherings.
She had done well, had earned the right to be a reporter, and she knew she was a pioneer in her field. She got letters every week from girls who wanted to be her when they grew up.
Now she wanted to do more.
The heated discussion she’d had with a bemused Mr. Marshall resulted in just that. She’d had to plead her case, even when she found out that at stake was a series of articles about homesteading in the Dakotas.
Truth be told, she hadn’t wanted it, but when it sounded like Mr. Marshall was going to give the assignment to Jerrold Pugh, a whiner if she’d ever heard one—and a self-important whiner, to boot—she’d had to leap right in and wrench the assignment away from him.
And now she was here, ready to get to work. A shiver of excitement shot down her spine as she considered how to proceed.
Could it be that God had given her the subject of her articles? Might it be Eric Johansen?
It was a splendid idea.
She stood up and went to the lace-trimmed window. Her room faced away from the center of Jubilee, and from her window, she saw an amazing green vista.
The summertime prairie looked like it had awakened from a long nap, stretched out its deep brown lengths, and sprouted.
She chewed her lip as she thought about Eric.
Rose wasn’t ignorant of men. Not at all. Working at the Chicago Tattler, she was surrounded by men. Admittedly, most of them were cigar-smoking, middle-aged men whose primary concerns were how Chicago’s baseball team, the White Stockings, were doing and whether the beer would be cold at Albert’s, the neighborhood tavern.
None of them seemed to consider her as anything other than one of the fellows. The thought gave her pause, but she shook it off. It was better that than they notice her female attributes. At least this way she was considered an equal.
In most things. Now, this assignment…
Eric didn’t seem to view her the way the fellows she worked with did. There was something different, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Unexpectedly she yawned. She was really quite tired.
During the entire trip, she hadn’t been able to sleep deeply. All she could do was close her eyes and drift off a bit. Everything she saw from the train window was new and fascinating, and missing even a bit of it was out of the question. The journey was entirely too exciting.
Not that she intended to stay her
e. Once she was done being a paid tourist, she could go back to her rather comfortable home in Chicago and the excitement of a city that lived twenty-four hours a day. Meanwhile, she’d enjoy the peaceful calm of the prairie, where nothing moved except the grass in the wind.
She dropped onto the pristine pale blue coverlet and closed her eyes, just to think about her travels and her future and a man who seemed to be Dakota himself….
Chapter 2
My first impression of the Dakota Territory was that it is entirely blue and green.
As I got off the train, I saw nothing but endless land that touched an equally endless sky.
The world here is hemmed in only by our limited imaginations.
Which came first—the growling in her stomach or the aroma of something wonderful wending its tempting way under her door—didn’t matter. Rose woke up with a roaring hunger gnawing at her stomach.
What a dream she’d had! A train ride that seemed never to end, a land that sprawled under a sunlit sky, eyes that caught that blue sky…
She rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. The plain but clean hotel room. Her bags, still unpacked at the door. The absence of street sounds from her slightly opened window. Sudden realization washed over her.
It wasn’t a dream. No, not at all.
Jubilee!
Rose sprang out of bed and pressed her nose to the win-dow. Yes, the glorious sunshine still poured across the prairie, and she fairly itched to get out there and take a look.
But first she had to attend to the scraping emptiness of her stomach. Some things didn’t change, she thought as she checked her dress and made sure it wasn’t too wrinkled to wear downstairs for dinner. One common trait of all the Kellys was what her father called “a healthy respect for the dinner plate.”
Food first, exploration later.
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