Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “You’re not big.” Only when he chuckled did she get what he had said.

  “Go away.” She punched his arm lightly. “Sometimes I wish I were more like my mother, except I couldn’t live in the shadow of my father the way she does. Still, she’s as quiet and strong as he is loud and strong. I love them both. What about your parents?”

  “Are you asking as Rose Kelly, reporter, or Rose Kelly, friend?”

  How could she answer that? Was there any way to pour five years of living for the newspaper into one sentence? One paragraph?

  “I’ve been writing for the Tattler for five years now,” she said. “It’s part of who I am. When I’m Rose Kelly, friend, as you put it, I’m also Rose Kelly, reporter. It’s difficult, though, with us, since you’re not only Eric Johansen, friend. You’re also Eric Johansen, subject.”

  “So can the four of us find happiness together?” he asked lightly.

  “Only if you trust me,” she answered. “And only if I can trust you.”

  He reached across the bench and took her hand. “I don’t know, Rose. I just don’t know.” Rose’s emotions tumbled over each other in a chaotic riot. What was happening? Was he saying he couldn’t trust her—or she couldn’t trust him?

  Praying had always settled her soul. That was one thing that Katie Kelly had taught her daughter. Even her father had told her about the importance of prayer, but he put it in more commonplace terms: “When you need help, Rose, my love, go right to the top.”

  It was good advice.

  Dearest God, she prayed, help me see what I need to see. Help me be what I need to be. Can I trust him? Can I?

  She knew what she wanted the answer to be and why.

  Eric Johansen was holding her hand.

  Chapter 9

  We do not all see with the same eyes. Nor do we hear with the same ears.

  A story told again and again loses its truth as it passes through the mouths of the tellers and the ears of the hearers.

  The audience began to stream out of the town hall.

  “It’s ended,” Eric said, torn between happiness that the booming music had stopped and sadness that his time with Rose was almost over.

  People walked by them, nodding as they passed. “Well,” he said, “maybe it wasn’t as bad as we thought. They’re smiling.”

  After Mrs. Jenkins, Linnea, and Reverend Wilton, who were talking in a cluster as they strolled out of the hall, had greeted them cheerfully, he realized why they had all been so jovial. He still had Rose’s hand in his.

  There was no graceful way out of it. He stood up so suddenly that he nearly knocked the bench over. Rose righted herself—and the bench—and asked, with a upturned grin, “We’re leaving?”

  “It’s late.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

  Among the last stragglers coming out of the concert were some of the women from church, who whispered among themselves before approaching the bench. “So nice to see the two of you together. It’s a lovely night for romance,” Mrs. Jenkins said as she walked by them.

  Romance? He’d put up with the church women’s match-making efforts, borne them in silence, but this was too much. He knew he should say something, but he couldn’t respond. Something dreadful was happening in his throat.

  He didn’t dare look at Rose. What must she think of him?

  “Well.” Rose broke the silence. “That was a little more than I expected.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No need to apologize for someone else’s words,” she said briskly. “I’m sure you’ve done nothing to encourage that notion. Besides,” she added with an impish turn to her lips, “maybe she was referring to herself. Is there a Mr. Jenkins? I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.”

  “There is. He’s a quiet sort, doesn’t go out of the house much. He’s a real bookish fellow and spends much of his time with his personal library. Mr. Jenkins isn’t a regular churchgoer, but once in a while, you’ll see him there.”

  “See? Maybe she was inspired by the music to spend some time with her husband.”

  “You give that concert too much credit. It wasn’t really music, and it wasn’t much inspiration.”

  They continued to discuss the evening’s entertainment as they strolled back through the town, carefully avoiding any mention of Mrs. Jenkins’s comment. The air was gentle, with no hint of the earlier humidity.

  Their fingers brushed as they crossed the street in front of the hotel, tempting him to take her hand in his. Instead of inches separating them, though, there was a chasm. He’d overstepped earlier. It wouldn’t happen again.

  His hand felt empty, and he clenched it tightly against the ache.

  At the door of the Territorial, she shifted her little bag from one hand to the other, as if hesitating. “Thank you.”

  The words took him by surprise. “Thank you? For what?”

  She touched his arm and looked him straight in the eyes with those glorious green eyes. “Thank you for sitting with me.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he began, letting his heart soften. From the glow in her expression, she’d enjoyed the evening as much as he had. Maybe, just maybe, this could work out.

  “And thank you for working with me on the articles. If you don’t mind, I’d like to shadow you some more later this week.”

  He felt as if she had slugged him in the stomach. So much for the love of a lifetime. He was her subject. How could he keep forgetting that?

  “I’m working in the fields. It won’t be very exciting.”

  “I’m not looking for exciting.”

  Good. Then we’re a perfect match, he thought.

  “My next article is almost ready,” she said. “I just need some background information about you, what made you come out to Jubilee in the first place, and more importantly, what keeps you here.” She opened the hotel door. “And don’t think you can weasel out of it, Eric Johansen. I always get my story.”

  With that, she entered the Territorial’s lobby, leaving Eric alone on the street with his thoughts.

  The moon was hidden, but the stars shone brightly across the prairie. He hadn’t decided which he enjoyed more—a moonlit ride home or a starlit ride home. Either way, God provided light for his journey.

  How true that was, he mused while Sir Gray, as his horse was now called, navigated the night road to his home. God had always been there, even when the dark minutes had turned into darker hours. God was his light, constantly staying at his side, guiding him.

  The light hadn’t dimmed. Oh, there had been times when it seemed to have gone behind a cloud, but all he’d had to do was pray those clouds away.

  Now, more than ever, he needed a clear light.

  He was terribly confused about Rose. Lately she had said things that made him wonder what she knew. If she knew anything, anything at all, he was done for.

  She suspected something. He could hear it in her voice, in the questions that seemed innocuous but were, in fact, quite direct.

  Caution. Every day of his life required caution, but that was the price he had to pay.

  He’d almost let his guard slip this evening. He couldn’t risk that. No, not at all. Yet he’d come so close to letting himself relax. He had enjoyed the evening, but was she just trying to get his confidence?

  No matter how doggedly Rose pursued her questioning, no matter how her eyes sparkled like liquid emeralds, he had to be on his toes. If she caught him off guard, all he’d worked for here, all he’d built, would come undone.

  The stakes were too high to take any chances—even on love.

  A shooting star twinkled its way across the Dakota sky, a moving diamond on velvet. It was a reminder of a promise he had made as he left Boston. He could deal with Rose if he broke his promise, but there were certain things a man just didn’t do, and going back on his word to the Lord was one of those things.

  There was only way to deal with it all. He had promised God that he would never lie again, and the ea
siest way to do that was to say as little as possible.

  He slumped on the wagon seat. Why was it that the easiest way was actually the hardest way?

  It was almost as if he were courting her, Rose thought dreamily as she entered the Territorial. When his hand—

  “Rose! Rose Kelly!” Rose heard and smelled Charlotta Allen at the same time. If anything, both her voice and her aroma were more powerful than they’d been earlier in the evening.

  “Miss Allen, how nice to see you again. Your concert was quite…” Rose struggled for a word that would be truthful and yet not hurtful. “Impressive,” she settled on at last. “It was quite impressive.”

  “Thank you very much. I do so enjoy coming to these small frontier burgs to share my gift.” Charlotta lifted her substantial chin proudly. “They are so appreciative,” she cooed, “of having any sort of art in their lives.”

  Rose could only nod in silent agreement. “Any sort of art” was precisely correct as a way to describe the diva’s singing.

  “I’m about to sit down and refresh my throat with a cup of tea.” Charlotta motioned grandly toward a small reception room off the lobby. “Would you like to join me for a late-night restorative?”

  “Tea would be nice.” It did sound good. She was slowly beginning to adjust to the singer’s abundance of perfume.

  With a great swoosh of lace-embellished velvet, Charlotta Allen led Rose to the reception room where the same young chambermaid was setting the table for them.

  “Ma’am,” she said, with a little curtsy that encompassed both the singer and Rose. Rose couldn’t help noticing the way the maid’s bright, mink-colored eyes took in every detail of the singer’s clothing and hair. She was sure that within a day the young woman would have shared it all with her friends and family.

  After they were seated and served with an elegant silver tea service and blue willow china—which Rose suspected did not appear for most guests—Charlotta swirled her tiny silver spoon in the delicate cup and asked with an air of nonchalance, “Who was that dashing young man you were with, dear Rose?”

  “Dashing? Oh, you must mean Eric. He’s a homesteader here.”

  “He’s quite handsome.”

  “I suppose he is,” Rose answered warily.

  “Are you two”—Charlotta swirled her forefinger in the air—“romantically involved?”

  “No!” The word shot out of her.

  The singer leaned over the table and patted Rose’s hand. “Please don’t take offense. I’m just such a snoop!”

  All of this was leading somewhere. Rose could tell that the singer had something on her mind. All she had to do was be quiet and let Charlotta speak, and eventually she’d learn what the diva’s motives were.

  “He looks somewhat familiar. More tea?” Charlotta held up the silver teapot.

  “Yes, please.” I’ll stay here and drink tea until I’m a sloshing mess if necessary, Rose thought. I have to find out why she’s talking to me. I think it has something to do with Eric.

  “This is amazingly good tea considering where we are, don’t you agree?” Charlotta asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You said his name was Eric?”

  “Do you recognize him?” Rose had to restrain herself from screaming. This was going so slowly.

  “I think so. Is his last name Jorgeson?”

  “No. Johansen.”

  “Ah.” Charlotta nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Eric Johansen. From Boston.”

  “You do know him!”

  The singer shrugged. “No, I don’t. But I’ve heard of him. Or read about him.” Her painted eyebrows met in a deep frown. “Oh my. I can’t quite place where I learned this. Isn’t it frustrating when you can’t recall something like that?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Ah, it’s the price I must pay for traveling around the world with my entourage, bringing sunshine and joy into the drab lives of so many.”

  Rose bit her lip. Hard.

  “But we were talking about Mr. Johansen, weren’t we, dear?”

  Rose nodded.

  The diva leaned over the table, so close that her perfume and various scents mingled in an overpowering miasma. “Yes, I know about this Eric Johansen.” She ended her pronouncement with a sharp bob of her head.

  “And?”

  “Well, I am not the kind of person who goes about gossiping and telling tales, but you are such a nice young woman, so kind and sweet, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Rose’s heart flipped painfully. The chambermaid had been right. Tears pressed against her eyelids, and she forced them back. “What…what do you know?”

  “He murdered someone.”

  Chapter 10

  Perhaps the hardest thing to do is to trust unequivocally. It is also the most dangerous.

  Excuse me?” Rose put her cup down so sharply that it rattled in the saucer. She must have heard the singer wrong.

  “Oh, silly me, I am such a goose. Look at this. I’ve made you spill your tea.” Charlotta pulled a lace handkerchief from her bosom and mopped ineffectually at the linen tablecloth where a pale brown stain spread.

  Rose swallowed. Her throat was terribly dry. “Did you say…did you say that Eric…” She looked around to make sure they were alone, then whispered the words. “Murdered someone?”

  “Yes, dear.” Charlotta continued to dab at the spot.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, of course I’m not sure. This was awhile ago, you understand, and I only saw his picture in the paper.”

  “Then you might be recalling someone else.” The chamber-maid had said that Eric left Boston under a shadow, but murder! It didn’t seem possible. “Yes, I’m sure you’re thinking of another person. A name that might sound similar, perhaps?”

  The singer stopped her swabbing. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not the kind of thing I’d forget.”

  “Who…who did he murder?”

  “A woman.”

  Rose’s heart seized. Eric, a murderer? Charlotta had to be mixed up. There was no way Eric had murdered anyone.

  “You must be mistaken.”

  The singer waved to the maid who hovered by the door. From the way she was bent toward them, Rose knew the young woman was desperately trying to overhear them, so she clamped her mouth shut when the maid came over.

  “Might we have something to eat with our tea?” Charlotta wheedled. She looked at Rose. “An evening of music does take so much out of one.”

  Rose bit back the reply that rose entirely too easily and merely nodded.

  The maid brought them a plate of cookies, and Charlotta poked through them with a pudgy forefinger. “Raisins. They have raisins in them. I do not like raisins. Ah, well.” She sighed and chose one anyway and fastidiously picked out each raisin.

  Rose waited with waning patience as the diva dissected each cookie. She seemed to have forgotten the subject entirely.

  Finally she could bear it no longer. Making sure the maid was well out of earshot, she brought up the matter again. “You were telling me about Eric. You just told me he is a murdering madman.”

  “Murdering madman? No, dearest, not at all.”

  Rose was ready to pound her head on the table with frustration, but she fought for control. “But—”

  “Oh, I don’t think he could be called a madman.” The singer shook her head so vehemently that her earrings swung wildly like erratic pendulums under her improbably colored hair. “He’s not a madman.” She paused and stared at the teapot. “But wouldn’t anyone have to be mad to commit murder?” she asked her reflection.

  Rose took a deep breath. Her mother had always told her that a lie brought into the sunshine soon evaporated, and she knew what Katie Kelly would advise at the moment. Bring out the lies. They’ll go away, and you’ll be left with the truth. “What happened? Who did he kill, and why?”

  “Aren’t you quite the little reporter with your questions.” The diva’s smile was tinged with a t
ouch of evil. “Well, dear, it was quite the story in Boston.” Finished at last with the cookies, Charlotta patted her lips with the napkin and placed it on the table. “Of course, there isn’t much to tell. He killed one of his patients.”

  “Killed a patient?” The room spun dangerously around Rose’s head, and she gripped the sides of her chair tightly.

  “I don’t recall the details at all.” Charlotta licked her finger-tip and secured the last wayward crumbs on the tablecloth. “Something about a woman. She was a widow, and I think she even had a child or two.”

  “Why isn’t he under arrest?”

  Charlotta shrugged her shoulders. “I think he worked something out with the authorities.”

  Then, as surprisingly as she’d opened the conversation, the singer ended it. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. “We travel early tomorrow, so I must bid you good night.” She waved her plump hand dismissively and left in a grand flourish.

  “Good night,” Rose said to the diva’s departing back. “Thank you for the tea.”

  The little maid reappeared and began to clear the table. “I don’t think she heard you,” she said to Rose.

  “No,” Rose said, watching as the end of Charlotta’s dress vanished up the stairs. She couldn’t help but notice that the hem was quite ragged. “No, I don’t suppose she did.”

  She retreated to her room, leaving the young woman to finish cleaning up the remnants of their tea.

  As she prepared for bed, she kept turning over in her mind what Charlotta Allen had said. Murder? Could Eric really be guilty of murder?

  It didn’t seem possible, although certainly she knew that not all murderers were as grotesque on the outside as they were on the inside. Many of them were dangerously charming and used it to their advantage.

  Eric didn’t seem to fall into either of those categories. Murderer? No, not at all.

  But she couldn’t dismiss the story out of hand. Some part of it was true; she just didn’t know which part. Rose picked up her Bible and found the passage that the minister had used that Sunday. One verse was particularly appropriate: “The words of a talebearer are as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly.”