Sixty Acres and a Bride

by Regina Jennings

  Weston shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, Aunt Louise. If Eliza hasn’t profited from the correction of Aunt Mary, Mrs. Lovelace, and the whole staff of the St. Louis Ladies’ Academy, a mere reprimand won’t be effective. The die is cast, and now we must endure while she raises a family of hoydens just like her.”

  “A family?” Louise’s hand flew to her chest. “Is there a family to go with this Mr. Jake England that we’ve yet to meet?” Her eyes scanned Eliza’s figure speculatively.

  Eliza’s happy face turned a shade happier. “Not yet, but there will be this fall.” Then under her breath she added primly, “Although who can say if it’ll be a hoyden or not.”

  Louise looked to Weston, but he adjusted the trim on his Stetson, refusing to acknowledge Eliza’s latest comment. Rosa bit her lip to stop the grin that threatened to emerge.

  Clearing his throat, Weston restored some decorum to the parlor by addressing his aunt. “So it’s been a decade? It’s hard to fathom you’ve been gone that long.”

  “I can’t believe I spent ten years in Mexico either, but when I came back and saw how much had changed, it seemed I’d been gone a lifetime. When I left, you were still green behind the ears and Eliza hadn’t put her hair up yet.” Louise smiled fondly at the girl. “You grew up without my permission. Yes, the largest shock is with the young folks. My generation just plods along, nothing new, unless you’re Mary and get a few December surprises from the stork. Besides that, everyone is just as they were the day we pulled down that drive, heading for Mexico with a wagon brimming with hope, dreams, and my little family.” She reached into her apron for a hankie and dabbed her eyes.

  “And you, Weston, tell me about your own sweet wife. Cora? Was that her name?”

  “Was that her name?” How he hated to hear was describing his wife. So final. So permanent.

  “Yes, ma’am—Cora Smock. Her people are from St. Louis—which is where we met. She was actually at the academy with Eliza.” He floundered. How could he put together the bare bones of the story without disturbing the sensitive, painful truth?

  “Cora and I were the closest friends,” Eliza interrupted, “and her parents entertained us while Wes was in town to see me.” Thus she began the colorful narration, leaving Weston alone with his memories:

  True, Cora was stunning—the consummate mistress of the soirees held in her parlor. But what most impressed Weston was her poise. She was capable, gracious, and welcoming to all. She didn’t simper like Eliza’s other academy friends. For a slender lady, Miss Smock had broad shoulders, and her hands, although soft and white, were ample—definitely large enough to handle reins.

  Here was a woman who could stand by his side and meet the challenges of life without flinching.

  Difficult to believe his first impression of her was so tragically mistaken. Yet, that wasn’t completely fair to her, either. Had she stayed in St. Louis, she would probably have remained the unflappable hostess and gone on to lead a rich and fulfilling life. Yes, she was poised and she was capable, but only in her own element. Just as a strong rye might grow well in one field and turn spindly in another, she’d been transplanted from the soil that nourished her and dropped into a hostile environment.

  And he was the one who’d uprooted her.

  Rosa listened to Eliza’s account, her sharp black eyes not missing the change in Weston. He didn’t hear a word his sister was saying. He was somewhere far away. As painful as Eliza’s account might be, from the look of despair on his face, his own reckoning was crueler. Eliza told the story of a tragic accident. Weston looked like he was reliving a crime, one of which he’d been convicted.

  “But how did she drown in that old pond?” Louise prodded. “The boys used to swim in it all the time. You have to wade halfway across before it gets deep enough. . . .”

  Rosa watched, appalled, as Weston seemed to wither, sinking into the faded velvet cushions. She could almost see the spectral accuser hovering over him, listing his shames and failures in a nasty voice that only he could hear. She wanted to end it but didn’t know how. Fortunately, his sister was a warrior in her own right.

  “She was sick, Aunt Louise, sick and out of her mind that night. We might never know how she became so disoriented, but we do know that she was loved by all and loving to all.” She paused, lips pressed firmly together. “Cora would never want the responsibility for her demise to fall on her loved ones.”

  Louise nodded in sympathy. “I understand, and you can perhaps imagine how much I’ve tormented myself over the deaths of my men, especially Mack. With Eli, it was unavoidable. How could we predict an earthquake? Every man working the mines took that risk, but with Mack it was different.

  “Mack survived the first collapse. We got there in time to see him stumble out, but he wouldn’t stay out. He grabbed a shovel and went back. . . .” She stopped and turned her face to the window, her chin quivering.

  Rosa tried to pick up the story, but the words couldn’t be forced from her throat. She swallowed dust and croaked out a few phrases. “Black powder all over him. Everyone screaming. He came out . . .”

  “He didn’t come to Rosa or to me. You’d think a newlywed would be more considerate, but no, he didn’t have time to spare a thought for her. Not even a word. If he’d given her that, he wouldn’t have been in the cave when the aftershock came. Of course, he wouldn’t give up on his father. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but Mack knew Eli loved him. If only I could have convinced him not to . . .”

  Rosa looked up to find Weston’s dark eyes on her. She met his unwavering gaze and wondered what he saw. Did he see someone who was unloved? Did he see someone who deserved to be abandoned? She understood that she was no one there in Texas. Not even as important as a beggar, being a foreigner and all. Louise’s name and protection were the keys to every good thing that had happened to her since she’d arrived, but was she worth anything on her own?

  Mouth slightly opened, she took deep unsteady breaths as she lowered her eyes. Sometimes the fear suffocated her. Daily she looked forward to the new chores they would tackle, but when she thought of the future, bile rose in her throat and her chest tightened. What would happen to them? Louise would be cared for, but how long would these people tolerate her? Who would protect her from the likes of Jay Tillerton?

  The parlor fell into silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the eight-day clock, as each of the four family members’ thoughts alternated between their own losses and compassion for their kin.

  Eliza finally roused the somber group by clapping her hands together and rising. “Despite everything, we have to keep moving. We’re still here for a reason, and God doesn’t let us save the sunlight for tomorrow.” She walked to the piano and absently picked out a melody with her right hand. “Since I returned from St. Louis, I’ve been anxious to visit, but we came this morning particularly to see how you weathered last night’s storm.”

  Louise sighed, pulling herself back to the present. “Fairly well, I think. A few shingles off, branches down, but no harm done.”

  Rising to watch Eliza play, Rosa remembered their visitors the night before. “Did Mr. and Miss Lovelace make it to your house?”

  “No, but we saw them this morning at Uncle George’s. They got caught in the storm and waited it out there last night.”

  “Oh, I was worried about Molly’s dress.”

  Eliza’s head snapped to fix Rosa with a penetrating stare. She shrugged her shoulders wickedly and winked. “Mary loaned her a skirt and shirt. That’s what she was wearing this morning, but Wes still got to see the dress, sopping wet and hanging across the line.”

  Rosa looked down. She hadn’t meant to ridicule the girl. She could feel Louise’s disapproval. First opportunity she had she would talk to Molly. She didn’t deserve to be a laughingstock.

  Weston cleared his throat. “Need I remind you that I’m still in the room? Aunt Louise, may I look around outside? Although I don’t seem to be hampering the conversation, I
’d feel more at ease not being present for it.”

  “Please do. Rosa and I were gathering broken branches when you arrived. We can finish that ourselves, but if you’d replace the shingles, I’d be beholden to you.”

  They spent the next few hours completing the work Louise and Rosa had begun earlier. Eliza, not dressed for yard work, volunteered to put dinner on, claiming that their servant Octavia never let her cook at home. By the time the sun was high overhead and steam was rising from the ground, they knew why.

  “I started with more beans, but most of them are stuck to the bottom of the pot. If you’re still hungry, I’ll do some more scraping.” Eliza followed the others to the square table.

  “No thanks, sis. I don’t reckon I’ll be hungry for more of your beans.” Weston’s shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the knees of his canvas pants were scarred by the texture of the roof. Once again he could pass for a rough-riding cowboy instead of the gentleman Rosa had observed in the parlor earlier.

  “Well, they aren’t my favorite, either, but there’s really not much in the pantry to choose from. I don’t want to pry, but do you have enough to make it till the garden produces?”

  Louise’s back straightened. “We’ll do fine. Next week we’re going to Lockhart to buy more goods. Rosa did some fancywork for Mr. Bradford, so we can settle our account and bring home more victuals. Besides, with just the two of us, we don’t need much.”

  Rosa caught Weston inspecting their pantry from his seat at the table. She rose and pulled the curtain closed. Their supplies didn’t concern him. They’d be fortunate to raise enough food to get them through the next harvest, but she didn’t need his stricken expression to remind her that, in all likelihood, turning a profit was out of the question.

  He didn’t comment on her gesture but turned to the window instead.

  “Your barn is in good condition. Do you have any plans for it?”

  Louise snorted. “Plans? Not this year. I think we have our hands full with the garden and getting this place back in shape.”

  Weston nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever wrestled with sheep?”

  Rosa’s foot got tangled with the broom leaning in the corner and sent it crashing to the floor.

  “Mercy, Rosa!” Louise put her hand to her heart. “Be careful. You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . .” She stopped and glared at Weston, but his expression was as innocent as a newborn’s as he waited for Louise’s answer.

  “Eli always ran cattle, not sheep. They take more looking after, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do. That’s why I could use your help. I have a handful that got chewed on by coyotes. It’s an ongoing problem, and I hate to ask George to care for them because he’s too busy with the rest of the flock.” He took another bite of bitter beans and choked it down with a gulp of milk. “Maybe you, and particularly Mrs. Garner, would enjoy giving them some tender, hands-on care. I wouldn’t want you to get too tied down with them, but if you’d like to wrap your arms around the problem . . .” He focused his attention completely on his bowl of beans. The innocent expression was slipping.

  Louise looked at her, a question plastered on her face. The heel of Rosa’s boot tapped quickly against the wood floor. He was a devil, but a practical one. She loved her chicks and was eager to try her hand with any other animals available. Besides, there weren’t a lot of opportunities for two women to increase their profit this far from town. But would they be expensive to keep?

  As if reading her thoughts Louise spoke. “From the looks of things, Rosa is on board, but I don’t know if we can afford to feed more mouths around here. Will they graze or do we need to buy feed?”

  “They’ll graze. In fact, you won’t have to worry about trimming the lawn, just pen them around the house when the grass gets up. I’ll send the antiseptic. If you can save them, they’re yours. If not, you gave them more of a chance than they had with the rest of the flock.”

  “Then it’s a deal!” Louise sprang to her feet and gathered the dishes. She filled the pot with water and set it on the hot stove to soften the charred remains of dinner. “Rosa, to celebrate, why don’t you get that flute of yours and treat Wes and Eliza to a concert? Eliza always loved her music lessons, but she’s probably never heard anything like your flute.”

  “That would be wonderful, Rosa! I’ll be in there directly, but I can’t let Aunt Louise scrub the pot out. That mess is my doing.”

  Rosa left the room and clamored up and down the stairs, unconcerned with the ruckus she raised. But when she returned with tlapitzalli in hand, she found only Mr. Garner on the settee, lost in thought.

  “Oh, it’s quiet in here.” Determined not to make any more noise, she silently perched on the piano stool, toes barely able to touch the ground, and mentally ran through her favorite songs. What would they want to hear? What did she feel like playing? Long forgotten songs from her memory took form. Unconsciously she swung back and forth on the revolving stool, pivoting on her tiptoes, eyes lifted to the ceiling in thought.

  “Thank you for agreeing to take the sheep.” The deep voice interrupted the trilling melody playing in her mind. She stopped rocking as gracefully as she could.

  Rosa raised an eyebrow. “You’re thanking me for your generosity? You’re welcome, I suppose. But why are so many of your sheep getting attacked? Don’t you have burros with your flocks?”

  “Beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “Burros?”

  “No, we ride horses.”

  “I mean to keep the coyotes away. They need burros at pasture with them.”

  Weston leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in interest. “Really? You think burros are better than sheepdogs?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know much about dogs, but burros will trample a coyote or a pack of coyotes. Doesn’t matter much to them how many there are. And you don’t have to feed burros. They graze with the sheep.”

  His smile twisted to one side as he looked her over. Something amused him. Was he laughing at her? She surely deserved it. Here she was, the world-famous sheep wrestler telling the landowner how to care for his flocks. They were in a stare off, each trying to read the other, until he nodded. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I remember a Mexican man who brought his burro to the house once. My bird dog ran out with me, and the burro liked to chase it clean up the steps and into the foyer. Yep, it would make more sense to throw some donkeys in with the flock. I’m afraid the dog food we leave out attracts the coyotes anyway.” Leaning back into the faded seat cushion, he crossed his arms. “Then it’s settled. I’ll try it.”

  Through the door they could hear Louise and Eliza merrily chatting away. In all likelihood, no dirty dishes remained, but the aunt and niece had much ground to cover before visit’s end. Rosa turned her flute in her hands and wondered if some music might remind the two ladies of their family they’d banished to the parlor.

  “Make it do the dove song,” he suggested.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Dove? I don’t know that bird.”

  “Yes you do. I’ve heard you play it.”

  “How does it sound?”

  He shifted in his seat, and shot her a quizzical look. “I’m not the performer, but if you insist. It sounded like ‘coo-coo.’” He tilted his head back and hammed up the call a few more times.

  Her head cocked like a robin’s watching a worm. “That’s a paloma. You heard me, you say? When did you hear me play a paloma?”

  “I think you can do it. You should try.”

  Shaking her head, she persisted. “You said you heard me. When did you hear me play?”

  He pulled at his collar with one finger, and then the words tumbled out like the chicks from the henhouse. “Last night after the storm. I rode out to make sure you . . . and Aunt Louise . . . were all right. Just wanted to check on things. Went by George’s, too. I rode by everyone’s.”

  “You were here?” She bit her lip.


  “Your window was open, and I heard the music. I could’ve sat there in the rain and listened to it all night. And now, after hearing your story—” He leaned forward, bridging the space over the hand-knotted rug. His words slowed. “I think I understand better. I think that’s why it meant so much to me, because we’ve both been through—” He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry if that distresses you. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  Rosa kept her eyes lowered, afraid to meet his, and tried to overcome her emotions. He was here last night? If only he’d been here an hour earlier, how different things would have been. If Weston had sat by her in the cellar instead of Tillerton, she would have felt secure instead of threatened; honored instead of debased. She wanted to cry at the futility of it all, shocked again by the blackguard’s actions. What had Tillerton accomplished besides humiliating her?

  After a morning of Weston’s presence and Eliza’s lively company, she felt safe again. The menace lurking over the next property line had been forgotten, but now the incident was brought back fresh—the humiliation of being used in such a way.

  If only she could tell Weston. The muscles of his arms strained his plaid shirt. His capable hands sat idle for the moment, but she was certain they could handle the likes of Tillerton. What would he do if she told him? Would he feel obligated to act on her behalf? Would he put himself in danger for her?

  He would.

  Last night he rode over in the middle of a thunderstorm to see that they were safe. He came back, first thing in the morning, to check on them again. He gave George and Mary the aid they needed to preserve their land and their dignity. He advised her to only work on Garner land so she wouldn’t be exposed to low men. With that record it really wasn’t a question of whether he would act for her, but when. He would right a wrong—any wrong—if one had been committed in his territory.

  But she didn’t want him to know. No use piling more scandal to her already growing list.

  “Mrs. Garner, have I upset you?” Worry etched his face. “I apologize if that was uncouth—”