She picked up another picture to find a serious little fellow holding his sister’s hand. His head rested against his mother’s shoulder, as if all the world’s problems were already his own.
“Do you recognize anyone?” She jumped at the low timbre of his voice.
“Quite a few, actually.”
Weston drew near to look over her shoulder. “Goodness, I never realized how much Eliza has grown to resemble Mother.”
“And yet you both take after your father, too.” She handed the framed photo to him and picked up another one, surprised he tarried. “Here’s you and Mack together, with the rest of the family. Three generations.”
“Let me see.” He held the picture before him; his fingers hovered above the surface as he named them. “George and his family aren’t in this one—just my grandfather’s family. My father, Davy, was the oldest, then Uncle Eli, Uncle Teddy, and Aunt Elizabeth, who is Eliza’s namesake. Uncle Teddy died in the war and Aunt Elizabeth never married but moved back to South Carolina to teach school.”
“So then the only grandchildren were you, Eliza, and Mack.”
“Yes. My parents had two infants that died, and now, with Mack gone . . .” The lines framing his handsome face stilled.
He was the only male Garner of his branch remaining.
Rosa studied the determined look on the elderly lady seated among her offspring. Tightly curled gray hair peeked bravely out of a severe bonnet. Her husband, the Garner patriarch, was flanked by his three sons, all of them taller than he. She leaned across Weston to touch the image of his abuela and wished that she could’ve met her. Her hands were blurred in the daguerreotype, probably from trying to keep the grandchildren still for the duration of the exposure.
This whole familia without any Garners to represent them. Eliza’s children would be their only progeny walking the earth. When the mine collapsed and the blood of two of their sons was spilled in the Sierra Madres, Rosa could do nothing to stop it. Would another family line end before her eyes, as well?
She could never atone for her behavior. The awful realization weighed heavily on her heart. Weston wasn’t the only one hurt. She’d altered the destiny of this whole family when she compromised his good name.
I’m sorry, she wanted to cry to the assembled chorus looking back at her through the glass, but the only one she could make amends to was the man standing at her side.
Supper that night did nothing to ease the growing sense of despair she felt for him. While Octavia organized food for the next day’s wedding luncheon, Rosa served Weston solo. She pushed through the dining room door with the platter of pork chops, unprepared for what she saw.
A sob caught in her throat, soundless. He was there alone. No one to talk to. No one who would listen. The long table shone like glass but reflected nothing save a solitary chandelier and bare ceiling. When other families gathered, chatting and sharing, he sat abandoned. His chairs stood empty, mocking the man who couldn’t fill them.
Weston looked away when she slid the frightfully overloaded platter in front of him. He remained motionless. As a servant, she had no right to intrude on his thoughts. He had set the boundaries and she had agreed. She returned with a pitcher of tea and added a drop to his full glass, not wanting to leave him friendless in the vacuous house. He thanked her and, with a sigh, moved a piece of meat to his plate, giving her no excuse to stay.
Back in the kitchen Rosa sat and picked at her food, noting each clink of the silver on the china in the dining room. Why hadn’t she made dessert? It would’ve given her one more minute to serve him—one less minute to contemplate what a disaster she’d caused.
Silence and space, Weston had treasured those commodities recently, and now he had what he’d desired.
With his elbows on the table, he took another unwanted bite of chops. Rosa would notice if he didn’t touch his food, and he had no issue with her cooking. No, she excelled at every task she’d attempted—maybe not on the first attempt, but it didn’t discourage her from trying again.
Just another thing he loved about her.
Weston set his fork down and clasped his hands together.
He did love her. Morning, evening, happy, sad, hungry, full—he loved her. He wanted to crow it from the weathervane—he wanted to hide it as if it were his deepest flaw—and perhaps it was. He should be embarrassed to love someone who didn’t welcome his attention. Not wise. Or pleasant.
But he had a right to love, didn’t he? Whether or not she returned his affection, he was free from the accusing doubts that had held him for so long. If she gave him nothing more, that gift guaranteed his devotion.
All he could do now was pray that Rosa was suffering from the same loneliness that plagued him. He didn’t know which hurt worse, her absence or her humiliation. He hoped God would redeem his actions, as imperfect and imprecise as they were. The Lord knew he took no pleasure in the situation. He’d rather take a bullet than send her out of the kitchen again. The look on her face had diminished him in some manner, and until he came up with a better solution, part of him was lost.
He pushed his plate away, and his chair scraped across the floor. Before he made it through the entryway, she caught up with him.
“Are you finished? Is there anything else I can do for you?”
If she were truly his servant, he’d have to dismiss her. The eagerness on her face, the leaning toward him in anticipation would drive him to distraction.
Weston cocked an eyebrow. “I won’t need a servant for the rest of the evening. You can do as you wish.”
She peered around him into the empty parlor. Biting her lip, she stepped backward until her back pressed against the wall.
“You’re going to sit in there by yourself? When I think of the nights ahead of us . . .”
If his eyebrows were elevated before, he was sure they were now almost leaping off his forehead. “You know my preference.” He wouldn’t ask her to reconsider, but he waited breathless in case she might.
“Your preferences can change,” she said, “and I refuse to burden anyone. If I thought we had a chance . . .” She wrung her apron.
He was so tempted to help her, to try another “grand gesture,” but with effort he restrained himself. Seeing her wrestle with her feelings for him was a gift from God. Now, watching from the other side, he recognized her fear—and he saw the love he hoped would force her to confront it.
Trust me, he wanted to urge her, but he hadn’t been trustworthy until recently. He had to give her time.
They’d reached an impasse. The empty parlor held no charm for him, but he would shield her from the persuasive words already on the tip of his tongue. He’d made his offer. Nothing to do now but to pray and wait, so he walked away.
Alone.
27
BUGGIES, WAGONS, AND HORSES dotted the already crowded churchyard. Not a bad turnout on such short notice. Had Rosa been in a happier state of mind she might’ve appreciated the show of support the town had bestowed on her mother-in-law, but such observations were impossible in her present condition.
Wearing her rose taffeta, her wedding dress, had been a mistake. The last time she’d worn it, Weston couldn’t take his eyes off her. This time he wouldn’t look her direction.
With disinterest, he helped Octavia and her out of the buggy and passed Octavia the basket of covered dishes to be delivered to the Lovelaces’ warehouse for the luncheon. Then, without turning her way, he started off.
Rosa watched Octavia stride toward Mill Road. Where was she supposed to go? Where did she belong on days like today? Rosa lifted her chin. Louise’s family had accepted her before she’d ever met Weston. She belonged on the pew with them.
She skipped along, trying to catch up with him. If she’d known he’d be so firm, she might have worded their agreement more carefully. She’d wanted to save their friendship, to have a relationship free from forced obligations. Instead, they had no relationship at all.
Strangers.
Rosa hadn’t thought she’d miss him so much. He said he wouldn’t ask her to reconsider, but would he mind if she did?
Louise looked beautiful. Adele Lovelace had surprised her with a perfectly tailored amethyst suit that highlighted her copper hair and strawberries-and-cream complexion. Rosa had heard that Deacon had done his own preparation, but not to his personal appearance. He’d spent the last week cramming his house full of utensils, notions, and every dry good available at a mercantile. According to Uncle George, they could live six months just selling the wares in their pantry.
When the vows were read, Rosa couldn’t help but steal a glance at her husband. How she wished he had said, and meant, those words to her instead of the contractual agreement they’d entered. His hand rested on the pew next to hers—large and capable—warm, if she remembered correctly. As if she could forget. Did she still have the right to clasp it, or had she given that up when she bought her freedom?
What if they had a chance? Was this what she wanted? He was what she wanted, but on what terms? She’d objected to the circumstances of their marriage, but she’d never objected to the man. Since she’d first met the cowboy with the scruffy hair at Aunt Mary’s, she’d yearned to know him better, and the more she knew, the more she admired. And the more she feared she didn’t deserve him.
Her heart pattered like castanets. The moment, the promises, the declarations of loyalty—she didn’t want to observe them alone. She only moved an inch, just far enough to brush her littlest finger against his, but he couldn’t mistake her intent. Not far, but it took all the courage she could muster.
His eyes flickered up, unreadable but steady. She held his gaze until she grew unsettled, but he didn’t move away.
If only he would take her hand. She waited, praying he would give her some encouragement. She couldn’t go any further on her own. He’d said they could be brave together. It was his turn.
His hand disappeared. With a start, Rosa realized everyone was standing to congratulate the new couple as the pianist played. She got to her feet, her chest hollow. Diligence, independence, self-sufficiency—it was surprising how many places in her heart remained empty, even though she’d acquired those virtues. Like the seven thin cows of Pharaoh’s dream, the lack of love and companionship had swallowed up all her accomplishments.
But Weston hadn’t abandoned her this time. He waited on her to join him, offering his arm for the brief stroll down the street.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and squeezed tight, wanting to feel more than cloth. She wanted to feel him—to hold on as long as he’d let her.
“Rosa!” Aunt Mary waved as they entered the warehouse, swept clean for the occasion. “Can you lend Molly a hand at the serving table? I’d feel better if someone could help her. She’s liable to make a mess of Adele’s table buntings.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Weston stopped by her side.
“They need me.” Why did she feel like she needed to apologize?
“Then go.”
Of course. She should release his arm and go, but she wasn’t ready. Not ready to go any further, but not willing to go back.
She couldn’t stand there and cling to him forever. Molly was waiting.
They parted and Rosa found her station.
“Considering I haven’t seen you at the courthouse, I suppose you’re still wed.” Molly licked a finger to freshen a blond sausage curl. “I was going to be gracious and say how much marriage agrees with you, but I can’t. You look horrid.”
Molly might be upset with her, but at least she was honest. “I feel horrid. I’m in such a mess.”
“It’s hard to sympathize with you when you’ve got everything I wanted.” Molly’s rolls hit the plates with a viscous thumbprint pushed through them.
“I don’t know if it will ever be straightened out—the pain it’s caused everyone, the awkwardness. Then on top of it all, Louise gets married and sells the farm. We didn’t have to do it like this.”
Molly narrowed her eyes and bit into a roll. “You really don’t want to be married to him?”
Rosa spotted the object of their conversation across the room with Jake, George, and Bailey, listening to some tall yarn. She didn’t deserve someone like him. If she agreed to be his wife, she’d be constantly faced with her inadequacies—constantly reminded that he’d stooped to accept her.
“It’d be simpler if I wasn’t.” Simpler, but better? If only she knew.
“Well, don’t fret. Maybe someone will persuade him to free you.”
Not exactly what she wanted. Before she could correct Molly, Ida flung her arms around Rosa’s knees and buried her face in her skirt.
“Aunt Rosa!”
“Don’t, Ida,” Susannah warned. “You’ll get her dirty.”
But Rosa wasn’t concerned. She knelt and pulled Susannah close, as well. “I’ve missed you girls. Why haven’t you come to see me?”
“Ma says it isn’t a place for children,” Susannah replied primly.
Molly’s head jerked, making her curls bounce. “Why would she say that?”
“Because they’re newlybeds,” Ida lisped.
Oh dear. Another roll turned to dust in Molly’s fist.
Rosa smoothed the little girl’s hair with a shaking hand, repressing any images the word conjured. “Let’s find your mother. I don’t have much idle time anymore, but maybe you could come over to make cookies. You’d like that?”
Bless their sticky little hearts. Susannah and Ida protected Rosa from uncomfortable conversation throughout the reception. No one wondered at Weston’s distance as long as she was surrounded by children, but Rosa found it difficult to keep up with all their chatter. She was too busy tracking her husband to eat the food on her plate. Did he recognize her behavior during the ceremony for what it was—an offer to meet him halfway, to do as he asked and give them a chance?
Chance wasn’t the right word. Chance suggested they might not suit. Rosa knew better than that. She knew the moment she dropped her guard, she would be his. The question was, how could he really want her?
“Mrs. Garner! I’d like to converse with you.” Nicholas sauntered toward her table, all gussied up like a city slicker. He took the bench opposite her and waved a curious Weston over to join them.
“I want to apologize for my remarks a month ago. Obviously you didn’t force Rosa to marry you. And you were right on the money for what you said to me. I deserved every word of it. I thought it through and decided to make some changes.” He took a biscuit from Ida’s plate and devoured it before continuing. “After lengthy discussions with Father, I have branched out on my own. The new company, Nicholas Lovelace Transportation Specialists, was just awarded the contract to maintain the new railroad track in Caldwell County.”
“That’s wonderful!” said Rosa.
“Well done,” Weston added.
“He took my biscuit,” complained Ida.
“Furthermore, I’m traveling to the Texas and Pacific Railways headquarters in Marshall to make a bid for any further line laid in the county.”
Weston clapped Nicholas on the back and congratulated him again, completely unaware of Rosa, desperately trying to catch his eye. “Sounds like you’re well on your way to upholding the Lovelaces’ entrepreneurial traditions. Hats off to you. No hard feelings?”
“None, of course!” He shook the offered hand. “Not as long as you keep my little friend here happy.”
Now he noticed her. Weston smiled tentatively, perhaps the first genuine smile toward her since she’d returned his loan.
Ida made a smooching sound while Susannah puckered up her lips and batted her eyelashes.
“Girls!” Rosa gasped. She set her cup down too firmly, causing punch to splash on the table. She didn’t dare look in Weston’s direction, but Bailey saved her further embarrassment.
“Weston!” Bailey had an arm wrapped around a nervous Deacon Bradford. “Don’t we have some business with the new groom?”
The September afternoon heat was nothing to fear, as they were sheltered from the sun by the expansive warehouse roof. The men disassembled the tables and the women gathered the dishes as the fiddler rosined up. Louise and Deacon would dance first, and then if the local auctioneer was done with his pipe, he’d do his duty as caller for the square dances. The freshly sawn planks had been moved to the edges of the giant structure, and the bay doors were swung open wide to catch every breeze available, a necessity if there was to be dancing.
Dancing? How she’d love to. The sets forming before her eyes didn’t look quite as intimate as the dance Weston had tried to teach her. Maybe she could try a square dance, if no one had any objections. She fidgeted at the outskirts of the group, unsure of her boundaries—unsure she wanted any.
At her core, Rosa always believed Weston was her friend and protector, even when he stopped coming around. Their unexpected wedding had tested their bond, but somehow Weston insisted it’d survived, stronger than ever. Maybe he wasn’t absolutely sure of himself, but if he’d forgiven her this much . . .
She shivered as she thought of their one and only dance. He’d encouraged her to try it again if she ever had the opportunity. Would he repeat his offer?
Rosa found Deacon, but Weston wasn’t with him. Weston was standing by the cake, carrying on a tête-à-tête with Molly. Rosa’s stomach wrapped around her lungs and squeezed. Molly? Didn’t Molly say something about persuading Weston to release her?
While Rosa couldn’t hear their conversation, she could clearly read every dimple, every flutter, and every bounce as Molly presented her case. Shame on you, Rosa scolded herself. She shouldn’t have given Molly permission to get involved. She needed to talk to Weston, pronto.
Rosa tried to worm her way through the crowded warehouse but lost track of them. Straining to look over tall shoulders, she didn’t see Louise until she appeared at her side.
Sixty Acres and a Bride Page 27
