Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  ROSE

  JILL MARIE LANDIS

  Prologue

  Italy, June 1887

  The cluster of faded, slate-roofed buildings gathered beneath the Pennine Alps began to look like an ethereal fairy-tale setting as the roseate glow of the afternoon sun intensified. Row upon uneven row of houses in the village of Corio were bound between narrow cobblestone streets that had been laid over paths and byways once traveled by the foot soldiers of the Roman Empire. The worn streets intersected at the piazza that fronted the ancient church of San Genesio, a baroque edifice of brick and stone with tolling bells that marked the passage of time and lives. A yawning archway in a wall beside the church opened onto the narrow road that passed beneath and meandered its way downhill to the fanning settlement of Crotte. There, on a gentle rise above the river Malone, amid fields stained emerald by summer crops and air pungent with the scent of new mown hay, stood a farmhouse nearly as old as the road itself.

  A wild, unplanned garden bordered the yard that fronted the old stone house. Roses from deepest crimson to the delicate pinks of sunset grew alongside stark white calla lilies, rich violet hydrangeas, and fragrant multi-hued stocks. Garlic had been planted among the blushing roses to discourage pesky aphids while scattered basil, rosemary, thyme, and oregano plants grew among the ornamentals. A grapevine—the gnarled and twisted grandfather of them all—climbed a square-cornered trellis to frame the riotous colors below.

  Within the kitchen of the old house pulsed heat and sound as intense as the vibrant colors of the summer garden. The cavernous room with its stone walls and earthen floor smelled of wood smoke, fried fish, and hot olive oil pungent with garlic. Laughter often interrupted the incessant chatter of women’s voices to mingle with the familiar sounds of kitchen work: a knife that beat a tattoo on the wooden chopping block, the scrape of a spoon against the sides of a mixing bowl, the clatter of iron lids upon the stove top.

  The racket and close, warm air in her aunt Rina’s kitchen were nothing out of the ordinary, but as Rosa Audi paused to glance up from her pumping at the butter churn, she decided to seek relief from this symphony of routine. This was her last day in Corio, and nothing that occurred today should be taken for granted or seen as ordinary. Rosa was determined to hold each moment of this day in her heart. The hours of daylight were at their peak in June, the sun unwilling to slip behind the mountain until late in the evening. It would be light until after nine o’clock, and since the men used the extra hours to their advantage, it would be a while yet before they left the fields. There was still time for Rosa to escape the bustling activity in the kitchen.

  Zia Rina stood over the frying pan, seasoning and turning the trout that sizzled in hot oil. Rosa’s older, married sister, Angelina, could not relieve her of her duty at the churn, for she was busy taking bread from the oven. Rosa spied little Margarina standing in the doorway. When her niece glanced in her direction, Rosa waved her near. Within seconds, the dark-eyed, round-faced girl with bobbing braids and a ready, flashing smile had replaced Rosa at the churn.

  As she slipped out of the kitchen into the warm summer evening, Rosa glanced around to be certain no one had seen her escape. Fortunately, her departure had gone unnoticed, and in the bustle of the kitchen, she would not be missed for a while. She used the hem of her apron to wipe her brow, then began walking up the path through the maze of white-barked birch, majestic elm and oak, and occasional deep green fir trees that grew on the hillside behind the house.

  Rosa stopped near a stand of gentle birch trees and sat down in the soft loam beside them. She gazed down on the men of the village as they bundled and raked the early crop. Others moved slowly across the field with their tall scythes swinging to and fro, swiftly cutting off the slender stalks that rippled before them much like waves on an emerald lake. The fecund scent of new mown alfalfa lay heavy on the air.

  She brushed aside a tendril that had escaped one of the two thick braids of ebony hair she had wound about her head and leaned back on her elbows with a gentle sigh. It was good to be out of the kitchen, good to watch the shadows slip across the ridges and fill the valleys beyond.

  After a time, Rosa reached down into the deep pocket of the much mended apron that covered her loose-fitting brown serge gown and pulled out the folded page that was never far from her these days. She held tightly to the letter from her husband, Giovanni, as one holds on to a seed before it is planted, taking care lest it blow away, carrying with it all hope for the future.

  Carefully she opened the rumpled page. The creases along each fold were nearly worn through, the edges frayed from much handling. It did not matter that her fingers had nearly rubbed the words away, for Rosa had committed them to memory weeks ago.

  “Mia moglie,” Giovanni had written. My wife.

  Rosa felt very little like a wife, but still, she thrilled at the salutation. After all, she was his wife, even though Giovanni had left for America barely a month after their wedding, even though she still lived with her own raucous family and not his, as a proper wife should do. She scanned the lines again and tried to recall the sound of Giovanni’s voice.

  Mia moglie,

  I have found a home. Not only a home, Rosa, but a place to live and work, in a store of our own. The village, Broken Shoe, is in the territory of Wyoming. It is small, perhaps not even as large as Corio, but I have seen the cities here, Rosa, and I know that you could not bear the darkness of the places where so many people from the old country have settled.

  Enclosed you will find a postal money order which you should change into American dollars. I send to you also a ticket for passage, Genoa to New York. When you arrive in Genoa, buy a train ticket there for the trip from New York to Wyoming. No tariff is charged if you buy in Italy. Keep your money well hidden and tell no one how much you have. In New York, speak only to the Fathers of San Carlo Borromeo. They meet every ship and help those in need of assistance. Be careful of changing the train; be sure you are on the correct line. Find an American policeman, Rosa. They will help you if you need it.

  I hope that you still practice your English with the contessa. Everyone here speaks only English. You must learn as much as you can, cara, for I wait for you and remain your own

  Giovanni

  “Cara, I wait for you,” he had written.

  As I wait for you, she thought.

  Three years. It had been such a long, long time. How often had she despaired that the time to leave Corio would never come? Now, finally, when the sun rose tomorrow, it would be time to leave.

  She sighed and folded the letter along the worn lines and slipped it back into her pocket. Tucking the loose strands of her abundant, waving ebony hair behind her ears, Rosa toyed with the rose-gold wedding band that encircled the third finger of her left hand. She tried to picture Giovanni as he had been three years ago, then refused to admit to herself that it was a difficult task.

  Of course she remembered his warm brown eyes and the gentleness behind his smile. When Giovanni left Italy he had been slender, still boyish when compared to big men like her oldest brother, Guido. His nature was as gentle as his smile, his hopes and dreams for a future in America as high as the sky above Corio. She tried again to recall the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, but sadly, her memories of him had become as faded as a sepia photograph. Rosa was certain, though, that when she saw him again, heard his voice, and felt his touch, the lonely years that had passed would become a memory.

  Rosa stared down at the men moving across the field as they felled the alfalfa. Once bundled, it was hauled and hoisted into barns and stables to be used for winter feed for milk cows. Until the cold weather came, the animals were left to roam the low hills that surrounded the valley. She realized that when the first snowfall blanketed the land and frosted the
trees, she would not be in Crotte to see it. She would not rush to greet the first flakes from the balcony that circled the upper floor of the stone house, nor would she lean out with her open palms to catch them. Did it snow in the place called Wyoming?

  In the few precious letters Giovanni had sent to Italy, he had described his work and travels, but said nothing of the countryside where he had settled. She had learned little more than the cost of fruits and vegetables in America, the cost of land, the businesses Giovanni considered suitable—but of the land itself—she knew little. Whether it snowed or not, she was determined to love her new home. After all, it was the place her husband had chosen.

  It was becoming harder to see the fields below, for the sun had slipped behind the hills. The valley had become cloaked in a gauzy blue-gray light. Fireflies capered around the tree trunks and hid in the tall grass, their flashing luminescent bodies reminding her of flickering votive candles in the church of San Genesio. She saw her three brothers—burly, heavyset men with dark flashing eyes and easy smiles—begin to move toward the house, their labors finished until the sun reappeared again in a few short hours. Rosa leapt to her feet and hastily brushed the grass and leaves from her skirt. With a glance toward the woods behind her, she hurried down the hillside, stepping carefully so as not to turn her ankle on a loose stone. It was enough that she had had the past few moments alone; it would not do to upset the men by being late to help with the meal. Not now, when there was so little time left with them, and especially not when Guido was so against her leaving.

  When she reached the yard, the men were still out of sight, but Rosa could hear them splashing as they washed their hands and faces in the wooden kegs behind the house. Two large casks, cut in half and filled with spring water, served as the men’s washroom during the warm months of the year. The cursory scrubbing was all they would permit themselves until week’s end.

  Her three brothers, accompanied by their brother-in-law Genesio, soon appeared around the corner of the house. They were dressed in the baggy woolen trousers that served as their work pants. The color of the pants had long ago faded beneath the sun and the beatings the fabrics had to withstand on wash day. Great perspiration stains encircled the armpits of the once-white shirts woven of thick, sturdy flax; water now soaked the front of them. Heavy leather work boots, so worn that the toes curled upward and the heels slanted with wear, completed their work attire.

  During the summer, the evening meal was served outside at a long table set beneath the grape arbor. The hungry laborers made short work of the meal, and Rosa’s last evening with her family passed all too quickly as she and the women scurried back and forth from the kitchen to the garden serving the many courses.

  After everything was cleared away, the dishes washed, the kitchen tidied, Rosa returned to the garden to enjoy what was left of the warm evening. Zia Rina was already there, seated on a wooden swing suspended from the sturdy posts that shaped one end of the arbor. The old woman glanced up from where her nimble fingers, now gnarled with age, paused over the embroidery she was working. The piece of cloth she had woven herself; the initials she outlined read GAR for Giovanni and Rosa Audi. Thanks to her zia’s many contributions, Rosa’s bride trunk was nearly filled with handwoven cloths, runners, and scarves. Crocheted lace to decorate table and chairs in her new home lay starched and ready between the larger pieces.

  “Zia,” Rosa warned, turning up the wick of the oil lamp that rested on a small round table her aunt had dragged out into the yard, “you must stop. This light is bad for your eyes.”

  Rina spoke in the same authoritative tone that her niece had used. “I know when it is time for me to stop. Go and get more wine for the men.”

  “Eh, Rosa, get another chair, too.” Guido settled down in the rocking chair near Zia Rina’s swing and issued orders much the way her papa used to before he died. Guido, at twenty-nine, was the oldest of the three sons, the head of the family now that both of their parents had died. Everyone deferred to his wishes. Rosa had the feeling they would have done so regardless of his age, for Guido had a way of commanding and cowing the others that came naturally to him. Taller than either Mario or Pino, Guido was built like a bull and was twice as nasty.

  Unwilling to challenge him as she usually did, Rosa went toget another straight-backed chair. She knew that if she refused to do his bidding, Zia Rina would jump up and fetch whatever Guido asked for. Even though it was the way of all men to order the women about, Rosa thought it unfair, especially when Guido was hale and hardy and Zia Rina so frail. Barely five feet tall, her zia reminded Rosa of a tiny gray field mouse with bright, shining black eyes that missed nothing. She was never idle. Rosa knew that if her zia could, she would devise a way to sew while she slept. A shadow crossed Rosa’s brow and she wondered for the thousandth time how Zia Rina would fare alone with the household of men once she herself had gone to Giovanni in America.

  Rina had been the only member of the family to offer encouragement to Rosa when she talked of leaving for America. As Rosa returned to the house and gathered more glasses and another bottle of wine for the men, she told herself that even her concern for Rina could not keep her from going to Giovanni.

  The yard was cloaked in darkness now, illuminated only by the light that spilled out of the doorway and the soft glow of Zia Rina’s lamp. The weak circle of light was easily swallowed up in the darkness. Stars dusted the heavens like seeds of new worlds scattered by the hand of God. The hills and distant mountain peaks loomed as giant silhouettes against the black sky.

  Rosa passed out three glasses to the men and handed the tall, nearly opaque green bottle to Guido. As the men relaxed, seated on the mismatched straight-backed kitchen chairs, Rosa sat on the swing beside Rina. She remained silent, her hand resting against the pocket of her apron that contained Giovanni’s letter. Suddenly exhausted, she hoped that in an hour or so the men would relax and nothing more would be required of her so that she could slip off to bed. Rosa envied Angelina. Her older sister had already gone, taking Margarina off to bed in their home down the lane.

  The men talked among themselves for a time until Rosa, thinking they would surely be ready to retire soon, was about to stand and excuse herself. She had been lost in thought, reviewing each and every detail of her impending departure, when the heavy sound of Guide’s deep voice interrupted her musing.

  “So, Rosa, you’re going after that lout, Giovanni, after all?”

  They had had this same conversation many times; it was one Rosa had hoped to avoid on her last night at home. She refused to answer his insulting question and just stared back at him. The smirk that hooked his upper lip was not fully visible in the darkness, but she could sense its presence.

  “Leave it alone, Guido.” It was Pino who spoke. Now as always he was her defender. Not only were they the closest in age—he was three years older man her twenty—but they were alike in temperament and appearance as well. Except for the fact that Rosa’s eyes were a strange blend of topaz with brown highlights and his were near black, Pino’s eyes were as round and wide as hers. The shortest of her brothers, Pino was only a head taller than Rosa. His frame was thick and wide, his spine straight, his square hands capable of the tasks of the field.

  Rosa stood, intent on leaving the brewing argument behind as she sought shelter in the house.

  “Does Giovanni come to get her himself?” Guido persisted. “No. He sends money and a letter. Three years, three letters.” As if the others were incapable of counting, he held up a thumb and two fingers and shook them in Pino’s face. He belched, a loud, rumbling sound that climbed upward from deep in his belly. “Three stinking letters and then the command for her to go to America alone. And what if I say she is not going?”

  “Guido, basta,” Zia Rina warned. She raised her hand as if her feeble show of strength could halt his argument.

  Guido reached out and grabbed Rosa’s arm. “Guido!” Rosa was startled by his physical assault.

  “You are not a
s smart as you think you are, Rosa.” He brought his face close to hers, and she could smell the wine on his breath. “You and your America. You know nothing.” His grip tightened on her arm and she winced. “If you were so smart you would never have married a man who would run off and leave you. The man is a dreamer, a fool.”

  “Let go of my arm, Guido.” Rosa held her temper in check as she tried to pull out of his punishing grip.

  “Let her go, Guido.” Pino stood so quickly that his chair toppled back with a soft thud as it hit the ground.

  “Yes, let her go.” Even Mario spoke up mis time. Guido shot a dark look in his direction. Always a follower, Mario quickly slumped back down in his chair and poured himself another glass of wine.

  “So, go, Rosa.” Guido released her with a rough shove toward the house.

  Rosa tilted her chin in defiance and spat the words back at him. “I will, Guido. And I’ll be more than happy to see the last of you.” She turned away from him and walked toward the door.

  “You’ll be back,” Guido shouted after her. “You’ll be back, begging to live here again.”

  Rosa halted inside the back door and hastily crossed herself. She hoped the harsh words she had fired at her brother would not call bad luck down upon her.

  Chapter

  One

  Wyoming, July 1887

  A rickety oak table of unknown origin with a surface so scarred it might have been a chopping block functioned as a resting place for a pair of well-worn but comfortable boots coated with a fine layer of dust. From the scuffed leather of the boots emerged a pair of long, lean legs molded by muscle and enveloped in a pair of Levi’s so worn that they shone at both knee and thigh.

  Shifting his weight around in the swivel chair where he sat slouched behind his desk, Marshal Kase Storm swung first one and then the other booted foot to the floor. He folded back the front page of the Cheyenne Leader, then shook out a stubborn wrinkle along the fold. Scanning the page, Kase found nothing so noteworthy that it would change his life before sunset, and he tossed the newspaper on top of the clutter that already littered the table. Clasping his fingers behind his head, Kase spun the chair around in the opposite direction and tilted back, this time propping his feet up on the opposite corner of the table and stared out the window of the tiny room that served as his office.