THE
YELLOW
ROSE
Also in
The Lone Star Legacy
Book 1: Deep in the Heart
THE
YELLOW
ROSE
A Novel
GILBERT MORRIS
THE YELLOW ROSE
Copyright © 2004 by Gilbert Morris.
Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc., 5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.
HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Scripture references are from the King James Version of the Bible (KJV).
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920.
Cover Design: The Office of Bill Chiaravalle, www.officeofbc.com Interior Design/Page Composition: PerfecType, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert.
The yellow rose / by Gilbert Morris.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59145-112-4 (trade paper)
1. Texas—History—Revolution, 1835-1836—Fiction. 2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 3. San Jacinto, Battle of, Tex., 1836—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Indian captivities—Fiction. 6. Women pioneers—Fiction. 7. Widows--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.O8742Y45 2003
813'.54—dc22
2004005455
Printed in Canada
04 05 06 07 08 TCP 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
DEDICATION
To Betty Jo Grant—A real southern lady with grace and charm to spare!
(And to all the members of her Wednesday group of crafters—bless them all!)
CONTENTS
PART ONE: DIABLOS TEJANOS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
PART TWO : STAR RANCH
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PART THREE: COURTSHIP
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PART FOUR: THE CAPTIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PART FIVE: DELIVERANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PART ONE:
DIABLOS
TEJANOS
CHAPTER
ONE
Spring had come to Texas in April of 1836, painting the plains with riotous colors. As Clinton Hardin walked steadily toward the house, he took no notice of the iridescent colors that spread out and dotted the landscape. The pale sunflowers raised their heads, making yellow dots across the land, and snakemouth, with their pale pink blossoms, added a delicate splash of color as Clinton strode by. He moved through the bright orange red of what he called “pleurisy root.” Farther off, the tall purple spikes of the heelaw, used by most people to cure wounds, added their sharp splash of color to the scene.
At the age of fifteen, however, Clinton was not particularly given to studying the natural beauty of wildflowers. His mind was much more taken up with important theological matters. Ever since he had been soundly converted during a revival meeting in Arkansas, he spent little time considering the minor things like the beauty of earth and food. Most of his thinking and his conversations with other people were focused on the more significant truths of religion.
The evangelist, a tall gangling man with a sunburned face and a voice like creaky thunder, had been named Edward Jardice. His theology had been simple—“Turn or Burn.” Jardice had scared the wits out of half the population of Clark County, and the baptismal service that had taken place in the Caddo River after his meetings had been one of the largest ever recorded for miles around. The river had been at almost flood tide, so it was a dangerous affair to be immersed. Reverend Jardice had sent out “feelers”—young, strong swimmers who entered the waters and probed the river for sinkholes. It wouldn’t do to lose a fresh new Christian to a mere river!
A pleasant memory came to Clinton as he shifted the sack with four rabbits on his shoulder and found a more comfortable position for the double-barreled shotgun he bore in the crook of his right arm. He knew he would never forget the moment when Reverend Jardice had slapped him under the chocolate brown waters of the Caddo River, and he had come up feeling like a new human being.
The memory warmed Clinton even more than the heat of the April sun overhead, but the pleasant memories were suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of a dry buzzing. Stopping at once, Clinton snapped out of his reveries to see a large rattlesnake coiled ten feet in front of him right in the middle of his path. The rattlers made a blur as the sound spread itself over the soft spring air, and the head was pulled back in the striking position.
Though Clinton had many fears, he was absolutely fearless where snakes were concerned. He could not understand why people acted as they did at the mere sight of a reptile. He took them merely as a minor irritation and disposed of them with whatever was at hand—a hoe, shovel, or a stick, and more than once simply by a kick of his heavy half boots. Once he had even startled his older brother Brodie by letting a five-foot rattler strike at his foot. He had reached down quickly and picked him up by the tail and beat the snake’s brains out against a tree. Brodie Hardin had a healthy fear of snakes himself and had turned pale and could hardly speak. Clinton had stared at him, then shrugged. “It weren’t nothin’ but a snake, Brodie.”
Now, almost casually, Clinton lifted the shotgun and dropped the sack of dead rabbits. The shotgun had a healthy kick, so he held it firmly and pulled the trigger. The explosive roar filled his ears and riddled the snake, driving him backward. With the ease of experience, Clinton cocked open the gun, removed the hull, and shoved in a new shell. Then he picked up the sack and continued walking, kicking the mangled carcass to one side. He stopped for a moment and stared at it, saying with immense satisfaction, “Well, devil, how you like that? I reckon that’ll take care of you.”
The devil occupied a great deal of Clinton’s thinking, and he saw every snake as simply an emissary of the evil one. He was totally convinced that the devil was as real and as corporeal as his brother Brodie, or his uncle Zane, or any other human being. As he stood staring down at the fragments of reptile that were left, he was filled with a desire to come face-to-face with the devil. “Well, Satan, you red-legged rascal,” he said with a touch of arrogance, “you think you got my family hog-tied, but I’m tellin’ you right now that you ain’t gettin’ nary one of ’em! If you’d just show yourself, I’d give you what I just gave that no-good creepy varmint.”
Clinton was totally convinced t
hat one day the devil would appear, and the two of them would have it out, and he had not a shred of doubt about the outcome.
Moving on down the path, Clinton thought of his family with apprehension. Ever since he had been baptized, he had considered himself as the spiritual head of the Hardin household. A touch of sadness brushed his mind as he thought of them. He thought first of his father, Jacob. He had not known his father well, for Jake Hardin had been a wandering man and had spent little time with his family. He had, in fact, abandoned them, gone to the mountains, and married an Indian woman with whom he had two children. They were all dead now. His father’s Indian family had died of smallpox in the mountains, and Jake had been killed a month ago by the guns of the Mexicans at the Alamo. Clinton grieved considerably, for his pa had shown little sign of being anything but a sinner. His mother was different, though. He had some hope for her. True, she steadfastly refused to be baptized, but she, at least, said that she knew the Lord.
Brodie, who was four years older than Clinton, showed little interest in spiritual things, which bothered Clinton considerably. Brodie was so enamored with a young half-Mexican woman named Serena Lebonne that he had no time for thoughts of the devil or of God or of heaven or hell. As for Moriah, Clinton’s seventeen-year-old sister, the thought of her made Clinton shake his head. “She’s plumb given over to vanity,” he muttered and thought of the time when he had caught her putting powder on her face. He had rebuked her sternly about pride, and they had gotten into quite an argument. But he was at least satisfied with his baby sister Mary Aidan, who, at the age of four, had not yet come to the age of accountability, though Clinton was already sharing his faith with her whenever he could.
Walking over the crest of the hill, at the foot of which lay the Hardin house, Clinton picked up his stride. He had been thinking all morning of things he could say to his uncle and aunt, his mother’s brother and sister. Zane Satterfield and Julie Belle Satterfield were the targets of much of Clinton’s hardest preaching lately. Julie Belle had been a saloon woman and had announced without shame that she intended to be one again as soon as the war with the Mexicans was over. Zane Satterfield was a criminal. He had escaped from a prison and fled to Texas to avoid the law. “You’re not gonna get ’em, devil!” Clinton announced loudly and looked around as if he expected Beelzebub to be standing to one side grinning at him.
He hurried on toward the house, stopping long enough to hang the sack of rabbits on a tree far enough away so that the flies would not be drawn inside the house. He kept a loose grip on the shotgun, and when he stepped up on the porch, he found a huge dog lying squarely in his path on the threshold.
“Bob, git outta the way,” Clinton said impatiently. He had little hope that Bob would move. The dog was mammoth, weighing eighty pounds, and was an unusual brownish-red color with long, floppy ears and a tail strong enough to almost knock a person down when he wagged it. Bob had been rescued by Moriah, who took in any sort of injured animal, and so the hound had become part of the Hardin household. Bob spent a great deal of his time sleeping. When he went to sleep, he looked dead, for his mouth would hang open and he hardly appeared to be breathing. His other peculiar habit drove everyone crazy. He loved to sit on the feet of anyone he found standing still. Bob was awake primarily when it was time to eat or when one of the family was threatened. At a moment like that, he could be a frightening sight with a mouth somewhat like a shark.
“Git out of the way, I said!” Clinton lifted his voice, but Bob merely grunted and did not even open his eyes. Clinton considered dragging him out of the way but then shrugged his shoulders and stepped over him. Bob did not move as Clinton stepped into the house. For one moment, Clinton stood there glancing at his family, who were all seated at the large table eating. His mother, Jerusalem Ann, was standing by the big fireplace, taking a pot off one of the hooks that held it over a bed of glowing coals. The house was adobe and had been there when the Hardins had bought the land. It had one huge room, which served for cooking, eating, and general living, plus three small bedrooms. The walls were penetrated by pegs, from which hung ollas, pots, pans, rifles, and whatever else anyone in the family felt like decorating them with. A large fireplace dominated one end of the room, and three windows on the other two walls let in pale rays of sunlight.
“You’d better set down here, Clinton, before these hogs eat all the grub,” said Clay Taliferro. Everyone had to learn how to pronounce Clay’s unusual last name as Tolliver. He was a man of average height, with his tawny hair worn long and tied with a piece of leather. He had sleepy, light blue eyes, and they crinkled when he smiled, as he was doing now, until they almost disappeared. He had a wide mouth and high cheekbones, and a deep cleft marked his prominent chin. Right now his face was somewhat pale, as he had been wounded at the massacre of Goliad and had escaped alive only by a miracle.
“Come set down, boy, and tell me how many deer you brung in.”
Placing the shotgun on pegs over the doorway, Clinton turned and said, “I killed four—” He broke off, for his sister Moriah had risen from the table where she was eating and moved toward the fireplace. Clinton stared at her with horror and burst out, “Moriah, you go put on some fittin’ clothes!”
Moriah Hardin, at the age of seventeen, had been emerging out of adolescence for the past two years. She had dark red hair, brown eyes, and the strong build of her mother. The dress she wore was indeed a little tight, but new dresses in Texas were hard to come by, as they had been in Arkansas. Moriah’s budding figure was made prominent by the tightness of the dress, but she was aggravated by Clinton’s constant preaching.
“What’s wrong with this dress?”
Clinton shook his head fiercely. “Why . . . why, it’s down right indecent! That’s what’s wrong with it. Why, you don’t look no better than Jezebel!”
“You mind your own business, Clinton!” she snapped.
“Well, I reckon it is my business. You’re my own sister. I’m a Baptist, and we don’t stand for women runnin’ around practically naked.”
Moriah shook her head with disgust and then turned to her mother. “Ma, you tell him to hush.”
Jerusalem Ann Hardin, at the age of thirty-four, did not look like a woman who had borne six children. She was a strong-bodied woman and looked at least five years younger. The hard life had not marked her as it had many pioneer women, and she retained the same clear complexion that she had enjoyed as a young girl. Her eyes were green, and she still had a trim waist and a fully developed figure. “Leave her alone, Clinton. Sit down and eat.”
“Why, Ma, I’m ashamed of you puttin’ up with Moriah like that! You got to make her act decent.”
“She is decent. Now, sit down, Clinton.”
But Clinton was beyond persuasion and continued to preach at Moriah until finally Brodie became disgusted. Brodie was almost a foot taller. Indeed, he was one of the tallest young men in the community. He was not filled out yet, as he would be later on, and he had the auburn hair and green eyes of his mother. “Clinton, you are the most cantankerous human being I ever seen. If we throwed you in the river, you’d float upstream! Ever since you been baptized, you ain’t been fit to live with. Now, sit down and eat or leave.”
Clinton stared at Brodie defiantly. “I expect God will strike some folks dead for the way they’re acting.” He turned and left the room, stumbling over Bob, who did not even rise up and bark.
“Ma, is he always going to be like that?” Moriah sighed. “He used to be so nice. But ever since he got religion, he’s been impossible!”
Jerusalem set down a plate before Mary Aidan, who had been taking the argument in with large eyes. She stared up at her mother and began to shovel the grits into her mouth, her throat working as she swallowed.
“Mary Aidan, don’t eat so fast. You’ve eaten so much your belly’s tight enough to crack a tick on.”
“More!” Mary Aidan smiled. She was a cheerful, happy child and the pride of all the Hardins.
“We
ll, what’s wrong with him, Ma?” Brodie grumbled. He forked a piece of beef, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed on it. “Sometimes I think he’s dumb as last year’s bird’s nest! It’s gettin’ so I can’t even live with him.”
Zane Satterfield, Jerusalem Ann’s older brother, laughed. “He’s just like his pa, Brodie. Whatever Jake did, he did it full steam.” Zane suddenly was aware that a silence had fallen over the room and knew that the family was not yet used to the idea of Jake being dead. Jake had been gone for long periods, for years, more or less, but this time he wasn’t coming back, and that made a difference. “He’s a good boy, Clinton is. He’s just all taken up with religion. He sees it as his duty to save the rest of us and keep us all on the straight and narrow line.”
“He’s driving me crazy with his constant preaching,” said Julie Belle Satterfield, who was twenty-nine and had the same reddish hair and sparkling green eyes as her sister. She had full lips, a provocative body, and a rebellious spirit. She had never been known to back down to anyone, and now she shook her head, her lips drawn in a straight line. “He’s a pest.”
Jerusalem shook her head as she sat down and began to eat. “We have to love him,” she said firmly. “He’s my son and your nephew, Julie. That’s what counts. No matter what any of us do, me or anyone else, all the rest of the family has got to show love.”
Julie stared at her sister, then got up and walked outside without another word.
Zane watched her go, then shrugged. “I guess Julie and me needed that, sis. We’re the outlaws of the family, me the jailbird and Julie the bad woman.”
“And there’s me,” Clay said, grinning. “I reckon I ain’t got much credit up at the pearly gates either, but Clinton never gives up on me.”
Jerusalem smiled at Clay. “And you never get angry with him, Clay. I appreciate that. I know he’s a trying boy, but I’m hoping one day he’ll get past that fire-and-brimstone stage. You know, I’ve often thought,” Jerusalem Ann said quietly, “if he had heard a sermon about the love of God, he would have been a gentler convert. All he knew was that one evangelist, and he just got the wrong one to mold himself after.” She suddenly got up and left the room, and everyone knew that she was going outside to talk to Julie.
The Yellow Rose Page 1
