A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Cora finished reading and clutched the letter to her chest. “Oh, Aunt Rose, this is perfect! I’d love to live with Mr. Bellaire’s family. Grandpapa shared many of his letters with me, and I feel I know his daughter Delia, and Reverend Joshua, and dear little Micah as well as if I’d met them in person.”

  Marty had known better than to offer Rose any details of Andre’s life, but still he’d casually mentioned the discovery of the man’s daughter from a previous marriage, one she hadn’t know about—oh, how that news had hurt. Then, a few weeks later, came a letter that Andre dictated to his daughter, telling of leaving New Orleans with Delia to travel west. The worst news of all—his almost-fatal heart attack on the train and their decision to remain in Sweetwater Springs.

  The realization Andre could have died made her feel as though the scabs had ripped from an old wound she’d thought healed. Rose fled to her former bedroom in Marty’s house, threw herself on the bed and wept.

  His heart attack forced her to face the truth—she’d never stopped loving the man; he had a daughter she wished was hers; and if he’d died, a longing hope, no matter how forlorn, would have left her heart empty. She’d have to live with the pain of Andre’s loss for the rest of her life.

  For weeks, she’d struggled to return to her former equanimity, finally achieving a state of placid calm—an illusion, really, that hid the intensity of the not-so-old grief.

  Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, for Cora leaned forward to take Rose’s hand. “Oh, Auntie Great,” she said, reverting to the childhood nickname. “I will miss you!”

  Rose squeezed Cora’s hand and released, striving to prop up the walls around her unsteady feelings. “I’m sure you’ll miss more than just me.”

  “I’ll miss Papa and the children. Not Step-mama, of course.” She giggled, before sobering. “Ivy, also. I don’t know how I’ll manage with my best friend living half a continent away.”

  “I suspect you two will spend a lot of money on stationery and stamps,” Rose said in a dry tone.

  “Ivy wants to be a teacher. We’re hoping wherever I end up, she can join me there, finding employment as a schoolmarm or governess.”

  Rose had no idea the two were so unhappy with their lives in New York. Cora possessed a blithe spirit, which apparently masked her dissatisfaction. The few times she’d met Ivy over the years, the girl seemed cheerful and polite. She’d thought them well matched as bosom friends. In the future, I need to ask more probing questions.

  “I’ll have to get a new wardrobe.” Cora wrinkled her nose and plucked at the fabric of her skirt. “I’m never wearing brown or gray again! I’ll commission a new Sunday dress and a new everyday dress right away. Do you mind if I leave them here? I don’t want Step-mama discovering them. Good thing she’s expecting and keeping to her room. Otherwise, I wouldn’t put it past her to take my dresses for herself.”

  “You’re not twenty-one yet. Your parents can forbid you to leave.”

  The mulish look on her niece’s face foretold what would happen if they tried. “I’m not telling them until I’m gone.” She shot Rose a determined look. “You are not to, either. Besides, I’ll be twenty-one in six months.”

  Rose made an impatient sound. “I cannot in good conscience keep such important information a secret. If something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

  “Well, then, I won’t confide in you, so you’ll have nothing to tell them.” She airily waved a hand. “This is just a conversation of wishful thinking.”

  Rose bit her lip, torn between her duty to her nephew John and her protective instincts about Cora. Even if she spoke up, her niece would continue on her course and run away from home. She’d enlist Ivy’s help and store her new wardrobe with her friend. Even if Rose warned Ivy’s parents, Cora would just choose another friend whom Rose didn’t know.

  She sighed. The young woman might make rash decisions—ones that might be countered if Rose knew about them and could steer her into safer channels. “Very well. As much as I dislike the idea, I’ll say nothing to your father.” She held up a hand. “But you must keep me apprised of all your plans.”

  Cora clapped her hands together and brought them to her chest. “Oh, Auntie Great, you’re the best!”

  “Furthermore—” Rose narrowed her eyes. “I do not like the idea of you traveling to Montana unchaperoned.”

  “Then you’ll have to come with me,” Cora quipped in a pert tone, her eyes sparkling.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why…because my life is here.”

  “Is it really, Auntie Rose? Really? Grandpapa’s gone. You’re no longer working at the library. You’re not close with papa or the children. What kind of life will you have here? No life, that’s what!”

  Feeling as if Cora had driven a spike through her chest, Rose almost doubled up with pain. Only her corset kept her upright. She opened her mouth to disagree, but then clenched her jaw, knowing the girl spoke the stark truth.

  Abruptly, Cora stood and strode to the desk in the corner, deftly weaving around the books lying on the floor. She pulled open the side drawer and removed a fat envelope, glancing at the address and nodding with apparent satisfaction. Returning to Rose, she handed over the letter and resumed her seat on the stack of books.

  Rose glanced down and saw Andre’s familiar handwriting. Oh, no. Not more from him!

  “This letter came on one of the days when Grandpapa insisted you go outside for fresh air and exercise and let me stay to nurse him. Remember? The day it rained suddenly, and you came home wet because of not having an umbrella.”

  Rose did remember. “Drenched to my petticoats.”

  “Grandpapa wasn’t strong enough to sit up, so I read the letter to him.” Cora smiled, obviously remembering. “What Mr. Bellaire wrote made him smile and laugh. I did, too.” Her lips remained turned up. “Those two were quite the dashing young blades in their day. Well, not so young. I believe Grandpapa was twenty-nine when they met. Isn’t Mr. Bellaire a similar age?” She tapped a finger on her chin. “No, I remember his last birthday here in New York. He’s three years older.”

  Some things Rose didn’t want to remember even if she did. “He’s fifty-four.” She tried to give back the letter, willing her hands to stop shaking.

  Cora pushed back Rose’s hand. “Read it, Auntie. Please?”

  If she refused, Rose would have to explain why, and she preferred Cora not know of her complicated feelings about Andre Bellaire. She took the letter, braced herself, and began to read.

  In spite of her reservations, Rose found her walls melting a bit while reading Andre’s words about the loving bond the two men shared. She hadn’t realized Marty meant as much to Andre as he did to her brother. After all, he’d been the one to leave New York.

  Reading some of the stories, a few of them that included her, Rose couldn’t help smiling. Once she laughed out loud about a spectacular feet-up fall Marty took when the three skated on the frozen lake in Central Park. “I’d forgotten that.” Now she remembered the feeling of skating and holding Andre’s hand, starry-eyed with love. She’d thought he’d looked at her the same way.

  “What?” Cora’s eyes were curious.

  Rose had no intention of enlightening the girl, so she only shook her head and continued reading. When she came to the end, her gaze lingered on Andre’s sprawled signature. Then with a sigh, she folded the letter, tucking the paper into the envelope, along with her memories.

  “Mr. Bellaire is such a wonderful man. I wonder why he never married.” Cora slanted a look at Rose. “He certainly would make some lucky lady a fine husband.”

  “He’s far too old for you.” The words slipped out before Rose stopped to think about what she’d almost given away.

  “Some qualities in a man are ageless,” Cora said, with an artless toss of her head. “Mr. Bellaire is attractive, intelligent, kind, educated, a good friend, and generous. Oh, and rich.”

&n
bsp; “Cora!” Rose exclaimed, horrified by the very idea of her with Andre. “Put such thoughts out of your mind!”

  Undeterred, Cora held up one finger. “Oh, I forgot. A loving father and grandfather. And he’s fun, too.”

  “Cora,” Rose warned, wanting this particular list-making to stop immediately.

  “A good sense of humor. Remember his laugh? And that Southern accent. How that man pours on the charm.” Cora grinned. “Such a flirt.”

  “Yes, a flirt.” She seized on the term. “Such men aren’t to be trusted. You’ll give them your heart and then find they were only toying with you.” Cora’s widening eyes made Rose realize she’d said too much. “You must keep that in mind,” she added in a lofty tone. “When men come to court you, make sure they aren’t flirtatious.”

  Cora held out a hand palm up and pretended to write on her palm. “Boring men only.” She glanced up at Rose, all limpid innocence. “What other qualities am I to look for in a husband?”

  A man who won’t break your heart. “Steadfastness,” Rose said immediately. “He must be worthy. Someone you can trust. Must have a good job or other source of reliable income.”

  Cora continued ‘writing.’ “What about love?”

  “Love, of course. Dependable love. A man who’s a good companion.”

  “A good kisser.” She gave Rose a sly glance.

  Rose made a prim face. “You’re not supposed to be kissing men.”

  “Then how am I to know if I like kissing him? Imagine being married to someone whose kisses you didn’t like? What if he has bad breath? Or a fish mouth? Ugh! You’re stuck with him.”

  Her cheeks heated. The kisses she’d shared with Andre remained burned in her mind. The girl does have a point. Not that Rose intended to say so.

  Cora eyed Rose’s blushing face, but thankfully she didn’t comment. “What about handsome?”

  Of course. “Handsome is as handsome does,” Rose misquoted in a prim tone. “Appearances can fade. He loses his hair, grows a paunch.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Bellaire is a good bet.” Cora lowered her hand. “I already know he didn’t lose his hair or grow a paunch.”

  “You haven’t seen him for two years. He could be as fat as a…a balloon.”

  Cora giggled and rolled her eyes. “Not Mr. Bellaire.”

  “His hair is probably completely white.”

  “Probably makes him look distinguished,” Cora retorted, her gray eyes dancing. Then her expression sobered. “Come to Montana with me, Auntie Great. We’ll both make a new life. Just think of the excitement!”

  I’d go with you any place but Montana.

  “I doubt a primitive rural town will offer you much in excitement.”

  “You did say I’d need a chaperone,” the girl adroitly pointed out. “Surely, you don’t want me to start a new life in the West without your guidance. What if I’m intrigued by a man who flirts? A distinguished man who flirts.”

  Rose wasn’t sure if she needed to protect Andre from Cora’s machinations, or the young woman from the older man’s flirtatious lures. Neither one was palatable. If I’m in Sweetwater Springs, I can urge her toward the right man. Not a distinguished, Southern charmer.

  “You always dreamed of traveling. Now’s your chance.” Cora leaned over and kissed Rose’s cheek. “Besides, I don’t want you to grow old here alone.”

  If she was honest with herself, Rose didn’t want that scenario either. But neither did she want to risk her heart again.

  Still, she hadn’t set eyes on Andre in years. Perhaps when I do, I won’t see the same appeal. After all, she was older and wiser. Presumably, her former love was also. Probably he’d become a staid father and grandfather. Then, too, he wrote about the abundance of men in Sweetwater Springs. They must be very different from New Yorkers. Maybe I’ll find one who interests me. A new life, a new love.

  She looked around the room at all the books. “Well, there’s a new library in that town. Presumably they’ll be in need of books.”

  “And a librarian.” Cora reached to tap Rose’s knee. “You.”

  For the first time, she felt some stirrings of excitement. “Opening a library would be a challenge.”

  “Sweetwater Springs needs you, Aunt Rose. You cannot forsake that community.”

  Rose managed a smile at her niece’s dramatics, but inwardly, she quaked at facing such an enormous change. “Oh, very well.” She held up a hand, palm out. “But only if we find lodgings. Or, if we must stay for a bit in the Bellaires’ home, we move out as soon as we find our own place.”

  “I knew you’d come with me,” Cora said smugly, bouncing to her feet. She leaned to kiss Rose’s cheek. “I must be off. There’s so much to be done before we can leave.”

  Bemused, Rose stared after Cora until she was out of sight, not looking away when she heard the sound of the young woman’s quick footsteps on the wooden stairs, and then the slam of the front door.

  She turned around and surveyed the disorganized library. But she couldn’t really see the books, for a memory of young Andre Bellaire laughing and kissing her until her heart pounded and her knees grew weak overwhelmed her vision.

  Now, I’ll see him regularly. Rose pressed a hand to her breastbone. What have I just agreed to?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  September 1896

  The morning after the Harvest Festival Andre awoke, a sense of dread and sadness pressing on his chest. He felt every year of his fifty-four. The much-planned-for, highly anticipated event went disastrously wrong: the money for the church stolen, Deputy Sheriff Dolf Rodda—by all accounts a good man—dead at the hands of a robber gang, and bank clerk Horace Hatter injured. Sheriff K.C. Granger and a posse of handpicked men rode after the thieves, chasing into danger.

  This is all my fault. Andre possessed more than enough wealth to fund the construction of a new church. But in his arrogance, he’d decreed that the building belonged to the community, and everyone should have the opportunity to contribute. He’d thought the Harvest Festival would give folks opportunities to donate their time, the works of their hands, harvests, or husbandry, as well as any financial gifts. Ironically, up until the robbery, the Harvest Festival had been a rousing success, which made the loss seem even greater.

  Dolf Rodda didn’t appear to have any close family. Regardless, Andre intended to pay for his funeral and see him laid to rest in the cemetery with a fine, marble headstone. Please, God, may this be the only funeral I pay for.

  Andre knew the death toll would climb, although the best scenario would be if only the robbers died. He reviewed in his mind the faces of the twelve posse members.

  First and foremost came their female sheriff, K.C. Granger—as brave and capable as any male. At the lawwoman’s side, the Indian blacksmith Red Charlie, often pressed into duty as her deputy. Dr. Angus Cameron joined the posse, believing he was needed as a medic, although he had no intention of fighting. Brian Bly, who hailed from New York and had once debated with Andre the merits of that city. Doctor Rye Rawlins and Sheriff Taylor Temogen, both from the nearby mining town of Morgan’s Crossing, also rode along.

  The rest of the posse Andre didn’t know well, having only met them this week. They were a combination of local men and the out-of-towners who’d volunteered as deputy sheriffs for the Harvest Festival.

  Andre sent up a fervent prayer that God would keep the eleven brave gentlemen and one woman safe, as well as protect the innocent people in the path of the robber gang.

  Prayers made, he glanced at the wide window, the beam of light filtering through the crack in the curtains. With a groan, Andre reached over to his nightstand for his watch and snapped open the cover. Ten o’clock, three hours later than he usually slept. Micah would have left for school already.

  He replaced the watch next to a small bottle of digitalis and a glass of water. The medicine probably saved his life yesterday, for he’d almost had a heart attack when he heard the news of the robbery and the shooting of Deputy Rodda.r />
  He lay there a while in the gloom of his low spirits. To motivate himself, he quoted Marcus Aurelius. “Is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?” Even with the chiding of the Roman philosopher in his head, just getting out of bed and dressing himself took every scrap of Andre’s energy.

  After his ablutions, he left his room, trudged down the stairs—leaning heavily on the banister—and headed for the dining room. Before he entered, Delia, who must have heard his footsteps, rushed to meet him.

  She scanned his face. “Papa, you look awful. I think you need to go back to bed.”

  “Coffee will put me to rights.”

  “You almost had a heart attack yesterday, and you scared me to death. I’ll bring up a tray.”

  “Nonsense.” The word came out in an irascible tone unlike him. Andre looked into her anxious face and softened his voice. “Any news?”

  She shook her head. “I doubt we’ll have word for days. Not if the posse has to ride all the way to Morgan’s Crossing.”

  He knew the facts as well as Delia did.

  “As for Horace Hatter…I plan to call on him and his wife this afternoon, see how he’s recovering, and bring some food so his wife doesn’t have to worry about cooking. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she tilted her head toward the table, empty except for one place setting and a cut-glass pitcher of water. “If you won’t go back to bed, at least let’s get some breakfast inside you.”

  “Coffee,” he corrected.

  “Food and coffee,” she said firmly, an implacable expression on her face.

  “Stop trying to keep me wrapped in cotton wool,” he said testily.