A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Delia wagged a finger in front of his face. “Preacher, remember.” Then, she patted her chest. “Preacher’s wife. Ministers and their spouses don’t go around armed.”

  “I don’t know why not,” he grumbled. “Turning the other cheek is one thing. Murderous robbers are another.”

  “Let me tell you what I’ve put in Horace’s basket,” Delia said, obviously changing the subject by drawing back the cloth covering the top. She touched each item. “Several big jars of chicken soup. Custard. A pound cake. Ham. One bag of coffee and one of tea. Four cans of peaches and a bag of white sugar. Oh, and a jar of cream.”

  “Do you think that’s enough?”

  “We won’t be the only ones contributing. I’ve heard the Hatters already had a steady stream of visitors this morning.”

  Andre forced a smile. “Then we must join the stream.” He gestured toward the bed. “Let’s pack everything and pay them a visit. I’ll have Sam hitch up the horses.”

  “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  “After we pay a visit to the Hatters, I’ll go over and check on progress at the library. The workers are supposed to break ground and dig out the basement.”

  “You’ll be supervising dirt.” Rising on tiptoe, Delia kissed his cheek. Then with a swirl of ocher and cream skirts, she whirled and bustled from the room.

  Andre stared after her for a moment. Then he turned back to the bed and began folding the dressing gown, hoping Delia was right about Rose and Cora—indeed, all his loved ones—being safe in Sweetwater Springs.

  * * *

  Outside, the day was warm and radiant with the beautiful golden light of Indian summer, although distant clouds hinted of rain. Under other conditions, Andre would have enjoyed a stroll with Delia, but aside from the weather and his daughter’s company, nothing about today’s errand felt pleasant.

  When Sam pulled up in front of a small, whitewashed house set back on Third Street near the railroad, Andre had to force himself to leave the surrey. For the first time, he wondered if Mrs. Hatter would welcome him or if she blamed him for what happened to her husband. He assumed she knew Andre was the primary force organizing the Harvest Festival.

  Behind a white picket fence, the yard was neatly groomed with a line of beds along the front of the house. In the corner, an aspen tree shivered, the leaves already turning gold and auburn.

  Andre made a mental note to send over his gardener in a few weeks. When the leaves started falling, the grass would need a trim, and the garden and flowerbeds should be prepared for the winter. He didn’t want Horace to fret about his yard or set back his recovery by doing the work.

  He walked up the dirt path next to Delia, who insisted on carrying the parcel containing the book and his slippers, while he hefted the blanket-wrapped bundle of night attire and pillows. With each step, he felt the unfamiliar weight of the Colt on his hip, hidden under his jacket, a constant reminder that once again danger might sweep into their town.

  Behind them came Sam, hauling the big basket of food, heavier than before due to Cook slipping in a few last-minute items.

  They stepped onto a narrow porch, running the length of the front, with two old rockers on either side of a round table. Lace curtains fluttered at the partially-opened windows on both sides of the door.

  Sam set the basket on the small table on the porch. “I’ll leave this here and see to the horses.”

  After such a short drive, the team didn’t need to be watered or rubbed down. But Andre knew Sam would keep watch and assure their safety. He knocked on the door.

  The lace curtain twitched, and the door opened suddenly. A thin, gray-haired woman who looked about Andre’s age stood in the doorway. “Oh, my, Mr. Bellaire and Mrs. Norton.” She made quick hand motions to usher them inside. “Please come in.”

  Andre picked up the basket and touched Delia’s back. She preceded him inside and into one long room, with a kitchen to the right and a parlor to the left.

  He lifted the basket, setting it on the floor, and closed the door after him.

  Mrs. Hatter waved toward the window. “Why, you just missed Mrs. Murphy. She brought over a plate of oatmeal cookies.”

  Surprised, Andre glanced at Delia to see her expression upon hearing the crotchety woman had bestowed kindness on a neighbor.

  Delia smiled. “I love Mrs. Murphy’s oatmeal cookies. I don’t think anyone makes them better.”

  To be fair, although the woman was difficult and prone to criticize and gossip, sometimes—belying her cantankerous exterior—one caught a glimpse of a heart softening toward those in need.

  The interior of the small home was redolent with the sweet smell of baked goods and frilly with crocheted doilies draped over every piece of furniture. Embroidered cushions were scattered on the settee and chairs. The fussy décor was made even more crowded by the addition of several crates and bushel baskets holding fruit, potatoes, cabbages, and carrots, as well as a table covered with platters of cookies, cakes, and pies, along with several crocks of different sizes, two shallow baskets of eggs in sawdust, jars of pickles and preserves, three jugs, and several loaves of bread.

  Mrs. Hatter appeared flustered, glancing at the laden table and running her hands down the apron she seemed to have forgotten to remove for company. “Dearie me. From early morning, people have been so generous, stopping by to inquire about Horace and bringing us so much food. I declare, I do not know what to do with everything.”

  Delia handed over her parcel. “We’re all bringing meals, so you don’t have to think about cooking and can dote on Mr. Hatter. We also have treats to coax an invalid’s appetite, custard and such. And Papa—” she glanced at Andre “—wanted to make sure your husband is comfortable while he recuperates. These few things can go in the bedroom for now, so they’re not in your way.”

  “Oh, my! Thank you.” Mrs. Hatter clutched the package under one arm. She gestured toward the crates and bushels. “Why, I haven’t even had time to move everything outside to the root cellar.”

  “Let me take care of that for you.” Andre started to stoop for a bushel of apples.

  Frowning, Delia caught his arm. “Perhaps, Sam could see to everything. With your help, of course.”

  “I’m afraid my daughter coddles me,” Andre explained to Mrs. Hatter in a wry apology.

  “As well she should, Mr. Bellaire.” Mrs. Hatter shifted the parcel to her hip. “Although, you men! I’m sure I’ll have the same difficulty with my Horace when he wants to be up and about before he should.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her lips trembled before she firmed them.

  Andre dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and extended the square.

  Mrs. Hatter made a negating motion. “Thank you, Mr. Bellaire, but I have my own. Let me set this down in the bedroom and fetch it.” She vanished through a closed door next to the kitchen, and then emerged with a square of cotton in her hand. “Horace is still sleeping.” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m such a fountain today.”

  Delia patted the woman’s shoulder. “That’s to be expected, given all you’ve gone through. Do tell us how Mr. Hatter is doing. I hear he’s regained consciousness.”

  “In a manner of speaking. Horace drifted in and out all morning. He seems to be sleeping deeper now, thank goodness.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Dr. Cameron says rest is what’s best for a head injury, and that Horace should become more lucid later today or tomorrow.”

  “Good to hear.” Delia gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do to help? Let you sit down while I make a nice pot of tea? You probably could use a cup by now. What about you, Papa?”

  “Only if it’s convenient,” he said. “No need to go to any extra work on my account.”

  “Oh, dear, Mrs. Norton.” With a distressed expression, the woman clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I’m out of tea. I brewed the last of my leaves for my first visitors. With all the preparations for the Harvest Festival, I allowed my sup
plies to get low, thinking I’d replenish everything after the excitement was over.”

  “That’s right.” Delia smiled. “Weren’t you in charge of the embroidery booth, where people could purchase handkerchiefs or pillowcases and have them monogramed? When I went by, you seemed to be having quite a success.”

  “Why yes,” Mrs. Hatter’s tight expression brightened. “We did quite a brisk business and sold out of everything. Although, some people wanted a simple design instead of initials—flower, bee, ladybug.” Her words drifted off. “We were so happy at the amount of money we raised for the church—twenty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents! Can you imagine?” Her expression fell, obviously remembering the stolen money and the price her husband paid.

  “We’re very grateful,” Andre hastened to reassure her. “Hopefully, Sheriff Granger will retrieve the church funds.”

  “Well then—” Delia said in a brisk tone, waving toward the basket on the floor “—good thing I brought some tea. Now, you’ll have enough for all your visitors this week.”

  Taking the hint, Andre lifted the basket to the table.

  Mrs. Hatter made anxious sounds, fluttered her hands, and moved aside a platter of cookies and one of the jugs to make room.

  “While you’re doing this,” Andre gestured toward the kitchen, “I’ll get Sam, and we can move some of these things to your cellar.” He left the women to their tea-making and strode down the dirt path to the picket gate.

  On the street by the team, Sam held a bucket of water for the nearest horse to drink. With his arm raised, pulling the front of his coat apart, the gun belt holding a Colt, showed. He looked up when Andre approached.

  “I’m in need of your strength, Sam, to haul Mrs. Hatter’s loot to her root cellar.”

  “I’m the man for that.” He lowered the pail to the ground and stepped to the fence.

  Andre sent Sam a pleased glance. The coachman, only a few years younger than him, was still as strong as he’d been as a youth.

  Sam had lighter skin than Rufus and Tilly, courtesy of his mother and several generations of white overseers and randy Bellaire men impregnating the most attractive of the female slaves.

  He and Sam grew up together, although the coachman was born into slavery, his parents having served the Bellaire family. Tilda, Rufus, and Lamentations the gardener were gifts to Andre on his twenty-first birthday. He’d immediately set all four free and then hired them at generous wages, which infuriated his father and caused many bitter family arguments. His brothers sided with their father, and his mother remained tight-lipped and aloof—torn between the ways of her Scottish father in New York and the beliefs of her husband and family, as well as the slave culture of New Orleans.

  “All quiet out here?” Andre asked, with a glance up and down the street.

  “I can hear the leaves of the trees turning fall colors. Reminds me of…” Sam hesitated and scratched the side of his neck. “You weren’t in the South during the war, though, especially before New Orleans fell. We walked tense and alert all the time, even during the calm days—” he waved down the road “—although the streets weren’t quiet like this.”

  Since Sam’s arrival in Sweetwater Springs, Andre hadn’t wanted to bring up the past. “Do you regret remaining in New Orleans after I freed you?”

  Sam looked to the side, obviously thinking, and then met Andre’s gaze, his eyes dark with sorrow. “Perhaps if I’d taken my wife and family and headed to New York with you and the others, she’d still be alive. Same for those babies we lost to yellow fever. Those deaths sucked the heart and strength from her. When cholera came along, she didn’t stand a chance.”

  “You loved Bess, so you indulged her wish to remain in a familiar place.”

  “In New York, with plenty to eat, good doctors and such.” He nodded at Andre. “You would have seen to my family’s care.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Maybe I’d still have Bess and more than one grown child. Maybe my son wouldn’t be off serving in the army, because he didn’t see no chance for bettering himself in a land ground to dirt under the victor’s feet—even so many years after the war.”

  Not for the first time, Andre thought about how almost everything in the South changed after the War Between the States—labeled by the subjugated losing side with the nonsensical title of The War of Northern Aggression.

  Not that Civil War wasn’t just as ridiculous a moniker. Nothing was civil about a war that tore their country apart and cost over six hundred thousand men their lives.

  “I have plenty of regrets of my own. I know how they can haunt a man.” Andre tilted his head in the direction of the house. “Come. Let’s leave the past in the past.”

  Sam opened the gate and followed Andre down the path.

  Mrs. Hatter must have been watching, for she opened the door before he could knock. “Oh, thank you, gentlemen. I’m so very appreciative, and I know my husband will be, too.”

  “This is Sam Herbert, my coachman, who will help store away your new supplies. I’ll give him a hand.”

  Together, they carried everything through the kitchen to the back door and out to the root cellar, separate from the house. Sam insisted on climbing up and down the stairs, and Andre handed him the various crates, crocks, baskets, and loose items.

  Once back inside, Mrs. Hatter clasped her hands in front of her chest and profusely thanked them. “Tea’s ready. Gentlemen, can I persuade you to partake in some cookies or a slice of pie? Apple. Mariah Salter assured me when she dropped by with the pie before going to her job at the hotel. The first apples from her tree just picked a few days ago.”

  “Absolutely,” Andre told her. Not that he wanted to eat anything with his stomach still knotted, but he sensed feeding him would help the woman keep her pride.

  “Mrs. Salter also left a jug of cider, if you’d prefer that over tea. So thoughtful, don’t you think, when she has those four growing boys to feed? Thank goodness they’ve filled out. I hated to see them so thin and hungry-looking last year.” She sighed. “But the Salters wouldn’t accept help—too proud, they were. Still, I was able to have Matthew over to do some yard work. I fed him right up, paid him a quarter, and sent him home with a loaf of fresh baked bread.”

  Remembering how he told Delia the Hatters would also be too proud to accept money, Andre suppressed a smile. The stubborn insistence of standing on their own two feet in the face of poverty and adversity was a fascinating, and sometimes frustrating, characteristic of the people of his adopted town. “I’ll take one of Mrs. Murphy’s cookies. And I know for a fact that Sam—” he jerked his chin at the man “—won’t say no to a slice of apple pie.”

  “No, ma’am.” Sam spoke with a Southern drawl and flashed Mrs. Hatter a wide, white grin. “Surely, I won’t say no to pie of any kind.”

  The woman’s withered cheeks pinked. “Well, then. Let me dish you up a generous slice.”

  Sam moved past her to stand next to Andre. “You need to visit here more often—” he teased in a low undertone “—and bring me along.”

  “You’re not a slave anymore,” Andre retorted. “Haven’t been one for a long time. You could visit on your own. As you can see, you’d be welcome.”

  Sam winked. “Might just do that. Perhaps Mrs. Hatter will need more help moving things to the cellar, and I’ll git another piece.”

  “As if you don’t get enough pie at home. You have Cook eating out of your hand.”

  “Can nevah git enough pie.” The words came out slow and syrupy, accompanied by a wink.

  Andre just shook his head, knowing the man trotted out that drawl whenever he wanted to charm. Well, I suppose I do, too. When it suits me. “You don’t fool me. You’d help whether or not you’d get more pie.”

  Mrs. Hatter handed Andre a blue transferware plate with two cookies.

  Sam received one with a fork next to a big piece of pie.

  “The tea has steeped enough,” Delia announced.

  “Le
t me pour.” Mrs. Hatter moved toward the kitchen. “Well, first I need to wash the other cups I used today with company. Over the years, I’ve broken a few pieces of my mother’s china.”

  Immediately deciding to order the Hatters half a dozen new teacups and saucers, Andre surreptitiously turned over his plate to see the maker. Spode, with the numbers 2614 in red. I’ll order them from the mercantile today. He righted the plate, wondering if Mrs. Hatter would accept the china. Hopefully, if she knew they were a gift from the heart….

  Mrs. Hatter abruptly stopped and placed her hands on each side of her head. “I feel my wits are so scattered today!”

  “That’s to be expected in such worrying situations,” Delia soothed. “There’s still enough hot water. Let’s do a quick wash and dry, shall we?”

  I’m not the only one who charms with a Southern accent when need be. Andre watched pleased and amused. He never tired of seeing his daughter interact with others. Would I have felt the same if I’d have known her from birth—her mannerisms, her personality familiar? Would I have taken her for granted? He suspected not. Delia is too special.

  The coachman tilted his head toward the rocking chair on the porch. “I’ve no need for tea, so I’ll just have a seat out here.” Unspoken were the words, So I can watch over everything.

  Delia handed Mrs. Hatter, who’d moved to sit on the settee, a cup and saucer.

  She returned to the kitchen and poured tea into two more cups, deftly stirring in the right amount of sugar and cream for each of them. She carried both cups and saucers and walked toward him. “Here you are, Papa.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” He took the cup and saucer.

  Delia swished over to join Mrs. Hatter on the settee.

  A sip of his tea told Andre she’d made the beverage just the way he liked it. All the years of living away from New Orleans couldn’t cure his taste for sweet tea—hot or cold.