A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Outside, Andre heard the rumble of Sam’s voice and cocked his ears. Hearing no response, his heartbeat quickened. Likely someone coming to visit. Still, he set down his cup and saucer on a nearby table, turned his back to the ladies so they couldn’t see, and put a hand on his gun. Guess that talk of the war spooked me.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  He glanced over his shoulder to Mrs. Hatter. “Allow me.”

  At a nod from his hostess, Andre moved to open the door and saw an attractive blonde. He recognized her as Margaret Temogen. He’d met Sheriff and Mrs. Temogen of Morgan’s Crossing at church a few times when they visited Sweetwater Springs. They had a son, Charlie, about Micah’s age, and a young daughter, whose name he couldn’t remember.

  While not as fashionably dressed as Andre’s daughter, Mrs. Temogen’s dark green dress suited her, bringing out the forest green of her eyes. Matching braid edged the shoulders, waistline, and hem. Her skirt rustling, she moved into the room, smiled and nodded at them all.

  Mrs. Hatter set down her tea and stood with a tentative turn-up of her lips.

  When they’d first met, Andre chatted with Mrs. Temogen for a good ten minutes, finding her warm and convivial. Now, although she held her head high and her smile didn’t waver, shadows lurked in her eyes. Fear for her husband, no doubt.

  “Mrs. Hatter, we haven’t met. I’m Margaret Temogen.” She nodded a greeting to the older woman. “My husband is the sheriff of Morgan’s Crossing, who’s riding with the posse after that dreadful gang. I’m afraid I come empty-handed.” She turned her gloved hands palm up. “I thought to bring something from the mercantile, but I’ve heard after the Harvest Festival yesterday, the store looks like ravening locusts swept through the place, leaving only empty shelves.”

  “Oh, oh, don’t worry in the least bit about bringing anything.” Mrs. Hatter rushed over, waving her hands in front of her in a negating motion before clasping Mrs. Temogen’s hand with both of hers. “Why, if you’d come just twenty minutes ago, you would have seen my home looking like the ravening locusts swept almost every item from the mercantile and brought them here. Mr. Herbert, the man eating pie on the porch, and Mr. Bellaire were kind enough to haul most everything to the cellar for me.”

  She gestured toward Delia and Andre. “Do you know Reverend Joshua’s wife, Delia Norton, and her father, Andre Bellaire?”

  “Why, yes. My family and I have worshiped in Sweetwater Springs several times, so Mrs. Norton and I have spoken before or after church—usually only for a few moments, for my wiggly children always want to move. Mr. Bellaire and I had a long conversation earlier this week at the planning session for the Harvest Festival.”

  Delia looked back and forth between the two ladies. “Please, both of you, call me Delia. I know it’s confusing when two Mrs. Nortons who are ministers’ wives live in the same town.”

  Andre had often heard his daughter make the same suggestion, in the process, offending those who thought a minister’s wife should be more formal. So he always tensed, awaiting the response, and knowing he couldn’t go to her defense. Delia had to fight her own battles.

  Mrs. Temogen’s smile finally reached her eyes. “Then I’m Maggie.”

  Neither of the ladies looked askance at Mrs. Hatter in expectation of a similar informal response, knowing older ladies tended to be more traditional and wanted to be treated with respect.

  “Come, my dear Mrs. Hatter, and have a seat.” Delia set down her cup and saucer, stood, and moved over to their hostess. She put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders and guided her to the settee.

  Mrs. Hatter waved a weak hand toward the kitchen. “But Mrs., uh, Maggie’s tea.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” Delia offered, moving toward the kitchen.

  Mrs. Hatter sighed in apparent relief.

  Maggie sat next to their hostess and took her hand. “Tell me, how is your husband?”

  Mrs. Hatter’s eyes filled with tears, and the tip of her nose reddened. “Dr. Cameron expects him to be fine. He’s sleeping now and very weak. It’s just so hard….”

  “You feel helpless. I know…” Maggie’s voice wavered. She took a deep breath.

  Andre could see her obviously striving for composure. Uncomfortable, he wondered if he should join Sam, but didn’t want to stand and interrupt the ladies’ serious conversation.

  Mrs. Hatter squeezed Maggie’s hand. “At least, I know Horace is safe. You must be so worried about your husband.”

  This time Maggie’s eyes glistened. “Terrified. Proud. So angry with those robbers I could let out a string of unladylike curses. If they stood before me, I’d smack their faces.”

  Mrs. Hatter’s eyes grew wide.

  “But I know my husband,” Maggie said, lifting her chin. “Taylor won’t stop until those foul fiends are apprehended, and we are all safe!”

  Andre leaned forward. “And neither will Sheriff Granger. I have full confidence in our posse’s ability to bring the culprits to justice.” But bringing justice doesn’t mean they will remain unharmed. Naturally, though, he didn’t mention that thought a loud. But at least the three ladies rewarded his attempts to bolster them with weak smiles and the cessation of tears.

  Mrs. Hatter pulled back her hand to toy with her necklace, tugging on the pendant and weaving the chain around her fingers in a nervous gesture, seeming to shrink into herself. Then she released the necklace and clasped both hands tightly together. Her knuckles whitened. “I’m told…at the meeting last night, Miss, ah, Sheriff Granger was quite determined to bring the robbers to justice. I heard she was very inspiring, actually.”

  “Why, yes.” Delia agreed.

  Maggie nodded.

  Mrs. Hatter looked down, inhaled a shuddering breath, and raised her gaze, unclasping her hands. “I will confess that I’ve wronged her. I haven’t approved of Sheriff Granger one single bit—not her lack of femininity, not her wearing men’s clothing, not her taking a man’s job, not her playing cards in the saloons with the riff-raff, not her living by herself at the jail.” She clutched her apron. “I have rudely avoided speaking to her, except for one time when she drew me into conversation. I called her Miss Granger.”

  Andre could imagine how the sheriff took that polite set-down—with her characteristic, cool gaze.

  Tears dripped down the woman’s withered cheeks. “God tells us in the Bible to not judge. But I did. I am well punished for my sins.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Hatter.” Delia handed Maggie her cup and saucer and sat on the older woman’s other side. “God isn’t punishing you. Horace’s injury is because a bad man hit him.”

  Pride filled Andre. To think my daughter doubts her ability as a minister’s wife.

  Delia looked intently into Mrs. Hatter’s eyes. “On those robbers alone lies the blame, not you. You are contrite about your judgment of our lawwoman, and that’s what matters. The Good Lord willing, you’ll have plenty of years to show Sheriff Granger the respect and appreciation she deserves.”

  Pink flooded the older woman’s cheeks, and she straightened. “Why…I think…I’d like you to use my given name, Agatha. I rarely hear it spoken anymore. Only my sister and my husband….” Her voice broke.

  “Agatha.” Maggie patted Mrs. Hatter’s leg. “All we can do is carry on as best we can, while we wait and pray. Please, God, our ordeal will be over soon, and our brave ones will return unharmed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  That evening, Andre retreated to his study and sat at his desk, staring down at the two volumes that usually brought him comfort in times of trouble—the Bible and Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Both would provide wisdom, which he felt in sore need of. But he couldn’t seem to summon the energy to pick up either.

  Joshua knocked on the doorframe. “May I come in?”

  Curious, Andre motioned him into the room. His busy son-in-law didn’t often seek him out for private chats.

  Joshua entered and sat in the leather chair in front of the desk. He wait
ed for a moment, his vivid blue eyes troubled. “Delia is worried about you, and I am worried about my wife. All these…difficulties are not good for the baby.” He paused. “I’m also concerned about you and so is Micah. So I have a request—one that you’ll probably object to. However, I want you to listen and consider I’m asking for Delia’s well-being.”

  Andre leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “All right, what is it?”

  “Deputy Rodda’s friends and acquaintances will attend the funeral. He was part of their community, and they will mourn him.”

  “Indeed. And the rest of us here in Sweetwater Springs—even those who never met him—will mourn.”

  “I think the funeral and burial will be an intense experience.”

  Andre could see where Joshua was headed and instinctively resistance arose. “And you think I should skip it?”

  “If you attend, Delia will fret about you the whole time.”

  “The health of the baby and my daughter should be our main concern,” Andre said.

  Joshua’s jaw clenched, before he steeply exhaled. “I don’t want to worry you. I think she and the baby will be fine, provided we take some precautions.”

  Andre took a slow breath and lowered his hands to his lap. He did want to object. He wanted to thrust himself from the chair, stride around the room, and let out a string of profanities. Maybe kick something. He wanted to curse his weak body, rail at the gang of marauders.

  What was I even thinking, secretly daydreaming about courting Rose? I’m old, broken—in no shape to protect her or help her experience her dreams of traveling and exploring the world.

  He stood, strode to the window, and looked out at the darkness. Rain streaked down the glass—the weather reflecting his mood.

  Andre turned with a wry smile. “You don’t think Delia will fret about me if I’m home?”

  “She might feel some concern. But Delia knows you’re in good hands with Rufus and Tilda.”

  True. Andre walked back to his chair and sat down heavily, feeling ancient.

  He looked at his son-in-law, saw new lines around the man’s eyes and the weight of these difficulties, as Joshua put it, pressing on the minister’s shoulders. Although the younger man shared duties with his father here in town, he was also the minister for Morgan’s Crossing, who’d lost one of their own.

  To Joshua, Dolf Rodda wasn’t a mere acquaintance but a member of his congregation. In spite of the low spirits he must share with everyone else, he had the heavy responsibility of trying to provide comfort for those frightened and grieving.

  Plus, worry about his parents, usually the bedrock of Sweetwater Springs—who were both shaken by the murder—had taken an obvious toll. The elder Reverend and Mrs. Norton showed their ages.

  Andre could certainly relieve his son-in-law of one burden. “I have things to take care of…specifically, some changes to the plans for the library I’ve wanted to sketch out.”

  Joshua nodded. “Micah should stay home. He’s too young to face…to cope with all the pain and anger he’ll see around him.”

  “Your son has a well-developed sense of responsibility for his age. He won’t like being kept at home.”

  A sudden smile broke out on Joshua’s face. “You couldn’t have given me a greater compliment. When we returned from Africa, I despaired of him. Micah was so angry and resentful. Missing his friends. Blaming me. Getting into mischief. Now, we are close, he does well in school, shows—as you said—a well-developed sense of responsibility. Much of those changes are due to you, Andre. I suppose I’ve said so in various ways before, but I’ve not completely expressed my gratitude.”

  “Well, then,” Andre said in a jocular tone. “Micah can take responsibility for keeping his aging grandfather company. It’s about time I give him another chess lesson, don’t you think? I can work on the library plans another time.”

  * * *

  Waiting at Grand Central Station with Cora, Rose wished she could feel the same excitement as her niece. The young woman practically bubbled over with high spirits, chattering away with abandon about the trip, pointing out interesting passengers who rushed by, or speculated what might be in some odd-shaped crates porters wheeled by in rickety hand carts.

  Instead, Rose could barely pay attention to the girl. Her throat was tight with grief, and dread weighed heavy on her chest. She hated being among a bustling crowd without any quiet place to eventually retreat to and recover her equilibrium.

  She was about to say farewell to her home, her friends, the library patrons, the graves of her parents and brother and late sister-in-law, and the two sisters who’d died in infancy—buried in the small cemetery of their church. She’d bade them good-bye yesterday, leaving flowers, and hoping John or his family would continue to do the same.

  As for her nephew, before she left New York, Rose visited John one last time to bid good-bye to him and his family. While she held some love for the younger children, her feelings for them were tempered by their unruly behavior. The two boys and a girl unfortunately took after their mother, both in personality—spoiled, indolent, and quarrelsome, and in looks—plump and nondescript. While Rose was there, his wife refused to leave her bedroom, claiming, John said, to be too unwell for company.

  Rose wasn’t sorry to miss seeing the woman. Not for the first time, she reflected on how grief, loneliness, and the need of a caretaker for his motherless child led a new widower to make a hasty and ill-conceived marriage to a woman he barely knew. She’d seen far too many men make the same mistake. However, John wasn’t the only one paying for his error in judgment. The rest of the family also suffered from his choice.

  She glanced over at their stack of luggage—trunks, boxes, and crates of books for the library in Sweetwater Springs waiting for a porter to load them. Not sure what they’d find in the small town’s stores, both of them shopped for clothes and other items they’d thought necessary to bring, woolens and winter garb, while also shedding themselves of possessions that weren’t worth the expense and effort of hauling half way across the country. She didn’t like paying the overage baggage fees but figured their possessions were worth the extra expenditure.

  With a whistle and steam from the brakes, the train pulled in. The passengers around them pressed forward.

  A sense of trepidation and uncertainty filled her.

  Rose leaned to pick up their satchels, containing all they’d need for the trip, and handed one to Cora. She stepped back to dodge a man rudely cutting between them, leaving the smell of stale tobacco in his wake, and hoped the cad wasn’t sitting anywhere near them.

  Cora’s eyes sparkled. “Here we go. Off on an adventure!”

  For her niece’s sake, Rose forced a smile. “Adventure, indeed.”

  I’ve made my choice. There’s no going back now.

  * * *

  Andre stood on the train platform with Delia, waiting for Rose and Cora to arrive. He’d never felt so nervous in his life. He had to force himself to stillness and take slow breaths, when he wanted to pace and work off his nervous energy.

  The rain that had pounded on them for the last few days, delaying the digging on the library basement, finally let up to cool late-morning sunshine. He’d hoped to have much more accomplished to show Rose. At least my guests aren’t arriving in the middle of a downpour.

  He glanced toward the train depot, the brown paint and yellow trim of the building refreshed for the Harvest Festival. He’d already arranged for the stationmaster to watch over the Colliers’ luggage. Once Sam drove them home, he’d return with the coach and join Pepe Sanchez with the livery stable wagon. The two men would load the luggage into the wagon and coach and haul everything home. Andre planned to store Marty’s collection of books in his attic until shelves could be built in the library.

  He pulled out his watch from his vest pocket to compare the time to the big clock—a recent addition—hanging on the wall under the depot’s overhang. The train would be here soon. Though neither device
told him what he really wanted to know—what he’d feel when seeing Rose again. He closed the case and stowed the watch back in his pocket, wishing he could do the same with his feelings.

  Perhaps Rose is changed—grown haggard, fat, wrinkled, missing teeth, with thinning gray hair. She’ll be critical, querulous, or vapid and silly.

  Perhaps I’ll see her and no longer be under her spell.

  No, spell isn’t the right word. Isadora briefly enthralled me, until I saw through her illusions to her true self. Rose had no such shallow allure. I felt real love for her.

  Deep down, he suspected Rose’s personality wouldn’t have altered much. As for her appearance, he also suspected those physical changes wouldn’t matter. She’d still be his Rose. He feared she’d still be his Rose.

  Andre’s chest tightened, a reminder of his mortality, and he clenched a fist to keep from placing a hand over his heart. The last thing he needed was Delia fussing over him. Rose would think him practically an aged invalid. He relaxed his hand and lowered his arm.

  With a hiss of brakes and a billow of steam and smoke, the train pulled into the station. No sooner had the train come to a stop when the door of the baggage car rolled open and porters descended, carrying various boxes, crates, and trunks, piling them on the platform.

  The short stationmaster Jack Waite bustled from the depot, his bushy white hair waving in the breeze. He cast Andre a wink and a grin as he rushed by as quickly as his bandy legs could take him. He reached the porters and began directing them, gnarled hands pointing commands.

  Aside from a short glance at the unloading, Andre kept his gaze on the passenger cars, unsure of which one held Rose and Cora, his heart tapping a rhythm like a drumbeat.

  Cora appeared first, trotting down the steps, her feet stuttering when she reached the platform, before she righted herself. Smiling, she gave them a big wave and turned to Rose, following behind.

  Andre could no longer make out the two of them as sudden mist blurred his vision, and his collar suddenly seemed too tight around his neck. Without time to pull out his handkerchief, he quickly swiped an arm across his eyes, hoping no one noticed. Still, he had to breathe and blink again before he could see the women, clearly heading in his direction, both carrying leather satchels, the strings of their reticules pushed to the elbows of their arms.