A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Little minx.

  “Oh, but that sounds so…so aged.” Andre’s expression crumpled to one of mock tragedy. With a dramatic flourish, he rested a hand on his chest. “You wouldn’t want to do that to me, would you, dear child?”

  Cora tilted her head and gazed downward, pretending to think for a few seconds. “Oh, all right.” Out came her dimpled smile.

  As soon as possible, I’m taking that girl aside and giving her a stern talking to about charming our host.

  “How did your Harvest Festival go?” Cora looked from Delia to Andre. “You wrote of the event with such enthusiasm and made me wish we could have arrived in time to attend.”

  On the train trip, Cora shared Andre’s latest letter, and, in reading the contents, Rose had also wished to see the Harvest Festival he’d been so excited about. She hoped the community raised enough funds to build their new church.

  With his fork, Andre pushed the last of his mashed potatoes around his plate, a troubled expression on his face.

  Oh, dear. All that work. They must be so disappointed not to have raised enough money.

  “The festival itself was everything we could have hoped for and more. At one point during the day, Sheriff Granger told me she estimated we had another five hundred attendees above what we’d anticipated.”

  Cora’s eyes lit up, and she pressed her hands against the table. “This is your lady sheriff? She must be such an interesting person. I can hardly wait to meet her.”

  Father and daughter exchanged a solemn glance, and then Delia set down her teacup, her eyebrows pulling together in apparent distress. “Unfortunately, not all of the day was as joyous. We had a…a tragedy.”

  Rose glanced between the two, her stomach tightening.

  Delia let out a sharp breath. “An outlaw gang robbed the bank of all the money we’d gathered, assaulted the clerk, and killed one of the deputies.”

  Cora gasped.

  “Those desperados headed away from Sweetwater Springs. The sheriff led a posse out after them.” Andre made a circling motion. “Here in town, we should be fine. We’ve taken protective precautions.”

  Rose hadn’t even thought to question their safety. Of course, she’d read stories and articles about the lawlessness in parts of the West. But somehow, Sweetwater Springs had seemed so safe. Surely, Andre and Delia wouldn’t have settled here if violence were a regular occurrence. I never would have allowed Cora to come if I’d thought otherwise. She glanced over to see Andre watching her, his eyebrows pulled together, as if assessing her state of mind.

  He dipped his head. “Normally, this is a peaceable town.”

  She inhaled in relief and settled back in her chair.

  Delia toyed with her fork. “The robbery was six days ago, and we’ve had no word. The wait’s been agonizing.”

  For the first time, Rose saw Delia not as Andre’s daughter, but as a woman—one carrying a burden of sorrow and fear. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Papa blames himself,” she said in a lowered voice. “We pay regular visits to the bank clerk, Mr. Hatter, who was the one hurt in the robbery.” Her smile trembled. “He’s doing better, although still weak. He, too, blames himself. As if a solitary elderly man could have stopped a band of armed men.”

  “We’ve come at a bad time,” Rose said, feeling awkward about imposing themselves on a house of troubles—a town of troubles.

  “Don’t think that!” Andre moved as if about to reach across the table for her, then lowered his hand. “The thought of your arrival—” he glanced back and forth from Rose to Cora “has been the only brightness of the last dark days. We had your visit to plan for, something to look forward to.”

  Rose wished she had the right to go around the table and give him a hug. Instead, she clasped her hands together.

  “In spite of our low spirits, please know how very welcome you are.” His smile held familiar charm. “However, you can see why lodgings aren’t available. Those who didn’t need to return home to feed livestock or for other urgent needs have remained in town.” He took a sip of his tea.

  Rose nodded her understanding.

  Cora leaned forward. “You’ve been more than welcoming!” she said, vehemently. “I only wish I could do something to help. Does Mr. Hatter need nursing?” She looked at Delia. “I don’t know if your father told you I’ve been studying nursing.”

  Delia gave Cora a nod of approval. “Sweetwater Springs can always use more women with such skills. However, Mr. Hatter only has a concussion. The doctor ordered him to remain in bed. Mr. Hatter is elderly, and he’s taken a blow to his spirits as well as one to his head.”

  “That’s understandable.” Cora sat back in her chair. “He’ll need several weeks of bed rest.”

  Delia gestured. “Everyone is on tenterhooks waiting for news. The days have passed so slowly. Having you here, conversing with you, will help take our minds off what might be happening…has already happened to our sheriff and her men. Under normal circumstances, I’d host a tea party and invite my friends, so you could meet some of the women of our community.”

  Delia let out a long sigh. “I’m going to hope and pray I can still do so once this ordeal is over and everyone is home safe.”

  Rose was full of questions, and she knew from Cora’s expression that her niece was, too. But she could think of no tactful way to ask.

  Tilda and Milliana entered, each carrying two dessert plates. They took up the dinner plates and set down thick wedges of chocolate cake. “Sam’s returned with your luggage. He and Rufus are carrying the trunks to your room.”

  Andre smiled at Rose and gestured toward the cake. “Your favorite.”

  “Of course.” She took a bite, savoring the rich, chocolaty taste.

  The conversation lapsed, as each one enjoyed their dessert.

  After hearing the tragic news and seeing the impact on Andre and Delia, as well as partaking of a fine meal catered to her tastes, Rose couldn’t maintain her resentment with the man, and she gave him a genuine smile. “Do you still have the same cook?”

  “You can tell?” His eyes brightened with apparent pleasure.

  “Everything tastes the same as I remember.” For the first time, Rose didn’t avoid his gaze, maintaining eye contact and feeling a flutter in her stomach.

  Delia caught her father’s eye. “Papa,” she said in a warning tone. “The library.”

  What about the library?

  Andre’s gaze slid away from Rose. He sighed and folded his napkin, tucking the edge underneath his plate, before giving her a concerned glance. “I do have something to confess.” He hesitated.

  Delia lifted her chin in a go-on gesture.

  He still avoided Rose’s eyes. “The library isn’t finished yet.”

  “Finished?” Rose echoed, not quite believing what she’d just heard.

  “Actually….” He stopped.

  “Actually,” Delia took up the sentence. “The building is not yet begun.”

  Andre frowned at his daughter. “Construction has begun.”

  “Plans are drawn.” Delia glanced at Rose. “There’s a hole in the ground filled with rainwater. Unfortunately, that’s the basement, not a pond.”

  Betrayal and anger made Rose’s stomach drop. “I’ve traveled all the way out here, and no job exists?” Without a salary, we’ll have to stay in this house with Andre. Accepting his charity.

  The thought galled her, and she suddenly understood the poor but proud residents of Sweetwater Springs. She couldn’t, just couldn’t stay here. But I can’t go back to New York, either.

  Andre held up a hand. “I didn’t say there wasn’t a job. There’s definitely employment for you. There’s the task of collecting books, cataloguing books….”

  “But where shall we put them? Without even peeking into your library, Andre, I know the shelves are full to overflowing.” Rose waved toward the parlor. “Delia’s shelves are also full.” Then she remembered the empty bookcase in her bedroom and wondered if that�
��s where the books would go. Surely that’s not enough space?

  He raised a hand in placation. “One of the benefits of having a newly built home, not one that’s been lived in for generations, is plenty of room remains in the attics. The place has insulation, isn’t dusty, or full of odds and ends. There’s electric light as well as windows. We keep our trunks and suitcases there, of course. But there’s plenty of space for books. In fact, I’ve already stored some crates of extra books there. You’ll see what we have, what we lack, and what we need, and you’ll catalogue the volumes and compile lists.”

  Only slightly mollified, Rose leaned back in her chair. “I’d like to see the library plans.”

  “I’ll show them to you after we’re finished eating. I’ve been corresponding with Andrew Carnegie. Luckily, he was already an acquaintance, although I had no idea when I left New York that I’d need his advice, or I would have pursued the relationship more. However, he’s been quite helpful. Might as well learn from his mistakes.”

  “Mr. Carnegie certainly has enough experience building libraries.” Rose always admired the philanthropist for that.

  “Several hundred at his last count.”

  “How long will building the library take?”

  Delia finished her last bite of cake. “As with this house, Papa is throwing plenty of resources and men at the project. So, not as long as you’d think.”

  “A year,” Andre said abruptly, firmly placing a palm on the table. “But your salary begins tomorrow.”

  Rose wasn’t sure how to feel. Relieved, certainly, she’d have a salary. But she wasn’t sure she’d be doing enough work to justify being paid. She mentally shrugged—whether or not I like the idea, I need to take the funds. The sooner I begin saving money, the sooner Cora and I can move into our new home.

  The thought wasn’t as gratifying as it should have been.

  * * *

  After the meal ended, Cora went upstairs for a bath, and Rose followed Andre down the hall and into his study to view the library plans. Like the dining room, the room faced the back garden, the big window letting in plenty of reading light.

  Once inside, she glanced around with approval, noting the built-in shelves of books. The large desk was different from the one in his New York house. A blotter was placed in the center, a closed ledger on top, and a cut-glass pitcher of water and a matching glass on one corner. She couldn’t see the title of the book resting next to the ledger but suspected from the well-worn cover, the volume was Andre’s favorite, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.

  But the sight of a bronze eagle—one claw holding an inkwell and the other the pen—stabbed Rose with pain. She’d given him that pen and inkwell set for his birthday, when she thought a proposal was imminent, so a gift from her was wholly appropriate.

  She didn’t know what to make of Andre keeping the inkwell for all these years. Does he think of me when he uses it?

  Doubtless, he even remembers. His warm gaze and courtliness are probably just about welcoming old friends.

  He followed her glance and smiled. “The most useful present I’ve ever received.” His voice roughened. “I’ve often blessed the giver for her care and thoughtfulness.”

  To hide the sudden tears misting her vision, Rose turned away and tottered almost blindly to the long table against the wall, the surface covered with large sheets of paper. After taking a breath to regain her composure, she looked closer and recognized building plans. Four silver paperweights in the shape of pieces of fruit held down the corners of the thick stack.

  She wasn’t at all familiar with architectural drawings and leaned closer to study them surprised to see the ink was blue. But the closer view only made the print blur and become difficult to see, making Rose realize she needed her other pair of spectacles—the ones she used for reading, which she’d left in her reticule. She bit her cheek, not wanting to admit her aging eyesight to her former beau. Vanity, she chided herself, though she still couldn’t bring herself to confess the truth.

  Apparently, Andre wasn’t fooled, for he gave her a knowing smile, walked over to his desk, and opened the top, center drawer. Pulling out a pair of spectacles, he held them aloft. “I’ve noticed print has become smaller.” His tone was as bland as his expression, but his eyes twinkled. “Quite annoying, wouldn’t you agree?” He returned to Rose’s side and handed her the glasses.

  Not allowing herself to be charmed, with a huff, Rose took his spectacles, exchanging them for hers, and leaving her glasses on his desk. After a few blinks to adjust to the different lenses, she once again leaned over the drawings. His spectacles were wider, and she had to push them up to the bridge of her nose and hold them in place.

  The top page of the drawings showed a watercolor picture of how the library would look completed—far bigger and more elaborate than what Rose had imagined—a three-story neoclassical, revival-style stone building, with massive ionic columns flanking the doors, a circular rotunda perched on top, and carvings on the exterior.

  Once again, the lines of the drawing blurred, this time not because of her eyesight but because of a sense of awe and gratification and possessiveness overwhelming her with emotion. My library. Mine.

  She blinked away the tears and raised her head to find Andre watching her with a tender expression. Could he tell? In the past, he’d proven quite good at reading her—something a shy girl, poor at expressing herself unless discussing books, marveled at.

  Looking back, Rose realized Andre’s innate understanding had probably misled her into expecting more from their friendship. Perhaps I can’t hold his withdrawal against him in the way I believed. Maybe he didn’t care as much as I thought and tried to spare my feelings.

  What about the kisses?

  Confused again, Rose didn’t know what to think. She resolved to leave their past in the past where memories belonged.

  Keeping her emotions under control, she touched the colored brick of the library print. “Sioux Quartzite again?” She forced her tone to sound logical.

  “The business owners are trying to give the town a cohesive look with any new buildings. The library, though, will have the same rough bricks as this house, instead of the shiny façade of the hotel. And we’ll be warm inside with radiators throughout the building and two fireplaces. Probably lure people off the street that way.” His eyes gleamed.

  She couldn’t resist a smile in return. “The heat will feel lovely in the winter. Stone Street Library had an old boiler that emitted tepid warmth and never reached all the corners.” Rose inhaled a happy breath. “I can see this library becoming a center for the community.” She had a sudden yearning to be part of such an important endeavor.

  “Yes. A space for cultural activities.” With zeal blazing in his eyes, Andre looked through the drawings and pulled out one, laying the page on top and replacing the paperweights on the corners. “See, here on the first floor is a theatre for amateur or professional readings and productions. Outside will be a wide Mediterranean terrace, big enough to hold gatherings—teas or garden parties.” Still looking at the plans, he waved toward the window. “The garden will flow into the park.”

  “How marvelous.”

  He took her arm and pulled her closer to the window before releasing her and touching the glass. “Look out there. Beyond our yard is the park. From here, I’ll be able to see the library’s upper stories, at least until the trees grow in.”

  Standing next to him, Rose could imagine all he described, even if the wrong glasses kept her from seeing clearly out the window. Excitement buzzed through her. She liked knowing she’d have more freedom here to implement ideas and programs in a way she couldn’t at Stone Street Library were Mr. Nicklesby-Ward held sway.

  He grinned. “‘If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.’”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are you forsaking Marcus Aurelius for Marcus Tullius Cicero?”

  Andre’s eyes twinkled, but his expression remained deadpan. “Can’t have too
many ancient Roman philosophers.”

  A memory echoed, and Rose recognized they’d teased each other with almost these same lines before—perhaps one of the first times her shyness dissipated with him, allowing them to converse.

  He held out a hand, palm up. “Do you feel it too, Rose? That sense of…of discovery, of possibility? Do you realize we’ll be making history for this town? A library that will serve not just our current population, but many generations to come?”

  Caught up in his vision, she could only place her hand in his. Without the protection of her gloves, his skin felt warm, the contours of his palm so very familiar. Again came the vibration in her stomach, a reminder to guard herself. “I…I do sense the possibilities.”

  I underestimated how easily I could again fall under his thrall.

  She took as deep a breath as her corset could allow and withdrew her hand, meaning to turn back to the architectural plans.

  With a touch of his fingers on her arm, Andre stopped her, his eyes full of compassion. “I haven’t had a chance to give you my personal condolences about Marty. I know how close you two were, how proud your brother was of you. You must greatly miss him.”

  His soft-spoken words made tears threaten. Unable to meet his eyes, Rose looked away. She moved back to the table and placed a hand flat on top of the drawings. “He would have loved to be here now, seeing these plans, being a part of your library discussions.”

  “Ah, but Marty is a part. Look here.” Andre shoved the paperweights off the blueprints and fingered a corner, separating several pages to find the one he sought. He then transferred the upper pages to the top of his desk. Returning, he replaced the paperweights and leaned to tap a side of the drawing. “This is a spacious reading room set under the Martin Abraham Collier rotunda, which will provide plenty of sunlight for the interior. A plaque will dedicate the space to his memory.”

  Goosebumps slithered across her arms, and a lump rose in her throat.

  Andre slid his finger to one side of the building. “But here, there’s also a more private reading nook like Marty arranged in his bookstore. There will be a bow window for plenty of light and also flowing air in the summer. I envision comfortable chairs and an electric chandelier overhead. There’s a radiator right here.” His finger moved. “Cozy.”