A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Trudy laughed. “He’d be horrified by the suggestion. And all our books will never fit in your vehicle.”

  Seth nodded. “When you need them, we’ll start bringing crates on our trips to town.”

  Trudy gestured toward the doorway.

  Rose stepped into the house and stopped, greeted by the scent of something sweet and spicy, which gave her an immediate feeling of warmth and coziness. “What smells so delicious?”

  Trudy moved to her side. “This is apple picking season for us. We’re so excited the orchard we planted when we were newly married has come to fruition. We’ve had some apples the last few years, but this season, we have such abundance—” she briefly clasped her hands together, and her eyes glowed with obvious pride “—why I believe we could rival the Garden of Eden.”

  Rose wondered what that must feel like—to plant and toil, to see the long-term results of hard work and dreams coming true.

  “Seth, Jasper, and the two older children pick the apples. I’ll help with the first few bushels. But after that, I usually stay in the house with baby Cliffie and make applesauce and apple butter and apple cider. Then there’s apple pie and apple dumplings and apple strudel and apple cobbler….”

  Rose looked at her in amazement. “You’re making all those today?”

  Trudy laughed. “Oh, no. I just have a pot of apple cider simmering on the stove and apple dumplings in the oven. Would you like some cider?”

  “That sounds wonderful!”

  Andre hefted the basket. “We didn’t come empty-handed, and we’ll be glad to contribute to the meal.”

  “A gift is always welcome.” Trudy’s smile held appreciation. “I’ve more than enough for supper, but we’ll make good use of your food. You can wash up in the kitchen, and then I’ll serve the meal.”

  Seth moved toward the wagon. “I’ll go take care of the horses and bring in the lap desk.” He grabbed Min and swung the child onto his shoulders. “Come on, you two, and help me.”

  “I’ll go along.” Andre set down the basket on a bench near the door and followed Seth.

  The older children skipped toward the wagon.

  Rose followed Trudy, their footsteps echoing on the polished oak floor of a wide hallway. Straight ahead was the staircase to the second floor.

  Through an arch to the right, Rose saw a comfortable-looking parlor, which had a piano and several bookcases filled with volumes. She could imagine the family gathering in front of the fireplace in the evening, while Trudy played the piano or read a book out loud and Seth handled the popcorn maker.

  Trudy waved a hand to the stairway. “Cliffie’s taking a nap. Hopefully, he’ll sleep until we’ve finished supper.”

  Photographs lined one wall of the hall. Her attention caught by what looked like a framed newspaper clipping, yellowed with age, Rose stopped and read the words.

  MAIL-ORDER BRIDES OF THE WEST AGENCY

  SEEKS BACHELORS OF GOOD REPUTATION

  FOR QUALITY BRIDES PROFICIENT IN

  COOKING AND HOUSEKEEPING

  Must own a house and be able to provide for a wife.

  References required, preferably from your minister or other reputable person who is familiar with your character.

  In your response, state details about your appearance, location, level of education, vocation, and home, as well as what you require in a wife. $50.00 includes agency fee and train ticket.

  “Is this the ad you answered, Trudy? Oh, my, you were so brave. Is this the same one the other women answered?”

  “Why, yes.” Trudy’s cheeks pinked. “Five brides in all. Three settled in Sweetwater Springs and two in Morgan’s Crossing. Then there’s Grace Dickinson Foster, who never actually answered this ad. She responded to a personal one she read placed by Frey Foster, and—” she tapped the frame “—endorsed by the matron of our agency. We’re happily married, all of us. We were so lucky.” She shook her head. “What foolish risks we took.”

  “Do you or any of the other ladies have a second copy of this ad?” Rose asked. “Pamela Carter gave me the idea of having a shelf of people’s diaries and other accounts of the early settlers. We could frame this and hang it nearby. A historical wall. Maybe put a little plaque on the frame to say who the donors were.”

  Trudy’s eyes lit up. “We do have an extra one. Seth had a copy, and so did I. Do you want me to find the clipping?”

  Rose shook her head. “I don’t want to risk losing something so precious. Let’s wait until the library is built.”

  She followed Trudy into a kitchen redolent with apples and spices and made bright with white walls, cabinets topped with butcher-block counters, mosaic tile on the floor, and cheerful, yellow-and-white checked curtains. A table was already set and some of the food laid out.

  Trudy gestured toward a row of hooks by the door. “Hang your coats there. Here’s soap, and the towel is fresh.” She touched the handle of the pump in the sink. “I have hot water on the stove if you want some.”

  “Cold is fine.” Rose tugged off her gloves and tucked them into her pockets, removed her coat and hung up the garment, and then pulled out her hat pins and took off her hat, stabbing them into the crown. She placed the hat on top of her coat before going to wash and dry her hands.

  Trudy grabbed a hot pad and opened the oven to check on her baking. “Almost done.” She closed the door and briskly rearranged the table, making space for three more places.

  By the time Rose finished washing her hands, the table was loaded with food. A basket heaped with rolls sat in the center, next to several small crocks of butter, jam, and apple butter, and a dish of sliced pickles. A glass pitcher held water and another milk.

  A few minutes later, the two oldest children hurried through the back door into the kitchen, along with Seth carrying Min, Andre, Sam, and a lanky man in overalls who must be Jasper.

  Chattering, the two oldest children made a beeline for the sink.

  “Anna and George,” Trudy cautioned. “Company first. You two let Mr. Bellaire and Mr. Herbert wash up before you.”

  Sam flashed her a look of appreciation.

  Rose supposed most folks wouldn’t put first the needs of a servant before family, especially a colored one. The hospitable gesture said much about the Flanigans’ open-mindedness.

  While the rest of them washed and dried their hands, Trudy placed a platter of fried chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, and a mix of carrots and peas on the table. Then she ladled hot apple cider from the pot on the stove into several mugs and put one next to the glasses at each adult’s place. “Careful, this is hot,” she cautioned. She poured milk into the children’s glasses. Finally, she took out the tray of apple dumplings and set them to cool on the stovetop.

  After everyone took a seat, and Seth said a prayer, they began to eat.

  Rose reached for her mug and sipped, savoring the spicy-sweet taste. “I’ve had apple cider before but not like this. Such a rich flavor, with just the right amount of tartness.”

  “Oranges give the cider the citrusy flavor.” Trudy cut up the meat on Min’s plate. “My secret is to add a lemon to the batch, too. I sweeten the brew with our own maple syrup, then add cinnamon sticks and cloves. Simmer for several hours. Mash the fruit and strain.”

  “My goodness, I’ve never been the least bit domestic, but even I could manage making something like this.” Rose took a bite of her chicken breast.

  Trudy beamed. “You’re a professional woman. I’m just a housewife who enjoys feeding her family.”

  Rose looked around at the snug, pretty house, the beautiful children, the adoring husband, servants treated as equals, and the warm welcome extended to uninvited guests. “No just about it, Trudy. What you’ve achieved here takes talent and skill.”

  “And love—” Seth added with a tender glance at his wife. “Love and a kind heart.”

  Color flagged Trudy’s cheeks, and her gaze held her husband’s for a long moment before, with a happy smile, she looked at Rose.
“I came to Sweetwater Springs in search of adventure, and I found so much more.”

  Rose couldn’t imagine leaving home to search for adventure. Bad enough being propelled into the choice by the death of a dear brother and the impetuous nature of a beloved niece.

  But I fiercely envy the love Trudy found on her journey.

  * * *

  With secret glee, Andre basked in the results of his meddling. He’d taken a risk, several risks in organizing today’s activities—the first being that Rose wouldn’t enjoy their outing, and the second that if she discovered the truth, she’d be upset with him, thinking he and Sam had lied to her.

  When he’d written to the Flanigans of his plan, sent Sam off with the letter, and received their response, he’d merely hoped Rose would enjoy the company of the family and being away from the wedding commotion. But he’d had no idea how she’d quietly bloom in the warmth of these good-hearted people.

  So far, this little trip is working even better than I could have hoped. Rose is interested in and comfortable with the Flanigans. We’ve found a welcome refuge here from society.

  Trudy touched the cider jug on the table. “I’ll send some of these home with you.”

  “That would be lovely,” Andre said, brought back into the conversation by her gesture. “I envy you your fruit trees.” He set down his mug. “We’ve planted some in the garden, but many years will pass before they bear fruit.” I probably won’t be alive to sample the results. He didn’t let the melancholy thought show on his face. “I’ll be glad to purchase several bushels of apples from you.” He scrunched his forehead, thinking. “Probably more than several. Better then buying from the mercantile, any day.”

  “Certainly cheaper,” Trudy said, with a wry twist to her mouth. “Mrs. Cobb drives a hard bargain then turns around and sells our apples at quite a markup.”

  Rose made a face. “Can you believe Mrs. Cobb told me she thought building a library is a waste of money? She thinks too much reading promotes idleness, and idle hands promote the Devil’s work. I must admit to being taken-aback by such sentiments.” She shook her head.

  Except for Min, the Flanigans all stopped eating and looked at her with similar expressions of round-eyed horror. Even Sam and Jasper looked disturbed.

  Andre hadn’t heard Mrs. Cobb’s opinion before, and he barely suppressed a growl. He didn’t much care what the woman said about the library, but he disliked how the shopkeeper was so rude to Rose. “Having a library will do much to promote literacy, educate, enlighten, and open new worlds to readers. Perhaps some of that will rub off on the Cobbs.”

  “I doubt it,” Seth muttered with a shake of his head.

  The adults laughed at the improbability of the Cobbs changing, and the rest of the meal passed with Andre and the Flanigans exchanging stories about the other inhabitants of Sweetwater Springs.

  Rose, particularly, seemed to like hearing about the other mail-order brides, and to please her, Andre coaxed Trudy to tell them more. Being a gatherer of tales about the inhabitants of Sweetwater Springs, which he liked to horde and pass on, he’d already heard some of the stories, but he avidly added more to his collection.

  When they finished, Rose offered to help with the dishes, but Trudy waved away the offer, telling Rose and Andre she’d take them to the attic. “We’ll leave the men and children to do the women’s work of cleaning up,” she said with a laugh.

  Seth and Jasper didn’t look at all perturbed by having to do the tasks, and Andre supposed they were used to helping out in the kitchen.

  Obediently, they folded their napkins and followed their hostess from the room.

  Trudy led them up the staircase, pausing on the second-floor landing. She glanced at an open doorway. “The baby will be waking up any minute. If you hear Cliffie crying, pay him no mind. One of us will be up to get him. She climbed the steps to the attic and pushed open the door.

  Andre ushered Rose upward before him, appreciating her feminine figure.

  A large room took up the entire top floor, with a dormer window on each side, allowing in plenty of light. The space held the usual assortment of things found in an attic—trunks and crates, a dressmaker’s form, a broken-legged chair, some pieces of furniture that looked intact but wouldn’t fit in the already full rooms downstairs.

  “I’ve been meaning to get up here to unpack and organize everything.” Trudy sighed. “I don’t even know what’s in some of the boxes. But we’ve been so busy I just figured I’ll work on it in the winter. Or one of these winters, anyway.”

  “That’s understandable with taking care of your family and the farm,” Rose said. “We’re just grateful you’re willing to donate your books to the library.”

  “You’re actually doing me a favor. I originally brought a lot of books when I moved out here.”

  “Seth told us about storing them in the barn,” Rose commented.

  “Yes, for several years, until we built this house. Then Seth made shelves in the parlor for our favorites and these here. That’s not all to the tale. Last year, my father passed away, and my stepmother didn’t want his remaining books, nor did my sisters. So out they came to me. As did other family items. Now this attic is far too full, and I want the space for the children to play in bad weather, as well as to put in a guest bed.”

  “For times like this,” Rose said in a dry tone.

  Trudy nodded. “Having the posse stay here, and then Dr. Angus and his two patients lingering for several more days, made me realize we needed space for company to sleep. Luckily, the attic is insulated, and with the money from my inheritance we added a radiator for heat. A bathroom on the second floor comes next. I can’t wait!”

  Andre looked around with interest.

  The long, low shelves of books tucked under the eaves and the piles stacked in front of them made his heart beat faster. He cocked an eyebrow and shot Rose a conspirator’s smile, knowing she’d share the same sense of treasure hunting.

  We’ll certainly have plenty to do, which should keep us busy for today and tomorrow. Perfect for my plan. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

  * * *

  The next day Rose, stood on the porch beside Andre and Sam and waved the Flanigans good-bye as they left for town, not at all sorry to miss the wedding. Then Sam, followed by the dog, went to help Jasper with the chores while Rose and Andre tackled more work in the attic.

  Originally, they’d just planned on hauling crates home, but Beau’s injury and their enforced stay meant they enjoyed the luxury of sorting through everything first.

  Yesterday, with Trudy’s permission, they’d poked through the various trunks, boxes, and crates to find which ones held books. Then Sam moved all those to the open floor space near the door.

  Today, Andre numbered the crates with a thick, flat carpenter’s pencil and called out the volumes he found within. Sometimes, he switched books from one crate to another.

  Rose sat on a stool, her desk on her lap, and wrote down the titles of the books assigned to each crate. Occasionally, she or Andre stopped to open a volume, page through, and read a few bits here and there. Other times, they talked about certain books, sharing memories, or agreeing or disagreeing over content.

  Picking up a brown volume with a horse on the cover titled The Care and Feeding of Horses made Rose curious. She set down her pen and opened the book to the glossary. Finding Bruised Sole Treatment, she turned toward those pages and began to read, growing dismayed by the information. “Several days to several weeks!” she said aloud. “Oh, dear.”

  In the midst of taking a book off the shelf, Andre stopped. “What?”

  “This reference on horses says a bruised sole requires several days at least to heal.” She tapped a finger on the page. “Beau won’t be ready to leave tomorrow. We’ll need to give him more time. Oh, I hate to impose on the Flanigans for a week or more.”

  A guilty expression crossed Andre’s face.

  Rose knew that look all too well. Impatience flared, and s
he gave him an accusing glare. “Andre Bellaire, what have you done?”

  “Well….”

  She straightened on the stool. “Andre!”

  He winced. “Beau might not be hurt.”

  “Might not?”

  “Isn’t.”

  Thinking over yesterday, Rose pressed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose above her glasses. “What about the Flanigans?”

  “I wrote them a letter.”

  She gasped. “A letter! And…?”

  “Sam brought it out and came home with a reply. I couldn’t just descend on them, especially with all that happened when the posse stayed here.”

  Disappointment stabbed. She’d really liked the family. “So their hospitality was all a show?”

  His mouth went flat, his gaze solemn. “You know in your heart the truth of that question, Rose.”

  She thought for a moment. “Their warmth and welcome were real.” Another thought occurred to her. “Was the about-to-go-insane-over-wedding-details a lie, too?”

  “That was true. Rose—” he gestured around the attic “—this wasn’t the nature of a lie but was meant to be a surprise. Sam and the lame horse were like a stage production. You can’t tell me you regret missing the wedding.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “But why, Andre?”

  He sighed. “I’m a devious man, Rose. My daughter calls me the puppet master of Sweetwater Springs. I care about you. I could see the toll this, this…everything has taken on you, and I wanted to save you from that.”

  “I’m fine,” she said stiffly, not wanting him to pander to her from a sense of guilt.

  He merely raised an eyebrow and paused for emphasis before speaking. “Marty’s illness; resigning from your job; Marty’s death; moving to a primitive small town and leaving behind everything familiar; Cora abandoning you to follow her dream of nursing; all the socializing….”

  “You may be right.” Begrudging the admission, she couldn’t keep her tone pleasant.