Rose (3 page)

Rose handed him the agreement, her surprise lost in the furious response of the people gathered around, most especially Miss Peaches McCloud.

But no one was more shocked than George himself.

Rose couldn’t remember when she had been more miserable. Every part of her body ached. After staying overnight in Austin, George had insisted upon leaving at dawn in order to make the return trip in one day. He had given her the choice of traveling on horseback with him or following in a wagon.
Her response had been automatic. She would ride with him. Now she wondered if she hadn’t made the wrong decision, on more than one count.

In addition to being certain that she wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week, she hadn’t been able to carry on much of a conversation. It had been a monotonous trip. George seemed moody, cold, uncommunicative. He had answered all her questions, but he hadn’t tried to pretend he wouldn’t have preferred to ride in silence. At times his answers had verged on rudeness. Clearly he had another side, one not nearly so pleasant as the face he showed in Austin.

And he had demons, too. She could tell he had been wrestling with something for the last two hours. At first she thought he might tell her about it, but now she knew he wouldn’t. George was not the kind of person to confide in others. He rode with his eyes straight ahead, oblivious to his surroundings.

And to her.

Rose had heard about the brush country, but she’d never seen it. Now she wondered how anything, man or beast, could live in such a place. They seemed to be traveling between impenetrable thickets that extended as far as the eye could see. Sometimes miles went by before they came to an opening, a small savannah in this tangle of mesquite, chaparral, prickly pear, wild currant, cat’s claw, and a dozen other varieties of low-growing trees, bushes, and vines, all bearing sweet-scented flowers and succulent berries, and nearly all armed with vicious thorns. Rose didn’t know how cows and deer, even pigs and turkeys, could hide in such a briar patch. She couldn’t conceive of how a man and horse could ride into that tangle and come out alive.

After living in a town all her life, she was unnerved by the isolation of the brush. She hadn’t seen a house all day. It was as though they were the only people on the face of the earth. She didn’t know if she could survive this far from people. Not with George acting as though he were made of wood.

A widening path drew her attention from the brush. Rose could make out a building in the distance. She felt her pulse quicken.

“It’s not much of a house,” George warned her. “We had hardly moved here when the war broke out. With Pa and the two oldest boys gone, Ma was lucky to hold things together.”

Rose realized, a little surprised, that he had never mentioned his parents before. “I thought…you never said…you led me to believe…”

“Ma died three years ago. The house will be entirely your responsibility.” They might as well be discussing some military maneuver for all the feeling she could sense in his voice. He didn’t even look at her.

“Your father?”

The hesitation was barely perceptible. “We think he was killed in Georgia, not too long after the battle for Atlanta.”

Rose didn’t know how to respond. The tone of George’s voice exhibited such a mixture of emotions—cold observation and throbbing anger—she thought it better to ask no questions.

The ranch did nothing to support her flagging spirits. It consisted of a house, which at a distance appeared to be made up of two very large rooms with a dog trot in between, and two corrals. A blooded bull occupied one.

George followed her gaze. “A family in Alabama gave us the bull for helping them out. Jeff and I kept him between us all the way to make sure nobody would steal him. At night we slept in shifts. The steers we can breed from him can make us rich.”

As they drew closer, the house looked even more pitiful. Bedraggled chickens scratching about for a meager existence didn’t improve the landscape. A milk cow grazed a hundred yards from the house. Her sorry condition made her fit right in with the setting. A person could starve and die out here and no one would ever know.

“I’m afraid things have been let go since Ma died. The
twins have been too busy with the herd, and the young ones never mind a mess.”

“Young ones? You said seven men.”

“We’re only six just now. No one’s heard from Madison.” His voice faltered, but only for a moment. “The twins are seventeen, Tyler’s thirteen, and Zac is almost seven.”

“He’s practically a baby,” Rose exclaimed, her sympathy aroused for any child forced to grow up in this barren wilderness.

“Don’t tell him that,” George cautioned, the first smile Rose had seen in hours fracturing his solemn expression. “He thinks he’s as grown as the rest of us.”

“There’s still one more.”

“Jeff.”

He said the name as if he deserved an entire chapter to himself, as if all rules no longer applied.

“Jeff lost his arm at Gettysburg. A minié ball shattered his elbow.”

Why did each word feel like an accusation hurled at her? He hadn’t looked at her, she could hear no condemnation in his voice, but she felt it nonetheless.

“He spent the rest of the war in a prison camp.”

Rose couldn’t think of anything to say.

“He pretends to have accepted it, but he hasn’t. Don’t refer to your father’s being a hero in the Union Army.”

“You mean to keep it a secret?”

“I don’t see how mentioning it would cause anything but trouble.”

Rose had to agree, but she hated lies, even lies she hadn’t told. “Tell me about the others.”

“I hardly know them. Zac was a baby when I left, Tyler only eight.”

“And the twins?”

“They’ve grown into young men I hardly understand.”

No one came from the house to greet them. The silence of the midafternoon grew oppressive. The enervating heat of summer
was still a month away, but Rose felt as if she had stepped into a still life. Nothing moved. Nothing made any sound.

George dismounted, but she couldn’t move her lower body. She couldn’t even feel her legs.

Like a gentleman, he helped her down. He went through all the motions, said all the words, but there was no warmth in his touch. She leaned on him at first, then decided she preferred her horse. He might kick her, but at least it would be a sign of emotion.

“We sleep on this side,” George said, pointing to the left half of the house as she worked some kinks out of her muscles. “This is the kitchen.”

She could tell that from the chimney. The yard, if the area around the house could have been dignified by such a name, hadn’t been swept in weeks. Rose privately wondered if it had ever been swept. In addition to being the place where they kept their saddles and harnesses, the dog trot seemed to be the place where they threw everything that had lost its use. The windows contained real glass, but Rose doubted she would be able to distinguish much more than daylight and dark until they were cleaned.

Then George opened the door to the kitchen.

Rose’s knees nearly buckled under her. The room was in such a state it was scarcely recognizable as a kitchen. A huge iron stove stood piled high with every pot in the house, each covered with remnants of food. Dirty plates and glasses covered the table. On closer inspection Rose discovered that most were chipped and cheap, with a few extremely fine china and crystal pieces. Around the rough board table stood eight ladder-back chairs, slats cracked, rungs worn from use, and cane seats coming loose.

Thrown together, cheek by jowl, were wooden buckets, a crusted Rochester brass hanging lamp, a battered coffeepot, a crude worktable, and a pile of discarded tin cans. The curtains were gray with grease and dust. The woodbox contained little besides splinters.

The strong smell of old grease pervaded the room.

“Tyler has been doing the cooking, but he doesn’t know much about food. I’m afraid none of us is very strong on cleaning up.”

“Where’s my room?” Rose asked. If she didn’t lie down soon, she would collapse right here.

“Up there.” George pointed to a ladder leading to the loft. Rose’s spirits sank to rock bottom. Gone were her visions of a sunny room with chintz curtains and a soft bed with plenty of sunshine and fresh air.

Through the open door Rose could tell the loft was barely tall enough for her to stand up in. She just hoped mice hadn’t found their way up there. She was sure doves and owls had already staked out a claim on her bed.

George went out to get her bags while Rose took a closer look at the stove. She shuddered. Dozens of dirty dishes had been piled in a big metal tub. She didn’t want to know how long they had been there. She sincerely hoped maggots hadn’t hatched. She drew the line at dealing with worms.

George came back with her bags.

“I know it’s a mess, but Tyler never washes anything until he has to use it.”

“Apparently neither does anyone else,” she said as George carried her bags up to the loft.

“Sometimes we’re not here for days at a time,” George called down to her.

“It’s probably cleaner in the brush. At least out there it rains once in a while.”

George, descending the ladder, smiled tenuously, but he definitely smiled.

“It does look rather daunting, but I’m sure you’ll have things shipshape in a little while.”

“Some of these dishes look valuable,” Rose said, holding up a bone china plate with an elaborate floral design. “Shouldn’t we use something else?”

The appearance of frigid correctness she had seen so frequently on the trip settled over George.

“We don’t have anything else. We like to eat about seven. I’ll tell the boys you’re here.” He turned to go.

“You’re leaving?” She didn’t think she could take being left just at this moment.

“It’s okay. Tyler and Zac are around. I’ll see if I can scare them up. They’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

“But the food…what do I cook? Where is the pantry?”

“I don’t know. Tyler does all that.”

“What’ll I do until he shows up?” Panic accompanied her developing anger.

“You can start cleaning. It does look a mess in here.”

Then he disappeared. Rose stood stock-still for a moment, then rushed to the door, intending to call him back, to ask him to wait just a moment.

Too late. She saw him ride into the all-engulfing brush. A few moments later, even the sound of his horse’s hooves had died away. Then there was nothing. Nobody. Not a thing.

She was alone.

Turning back to the kitchen, Rose paused without opening the door. She couldn’t face that again, not just yet. She opened the door to the side of the house where they all slept. Even greater chaos reigned there.

The huge room contained a senseless jumble of roughhewn beds, chests, and chairs. Discarded clothes were piled everywhere, even on a shaving stand.

She slammed the door and stumbled into the kitchen. The only good thing she could see in this disaster was that her legs and bottom no longer ached. It was a known fact you couldn’t feel anything if you were totally numb.

Suddenly the enormity of what had happened overwhelmed her. She collapsed into a chair, threw her arms down on the table, let her head sink onto her arms, and sobbed her heart out.

She had been a fool. A complete, idealistic, optimistic, head-in-the-sand fool. After years of watching out for herself, of learning to tell the honest and sincere from the deceitful and
hypocritical, of hardening herself to snubs and insults, she had let herself be swept off her feet by the first person to treat her decently.

George Washington Randolph might have moments of kindness, moments when he remembered he had been reared a gentleman and a member of the human race, but he clearly intended to waste none of them on his housekeeper. She would be expected to work like a slave from dawn to dusk, and then crawl into her loft to rest before getting up the next morning to start all over again. Was this the only future that waited for her? Would she never have any of the joy and happiness she had dreamed of?

With a noisy and totally unfeminine sniff, Rose sat up, blew her nose, and looked at the room about her. She supposed there might be worse kitchens in hell, but she found it hard to believe. Anyway, this was her own private hell, and George expected her to clean it up. Furthermore, she had insisted he sign a written agreement. That agreement bound her just as securely as it bound George. She might be depressed and ready to burst into tears again, but no one would ever be able to say she didn’t stand behind her word.

Rose heard the door hinges protest softly. Images of savage Indians, marauding Mexican bandits, and rampaging rustlers burst into her imagination. She might not have to worry about years of drudgery. She might die in the next instant.

Rose whirled about to find herself looking squarely into the utterly charming, thoroughly dirty face of a beautiful little boy. His wide-eyed stare made a mockery of the fright that had caused her heart to pound.

“Are you the lady who’s going to cook for us?” he asked.
He didn’t step inside the kitchen, just stuck his head in the door.

“Yes, I am,” Rose said, quickly drying her eyes.

“You don’t have to cry. George won’t hurt you. He’s pretty mean sometimes, but I don’t think he’ll hit you. Monty says he’s…” The child stopped and considered for a moment. “I don’t suppose I ought to tell you what Monty says. George says he never heard such language, and he fought in the war.”

“I’m not crying because I’m afraid of George.”

“Then why are you crying? You’re not hurt, are you?” He came a little closer, but kept the door ajar.

Rose figured he intended to keep his escape route open.

“I’m just crying about the house.”

“It ain’t so bad. It was worse before George came home.”

“He doesn’t like the kitchen to be dirty?” That, at least, was something in his favor.

“He said if we wasn’t going to clean it up ourselves we had to hire somebody. You like cleaning?”

“Not especially.”

“Tyler says cleaning is dumb. I don’t see how it can be much fun, even for a woman.”

“Women like unaccountable things,” Rose told him, feeling a little better for having someone to talk to. “But I’m afraid I’m going to need your help.”

The boy quickly backed through the door.

“Your name is Zac, isn’t it?” she asked as she came around the table toward him.

“Yeah.” Only his head showed.

“Well, Zac, I’ve got to clean up the kitchen if I’m going to fix dinner. I’ll need a large tub, a bucket, some firewood, and water. Can you help me?”

“I can show you the well.”

“I was hoping for a little more than that.”

“That’s Tyler’s job,” Zac told her, his lower lip beginning to protrude. “I only have to do the milking and bring in the eggs, and I don’t have to do that until nearly dark.”

“Well, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll show me where to find everything I need, I won’t ask you to help. But you’ve got to find Tyler.”

“Okay,” Zac agreed. He bounded away and came back almost immediately with a wooden bucket. “Follow me,” he said, as he led her around the corner of the house to a well which had been dug within the lengthening shadow of a large oak tree. “You’ll have to take the dishes out of the tub. We don’t have another one unless you mean to use the wash pot.”

Rose had hoped she wouldn’t have to touch the dishes until they had sat at least an hour in hot, soapy water, but there seemed no help for it. While she filled her bucket, Zac gathered an armload of firewood. “I have to do the fires, too,” he admitted as they walked back to the house. “George shouldn’t give me so much work, but when you’re little, you can’t make anybody listen to you. Especially not Monty. He won’t listen to anybody. Not even George.”

Zac let Rose hold the door open for him.

Rose set down her bucket of water and started to empty the tub. “Tell me more about your brothers.” If she intended to make a place for herself in this family, she had to learn something about them. Besides, she’d welcome anything that would take her mind off these disgusting dishes.

“I don’t know nothing about George and Jeff. Madison neither. He left after Ma died, and we ain’t heard from him.”

“Haven’t heard from him,” Rose corrected automatically.

“Are you going to be after me like Jeff?” Zac demanded, pausing in building a fire under the tub.

“Sorry, just habit,” Rose said.

Zac looked like he didn’t quite believe her but was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Jeff says I talk awful. He says Hen and Monty should have taught me better.”

“I’m sure they did the best they could,” Rose said, wondering what trap she’d step into next.

“Hen and Monty are gone all the time,” Zac continued.
“They shoot people. I want to shoot people, too, but Hen says I can’t until I’m older.”

“Shoot people?” Rose asked as she poured the bucket of water in the now empty tub and settled it directly over the burner under which Zac was building the fire.

“People who want our cows. If they try to take them, Hen and Monty shoot them. Especially Hen. He likes shooting people.”

Rose couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

“Jeff doesn’t like it a bit. He hollers at Hen and Monty all the time. They won’t come to the house anymore because of him.”

“Where do they stay?” Rose asked. This family sounded more and more peculiar.

“Out there,” Zac said, making a gesture that took in the whole outdoors. “Hen says you can’t catch a thief by sleeping in a bed.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Rose agreed, rummaging around until she found a cake of soap. It had become so hard from disuse she could scarcely cut off a piece.

“Monty likes cows,” Zac continued. “Tyler hates them. He hates Texas, too. I don’t think Tyler likes much of anything.”

“Where is Tyler?”

“Gone. He hates women.”

“Oh,” Rose said, wondering what kind of nightmare she’d wandered into. “Isn’t he going to help me fix dinner?”

“Tyler won’t help nobody do nothing.”

Rose bit her tongue to keep from correcting Zac.

That means you have to figure out what to cook. This little boy has no intention of increasing the number of his duties.

Zac stepped back from the stove. “Fire’s going.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yeah. All you got to do is feed it.”

“But I don’t know where anything is.”

“You’ll find it if you look.”

“Meat,” Rose said, nearly desperate.

“In the larder. Potatoes under the house. Some carrots, too.” He began backing toward the door. “There’s butter and milk in the well. George won’t drink it if it ain’t sweet. Monty and Hen like buttermilk, but Tyler wants it sour.”

“How about you?”

“I hate milk. I drink whiskey.” With that he disappeared through the door.

Rose closed her mouth, then burst out laughing. She wondered if Texas had a law against a twenty-year-old woman marrying a little boy. Zac had about ten times as much charm as his older brother.

But as delightful a rascal as Zac might be, Rose had to admit she found George far more intriguing. She didn’t know him yet—she had to accept that and start all over again—but she felt something when she was with George that she had never felt with anyone. A kind of peace. Maybe a feeling of belonging. Though how she could feel that way after he had treated her as cold as yesterday’s fish supper she didn’t understand.

She couldn’t forget those ten minutes in the Bon Ton. She had offered to work for the George Randolph she met there. Somewhere, somehow, she had lost him. She must find him again because she had seen in the stranger in the restaurant the kind of man she wanted to marry.

She would never forget her mother’s unhappiness during the long months when her father was away. She could still see the tears glistening on her mother’s cheeks as she sat and stared at her father’s picture. She could still remember her own tears when her mother died and her father wasn’t there to comfort her.

His wife and daughter had always been second to his career.

Maybe she had read too many fairy tales, but she had always dreamed of finding a man who would never leave her, who would make her the center of his life, who would always keep her safe.

The kind of man she thought George was.

She hadn’t realized it until just now, but she had come perilously close to falling in love with him.

What woman wouldn’t?

He had rescued her when danger threatened. He had been concerned for her welfare. He had been considerate of her feelings. He had thrown a cordon of protection around her that no one could breach. She had felt cherished. Well, perhaps that was an overstatement, but she had felt valued, important.

Now all traces of that man had disappeared. She didn’t know whether George had been acting the part of the Southern gentleman or whether he had a reason for pretending to be much colder than he really was. Everyone in this family seemed a little peculiar. And from what she’d heard from the two she’d met, nobody seemed to get along with anyone else.

Maybe George
had
been acting a part.

No, her original impression had to be true. Something had caused him to close her out. If she could just discover what it was, maybe she could bring back the man who had made such an indelible impression on her heart.

In the meantime, however, she had dishes to wash, a kitchen to clean, and dinner to fix. And she’d have to hurry if she intended to be ready at seven o’clock. She had every confidence George and his legion of brothers would be knocking at the door at six fifty-nine.

Rose couldn’t remember when she had been so tired. Yet a smile played across her lips as she moved about the kitchen. She had managed to wash the dishes, scrub every pot and pan, scour the stove, and put the larder in some kind of order.

She had also managed to cook dinner for seven people.

A beef roast simmered on the stove, its aroma mingled with those of carrots and potatoes in a thick, rich gravy. Two pans of biscuits, one browning in the oven and one waiting to go in, could either be dipped in gravy or slathered with creamy butter.
She had cooked some peas from Tyler’s garden. She had picked them herself because he never showed up. She completed the meal with canned peaches and tomatoes from the larder. Milk—sweet, sour, and buttermilk—stood ready for the men to make their choice. And water in case Zac really didn’t like milk.

Rose gave the table a final check. She had cleaned it as well as she could, but signs of oil spills and burns remained. She had meant to cover it with a tablecloth, but she couldn’t find one anywhere. The Rochester lamp, suspended over the table, its globe sparkling clean, cast its amber light about the room.

Things would look better when she had time to clean the windows, wash and iron the curtains, and scrub down the walls and floor, but she felt pleased about what she had been able to do in one day. It added up to a great deal more than she’d thought possible when she’d stepped into this kitchen about six hours earlier.

The sound of horses’ hooves caught her ear. She glanced at the clock, one of the few things in working order. Someone had polished the glass, cleaned the outside surfaces, and oiled the working parts. She hoped it really was three minutes to seven. She quickly cleaned a spot on the window to look out. Four men had ridden up, accompanied by two dogs. Apparently George believed in being punctual. Zac came running up alongside. Obviously he had gone just far enough from the house to escape doing any chores. She didn’t see anyone who could be a thirteen-year-old boy. She hoped Tyler wouldn’t carry his dislike of women to the point of staying away from dinner.

She hurried to make her final preparations. She would set the roast before George’s place just before they entered the kitchen. After the blessing, and while they passed the vegetables, she would serve the biscuits and put in the second pan. Zac could pour the milk. He seemed to know what everyone liked.

She tried to calculate how much time she would have before
they were ready to eat. They would have to unsaddle their horses first. She didn’t know whether they fed them or turned them out into the corral, but they would need to be rubbed down. Next, they would wash up and change their clothes. That ought to take at least fifteen minutes. Probably closer to half an hour. She still had plenty of time.

Rose sat down to wait.

She had hardly settled into the chair when the door burst open and a stream of men, dogs, and the smell of sweat and horses poured into the room.

“I told you I smelled a roast,” said one of an identical pair of blond twins. Before Rose could move from her chair, he grabbed the pot from the stove and set it before him at the table. He immediately began serving his plate with one of the cups Rose had set out for coffee.

“Biscuits!” shrieked a tall, painfully thin boy who had to be the missing Tyler. He whisked the pan out of the oven and dumped the golden brown biscuits along the middle of the table so they would be in easy reach.

In seconds everyone except George had started grabbing for the food. They passed the bowls up and down the table, each person shouting for what he wanted. One of the twins tossed a gravy-soaked biscuit to a bony dog that had followed him into the room. A second dog, not willing to wait his turn, put his feet up on the table and began to eat from the other twin’s plate. The man laughed merrily, set the plate on the floor for the dog, and took George’s plate for himself.

Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did anyone acknowledge Rose’s presence.

Anger such as she had never known surged through her body vanquishing her fatigue. She jumped to her feet and charged to the head of the table.

“Stop this instant!” she shouted, her voice shrill with rage. “Don’t you dare put another scrap of food in your mouths until you can come to this table like humans.”

She might as well have shouted into the wind. She pushed
away a dog intent upon dining in George’s place, then pounded on the table.

“Listen to me,” she cried. “I won’t have you behaving like this.”

Still they ignored her. All except the man with blond hair, amazingly blue eyes, and only one arm. His indignant gaze seemed to be asking by what right she complained about their conduct.

Shaking with rage, instinct her only guide, Rose acted. Grabbing hold of the table, she lifted it off the floor and turned it over. The roast and gravy and the hot vegetables crashed to the floor between the twins. As the five males stared at her in stunned surprise, the dogs attacked the overturned meal.

Just then George entered the kitchen. He alone had taken time to wash.

Everyone began shouting at once.

“Stop it,” Rose cried.

They paid no attention to her. The dogs continued to eat everything on the floor.

Rose whirled about, grabbed up the full coffeepot, and raised it as though she were about to fling its boiling contents over everyone in the room.