Sixty Acres and a Bride (5 page)

June 1878

I
T IS GOOD TO GATHER
in the house of the Lord.” Reverend Stoker greeted the congregation. “And to remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.”

As if she could forget. Rosa counted off the Sundays on her fingers. All in May had passed. By evening one would be gone in June. She bit her lip. They hadn’t wasted a single day, but their occasions for profitable work were growing scarce.

Rosa squirmed on the pew, trying to get comfortable sitting atop the tangle of padding and wires that made her black skirt bunch so oddly. She loved the Sabbath, but it reminded her that another chunk of days was lost, another week had slipped through their fingers, and the white crockery jar in the pantry had fewer coins in it than when she and Louise had started saving for the taxes.

She tried to focus on the reverend’s words. His message about Elijah and the widow should’ve given her hope, but unlike Louise, who noted every word and even braved a tentative amen, Rosa didn’t foresee a miracle in their future. They’d sheared sheep, were raising chicks, and had planted crops—they’d had a busy month and would need to be busier still if they wished to be profitable. She had linens waiting for her to embroider and sell at Mr. Bradford’s store, but preparing the thread was taking longer than she’d expected, especially when Louise had insisted she sew “a suitable mourning gown” for herself. Why worry about propriety when they could soon be homeless? The service concluded with Rosa feeling exhausted. Time to get back to work until the next Sabbath forced her to slow down and contemplate the deadline rolling toward them.

“What’s wrong?” Louise asked.

Rosa ducked her head. Everyone else left church refreshed, or so they said. When would she experience the peace she’d heard about?

“It’s just this bustle. The person who invented it must hate women.”

Louise took the misdirection like an iguana after a chick. “Ten years ago they were round. I’ll have to learn to take smaller steps. Our skirts were never this tight in the front!” She looked at Rosa again. “Still my little Rosa, but more foreign than ever in your widow’s weeds. However, the dress becomes you. I know the black isn’t to your liking, but it brings out the sheen in your hair. It makes you look older, too. I wouldn’t say that to just anyone, but it doesn’t hurt for you to appear more mature. People look at me askance when I tell them that you were Mack’s wife.”

Rosa dropped her gaze. Her age wasn’t causing the scandal. Although she’d seen several Mexicans about town, she’d seen none in church. No wonder. They probably didn’t feel comfortable there. Most of the ladies were polite, but the few who weren’t were hard to ignore.

At least with Aunt Mary around, Rosa didn’t worry about cruel comments. No one wanted to cross Mary Garner.

“Rosa, dear, your dress looks mighty fine on you,” Mary said, coming beside her, along with some other women. “I don’t cotton to the black, but you do what you gotta do.”

“It’s beautiful.” Adele Lovelace smiled warmly.

“And proper.” Clara Cantrell sniffed, her eyes barely skimming over Rosa. “I’ve worn this same dress since Lee’s surrender, but I’ll do my duty. Nothing’s more unbecoming than a lady failing to pay her respects to her dearly departed.”

Louise shuddered. “Rosa’s respectful. You can count on that.”

Rosa twisted one of the black ribbons on her bodice. If only respectability was as easy as changing the color of your clothing. Habits and attitudes weren’t altered so effortlessly.

The ladies ushered Rosa to the back door, each describing the dish they’d brought to the potluck about to commence.

Aunt Mary stopped in her tracks. “We forgot the tablecloths.”

“I’ll get them,” Rosa volunteered. All Louise and she were contributing was one sack of tortillas. She didn’t want to walk outside empty-handed.

“They’re in the closet under the steeple,” Clara offered as they headed out the back to the grounds.

Rosa wormed her way through gatherings of curious lollygaggers to get to the small door to the right of the entryway. The musty smell and dim light stopped her in her tracks. Could she go in there? She looked around the sanctuary. Everyone she knew had already gone outside. Everyone except Weston.

He saw her immediately. Excusing himself, he left a knot of men and crossed the sanctuary to reach her.

“You look lost.”

She gripped the doorframe with one hand. “Either I’m lost or the tablecloths are, and we need to find each other.”

He nodded but didn’t proceed. Rosa realized she was blocking the way. With a deep breath, she entered the small room and moved to the rickety staircase as he ducked through the doorway. The only light that entered the room was from the circular stained-glass window above them in the steeple.

Rosa needed every ounce of determination to keep from running out the door. Memories of being pinned to a dirt floor by a wooden beam overwhelmed her. Rosa didn’t remember the earthquake that had flattened her home, but many times she’d relived the vivid panic of her world tumbling down around her—a feeling that the mine cave-in only intensified.

Searching for tablecloths was more than she could manage. There really wasn’t room for them both to move without being crowded. Weston took up the empty space between the shelving. Rosa watched the colored diamonds from the window skim across his back. She wouldn’t think about the tight walls, or that the only way out of the room was blocked. Instead, she named each of the colors in English, then Spanish, then Nahuatl. Red,
rojo
,
chilti
. Blue,
azul
,
asolti
.

“There must be a leak. Smell that mold?” He dug through a wardrobe of linens. “Smells like a cave.”

A cave? Rosa found herself backing up the staircase. She needed air. Perhaps the little window would push open. If she could pop her head out . . .

“Hold on there. Where are you going?”

He must think she was crazy. She
was
crazy. Why couldn’t she just stand still?

She gripped the railing with both hands, wishing her voice wasn’t so shaky. “I don’t like caves.”

Understanding lit his face. He closed the door of the wardrobe, making more room for her. “No, ma’am. I don’t suppose you do.” He offered her his hand. “You don’t need to be in here. You could wait—”

He straightened suddenly. Weston looked over his shoulder to the door, then back at her, eyes murderous.

She stopped breathing. What was wrong? Then she heard the women’s voices.

“It takes a lot of nerve to flaunt your brown daughter-in-law at church, the way Louise did today.”

“I couldn’t agree more. She’s not even a
Tejano.
She’s straight from the mountains of Mexico.”

Weston made a move for the doorway. Before she could think, Rosa grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled him back. Silently she shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. If he went out there, they would hate her for life. He couldn’t embarrass them on her behalf.

“And did you hear about the scene she made in Lockhart? From what I hear, she put on quite the show for some of the men.”

A sob of protest rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. Rosa released his arm and stumbled backwards, trying to get away from the hurtful words, but there was no room. Nowhere to go.

“For crying aloud,” he muttered. He held his hands out to her, and then clenched them closed. Rosa understood. There was nothing he could do.

“. . . prancing around in that wagon like it was a stage. And did you hear about her clothes?”

Rosa sat on the step and buried her face in her hands. It was hard enough to hear them, but Weston heard them, too. What must he think of her?

He took a step toward her and stood at her side. The tension emanating from the man was palpable. He didn’t move, but Rosa could feel his frustration.

“Harold saw her in Lockhart. He said she was wearing some native costume. Her skirts didn’t even reach her ankles.”

Rosa felt his hand on the top of her head. It wasn’t a caress. More of a blessing, an anointing of peace. She leaned her face against the balustrade and wished for more. She wanted to be held. She had traveled so far and endured so much. She was adrift, with no anchor, no harbor. She wanted to be cared for. Protected.

But she understood his reluctance. If her reputation wasn’t already soiled, getting caught in a dark closet in his arms would ruin it forever. He was protecting her, after all.

The murmuring stopped. Rosa heard their footsteps going away, but neither she nor Weston moved. Finally it was silent. He went to the door.

“Are they still here?” Rosa whispered.

“I think everyone’s gone.” Weston stood before her. “Are you going to be all right?”

She got up and went to the doorway. “I need to explain—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

“But at Lockhart . . .”

He raised his hand. “Let’s make an agreement. You don’t believe what people say about me, and I won’t believe what people say about you.”

Rosa’s mouth dropped open. So he knew?

He grimaced. “That’s what I thought. You’ve been here only a few weeks, and you’ve already heard my story. Well, most of it’s true, no doubt, but I’d like a chance to make my own poor impression. I don’t need anyone’s help.” He stepped out of the room into the light. “Besides, moving a wagonload doesn’t sound nearly as scandalous as wrestling sheep. Those women will have to come up with a better story if they want to change my opinion of you.”

“Thank you.” She smoothed her hair, remembering his touch. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“You’re family.” And he didn’t offer any more explanation. “Now, I didn’t see any tablecloths. You?”

“No.”

“Then let’s move on.” Weston stepped aside to let Rosa precede him. Out of the church and through the crowd she went, trying to school her face into more peaceful lines. Finally she located Louise.

“We couldn’t find any tablecloths.” Rosa couldn’t help but search the unfamiliar faces and wonder who was spreading tales about her.

“We?” Louise looked behind her.

Rosa spun around, but Weston wasn’t nearby. He was at the hitching post, preparing his horse for departure.

“You aren’t staying for the potluck?” Jay Tillerton leaned against the hitching post and fiddled with his watch fob.

Weston let his actions answer for him. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk with Tillerton, but there was one thing he’d like to set straight.

“How’s your wife?”

Tillerton yawned and dropped his watch into his vest pocket. “Her health is superb. Now as to her spiritual condition, I have my concerns. If you’d be so kind as to pray—”

Weston cut him off. He had no use for the manure Tillerton was spreading. Something stunk.

“Did she take a trip recently? Seems like I might have run into her at Round Rock.”

The man’s nostrils flared. “You must be mistaken. My wife eschews crowds. They make her extremely nervous.”

Weston didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He couldn’t thrash old church hens, but by George, this man was fair game.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps my sister and I could visit? We could bring the reverend if you think it’d do some good.”

Tillerton forced a smile. “That’s a generous offer. I’ll be sure and mention it to her, but don’t be disappointed if she declines. You know how temperamental women can be.”

“Then maybe we’ll swing by unannounced. A surprise visit might suit her better.”

Sensing his safety hung by a thread, Tillerton stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. “Do what you must. You’re welcome anytime. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He sulked to the protection of witnesses.

Weston untied his leather reins from the post and led Pandora away from the other mounts. He couldn’t stay there. He needed to simmer down.

Since when had Tillerton started attending church, anyway? He swung up on the horse’s back, knowing how wrong his attitude was but not caring enough to change it.

Change was hard. You give God an inch, and He takes a mile. You talk to a man, and next thing you know you’re chewing on his lies. You look for tablecloths, and you’re trapped with a woman in a closet.

Weston gritted his teeth and tried to release some of the frustration he felt over the little señora. Nothing got under his skin like feeling helpless. Nothing rankled like watching somebody suffer, but what could he have done? Rosa didn’t want him to interrupt the women—and he understood why. In the long run, it’d be harder on her. And Weston couldn’t have walked out with Rosa. If those gossips saw them exit a darkened closet together, then what would they say?

He took a deep breath.

All sorts of scandalous things. They might accuse him of luring her inside. Of wanting to hold her. Of daydreaming about how she would fit in his arms, how she would feel pressed against his chest.

He broke out of town and spurred Pandora for speed. He’d have to be more careful. He couldn’t stumble into those situations if he was resolved to stay single. He couldn’t subject another woman to the pain he’d inflicted on Cora.

Nothing he could do for her, but Mrs. Tillerton, that was another story. Perhaps he’d go ahead and make that call before her no-account husband had time to interfere.