Emmett heard no answer, though he strained his ears to hear even the slightest response. There was nothing. He hoped she was all right.
“Rose?” Emmett tapped again, not wishing to wake her if she was asleep. He was beginning to think that was exactly what had happened. She’d gone in to freshen up and lie down for a bit, but had fallen into a deep sleep. The kind that lasted all night. The warmth of the fire and the so-very-long day they’d had must have worked its magic on her.
He waited in silence, but still there was no answer.
“Come on, old boy. It looks like you’re sleeping in the kitchen tonight.” Emmett made to move back down the hall, but Boston sat squarely and firmly on his haunches. He stared at the door, casting the glance of a stubborn old dog at Emmett. He wanted what he wanted. He’d had his meal and a short walk outside, and now he was ready for bed. On his bed, in his room.
“Oh, you want in, do you? You want to sleep on your cozy spot on the rug next to Miss Rose as she dreams away the night?” It didn’t sound like a bad proposition at all, even sleeping on the floor, if it meant being near Rose. Listening to her soft even breaths as she slept.
She’d admitted she was jealous of Claire.
He’d been smiling over that all evening as he puttered around the house, washing his laundry, hanging it to dry in the kitchen, fixing supper... With his determination to remain a romantic dreamer still firmly in place.
It had been the easiest determination of all to make, one that fitted him like a well-worn flannel shirt.
Emmett hesitated to open Rose’s door though. If she were awake and simply not answering, for whatever reason, then his entrance would seem an intrusion. He might even frighten her. Who knew what she would think, seeing him poking his head in the door?
If she hadn’t already locked it.
He tried the knob and it turned smoothly. Not locked.
“All right, old boy,” Emmett whispered as quietly as he could. He had the deep kind of voice that carried no matter how hard he tried to be quiet. “I’m going to push this open, just enough for you to go through. Understand?”
Boston cocked his head at Emmett, then stared fixedly at the door. Open it.
“Ready?”
Boston rose to his feet with great effort, but perhaps he understood well enough, for he pressed his nose to the seam of the doorframe. Or perhaps he was still making his wishes known.
“Rose,” Emmett said quietly, but firmly. If she were awake, now was the time to answer if she wished. “I’m going to let Boston in. He misses you.”
He waited a second or two.
Hearing nothing more, he looked down at Boston, who looked back up at him, waiting patiently. That dog knew he was about to get his way. Of course, he almost always got his way, so why would he think otherwise?
“All right, boy, here you go.” Emmett opened the door a crack.
Boston barreled his way through, not being quiet or discreet at all. In fact, he managed to bump the door open so wide that Emmett had to take a quick step forward to keep from falling.
He caught himself, intent on exiting the doorway without looking inside. His only impression was one of deep gloom, for there was no lamp or candle lit.
For that alone, perhaps it was good he’d checked on Rose. If a candle had gotten knocked over in the night, it could have started a fire.
And now he was pausing in the doorway, the light from the hall sconces spilling inside.
Spilling soft light over Rose on the bed.
She wasn’t tucked in, as he might have expected, but lying fully clothed atop the quilt his mother had made for them. Only one corner had been pulled across her, perhaps unknowingly as she slept.
All over her was a pile of papers. Surely, he should at least remove the papers.
Meanwhile, Boston made a beeline for his spot and settled in, only pausing the briefest second to sniff at Rose’s hand, which was draped off the side of the bed.
She looked so uncomfortably situated.
Emmett crossed over to her, debating how best to make her as comfortable as possible without waking her.
Or should he wake her?
She’d really be much more comfortable once she changed into her nightdress—that white one with the scalloped lace at the throat and the tiny pearl buttons, which had seemed so feminine. She’d be much better off snuggled up under the covers…but oh, how pretty she looked asleep. Her face was gently pale, smooth and lovely in the glow of the hallway lights.
“Rose?” he prompted.
She didn’t move.
“Rose, you need to wake up.” He laid his hand upon her shoulder, just resting it there, waiting for her to notice the unfamiliar weight of it. For it to bother her awake.
She must have been a very deep sleeper indeed, for even that touch didn’t wake her.
Emmett would wake if even a sliver of moonlight fell across his face. Or if he heard the slightest noise two floors down.
Rose wasn’t like that.
Hers was a deep untroubled sleep.
He smiled at her, but as his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he could see her face more clearly. Her cheeks were stained with tracks of dried tears. His smile faded.
She’d been crying.
In here, alone. Crying.
“Oh, Rose, are you truly that miserable here?” Emmett asked, for now he saw that the papers covering her, not unlike a blanket, were his own letters. His photo was face down beside her on the mattress. His inscription clearly on the back. There could be no mistake. It was his photo. Lying face down.
That one small telling detail said everything he didn’t want to know.
She’d made up her mind. She’d made up her mind to leave. She’d decided she didn’t want to marry him after all.
Emmett swiftly gathered the letters together. He didn’t think of trying to be quiet now, only dimly. All he knew was hurt. A big hot ball of it jammed right in his chest.
Rose didn’t want him. Just the thought of staying here with him made her cry.
He placed the bundle of letters on top of the dresser. He left the photo where it was, however, not daring to reach over her to grab it. Which would bring his body into contact with hers. Which would be entirely too arousing. Especially given the fact that she was in his bed.
He couldn’t afford to deepen his feelings for Rose any further.
He was never going to hold her in this bed, as he’d dreamed. Or do the things that married lovers did.
What a hollow, hollow thought.
So Emmett simply kissed Rose chastely on the forehead.
His goodbye kiss. Wasn’t it?
It wasn’t nearly enough. Not even as a goodbye kiss. That was what he told himself, anyway.
He leaned down and very gently and tenderly kissed her lips, lingering just enough to remember this moment for the rest of his life. That petal-soft smoothness. His Rose. Like the flower she was named for. A romantic notion. I know, I know, he silently addressed the voice of his father in his head.
“Goodnight, sweet Rose,” he said, his voice a little too deep to be quiet. Still not caring if she caught him at her side. If she did, he could accuse her of having decided to leave him. Maybe that would relieve the white-hot ache in his chest a bit. To share the pain.
She frowned the smallest of frowns, crossing her face like a vapor, here and gone.
Maybe she’d heard him.
In a better frame of mind, he might have awakened her, ignored the sight of the letters and his photo and her tears, and simply insisted she rise to get dressed for bed.
But his arms were heavy weights at his side. It wasn’t the most gentlemanly thing, but he left her like that, fully dressed with only one corner of quilt covering her.
If she woke later in the night because she was cold, then she could rise and get changed for sleep.
But he would have no part of it. He never would.
Chapter 15
When Rose woke the next morning, it was fu
ll light outside. Rays of bright sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting up sparkling bits of dust motes, made pretty in the golden glow. Magical. A cozy heat still pooled around her, even as she realized she’d slept the whole night in her dress and stockings. At least she’d thought to take off her house shoes before climbing onto the bed. If she weren’t mistaken, the weather seemed to have turned warmer outside.
She threw back the corner of the pretty wedding quilt that had covered her through the night, staving off any chill. Sitting up, she looked around in confusion. Her letters were no longer piled all over her. They were stacked, not so neatly, on the dresser. She must have gotten up at some time in the night and moved them? Emmett’s photograph, however, was still on the bed beside her. She picked it up and grinned into his dear fuzzy face. She touched her fingertip to his wide-brimmed hat and tapped playfully on his wildly untamed beard. His mountain man photo. Underneath all the shadows of his hat and all that hair had been the loveliest gray eyes. And dimples.
Who would’ve known?
“You were a man of secrets, Emmett. I just didn’t know.”
Their wedding photo.
They’d have one taken, surely. In it, Emmett would look as he was now, clean-shaven.
And they’d stand beside each other. Perhaps he’d have his arm around her waist.
What would she wear? She’d packed several dresses that might be suitable, but until now she honestly hadn’t given it much thought. A testament to her distracted state of mind before she arrived here.
Her best was a deep rosy-pink wool suit dress with a bustle and tiny pearl buttons down the front. That was pretty. A welcome relief from the shades of black and navy she’d been wearing since her father died. She loved her father and would always miss him, but she was so tired of dark colors.
As she shifted her weight to swing her feet down to the floor, a groan came from below.
“Good morning, Boston!” She grinned at her shaggy furry friend, but he only blinked at her once, groggily, and slammed his eyes shut. He curled more tightly into a ball, with the tip of his tail and his nose tucked into his belly.
“You not quite ready to wake up?”
He ignored her fully.
Despite the light pouring into the windows, perhaps it was earlier than she’d thought. Or perhaps the sweet old guy simply wanted to sleep some more. That was fine.
She’d have a nice hot bath today, she decided, stretching out all the cramped spots from the odd way she’d slept. Perhaps too from the unfamiliar activity of snowshoeing. A nice long hot bath would loosen up all those stiff places. And she could wash her hair and comb out the mass of curls in front of the fire. When she was done, Emmett might enjoy a bath as well... The thought made her blush a bit, bringing to mind images of him shaving upstairs, the sight of his open collar and his bare throat. The lovely warm smooth skin there she’d dared to touch that one time. She wasn’t likely to forget that, but perhaps such memories should wait until after they were married.
Taking care not to step on Boston, Rose tiptoed over to the washstand. Though the water in the basin still smelled pleasantly of her rose-scented soap, it was unappealingly murky and tepid from sitting all night. She dipped a fresh cloth in the pitcher, and, ignoring the slight chill of the dampened cloth, ran it over her face.
It actually felt divine. Bracing.
Rose laughed at herself. Having made her decision and arrived at the realization that she was in love had evidently put a shine on everything.
She’d see him soon—Emmett. And she’d say what she must say. Butterflies fluttered in her belly, a delectable sensation of shivery nervous excitement.
Was he up yet?
Down in his shop, Emmett finished packing the last of Rose’s things in her trunks and stacked them by the front door. Her crate was gone, of course, burned for heat. They’d have to find a replacement for that. Shouldn’t be too difficult. His friend Hank, the local cabinet maker, might have something handy.
Hearing floorboards creaking upstairs, Emmett lifted his head. Rose was moving about, finally awake. Though, in all fairness, it was barely an hour past dawn.
It just seemed later with the sun shining so harshly. It seemed almost rude that the world outside was so glaringly awake. There were neighbors moving about already. Several sleighs had jingled past on the way to the grocer’s, making early morning deliveries of eggs, milk, cream, and cheese. Or whatever.
Sweet Briar had probably never looked quainter, with snow icing the evergreens. And whatnot.
It just didn’t seem to touch Emmett the way it usually might have.
He kept seeing Rose’s tear-stained cheeks. She was so unhappy here. And if he loved her, really and truly loved her, he’d do whatever it took to make her happy again. Even if that meant helping her pack up her things and go. Even if it crushed him.
He bit clean through the peppermint stick in his mouth.
Then crunched the rest of it more thoughtfully.
He could attempt to win her, one more time. Again tell her his feelings. That was only fair. He could even share his hopes for the Hammonds’ house. Should he mention that? Maybe not. But he could certainly ask her to reconsider, to give him the full week—during which time she could stay with the pastor and his wife. He wouldn’t beg or make Rose feel beholden. He didn’t want her to feel compelled to stay.
“Emmett?” Her voice came from above. So melodious and feminine, piercing him through. She sounded unreasonably cheerful this morning. Especially since he was certain today was the day she’d give him her decision—even though it had only been a day and not a week.
Last night, the sweet softness of her lips had lingered on his as he’d fallen asleep.
But he’d had bad dreams. Unsurprisingly, maybe. Strikingly real images of him and Boston hiking through the mountains north of here. Trudging through deep snow. Branches cracking overhead and falling on top of them. More snow coming down, sheets of ice as large as a house. The smothering sensation of being buried in cold.
There’d been no Rose.
Not anywhere.
“Down here!” Emmett called up, striving to shake off his thoughts and inject a positive note into his voice.
And then there she was, descending the stairs, her full skirt coming into view first. Her feet in those dainty little slippers of hers.
And then, at last, her lovely face, her smile bright as the sunshine at first, then turning uncertain.
“Emmett?” She gazed around at her trunks, no doubt noticing they were packed, latched, and stacked by the front door—in front of all that firewood he’d stacked there yesterday.
Was it only yesterday?
He could only bring forth one thought.
“Pastor Stone sent word. He and his wife will be back on the afternoon train.”
Chapter 16
Will they?” Rose asked cautiously, approaching Emmett. There was something about his expression and the tone of his voice that seemed not quite right. What did he mean by that, the pastor and his wife were returning this afternoon? Shouldn’t that be good news?
Then why had Emmett packed all her things? Her trunk of clothing in particular was no longer propped open, dug through, with skirts and sleeves spilling over. Save for the kitchen items she’d had in the one wooden crate they’d burned, all of her trunks were piled neatly by the door. Did he mean to ship her off to the pastor’s house as soon as they arrived? Surely, if she needed to stay with them for propriety’s sake until the wedding, she could simply bring her carpetbag.
Why then pack everything?
As if he wanted her to go.
“Is something...wrong, Emmett?” she asked, all her airy good feelings popping one by one, like soap bubbles.
Emmett cleared his throat and leaned his hip against one of his worktables. He folded his arms over his chest. Businesslike, but friendly. His blacksmith displays were arrayed behind him on the wall. As if she were a customer selecting hinges for her cabinets. What on
earth was the matter with him?
“It’s... Here’s the thing, Rose.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a telltale sign of some level of discomfort he was trying to hide. “I have this feeling you don’t need a whole week to decide—like you’d said you needed yesterday. Am I right?”
If anything he looked quite grim.
How could he possibly know that? And why did it appear to be horribly bad news?
In a flash of insight, she realized Boston had been in her room when she woke up. He hadn’t been there when she fell asleep. And her letters had been on the dresser. Not where she’d left them, all over herself.
It was most unlikely she’d awakened—without remembering—and put them there herself. She was a sound sleeper, but not normally so sound that she’d get up and move about the room, sleepwalking.
“Were you... Did you...come into my room last night?” Surely he wouldn’t have entered. If he had let Boston in, he would have done so and quickly shut the door behind him. Without looking in on her. Surely. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. And everything she’d come to know about Emmett told her he was a gentleman.
He compressed his lips, seemingly nonplussed by her question.
“Yes...” He drew out the word slowly, hesitating perhaps because of the growing suspicion he must have read in her expression.
A whole new scene was forming in her mind. Emmett letting Boston in. Him seeing her on the bed, his letters spread over her. Her slumbering unknowingly.
And what had he surmised?
Something that told him she’d already made her decision, that’s what.
“And what, pray tell, were you doing in my room?” she asked primly. Her thoughts raced. Earlier in the day yesterday, she had confessed to feelings of jealousy. Mortifying as that had been. Then what? He’d surmised she was a lovesick girl, mooning over his letters and his photograph. He’d surmised she was indeed going to marry him.
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