Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  People’s natural predisposition to share their lives through stories had a terrible tendency to lead them into sharing too much. That was, she knew, just a nice way to say that they gossiped.

  Rose had covered enough news stories and interviewed enough people to recognize why the singer had felt compelled to tell her the story, even an incomplete one. She’d seen it often—it was the newspaper form of gossip.

  George, the editor of the Tattler, had his own explanation. He’d shared it with her one night when she’d come back to the paper’s offices upset with a source, an elderly man who knew some background information in bits and pieces about a story she’d been pursuing. After four hours of talking to him, she couldn’t tell where truth ended and rumor began.

  The editor had leaned back in his wooden chair—even in Rose’s memory, it creaked—and slowly placed his feet on his cluttered desk and tucked his hands behind his head. “It’s the way some people connect with others,” he’d said. “Usually it’s the folks who can’t make their own relationships work. You know the kind. They don’t have friends. Once in a while they have a cat or a dog or even a canary, but that’s about as close as they get.”

  He’d continued his sensible explanation. Just knowing someone who knew someone made them part of the story in their minds. People’s curiosity came partially from caring and partially from nosiness. Either way, he’d pointed out, it was what kept newspapers going.

  She sighed. This wasn’t good. It was beginning to look like the very trait that made her a success was going to be the thing that brought her world tumbling down around her shoulders.

  Rose rubbed her fingers over the gilt letters on her Bible. She was going to need help. Wagonloads of it.

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and Rose winced as she looked out the window. She hadn’t slept at all, and her eyes felt gritty. Throughout the dark hours, she’d gone back and forth in her thoughts, turning her options over and over.

  She’d come to an uneasy decision.

  Rose picked up her little bag and headed out of the hotel, wincing as the dazzling sun sliced into her reddened eyes. She walked resolutely down the street and turned in at the telegraph office.

  Just inside the door, a woman who couldn’t have been older than her late teens balanced a child on her hip while listening to a middle-aged woman extol the virtues of her new rug.

  “Miss Kelly!” The young mother switched the baby to her other hip. From the relieved expression on her face, Rose suspected the woman was grateful for the break in the conversation.

  Rose cooed over the round-faced baby, who gurgled happily in response.

  The freckle-faced clerk at the counter was deep in conversation with two older men about the likelihood of a bumper crop. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to his companions when he noticed Rose waiting.

  The men nodded and stepped aside.

  “I’d like to send a telegraph, please,” Rose said, laying her tiny purse in front of her. She unlatched it and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Send this message to Evelyn Roller at the Chicago Tattler.”

  The clerk opened the sheet of paper and scanned it. “Sorry, Miss Kelly, but I can’t quite make this word out. What is this?” His stubby finger pointed to a word.

  Rose laughed. “That word is ‘researcher.’ Evelyn Roller is our researcher at the newspaper. My teachers plagued me endlessly about my dreadful handwriting when I was in school. Can you make out the rest of it?”

  The young man squinted at the paper. “Well, to be honest…”

  Grinning, she took it from him and read it aloud. “To Evelyn Roller, Researcher, Chicago Tattler, Chicago, Illinois. Please see what you can find out about Dr. Eric Johansen, formerly of Boston. Charged with murder? When? Who? Thank you, Rose.”

  A heavy silence fell over the room, and Rose realized with horror what she had just done. The clerk’s face was so bloodless that his freckles stood out like splatters of ink. The men stood frozen in place, their hands stopped midmotion.

  The baby broke the silence with a wail, and the two women swept out of the building.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Rose’s voice cracked. The words were terribly insufficient. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

  As she fled the building, she caught a glimpse of Linnea, her hand pressed over her mouth.

  She had done some awful things, but nothing as unspeakable as this. She had ruined Eric’s life.

  Eric scattered grain and watched the ducks race after it. They’d lost their downy fuzz and were now nearly full grown.

  What was he going to do with these crazy creatures? He rocked back on his heels and pondered the situation.

  How had he gotten saddled with a group of ducks that were supposed to be his self-propagating food supply and that had, instead, turned into very demanding pets? A black-winged insect made the mistake of investigating the strewn grain, and Downy gulped it down.

  Maybe he could sell the ducks. Then they’d be off his hands, and the moral quandary about food and pets would be gone.

  He snorted. Moral quandaries didn’t go away like that. He knew that from experience. He also knew he couldn’t run from them. No matter how much he thought he’d taken care of the past, it was forever with him, and now it was finding the most disturbing road back into his life.

  Once he would have thought that the world was made up of that which was clearly good and that which was clearly evil, but lately the line between the two was blurring. He’d crossed it once himself and found himself forever stained.

  The sound of hooves ended his reflection, and he stood up, groaning a bit as his muscles tried to uncramp. He was getting old.

  Big Ole led the wagon right into his farmyard. Rose wasn’t even holding on to the reins, he noticed. “You thinking that this horse doesn’t need direction?” he asked as he unhitched Big Ole.

  Rose patted the huge horse’s side. “As if I could tell him anything. It wouldn’t matter where I wanted to go. Big Ole decides, and that’s where we head off to. For some reason, he seems to think I should be here.”

  His breath caught in his throat, but then reason took over. Of course she was here. She was observing him for her stories.

  She leaned down and scooped up Downy, who promptly nipped her nose. “What are we doing today?” she asked Eric as she rubbed her nose ruefully. “That fellow has quite a bite.”

  “He just ate a bug.”

  “Oh, good. Are you comparing my nose to an insect?” Her hands shook a bit as she put the duck back on the ground.

  “Are you all right? Did Downy hurt you?”

  She stared at Downy as he waddled away in apparent indignation. “I think I offended him by holding him.”

  “He’s the king of the duck yard,” Eric answered. “I think he’ll recover.”

  “Will he?” Her voice sounded different, almost as if she were unsure.

  “Rose, he’s just a duck.”

  Rose turned to him. Her mossy green eyes pooled with tears. “Eric,” she said, “I’ve done the most hideous thing ever. I don’t know what to do.”

  Eric did the most natural thing he knew. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, let her cry out her pain against his shoulder in great gulping sobs until his work shirt was wet with her tears.

  His cheek against her hair, he murmured wordless comforts.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shhh, shhh. It’s going to be fine.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Shhh.” His head turned a bit, and he found himself lightly kissing her sunset-colored hair. He knew it then. He loved her. He would do anything for her. He couldn’t stand this anguish she was feeling.

  “Shhh, Rose. Shhh, my love.”

  She pulled back and looked him squarely in the face. “Eric, you can’t love me.”

  “But I do.” The freedom the words gave him was astonishing. “I love you, Rose. I love you.�
� She wrenched free of his grasp. “This is what I have done. I said that you were a murderer—well, I didn’t say that exactly, but I said enough so that now everyone will think you’re guilty, and to make it worse, I said it at the telegraph office, and now—now, oh, I don’t know what will happen now, but you have every right to hate me.” The tears began again. “You have every right to hate me as much as I hate myself.”

  His mouth moved, trying to form words, but none came out.

  “Say something,” she whispered. “Say something. Don’t make me leave in silence.”

  He turned and walked into the house, his heart shattered on the ground.

  Chapter 11

  In silence we can hear the most clearly.

  We must, however, prepare ourselves for what we might hear.

  The solitude of the prairie suited Rose’s mood. More than anything, she needed to be alone. She dropped the reins and let Big Ole ramble as suited him. Eventually the horse would take her back to Jubilee.

  Guilt washed over her like a blood-warm wave. She’d done some imprudent things before, but this was more than that.

  She put her face in her hands as if she could blot out her actions. Why, why, why hadn’t she thought before she read the telegram aloud?

  Or more to the point, why hadn’t she just asked Eric?

  True, he hadn’t been at all open to her inquiries about his past, even the mildest of her questions. And what would he have said to her if she had asked him? “Yes, Rose, I killed someone. Would you like some tea?”

  Still, she should have asked him, shared the story she’d been told, given him the chance. Perhaps she could blame it on Jubilee. In Chicago, it wouldn’t have mattered. There if she’d heard a story like this, she simply would have gone back to the Tattler offices, done a bit of research, and had her answer. But here, having to rely on the telegraph for research—

  She shook her head. She couldn’t justify that train of thought. The problem wasn’t the telegraph. It was her rashness.

  What had been her strength was now her weakness. She’d turned her impulsive words and her inquisitive nature into her trademark style, a style that had never affected anyone else. But now the consequences were dreadful.

  Big Ole slowed at a fork in road, as if asking her which way to take.

  “Don’t ask me,” she said to him. “I seem to have developed a talent for doing exactly the wrong thing.”

  The horse snorted as if in response and plodded on.

  A meadowlark’s melody poured across the prairie, a liquid song that held the promise of another summer. Even as the notes caressed Rose’s ears, the sound of the grass in the endless Dakota wind was dryer, crisper than it had been when she first arrived.

  Autumn was on its way. Her time in Jubilee was more than half over. By Christmas, she’d be back in Chicago, happily making the rounds of holiday parties and not worrying a bit about a man whose life she had destroyed.

  A man who’d said he loved her.

  The cruel irony struck her. He had held her close, told her he loved her. Those first tender moments of spoken love had been destroyed by her confession.

  The wind picked up, and Rose pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. There was definitely a touch of the season’s end in the tendrils that crept in under the edges of the soft wool.

  Winter—and then she’d leave. The thought clawed at her. How could she leave Jubilee, leave Eric?

  But how could she stay?

  Her fingertips toyed with the strap of her tiny purse. She felt so alone, so small on this vast land.

  The words she spoke when she first went into Redeemer Church came back to her. She’d told Eric, “God hasn’t forgotten me. Why would I forget Him?”

  She wasn’t alone. Not at all.

  Rose knew what she had to do. There on the road between fields and grass, she bowed her head and prayed. I’m not even sure what to ask for. You know what I need—and what others need. I’ve caused so much sorrow and suffering. I wish I hadn’t done it, and I don’t ever want to do it again. Please help me.

  She lifted her head and opened her eyes. Somewhere on the land that stretched into tomorrow was the man she had hurt. The man she loved.

  Even the prairie didn’t have enough room to hide that fact from her.

  A tear dropped onto her purse, blotting a single petal of the embroidered flower with a dark, wet blemish. Maybe she should go back to Chicago and try to forget all that had happened here. She straightened in the wagon, and Big Ole whinnied questioningly at the sudden movement.

  That was it. She would return to Chicago and forget about the man with the Dakota sky in his eyes.

  Or she could flap her arms and fly to the moon.

  Eric sat in front of his house, watching the sunset. He hadn’t gone into Jubilee in almost six weeks, not since Rose had made her grand pronouncement in the telegraph office and ruined his life.

  September was a gentle month. The days were shorter, and it was time to start thinking about bringing in the potatoes. The wheat was done, harvested when the August sun had baked it to a golden perfection.

  Or maybe he’d be best to leave the crop in the ground and simply take his leave. He’d run before. He could do it again.

  He could come up with a story to cover his tracks. Not lying, exactly. He could take bits and pieces of the truth and rearrange them into something that would satisfy the wagging tongues and silence the terrible stories.

  There was, of course, that pesky problem with his vow to tell the truth. No, he wouldn’t lie, no matter what fancy name he put on it.

  He could hear a horse coming toward his house, and he stood up, his heart filled with ridiculous hope. Maybe it was Rose come to tell him it was all a mistake, that she loved him and they could—

  It was Reverend Wilton. He alighted from his horse with studied caution. “Evening.”

  “Evening.” Eric went out to greet his visitor. This wasn’t the first time the minister had come to visit him, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He knew what was on the man’s mind.

  The minister strolled over to the duck cage. “These fellows have grown mighty big.”

  “Sure have.”

  “I believe they’re larger than Arvid’s. What are you feeding them?”

  “I feed them grain, but they get a good share of insects, too.”

  “Ah. That might be it.” The minister continued to study the ducks.

  Had simple conversation ever been so…not simple? Each exchange seemed to be pulled from the depths of the speakers.

  “That one by the corner there, he’s fine looking.” He was pointing at Downy. “Are you by any chance thinking of selling him?”

  “No.” As soon as he said it, Eric recognized the folly of it. Of course he should sell Downy. In his mind, that was Rose’s duck, and Rose had effectively ended whatever relationship they might have had.

  “Are you sure?”

  This was his chance, but he said, “The duck’s not for sale.” Reverend Wilton would think he’d gone around the bend for sure if he’d explained: “Well, you see, I can’t have the woman I love, so I’ll keep her duck instead.” And maybe he had.

  The minister nodded. “To tell the truth, Johansen, I’m not here about the ducks. We haven’t seen you in church for quite a while, and I guess we both know why.”

  Eric swallowed hard. He met Reverend Wilton’s gaze squarely. “Yes, sir, we do.”

  Neither man spoke for a while. Then the minister asked, “Do you want to say anything?”

  Eric shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he tried to corral his thoughts. “No.”

  After another pause, Reverend Wilton said, “Johansen, that’s not good enough. I’m sorry, but it’s not.” He leaned down and pulled a stalk of grass from the ground and bit off the end of it. “I can’t think that’s the truth, your taking someone’s life, but I can’t defend you if you won’t defend yourself.”

  Eric’s heart pounded, but he spoke slowly an
d quietly, hoping to deflect more questions. “I haven’t asked you to defend me.”

  Reverend Wilton chewed on the grass stalk a moment, staring out across the fields. At last he spoke. “Murder is a serious charge. I don’t care if you were a teacher or a policeman or a pickpocket before you came out here. None of us do. Just as long as you play fair and treat people square. That’s the way we live. For all of us, this is our second chance at life, at getting it right.”

  Eric didn’t trust himself to speak. The words probably wouldn’t make it past that lump in his throat.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time. I know that you’ve been fleeing from something in your past, something that’s been pulling on your soul so hard that you can’t shake it, and I’ve never asked what it is. My job isn’t prying. My job is letting people know that when the burden is too big, they don’t have to bear it alone. You know that, don’t you?”

  Eric nodded.

  Reverend Wilton sighed. “I can’t feature you as a murdering man, Johansen,” the minister continued. “But the townspeople are asking questions, and I think they deserve some answers.”

  He was right, and Eric knew it. But the bonds of his sworn silence kept him from sharing his past. He lowered his head.

  The reverend put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “The people of Jubilee have respected you since you arrived. You’re a hardworking man, a Christian man by all accounts, and we’re feeling blindsided by this news. All you have to do is explain it to me—even a brief accounting would do—and I can go back to town and reassure the folks that you’re exactly what they’ve always thought. That would clear your name.”

  Still, Eric stood mute, trapped in his promise.

  “I don’t have to tell them the story. All they need to know is that everything is all right. That’s all.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Eric muttered, realizing that everything he’d built here in Jubilee was tumbling down around his head like a castle of sand.