Reverend Wilton’s lips tightened into a straight line. “Again, Johansen, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.” He got back on his horse, and as he picked up the reins, he turned to Eric. “Even God can’t help you if you don’t ask Him.”
Eric stood motionless as the minister rode away. If only he knew how many times Eric had prayed, how many times he’d fallen to his knees….
And it wasn’t that God hadn’t answered. No, He had. Loud and clear, God had answered.
Rose stood in the small kitchen of the church. Clouds of steam billowed around as four large pots of potatoes boiled on the stove in preparation for another lefse-making session. The harvest potluck was the next morning
Harvest! Had time ever flown so quickly? Already the first flakes of snow had started. Soon she’d be leaving Jubilee…and Eric.
It had been more than two months since she’d exploded his life to smithereens. She hadn’t seen him at all. She hadn’t dared go out to his farm—she couldn’t face him, couldn’t stand to see him turn from her as he surely would.
He hadn’t been to church, but she’d heard through the Jubilee grapevine that he met with the minister privately.
An unseen hand clutched at her heart as the enormity of what she’d done struck her again.
“Stirring works a bit better if you move the spoon around,” Mrs. Jenkins said at her shoulder, and Rose came back to reality with a thump.
“Sorry. I was lost in thought.” Rose vigorously swirled the large wooden spoon in each of the pots.
Mrs. Jenkins bobbed her head in response and moved on to supervise a small cluster of women who were examining something very closely.
She’d made an uneasy peace with the people of the church. She’d explained over and over what had happened, how she was simply trying to get to the bottom of a nasty rumor, and after a while, she was accepted back into the fold—tentatively.
If she could disappear inside this billow of steam, she would. As it was, the privacy it afforded her was welcome. The townspeople were pleasant enough toward her, but underlying everything they said or did was a sense of distrust. Even Linnea, who was among the group in the corner, had pulled back from their friendship.
“I made these last night,” the schoolteacher told the others. “I found the directions in Ladies’ Home Companion.”
“What are these things?” Mrs. Jenkins asked the women. Rose eavesdropped shamelessly. It was better than returning to her thoughts.
“Napkin rings.” Linnea had been carrying a box when she’d come into the church, but she hadn’t told Rose what was in it. The box must have held the napkin rings.
A bustle at the door told her someone had arrived.
“Since when does a napkin wear jewelry?” The booming voice belonged to the minister, and Rose turned to watch him, obscured by the steam’s pluming fog.
The women greeted Reverend Wilton, who picked up one of the napkin rings and held it in front of his face. “What does this thing do?” he asked.
Linnea took it from him. “I’ll show you.” She rolled a dish towel and inserted it inside the ring. “You stick the napkin inside the ring, like this.” She held out her handiwork.
“Can you tell me why? Oh, I understand. We need to imprison the napkins so they don’t escape.”
Even without seeing his face, Rose heard the laughter in his voice. But there was something else, an undercurrent of happiness that ran between Linnea and Reverend Wilton.
The answer hit her full force. Linnea and the minister were in love!
How had she missed it? Had Linnea said anything? Or had Rose been too self-absorbed to hear?
She flushed as she remembered when they met for the first time and Linnea mentioned someone in her life. Rose had dropped the subject to begin questioning the teacher about Eric.
There was another disturbance at the door, a scuffle of boots across the wooden floor, and then the minister’s voice rang out. “Eric Johansen, don’t try to sneak past. I understand these ladies are making your favorite food, and I can’t believe you’d walk away from fresh lefse.”
Rose quelled a sudden urge to duck under the table. She couldn’t see Eric, not now, not in front of everyone.
Quickly she surveyed her options and realized there was only one. She was going to have to stand where she was and make it through the meeting no matter how awful it was going to be.
One lock of copper-colored hair had escaped its bun in the heat of the kitchen, and she tucked it back into place as best she could. Then, with a quick wipe of her palms on her capacious apron, she pasted a smile on her face and stepped away from the steaming potatoes.
“Hello, Eric.”
Chapter 12
The air is filled with many things. Insects. Snowflakes.
Words that never should have been spoken. Despite the openness of the prairie, the air can be just as thick here as it is in the most crowded city.
It wasn’t possible for time to stop, to hang suspended in the atmosphere like a thick fog, but that was how it seemed.
Rose’s hands clenched into fists, loosened, clenched again. Her cheeks cramped from her artificial smile, and inside, her heart boomeranged around like something gone wild.
Say something, she bid him silently. Don’t turn around and walk away. Please don’t do that.
Eric’s gaze was stony. “Hello, Rose.”
“How are you doing?” The basics of conversation were the most she could manage.
He didn’t answer immediately, as if he were weighing what to say. At last he simply nodded. “Fine.”
“And Downy?” She must be out of her mind, worrying about the duck at a time like this. “He’s grown up.”
She was suddenly aware that everyone was staring at them, their eyes switching from speaker to speaker as if they were watching a play.
“Well,” she said, turning back to the potatoes and stirring them with unnecessary force. “Well.”
Behind her, the discussion picked up again.
“I’ve never known Eric Johansen to pass up lefse fresh off the takke.” The voice belonged to Mrs. Jenkins.
“I’m not staying,” he answered. “I came in to fix that floorboard again, but I’ve got to get back to the farm.”
“Take some with you. Here, take this package.”
Rose turned and saw Mrs. Jenkins press something into Eric’s hands. He took it, thanked her, and left as quickly as he’d come.
She handed the spoon to another woman. “The potatoes are almost done. I need a breath of cool air. Do you mind taking over for a while?”
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed from the kitchen into the yard outside the church. The snow had turned to rain, and the wind whipped the heavy droplets against her face. She didn’t have a coat on, but the rain-drenched air felt refreshing after the heat of the kitchen.
Eric had unhitched his horse and had one foot in the stirrup.
“Wait!” she called to him. “I want to…”
What did she want? She had no idea, just a vague knowledge that he couldn’t leave like this with so much unspoken, so much at stake.
He stopped and turned to face her. When she reached his side, he said, “I really don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Maybe not, but I have things to say to you.”
“You’ve already said enough.”
His words struck through her like a lance, and she sagged.
“Eric, I know. I wish I could take it back.”
“Well,” he said, finishing his mount and grasping the reins, “you can’t.”
She put her hand on the horse’s halter. “Eric, I’m sorry.”
“Maybe.”
Forgive me, she begged him with her eyes. He studied her face, and for a moment she thought he might soften. But instead he said, so softly that she had to strain to hear him, “I’m done here.”
“Done? What do you mean?”
He turned away from her and spoke into the rain. “I’m lea
ving Jubilee.”
She watched him ride away through the rain, his collar turned up against the chill wind, until he was only a speck on the horizon.
How could this have happened? How could she have fallen in love with a murderer?
And now he was leaving her.
Her tears mingled with the raindrops as she stood in front of the church, trying to keep herself together as her world crashed around her.
“Rose?” Linnea spoke behind her. “Rose—”
Rose turned into the outstretched arms of the school-teacher. “I’m sorry, Linnea. I’m so sorry. I made such a mess of everything. It’s cost me everything. Eric is leaving, and I don’t—” She closed her eyes against the wave of pain. “I don’t even have your friendship.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rose,” Linnea said. “True friendship can survive the greatest storms, and we’ve been through a wild one. You’re my friend, and you always will be.”
In the corner of Rose’s heart, a little flame of hope flickered.
Eric threw logs into the fireplace to take the chill out of the room. Winter was coming early this year; he could feel it.
At last the kindling caught and began to burn the bark on the underside of the log. Soon enough the log would catch fire, and the small house would be quite warm.
He poked the logs, making sure they were stacked correctly; then he pulled his chair closer. Through the window he could see Downy leading a parade of the other ducks through the downpour, pausing occasionally to nab a surfacing earthworm.
He was going to have to find a home for the ducks. They were too domesticated to leave them here to fend for themselves. Maybe he’d take Reverend Wilton up on his offer to take Downy and the rest of the ducks, too.
Leaving wasn’t going to be easy. He’d put down roots here. He’d built this house, farmed this land, made friends.
He picked up his worn Bible and held it in both hands. The words in it had taken him through times of deep despair. He ran his hand over the plain black cover. It was split along the spine, and he thought idly that he should try to repair it.
His first visitor in his new home had been the minister, and Eric would always remember what he’d said. “A good man has a tattered Bible.” Well, his Bible was almost in shreds, but somehow Eric didn’t feel overly good.
None of this was fair. He didn’t deserve what was happening to him. He was caught in the middle of so many webs, all of them based on one horrible day six years ago. He’d done what he’d had to do, and for the rest of his life, his actions would follow him around like an unshakable weight.
He’d never escape his past. All he could ever hope to do was stay one step ahead of it.
He bowed his head and prayed intently. Dearest Lord, I don’t understand why my life will always be ruled by what happened in Boston. I did what I thought I needed to do—You know that—and today, I still think what I did was necessary. But now, here I am, the unforgivable, unable to forgive someone else.
A log snapped in the fireplace, and he opened his eyes. That was it, after all. He couldn’t forgive Rose, and in fact, he didn’t know if he should.
He stood and walked around his house. His heart was here on this farm, yet he had to leave. By the end of the week, he would be gone. He had no idea where he was going, just that the time had come again for him to outrun his past.
“No!” Rose stared at Linnea. “You’re wrong. No!”
Linnea clasped her friend’s hands. “I heard it from the postmaster earlier this morning. He bought Eric’s plow. The Fredericksons bought his furniture. Last I heard, he was working out a deal with Mark—Reverend Wilton—about the ducks.”
Rose shook her head vehemently.
Worry creased Linnea’s forehead. “Rose, you knew that.”
“I didn’t think he’d leave Jubilee. Not really. And not this soon. I really thought he’d stay and it would all work out when I left to go back to Chicago.” She bit her lip. “Oh, none of that’s true. That’s what I hoped would happen, but of course that’s not going to.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Murder isn’t something you just sweep under the rug.”
“He can’t go.” Rose began an uneasy pacing across her hotel room. “He has to stay here.”
“Because you’re here? Rose, isn’t that a bit unfair?”
“There’s nothing about this that’s fair.” Rose sighed. “My mother used to say, ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ and I’d roll my eyes at her. What did Katie Kelly know, anyway? I make my living saying things. I talk and I write. What did I care about mending anything? Now I know. Do I ever!”
She strode to the window and looked out. “Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
The prairie stretched ahead of her, its land now carved by the harvest, ready to sleep through the winter. In a few weeks she’d be back in Chicago, in her comfortable apartment with fancy restaurants, wonderful shows, extraordinary parties, and a skyline cluttered with buildings.
She could put this behind her, forget the man who had taken her heart, and start again. People did it all the time. That’s what the folks in Jubilee had done, after all. They’d left their pasts and begun their lives anew.
Until she’d come into their midst.
Rose strode to the wardrobe and pulled out her coat and hat.
“Where are you going?” Linnea asked.
“To see Eric. I have to do something right while I’m here, and I think this is it.”
The schoolteacher tugged at Rose’s sleeve. “Rose, I’m not sure about this. It’s too cold today. Didn’t you feel the bite in the wind? It’s not like summer when you could go off—”
Rose spun around and faced her friend. “I’ll be fine. You worry too much. But this is something I have to do.”
Eric stood in his house. It looked cold and almost sad without the pictures on the wall and the books on the shelves. He’d left his chair and his Bible by the fireplace. Most of the other furniture had been sold or given away.
As soon as the minister came and got the ducks, he could toss the chair in the back of the wagon, put his Bible at his side, and leave.
The sound of a horse and wagon in his yard ended his musings. Reverend Wilton must have come for the ducks.
He threw open the door and stopped. It was Rose. She was trying to do something with Big Ole’s harness, and he came to her rescue.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as he fixed the leather straps. He knew he sounded ungracious, but he wanted to. Being impolite was, he told himself, a small exchange for her ruining his life.
Rose didn’t speak but went on into his house. He followed her.
“Can I ask what you’re doing in my house?”
“It’s true, then.” She stood in the middle of the nearly empty room. “No books.” She touched the empty shelves. “No painting of the battle of Jericho. You’re leaving.”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s what you want to do?”
“I’m not sure I have any choice.”
“You do. Of course you do.”
“What choice would you have me make, Rose Kelly?”
“You can stay.”
“And you can go. Is that it? I stay here, and you go. It works out quite well.”
Rose frowned at him. “That’s not nice.”
“Not nice? Not nice?” He was overcome with the urge to laugh. “Who are you to say that I’m not nice?”
“I told you I’m sorry.”
He leaned against the wall and studied the fire that was burning low in the hearth. “Well, that ought to do it, then. You ruin my life, say you’re sorry, and we’re off to have tea with the Queen? Is it that simple?”
“Might I point out that you ruined your own life?” Rose snapped back at him. “I’m not the one who makes the news. I just report it.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment.
His heart had turned to stone, and it hung like a he
avy weight in his chest. So this was what love did to people.
He’d never been this close to sharing the story with anyone. Maybe she’d understand, but more likely she’d put it in her newspaper. He couldn’t trust her, not with his heart, not with his life.
Instead, he straightened up. “Go. Just go.”
She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You had the chance to be loved, Eric. I’m not sure you’ve ever known what that means.”
“I know what love is.”
“Do you know what it means to love someone?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know what it means to be loved?”
His answer didn’t come so readily. “What I’ve known of love has nothing to recommend it,” he answered at last. “It doesn’t seem to be a productive emotion.”
“I thought I loved you,” she said, “but I never should have let myself do that. You can’t escape yourself, and until you do, you will never be able to love.”
“Go. Leave. Get out of my house.” Anger shook his voice. “Good-bye.”
Chapter 13
This is the land of second chances. If we are offered the opportunity to start anew, we must ask ourselves: Will we do it differently? And will we do it better?
Hurt washed over Rose in a hot wave. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she turned away quickly. He was not going to see her cry.
She lifted her chin and walked to the door, her back straight and proud. Silence forged a hardened gap between them that words refused to bridge. The only sound was the whistle of the wind as it blew across the prairie, carrying tiny hard flakes of snow that burned into her cheeks as she prepared the wagon and left the homestead…forever.
If he watched her leave, she didn’t know it. Pride kept her facing forward, and she got again on the road to Jubilee.
She fought back the tears. This was a love that was destined for failure from the very beginning. She’d been deluding herself to expect that anything could come of it.
Especially, her conscience reminded her, when you ruined his life.
The winds increased, and she pulled her scarf farther over her face to protect it from the stinging flakes. The snow became heavier, and she peered from the cave of her scarf, watching the prairie become a swirl of white.
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