Sixty Acres and a Bride

by Regina Jennings

  Rosa stood her ground until he had crossed the pasture and was no longer on their land. She had survived her first prairie storm but discovered there were perils more dangerous than tornados.

  The lightning passed and the hail ceased, but the rain still soaked his slicker when Weston started out. Poor Pandora. She couldn’t understand why he took Smokey and left her behind, but she didn’t care for high river crossings, and he would span at least one tonight.

  The clouds behind Weston threw their flickering light on the soaked landscape before him. Riding across the rolling prairie he was exposed to the world . . . and to the heavens. He spent a moment studying the turbulent June sky. There was nowhere to hide out here. He was a solitary figure, completely removed from human contact.

  Which was fine with him.

  Oh, he did what he was supposed to do, else people would ask too many questions. He went to church on Sunday, and he ground out a prayer over supper, although Jake had taken on that duty after hearing the same weak platitudes for months on end, but Weston knew he was trying to disguise the condition of his heart. To be honest, he was hiding. The Bible said that God is truth, and Weston wasn’t ready to face the truth.

  The white and tan speckled hides of his cattle were visible, peacefully sheltered under trees along the swollen creek. Longhorns could take care of themselves. Still, Weston wouldn’t sleep easy until he’d checked on his livestock after the storm.

  Protection was a big deal to Wes. If he had a ewe stray from the flock, he brought her in. If he had a new ranch hand learning the ropes, he’d keep him from any real danger because Weston would hold himself responsible if the greenhorn got injured. Most of his life was spent, in one form or another, protecting those under his care.

  He worked across the pastures, finding nothing but downed branches and swollen streams. From the western forty he could see George and Mary’s house. Everything looked to be in good condition. Did they know the barn door was open?

  As he approached the homestead, he saw a carriage under the lean-to. Lovelaces? What were they doing out here? He stopped, chewed over his options.

  “Ain’t you going to come on in and sit a spell?” George called from the barn.

  “Thought I’d check on the sheep.”

  “Already did. They’re fine.”

  Weston maneuvered the horse to where his uncle sat by a lamp. “What are you doing in the barn?”

  “You see that carriage?”

  “Lovelaces?”

  “Yep. That’s what I’m doing in the barn.”

  Weston climbed down and got a feed bag for his horse. “Is it too warm in the house?”

  “It’s warm, that’s for certain. Mary has a hard time being hospitable to those two. She can overlook a lot of flaws, but laziness ain’t one of them.”

  Weston shook out his slicker and hung it on a stall divider. “To be fair, Miss Lovelace is as enterprising as her father. Now, Nicholas is another story.”

  “But Molly is helpless in a kitchen or on a farm. That’s all Mary cares about.”

  “She’s been employed at the courthouse for a couple of years now. You should have her cipher for you sometime. She’s amazing.” He settled himself on the ground next to George.

  “I’m surprised at you. I thought you didn’t care for the girl.”

  Weston leaned against the support beam. “There’s nothing wrong with Molly that the right man can’t fix. I’m not that man.”

  “And why not? She comes from a good family. She gussies up pretty. You could straighten her out.”

  “I’m not the right man for anyone.” They sat in silence. Raindrops splashed into the puddles forming around the barn. Weston wasn’t ready to leave yet.

  “How was Eliza’s trip? I heard she made it home,” George said.

  “Her visit with Cora’s parents wasn’t easy.” Weston took off his hat and set it on his knee. “I wish there was something I could do for the Smocks. I’m willing to take responsibility, but it doesn’t bring their daughter back.”

  George tossed his straw away. “Weston, we were all there. We saw what happened. It wasn’t your fault. She pulled further and further away from everyone. No one could help her.”

  “God could’ve.”

  George pulled his knees up. “Well now. Are you blaming yourself or blaming God?”

  Weston shrugged. Could he admit to blaming God? He knew better. But he also knew that God read his heart. His silence wasn’t hiding anything from his Creator. “That’s where I’ve been stuck. God could’ve stopped her, so why . . . why didn’t He? Did He not care? Did He not care what happened to her . . . or to me? But blaming God doesn’t get me very far, does it?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  Weston got to his feet. “Yet there should be a reckoning. Someone should pay for what happened.” He paced across the damp dirt floor. “I was doing all I could for her. I thought she’d get it right in the end. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I should have seen the warning signs, but I didn’t until it was too late.”

  And so he was exacting vengeance on himself. He didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve peace. How could he laugh and love when his wife was cold and buried? Justice required more.

  “Someone did pay, son. Jesus paid for all our failures. Maybe it was sin, maybe weakness, or maybe Cora was the victim of a corrupt, fallen world. God took all those possibilities and settled the account on them. And you know what He gave you? Life. Refusing to live ain’t doing God any favors. He must expect more from you or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Thunder rolled in the distance. “It isn’t easy after so long. I feel like every time I stick my neck out, someone puts their boot on it, but I’m going to see this through. Yet my biggest contribution might be keeping my distance so that no one else gets hurt. That’s a possibility.”

  “Maybe. Just make sure it’s God’s call and not your own fear. Although I can think of one contribution I’d appreciate tonight. Since you’re already out in the rain, would you mind swingin’ past Louise and Rosa’s? Make sure they rode out the storm?”

  Weston nodded and got on the horse. Somehow he knew when he left Palmetto that he’d end up at the ladies’ house, one way or another.

  His horse was unfamiliar with the road past George and Mary’s, since they’d had no reason in years to travel it across the creek. Smokey felt his way cautiously. When they reached the bank, the water was swifter than usual, curling around the horse’s legs and splashing the cuff of Wes’s trousers, but they crossed and made it to the dark house.

  From the looks of things, damage was slight. A few shingles littered the yard, a chair on the porch had toppled over, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait till morning. The cellar door was flung open, hanging crooked on the exhausted hinges. Good. At least they weren’t trapped underground.

  He turned Smokey to the back side of the plot to make a complete circle before he headed to bed.

  Rosa paced the room vigorously, trying to burn off the outrage coursing through her veins. Louise had hung their wet clothes on the backs of the kitchen chairs and provided rough dry towels to ward off the chill, yet still she trembled. Maybe her agitation was heightened from being trapped underground, but Mr. Tillerton bore most of the blame. No question, he had acted on purpose. Hadn’t he warned her at church? At church!

  Rosa stomped her foot at the memory. According to etiquette, she’d handled the incident correctly, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted to run through the streets of Prairie Lea and howl that she’d been insulted, but she suspected the blame would land on her. Again.

  She flopped on the bed, lying back against the headboard, the ore of her anger melting down to silver determination. She would get through this. Death, widowhood, relocation, and financial ruin; what was a nasty churl compared to everything else she faced? Yet her heart was heavy. She lived in a corrupt world, and he was a thorn that proved it. When would there be relief? Was life on Earth always th
is hard? Would there be any restoration before Christ returned?

  The melancholy longing caused her to reach for her tlapitzalli. Her fingers traced the bird-shaped carvings on the clay pipe as her eyes filled with tears. Putting the flute to her lips, she poured her angst into it, where it was transformed into a low, haunting song, and her heart prayed the words of David she had memorized:

  I will sing of mercy and judgment:

  Unto thee, O Lord, will I sing.

  I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way.

  O when wilt thou come unto me?

  I will walk within my house with a perfect heart.

  I will set no wicked thing before mine eyes:

  I hate the work of them that turn aside;

  It shall not cleave to me.

  Mine eyes shall be upon the faithful of the land,

  That they may dwell with me.

  “Lord, please bring the faithful to dwell with us,” she whispered. “Bring those who will help and protect and keep the evil ones far from us. May your Kingdom come and do not let the wicked prevail. Please keep me strong. Louise needs me and I’m already getting discouraged.” She stopped to blow the lamp out and snuggle under her covers. How can we do this without help, Jesus? We need your help.

  Smokey’s ears twitched as they passed along the side of the house alerting Weston that he had missed something. Was that a bird? No, it sounded like a dove, but it was sustained. No bird sang like that. The music led him to an open window above him. He didn’t stare, worried that Rosa might appear and see him—or that he might see more of her than he intended. He steered Smokey under the oak tree, where he couldn’t see or be seen and lingered to listen to the auditory salve, to let his prayers join the chorus of praise currently underway. What he had to say couldn’t compete in meaning or beauty, but maybe his prayers would be accepted as part of the harmony.

  The heavy drops of rain caught in the giant leaves fell with every breeze. He’d been granted a private concert. Sorrow welled up with the lifting of the melody, wringing out his every pain and letting it drip away.

  But as painful as the message was, there was resolution. Hope floated in the final notes before they faded, and the square of warm light went dark for the night. He sat, relishing the shared solitude, and wondered how she knew the song in his heart.

  10

  DIRT UNDER HER FINGERNAILS, dress sodden at the knees, Rosa knelt and fingered the battered seedlings. The lanky sprouts bent double, but they weren’t broken. A few more days of brilliant sunshine like this one promised to be and they would bypass their former height without a doubt.

  “The chickens seem to have come out ahead.” Louise plodded through the marshy yard, wiping her hands on the faded gingham apron. “They didn’t fancy that storm, but with all the earthworms it uncovered, they’re enjoying the feast. How are the crops?”

  Rosa shrugged. “I don’t see any roots exposed or many stems broken, so there was probably no harm done. They’re still green. They’ll pop back up, no?” She scanned the long rows she had hoed, proud of the tangles of emerald spreading in the median of each. Their work was paying off, but would it be enough?

  “I wonder how George and Mary fared.” Louise pulled broken limbs to a burn pile.

  Rosa did too. She headed toward the dilapidated picket fence to help Louise dislodge a large tree limb that had fallen in the night. With a grunt and a step backward, they disentangled the branch, the sudden release causing both to stumble a few feet.

  “I don’t know. Come to think of it, I’m surprised Mary hasn’t sent George over to check on us, but he’s probably got his hands full tending Wes’s sheep this morning. They’re likely scattered to the four winds.”

  Rosa removed the broken twigs protruding from between the slats. “Why are Weston’s sheep on Uncle George’s farm? It is Uncle George’s farm, isn’t it?”

  Straightening, Louise craned her back in what looked to be a satisfying stretch before answering. “Yes, it’s their farm, but just barely. According to Mary, they came close to losing it a few years ago when the property taxes jumped clear to the moon. They scrimped enough greenbacks together to pay them, and George set out to Lockhart with the money, but it never made it.”

  “Was he robbed?” Rosa had heard that Texas after the war had been a dangerous place.

  “Yes, but it was legal.” Louise shook her head. “Seems that George had developed a taste for poker while in the brigade. He hadn’t had much chance to play since then, and all that money was just burning a hole in his pocket.”

  Rosa started to express her shock, but Louise quickly amended, “I don’t want you to think poorly of George. He’s a good man. We’ve all got our weaknesses, and evidently gambling is his. But how was Mary to know? He rarely went to town, so it hadn’t come up before. I’ve known him my whole adult life and would have never thought it of him.

  “So, to make a long story short, Wes leased their ranch from them. He took the lease money to the courthouse himself and paid the taxes, so there was no danger of them losing the family land. Wes keeps his sheep out here, where George and his boys can take care of them.”

  “How sad for Uncle George!”

  “Well, that’s what family’s for. I think the setup bothers Mary more than it does George, though. Specially since it’s put Weston in a bind. He’s got a lot of land, but cash is hard to come by. Something for us to bear in mind if we aren’t caught up by August.” She smiled. “We’ll just have to make sure we aren’t in that position, won’t we?”

  The horizon held Louise’s attention for a troubled moment. “Mary told me they’re saving to invest in longhorns again. She thinks after this spring they’ll lease back only part of their land to Wes and run cattle on the rest. Could be that Weston would want to lease our land, but I can’t offer it unless George and Mary bow out first, so pray they have a good summer, too. If they get enough money together, we might be saved.”

  She paused as she caught a glimpse of a sharp black buggy crossing the creek. “My, my, looks like we have company. Don’t say anything about leasing. It’s too early to give up. We still have time.” She hurried into the house, leaving Rosa alone in the yard with her arms full of twigs.

  Rosa deposited the branches in the growing pile next to the laundry line and went through the kitchen door. By the time she’d washed up at the spigot, the guests were in the parlor, where she could eavesdrop easily.

  A woman’s voice she didn’t recognize wafted into the room. “It’s hard to believe that they are never coming back. Both Eli and Mack. I’d always imagined that one day they’d return to this house.”

  “It’s a bitter world we live in.” Overcome by sorrow, it took Louise a minute to remember her manners. “And I haven’t had a chance to speak with you about your own tragedy. May I offer my condolences?”

  The deep voice that answered sent a shock through Rosa’s chest. “Thank you, Aunt Louise. I appreciate your thoughts, although my loss isn’t as recent as yours. How are you managing?”

  Wasting no more time in the kitchen, Rosa entered to see a young dark-haired woman in an ill-fitting gown place her hand on Weston’s arm. He didn’t finish the sentence. Upon seeing Rosa, he stood but didn’t meet her eyes. She knew she wasn’t much to look at this morning, but after all they’d encountered together, why was he acting like a total stranger?

  “Eliza, this is my daughter-in-law, Rosa. Mack’s wife.” Rosa held out her hand as she’d been instructed and was pleased to find a pair of sparkling eyes appraising her from under fringed bangs and highly arched eyebrows.

  What would the other woman think? Rosa had chosen her stained red blouse for work in the garden, but it was still a strong color for her. Would she appreciate the handiwork on the seams or only see the dirt? And Rosa’s hair was twisted up and off her neck in an artless knot, completely unlike the tight curls that framed Eliza’s face. She was so out of fashion, but Eliza didn’t seem to mind.

  “Look at us. So for
mal.” Eliza laughed as she leaned forward for a cheek-to-cheek hug. “This is how kin behave.”

  Weston didn’t follow suit but swung his hands behind his back, making it clear that neither the hug nor the handshake was necessary. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Garner.”

  Rosa searched his face for some twinkle of recognition but found only formality.

  “Oh yes, Weston told me an amusing story, but I forget. Where did you meet?” Eliza raised her eyebrows.

  Rosa followed Louise’s lead and took a seat. “When I went to help Uncle George and Aunt Mary for the sheep shearing.”

  “Oh, you were the one at the sheep shearing!” Eliza’s eyes danced with mischief. “I just wish I could have been there. Sounds like you made quite an impression.”

  Rosa gasped. He’d told her about the old ewe? But Weston quickly set her straight.

  “Your evaluation of my haircut was something I knew my sister would enjoy.”

  Rosa breathed an internal sigh of relief. Louise would never recover if she heard about her attempt at corralling the rogue ewe.

  Eliza went on. “I just wish I’d been there to see it. I can only imagine. Alas, he didn’t wait. He had it trimmed before we arrived. Do you think it’s a vast improvement?”

  Rosa’s mouth twitched. He would keep her secret safe, and although she was grateful, she knew whose team she was on when siblings bantered. Sisters had to stick together.

  She dared to study him for a long moment, taking in the clean-shaven jaw and the freshly trimmed sideburns framing his handsome face. Rosa screwed up her mouth in disapproval. “No, I’m sorry to say it isn’t much improved, but I don’t think the barber can be blamed.”

  “Rosa!” Louise gasped as the girls dissolved into giggles. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. And you, Eliza Jane, you haven’t changed a bit, always tormenting your poor brother. Doesn’t he have enough on his plate?”