She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “I told you, God knows what He’s doing. You might have misapplied Aunt Louise’s Bible story, but this is where I need to be. If it weren’t for the circumstances forcing my hand, I don’t know how long it’d be before I got my life back.”
“You’re an incredible man, Mr. Garner. You’ve saved my ranch and reputation, yet you carry on like I’m doing you a favor. I don’t understand.”
He squeezed her hand and released it.
“You don’t have to. Just be happy.” He stretched out full length on the blanket and pulled his hat over his eyes. “And unless you’re in a hurry to skedaddle back to the house, I think I’ll catch me a little siesta.”
One eye peeked out from behind the hat. Looking for her reaction? Was he afraid she’d lie down next to him? Probably so after the barn incident, but she didn’t trust herself to get too close. Rosa got to her feet quick enough but didn’t know what to do next. Hands on her hips, she took the measure of the majestic cottonwood spreading up and over their heads. She walked around it once and found the two lowest branches were within reach. Satisfied, Rosa came back to the blanket and unlaced her boots. She wiggled out of her stockings and thought she caught Wes watching, but when she looked closer, only saw shadows beneath the hat brim. She must’ve been mistaken.
She hopped to get both hands wrapped around the lowest branch, then laced her fingers over the rough bark and walked her bare feet up the trunk. Hanging horizontally, she took one more furtive glance toward Weston and, seeing the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, threw her leg over the branch and rotated until she was sitting atop it. The first perch was always the hardest. Once she stood on the branch, it was almost as easy as going up a ladder.
What was it about climbing that appealed to her? Perhaps the giant tree dared her to conquer it. As long as it towered over her, she was not the victor. And after a string of failures, this ancient cottonwood offered a chance for a small accomplishment. Maybe the combination of the mental and physical tests challenged her. Maybe reaching the apex brought her satisfaction. For whatever reason, there was nothing she’d rather do at that moment.
Fearless now with the knowledge that a leafy layer hid her from view, Rosa scaled the tree, unconcerned with modesty. Soon, her blue skirt was tucked into her waistband, revealing legs the color of bread crust.
As the limbs grew smaller, Rosa slowed her ascent, making sure to have three grips at all times—two hands and one foot, or two feet and one hand. She hugged the now slender trunk and worked her way around to a break in the foliage.
Her breath caught. Before her spread most of the county. She saw Palmetto’s impressive yellow bulk against the dry prairie. The creek was just a scratch until it joined with another branch to make a dark scar across the landscape. She tracked the bare wagon trail through the trees to a doll’s house resembling George and Mary’s. Could those be people? Why, Mary herself was walking with one of the girls skipping to the barn. Fascinated, she watched the mundane scene as if it were something holy.
How little they looked! No more important than the mice that scurried away from Smokey’s hooves. Did God see her that way? No, she believed what Eli had taught her—God cared very much. The verse Weston had quoted said God offered to fill her, to care for her, and to love her. Sometimes He used miracles and sometimes He sent His people to bridge the gap. In her time of need, Weston was God’s provision for her.
Thank you for him, Lord Jesus. I pray that you’ll straighten out this mistake. He doesn’t deserve the trouble I’ve brought him. Help me make amends.
As she scanned the broad landscape, she felt proud to be a part of this community. The people shared a bond here, a bond formed from hardship and blood, and she would do her best to keep it strong. True, she had no idea what her role would be, but she was pleased that the Garners’ precious land hadn’t fallen into evil hands because of her. Someday she might be a godmother to Susannah’s children. She might sew a wedding dress for a daughter of Eliza. As long as she contributed. Please let me bring some form of blessing to those who have given me so much, she prayed, looking up at the unbounded sky.
As much as it delighted Rosa to climb, once she reached the top, she wouldn’t linger. Couldn’t relax in a treetop. So after committing the scene to memory, she began her descent.
Slowly moving from branch to branch, the arch of her foot found hold on each rounded limb. She lowered herself gently through the years of growth until she was sitting on the giant bottom branch. Looking down, she searched for a good landing spot, not wanting to drop barefoot onto a jagged stone. She spotted a pile of rotting leaves before she swung down, and plopped into them—a perfect shot.
The rustle of the leaves disguised the queer noise. There it was again.
“Don’t move,” Weston ordered.
She froze, the tone of his command instilling her with fear.
She heard the dry grass under the blanket crackle. Weston moved, but she couldn’t? Still crouched with her skirt gathered, she obeyed with everything but her eyes, which frantically tried to locate the sound. Another rattle and some leaves fell away, revealing a coiled snake just inches from her bare ankles. She tried not to flinch but had to steal a glance over her shoulder.
“Shh,” he whispered. “You can’t outrun him. Be very, very still.” Weston slid his gun from its holster and smoothly held it level.
Another rattle brought her attention back around. Could Weston even see it? She was standing between the two, and the snake was half obscured by the leaves. She stared at its malicious eyes and flexed neck. Its sinister head drew back tightly; tongue flickered to taste her air. It seemed to take a breath, and then . . . with an explosion it disappeared.
Where did it go? The leaves thrashed, a whip lashing frantically about in them, but the snake was headless.
Wes sprang to his feet, but before he could reach her, she turned and whistled low.
“You did that? You made it vanish? But I was in the way. Did the bullet go between my feet?”
“It was the only clear shot I had.” He holstered his gun and checked his hands. They were steady. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“All right? I’m amazed! You stopped it from all the way over there.” The close call had her blood pumping. She looked again at the deadly whip he’d rendered harmless. “Tuck and Samuel will want to hear this. They say their Uncle Weston is the toughest piece of jerky around. That’s good, no?”
Weston turned red underneath a fine sheen of perspiration. Oops. Maybe she should’ve lowered her skirts before speaking, for they were still tucked into her waistband. “Excuse me. I forgot . . .” Pretty sure that was a serious offense, married or not. She bounded to the blanket and dropped to arrange them over her feet while she slid on her stockings and boots. “You are finished with your siesta?”
“Might as well be with the ruckus you’re raising.” He laughed nervously, but he managed to smile. Together they gathered the dinner pail and canteen and strapped the blanket to the back of Pandora’s saddle.
“I’m glad you woke up. I’d be in a lot of trouble otherwise. Now I suppose I owe you even more.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
She waited for him next to Smokey and was about to retort when he put his hands around her waist. Perhaps Weston had forgotten how to lift her, because he sure took his sweet time getting a good grip. Her playful attitude melted in the earnestness of his expression.
“I’m not fooling around, Rosa. You’re my wife, and you can’t work off your debt. I won’t accept it.”
No, he wasn’t fooling around. With the smell of gun smoke still swirling about him, she knew he’d brook no backtalk. Maybe they could discuss it when they weren’t alone with his hands snugly around her perpetually corsetless waist. She decided to bide her time until he saw reason.
“I can read your thoughts as easily as if they were branded in your hide.” He lifted her onto Smokey’s ba
ck and handed her the reins. “Be patient, Rosa. We’re in it for the long haul. No sense in doing something we’ll regret.” With a slap on the rump he sent Smokey toward home.
22
ELIZA AND JAKE RETURNED before another night had passed. Good thing. Weston needed to get out to work. Having both Jake and him absent would put them behind. Besides, staying around the house wore him slick. Especially when he hadn’t decided what to do with his bride.
Hosting company had always fallen on the ladies of the family. Obviously, Rosa wasn’t a guest, but he couldn’t leave her stewing in the parlor while he rode his rounds. On the other hand, he didn’t want to risk more time alone with her in the fields. Somehow things got messy no matter where they were.
He couldn’t woo her. He couldn’t offer himself as a legitimate husband yet. Not with the crazy reactions her presence caused. Half the time he wanted to run and half the time he wanted to hold her, but never did he consider releasing her. Someday he’d be ready, and he wanted Rosa there when he did. Selfish.
You add one woman to the table, and the dining room explodes in noise. Eliza and Rosa chattered over each other like magpies. One of Rosa’s stories rolled out so fast, she was half done before they realized she’d switched to Spanish somewhere along the way. Would it ever be quiet again? Was that what he wanted?
“Wes, you haven’t said two words tonight. You’re mulling something over. What’s stuck in your craw?”
Jake caught him staring at her. Now everyone had. Rosa went scarlet.
Jake’s napkin flew to his mouth to prevent his food from erupting. “Did you see that, Eliza? I bet I know what he’s thinking about.”
Eliza’s eyebrows shot up as she perused both of them. “They certainly are behaving ridiculously, avoiding each other all evening. Not acting like newlyweds should.”
Rosa was the first to break. “I don’t . . . we’re not . . .”
“You don’t need to say anything. It doesn’t concern them,” Weston said.
“I’m concerned.” Jake chortled as his brother-in-law glared. “I am. If y’all are already having spats, we might consider moving out. I don’t want to raise our child in a hostile environment.”
“Jake, stop. You’re making me laugh.” Eliza fanned her face. “I’m going to have heartburn tonight for sure.”
“Well, that’s just dandy. Now none of us will be having any fun this evening.” He threw his napkin down in mock exasperation. “You’re not being a good influence on my wife, and I don’t appreciate it.”
A hearty guffaw escaped from Rosa, obviously startling her. She clamped her mouth shut before more could escape, but her shoulders shook from the effort.
She amazed him. Her black eyes sparked. Her laugh rang as high as her spirits. How had she endured three months of quiet evenings with only Aunt Louise for company? And before that, she’d survived a long dry trip over hundreds of miles? Seeing her now made it easy to imagine her as the toast of her town—Ciauhtlaz, was it? Despite her quiet demeanor, she certainly wasn’t a wallflower.
The evening sun wrapped the room in golden hues as Eliza told about her shopping trip. Jake threw in his own salty descriptions for flavoring when the story ran dull for his taste.
Weston never imagined his family dinners would look like this—his pregnant sister, rowdy brother-in-law, and his Mexican wife gathered around the table—but now he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“That trunk is full of clothes for me? I can’t afford them.” Rosa’s face creased.
“Afford them?” Eliza laid her napkin aside. “Wes will get you all the gowns you need. Just don’t expect him to do the shopping.”
“She’s being ornery, Rosa. I’ll take you to town next week to get them fitted,” Weston offered.
“Oh no. I can alter them myself. Save a little money, no?”
“If you like.” Tossing his napkin on the table, he addressed his sister, “Now, you’re probably roaring to go. Finally we have a participant for our poetry readings who might appreciate all your schooling. What highfalutin’ cultural goods are you going to expire us to tonight?”
“It’s expose, not expire, and I think you’ll like it,” she said as she got up. “I bought a book yesterday by the poet John Donne. His religious poetry is well-known for . . .” Her voice trailed off as she made her way to the parlor. Since returning from the Ladies’ Academy, Eliza had searched in vain for an occasion to make use of her genteel education. Whenever possible she wrangled the men of her hearth into evening readings, for lack of a more suitable audience. Hopefully, Rosa’s presence would take the pressure off of Jake and Weston.
As the ladies strolled out of the room, Jake pulled Wes aside. “Did you miss us?”
“Actually, I did.”
Jake’s face fell. “That ain’t right. I’m disappointed in you.”
“Rosa can’t rope as well as you do. Nice to have you back.”
The parlor settee was June-bug green, its upholstery filleted into diamonds by silken strands of lemon cutting through the cloth.
With her index finger, Rosa traced the golden path, turning at an intersection every time she heard an interesting phrase, until Eliza reached the conclusion. Her head swam with the rich sounds and vivid imagery of the poetry. Always a lover of the dramatic, Rosa could feel the meter pounding each strong word into her heart.
“I love all the words that describe doing things. What are those called?” she asked her sister-in-law.
“Verbs?”
“Yes, the verbs in that poem are so powerful: batter, break, ravish, enthrall . . .”
“What’s that?” Weston entered, took the book from Eliza’s hand, and inspected the cover. “That doesn’t sound like poetry that should be in my house.”
“Nonsense, Weston. It’s religious poetry from over two hundred years ago.” Eliza snatched it from him and smoothed the page. “See, in the first stanza the poet is distraught because there’s something standing between God and him, and he can’t remove it alone. He wants his relationship with God to be more intimate, but he doesn’t know how to move forward.
“Batter my heart, three person’d God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.”
Rosa leaned forward. “There must’ve been something in her life holding her back—a fear she couldn’t overcome. She wants to completely belong to God but needs Him to pursue her.”
“She?” Weston looked at Rosa suspiciously and seated himself in the armchair by the unlit fireplace. “I thought the writer’s name was John.”
Eliza came to her aid. “It’s a personal poem meant to be embraced by the reader. If the reader is female, she puts herself in the place of the author.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Wes. Didn’t they teach you that on the Chisholm Trail?”
“Must have missed that lesson.”
“Read the last again,” Rosa said.
“Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”
“That’s enough,” Weston said firmly.
Rosa blinked. Did he really disapprove?
“Sorry,” Eliza said. “I forgot to factor in your provincial scruples.”
“Sit back and enjoy, Rosa,” Jake said with a laugh. “Wes and Eliza are capable of some Texas-sized showdowns. This looks promising.”
But she didn’t want them to fight. They’d had so much fun during supper. The evening mustn’t be ruined now.
Without thinking, she left the settee and found herself on the footstool at Wes’s knees. He sat up a little straighter.
“Don’t you ever feel that way? Sometimes it seems every choice I make is a mistake. If only God would just stop the struggle, surround me, and make me do His will, how easy it would be!”
He
moderated his tone for her but continued to glare at his sister. “I don’t disagree; however, the language in that poem is not appropriate—definitely not appropriate for a parlor, most likely inappropriate anywhere.”
Eliza’s voice burst through their bubble. “Appropriate? How many times will you use that word in one breath? You forget, dear brother, while I appreciate Victorian sensibilities, especially here on the frontier, God is not Victorian. Prudishness can go too far.”
“That poem can go too far. It guides the imagination where it shouldn’t go. I’m no prude, but to use explicit imagery to describe a spiritual relationship is unbiblical.”
“You need to read your Bible,” said Eliza.
“Yes, you do,” Rosa agreed. Why were they so riled up? She would end this puzzling hostility. “Eli used to read the Bible to us every night. There’s so much I don’t understand. Would you read it to us?”
“He’d be glad to.” Jake dug for a piece of food in his teeth with his pocketknife. “Wes used to lead devotions at church. You just find a good passage and—”
“Maybe something from Song of Solomon,” Eliza suggested. Even Rosa couldn’t miss the look her brother shot her.
“Solomon? Isn’t that King David’s son?” Rosa didn’t want to see the fight Jake predicted.
“Yep,” Jake answered. “Sure was. He has a nice little book right there in the Old Testament—great reading for married couples.”
“Jake, you got any chores to do?” Weston growled.
“Nope. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from this rodeo.”
Eliza wasn’t done either. “Think about it, Wes. You believe that Scripture is divinely inspired. Why would God include the book if it was something to be ashamed of?”
What were they talking about? Rosa looked to the man who’d never yet failed to help her when she asked. “What is Solomon’s Song?”
He put both hands on his face and wiped down hard, almost pulling the day’s growth of whiskers out of his skin. He studied the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Truthfully, I don’t know that I’ve ever read it all the way through.”
Sixty Acres and a Bride Page 22