Sixty Acres and a Bride

by Regina Jennings

  All he could see was the smooth part in her black hair. She wouldn’t look up.

  He stepped back. He’d asked her to give him a chance, and she’d refused. Time was up. Happened to men everywhere, every day. Only difference—he was already married to her.

  “You’re sticking to your guns, huh? Fine.” He dusted his palms on each other. “I promised that I wouldn’t leave you, and I won’t send you away, but if you want a business relationship, then you’ve got it. Starting now, you’ll keep yourself busy. If I need you, I’ll let you know, but don’t expect me to treat you any differently than the fellows—worse even, because I can’t be accused of fraternizing with my female help. Forget that we’re married. I’ll never mention it again. You got what you wanted. You win.”

  He felt like a child stomping off, but he did anyway, trudging through every puddle before him.

  26

  THE SPICY SCENTS brought back memories of home. Spooning the dark sauce over the golden chicken, Rosa tried to replace her feelings of loss with feelings of attachment. She might not belong to the family, but she definitely belonged with them.

  How she could’ve used one of those hugs Weston had a right to, but in his negotiations he never mentioned love. The shame of an annulment, the practicality of having a wife and children—good reasons to stay together, but not what she was looking for. She’d asked him for love once before, and the terror on his face humbled her. She couldn’t cross that line again. The pain of rejection would send her running, and she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to be here.

  Rosa relished the weight of the ceramic tureen of chicken in her arms, a small gift to the people she’d grown so fond of. Octavia followed her into the dining room with the cloth-wrapped tortillas in one hand and a bowl of beans in the other.

  “Yee-haw!” Jake said. “I couldn’t believe my nose when I walked in. Fiesta tonight.”

  “It’s all Mrs. Garner’s doing.” Octavia filled their empty glasses with sweet tea.

  “Not true. It was a two-woman job.” Rosa carried the tureen back to the table and found her seat. “And if you’ve never eaten this before, I’ll be glad to show you how it’s done. You’ll notice there’s no silverware on the table.”

  “How quaint! It won’t matter anyway. I drip everything on my belly.” Eliza laughed.

  Octavia stepped out as Jake prepared to return thanks, but Weston stopped him.

  “Hold on a minute. Rosa, weren’t you going to eat in the kitchen?”

  She kept the smile plastered on her face, even though there wasn’t a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “Why would she do that?” Eliza asked.

  “She wants to. That’s where Octavia eats.” Weston might as well have worn a mask.

  All eyes turned her way. He wasn’t jesting. Her throat closed, rendering her unable to confirm or deny his story. Without a word, Rosa gathered her glass and plate in trembling hands and walked to the kitchen through their shocked silence.

  The door swung closed behind her, muffling Eliza’s heated conversation with her brother. For a split second Rosa almost railed against him, too. Her embarrassment tempted her to lash out, but logic reigned. She’d asked for this. As much as it hurt, he was doing what he’d promised—what she’d requested.

  “Why are you in here? Ain’t you eating?” Octavia mumbled around a mouthful of chicken.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t feel like it.” Rosa slid her plate across the counter and tossed her tea in the slop bucket. “Have a good night.”

  The sunlight lingered, but Rosa turned in for the night. She closed her bedroom door and dropped onto her bed. The stuffy room seemed warmer than usual. Octavia hadn’t been upstairs to open the windows for the evening. She probably did that after supper while they were in the parlor. What else did Octavia do that she didn’t know about? More importantly, who kept Octavia company when her work was done?

  Rosa searched for her sewing basket. An employee should stay busy, but the basket wasn’t in her room. It was probably down in the parlor. Soon Eliza would have the poetry book before her and would be reading to an unappreciative audience. Jake would be on the settee with Eliza, and Weston would be in his chair. Would he kick his legs up on the empty footstool since she wasn’t there?

  She picked at a pink hibiscus she’d sewn into her coverlet. Rosa loved the evenings when the men came home and the house was filled with their deep voices. The stories they’d shared, the jokes, the plans, all of it made her feel like she belonged. But she knew better. Weston had welcomed her, but she couldn’t live here as a guest. She needed some reason to justify her presence. Some reason that didn’t involve him personally.

  Rosa rolled off the bed and pulled her flute from a drawer of stockings. The night promised nothing but sorrow and loneliness. She would learn to enjoy her own company. First she opened her window and then played the songs of a home that a young girl with a bright future once knew.

  Try as she might the only songs she remembered were doleful melodies not played since the night of the thunderstorm. She sighed, refusing to give in to desperation. This wouldn’t be an easy transition, but she should count her blessings.

  As far as laborers went, Rosa wouldn’t suffer. Many slaved from dawn to dusk and weren’t compensated fairly. Many endured overseers who were cruel and oppressive. Her employer, on the other hand . . .

  She remembered another song, took a deep breath, and started the forlorn tune. Her employer was a good man—one who’d tried to correct her mistakes and pay for her errors, but she couldn’t rely on his charity. She didn’t deserve his help. How she longed to make it right, but an annulment was the only remedy she could fathom. Barring that, she had to resort to keeping as far away as possible.

  The loud knock on her door startled her. She looked at her window. Darkness had fallen. They must have left the parlor by now. Smoothing her gown, she called out, “Yes? You may enter.”

  But the door didn’t open.

  “It’s Mr. Garner. Would you kindly desist with the flute? It’s late and you need to get up early to start breakfast.”

  So unexpected was the request, it took her a moment to compose herself. “Yes, I-I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night,” she called, anxious for conversation, but there was none. Footsteps faded into his room, and then silence.

  Rosa had no choice but to lie on her bed and watch the twinkling stars mock her.

  “I don’t like it, Weston. It kept me up all night—that and indigestion.” Eliza lowered herself onto the settee with a groan.

  Weston pushed the curtain aside to watch Rosa ride away from the house. First light and she was already out the door to begin her day’s work. “I don’t like it, either, but what choice do I have? She insists I treat her like a servant, or she’ll leave.”

  “What if she left, Wes? You weren’t exactly planning on marriage this summer. Would it matter so much?”

  Rosa’s small figure rode steadily as Smokey carried her farther and farther away. What if she never returned? Could he pretend she was just another cousin? Could he banish his hopes, or would they dog him continually?

  “It would matter very much.” He dropped the curtain and turned to face his sister. “I’m scared, Eliza.”

  “Of her leaving?”

  “Leaving, staying—I don’t know which scares me the most.” He fell into his chair. “I want to give her everything, but I can’t promise her an easy relationship. I can’t promise her that she’ll be happy. I tried that with Cora and failed.”

  “Guaranteed happiness? That’s her demand?”

  “No, but with her history, I’m afraid to offer anything less. I can’t let her down. Mack only married her because Eli made him, and he let Rosa know how displeased he was over the arrangement. Rosa never forgave herself for complying.”

  “Why should she feel guilty? Mack could’ve refused.”

  “She doesn’t see that. Maybe he didn’t mean for Rosa to take it
so hard. Maybe he would’ve adjusted and done right by her, but then he died, leaving her to wonder what she could’ve done differently.”

  Eliza raised an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

  “No one forced Cora to marry me.” But the words had scarcely left his mouth before he saw the parallel. Of course, no one had forced her. She’d chosen her course with less interference than Mack had. Yet once they were married, Weston felt completely responsible for her moods. Where had her accountability lain?

  Cora had declined, mentally and physically. She’d lost the will to live. Had she chosen that path, or had she been dragged down it against her will?

  “I can’t blame Cora. It wasn’t her fault.”

  “Yet you blame yourself. You see so clearly the splinter in Rosa’s eye, but you’ve missed the beam in your own. Rosa can’t afford to offer her heart again—not before you’re ready to accept it.” Eliza pointed at him for emphasis. “If you want to suffer from guilt, let it be for not kissing her senseless and pledging your undying love. Never undervalue the persuasiveness of a grand gesture.”

  “You and your sentimental twaddle.” But Eliza was right. His regrets had crowded him into fresh offenses—like carrying out the first half of her suggestion without offering the latter. Rosa had allowed, nay participated in, the kissing, but when she’d asked for love, he’d hedged. No wonder she didn’t trust him. “Unfortunately, she’s made up her mind. She’ll have to make the first move now. And you—you can’t get involved. She’ll leave if she feels pressured.”

  “I wouldn’t pressure the poor thing. These things must be handled with a delicacy I don’t possess. I just wish you’d get it settled. You’re keeping me on tenterhooks, and I’m uncomfortable enough already.”

  With what threat had Eliza’s compliance been secured? Rosa clicked to Smokey, hoping to hurry the patient animal along. It must have been an impressive warning, for Rosa had fully expected Eliza to protest her new position. Loudly. Of course other events competed for her attention. Moving the furniture to Mr. Bradford’s and Louise’s personal items to Adele’s, where she was staying until the wedding, kept them all busy. Any spare time was spent preparing for the baby. Whether they had a deal or not, Rosa would have worked like a hired hand this week anyway.

  Smokey’s horseshoes clicked on the hard-packed road, never slowing down. Cleaning out the vacant house for Eliza’s eventual move had taken longer than she’d expected. Back at Palmetto, Louise’s unfinished tablecloth lay folded in her sewing basket, and the wedding shower was tomorrow.

  She cringed at the man who appeared as she broke out of the trees. Definitely no time for the likes of him.

  “Who do we have here? If it isn’t Mrs. Garner, Mrs. Weston Garner.” Tillerton’s voice was smooth and pleasant—just like a tasteless poison. “I’ve meant to congratulate you. You sure didn’t waste your time with the small fries, did you? Went straight for the big catch.”

  Falling in beside her, he went on. “I’m not surprised that Mr. Garner was game for a romp in the hay. I’m sure you were tempting enough. What amazes me is that ring on your finger. Poor man.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “There was a witness, wasn’t there?”

  “Nasty man, leave me alone.” With her heels she prodded Smokey to a trot, but Tillerton stayed at her side.

  “Yes, you women flock after the uncultured Philistines. My whole life I’ve played second fiddle to the big, strapping illiterates who don’t know the difference between Darwin and Dickens. Then I discovered that the ladies prefer rough handling. You treat them badly, and they come back for more. Sometimes they even—what was the rumor?—hunt you down and crawl into bed with you.”

  But Rosa wouldn’t flee. She had the protection she needed at hand. She had to take care of herself. Weston wouldn’t follow her around anymore.

  She glared at him. “You know, at the church you sold me a bill of goods. I didn’t know any better then, but I think you lied to me. No other man acts as crudely as you. No one else has insulted me. Makes me think the rest of the story was hogwash, as well.”

  He bowed with his hand on his chest, leaning forward in the saddle.

  “Mrs. Garner, I underestimated you in many ways, but in particular, your intelligence. To my shame, I’ll admit I was only having a bit of fun with a young single lady. Just teasing you. Let me assure you, as a married woman, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  That was more like it. Rosa didn’t trust him any further than she could spit, but if he could keep from leering at her, maybe she wouldn’t have to shoot him.

  “Thank you.” She tried to think of something civil to say. She’d spent a lot of time composing insults, but those wouldn’t work now. What would Louise say? “I haven’t seen your wife about. Is she well?”

  “Yes, but she remains reclusive. If only I could entice her to enter society. She might step outside occasionally, but in general she doesn’t even want to leave the house.”

  “Really? I saw her out just last week at the creek bed. She didn’t stay long, but—”

  “You’ve spoken to Anne?” Tillerton’s jaw clenched. “That’s odd. She didn’t mention it. Makes me wonder what else she’s hiding from me.”

  And without another word he spurred his horse, leaving Rosa behind to wonder.

  Rosa regretted burning her finger on the skillet that afternoon. It made the needlework nigh impossible. She also regretted that Octavia wasn’t more of a talker. She didn’t appreciate Rosa’s wry observations nearly as much as Eliza did. By the time the potatoes were cooked through, Rosa had learned to keep her comments to herself. Yes, she had a lot of regrets, but she was doing her dead level best to make amends to those she’d wronged.

  A plate of gingersnap cookies had mysteriously appeared in the parlor. A second embroidered pillowcase awaited discovery in Weston’s room at the moment. And with her first wages she planned to buy some peppermints from Deacon.

  Not much, but she hoped he’d notice. Despite their disagreement, she intended to serve him faithfully. She wanted what was best for him even if their friendship couldn’t survive in close quarters.

  She jabbed her needle into the tablecloth she was embroidering for Louise’s new kitchen. Just a few more stitches and the red border would be done. It was a good thing her sewing wasn’t as big of a tangled mess as her heart. How had her concern for Weston caused so much pain?

  Rosa jumped when he appeared in the doorway, hoping she hadn’t been speaking aloud. His clean butternut shirt was still crisp, not yet soiled by the day’s labor. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his presence emanating a force she had to handle with care.

  “Willie’s going to plow on Monday. Do you know what seeds you want?”

  She dropped her hoop to her lap. “I haven’t got it all planned yet. When do you need to know?”

  “Now would be good. Jake’s taking Eliza to town for Louise’s shower. He’s going to ride to Lockhart for me and pick up any goods we might need.”

  “Louise’s shower?” She looked helplessly at the fabric in her hands. “How am I going to get there?”

  “I thought you’d want to go to the wedding. You can’t really take two days off in one week.”

  Not go to the shower? What would Louise think? But he was as cool as a line of trout. She took one more stitch, tied a knot, and bit off the thread.

  “What excuse will Eliza give?”

  “As mad as she is, I suppose she’ll brand me a monster.”

  Rosa folded the tablecloth, smoothed the heavy square, and pulled a ribbon from her basket to make it presentable. She placed it in his hands. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

  He looked at the floor. “There’s nothing new to say. This is what you’ve chosen, so we live with it. Eliza can take your gift to the shower, and you’ll ride with me to the wedding tomorrow. In the meantime, unless you had other plans, I’d like to see the upstairs bedrooms aired out. They haven’t been tended since spring, and we’ll proba
bly have guests once the baby arrives.”

  A cheerless relief descended upon her. He hadn’t put up much of a fight, but she wasn’t surprised. She knew if she gave him some space to think it through, he’d realize he didn’t need her.

  After dictating a seed list to Jake, Rosa hurried to the second floor. Since the first night she’d arrived, she hadn’t had a reason to visit the spare rooms upstairs. Taking brass polish, rags, feather dusters, a broom, and all the linens she could carry, she started at the back of the hall, saving the only two occupied rooms for last.

  The rooms weren’t messy. The fireplaces hadn’t been lit since the last cleaning, so the grates only received a quick wipe down. Chasing the dust from every embellishment on the heavy furniture took more time than she’d expected, but she enjoyed running her fingers through the wooden curlicues, following their meandering way across chairs, headboards, mantels, and picture frames. These people might not appreciate bright colors, but they sure did like fancy carvings.

  Who had occupied the rooms? Did Eli hide under this bed? Did Eliza cry into this pillow over a long-forgotten suitor? She imagined dramatic scenes as she stripped the sheets and shook out the rugs, letting the character of the room dictate the direction of the plot.

  Only one room wasn’t serviceable. It contained a single bed with a lonely white sheet tossed over the mattress. Rosa lifted it to see what it could possibly be protecting and caught her breath. Laid out from end to end were framed photographs and painted portraits. She pulled open the shade so she could study the sepia images.

  They were Garners, all right. The family traits were stamped on the unfamiliar faces, but upon closer inspection she realized they weren’t all strangers. There was Mack, grinning impishly with a rattle in his tight fist. Louise was as plump as her new infant. Eli—young, proud papa Eli—stood straight and tall, overlooking his family.