by Lisa Plumley
Her stiff tone hardly sounded convincing. But Miles was fascinated that Rosamond had wrangled that much compliance from her balky assistant. Whatever Rosamond had endured during their time apart, it had changed her. It had made her into an even more resilient woman, one who commanded respect and admiration for her tenacity and her power of will. No matter what had happened, his Rose had done more than survive. She’d risen above her circumstances and helped others to do the same.
Not every woman, in her shoes, would have been capable of that. Miles wished he knew exactly what had brought Rosamond to this place. Had her brief marriage to Elijah Dancy altered her? Or had Bouchard caused all the changes he glimpsed in her?
He made a mental note to find out. Soon. In the meantime…
“…since you’re here,” Miss Yates was saying to him, “perhaps you can help us with a few chores. There are a great many things that need to be hoisted, fixed or seen to—”
“Mr. Callaway is not ours to command, Miss Yates.”
“—and you seem to be just the capable man for the job.”
“Mr. Callaway already has a job. At Owen Cooper’s stable.”
“Yes, but he’s here now. And we need strong arms.”
“We have Judah, Dylan and Seth. They can help.”
“Not while guarding all the doors, they can’t,” Miss Yates reminded Rosamond. “You increased our security, remember?”
The two women’s polite quarrel interested Miles, in terms of what Rosamond had accomplished here. But time was dwindling.
“I’m not sure your increased security is effective,” Miles told them both. “Since when I arrived today, I’m sure I saw Seth in the side yard rolling dice with someone.”
He didn’t mention how easily he’d slipped past the security man. There was no point causing undue alarm. He was here now.
He intended to protect Rosamond with everything he had.
“Dice? Seth was gambling? During working hours?” Rosamond made a disbelieving face. “I know he complains of being short of money sometimes. Now I see why. He knows that’s not allowed.”
“No, it is not.” Miss Yates tsk-tsked. “Things are getting very out of hand all of a sudden.”
Her implication was plain. Miles was a distraction.
A distraction who should be sent packing. Or put to work.
“Still,” Rosamond insisted, “I will not have Mr. Callaway treated like a servant. He’s been through enough already.”
Her determined tone was telling. Did she regret leaving him behind in Boston? Miles wondered. He didn’t want Rosamond to be sorry for anything she’d done…but he did want her to want him here. If reminding her of their shared past in service to an unappreciative and demanding society family would do that…
“Whatever needs done, I’m your man.” Meaningfully, Miles winked at Rosamond. Pleased by her blushing response, he shucked his coat. He offered it to a triumphant Miss Yates, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll make sure you’re happy with my work.”
His gruff assurance made Rosamond’s blush deepen. Hmm. Maybe they could recapture some of the closeness they’d shared.
All he had to do was take things one step at a time.
Quickly. Before Bouchard or his thugs caught up with him.
“All right, then. What’s first?” Duly prepared for manual labor, Miles glanced up. “Heavy lifting? Repairs? Cake baking?”
Both women fell silent, staring at his bare forearms. Puzzled, Miles turned over his arms. He flexed them. They were the same ordinary, well-muscled, hairy arms he’d always had.
That didn’t explain why Rosamond and Miss Yates were so transfixed. Maybe the men they admitted to the mutual society were too well mannered. It wasn’t a crime to take off a coat.
Rosamond blinked. “Cake baking?” she asked.
“In my previous job, I used to help the cook stir cake batter. Whenever she was making a fancy cake, the eggs had to be beaten hard for ten minutes, then the batter had to be beaten for another twenty before it was baked. If I helped stir—”
“You got to taste the batter,” Rosamond surmised, smiling.
Miles nodded. “I just happened to be the best stirrer.”
“I’ll bet you were,” Rosamond agreed. “I can imagine so.”
He knew damn well she didn’t have to imagine anything. Whenever he’d been able to—whenever she’d been free of duties—he’d shared those sweet batter swipes with her. Miles still possessed one cherished memory of watching Rosamond lick a big wooden spoon, her eyes closed in sweets-induced ecstasy.
Miss Yates harrumphed. “There won’t be any special treatment of that sort here. Only a lot of work.”
“And a lot of romance.” Miss Jorgensen stepped up, looking like a grown-up version of her daughter, Agatha, right down to her blond hair and spectacles. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Dancy, but that special appointment of yours is in your parlor.”
What did that have to do with romance? Miles wondered.
He flexed his forearms again, this time in vexation.
“Ah.” Rosamond smiled. She nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
“Appointment?” Miles prodded. “But you don’t take appointments. Everyone in town was very clear on that fact.”
“This one is special, as Miss Jorgensen said.” Giving him an impudent look, Rosamond piqued his curiosity further. “Thank you for your help with Miss Yates’s chores, Mr. Callaway. I’ll just leave you to her authority, then. Until later?”
Later. When he could be alone with Rosamond again.
“Until later.” He could endure anything with the promise of Rosamond’s company as a reward. All he had to do was make himself useful, learn whatever he could about Rosamond—and so far her friends, like Grace Murphy, had proved very enlightening to him—and then use that information to help her break free.
If he had to apply for membership in her mutual society to do that, Miles reckoned, he’d be happy to. After all, he’d only pretended his initial reluctance to force Rosamond’s natural contrariness to kick in. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t spied that tactic at work. He’d used it quite successfully so far.
Satisfied with his progress, Miles watched Rosamond sail off down the hallway to her romantic appointment in her parlor. Despite everything, she still possessed the same enchanting swing to her bustle, the same endearing assurance to her step…the same fearlessness to her demeanor as she always had.
Maybe Rosamond wasn’t the same Rose he’d known before.
Maybe now, grown up and wiser, she was even better.
All the same, anyone who tried to hurt her would have to answer to him. They’d regret it. He’d make certain of it.
As Rosamond turned the corner, Miles transferred his gaze to the waiting Miss Yates. That doughty woman wore a smug look. From someplace, she’d procured a broom. She shoved it at Miles.
“So happy you’re here, Mr. Callaway. Please follow me.”
*
Rosamond dallied with her appointment for as long as she could. Partly that was because she wanted to delay the outing she’d agreed to with Miles. Partly that was because she wanted to savor the romantic nature of that appointment.
Appointments like these, she realized as she stood outside her parlor doorway—politely pretending not to hear any of what was going on inside—were some of her favorite things about the Morrow Creek Mutual Society and her role in it.
When Rosamond was successful, her efforts led to…
“Yes!” came the sound of Katie Scott’s voice from within the parlor. “Yes, oh, yes, Mr. Robertson. I will!”
There were further muffled joyful cries, then a thump. Then a long silence. Outside the door, Rosamond gave a wistful smile.
Down the hall, Libby Jorgensen stopped. Her gaze swiveled toward the closed parlor door, then snagged on Rosamond’s face.
She rushed forward. “Is it bad news?” Worriedly, Libby eyed Rosamond, wringing her hands at her skirts. “I’d never ha
ve thought Katie would turn down Mr. Robertson, but if she has—”
“No, it’s not bad news. I feel fairly certain it’s good.”
“Then why do you seem so sad?” Libby pressed. “I know full well you take special delight in the proposals that go on here.”
“I do.” From within the parlor, Rosamond heard footsteps. She drew in a deep breath, prepared to set aside her personal melancholy for the sake of her friend. “Of course I do! This makes—” she paused to tally “—four proposals this year so far.”
The society’s proposals had begun with Gus Winston, her inaugural member, and his new bride, Abigail. But they hadn’t ended there. Because of that, Rosamond cherished the success of her mutual society. In a very short time, she’d proven that Western men wanted more from their women than a bit of feminine company for a single sordid night. Contrary to Elijah Dancy’s expectations, Western men wanted love. They wanted commitment. They wanted surety and sweetness and shared interests. With her mutual society, Rosamond helped her friends and neighbors in Morrow Creek—men and women alike—find all those vital things.
With each successful betrothal and wedding, she proved to the world and to herself that good men wanted to love and be loved. They wanted to give and receive, shelter and provide.
They wanted women who wanted those things, too.
It didn’t matter that Rosamond had personally opted out of the romantic elements of her mutual society. She liked knowing that they existed for everyone else. She liked knowing that other people had hope. Foolish, irresistible hope.
The kind of hope she’d felt beckoning to her ever since Miles’s arrival.
“Four proposals, three weddings, and more to come,” Libby agreed. “When you had the idea to take Dancy’s gambling winnings and lead all of us farther west, I’d never have thought—”
The parlor door opened, saving Rosamond an unwanted trip down memory lane. She didn’t like thinking about her ex-husband. Their marriage had been fleeting…but not nearly brief enough.
“We’re engaged!” Katie Scott shrieked, scurrying through the parlor door with a bashful-looking Clifford Robertson trailing in her wake. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hallway with her. “Mr. Robertson proposed, and I accepted!”
“Congratulations to both of you.” Warmly, Rosamond nodded at them. She wished she felt up to hugging Katie. “I’m pleased.”
“I’m ecstatic!” Energetically, Libby did embrace Katie. They stood near Rosamond, beaming at one another. “I knew this would happen! When Mr. Robertson joined, I knew he was for you.”
“I could only hope so,” Katie confessed, blushing. “I liked him immediately, from that first dance we shared. Then later, when Mr. Robertson participated in our usual literary meeting…”
She went on, but Rosamond could only stand there, feeling peculiarly excluded. When she’d left Boston, she’d left behind the kinds of girlish hopes and dreams that Katie was describing. She’d almost forgotten she’d entertained them at all…
…until Miles had arrived to rekindle them.
Uncomfortably fussing with her skirts, Rosamond caught Mr. Robertson’s reticent gaze. She smiled at him, then went on fidgeting while waiting for Katie to finish. Ordinarily, she loved celebrating with her members when they got engaged. Today, though, she felt unusually downhearted about the situation.
It would never be her who inspired a man to get down on one knee and pledge his heart to her, Rosamond knew as she watched Katie. It would never be her who inspired such love and commitment.
After all, how could a woman who feared touching, feared trusting, feared leaving her own home ever find love with anyone? It was beyond challenging. It was impossible.
It was impossible because of her and who she’d become.
It was impossible because of the four walls that guarded her. For the first time, as Rosamond stood there wanting to celebrate Katie’s engagement, her cherished sanctuary did feel like a prison. Her walls served to keep out life, it occurred to her, as efficiently as they kept in solitude and security.
She hadn’t intended to forgo her freedom for her safety. But what else could she do? People depended on her now.
Her newfound friends and their children relied on her. She couldn’t let down her guard. She couldn’t give in.
But she could, Rosamond realized, trade a fraction of her control to gain an immensity of strength. With effort and determination, maybe she could stop fearing that if Arvid Bouchard found her, she wouldn’t be capable of handling him. Maybe she could stop fearing that she would once again be forced, against her will, to parcel out her soul.
Because that’s what it had felt like every time Arvid Bouchard had groped her, and Rosamond had had to fight him off. That’s what it had felt like every time he’d caught her unaware and whispered filthy things in her ear while she worked. That’s what it had felt like on that awful sunny morning when Mr. Bouchard had found her making beds in an upstairs room in the mansion—when he’d locked the door behind himself and made sure Rosamond knew that he could take anything he wanted from her.
He could take her, anytime he wanted, and she couldn’t stop him. Not that Rosamond hadn’t tried. She had. She’d fought hard and often—only to learn that Mr. Bouchard liked her “spiritedness.” She’d considered telling the housekeeper or the butler or even Genevieve Bouchard herself. But in the end, Rosamond had known she had to handle things on her own.
After all, no one else was ever there in the moments when Arvid Bouchard cornered her. And the things Mr. Bouchard had threatened to do to her if she ever told anyone…
Remembering those threats now, Rosamond shuddered. Even in hindsight, she couldn’t blame herself for handling the situation on her own as best she could. But doing so had come at a cost. Every time she’d fought and lost, she’d sacrificed a portion of herself. Every time she’d felt Arvid Bouchard’s hands on her, smooth and unwanted and unstoppable, she’d deadened herself more.
In the end, she hadn’t felt much of anything at all.
Now Miles was the only one besides Rosamond who remembered the parts of her that Arvid Bouchard had stolen. Miles was the only one who could see them missing. That’s why he pined for “his Rose.” That’s why he’d followed her to Morrow Creek.
That’s why he’d said what he had about her being too strong and too bossy and too stubborn to hide herself from the world.
But because Miles knew her, he might also be the only one who could help restore some of those parts of herself, Rosamond mused now. In fact, Miles wouldn’t even have to know that’s what he was doing. Not if she proceeded carefully and intelligently.
She felt half convinced Miles had restored her faith by a few degrees just with a single dance. What more could Miles do, Rosamond wondered, if she gave him a greater opportunity?
If she spent just a little more time alone with him?
“…wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Dancy?” Katie was asking.
With effort, Rosamond roused herself from her thoughts.
“Wouldn’t that sunny glade near Mr. Wilson’s farmhouse be a lovely spot for a wedding?” Libby enthused, plainly helping Rosamond pick up the conversational thread. “That’s where Adeline Wilson and Clayton Davis got married last month.”
“Such a lovely ceremony!” Katie went on. “Wasn’t it?”
It occurred to Rosamond that they’d already begun planning Katie and Mr. Robertson’s wedding. Rosamond had attended the mutual society’s first two weddings. She’d made excuses not to attend the third, on account of her upsetting spell in the town square on that day with Molly Copeland. And this, the fourth…
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t at the Davises’ wedding.”
Katie looked perplexed. Libby looked doleful.
Mr. Robertson looked utterly out of his depth.
In that moment, Rosamond swore to herself that she’d missed her very last Morrow Creek Mutual Society wedding.
She’d be darned if she’d
let the memory of Arvid Bouchard ruin a single additional day of her life. Starting that instant.
“But of course I’ll be at yours, Katie!” Rosamond promised. She took a hesitant step forward, fully intending to bully herself into offering a laudatory hug. “Congratulations again!”
At her undoubtedly stilted tone, all three of her friends gave her puzzled looks. But Rosamond was determined.
Lift, arms. Lift! Doggedly, she tried to offer that hug.
Her arms flat out refused to cooperate. Instead, Rosamond wound up gesturing like a scarecrow whose heart wasn’t really in the job at hand: awkwardly and ineptly. Everyone frowned.
All right, then. Sheer determination would not work.
She needed help in this endeavor, Rosamond decided. And she knew exactly the tall, dark and handsome cake-batter stirrer she could collect it from. If she spent just a little more time with Miles, she felt certain he could help restore her to the good person she’d once been. So, lifting her chin and forming her hands into fists, she said her goodbyes to her friends and then went to find Miles before she had a chance to reconsider.
She would master this eventually. She would.
Chapter Eight
Miles hadn’t intended to bring along several children and a wriggly puppy while he carried in armloads of wood for the household’s cookstove. But once the little ones spied Miles on the marriage bureau’s premises, they began trailing him. One by one, they stuck to him like glue. Agatha Jorgensen had been the last to join, holding Riley in her arms. Within minutes, Miles had assembled a corps of pint-size helpers, each scampering around with all the grace and purpose of a newborn foal.
“Good job, Tommy.” He nodded at the wiry child who’d just used his untucked shirt as an apron-turned-carrier for a pile of twigs. “Very inventive of you. Drop those right there.”
The twigs clattered down alongside the bigger pieces that had already been placed in a pile beside the house’s back door. Tommy grinned up at Miles, his face as grimy as his pride was huge. With a businesslike air, he dusted off his small hands.
“I’ll go get more.” He ran off to do just that.