The Secrets of Rosa Lee

by Jodi Thomas

  “What were the last lines of the poem Miss Carter told us in the nursing home? The mirror turns blending old and young to the chime of a tune that was never sung.”

  He looked at the painting, flipping the metal back and forth. “Old and young, almost the same face. You could have sat for the painting, Sidney.” He leaned back and pushed his hand on the horse’s head so the rocking horse began to rock.

  A melody began to play. “Rock-a-bye Baby.”

  “To a tune that was never sung,” Sloan repeated.

  Sidney sat back trying to put all the pieces together. She didn’t know what to believe. If Rosa Lee had been her mother’s mother, Sidney now knew the reason she’d given her up. Not because of selfishness, but because of love. Rosa Lee had loved her father. She couldn’t abandon him. She’d given her baby to someone whom she knew would love her so that she could stay with Henry.

  Sidney reached to stop the rocking horse. The melody was slowly breaking her heart. Rosa Lee had never rocked her child.

  Her fingers brushed against one of the wooden roses carved into the lei of flowers around the horse’s neck.

  Wooden roses!

  Sidney gasped.

  Sloan moved closer and put his fingers over hers. “Wooden roses,” he whispered as he gently pushed her fingers against the wood.

  The rose shifted, giving to their touch and sliding sideways. Letters tumbled out.

  Sidney picked one up, then another, then another. “They’re all from Minnie Jefferson to Rosa Lee. They’re all from my grandmother.”

  Sloan laughed. “To your grandmother, you mean. This looks like the one clue you can’t ignore. This looks like the secret Rosa Lee left for you.”

  They spread the letters out by postmark and Sidney opened them one by one. All contained pictures of her granny Minnie and her mother and later of her. Each letter told a detailed listing of Marbree’s life. As the years passed there were newspaper clippings of when Minnie’s husband died and when Marbree married. And pictures, more pictures than Sidney had ever seen. In each letter Minnie called Marbree “our girl,” and when Sidney was born, Minnie wrote in big letters. We have a granddaughter.

  Sidney wasn’t sure when she began to cry, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Her life, her mother’s life, Minnie’s life were all spread out before her, told in loving letters to Rosa Lee. The family she’d loved so dearly and lost came back to her, treasured and kept for a lifetime by Rosa Lee.

  She looked up to see that Sloan had moved to a chair and studied one of the last letters written. “What is it?”

  “It doesn’t sound like Rosa Lee ever wrote back. There is not one reference about Minnie knowing anything about Rosa Lee’s life except here.”

  Sidney moved closer and leaned on his knee as he read.

  “Minnie writes that the garden looks beautiful this year. How would she know that if Rosa Lee never wrote or sent pictures?”

  Sidney shook her head. “I was around Minnie all the time growing up. I think I would have noticed pictures coming. I can’t even remember her ever getting anything but bills except maybe the paintings she ordered.”

  They both turned to the collection of paintings on Sidney’s wall. Small eight-by-tens, all of flowers.

  Sloan stood and offered Sidney his hand. They walked slowly toward the paintings. “These weren’t just paintings your grandmother collected. They were scenes from Rosa Lee’s garden. Her life couldn’t have been good, taking care of her father all the time, but she sent what beauty there was in it. She sent paintings of her garden here in Clifton Creek.”

  This time, Sidney believed. She smiled as she looked at the beautiful paintings she’d loved all her life. “My mother was the love gone in thirty-four,” Sidney whispered. “A love forgotten nevermore.”

  “How many of these did you say you had?”

  “Thirty, maybe more. I asked my grandmother Minnie why she had so many and she told me because she loved them so dearly. Now, I understand why.” Sidney brushed one of the frames, remembering how she’d studied them when she’d been small thinking that they were her special place where all was beautiful.

  They spent most of the night looking at the paintings and rereading the letters. Sloan laughed at all the pictures of Sidney growing up. Finally, she rested her head tiredly on his shoulder as they cuddled on the couch. The fire had died down and the wind outside had settled finally. All the world seemed silent.

  As she closed her eyes, Sidney remembered thinking she was surrounded with family. She pushed her foot against the rocking horse and listened one more time to her grandmother Rosa Lee sing her to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Sidney stood on the front porch of her great-grandfather’s home and faced the small crowd brave enough to ignore the weather and come out for the committee’s report. The mayor wanted to have the meeting in the courthouse, but Sidney thought it more appropriate here.

  The town’s newspaper reporter was present, with his notepad and camera, as well as all three oil companies. Talon Graham didn’t look happy. Sidney guessed the mayor had already given him the results even though the vote hadn’t been announced officially.

  Crystal Howard, of Howard Drilling, walked from her car where her husband watched to the edge of the porch. She greeted several in the crowd warmly.

  Sloan stood back near his truck. True to his word, he’d never tried to sway Sidney’s vote. He’d been gone by the time she awoke at dawn, but he’d left a note promising to cook her the best Mexican food in Texas for dinner tonight, no matter what happened this morning. Micah had told Sidney that Sloan had told his boss he’d quit before he’d break his word to Sidney and interfere with the vote.

  Old Earl Hamm sat in his rusty pickup waiting. He didn’t seem so mean now that Sidney knew he’d been a true friend to Henry.

  “Has the committee reached a decision?” the mayor yelled as if someone might not hear him.

  “We have,” Sidney said. “We recommend that the Altman house and the land be sold to the oil company that will agree to two demands.”

  Everyone but the committee and the mayor looked surprised that Sidney would place demands on the sale.

  “First, the oil company offering the highest price will agree to fence off a section of the land for a park to be named after Clifton Creek’s founding father Henry Altman. Second, Rosa Lee’s roses will be removed at the company’s expense and moved to the library where a rose garden will be built.”

  Everyone applauded.

  Sidney stepped back among the other committee members as the mayor moved forward. “Thank you, Dr. Dickerson, for serving on the committee. The city owes you and your tireless group many thanks.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “Now, I have the honor of announcing that though the bidding was close, one oil company came up with not only the best price, but a bonus offer. They agreed to the committee’s terms and would like to donate up to half the funds needed to build a new room onto the library to be dedicated to books on gardening.”

  The mayor smiled at the Rogers sisters. “The other half has already been matched by an anonymous offer that came in an hour ago. The wing will be called the Rosa Lee Altman Room and a percentage of the oil rights will make sure it houses the best books on gardening in the country.”

  Everyone applauded.

  The mayor paused for the newspaper reporter to take a shot, then continued, “The sale of the Altman property goes to Howard Drilling.”

  Crystal Howard, representing her husband’s company, stepped onto the porch to shake the mayor’s hand.

  Sidney tried to hide her shock. She glanced at Sloan, but he was gone. Somehow during the mayor’s talk, she’d looked away and he’d disappeared. Before she had time to think, everyone around her started talking at once.

  People wanted to shake her hand and tell her what a great job she’d done. Sidney tried to follow the conversation, but in the back of her mind, she couldn’t understand. Why had Sloan left?

  Crystal
Howard took her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Dickerson, for suggesting the library room for Rosa Lee. I thought it was touching. We didn’t like the idea of destroying a part of Clifton Creek’s history any more than anyone. Now, we’ll always have a part of her with us.”

  Sidney smiled. “Who told you about my idea?” She tried to sound casual, as if the idea had been hers.

  “Sloan McCormick called us early this morning. He said he thought his company could meet our offer on the land, but he knew they’d never agree to the bonus of the library and the percentage to keep it up.” Crystal tilted her head. “He knew we might care, since we’re from here, and he was right. I admire his honesty. If you see him tell him, if he’s ever looking, Howard Drilling could use a man like him.”

  “I will.”

  Sidney had no time to say more; Crystal was surrounded by the Rogers sisters who wanted to talk about the rose garden. Sidney stepped away, trying to understand why Sloan would talk to Crystal.

  She watched Lora Whitman drag Billy Hatcher off the porch. “Come on,” she protested. “You have to meet my mother sometime and a public place is far safer. She rarely kills with an audience watching.”

  “But I’m not sure I’ve built my blood count up enough yet,” Billy complained.

  “She’s not going to eat you.” Lora laughed. “Just kill you. But don’t worry, I’ll pick out a nice coffin for you and I’ll visit your grave regularly.”

  “Slow that imagination down, babe. I’m not planning on leaving you anytime soon no matter what your mother does.”

  Sidney watched as Lora introduced Billy to her very proper mother. Before Mrs. Whitman could even think of being rude, the sheriff stepped beside Billy. Sidney wasn’t sure if Granger was there for support or protection, but Mrs. Whitman seemed to get the point. She smiled and extended her gloved hand to Billy.

  Micah, who’d been standing beside Randi, walked over to the group to lend his support to Billy. Somehow, they were family, and if Mrs. Whitman planned to pick on one of them, she’d better watch out for them all.

  Sidney noticed Micah’s son, Logan, walk up to Randi. “Hi,” he said in a shy little voice.

  Randi folded down to his level. “You must be Micah’s son,” she said. “You look just like your father. I came by to meet you last night, but you were already asleep.”

  “I got my mother’s eyes,” the boy said.

  “And they are very handsome eyes,” Randi added. “I’ll bet she was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

  “I don’t remember much, but I think she was. She died when I was little.”

  “I know.” Randi touched the boy’s shoulder. “Your father told me.”

  “You like cats?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I got a cat. His name’s Baptist, but I think he’s Methodist.”

  Randi smiled.

  Logan looked up at her. “You my dad’s girlfriend?”

  She looked like she might bolt, but she held her ground. “I guess so. Is that all right with you?”

  The boy took her hand. “Mrs. Mac and I saw you standing next to him and thought you might be. He’s never had one before. We think it’s ’cause he doesn’t know how to talk to women. Except for Mrs. Mac. He talks to her fine. We’re real worried about him. I think he’s been waiting for you to show up for a long time.”

  “You think so?”

  The boy nodded. “He needs someone to look after him. Mrs. Mac and I can’t do it all.”

  Randi laughed. “I’d like to meet this Mrs. Mac.”

  Logan pulled on her hand. “She’s over in the car. She says she’s not standing outside again until spring.” He pulled Randi along.

  Sidney watched them move to a parked car and laughed. The boy was right, Micah needed someone to care about him.

  She walked over to the side of the porch and placed her hand on the worn wood by the steps. Sidney couldn’t help but wonder how many thousand times Rosa Lee must have stood in the same place and looked out on a town she’d never joined.

  She touched the place Rosa Lee had touched and somehow she felt close to her, this grandmother she never knew. The house could fall. It didn’t matter. Everything Rosa Lee had loved would live on. In Sidney, in memory, and in the rose garden.

  As the crowd cleared, Sidney walked to her Jeep and climbed inside. As she waited for the heater to kick in, she pulled the old recipe card from her briefcase and read the back one last time.

  Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee.

  Smiling, she put her Jeep in gear. She had classes to teach and a life to get busy living. It would be late before she made it back to her little bungalow, but she knew she’d have the best Mexican food in Texas waiting.

  * * * * *

  From New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

  JODI THOMAS

  A compelling, emotionally resonant series set in a remote west Texas town—where family can be made by blood or by choice.

  Don’t miss these great titles in the new Ransom Canyon series!

  RUSTLER’S MOON

  RANSOM CANYON

  WINTER’S CAMP (novella)

  “Exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”

  —Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Available now in ebook format.

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  Read on for an excerpt from Ransom Canyon, the first novel in Jodi Thomas’ captivating series set in rugged west Texas!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Staten

  STATEN KIRKLAND LOWERED the brim of his felt Resistol as he turned into the wind. The hat was about to live up to its name. Hell was blowing down from the north, and he would have to ride hard to make it back to headquarters before the full fury of the storm broke. His new mount, a roan he’d bought last week, was green and spooked by the winter lightning. Staten had no time to put on the gloves in his back pocket. He had to ride.

  When the mare bucked in protest, he twisted the reins around his hand and felt the cut of leather across his palm as he fought for control of both his horse and the memories threatening as low as the dark clouds above his head.

  Icy rain had poured that night five years ago, only he hadn’t been on his ranch; he’d been trapped in the hallway of the county hospital fifty miles away. His son had lain at one end, fighting for his life, and reporters had huddled just beyond the entrance at the other end, hollering for news.

  All they’d cared about was that the kid’s grandfather was a United States senator. No one had cared that Staten, the boy’s father and only parent, held them back. All they’d wanted was a headline. All Staten had wanted was for his son to live.

  But, he didn’t get what he wanted.

  Randall, only child of Staten Kirkland, only grandchild of Senator Samuel Kirkland, had died that night. The reporters had gotten their headline, complete with pictures of Staten storming through the double doors, swinging at every man who tried to stop him. He’d left two reporters and a clueless intern on the floor, but he hadn’t slowed.

  He’d run into the storm that night not caring about the rain. Not caring about his own life. Two years before he’d buried his wife, and now he would put his son in the ground beside her because of a car crash. He’d had to run from the ache so deep in his heart it would never heal.

  Now, five years later, another storm was blowing through, but the ache inside him hadn’t lessened. He rode toward headquarters on the half-wild horse. Rain mixed with tears he never let anyone see. He’d wanted to die that night. He had no one. His wife’s illness had left both father and son bitter, lost. If she’d lived, maybe Randall would have been differen
t. Calmer. Maybe if he’d had her love, the boy wouldn’t have been so wild. He wouldn’t have thought himself so invincible.

  Only, taking a winding road at over a hundred miles per hour had killed him. The car his grandfather had given him for his sixteenth birthday a month earlier had missed the curve heading into Ransom Canyon and rolled over and over. The newspapers had quoted one first responder as saying, “Thank God he’d been alone. No one in that sports car would have survived.”

  Staten wished he’d been with his boy. He’d felt dead inside the day he buried Randall next to his wife, and he felt dead now as memories pounded.

  He rode close to the canyon rim as the storm raged, almost wishing the jagged earth would claim him, too. But, he was fifth generation born to this land. There would be no more Kirklands after him, and he wouldn’t go without a fight.

  As he raced, he remembered the horror of seeing his son pulled out of the wreck, too beat up and bloody for even a father to recognize. Kirkland blood had poured over the red dirt of the canyon that night.

  He rode feeling the pounding of his horse’s hooves match the beat of his heart.

  When Staten crossed under the Double K gate and let the horse gallop to the barn, he took a deep breath, knowing what he had to do.

  Looking up, he saw Jake there at the barn door waiting for him. The rodeo had crippled the old man, but Jake Longbow was still the best hand on the ranch.

  “Dry him off!” Staten yelled above the storm as he handed over the mare to Jake’s care. “I have to go.”

  The old cowboy, his face like twisted rawhide, nodded once as if he knew what Staten would say. A thousand times over the years, Jake had moved into action before Staten issued the order. “I got this, Mr. Kirkland. You do what you got to do.”

  Darting across the back corral, Staten climbed into the huge Dodge 3500 with its Cummins diesel engine and four-wheel drive. The truck might guzzle gas and ride rough, but if he slid off the road tonight, it wouldn’t roll.

  Half an hour later he finally slowed as he turned into a farm twenty miles north of Crossroads, Texas. A sign, in need of painting and with a few bullet holes in it, read simply “Lavender Lane.” Even in the rain the air here smelled of lavender. He’d made it to Quinn’s place. One house, one farm, sat alone with nothing near enough to call a neighbor.