Brian opened the Bible and pausing momentarily, asked with hesitation, “I’m wonderin’, Miss Rose, if ye’d be readin’ for us today. ’Twould be pleasin’ us.”
Rose nodded and took the large book. It was open to Isaiah. Rose hadn’t read that far in her own Bible yet. Brian pointed out chapter forty-three. “This is where we be.”
Rose nodded again and began in her clear, cultured voice:
But now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob,
and he that formed thee, O Israel,
Fear not: for I have redeemed thee,
I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.
When thou passeth through the waters,
I will be with thee; and through the rivers,
they shall not overflow thee;
Her voice stuck on the words “overflow thee.” The children looked curiously and Fiona’s face showed concern. Coughing and politely murmuring “excuse me!” Rose went on.
When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned;
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour:
I gave Egypt for thy ransom, Ethiopia and Seba for thee . . .
I, even I am the Lord; and beside me there is no Saviour.
Brian signed for her to stop and collected the Bible from her.
“Thank ye, Miss Rose. That passage is bein’ just t’ one that was givin’ us courage t’ not be quittin’ t’ year hail ruint t’ most of our crop. An’ he is blessin’ us again, for we be doin’ fine now. So! Ian, Patrick, be gettin’ t’ team; ’tis time to be takin’ Meg an’ Miss Rose back t’ town.”
Since Brian McKennie was the only one with them on the road back to RiverBend, Rose cautiously asked him a few questions. “Is the land around town particularly good for farming, Mr. McKennie?”
“Particular? Nae, boot it’s bein’ better than much. Better to be sure than farther west aboot hundred mile or so. Then ye are in plain country—good for wheat I’m hearin’ an’ maybe to be raisin’ cattle. Not rain enow for real farmin’.”
“Does land here bring a good price?”
“Oh, good, yis. T’ best was ’steaded up years ago, boot some as is changin’ hands be gettin’ a fair price.”
Rose paused for a moment. “And what does a ‘fair price’ amount to, Mr. McKennie? What do folks pay for land here?”
Brian looked at Rose and laughed. “Ain’t ye t’ one for knowin’ details? Well, I’m thinkin’ two and a half is being near fair, boot I’ve heard as high as four.”
“Four dollars an acre?”
“Aye. A homestead w’ a good house and water’d be bringin’ $640 at that price.”
Rose nodded thoughtfully, then she asked Meg to tell her more about college and her hopes of teaching. Meg eagerly explained her plans while Rose listened and offered encouragement. They arrived at Mrs. Owens’ soon, and Rose thanked Brian.
“I’ve had a wonderful visit with your family, Mr. McKennie. You made me feel right at home.”
“Aye. That we were meanin’ to. ’Twas a right pleasure for my Fiona to be havin’ your company today, an’ we’ll be hopin’ t’ see ye again afore ye be goin’. Dinna ye be leavin’ w’out sayin’ ‘goodbye’.”
“No, I won’t, I promise,” Rose answered.
Chapter 10
Rose saw Meg in the dining room the next morning. She was bright-eyed and ready to leave for school as soon as she finished serving the boarders. Her brown gingham dress was clean and fresh, her thick hair neatly braided around her head. They smiled familiarly as Meg passed by bearing plates of pancakes.
Later Meg waved goodbye from the door. Savoring the fresh coffee, Rose lingered over her meal. She had decided to spend the day in her room undistracted, but first she ate well and took a short walk around the yard to enjoy the sweet air.
Up in her room again Rose closed the door and latched it. She walked to the window and surveyed the little town, then seated herself with her Bible and notebook at the small desk. For several hours she read and prayed, occasionally stopping to make a memo or jot down a few thoughts. At one point she knelt down at her bed and prayed earnestly for a long while, laying out her plans and desires, waiting for direction. When lunchtime arrived, Mrs. Owens delivered a pot of tea and a sandwich to her room, but Rose did not leave. All afternoon she stayed alone, closeted in her studies and prayer. By four she was satisfied, put her Bible and notes away, and went out into the late afternoon sunshine.
Past the end of town, beyond the livery she walked, out onto the prairie. The shadows cast by the sinking sun gave the miles of undisturbed vista a surreal appearance, a bright two-dimensional effect. The warm breeze, scented with wild onions and sage, filled her with joy, and little creatures (prairie dogs?) scampered into their holes as she wandered by. They whistled and chattered, birds twittered and called, but mostly it was quiet, the peace of the wide-open ranges, and Rose loved it. She roamed until dusk, treasuring each minute, each change as the sun dropped lower and lower on the horizon.
Tuesday morning began much the same. Rose returned to her room to write letters, one to her mother, Tom, and Abby that she was staying in a small town by the name of RiverBend, another to her bank. She sighed in satisfaction and put her writing materials away. Then kneeling by the window she prayed for those dear at home and those she knew in RiverBend, feeling especially to pray for Mr. Morton and the grocer. At the close she remained kneeling and silent.
A short while later, straw hat in place, Rose went out. She made one short stop before marching down the street to “RiverBend Savings and Loan” and into the tiny office.
“Good morning, Mr. Morton,” she announced cheerfully.
“Mrs. Brownlee! Good morning to you also, I’m sure. What can I do to assist your stay in RiverBend?” His manner was ever-so-slightly stiff.
“First, Mr. Morton, I would like to open an account at your bank.” She smiled sweetly.
“An account, Mrs. Brownlee?” Mr. Morton didn’t “get” it.
“Why, yes! That’s right. I am transferring funds from my bank back east into my new account here. That is possible, isn’t it?”
“Well certainly, Mrs. Brownlee, but you should understand that, as a visitor to our community, if you are in need of funds to continue your trip, we would be happy to cash your personal check—provided with confirmation by wire from your bank, of course.” He was all benevolence and condescension.
“The point is, Mr. Morton, that there is no continuance to my journey. In short, I have reached my destination.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You intend to remain in RiverBend, Mrs. Brownlee?”
Rose adopted a business-like attitude. “Let us get back to my request, Mr. Morton, and open my account, please. The name of my bank and the amount to be transferred is written on this card. Before I came here today I sent a wire to the bank officer personally acquainted with my finances. His response confirming the transfer of funds will arrive and be delivered to you this noon. When you receive it, I will return and discuss a few disbursements. Will that suit your plans, Mr. Morton?”
He had slid the card off his desk and glanced at the bank name and amount. Seeing the prestigious heading and unexpected amount, he sat up and unconsciously adjusted his tie. Rose remained smiling demurely, but Mr. Morton’s demeanor was transformed. He stood to his feet and extended his hand to her.
“I’d be delighted to handle your account, Mrs. Brownlee. And may I be the first to say ‘welcome to RiverBend’?”
She returned his handshake graciously. “Let us keep my plans on a confidential basis, Mr. Morton, for the time being. But thank you for your kind welcome.”
Rose swept out of the bank on a wave of exhilaration.
“The sky is blue, the prairie is green, the sun is golden! What sentimental nonsense you are babbling,” she laughed at herself. But she wanted to run, throw up her hands, and shout. What a day! And
it was just beginning.
Almost skipping, she ran across the street to the mercantile, jingling the bell merrily as she pushed the door open.
“Good morning, sir, and your wife too. I’m Mrs. Rose Brownlee. You have seen me before in your store, but I wished to introduce myself to you.”
They nodded, so she went on. “I’m going to make some selections, pay for them this afternoon, and I am hoping you can hold them for me until arrangements can be made to move them. You can? How wonderful, Mr. er, Schmidt, is it? I’ll just look around and let you know what I decide on.”
Rose fumbled in her bag and pulled out her notebook. Dear little friend! Some of her dreams were jotted on its pages.
“Ah, here is the list,” she murmured.
Mrs. Schmidt was shyly cordial, answering her questions as she moved about the store, and Rose saw her valiantly restrain her curiosity.
“I’m sure she will be driven to distraction soon,” Rose sympathized, “but I need to keep my own counsel for now.”
She handed the finished list over to Mrs. Schmidt who consulted with Mr. Schmidt, their heads bobbing and nodding together until it was tallied. The amount was written in Rose’s notebook, which she tucked in her purse when she got ready to leave.
“Oh, yes! I almost forgot,” Rose reminded herself. “Mr. Schmidt, is there an establishment here in town where I might hire a horse and buggy?”
Mr. Schmidt scratched his jaw, and Mrs. Schmidt looked doubtful. “Vell, I don’t know, Frau Brünlee, if der ist ein ‘establishment’ as you say, but the preacher hast ein gud horse und fair buggy. I am thinking he would not be opposed to making the cash money, since there is not much come his vay. Ve hear it is hard for him to feed the horse, anyvay.” Mrs. Schmidt looked shamed by what he said, Rose noticed, but she nodded agreement.
“Fine. I’ll speak to him about it. And I’ll be back this afternoon to pay for my purchases.”
Rose knew from Meg that the preacher and his wife boarded with the elderly couple who did tailoring and dressmaking. She hadn’t been in their store and didn’t know exactly where their living quarters might be, so she went into the tiny shop and introduced herself there too.
The old lady hand-basting a shirt didn’t answer after Rose gave her little speech. Instead, her eyes checked every seam, dart, tuck, and hem of Rose’s brown suit. After what seemed forever under her intense inspection, she merely hollered, “Preacher! Sum’uns come ta see ya. I say! Preacher!”
Pastor Medford appeared almost immediately, and Rose felt sorry for his embarrassment over his summons. He was wearing working pants, shirt, and suspenders much like most of the men in town, and everything was clean and pressed.
“It’s Mrs. Brownlee, isn’t it? Won’t you come in? —That is, follow me, please.” Through the narrow door to the back of the building (right through the tailor’s kitchen and bedroom, with the tailor snoring in his bed!) and up a flight of stairs they went. One large room was inside the door at the top, containing a bed, table, two chairs, a chest of drawers, and some cupboards hung with curtains.
“My dear,” he announced proudly, “we have a visitor. Mrs. Brownlee, may I introduce my wife, Mrs. Medford?”
Rose shook hands warmly with the very tall, slender, girl-woman who stood up to greet her.
“How delightful to meet you, Mrs. Brownlee. May I offer you some tea? We saw you at service Sunday, of course, but missed making your acquaintance. Please sit right here. Dear, kindly get the stool so we can all sit together.”
Rose felt comfortable right away. Jacob and Vera Medford were from New Jersey and were as new to the west as she was. They were newly married, too, Rose found out.
“How sweet they are to each other,” Rose observed. “So young and in love!”
They all sipped tea companionably, sharing a tiny saucer of cream, until Rose declared she must go. “I came especially because Mr. Schmidt tells me you have a horse and buggy, Reverend Medford. I would like to hire them tomorrow if you are willing.”
“Hire them, Mrs. Brownlee? They are yours to use without charge. We’d be blessed to loan them to you. I have a spirited saddle horse for my visiting, but the buggy horse, Prince, is a gentle old boy and will give you no trouble.”
“You are most kind, and I appreciate your generosity, but I insist on paying for their use. Horses need their hay and oats. Prince will earn his tomorrow.”
The Medfords glanced at each other and smiled.
Yes, Rose thought, I will certainly pay for their use.
Rose went her way to Mrs. Owens’ where she had an early lunch and re-checked her notes. Satisfied, she took her coffee out onto the porch and sat in the warm sunshine, sipping it until her watch indicated the time was close to being one o’clock. With rising anticipation she returned her cup to Mrs. Owens and climbed to her room to freshen up.
“Here goes nothing!” Rose pronounced to her mirror. Two bright spots lit her cheeks with unusual color. She made herself walk downstairs and through the parlor with restraint, but outside Rose swung down the sidewalk like a schoolgirl.
At the door of RiverBend Savings and Loan, Rose paused. She adjusted her collar and cuffs, smoothed her coiled hair, and giggled. She was so excited she nearly walked away.
“It won’t do for you to be giddy when you go in, Rose. Get yourself under control,” she counseled.
Assuming a business-like attitude, she coolly let herself into Mr. Morton’s office.
“Ah, Mrs. Brownlee! I have received the wire from your bank and everything is in order.”
“So, the amount I requested is now on deposit with your bank, and I may make withdrawals?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve made up your passbook and a pad of checks. You may now feel free to use your account.”
“Wonderful, Mr. Morton! In that case, I wish to do some business with you.”
“With me, Mrs. Brownlee? You are thinking perhaps of bonds or stocks?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Morton. Real estate.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to purchase the homestead piece you showed me last week. Across the creek from the Norwegian family?”
Mr. Morton frowned. “You wish to make an investment, madam?”
“No, Mr. Morton, I wish to purchase a home site.”
His frown deepened. “Oh, Mrs. Brownlee. But that’s not possible, you know. Or even judicious. Please reconsider: in the first place I have prospective buyers arriving in a week or two and,” (Mr. Morton’s feelings of propriety were being strained) “well, a lady of your refinement would have, that is, should have no reason to . . . to . . . take up residence on a ‘homestead’. No, I must deny your request. My duty as a gentleman, my position as your financial advisor—”
“I’m very sorry you feel that way,” Rose politely interrupted. “However, the property is for sale, is it not?”
He leaned forward on his desk patronizingly. “Yes, of course, but—”
“What is the asking price, please?”
“Mrs. Brownlee, I will not sell you the land. It would be against my principles to assist a lady into an untenable position.”
“But dear Mr. Morton, you are not selling the land. Your bank and its owners are, I believe. I am willing to pay for it today. If it is for sale, I am entitled to purchase it. I’m sure the officers of your institution would wonder at your turning down a cash offer. And isn’t there another property you thought your buyers would like better?”
He paused and tried another angle. “Perhaps you are not aware of how severe our winters are, madam. Why, during some blizzards no one can leave their house for days at a time. Out there you could be stranded, and you would be alone. It certainly isn’t a wise choice, and I know when you give it proper consideration you will agree with my decision.” His emphasis on the word ‘proper’ showed Rose how little he esteemed the women homesteaders. Well, she would be sinking in his regard too, most likely.
“How much is the land, please, Mr. Morton?”<
br />
His face flushed an angry red.
She added gently, “I am aware of the going price on farm land. Would you please do me the favor of quoting the bank’s figure for this particular section?”
Licking his lips and mastering his temper, he named the price. Without comment Rose made out the check and laid it on the desk between them. He stared at it for several moments before sighing in defeat. Then from his top drawer he withdrew the necessary forms and papers. Twenty minutes later Rose stood outside the bank’s doors triumphant. In her hand she held title to the homestead.
“Now,” she added, “for the first time in my life I am really going to have to work, and work hard.”
All the activity of the day, coupled with the excitement, made her weary, although it was only nearing two o’clock. She laughed at herself and put a spring in her step. Down at the Schmidt’s store she called ‘hello’ familiarly. They greeted her with anticipation. Writing their check was nearly as much fun as the other for her land. Hers was probably the largest cash order they had filled in quite a while, and both of the Schmidts shook her hand enthusiastically. Mr. Schmidt couldn’t do enough to accommodate her needs. Recalling that she would require someone to transport her new belongings, he hastened to recommend the station officer who owned a large wagon for hauling freight.
“But you'd need another man to load und drive. The officer cannot be gone during vork hours for he vatches und listens for the telegraph too.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Schmidt. I believe I know someone who can do the job.”
Rose gladly let her feet take her back to Mrs. Owens’ then. Inside her room she removed her hat and gloves and sank down on the bed. What a day! Now she was committed to her scheme. Scanning the title to her new home, she gloried in her name, printed with big, bold strokes by the word ‘owner,’ the seal and stamp of the bank, even Mr. Morton’s signature!
Chapter 11
In the morning Rose dressed in her oldest, most worn cotton skirt and shirtwaist. That was not to say they were old and worn, but she didn’t really own clothes for what she was doing today. The sun warmed her as she walked to the end of town and around the corner. There was the feed store with its barn and stable. Pastor Medford was standing in the fenced yard and buckling Prince into his harness. Rose approached the gray horse confidently and scratched his forehead. Ears forward, his liquid brown eyes looked her over with interest, then closed and enjoyed the pleasure. The preacher was right. Prince was an old pussycat. Rose thought he was regal.
A Rose Blooms Twice Page 7