Page 12 of A Late-Blooming Rose
Rose wasn’t sure if she needed to protect Andre from Cora’s machinations, or the young woman from the older man’s flirtatious lures. Neither one was palatable.If I’m in Sweetwater Springs, I can urge her toward the right man. Not a distinguished, Southern charmer.
“You always dreamed of traveling. Now’s your chance.” Cora leaned over and kissed Rose’s cheek. “Besides, I don’t want you to grow old here alone.”
If she was honest with herself, Rose didn’t want that scenario either. But neither did she want to risk her heart again.
Still, she hadn’t set eyes on Andre in years.Perhaps when I do, I won’t see the same appeal.After all, she was older and wiser. Presumably, her former love was also. Probably he’d become a staid father and grandfather. Then, too, he wrote about the abundance of men in Sweetwater Springs. They must be very different from New Yorkers.Maybe I’ll find one who interests me.A new life, a new love.
She looked around the room at all the books. “Well, there’s a new library in that town. Presumably they’ll be in need of books.”
“And a librarian.” Cora reached to tap Rose’s knee. “You.”
For the first time, she felt some stirrings of excitement. “Opening a library would be a challenge.”
“Sweetwater Springs needs you, Aunt Rose. You cannot forsake that community.”
Rose managed a smile at her niece’s dramatics, but inwardly, she quaked at facing such an enormous change. “Oh, very well.” She held up a hand, palm out. “But only if we find lodgings. Or, if we must stay for a bit in the Bellaires’ home, we move out as soon as we find our own place.”
“I knew you’d come with me,” Cora said smugly, bouncing to her feet. She leaned to kiss Rose’s cheek. “I must be off. There’s so much to be done before we can leave.”
Bemused, Rose stared after Cora until she was out of sight, not looking away when she heard the sound of the young woman’s quick footsteps on the wooden stairs, and then the slam of the front door.
She turned around and surveyed the disorganized library. But she couldn’t really see the books, for a memory of young Andre Bellaire laughing and kissing her until her heart pounded and her knees grew weak overwhelmed her vision.
Now, I’ll see him regularly.Rose pressed a hand to her breastbone.What have I just agreed to?
CHAPTER FOUR
September 1896
The morning after the Harvest Festival Andre awoke, a sense of dread and sadness pressing on his chest. He felt every year of his fifty-four. The much-planned-for, highly anticipated event went disastrously wrong: the money for the church stolen, Deputy Sheriff Dolf Rodda—by all accounts a good man—dead at the hands of a robber gang, and bank clerk Horace Hatter injured. Sheriff K.C. Granger and a posse of handpicked men rode after the thieves, chasing into danger.
This is all my fault.Andre possessed more than enough wealth to fund the construction of a new church. But in his arrogance, he’d decreed that the building belonged to the community, and everyone should have the opportunity to contribute. He’d thought the Harvest Festival would give folks opportunities to donate their time, the works of their hands, harvests, or husbandry, as well as any financial gifts. Ironically, up until the robbery, the Harvest Festival had been a rousing success, which made the loss seem even greater.
Dolf Rodda didn’t appear to have any close family. Regardless, Andre intended to pay for his funeral and see him laid to rest in the cemetery with a fine, marble headstone.Please, God, may this be the only funeral I pay for.
Andre knew the death toll would climb, although the best scenario would be ifonlythe robbers died. He reviewed in his mind the faces of the twelve posse members.
First and foremost came their female sheriff, K.C. Granger—as brave and capable as any male. At the lawwoman’s side, the Indian blacksmith Red Charlie, often pressed into duty as her deputy. Dr. Angus Cameron joined the posse, believing he was needed as a medic, although he had no intention of fighting. Brian Bly, who hailed from New York and had once debated with Andre the merits of that city. Doctor Rye Rawlins and Sheriff Taylor Temogen, both from the nearby mining town of Morgan’s Crossing, also rode along.
The rest of the posse Andre didn’t know well, having only met them this week. They were a combination of local men and the out-of-towners who’d volunteered as deputy sheriffs for the Harvest Festival.
Andre sent up a fervent prayer that God would keep the eleven brave gentlemen and one woman safe, as well as protect the innocent people in the path of the robber gang.
Prayers made, he glanced at the wide window, the beam of light filtering through the crack in the curtains. With a groan, Andre reached over to his nightstand for his watch and snapped open the cover. Ten o’clock, three hours later than he usually slept. Micah would have left for school already.
He replaced the watch next to a small bottle of digitalis and a glass of water. The medicine probably saved his life yesterday, for he’d almost had a heart attack when he heard the news of the robbery and the shooting of Deputy Rodda.
He lay there a while in the gloom of his low spirits. To motivate himself, he quoted Marcus Aurelius. “Isthiswhat I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?” Even with the chiding of the Roman philosopher in his head, just getting out of bed and dressing himself took every scrap of Andre’s energy.
After his ablutions, he left his room, trudged down the stairs—leaning heavily on the banister—and headed for the dining room. Before he entered, Delia, who must have heard his footsteps, rushed to meet him.
She scanned his face. “Papa, you look awful. I think you need to go back to bed.”
“Coffee will put me to rights.”
“You almost had a heart attack yesterday, and you scared me to death. I’ll bring up a tray.”
“Nonsense.” The word came out in an irascible tone unlike him. Andre looked into her anxious face and softened his voice. “Any news?”
