Sixty Acres and a Bride Read online

  Molly nodded a bit too eagerly. Rosa moved closer to Louise, convinced something was afoot. Meeting her eyes, Molly turned a slight pink. Her story was verified by Aunt Mary, but it still didn’t ring true. What was the girl afraid of?

  ROUND ROCK, TEXAS

  The barbershop bell rang as Weston Garner opened the door and then again when he bumped his head on it while crossing the threshold.

  The barber took the razor handle out of his mouth. “Sorry about that. I need to hang the ding-a-ling higher.”

  Weston dropped his hat on the hall tree. He’d taken a quick dip in Bushy Creek before reaching town, not wanting the odor of the Chisholm Trail to precede him like every other drover strutting down the streets. If he’d time, he would’ve washed his clothes. They sorely needed it, but town was too close for them to dry on his back and too close to lollygag without them. A man his size attracted enough attention as it was. Still, with his shaggy dark hair and rough beard, he sure could use a spit and a polish.

  “We’re working fast as we can. One of us will get to ya in a minute if you have time to wait.”

  “I have all day.” He had all day, all week, all month. No one was waiting for him at home. Might as well sit a spell. Weston headed to the only empty seat in the shop and fell into the cushioned chair.

  He already regretted his decision to leave the herd and turn back early, but not from concern over his investment. Those four-dollar steers were worth ten times that when they reached the butchers up north, and the cowboys could push them on up to Wichita without him. He didn’t need to mollycoddle his ranch hands, but maybe he should’ve stayed longer. On the trail he’d found some peace. Would it endure when faced with the memories that haunted his home—Palmetto?

  Finding an open jar of pomade, Weston took a whiff but was disappointed. Bear grease.

  The barber returned with steamed towels. Tilting Weston’s chair back, the man covered his face. Weston sunk into their heavenly warmth. After weeks of scanning the horizon under the Texas sun, his eyes relaxed; his wind-burnt skin was soothed. He’d kept up with the younger fellas during the day, but sleeping on the ground was another matter. He’d be snoring soon if he wasn’t careful.

  Lord, he prayed as he settled in, things are fixin’ to get hairy. I don’t rightly know how to be the man you want me to be. I thought I had it figured out before Cora, but that didn’t work out so well. How do I start over?

  He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the barber lifted the towel from his face.

  “Now, how about that beard? You want a trim?” The spindly barber mopped up the excess moisture from Weston’s face.

  “Go on and shave it all off.”

  Despite the shaving soap, Weston could’ve dozed off again if it weren’t for the conversation between the two men to his left.

  “So ya finally caught up with her?” the man nearest Weston asked.

  A cultured voice from the corner seat answered, “Yes, she was trying to catch a train to Ohio. Ignorant wench. I don’t know how she made it this far without someone telling her what to do.”

  Weston’s jaw clenched. He shifted in his chair, just then realizing how small it was for his large frame.

  “Don’t move,” his barber warned.

  The men continued.

  “Women! They don’t appreciate nothing.”

  “Precisely. Her father insisted I marry her, and then she runs off. As if he wants her back.” There was laughter all around.

  “Why don’t you just let her go?”

  “Because that’s what she wants.”

  Weston tried to lean forward, but the straightedge razor scraping his neck made him think twice. He wanted to get a look at those two. Between towels, shaving cream, and a hovering barber, he couldn’t tell who they were—just that he could whop both of them if he needed to.

  “Where’s she now?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “You ain’t worried about her running off again?”

  The soothing voice belied the words. “No. She won’t be running anywhere for a while.”

  If it were Caldwell County, Weston would be honor bound to say something, but correcting strangers usually led to violence. Men might talk tough and mean no harm, but they didn’t do it in front of him without some reckoning. Especially about a woman. But he was far from home and eavesdropping on strangers. Not a good place to start a confrontation.

  The barber across the room finished a haircut and cleaned the customer off with a stiff brush. Sounded as if the two men next to Weston were leaving, as well.

  At least three men made their way to the door. The bell rang as they walked out. Weston looked, but in vain.

  The barber parted Wes’s hair and smoothed it down to get a straight cut.

  Weston cleared his throat. “That fellow talking about his wife, you know him?”

  “Naw, and glad I don’t.”

  They fell silent while the scissors snipped and clumps of dark hair dropped quietly to the floor.

  “He’s from somewhere south of here, but definitely a Yankee—I ain’t judging, just saying he’s not been here long enough to lose his accent. Think they said he’s from south of Lockhart.”

  “Lockhart?” Weston bolted upright in his chair. Jay Tillerton! The voice, the attitude, suddenly rang very familiar. Come to think of it, Tillerton and his wife were from Ohio.

  “Was that fellow tall, narrowed shouldered? Schoolteacher type?”

  The barber wiped his scissors on his apron and began to backtrack. “Oh, I wasn’t paying no mind. Besides, people say a lot of things they don’t mean.”

  But they shouldn’t.

  “I’m calling it quits.” Weston jerked the sheet off his neck, sprang up, and fished for money in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you gonna let me finish? I only got half done.”

  “Sorry. Gotta catch up with someone.” He tossed him a coin and hurried to the door.

  “But your hair—”

  “I’ve got a hat.”

  Weston strode down Georgetown Avenue, watching both sides of the road, looking for the man. If Tillerton was headed home, he should’ve come this way. Weston stopped at the corner of Lampasas before the absurdity of his behavior caught up with him.

  Chasing a neighbor down the streets of Round Rock? What had gotten into him? Probably wasn’t Tillerton at all. He turned west toward the livery stable to get his horse, Pandora, being too embarrassed to go back to the barbershop.

  If he wanted a fresh start, he’d made a poor beginning. Yes, he needed to get involved, but there had to be a better way. This type of erratic behavior would earn him even more sympathetic glances and subdued voices. He wanted to stop making people feel uncomfortable. He wanted to enter a room without dampening the gaiety. If he was going to rejoin society, he needed to quit taking everything so seriously.

  Besides, hadn’t he already proven he was no help to damsels in distress?

  3

  PRAIRIE LEA, TEXAS

  BEFORE THE SUN REACHED ITS ZENITH the next day, the ladies’ wagon had rolled onto the farm situated on the west fork of Plum Creek. Rosa stretched, glad she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with Louise and Aunt Mary again. The crowded hotel was better than the train, but she was ready for a place to call her own.

  As they broke out of the piney forest, the prairie expanded before them like a giant quilt that hadn’t been perfectly smoothed. Verdant fields stretched before Rosa. In the mountains, the green ran vertical: vines, trees, and giant cacti. Here it raced to the horizon, dragging her imagination to the future.

  The road split and they took the left branch.

  A clump of shade trees huddled in the otherwise cleared plot. As the wagon drew near, Rosa could see that they were gathered protectively around a whitewashed two-story house. Her mother-in-law’s tear-filled eyes were all the confirmation she needed. They were home.

  “Oh, Eli, you should be here with me,” Louise choked into her hankie, her red hair escapin
g the bonnet, causing Rosa’s thoughts to turn again to her own late husband.

  Mack grew up here. This farm was his, and she couldn’t lose it, not after she’d robbed him of his happiness.

  Rosa had taken what belonged to another and had paid for her folly. Everything had been ripped from her hands except this farm, Louise, and her new faith. That was all she’d managed to salvage.

  Sitting at the Garners’ table in her Mexican village, Rosa had heard stories about Jesus and stories about Texas until, in some way, they were connected. Jesus would keep her safe with Louise. Jesus would keep her safe at their farm. But Jesus might not be concerned with a poor Mexican girl on her own.

  And if it weren’t for Louise, she would be on her own. When the Garners first rode into Ciauhtlaz, Rosa’s parents encouraged her to help the Americanos. As a leading family of the village, it was their duty to extend hospitality to the newcomers, but as Rosa’s interest in their religion grew, so did her parents’ disapproval.

  The memory of her mother’s tears as she implored Rosa to reconsider her decision made her own eyes water. Her madre begged, she pleaded, but once Rosa refused to worship Santa Muerte, Saint Death, her mother relentlessly avoided her only girl child.

  Stunned by the thoroughness of her banishment, Rosa clung to Eli, Louise, and Mack—the only family that wanted her.

  She would do anything to help her mother-in-law make it here. They had nowhere else to go.

  “Is that George?” Louise motioned to the man standing on the shady porch.

  “None other,” Aunt Mary said as they rolled into the yard.

  “I declare, I thought this day would never come.” Uncle George bounded to the wagon and helped Louise and Rosa down, surprising Louise with the heartiest hug his long arms and narrow chest could produce. “Don’t know how you managed, but you look younger than the day you left.”

  Louise waved her handkerchief at him. “You rascal. I can’t lay claim to youth with a daughter-in-law at my side.”

  “Ah, yes. But she’s barely left the nursery.” He smiled and then nodded somberly toward Rosa. “Sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t tease until I’ve paid my respects. Mack would be right proud that you’re standing on Garner land.”

  “And he’d be plumb irate if you have to leave it,” Aunt Mary grumbled. “We can get acquainted over a plow and hoe just as well, but first let’s get this wagon unloaded.”

  She geed to the horse, leaving the others to follow her to the barn. It seemed that with each item lifted over the edge of the wagon bed, Aunt Mary assigned another chore to be completed before nightfall. No siestas here. They’d use every hour of daylight God gave them until the house was restored and the crops were sown.

  And Rosa’s first task? She would follow behind Uncle George, the horse, and the plow to break up the lumps of earth they overturned. The hoe didn’t look heavy, but by the time Aunt Mary and Louise carried an earthen water jug out to them, Rosa’s back ached and her hands were blistered.

  “Uncle George and I have already plowed an acre. We are working rapido, no?” Rosa took a drink of spring water, not minding when it splashed down the front of her green blouse.

  Uncle George fanned himself with his hat. “Louise, I don’t know what you’d do without this girl. I’m glad you brought her home to us.”

  “She’s a gem—the one consolation I have from our disastrous Mexican venture. She’s not very big, but she works circles around me.”

  Louise’s words pleased her. Rosa knew she might not be the smartest, richest, or prettiest woman around, but she could work. If hard labor could earn a place in this community, she was guaranteed success.

  Aunt Mary plopped her thick frame directly on the ground next to her spouse. “Louise and I ain’t doing too shabby ourselves. We’ve cleaned the downstairs and hauled that mouse-infested feather tick to the burn pile.”

  “Yes, and I’d better get back inside. This sun will ruin my complexion.” Louise picked up the water bucket by its rope handle to carry it back to the kitchen.

  The sun was gathering strength, but Rosa didn’t fear its rays. Her complexion would only glow richer. No freckles or liver spots to worry about.

  Poor Louise.

  Mack had always vexed his mother about her Irish complexion, an oddity in Rosa’s village. He was constantly teasing someone, surrounded by giggling village girls. Had he not reveled in their attention, perhaps his father wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. Had Netnetl—that pagan girl, as Eli described her—not been so beautiful, perhaps Eli would have had more patience.

  For Rosa, agreeing to Eli’s suggestion came as easily as plucking a ripe mango. No man in her village wanted a wife who had turned her back on their traditions, so her choices were few. Still, she never would have consented to the marriage with Mack had she known how strongly he objected to it. But she was foolish. Rosa believed what she wanted to believe—that Mack would love her.

  With a sigh Rosa got to her feet. After having been a wife for less than a month, she’d now been a widow for almost a year—a long year. Was it wrong to dream that someday a man would cherish her? Shouldn’t gratefulness to Louise override all discontent?

  Rosa followed Uncle George to the garden plot and was soon back in the swing of things, swinging her hoe, that is, while he turned the ground.

  “Don’t overdo it, Rosa. This heat will get to you before you know it. Besides, we could use your help at our place when we’re done here. It’s shearing season and the pay is decent.”

  Her blade sunk deeper with each stroke. “I don’t know how to shear sheep, and I can’t accept payment, especially after all you and Aunt Mary have done for us.”

  “You’ll learn quick enough, and as foreman for Weston, it’s my job to hire the help. I have to pay someone. It might as well be you.” He pushed past her to complete the row.

  Handling sheep sounded much more interesting than handling a hoe. Rosa would never catch up with him, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to. Uncle George would finish this evening, leaving her a couple of days to break up the clumps and scatter the seeds.

  On his next pass, Uncle George had a request. “Would you mind bringing the water jug out again? No hurry, but I could use a swig.”

  Rosa dropped the hoe and flexed her hands. Would she mind? She smiled. Anything to break the monotony.

  Skipping past her baby chicks and into the kitchen, Rosa found the dingy house transformed. Louise and Aunt Mary had whipped the abandoned homestead into submission, from the cobwebs that had graced the corners to the mouse droppings on the floor. The stove and basin sparkled. Even the parlor was tidy, although faded. She poked her head into Louise’s room but found it empty. They must be upstairs.

  Her foot was on the first step when she heard Aunt Mary from the room above. “The town incident really wasn’t her fault, Louise. Those men knew better.”

  “Yes, but they wouldn’t have done that to you or to me when we were younger. They treated her differently.”

  Rosa heard a screech as something was pushed across the floor, then Louise continued. “I felt like part of an exhibition driving through town.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone is surprised to see you back home. That’s all.”

  “Back home with a Mexican daughter-in-law?”

  “Naw, they see Mexicans every day. That’s not why people stare at her. She’s beautiful, Louise. Did you see how Molly’s feathers ruffled when I mentioned Weston? She’s considered herself his intended for a couple of years and doesn’t relish the thought of you two at his place.”

  So that was Molly’s concern? Rosa crossed her arms. Once Molly got to know her, she would realize how unfounded her fears were. Rosa’s objective was financial, not romantic.

  “Weston and Molly? Really? I suppose Adele is thrilled,” Louise said.

  “She would be if Weston would give Molly the time of day. Poor girl. It’s a one-sided affair, best I can tell, but that doesn’t keep her parents from pressuring her to snatch him up
.”

  “Who can blame them for trying? But what can we do for Rosa? Makes me wonder if I made a mistake bringing her all this way. Maybe it was selfishness. She’s a help to me, but I don’t know what kind of future I can offer her. Opportunity won’t come knocking often.”

  A mistake? As if a bucket of cold water had been dashed in her face, Rosa’s vision cleared. If her trip to Texas was a mistake, Rosa was out of options. And her dreams of finding someone to love didn’t sound likely in Prairie Lea. She straightened her shoulders and pushed up her sleeves. Louise must not regret bringing her. Give her an opportunity, and she’d make the most of it.

  Eating dinner on the long bench between seven-year-old Susannah and her five-year-old sister, Ida, Rosa felt more at home than she had since crossing the Mexican border.

  It’d taken her three days to get the garden in, and then she’d made the short walk with Uncle George and Aunt Mary to their sheep ranch across the creek. That morning their daughters waited anxiously in braids and bows to meet their new cousin. From the start, Ida insisted on holding her hand, but Susannah, a mature young lady, was content to shadow Rosa around the barn as she learned the ins and outs of shearing season. At first the boys, Samuel and Tuck, had ignored her except for stolen glances. By the noon meal though, they were trying to outdo each other with tall tales of Texan proportions.

  “You boys are full of beans. Don’t believe anything they say, Rosa.” Uncle George wiped the last of the meaty juice out of his bowl with a chunk of cornbread.

  Across the table, Tuck beamed. “But I taught her how to tie up the fleeces. That wasn’t a fib.”

  Aunt Mary rose and collected the empty dishes. “You must’ve taught her good, Tuck. She’s keeping up like an old hand.”

  It was Rosa’s turn to beam. “Thank you, señora.” Rosa hopped up to dip a curtsy and wink to the girls, who giggled into their little aprons.