The Woodsman's Rose Page 4

  “Tommy’s sending his love to Jesse, and I’m trying to figure out if there’s a man in the Territory who’s not in love with her.”

  “Forget it. You have to count all of us. Even me.” And with a sideways look at his friend, Lowell added, “Even you.”

  “I wonder what it is?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe it’s because she’s not what her brother said—what everyone believed she was. Maybe we’re trying to make up for that in some way. It’s hard to imagine, once you know her, how anybody could’ve believed she was bad.” After a few minute’s silence, Lowell asked, “Where you going?”

  “Nowhere special.”

  “How’d you like to come for supper? Annie’s cooking tonight.” Though Annie lived in town with her father, the family often ate together at Lowell’s dairy farm. At Daniel’s soft, clear laugh, Lowell said, “I take it that means yes. You know, I woulda gambled on it.”

  “I just bet you would.”

  When they arrived, Daniel kissed Evelyn on the cheek, then stepped back to look her over. She was expecting her first child in a few months. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel fine. I just wish it weren’t quite so hot.” She shoved at her red hair that was curling wildly in the humidity, trying in vain to smooth it down.

  “I asked Daniel to supper,” Lowell told her.

  His wife gave a snort of amusement. “Annie’s in the kitchen—why don’t you tell her Lowell’s home?”

  Daniel sketched a bow and drifted silently to the back of the house. At the kitchen door, he watched his fiancée for a moment as she moved from larder to stove in a spacious room that was neat as the proverbial pin. Annie was a pale, slender girl with flaxen hair that fell half-way down her back in a single braid, and he was utterly charmed by the picture she made in her green dimity dress and crisp white apron.

  She greeted him with a shy gladness. He kissed her lightly and watched a rosy blush rise to her cheeks.

  “Something smells good,” he told her.

  “I made some bread this afternoon,” Annie said, not quite disguising the pride in her voice. “And there’s beef stew and pole beans. And huckleberry pie. But that’s from yesterday,” she added with an elfin grin. “Maybe we don’t want that.”

  “Don’t want what?” Annie’s father, Owen Griffiths, stood in the doorway.

  “Annie’s pie. She thinks we don’t want it ’cause it’s a whole day old.”

  “Hmmph. Just gives it more time to mellow.” Owen pinched his daughter’s cheek. He was a small round man with a bald pate and wide, callused hands capable of fine work in leather. The rounded vowels and crisp consonants in his speech marked his Welsh beginnings. “You’re a tease, girl. Always have been. Ever notice that, Daniel?”

  “Nope.” He watched her blush again as he took the stack of dishes from her and began to set the table.

  As she helped him, Annie watched Daniel out of the corner of her eye. When his hand touched hers, she felt a sadness in him beneath the casual banter they engaged in. And when, during the meal, her father asked after things on the ranch and out in the canyon, he seemed somehow removed from their conversation.

  After dessert, which resulted in the disappearance of the huckleberry pie, Owen and Annie walked the half-mile back to their cottage in the village. Daniel joined them, holding Annie’s hand along the way while Owen teased them good-naturedly.

  Owen retired to his workshop, leaving the young couple sitting together on the porch in the twilight. The village was quiet as they watched the sky turn from crimson to rose. He reached out to touch a stray wisp of her hair.

  “What’s wrong, Daniel?”

  He dropped his hand and leaned his head back against the house. “Oh, Annie,” he answered, his voice rougher than usual. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Is it Alec? What would he do if you told him?”

  It didn’t surprise Daniel that she’d recognized his problem. She’d always been adept at reading his emotions. “I don’t know, aroon,” he said. “I’d like to think it would bring him some peace of mind—that he could accept it. But he’s so torn up, I’m afraid of what he’ll do.

  “He blames me for deserting him. He blames Tommy for not protecting Elena. He’s not thinking straight, and he could do so much harm. So much harm.”

  “It’s Jesse, isn’t it?” she asked. “You’re protecting her.”

  “Annie...”

  She raised a finger to his lips. “Daniel, I won't tell anyone. Do you think I’d hurt her?”

  “No, aroon. I know you couldn’t.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, pressed his cheek against her hair. “Annie, I love you, but I’ve sworn not to tell anyone.”

  “I know,” she whispered, “but it’s in your voice when you talk about her—in your eyes when you watch her.” She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight.

  He whispered her name and she raised her face to his. He kissed her forehead, then held her head against his shoulder with a strong, gentle hand. “Aroon, if you know this, tell me how to protect her. Tell me what’s best.”

  “Your heart will tell you, Daniel.”

  “It tells me that to protect her, I must hurt Alec. I wish there were some other way.”

  “So do I, Daniel. So do I.”

  The sky deepened to darkness as he held her there, and she felt a gradual easing of his burden. She asked him no questions, for she knew he wouldn’t answer her, yet he wouldn’t have known how to refuse.

  When the moon appeared, he rose to go. She walked with him to the street, where he touched her hair once more and wished her good night.

  “I love you, Annie,” he said. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He reached for her but she was gone too quickly, fleeing to the house. She turned at the door, her face on fire. He stood stock still for a moment, then his laughter, as clear and pure as a bell, pealed out behind her.

  “Aroon!” he called. My love. He blew her a kiss as she ducked into the house.

  Chapter 7

  Annie’s soft kiss was, in many ways, a turning point in Daniel’s life. He stood watching the door for a moment, while her smile carved itself into his heart and the warm spot her lips had left on his cheek lit a fire along his veins. He lifted a finger to his face, but didn’t quite dare to touch it. Though they’d been betrothed for several months, she’d rarely spoken of love, never before offered a kiss.

  His smile grew broader until it seemed to split his face, then he leaped straight up. He turned in the air and came down running, his rifle held high over his head in both hands. He wanted to shout, to laugh, to roar like a lion. Instead he ran.

  Down the trail and away from the town, he sped toward home. As his feet hit the ground in virtual silence, his heart pounded with the truth that one little kiss had revealed to him. She loves me! She really loves me! She will be mine!

  He hadn’t realized the doubt until it was gone. He ran for almost two miles before slowing to a jog. At the gates to the Donovan ranch he finally stopped, bending double to catch his breath. He leaned against one of the two massive posts holding his family’s brand aloft—the letter “D” encircled by the Celtic symbol of eternity. It stood high enough and wide enough to allow the passage of any covered wagon. His grandmother had designed it and a smith in Abilene had made it for the family’s ranch there. When they moved to Arizona to escape the influence of what his father called “the neighbors’ war”, Daniel had attached the brand to two pair of oxen, using the sides as a yoke. Their westward drive had been slowed by the pace of the oxen, but there’d been no question of leaving it behind. When they arrived, it had taken twelve men to hoist it into position.

  He looked beyond it now, to a night sky alive with glittering stars. Sometimes you can almost believe there are those beings up there—out there—who watch over us. The sisters, the bear, the king on his throne. The hunter. Do they understand us? Do they know us? Do they understand what brings us together? What
makes us love?

  I don’t know what makes me love her. Except that she’s so beautiful. So pure and so gentle. She’s like a small doe in the forest. Natural. Unspoiled. Shy. I love her. I love her.

  I must be patient. Gentle. She’s too beautiful to spoil. But how much I want her! Annie. My precious Annie. I will wait as long as I have to. It will be easier, now that I know you will truly be mine.

  Rifle in hand, he padded toward the big white house. It stood silhouetted against the night, the lantern that hung by the door shining in perpetual welcome. It was a huge house, three stories high, constructed of sawn boards painted white. The doors and windows were trimmed in emerald green. There were those in the town who considered the Donovan home an insult, a brag of the good fortunes the family had been blessed with. But John Patrick, with his older sons, had built the house for his Molly—to try to ease the burden a pioneer’s life imposed upon an Irish-born girl. To try to assuage some of the sorrow and pain she’d suffered: her parents and her younger brother, like most of her small village, had been victims of starvation, and her longing for her native land still sometimes overwhelmed her.

  This house is an act of love. As much as Annie’s kiss. We built this house from the ground up. The work went slowly at times, and stopped altogether when there was no money. But we didn’t give up. We dreamed of it always, and finally realized the dream. This house is like my parents’ marriage.

  The thought stirred him profoundly. He hadn’t recognized the poet, the spiritualist in his nature, believing this gift belonged to his brother Adam. But the thread of realization wouldn’t be broken, and his heart told him that having Annie for his wife wouldn’t be enough. It would make him happy, but he’d need to make her happy, too. Like the building of this graceful home, it would take more than love to accomplish—their marriage would require strength and patience, and commitment to the dream. They’d have to work together to build their own home. And we’ll build a home such as this world has never seen. Just Annie and me. We’ll build it together. We need a piece of land. We need a plan.

  He climbed the front steps, checked the fuel level in the lantern—part of his father’s dream was that the light should never be out, and no one ever turned away. He headed in to find his parents and youngest sister, along with his three younger brothers, in the small parlor behind the stairs that had been his grandmother’s favorite retreat. He stowed his rifle in a corner and settled into a chair by the hearth. His parents sat together on a chaise lounge, his mother, as usual, leaning against his father’s arm.

  They built this home in spite of the pain and the fear and the hardship. We’ll be luckier, Annie and me—we’ll be able to find happiness in our own world.

  But he hadn’t before stopped to consider that Annie might suffer the same longings his mother did. I wonder if she’d want to go back to Wales? I’ll have to ask her. And I will do whatever she wants.

  Chapter 8

  Owen heard his daughter humming in the kitchen and looked up from his books. He stared at the wall in front of him and smiled. If she’ll just let him love her, then she’ll be happy. She’s been so moody lately, so changeable. Not like herself at all. I wish she’d set the date and marry him. I want her to be happy for all the time she has left.

  His happiness was overlaid with sadness as he thought of his only daughter, thought of the very short time he’d been blessed with his own wife. She’s so much like her mother, with her beautiful hair and smile. But her eyes are her own, and that little pointed chin. Makes her look like a fairy-child. And maybe she is. For Megan had the gift of reading people’s emotions, and Annie shares it too.

  His wife had died giving birth. The son she had borne died, too, and Owen had found himself unable to deal with his grief. His sister had watched the children for months while he drank himself into a stupor night after night, craving the shelter of his Megan’s arms, needing her love and her soft voice to whisper in his ear.

  Until the day his daughter, at four years old, had taken the glass away from him and curled up in his lap.

  “Mama still loves us,” she said in a voice wise beyond her years. “She wants us to be happy.”

  He’d stared at her for a moment, seeing her mother for the first time in her tiny face. Then his baby girl had comforted him as his grief finally found an outlet. He’d wept the night through and, at the end of it, carried her to her bed and began to make plans to leave Wales. For he knew then he couldn’t live there without his love, and he had a responsibility to her children—their children. Annie had made him see. So he took her and her older brother as far away as he could imagine and as far from civilization as was reasonable. They’d lived simply and quietly in White’s Station.

  Owen had a job first in the trading post as a clerk, and he worked in leather on the side. When cattle ranching came to the area, he found his skills in such demand that he opened the shop in this cottage and gradually saved enough money to buy the house outright. His skill as a bootmaker brought both cowboys and ladies from the entire Territory to his shop.

  The war had had slight effect on them here, and Owen had begun to prosper. Five years ago, he’d helped his son buy the farm on the outskirts of town. Lowell had exhibited little skill and less interest in leather, preferring to tend to his cows and to sell their milk, butter and cheese to the townspeople. He insisted his father share in his profits and so Owen, while not a rich man in the eyes of the world, had more money than he’d ever know what to do with. He wanted grandchildren, so he could spend his money on them.

  He was sure Evelyn was going to be a wonderful mother. A tall, generously built young woman, freckle-faced and red-haired, she was the image of her mother. She was more outgoing than Molly, gay and lively, and Owen knew she could make his son’s head whirl. Sometimes it seemed as if Lowell was putty in her hands, but Owen recognized the steel that was the backbone of his son’s character and knew she depended on it. And on the strength of his love.

  His thoughts returned to Annie, still humming in the kitchen. If she were to marry Daniel, Owen would be grateful as well as happy. For although he’d always enjoyed good health, he’d seen too many lives cut short in this wilderness not to worry over his daughter. Were she to marry Daniel, the Donovan clan would take her as their own if anything happened to him. She’d have a secure place in the world, as well as Daniel’s love.

  On the other hand, why should I worry about her when Daniel loves her so much? Wife or no wife, she’ll always be taken care of.

  ANNIE’S OWN THOUGHTS were an echo of her father’s. She was thinking about her childhood, about the mother she scarcely remembered, about the love she’d received from her father and her brother as she grew up. She realized Evelyn was now the center of Lowell’s world, and she was happy for him. Yet she wondered what marriage would be like for herself.

  If he loves me, her thoughts began, but she stopped them there. You know that he loves you. You know that he wouldn’t lie, that Lowell wouldn’t lie. You know that it makes your father happy to see him here. Because he loves you, and he wants you to be his wife.

  Wife. What a powerful word. It makes me tremble inside. But it makes me feel strong, too. It means we’d be partners—things wouldn’t be mine or his any more, but ours instead. It means we’d be together. All the time. We’d live together, work together, sleep...

  This is the root of my uncertainty. This is what I don’t understand. How can I tell if I want to marry him—to marry anyone—if I don’t understand what it means?

  AT THE SUDDEN STILLNESS from the kitchen, Owen put down his pencil and moved to his favorite chair, noticing for the first time that the green and tan plaid fustian was wearing thin on the arms. Moments later, as he’d expected, Annie was sitting on the floor by his feet with her head on his knee. He stroked her bright hair.

  “What is it, fy merch fach?” She smiled up at him, then laid her cheek again upon his knee. How long had it been since he’d called her his little girl? She was silent for
a while, then spoke softly.

  “Papa, what does it mean to be a wife?”

  He continued to stroke her hair as he tried to find a way to answer. He knew what she asked, what she needed to know. Help me, Megan, he implored. Help me to tell her what love is.

  “I think, caraid,” he began, “that to every woman it is something different. There are those who marry only because they want children, and those who marry because they simply don’t want to be alone. But I believe marriage should be for love. Your mother and I married for love, and I can tell you what she told me.”

  Annie nodded against his knee. She loved to hear about her mother, and remembered only a pale, sweet face and tender hands. “Before we married, before she accepted me, your mother told me that she expected our marriage to be a sharing. Of responsibility. Of happiness and sorrow, pain and joy. She wanted me to understand that we would stand together through everything—that never would either of us be alone.

  “She also told me she expected me to be patient with her, and gentle. For you see, she was afraid, as most women are. Because men are physically stronger and can be thoughtless and cruel.

  “There’s always pain the first time. It cannot be helped. But a husband has the responsibility to see that his wife has as little pain as possible the first time, and as much pleasure as possible after that.” Owen hesitated but forced himself on again, in honesty to her. “There are some women who never learn to enjoy intimacy, no matter how gentle a man is. And there are men who never make an effort to be gentle. But usually a man and a woman who marry for love find happiness in their bed.”

  He waited for her to speak, but she didn't. “Daniel is a gentle man, caraid.” he said.

  She looked up at him, her cheeks red, her eyes flashing, her voice as soft as silk. “He’d never hurt me. Never.”

  “The first time, caraid. It cannot be helped. You might talk to Evelyn about this.”