He tried to focus on practical matters as his horse picked its way down the mountainside. How many men could he reasonably hire? Three, maybe four if he could find them. The work would go faster with extra hands, but they’d need to move quickly. Every day they delayed brought winter closer.
Yet his thoughts kept circling back to breakfast, to the careful way Rose had answered their questions about Virginia City. She’d performed there, she’d said. Singing. The word carried weight he couldn’t quite decipher. Something that made her shoulders tense and her voice grow distant.
The worst part was Robert’s observation: She’s wary, James. Can’t you see that?
Of course he could see it. The way she held herself so carefully, the practiced quality of her smiles, the way she seemed to weigh each word before speaking it. Something had happened to her in Virginia City, something that taught her not to trust.
At the house, the yard showed no sign of the women. When he pushed open the front door, the faint rhythm of their voices drifted from the kitchen. Rose’s musical tones blended with Mrs. Wang’s brisk chatter and Mandie’s gentler interjections.
The sounds drew him like a moth to flame, and he approached the kitchen doorway.
Rose stood at the long wooden counter, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, flour dusting her apron and blue dress. She was kneading dough at the counter, while Mrs. Wang cut something into a pot at the cookstove, and Mandie sat at the table peeling potatoes. The sight of Rose in the familiar kitchen—her auburn hair tied back in a braid, sunlight streaming through the window to illuminate her profile—made his chest tighten.
Mandie looked up from her potatoes, a smile lighting her face when she spotted him. “James! We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, but it was Rose who held his attention. She’d gone still, her hands frozen in the dough, wariness creeping back into her expression like a shadow across sunlit ground. What was it about him that brought that look on every time?
He did his best not to let the frustration slip into his voice. “Just stopping to see if you ladies need anything from town. I’m riding in to hire men to help with the haying.”
Mrs. Wang wiped her hands on her apron and bustled toward the pantry. “I make a list for you.” She emerged with a scrap of paper and began writing in her precise script. “Salt, more flour, and wicks for the lanterns. Oh, and see if Mr. Henderson has any of those good apples left—the ones that keep well through winter.”
Rose’s hands continued through the dough, and she kept her gaze honed on her work. Her focus narrowed to the bread as if nothing else existed in the room.
Mandie’s voice came in her usual gentle tone. “Rose, would you like James to send a telegram for you? To let anyone know you’ve arrived safely?”
The kneading stopped. Rose’s hands pressed hard into the dough, knuckles whitening. For a moment, something flashed across her features—a quick, raw flicker of fear or pain, sharp enough to make him want to go to her. He had to hold himself back.
“No.” The answer came almost on a gasp. “No, thank you. There’s no one who needs to know.”
The quiet that followed hung thick, as if a storm pressed against the windows. Mrs. Wang cleared her throat and refocused on her writing, but James caught the look she shared with Mandie—a glance that spoke of worry, of questions left unasked.
Rose bent to her work again, kneading the dough with a force that seemed to battle whatever Mandie’s simple question had raised in her.
No one who needs to know. What kind of life had she left behind in Virginia City, that she had no one—not a soul—to wonder where she’d gone?
He kept his tone light. “Well, the offer stands, if you change your mind.”
She nodded without looking up, her movements still carrying that edge of barely controlled tension.
Mrs. Wang pressed the list into his hand. “You be careful on the road. Weather looks ready to turn.”
“I will.” He pocketed the paper, but couldn’t help a glance back at Rose’s bent head, the rigid set of her shoulders. The urge to say something—anything—that might ease whatever burden she carried pressed against his ribs like a physical ache.
Instead, he touched the brim of his hat. “Ladies.”
The kitchen door closed behind him with a soft click, but Rose’s strained expression followed him to his horse and down the trail.
CHAPTER 7
The scents of sawdust, leather, and vinegar from the pickle barrel drifted through the mercantile as James pushed open the door.
“Afternoon, James.” Tom Holbrook glanced up from behind the counter, where he sorted a stack of papers. “What brings you to town?”
James hesitated, gaze shifting to the neat rows of dry goods and tools lining the shelves. “Need to hire some men for the haying. Winter’s coming early this year. You know of anyone looking for work? Good, honest men who can swing a scythe?”
“Might be a few down at Nelson’s place.” Holbrook scratched at his graying beard. “Though most of the able-bodied men are already spoken for, what with the sawmill so busy these days.”
James nodded and let his attention wander to the bulletin board near the front window. Notices for cattle sales, animals wanted, odd jobs. The usual.
