Her fingers trembled as she lifted the wooden lid.
On top lay a small wooden doll, its painted face faded but still smiling. Rose’s throat tightened as she lifted it from the crate. She’d carried this doll everywhere during those early days at the ranch, whispering her secrets during the long nights when this new world felt too big and frightening.
“I—” Her voice caught. “I thought she was gone.”
“You called her Emma.” Bea’s gentle murmur felt like a hug—a mother’s hug. “Used to have tea parties with her in the garden behind the kitchen. You’d make the younger boys come join you, as often as you could talk them into it.”
She cradled the doll against her chest, the weight of memory settling around her like a familiar shawl.
Emma. She’d forgotten the name, but now it came flooding back with images of summer afternoons spent arranging wildflowers in tiny cups, chattering away to her companions about everything and nothing. Most of the time that companion had been James, but occasionally Robert or Thomas, or even a pretty leaf or rock she found, if the boys were occupied elsewhere.
Beneath the doll lay other treasures—a wooden box filled with colored stones she’d collected from the creek, a book of fairy tales with her name written in careful childish script inside the front cover, and a small blue hair ribbon Mama used to tie in her braids.
But it was the items clearly belonging to her mother that surged tears to her eyes. A pair of white gloves, yellowed now but still soft. A small leather journal with a brass clasp. A glance inside showed its pages filled with her mother’s careful handwriting.
Rose lifted the journal. She’d never seen this before—Mama must have hidden it away, keeping her private thoughts safe from prying eyes. The leather was worn smooth, as though it had been handled often.
She traced the brass clasp with her fingertip. The thought of reading her mother’s words felt both precious and intrusive, as if she were stepping into a sacred space she’d never truly been invited to enter.
“There’s more underneath,” Bea prodded. Maybe she realized reading these might be too much for now.
Rose set the journal aside and reached deeper into the crate. Her fingers found fabric. Silk, by the feel of it. She drew out a cream-colored shawl, so fine it was nearly transparent, with delicate blue embroidery along the edges. The threads had tarnished a little with age, but the pattern of tiny roses and leaves, was still clear, worked in what had once been silver.
“Your mama wore that for special occasions.” Bea’s voice hummed soft with memory. “Lady Balfour gave it to her the Christmas before she died. Said it brought out the color of Margaret’s eyes.”
Rose held the shawl up to the dim light filtering through the small window. She could almost see her mother in it, could almost remember the way it had floated around her shoulders as she walked. The silk was so delicate it felt like it might dissolve at her touch. Yet it had survived all these years in this dusty attic, waiting.
Mama had said so many kind things about Lady Balfour, what a gracious and giving woman she was.
A memory crept in, one she’d long since forgotten about. Mama had mentioned something else she accidentally left at the Balfour ranch during their sudden departure. A treasure she’d longed for, but didn’t dare go back for or even send a letter of inquiry.
Rose glanced at Bea. Would it be all right to ask? Surely so. Bea had been nothing but overwhelmingly kind since Rose returned. “Do you remember a necklace and eardrops my mother also left behind? I believe they were a gift from Lady Balfour too. Rubies, I think.”
Bea’s face grew thoughtful, her dark eyes distant as she reached back through the years. “Rubies…” She pressed her lips together. “I remember them. Beautiful pieces—a necklace with three teardrop stones and matching earbobs. Lady Balfour gave them to your mama for her birthday that last spring.”
Rose’s heart quickened, and heat burned at her eyes. They did exist. The memory wasn’t some fevered dream from childhood.
“But I haven’t seen them since you left, child.” Bea’s hands smoothed her apron, an act that seemed to be the older woman’s way of thinking through a problem. “I cleaned your mama’s room myself after you moved away, packed everything I could find. If they’d been there, they would have gone in this crate with the rest.”
The disappointment settled in Rose’s chest like a stone, though she’d hardly dared hope the jewelry would still be here after all these years. Still, the loss felt fresh, as though she were losing her mother all over again.
Bea tapped her finger against her chin. “I suppose if they were left behind and we didn’t find them, they would still be in your old room. The one you’re staying in now. Your mama kept her jewelry box on the little table by the window, remember? Sometimes precious things slip behind furniture and get forgotten when we’re in a hurry. We can ask the men to move the chest of drawers when they come in tonight so we can do a proper search.”
Rose nodded, though she couldn’t wait for tonight. She could shift the furniture herself.
After placing her treasures back in the crate, she stood and smiled at Bea. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping it all safe.”
The older woman’s hand settled on her shoulder. “They were always yours, child. I was just the caretaker until you came home.”
Home. That word again, wrapping around her like the silk shawl had wrapped her mother’s shoulders all those years ago.
Yet this wasn’t her home. It couldn’t be. Vincent had already proven this place was far too close for any lasting safety or peace. She would stay safe here through the winter, and in spring when the rivers thawed, she might have enough saved for passage east. Surely St. Louis would be far enough from Vincent’s clutches.
She could find work there. She could start over completely. Find a respectable job, perhaps as a music teacher for children of wealthy families. Use her voice for something beautiful again, instead of as bait to keep men drinking and gambling away their decency.
She carried the wooden crate back to her room, her arms trembling a little under its weight—though whether from the physical burden or the emotional one, she couldn’t say.
Her chamber felt different now, full of possibility. She set the box on the bed and moved to the window where the snow continued its gentle descent. The flakes were larger now, more persistent, though they still didn’t stick to the ground below. Her heart clenched for the men working desperately in the fields.
