Her silence weighed heavy between them. She parceled out information like it was precious currency. The Rose he remembered had been full of chatter, spinning stories about the clouds and asking endless questions about everything from why horses slept standing up to whether angels could fly faster than birds.
This Rose held her words close, and it made his chest ache.
They’d been traveling for nearly an hour when he could stand it no more. He pulled the wagon to a stop beside a grove of aspens.
Rose glanced around, and a flicker of wariness crossed her features.
He turned on the bench to face her fully. He had to force himself not to be distracted by the delicate line of her jaw, the way her green eyes reflected the dappled light. “Rose.” Her name felt like coming home. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”
Her eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat, something like fear flashed across her face. She shifted on the bench seat, her grip tightening on her bag.
“Should I?” Her voice held the slightest tremor, like a ripple through still water.
“James Balfour.” He watched her face as he spoke the name, searching for some spark of recognition, for the warmth he remembered from long ago. “You and your mother lived at our ranch when we were kids. You came from England with us.”
The color drained from her cheeks, and she swayed a little where she sat. Her lips parted, but no sound came. When she found her voice, it came out thin, barely more than a breath. “Jamie?”
The old nickname twisted something deep in his chest. “Yes.”
She stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was real, her green eyes searching his face. He saw the moment it truly struck her—the way her expression shifted, first wary, then wonder, then something close to panic.
“Oh.” The single word escaped her lips like a prayer—or a curse—he couldn’t tell which. Her face cycled through a dozen emotions—surprise, recognition, something that looked almost like joy before it shuttered behind that careful reserve again. “I suppose I should call you Lord Balfour. I…I didn’t recognize you. You’re so…” She gestured vaguely at him, then dropped her hand. “Different.”
“Eleven years will do that.” He kept his voice gentle, though his heart battered against his ribs. “And call me James. My brothers and I decided a long time ago not to use our titles here.”
She studied him, as though searching out the reasons for that choice. He’d gladly tell her—they weren’t deep or any great secret. Maybe in England his father was the Duke of Clarence, a powerful member of the House of Parliament and distant cousin of Queen Victoria. But here in American lands, he was just a regular person, liked and respected for what he did, not his lineage. All his brothers felt the same.
But Rose didn’t ask. Instead, she looked away, staring at the aspens like they might offer escape. “Thank you for offering me a ride.” She glanced back with a tight smile. “I’m glad it’s you and not a stranger.”
She didn’t look particularly glad. Not with the pressed line of her mouth.
What had he done to make her dislike him? She and her mother had left so many years ago, but he’d never been aware of saying or doing anything to hurt her. Of course, his days had been dark during that time, what with Mother’s passing. Then with Rose leaving too… The entire year felt like a murky fog.
Something cold settled in his gut now as he watched her not meet his gaze. This wasn’t the reunion he’d imagined during all those sleepless nights.
He’d thought his letters must not have reached her. But maybe she really didn’t ever want to see him or his family again. Had her mother turned her against them? His memories of Mrs. Prescott were only pleasant. She’d been his own mother’s best friend, as well as her lady’s maid.
He had to tell Rose the job she came for was with his family, though he hated the thought of her response. If she harbored ill feelings toward the Balfours, she might not be willing to work for them. Yet there was no sense in riding farther only to turn back if she decided not to take the position.
“Rose.” He kept his voice careful, gentle. “The job you’re traveling to—it’s with my family. At our ranch.”
Her face went perfectly still, like a deer that just caught the scent of a hunter. “Your family?”
“We need help for Mrs. Wang—she’s getting on in years, and with my sister-in-law expecting…” He let the words trail off, watching the way Rose’s grip tightened on her bag. “We’d love for you to come home.”
“Home.” She repeated the word as though it were foreign on her tongue. Something flicked in her eyes—longing, perhaps, or pain. “I see.”
The flatness in her voice made his chest tighten even more. He held his breath, torn between hoping she’d stay and fearing what it might mean if she did.
This wasn’t the eager, trusting girl who used to follow him through the meadows. This Rose looked like she might bolt at any sudden movement.
“Mrs. Wang is still there?” Something shifted in her voice—the first genuine warmth since she’d spoken his childhood name.
“Still there. Still keeping us all straight.” He managed a smile. “She’s asked about you through the years. Wondered what became of Margaret Prescott’s little songbird.”
For a moment, her careful mask slipped. Grief welled in her eyes, and something deeper—a longing so sharp it made his chest ache.
“Mama died a few years ago.” The words came out lifeless, practiced, like she’d had to say them too many times.
