Chapter Three
Rosie’s eyes flutteredopen. Her body protested the early rise but she pushed the quilt aside with a sense of purpose that was new and invigorating. She slipped into her worn boots and tiptoed through the still house, careful not to wake Charles, who was likely exhausted.
The chill Colorado air nipped at Rosie’s cheeks as she stepped outside, sending a cascade of goosebumps down her arms. It was still dark outside, but Rosie was determined to be the best wife she could be, and there was so much to be done.
Rosie made her way toward the henhouse, her steps light on the dew-kissed grass. She’d always taken comfort in these simple tasks, the kind that connected her to the earth. She’d loved planting, weeding, and harvesting the kitchen garden her mother had kept back home.
She knew she should probably be sadder than she was about her mother’s death, but she chose to remember every minute with her mother with a smile. Every little thing that reminded Rosie of Mother caused happy feelings, not sad.
She and her sisters would have left home much earlier than they did if their mother hadn’t been there for them. They’d stayed for her. Rosie couldn’t count the times she or one of her sisters had gotten between their father’s fist or belt and their mother. Keeping her safe had become one of the most important things she could do.
She unlatched the door and peered inside, where a few hens clucked on their perches. Rosie coaxed them aside to gently gather the eggs they’d left nestled in the straw. Her fingers were deft and used to farm work. A ranch wouldn’t be a great deal different.
With her apron cradling the eggs, Rosie returned to the kitchen. She set a cast-iron skillet on the stove, the bacon sizzling as it hit the hot surface. There was no meat greater than bacon in her mind, and she hadn’t had it nearly enough. Next, she whisked the eggs, pouring them into the pan where they began to dance and bubble into a fluffy scramble.
As the eggs cooked, Rosie found herself humming a tune her mother used to sing, the melody intertwining with the sounds of breakfast.
Rosie plated the food and poured two cups of coffee, setting the table with care. Maybe, just maybe, this simple breakfast would be the beginning of something new. Perhaps it would be the first step toward a true partnership.
Rosie allowed herself a small smile. For now, she had eggs to serve, and a day full of possibilities ahead. Maybe Charles wouldn’t fall in love with her in the next week, but she had no doubt he would within the next decade. She wasn’t a child. She could wait.
Rosie noticed it immediately—the way Charles’s gaze looked away from hers. He busied himself with the cuff of his shirt, adjusting and readjusting a button that was already perfectly in place. The air between them was thick with the unsaid, filled with the echoes of last night’s accidental encounter in the kitchen when she had been in the bath.
“Good morning, Charles,” she said, her voice a soft melody meant to smooth over the wrinkled fabric of his embarrassment.
“Rosie,” he replied, his tone clipped, but not unkind. His eyes finally met hers, a brief flicker before darting away to focus on something, anything else. “You’re...up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Rosie said with a shrug that felt heavier than she intended. “I wanted to get breakfast done early. I should be able to get a lot of cleaning done today.”
“We have church this morning,” he told her, looking surprised she hadn’t mentioned it already.
“Oh, will we attend church?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t we? Didn’t you go to church when you were in Massachusetts?”
“Mother took us when we were small, but then Father forbade us to go anywhere when we were five. So we never went to church again. Mother read to us from the Bible, and we’re all Christians, but we just never had the opportunity to go to church.”
“That’s sad,” he said, frowning. The more he learned about her childhood, the more he disliked her father.
She shrugged. “I had my two best friends sharing a room with me. While Father worked, Mother taught us to read, write, and do arithmetic. My childhood was a good one.”When my father wasn’t beating my mother or one of my sisters.She hadn’t minded as much when he hit her, but she’d hated it when someone she loved was the one being abused.
“All right,” he said. He wasn’t going to argue with her about how her childhood had been, but it sounded miserable to him.
She took her seat across from him and offered him the bowl of pepper. “I don’t think I put enough on the eggs, but I wasn’t sure how much you like.”
“Thank you,” he murmured. Taking the bowl and spoon from her hand, he added a liberal amount of pepper, aware that she was watching him closely.
Finally, Charles cleared his throat, a determined set to his jaw as he finally looked up at her.
“Make sure you wear something pretty for church.”
Rosie frowned. “I can only wear the dresses I have. If you want pretty, it’s time for me to make something new.”
She and her sisters would be the three worst-dressed women there. She had no doubt. But it didn’t matter. She would see her sisters!
“You’ll need to make something new then.” Charles shook his head. “We should leave soon. Wouldn’t want to be late.”
Rosie rose from her seat with a sense of purpose. They were to be seen together, the mayor and his new bride, playing their parts for the town. She hoped that under the watchful eyes of their neighbors, they could find a moment of genuine connection.
