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Desperate Bride (Saul & Chanti)

Chanti

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Apr 1, 2015
Thud. Squeak. Thud. Squeak.

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.


“Ooooh…..”

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.

“Pretty little whore….”

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.

Rose snapped her eyes open, staring up at the dark wooden ceiling as her cheeks flushed scarlet in the late night darkness. Oh lord. That…streetwalker in the room next to hers was doing business again. As the iron bed next door groaned and squeaked and slammed into the wall Rose shared with her new neighbor, Rose sat up and rubbed her face tiredly. She was exhausted, but who could sleep with that noise going on? Reaching over she lit a candle and picked up her breakfast, a small apple. As she crunched down on it she picked up the paper, scanning it carefully. She needed a job desperately. Her funds were running dangerously low. Without a job she MAY last two more months before she would be penniless and on the street.

But it was difficult to get a job when your only experience was hosting a dinner party or tea party, something she had been performing for the last three years since she was 15 for her father. Perhaps someone would be in desperate need of charming conversation from a former debutante, and willing to pay for it. She half grimaced, half giggled at the idea. Her last attempt at a job had been as a clerk in a mercantile store. She knew mathematics, and was good with the customers. But when in the second week the proprietor had tried to lift her skirts in the back store-room and she had slapped him and stomped on his booted foot, she had been told not to come back.

She was desperate. But not THAT desperate.

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.

Rose shook her head. Not yet, anyway. If she ever became that desperate she knew who to turn to for business advice.

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.

Rose noted an advertisement for a dressmaker for a dollar a day. She would apply for that. So what if she didn’t know how to sew? How hard could it be? She had seen her former servants sew. Pull a needle out, push a needle in. It seemed easy enough. And a dollar a day would allow her to save up money over the next couple months to get out of Boston. Somewhere where she could walk down the street without looking over her shoulder. Somewhere where she could perhaps get a job as a governess or a teacher, something she was far more suitable for without worrying about being discovered and murdered in some dark wet alley somewhere in the city. Her rent here in this hellhole was a mere $4 a month, and she could eat light enough. Yes, perhaps in a few months she would be able to save enough.
She kept looking, hoping for a job she actually knew how to do.

“Successful rancher in the Colorado territory seeking hard-working and capable mature wife. Must love children and be comfortable around animals. Travel expenses provided if we suit. Send a picture along with your response to….”

She stopped reading, giggling out loud. The poor man! She had heard that out in the west there were pitifully few women, but to have to advertise for a wife! Such boldness!

Thudsqueakthudsqueakthud.

“Ooooooh!” The loud grunt had Rose blushing again as she chewed on her apple. One business transaction was finished, it seemed. Sure enough she heard a few murmuring sounds, some shuffling sounds, then a door slamming. Then a few minutes later…

Thud. Squeak. Thud. Squeak.

Business was good, it seemed.
_____________________________________________________________
Elizabeth Carter looked up sharply as her shop door opened. She took in the girl standing there in one glance. A slender, elegant figure that bespoke of aristocracy. She had on a fine pale blue gown in last season’s fashion, carefully cleaned and pressed. The girl’s black hair was clean and shiny, carefully braided and put up in a knot on the back of her head. Her face was sweet and fresh, heart-shaped with big pale gray-blue eyes framed with thick black lashes. High arched cheekbones, a slender elegant nose, and a full pink mouth. A fine looking girl, and Mrs. Carter quickly decided she was a customer. So she put on her finest smile and hustled forward to greet the girl.

“Good day, Miss! How may I help you?”

“Good day!” The girl smiled back at her, her youthful cheer instantly irritating to the seamstress. “My name is Rose. I saw an advertisement for a dressmaker. Are you still hiring?”

A dressmaker? Mrs. Carter drew back, the warm welcome on her face instantly cooling.

“I see. And what is your experience in dress making?”

The sunny smile on the girl’s face didn’t waver at Mrs. Carter’s change in attitude.
“Oh, I have great experience with seasonal fashion. Why this dress I am wearing was sewn in my own home last year. I think it would have been better in a richer shade of blue to offset the darkness of my hair, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Carter looked over the gown with a careful eye. Indeed, it was a well-made garment. The stitches were hardly visible, but those she could see were neat and perfectly placed.

“You made this?” Her voice was doubtful.

“You like it? Pft, this was no difficult job at all for me.” The girl smiled so warmly that Mrs. Carter found herself thawing.

“Very well. A dollar a day, and you shall be here promptly at seven in the morning. Can you start immediately? I will pay you a full dollar for the days work.”

“Oh, certainly!” The girl was delighted, and Mrs. Carter promptly thrust a half done bodice in sea-green silk at her to complete, and then returned to her own work.
_______________________________________________________

It appeared sewing was a far more difficult job than Rose had first estimated. Lord, but that woman had gotten angry when she had checked on Rose a half later, only to find the expensive silk smeared with blood drops from where Rose had jabbed herself with the needle with what felt like 100 times. And that was after it had taken her twenty minutes to get the stupid needle threaded!

It was a dejected, hungry Rose that hauled herself up the three flights of rickety stairs to her tiny garrett apartment, having spent an entire day out with not a single coin to show for it. She had bought a small meat pie from a street vendor which she ate sitting on the edge of her rickety iron bed, staring blankly at the newspaper she had set on the bedside table. She would never be able to save up the money she needed. She would die here in Boston, at the hands of the man who…

“….Travel expenses provided if we suit.”

She stared at those words, the flaky crust of the handpie dissolving in her mouth, the meaty juices dripping over her hand.

“….Travel expenses provided if we suit.”

She smiled grimly. Colorado was a very long way from Boston.

“Oh we will suit, Sir. We will suit very well indeed.”

She dressed for her photograph carefully. The man was looking for a mature woman. Rose sleected her plainest, darkest blue gown, and drew her hair back in a severe bun that aged her appearance by a good five years or so. Gathering up her few remaining coins, she swept down the stairs to the closest store that sold paper and pen, and then stopped to see a photographer.

“Dear Sir,
I take up my pen in hand as I gather my courage in my heart. It seems quite bold of me to write a man I do not know with the interest of pursuing a marriage. But I am freshly widowed, and while I miss my husband dearly I find that being a woman alone is difficult.”


Well, part of that was true anyway. Being a woman alone WAS difficult. Extremely so. Rose pursed her lips, considering her claim of being widowed. It was a risk. Some men did not care for what they considered the leavings of another man. But the rancher had specifically requested a mature woman, and Rose suspected he would approve of a woman with experience being married over a girl barely out of the schoolroom.

“I noticed in your advertisement you mentioned children. Do you have children? I miss my nieces and nephews very much, and adored spending time with them. But they went to England last year with their parents and I have not seen them since. My youngest neice, three year old Eliza, was my favorite. She was an adorable little thing who would have a temper tantrum everytime I left. I often wished I could take her home with me!”

Rose DID adore children, but the only experience she had with them was with her friends little brothers and sisters. Eliza was actually Ellen’s little sister. Ellen was once Rose’s best friend, and Eliza had taken to toddling after Rose every time Rose had come to visit. Rose angrily brushed a tear away and bent to write. It would do no good remembering a past she could not return too.

“I must confess I have never lived in the west, but I grew up on a farm and have much experience milking cows and tending to chickens and gardens.”

The closest Rose had come to milking a cow was drinking it out of her glass. But she had seen it done once as a child, and it looked easy enough. Pull the teat, milk squirts out. Easy. And how hard could it be to toss some chickens some feed, or throw some seed on the ground?

“As a young girl I dreamed of living in the west. Such romance! Wide open spaces, the fresh closeness of nature. Are the Indians dangerous? I have heard they go on the warpath every summer, but I am not familiar with Colorado Indians. Are they different from other Indians?”

Indians was definitely a concern. It seemed every-time she splurged and bought a paper she read about some poor settler family being butchered in their beds by wild savages. It would not due to run straight from the reach of one murderer into the arms of another.

“I understand there may not be churches nearby, but I trust you are a God-fearing man, and seeking to raise your children – should you have some – to be civilized, responsible Christians.”

THAT seemed like something a responsible, mature woman would say.

"I pray this letter reaches you swiftly and in good health. While I confess this method of seeking marriage seems scandalous, I believe it is appropriate for two adults in our positions. If my letter pleases you, I hope to hear more about your home and your family.
Sincerely yours,
Rose Marie Madden"


She deliberately used a false last name. If she were to go to Colorado, she wanted no trace of her trail that the man seeking to murder her could follow.
 
It was early in the morning, earlier than the sun, that Virgil found himself unable to sleep. While the ranch owner was used to early mornings, very rarely did he rise so early as this. If he went to the window it'd still be too early to hear the work of ranch hands starting their own morning routines. Isabel, the young Spaniard who aided in tending to the children, had slipped into his room earlier that night, and with one glance over his shoulder he could still make out her form under the sheets - the golden-tan skin of the arm that had a few minutes ago been cast over him looking pale in the light of the moon coming in through the window.

Isabel: the caring and loving young woman that wanted only the best for the children that had been placed in her care. The tender voice and touch to a guilty man during a time spent far away from home in a uniform that now rested unworn in the closet. Oh how the poor girl had tried again to fill the void Virgil found in himself in the past years, trying to bring back the energy of old promised whispers, and her ever gentle touch. By the time the sun was up, she'd already be awake and ready, and working on preparing the morning meal for the children. If only to avoid the rumors that might come otherwise.

Virgil only waited a few moments longer as he watched her form. Thoughts raced through his head. The same ones from what felt like so long ago in northern Mexico. Except stronger now. Because now the injured party was no longer capable of being injured. Because this wasn't a tent in Sonora, but what had once been their bed. Because now Andrew and his younger sister Alice were merely a hall's length away and not seemingly countless miles. Virgil sighed again and rose as gently as possible from the bed. They were the sort of thoughts that never came to a man like Virgil when he found himself before a pastor. No, that sort of thing would be too public for them. They came at the early hours of the morning when they were least expected, as they had now, and for the past few years they'd been best defeated by simply resigning to the idea of starting the day perhaps a touch earlier than normal. So with a tired sigh, Virgil rose to stand, and walked softly across the room to where a mirror stood in one of the room's brighter corners.

Tall and broad-shouldered, the distant heritage of southern ranchers who'd carried themselves north showed in his body. The muscle he possessed in his slowly growing age was due in some part to his time as a soldier, but any of the hands that called the Garret ranch home could attest that "Pa Garrett" was never one to shy away from mending a fence or rustling cattle. It was those small things that could bring a smile to Virgil's face. But that same smile would instantly remind him of others, such as the frown line's drawn into tanned skin, and once vibrant blue eyes that could more closely be equated to ice on a cold winter's morning any longer. And that wasn't even to mention the faintest gray hairs that hid well under a hat coming in at his temples. Isabel would insist that a man back in Spain would look distinguished to have such a thing. And that would have been a comfort had Virgil been a man in Spain - but he was a Colorado rancher. And he looked perhaps a few years older than he really was.

The quick appraisal was hardly a necessary thing. And as he ran a hand through his hair, Virgil came to the conclusion as he did every time he did such a thing that it was hardly conducive to his happiness to keep it up.

But this morning when he turned away from the mirror to the nearby dresser, he immediately spotted something. A folded up roll of paper, the news from the nearby town, and tucked just inside that was a rather plain envelope. Unassuming things at a glance for most people. But they made Virgil freeze. Staring at them. At the workings of an idea given to him by Isabel. Something absurd by the sound of it, even for Virgil.

Especially for Virgil.

A mail-order bride? Virgil had ordered many things in the mail, from a new type of cattle feed from Europe that hadn't been as good as claimed, to parts for the rifles his ranch hands used. But he'd never, and he'd never heard of, ordering a wife in the post.

Isabel hadn't been pressingly insistent. But she hadn't quite let him ever forget about it. They both knew what existed between them couldn't last forever. Eventually somebody would see or suspect something. Perhaps this wasn't the most conventional way of doing things, but it wasn't as if the life they lead allowed for much in the way of standard convention.

Isabel had drafted a letter and had placed it in his care. She could find whatever was necessary to make it happen, but she placed it upon Virgil's shoulders to handle for now.

Part of Virgil wanted to reach out and take the letter. Look over it and see in detail just what it was that Isabel had written out.

And part of him heard the distant sound of horses being led from their stables drifting in through the window as he reached out. The ranch owner spared a glance out the window and the letter was quickly forgotten.

________________________________________________________________________________________________​

Life had the most damnable habit of catching a man by surprise. Whether it was in the chores and labor stacking up unexpectedly, weather taking a foul turn, or finding somebody seemingly invaluable in your life was soon going to leave it. As he'd ridden the pastures and tended to his chores, Virgil had discovered it was a surprisingly easy day. And the sky overhead was a pure blue that drew the peaks of the surrounding mountains with sharp lines, leaving only the sun to come down. And so maybe it was because of those two things that Virgil was caught completely surprised by the third.

By the time he'd returned from milking cows, a carriage had already pulled in front of the house, and it had been waiting for some time. The large Hispanic fellow sitting on the bench, who Virgil soon recognized from Isabel's stories as one of the young woman's elder brothers, had regarded him coolly as if their roles had been reversed as to who was a newcomer on the other's property. Two burly sorts of men had been travelling in and out of the front door in a manner that would have had Virgil reaching for the nearest gun had he not seen Isabel watching over and directing them. When she'd finally noticed him she had looked simultaneously relieved and yet still pensive as she'd motioned for him to come some distance out of ear-shot of those by the carriage so they could speak.

The exchange had been quick by necessity. Family back in Spain had fallen ill. Deathly so. And while she understood how much she had been helping keep after Andrew and Alice, her own family needed her now. And Virgil would have been a hypocrite to argue against her. As much as he tried to convince her to reconsider, eventually their farewells were exchanged, and she'd boarded the carriage with a promise to return some day should he still need her help.

And the events of that day had led Virgil to a fifth of scotch.

Which had led him to his bedroom, where he found the paper with its open ad, and the letter.

And it had found him setting out that same letter the very next morning. Which led to its response, that Virgil had looked over again and again as if some part of him could not quite register that somebody had taken him seriously. But as he looked over the picture of a woman who seemed to hold a sort of aged beauty about her, he read her words. Some of it made him laugh - particularly her concern over the natives that were told about back on the coast as always raring to murder and rape their 'victims'. But her prior marriage and her obviously stated love of children were what was beginning to draw Virgil to her, with what had st arted as the almost too-pretty face.

A full month after he'd put the add out and now gotten a response, he found himself penning a reply. He did his best to emulate Isabel's style. Even if he fell tragically short to a keen eye.


Good madam,

It troubles me to hear of the news of your loss, and you have my sympathies. A woman of your obvious poise and maturity is, I'm sure, fully capable of surviving in this world but it would be a cruel thing to leave you to such devices.

I trust that you understand what coming out here will entail. The travel to the nearest town is the better part of a day and the work in the ranch is hard. I've been fortunate enough in business that I have hands to help, but you must understand that it would not be the easy life of the cities back east.

I'd like to offer you a chance to come out here. We can meet one another in person and you can meet the children and see things for yourself. Andrew is only eight but he's rather independent, and reminds me a bit of myself, so I imagine the two of you shall get together well. Alice is only a babe, just two years old, and I would not wish to see her grow up without a more motherly influence. I'm also sending a sum of money to fund for your travels. I hope you are safe and that you may arrive quickly with little trouble.

Regards,
~ Virgil Stacy Garrett



Along with a sum of money, more than enough he estimated to cover for her travel expenses with extra should she find need of it, Virgil had ridden to town two days after Isabel had left and sent the letter to post. From there it was a simple, if challenging matter, of waiting and trying to keep things in the household together in the meanwhile.
 
Rose was not one to wait around with twiddling thumbs waiting for her luck to get better. The idea that the poor western rancher she had mailed may not accept her was inconceivable. Why would he not? She was passingly pretty, and though most of what she had told him in her letter was a lie, it was what he needed to hear. Of course he would accept her. She needed to prepare. There was nowhere in Boston where she could learn to milk a cow and plant a garden that she knew of. But there WERE certainly people she could hire to teach her to cook.

The very next morning she counted out her money again, frowning down at it. After the expensive photo yesterday her funds were dangerously low. She would not be able to pay someone to teach her to cook. For another fifteen minutes she sat on the edge of the bed, a small wrinkle forming between her two eyes, her pink lips pursed as she considered her options.

______________________________________________________________

Agnes Carter of Carter’s Boarding House looked up from her bread dough when her maid showed the young lady in. She seemed to be a proper enough young lady, though a bit rich to be working here, what with that lacy silk dress that would look more at home in a lady’s parlor than a hot sweltering kitchen.

“I understand your wanting a job?” Agnes’s voice was brisk, she was far too busy to waste time in polite chatter.

“Oh no, Ma’am.”

Agnes frowned up at the pert girl who smiled blandly back. A very pretty smile.
“I thought you were wanting a job.” Agnes glanced in confusion to the equally confused maid who had announced the girl before bringing her in here.

“No ma’am. I am wanting to work.”

“It’s the same thing.” Agnes was annoyed now, snapping at the girl as she angrily flipped the dough into a ceramic bowl.

“No, it’s not.” The bold snit of a girl shot back with that same polite friendly smile. “A job means I want to be paid. To work means I don’t expect to get paid.”

Agnes stared at the crazy girl who looked anything but crazy, wiping her floured hands on a dishtowel laying nearby.

“Make yourself clear, girl. I don’t have time to waste.”

“I will work for you twelve hours a day in exchange for meals and you teaching me how to cook and keep house.”

Dead silence filled the kitchen as Agnes and the maid stared open-mouthed at Rose. Rose simply set her reticule aside and proceeded to roll up the sleeves of her pink silk gown.

“What would you have me do first?”

______________________________

Her dress was ruined. Covered in flour and tomato stains and dirt from potato peelings. The bottom hem torn where she had caught it on a bedframe. Ruined. It wasn’t like she had many to replace it, having come away with only a dozen gowns when she escaped.

Rose collapsed into her bed with a sigh, groaning at the soreness in her back, arms, legs, and….well…everywhere. Who knew that cooking and cleaning a house was such brutally hard work? She couldn’t complain though. Yes, Agnes worked her like a field hand in the deep south, but she fulfilled her part of the bargain. Rose already knew how to boil eggs, make toast, clean vegetables, strip and remake beds, flavor and cook a beef roast, and had a vague idea of how to make biscuits. And it had only been her first day. Three quarters of a day at that.
She groaned again, the sound loud in the quiet room.

How would she be able to stand up against an entire day of work like that?
But stand up she did. Striding into the door each morning at 6am with a bright sunny smile, dressed more appropriately in a clean cotton gown. She scrubbed floors, dusted a dozen rooms, did the washing, beat rugs free of dust, put fresh ticking in mattresses. But most of all, she cooked. Agnes was a ruthless teacher once she found out Rose was getting married. Every day Rose cooked her heart out – and quickly discovered she LIKED it. It was a glorious realization really, to find out how much she enjoyed something that was considered work. It was two weeks before Agnes pronounced her biscuits fit for consumption. She learned to pickle cucumbers, make jams and jellies, cheese, and butter. Agnes made her cook rice and wheat porridge, hominy and mashed potatoes. She learned how to make sausage and cook a perfect pork chop. Rose despised fish, but she learned to cook it. She learned how to cut up and cook a chicken – fried, boiled, or roasted. She made cornbread and puddings, cakes and pies. She made cobblers and light breads and tiny sugar covered tea cakes. After five weeks, even Agnes grudgingly admitted that Rose was a talented cook, even if she could barely pass muster in some of her dishes.
_____________________________________________

Timing is sometimes everything. It would have been so easy for Rose to miss the letter. One less day. One less hour. It was all it would have taken to change her life history forever.

It was on a Friday at the boarding house, and Rose was hard at work in the kitchen, slicing a juicy plump pork roast with cinnamon apples for the boarder’s dinner. The maid, Mary, bustled into the kitchen with word of two more guests, businessmen who would be eating with one of their short term boarders. Rose thought nothing of it, nodding abruptly as she stacked the thick slices of meat on the platter before pouring the still warm juices over them. She rushed it out to the dining area where the hungry boarders were already gathering.

The crash of the platter hitting the floor brought every eye in the room to where she stood in the doorway. One of the younger boarders made a movement to go to her, then froze. Something in her stature forbade anyone from approaching her. Her face was white, and the man feared she would pass out. Her eyes were huge, glassy with terror, riveted on one plump man in the room who rose slowly from his chair. The boarder did not recognize him, he had come as a guest of one of the other boarders.

“Rose.” The calm male voice was the only sound in the room before the girl broke into a panicked sob and turn and ran back into the kitchen. They all heard Agnes calling out. A scrambling sound from the table, and the man who had called her by name was running into the kitchen.

“Rose! Rose, stop!”
________________________________________________

Rose hadn’t stopped. She had fled out the back door and was gone from sight. An angry Agnes demanded answers. The dining room was chaos, most of the boarders had grown to love Rose, and regarded the newcomer with suspicion. He did not stay for dinner, questioning Agnes in the privacy of the parlor and then hurrying off.
_______________________________________________

Rose was in a flurry in her room, tears streaming down her face as she threw her gowns into her bag, crushing the silks with the velvets next to the cotton morning gowns. Every five minutes she hurried to the window that overlooked the street and peered fearfully down, searching it carefully. Within an hour she was racing down the stairs to the street, a carpetbag in each hand.

“Miss Rose!”

A male voice froze her in terror, a shudder tearing through her body. It was her landlord, looking at her quizzically as he handed her a letter.

“You alright, Miss Rose? Someone bothering you?”

She took the letter, smiling weakly before hurrying on.

“No, no I am fine, Jonas. Thank you.”

He followed her.

“You are leaving, Miss Rose? You paid up through the end of next week.”

“It’s fine, Jonas. I need to leave now. Something came up. Goodbye!”

She fled at a near run, and Jonas stared after her in confusion.

Three hours later he was explaining his former tenant’s mysterious behavior to the three intense inquiring men.

“And the envelope was postmarked from the Colorado Territory, you say?”

“Yep, not sure who she knows there, but she didn’t seem all that concerned about it. Just about getting gone.”

At the same time the interrogation of her landlord was taken place, Rose sat in the commons, clutching the wad of money to her chest like a sailor clutching a life preserve in a raging storm, reading the letter with tears in her eyes.

It was terse and to the point, leaving no room for romance of any kind. But it was her salvation, and that made it sweeter than the most sugary love letter ever written.

She took two days to finish her preparations, a whirlwind of activity. Two large steamer trunks, filled to the brim with things she needed for herself and the children. Books, toys, a few delicate foodstuffs she was not certain to be able to get easily in the territories. A few more clothing items for herself. Notebooks for the children. Paper and writing utensils. A special doll for little Alice, and a fine set of glass marbles for Andrew. Bribery was a time honored tradition in the world, and there was no reason it would not work on children. Train reservations. A different rooming house each night, in a different area of town. And on that last night, a letter advising her rancher she was coming.

She never had a chance to think until her things were loaded on the train and she sat on the stiff bench, smiling politely at the bored, thin-faced elderly woman who sniffed in distaste at every person who was unfortunate enough to pass by.
After that though, she had nothing else to do but think. And worry. And fret.
This could be a huge mistake. She had lied to the man. Could he have her arrested for defrauding him? Would he beat her in anger? Would he refuse to allow her to at least stay with him a few days, long enough to find work? Dear Lord, would he expect her to go through with the marriage anyway? She had no way to pay him back. The idea of marrying him had not actually sunk in – it had just been an escape. A way out. Oh dear God, she may marry a man she did not even know! Would she be able to do it? Should she do it? COULD she do it?

Sweat broke out on her forehead as the miles rolled underneath the loud clacking wheels. Should she tell him of her lies right away? If she did he could send her away with nothing, have her arrested, do God only knows what. If she said nothing and he married her, he could beat her. Her face flushed scarlet as she realized he would expect her to bed him. If she didn’t tell him before, he would know then she had lied.

Oh dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into? She could try to convince him to let her stay on as a governess. She could say nothing in the hopes he did not discover her lies until it was too late, then try to placate him. She could be honest and forthright in the beginning and try to soothe his anger.

Through the changes of trains, the rides in dusty, filthy stagecoaches, she thought. When she sat down and wrote out a letter advising him of her pending arrival and sent it ahead by horse, she still did not know what to do. Even when the stagecoach pulled up into the town closest to his ranch, she did not know what to do. Honesty, or brazen her way through?

Her nerves were shot, her stomach threatening to empty itself of her quick breakfast of a biscuit. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her simple pale green cotton dress with the eyelet lace trimming was dusty from the journey. She looked as exhausted and nervous as she felt. Would he be there to greet her? Would he have received the letter in time? What if he didn’t? What would she do? Would there be a place for her to stay?

Rose thought she would vomit if she didn’t stop worrying. And time for worrying was over. The stagecoach stopped, and the door was flung open.

Taking a deep shuddering breath and steeling herself for the worst, she picked up her carpetbag she had dragged all the way from Boston and clambered out of the stagecoach, accepting the driver’s helpful hand with a smile.
“Thank you, Sir.”

Her voice was bright and cheerful despite the terror tearing her stomach to shreds. She shook off her dress, letting the dust blow away and then patting the smart little brown hat perched jauntily on her black hair. Only then did she glance around briskly for some sign of her rancher. The small dusty town was full of men, and they all stopped and stared at the pretty young tired looking thing that stood in the dirt road, looking out over the town like a queen surveying her subjects.
 
Weeks passed slower than they had any right to in the following days. Even when Isabel had been there to look after the children, Virgil had made a point to play as much a part in their lives as he could despite the challenges that presented with also making sure to keep up with workloads so nobody could ever say that "Pa Garrett" was a slacker on his own ranch. So with Isabel's absence, the workload had increased even more. Now Virgil had to rise earlier still, make the breakfast for the children, do his own work about the ranch without he or one of his trusted ranch-hands ever straying out of earshot of the home, make them their regular meals, finish his own work, and stay up even later than before to make sure they were bedded down.

Andrew's schooling, which Isabel had always tended to, suffered as a result as well. While Virgil had been painfully aware of how Isabel's absence would personally affect him, it had never even crossed his mind that perhaps it might affect his children more. Andrew had always been perhaps more sullen than some children his age since his mother's death, and with Isabel's absence it was even more pronounced. His smiles were far softer and seemingly less frequent, and it was as if some of the energy which he had once used running around the farmstead had disappeared. Alice was saved from it all by the blissful ignorance of her extreme youth, and to some extent even Andrew was saved in some way from it. Virgil could only be grateful for the ignorance of youth.

Though Andrew was never one who had been happy with ignorance. It seemed that when the Lord had deigned what parts of his parents to give the boy, he'd given everything physical of his father's from a strong jaw-line to eyes as clear and blue as the sky over the ocean - and raven-black hair that could be the most disordered mop, much to Isabel's annoyance in cutting and combing it. But that same Lord had been smart enough to realize Virgil's understanding of numbers and ranching wouldn't be enough for the boy and had given his mother's inquisitive and troublesome mind. The kind that asked question and sought answers that made Virgil question at times why they hadn't raised the boy to be seen and not heard.

"Where has auntie Isabela gone?"

"When will she be back?"

"Who did you send a letter to?"

"Are you replacing auntie Isabela?"

"Is auntie Isabela's family sick like ma'?"

Those kinds of questions that made days otherwise passing as hard-to-pin and vague memories snap into clarity while in the middle of preparing something close to a good dinner. He would try and avoid them as best he could. Virgil would have liked to say that he was a stranger to lies, but he was all to familiar with them and had an easy enough time distracting the boy or satisfying him with partial truths in the moment. The most exciting relief from it came in a day's hunting, as Virgil had been planning to do as Andrew grew older.

It had kept Andrew too busy and quiet to ask those questions, it had gotten him valuable experience in hunting, and they now had a pair of deer for meat and hide if they had need for it. But beyond that and occasional troubles with trying his best to nurture Alice. That was one place where Virgil was distinctly reminded of Isabel's absence. A small blessing came that Alice was just old enough to graduate into thoroughly mashed foods. That was what saved Virgil over the next, slow, weeks. Small, small blessings that kept proper worry and trouble at bay just a little while longer. And just as a nagging worry had formed that perhaps his luck would soon run out arrived, so too did the second of the letters by horseback. A rider covered in dust of the trail and heavily winded from a long journey - trying to beat a train as the letter revealed.

The last days crawled.

They were uneventful, yes, but that only helped to remind him of long nights in Mexico when the day's march had been finished, and his troops organized. He'd remember those nights with nothing to occupy his busy mind before Isabel. Which would in turn remind him of her absence and the guilt of her touch. Which would bring further pain, remembering Mae, and the grave marker on a hill near the southern field that served as a reminder to the man that family should always be the most pressing and important duty in a man's life. Things that were ignored with swift shots of whiskey at night and busying tasks during the day.

And then the day had finally come at last. The more trusted hands would tend to the children in his absence. It wouldn't do to have somebody's future wife tended to by the ranch hands when first arriving in town. Any other man with money to the name might have wanted to avoid sending earth-soiled types to tend to a high-class woman - but Virgil wasn't that detached from those same men. His beard hadn't been as well-trimmed as it could have been in the last few days, before heading into town he'd helped get some of the cows milked, and then had finally gotten the wagon hitched and headed into town.

"Well, if it isn't Pa Garret gracing our fine establishment!" The bartender declared with a broad smile showing tobacco-stained teeth.

Virgil gave a smile as he made his way between the tables to the bar, smiling all the way, "Its a pleasure as always, Dick."

The white-haired old man and owner of the tavern already set to work fetching a glass. Where local men were concerned, Virgil didn't sway from the typical preference for a straight shot of whiskey to supplement the day. And being one of the biggest sources of the local economy meant that no questions had to be raised about when and how a tab or debt would get paid. As much as he tried to be like any other fellow, Virgil realized his lifestyle had perks.

Both men took to leaning on the bar, the bartender's arms crossed to support himself and with Virgil keeping himself supported by one hand while the other held his tumbler.

"What brings you out our way, friend? Figured that the little ones would keep your hair graying, what with that Spanish girl's leavin' you in such a hurry."

Virgil was proud of himself that he refrained from flinching, "Oh. You know how it is. Business always calls, just sometimes got a different face to it."

Dick quirked a brow, "Oh? I noticed that rider comin' hell-for-leather into town. Headin' right for your ranch. And it just so happens I read the paper."

"Do ya' now? I didn't know you needed to read to pour the drinks." Virgil gave his best laugh, slamming back the whiskey to avoid putting his foot in his mouth for a few moments.

"So you finally found a bold enough gal?"

Virgil pursed his lips, staring at the empty glass, "Yeah. Suppose I did."

Dick smiled, "Careful, Pa. Woman bold enough to take that offer of your's? She's likely to bowl you right over ifn' you aren't too careful."

Both men shared a small laugh. Before Dick pointed lazily out the window.

"And look there, wouldn't ya? A pretty face from an out-of-town carriage. And the poor girl looks a bit lost."

Virgil quickly fished inside his vest. The photograph was there, even though it had been a but crumpled, and one corner had been stained from spilled bourbon a few days ago. But it was still good enough that even from a distance it looked - very close. Her hair wasn't in as tight a bun as in the picture, her skin looked pale as if she'd recently seen a whole string of ghosts, and her dress looked stained from dust. But as he drew closer to the entrance of the saloon, more and more he was sure that she was a dead-set match. By the time he was on the boardwalk, he was sure enough that he hid the photo away inside his vest, and cleared his throat loudly.

"Mrs. Madden? Rose Madden?"

That was a curse of being "new money". He wasn't quite sure which way would be appropriate to refer to a widowed woman of Rose's obvious class and standing. For the first time in many years, he was legitimately worried. Particularly that he'd somehow caused offense. This was the potential surrogate for his children, after all, and the woman who he would ideally be spending many years ago. Where that was concerned, her beauty was certainly enough to draw his eye even with obvious sleep deprivation. But if she found something personally wrong with him . . .

It was at that moment when Virgil was regretting his choice of clothing.

Sun-paled trousers and well-worn chaps, a sturdy belt with no less than three heavy-looking pistols on it, and his trusted boots and spurs were hardly the clothes of high class. The pinkish-white button-down shirt he wore, with sleeves down despite the heat to hide away the years old brand on the one arm, worn out vest, and the hat worn as much to keep sun from his eyes as to conceal the accursed gray hairs made him look more like a ranch-hand of the Garrett ranch as opposed to a man rich enough to potentially pay for a two-way trip from the Colorado territories and put adds out in papers as far away as Boston.

Money could be a rarity in the territories and Virgil didn't particularly look like he was familiar with it.

"I'm Virgil." He did his best to smile as he nervously looped his thumbs through the front of his belt, "Virgil Garrett? We - exchanged a few letters." And 'exchanged a few letters' was accompanied with an awkward and vague hand motion, "I hope your trip wasn't too rough? We can stay for just a while if you're needing time to rest? If not, we could head out to the ranch. I - I brought a wagon. A lady such as yourself likely doesn't ride side-saddle, I figure."

Damn his nerves. He never used to ramble. Not unless it was around Mae.
 
Rose had experienced a lot of new things in the past several months. She certainly had no previous experience in running and hiding in fear for her life. She had no experience in sewing, no experience in scrounging for a penny to buy an apple for her morning breakfast. No experience in cooking or cleaning houses, or any number of things. But one thing she did have experience with – one thing she did feel perfectly at home doing – was dealing with a man on a social level.

Rose had been attending society parties from the time she was 13 years old, graduating to balls at the age of fifteen. She could handle everything from an awe struck fifteen year old to a sweaty-palmed eager twenty year old to a handsy fifty year old with a leering grin - and she could handle them with grace and dignity. She took in her rancher in one sweeping gaze. From his rough voice that came dangerously close to cracking like a nervous teenage boys, to the nervous fingers folding in his belt – the male equivalent of the fluttering fingers of a terrified schoolgirl meeting her first beau, Rose was on comfortable ground. The man would be putty in her hands.

Except for the guns. My God, the man fairly bristled with guns. It was alarming, to say the least. Was he wearing them because he thought he needed them? It wouldn’t do to anger a man carrying so many guns. No, honesty was definitely not the best policy right now. Maybe when he was thoroughly disarmed.

She flashed him her best smile just as the two heavy steamer trunks she had brought dropped down onto the ground beside her with a thud and a grunt of exertion from the stagecoach driver on top. The smile lit up her entire face, made the tired paleness vanish as her teeth flashed whitely and her gentle blue eyes lit up.

“Mr. Garrett! It is such a pleasure to meet you!” She managed effortlessly to sound genuinely pleased without a single desperate note.

“Good lord, lady! Did you bring all of Boston with you? How many damned dresses and doo dads do you need?” The stagecoach driver fumed as he dropped to the ground beside the trunks, his face red from handling her heavy trunks.

Rose didn’t bat an eye at the rough language, her reply crisp and polite. “I need two trunks and a carpetbag worth of dresses and doo dads, Mr. Cotton.”

Cotton snorted, looking over at Virgil and shaking his head in sympathetic bemusement.

“Yer gonna have to handle them on your own. I have had enough loading and unloading them once. Damned nuisance.” He wandered off to unhitch the team without explaining whether he thought Rose, her luggage, or both were the damned nuisance mentioned.

Rose’s smile never once faltered.

“You are very kind, and most considerate, Mr. Garrett. But it was a wonderfully relaxing ride out here. The prairies were beautifully empty, but this….” She waved one elegant slender hand out to the dusty little tattered town and the rugged mountains not far off. “This is absolutely stunning. And while I can assure you I can seat a horse quite well, I am nonetheless grateful you brought the carriage. It would be difficult for horses to transport my trunks. But will it be proper for me to go to your home an unmarried woman?”

WHY had she asked that? And why had she assured him she could ride a horse when she had truthfully never sat one in her life? She could have slapped herself silly once she realized what she had said. It would be horribly improper for her to go home with him of course. She would be ruined – not that she wasn’t already after being so long on her own. But everything in her raising spoke out against being alone in a home with a man without a chaperone. She struggled to cover her error – no reason to rush the man into marriage when SHE certainly wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it. A little quivering line formed between her arched black eyebrows as she frowned.

“I suppose the children will be chaperones enough.”

It WAS a legitimate concern though. If it did not work out with Mr. Garrett and she were forced to try to make her own way here in this squalid little…well…little more than a permanent campsite…she would need every ounce of respectability she could manage. If she spent a night in Mr. Garrett’s home with no chaperone, every man in this little village would see her as prey.

There was no help for it though. She had already made her decisions. Her bridges were most definitely burned. There was no return for her. She could only forge ahead.

“Where is your wagon? Did you leave the children behind? I simply cannot wait to see your ranch.” Ok, NOW there was a bit of desperation. Her smile faltering only slightly, enough for the paleness to creep back into her cheeks. She had lied about the ride out here. It had been the most exhausting journey she had ever taken, partly due to her increasing tension regarding her decision. She could sleep for a week, given the chance.

“You must tell me more about the children, Mr. Garrett. Do they know I am coming?” He was a man. It was likely the silly fool hadn’t even mention her to the children. Just show up unexpectedly with a new potential bride in tow…”Here kids, call her mama if she lasts out the week.”

But if she could keep him talking, perhaps he wouldn’t notice how young she was to be a widow. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice that her hands were soft and lily-white despite the hard work over the past month – certainly not the hands of a girl who had grown up on a farm. She needed to keep him too busy or too off balance to start noticing things and wandering. Though the only way he would find out she truly had lied was when…IF…he bedded her. Then he would know for certain she was no widow. By then though, they would be married and it would be too late for him to send her back. They would simply have to deal.

Could she do it? Could she live her entire life out here, away from Boston, away from balls and silk dresses and the noisy thrill of the port? Away from oysters and the green commons the constant busy thrill of a city at work?

She would have too. She couldn’t go back. To go back was to die. She had to start a new life out here, and Mr. Garrett seemed like a fine man, a man she could easily control. Except for the guns. The guns were definitely worrisome.
 
As he drew closer, it wasn't hard to notice a few things. Like the softness of her face and how smooth her skin was for a woman who could claim to have been widowed. How her hair seemed to be drawn tight and maybe added a couple of years to her appearance. He didn't take long to watch her in such detail, of course. Staring was rude and the carriage master pulled his attention away anyways, with his rough handling of her luggage, and surly words of frustration. In part because he had asked this woman to potentially marry him and in part because one should never talk to a perfectly reasonable lady in such a fashion, Virgil found himself frowning, and giving a sharp glare pointed at the man's back that didn't disappear when he'd turned from unhitching his team.

When they looked at one another, there was a faint pause in the carriage master's motions. Neither man was likely keen on the idea of a fight, but neither of them had particularly weak wills, either. Either one was willing to fight. But - Virgil was a gentleman of some level and 'Mr. Cotton' apparently was as well. Had it been just the two of them then maybe things would have escalated - part of Virgil had hoped to see it get that way - but with a huffed breath from the carriage master both men backed away as Rose continued to speak. Virgil turned his attention back to her, instead.

Calling his open-topped wagon a "carriage" made him laugh - but at the first mention of marriage his face went just a little flat. Only the tan of his skin helped make how his face paled not look so pronounced.

Awkwardly, he scratched at the back of his neck with eyes downcast.

"Well, uh, I hadn't - I hadn't thought much of that, I suppose." He frowned, "Do forgive me. My last marriage was a more rushed affair. And as I recall, her father had a shotgun with him at the time." He tried to laugh, hoping to dispel bad memories, and bat aside the question of whether or not he'd mentioned just why it was that Rose was coming to live with them because of course he hadn't.

Desperate to still avoid some newly pointed out, uncomfortable topics, he spotted her luggage sitting now on the ground. At least if he couldn't avoid talking about certain things, he could avoid fiddling around like a nervous boy in public while he did them. With a simple move around her to where the bags were, he reached down for the handles of the bags.

While the carriage master had seemed to struggle and grunt with them, Mr. Cotton was an older man, and the roadways of the Colorado territory had worn away at him with years. Virgil was a man of the land and hard labor and by Jesus what had this woman packed?! Virgil grunted in surprise as he tried to lift both cases at once. He wasn't at the age where one threw out their back from the slightest hard labor, but he certainly felt like the trunks would shave years off that milestone in his life. It was a small mercy that his wagon was only a short walk away, brought to a stop when he'd popped in to visit the saloon. But they were still far enough that one was going to make him sore - not to think of both the damned things at once. With a heave and a grunt, he managed to lift one of the trunks, and placed it heavily upon his shoulder. He motioned for Rose to walk with him with a move of the head as he started for the wagon.

"So -" every few steps brought a labored huff of breath, "- Mrs. Madden. I apologize for the -" another huff "- lack of forethought." He drew close enough to the wagon that he was able to heave the trunk into the back with the sheets and few other things it contained before rolling his shoulders and eyeing the other trunk disdainfully.

He started for it now, "If you'd like, I could pay for your lodgings in town for a day or more. I'm afraid we wouldn't have much in the way of ceremony, but I'm sure the pastor would oblige us and if its something you want then I'd be more than happy to appease you on it." He shot her a grin as he stooped down for the second trunk, "I mean, if we're to be married we'd best work together, hm?"

It wasn't until he was walking - a heavy-footed and slow thing with the trunk - that something hit him. A thought, or just a single word. Slamming into his mind with the force of a train at speed into cattle on the tracks. It literally caused him to stumble. And that stumble was enough to slip the steamer from his shoulder and bring it crashing down on the ground, busting open, and exposing its contents. No small-clothes or anything more personable, thank the heavens, because at that moment the one word forged into his mind after 'marriage' was 'consummation'. He wasn't some blushing virgin who'd just learned how the body worked but - but Mrs. Madden hadn't been in the territories for much near a week, not to think how shortly she'd been in his life. But Virgil distracted himself by scrambling to the trunk to quickly do his best to recover its contents. Thankfully nothing visibly seemed to be damaged or too spoiled by the dirt as he did his best to tend to the issue without looking at Rose - this time his expression did betray just a little as to how embarrassed he was if she were to peak under the brim of his down-turned hat.

"S-so." He cleared his throat again, "I don't mean to pry into your past marriage, Mrs. Madden, but did you not have any children?" He mustered the courage to look at her with a smile, "Forgive my saying so but you seem far too young to have children already moving into their world on their own. Though I do recall you saying you had more distant family in England? I've got friends in Spain and Mexico, myself. The poor children were broken when Isabel returned to her family in Spain. She was their caretaker for many years, ever since - ever since Mae passed on." He continued his work on collecting the spilled contents of the truck and returning them to their seemingly rightful places, "Came up with me from Mexico a few years back. She and Mae took to each other well and it was always nice to know that Mae had somebody to keep her company with the children and that while I was away elsewhere."

Why? Why, he wondered to himself, had God gifted him with a mouth that rambled? And on such topic as Mae? He was quick to change topics as he could.

"So, Mrs. Madden? Would you like to stay in town for a time while we try to organize ourselves? Sad to say that our store likely won't have the sorts of dresses you might be used to in Boston if you'd be hoping for a more - officious ceremony. But I understand if you'd like something more formal. And perhaps a night or more off the road and tracks to prepare yourself."
 
Rose never noticed the threatening conflict between the man she had begun to think of as her rancher and the stagecoach driver, but she certainly noticed the bewildered response her rancher gave in response to her question about the appropriateness of their situation.

Good lord, he hadn’t even once considered it. Oh yes. Putty in her hands.

But then his next statement brought her eyebrows shooting up, her cheeks blushing crimson. She hastily looked away, mortified at the thought of exactly WHY the poor girl’s father had a shotgun. Her rancher had ruined the girl. And Rose had almost gone happily away with him to be ruined herself. But her father wouldn’t be coming after HIM with a shotgun. She didn’t miss his obvious avoidance of the topic of his children either. She pursed her lips as he struggled with her trunks, following along beside him as he moved, politely ignoring the sounds of his huffing and puffing. Most of the items in the trunks were for him or his children, she refused to feel guilty for packing them so tightly. His offer of a decent place for her to stay town gave her a rush of silent gratitude. He certainly did not seem to be a bad sort of man at all, and she was beginning to feel tiny pangs of guilt for deceiving him.

“That is very kind of you to offer, Mr. Garrett. I feel bad about causing you such expense. Really, a formal wedding is not necessary. If we were in Boston dealing with society then it most certainly would be, but out here….”

Out here it all seemed rather pointless. Actually it all seemed rather pointless period. What was the point of celebrating her marriage to a man she did not love, did not even know? That was what made weddings beautiful, love between the husband and the wife. Her mother had adored her father, and would have been terribly disappointed to see Rose settling for less than love. But Rose’s mother hadn’t seen what Rose had seen, hadn’t had that rosy veil of “everything is good and right in the world” torn from her eyes in the space of a minute. Now it was all about survival, and Mr. Garrett was the key to Rose’s survival. If she had to marry him to survive, she would. But she didn’t have to celebrate how low she had sunk.

Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back valiantly, turning to look away towards the mountains as she furiously blinked the tears away before turning to face him again. She accepted his reassurances that the cost of the hotel room would not make things difficult for him. She offered him a shadow of her former bright smile, though she was struggling to make it as bright as before.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Garrett. Perhaps it would be best to live separately until we decide on the marriage. Appearances are important, if not for our sakes then for the children’s.”

Children could be viciously cruel in repeating what they heard their parents say in the privacy of their own homes. She didn’t want his little ones harmed by her problems, even such a small consequence as that.
I will not need my trunks in the hotel, my carpetbag carries more than enough….”

She lunged forward with a small cry as her trunk hit the ground with a heavy thud, the jarring fall opening the top. All her preciously stored bundles tumbled out into the dusty street. Thankfully she had carefully wrapped most of them up, only a few cans and jars rolled out on the ground, along with the stash of notebooks. All the other packages were the books she had brought, all carefully wrapped up in brown butcher’s paper. She helped him pick everything up off the street, acutely aware of how everyone was staring, some even grinning and chuckling. She felt sorry for her rancher, one glimpse at his face under his hat and it was clear he was embarrassed.

“I am so sorry for packing them so heavily. I just thought I would bring some things that would be difficult to get out here, mostly for the children. You send me far more money than I needed. I hope you don’t mind. I rather wish I had saved it now, then you would not have this added expense of the hotel.”

Several months ago she would never have batted an eye at the cost of a hotel room for a few nights. She would have assumed it her due, and never once thought of the actual cost of it. But after months of living on her own, scraping every penny to survive, she was acutely aware of how much things cost. Every wasted cent made her stomach clench with anxiety.
The questions he asked her began to make her stomach knot up even more. She could not allow him to know how she had lied. Not now. She forced another smile.

“No, unfortunately we were not able to have children. Yes, my….my brother. And his wife and children.” The tiniest bit of hesitation caught in her voice as she tried to recall what she had written in her letter. Yes, it had been her brother she was certain of it. She HAD no brother, of course. No family in England that she was aware of. Lord, perhaps she should not have lied so readily. What if she forgot what she had said? Had it been an uncle who had went to England?

But he rambled on about his poor deceased wife, and she let him. The man seemed as nervous as she was, and Rose was glad of it. It really was rather uncouth of him to speak of his dead wife to his….potentially new wife. But Rose understood it came from nervousness and easily forgave the faux pau. And really, the dead woman had far more right to have her name on his lips and be in his thoughts than Rose did. After all, she had loved the man and borne him children. Rose was merely using him to escape danger. The hot rush of shame and guilt irritated her, and she pushed it aside. She was doing what she had to do.
“I do think it would be best to stay here, but as I said earlier a ceremony is not needed.” Yes, there was a hint of sadness to her voice as she admitted that. She remembered the glorious weddings she had attended of family friends, and how she had always thought she would have the same. “Whenever the pastor is available would be fine.”

And indeed it would. He was a kind man, if a bit brusque at times. And heavily armed. Must not forget THAT essential point. Still, it was a better alternative than her other options. And at least he would not have wasted his money.

“Nor do I need any more dresses, I brought plenty with me. One of them will be suitable.” Yes…the dreariest, blackest one she could find to commemorate the death of her childish romantic dreams.
_________________________________________

The man had been ridiculously under-prepared. He had not even know where a decent place for her to stay was. Fortunately a grinning passerby had quickly pointed out the only hotel in town. That hotel…..
Rose looked around grimly.

It wasn’t much better than that hot stuffy garret room she had rented back in Boston. A bit cleaner, and the mattress looked more comfortable. The window opened out to the back of the hotel and a large green field dotted with wildflowers. But other than that, the amenities were few. The hotel keeper had reluctantly agreed to a tub of hot water for her, one Rose was very much looking forward to.

Virgil quickly left her to herself after they agreed to meet at the one restaurant in town later that evening, and a few minutes later pails of steaming water were being dragged up the stairs by a sullen teenage boy who had a miraculous transition of his mood when he first laid eyes on Rose. Rose gave him a cool, polite smile and the boy nearly swallowed his tongue. Rose briefly wondered if she would have to smack him on the back before he would stop making those odd strangling noises, but he recovered before she grew too worried about him, vanishing back out for another pail of water.

Soon Rose was sinking back into the tub, sighing contentedly as the hot water covered her exhausted body. Nearby lay a thin towel – a far cry from the luxuriously soft towels she had grown up with. But the soap was a precious little splurge using some of the money Virgil had sent her, a soft lemongrass scented soap. She opened the package, inhaling the fragrance that reminded her so much of her dead mother, laid her head back on the rim of the tub, and let the tears flow. She shamelessly indulged in a sobbing fit of self-pity that at times became so severe she nearly splashed water onto the floor. She richly deserved it though, in her opinion. She had sunk from being the prettiest, most sought after debutante of the Boston social scene to a hunted woman harried across the entire country and into the arms of a stranger. A stranger she risked everything with, because she dared not be honest with him, yet would probably suffer his anger once he learned of her deceit. Her actions would probably hurt his innocent children too, no matter how much she tried to save them from it. She would do anything not to go through this…anything but die or turn into a whore. And really, those were her only choices.

Only when her sobs had faded away, her fingers and toes were prunes, and every speck of dust had been viciously scrubbed from her body and hair did she finally clamber out of the cold water. Afternoon shadows stretched across the field behind her room when she lay down in the bed for a much needed nap.

She awoke three hours later feeling much better for the rest, those shadows having faded into the darkness of night. Scrambling out of the bed in her petticoat, she drew the curtain, then turned to her carpetbag. She chose her water-blue silk dress for the evening, pulling it on over an extra three petticoats to make the skirt fuller. A simple double strand of pearls wrapped around her neck, and she weaved another strand of pearls through her braided hair, then coiled the braid into a tidy little nest on the back of her head. It still gave her the appearance of being a bit older, but added a touch of elegance and prettiness that she loved.

Tonight may well make or break her when it came to a future as a respected wife or forced into selling her body to be able to eat. She stood in front of the tiny, dingy mirror, studying her sober reflection. And so it came down to this. Fighting desperately for something she did not really even want, to avoid certain death.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and hurried down the small dark hallway to the front room of the hotel where she hoped Virgil was already waiting.
 
In his years in the territories, Virgil thought he'd come to learn the land around him. So when the clouds first began to form, he'd thought little of it. They looked far off and he hadn't any reason to suspect they'd roll over the town. Even some of the people in town didn't pay them too much mind. This was Colorado. Rain was hardly so rare to be some eye-catching sight by any measure. So Virgil had occupied himself with more important things. Setting up a room for Rose, getting his horses hitched in the stables for the time being, making a few purchases that he'd been waiting to find a good time to make in town. In general he had found himself with quite a period of time in which to occupy himself and he had precious little that actually needed doing in that time. He bought some ammunition, ropes, timber, and other things for the hands back at the ranch as well as nails and tools that would replace older and more well-worn ones that he currently had. It wasn't until he was loading the last of his purchases into the wagon that he laid eyes on Rose's steamer trunks still resting where he had loaded them. So he got it in his mind that since she was staying the night, perhaps he would be a gentleman, and carry them up for her in case it came up that she needed something she'd stored in them.

Not to mention it was a break from lethargy slowly settling in on him that had caused him to not even pay mind to the clouds drawing ever closer in the sky. And of course it went without mention that her comment about not needing the trunks had completely slipped his mind by that point from a day spent busying himself with other things in an attempt to pass the time.

He had retrieved the first trunk and headed for the hotel - the hotel he so sorely missed, he remembered as he'd approached the door. This time as he walked with the trunk, he had no unfortunate stumbles with the trunk on his shoulder. Of course he caught a few funny looks from those that had been there earlier in the day to witness his first tumble but that scarcely bothered him. One patron just leaving the hotel was kind enough to hold the door when he saw Virgil approaching and was given a nod of the head and a grunted thanks to acknowledge him. The largest hurdle for the rancher came from the stairs. The stairs that he came to the base of and eyed warily. He didn't even think to attempt them before he'd set down the trunk with a sigh of relief and allowed himself a few moments to rest.
 
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