Chapter 1 Preview:
Sometimes the future has other things planned. The prairie grass danced in the cool, dry wind, dirt billowed in clouds behind Rose’s wagon. It jostled happily down the road heading into Willow Creek. She needed supplies and some moral support from a friendly face. She didn’t know it, but life would change that day.
The sun was high up in the sky already. On the edge of town, the chapel’s spire came closer, it reached into the heavens. They could see the outline of it, even from the edge of her home. It didn’t take long before she passed it to find the hitching post for her wagon. The gardens that encircled the chapel consisted of wild flowers and dried grass, cut short.
Outside the town hall, she alighted from the wagon and with a steady tug at the reins, she tied her horse up, the wagon’s wheel brake engaged. It wouldn’t take too long. She nodded a hello to the minister as he passed her along the dirt path, heading to the church. He gave her a grave smile. She grabbed her basket from the back and headed toward the mercantile. With trembling fingers and hesitation, she got ready that morning. Even after five years, the whispers on the lips of townsfolk were still cruel. Her ma had a mirror and she appraised herself in the reflection before she left and took a deep breath to prepare for the looks and undercurrents of pity behind their polite greetings. She stood slightly taller than most of the ladies in town, her hair dark brown and the eyes a striking hazel. Her skin was bronzed from hours outside with the family’s herds, with rosy cheeks that people would often remark on, and slim but quite strong from doing hours of chores.
Rose Whitfield had lived in Willow Creek her entire life. It was founded decades ago with the discovery of silver in nearby mines. Only the remnants of a creek remained. The shadow of a past that had been before the miners came. The mines were now emptied and closed. Unlike other towns, not everyone abandoned Willow Creek. There was a large town only four hours away by horse. The few who remained found a living with raising cattle. The population fluctuated, growing intermittently with temporary travelers, making their way farther west. Ranches circled the town and went as far as the northern hill range, getting closer to Clearwater Junction on the other side of the tallest hill. Cattle dotted the tall grass of the prairie.
The town was typical, situated within prairie land, with hot summers and cold winters, tall grasses dominated their world. She nodded with a weak smile to townsfolk as she walked by. Men would tip their hats, ladies would nod the same way as she. She passed the silent town hall. It would be bustling with activity soon, preparing for the upcoming dance. The post office and telegraph office connected together. The mercantile came into view, with barrels and sacks sitting in piles, advertising for tobacco and coffee.
On the other side of the street, next to Willow Creek’s only tavern, was the sheriff’s office and jail. They had a new sheriff. Sheriff Nate Carter, a widower, came from a large city up north. He’d become quite popular with his fine manner, particularly for a lawman.
At the end of the street was a boarding house, three stories of rooms for let, weekly and monthly, depending on the time of year. It had a bakery and tea house attached, a remnant of the British immigrants who helped establish the town. Carriages were always coming and going. One passed Rose whose heeled boots thudded against the wood boardwalk. As it passed, a little girl sat at the window and caught Rose’s gaze, with big dark eyes, and straight hair pulled back off her face. It pulled to a stop outside the boarding house.
At the very end of the street, situated on its own, was the blacksmith shop and stables where people kept their horses as they passed through. She heard the loud clang coming from the blacksmith with a billowing chimney. There was a group of men gathered outside, their voices raised, with the occasional laugh erupting with slaps to the back. Groups of residential houses were on side streets. In one of them, her best friend, Abigail Miller, lived with her widowed mother, next to her dressmaker’s shop. She would make her way over there after getting the supplies.
The squeal of wagon wheels startled her as she tried to cross the road, avoiding piles of manure. She staggered backward and the wagon driver tipped his hat in apology. Rose accepted it with a forced smile. She grabbed her skirts and continued to the other side of the street without damage to her person or basket.
It seemed like all of Willow Creek milled around, shopping for supplies and gearing up for the bonfire and spring dance. A group of women walked by and whispered to each other as she passed them. Her stomach dropped. With a sudden gust, her bonnet went flying off and bounced in the street. Henry Watson jumped off his horse to save it. The horse bucked backward but he managed to keep his fist tight on the leather straps of the reins. He brushed it off and handed it to her.
“Thanks, Mr. Watson,” she said with a shy smile.
“My pleasure, Miss. Whitfield,” he said. His smile exposing black teeth. She placed it back on her head and tightened the ribbons around her chin.
“I am so glad you got your bonnet back,” Mrs. Margaret Merriweather said. She lingered with another woman, Mrs. Geraldine Fray, and her shy daughter, Harriet, outside the door of the mercantile. Mrs. Merriweather was summed up in one word — ample. Her face, full and jolly, her thick waist cinched with a corset beneath layers of petticoats and skirts. Her friend, Mrs. Fray was the complete opposite, a very sour demeanor and thin as a rake. She usually had only one side of face turned up to smile. Mrs. Fray’s daughter gripped her hand like she’d get lost forever if she’d let go for an instant. Mrs. Merriweather, her face smug, cast a judgmental eye to Rose.
“Thank you Mrs. Merriweather, me too,” Rose replied, fighting the urge to escape. She’d often made snide remarks about Rose getting older and her future as an old maid if she didn’t find a husband soon. It covered Rose as a cloud, the future dark if she didn’t find herself a husband by a certain age. And, the women in town didn’t let her forget the clock was ticking.
“Too bad you couldn’t tie Luke down tighter years ago. You could have kept him from flying away.” Mrs. Merriweather let out a subdued laugh and Mrs. Fray let out a tisk, tisk sound from her downturned mouth. They kept their pace, shaking their heads, counting their blessings that they were married and settled. Rose raised her chin, but the sting of her words cut her, but it was true. She was going to be twenty-three soon. Maybe her time came and went, she thought.
Luke Bennett worked as a ranch hand for the Whitfields on occasion. His uncle owned the ranch next door. Thomas Bennett left, moving back east. Luke stayed behind, but five years ago, without warning, also left. No word of why nor time frame for a return, no goodbye — just gone.
It didn’t go unnoticed by the townsfolk. The whispers flowed freely through the town: Poor Rose, she let that Luke Bennett get away, or if Rose wasn’t so spirited, maybe Luke Bennett wouldn’t have left town. She endured sleepless nights filled with anxiety, crying herself to sleep. Many nights her ma would sit with her, stroking her hair as she cried. Her pa stood silent in the doorway, not knowing what to say, his eyes filled with his own tears. Luke Bennett had broken his little girl’s heart and he saw the aftermath she lived everyday. She put the hurtful words out of her mind. He was nothing to her anymore. She pulled her dress taut over her corset, her bag weaving back and forth as she pushed the door open.
The bell on the mercantile’s door chimed above her. She needed a small sack of flour, lard and coffee. The old pine floors gave off a resinous tang that mingled with a dry, papery scent that clung to the high shelves and forgotten corners. Lines of burlap sacks of flour, oats and oatmeal lined the wall behind the counter. It gave the smell of the room a warm, nutty undertone that mixed with the earthy sweet smell of livestock feed. Customers she didn’t recognize were also buying coffee and when the jars were opened it gave off the roasted aroma of sharp cinnamon and burnt beans.
Rose liked to run her hand over the bolts of soft cotton fabric and looked at the silver buttons. She wanted a new dress for the dance at the town hall, but she’d have to wear an old one. Her ma did promise to let her wear her most prized possession — a silver necklace with a turquoise pendant. Her pa bought it for his wife during a visit west. She held the blocks of soap to her delicate nose and took in the comforting smell of rose, lavender, and rosemary. They sat near the tins of kerosene.
“Welcome Miss Whitfield, how’s your ma and pa?” Mr. O’Neil stood behind the counter, waiting for her. He was of medium, stocky build of a fifty year old man from years behind the counter. His hair, once brown, was grey and thinning, creating a ring of hair around the bald spot on top. He kept his shrewd blue eyes on her as she walked to him. It seemed like he was taking everything about her appearance in. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his suspenders tight against his frame that peaked from his vest with a gold watch chain. He had flour dust on his trousers and hands stained with coffee. His slightly curved nose made her smile, looking comical with his bushy mustache and broad smile.
“They are well, thank you Mr. O’Neil. How’s your wife?” She asked as she placed the supplies on the counter, including a bar of lavender scent soap.
“She is well, she is well.”
“Can I get three pounds of your wonderful flour and one of coffee, Mr O’Neil?”
“Absolutely, my dear,” he took out a fresh sack and began to fill it from a large barrel behind the counter. He dropped it on the weight machine and it hit slightly over the three pound mark. “Our little secret,” he said with a wink and Rose winked back her nose wrinkling. She ran her hands through the trinkets on the counter as she waited for him to finish.
“Thank you so much.” He handed it to her along with her other supplies and placed everything in her basket. She turned to leave when the bell chimed. Two ladies came inside and saw her standing at the counter with her basket.
“Good mornin’, Rose,” Mrs. Melaney said, going straight toward her, her sister following behind. “How are you doin’? It is so nice to see you?”
“I am good, Mrs Melaney,” she replied.
“How is your ma doin’?” The other asked.
“She is well, thanks for askin’.”
“You are looking rather low, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” Mrs. Melaney said.
“Do I? I am not down. I am feeling quite happy actually,” Rose replied firmly. She readjusted the basket, the weight burying deep into her arms.
“We were just talkin’ about you. We were wonderin’ when we were gonna hear weddin’ bells for you, Rose?” Mrs. Melaney asked, her eyes wide and innocent. Rose’s mouth dropped and her eyes grew big. She was about to say something else, but Rose interrupted swiftly.
“Pardon me, please.” Rose, her face as red as hot fire, pushed her way between them. She heard them remark on her apparent rudeness as the door closed behind her. She staggered over the uneven boards.
There was a stir amongst the men at the blacksmith. Men were pointing and had their eyes fixed on a single rider on a horse that trotted toward them.
“Who’s that?” She heard a man ask another.
“Why, that’s Luke Bennett, if I’d live and breathe. What’s he doin back in town?” Another man said.
“Didn’t think we’ve ever see him again.”
Rose stood in one spot in front of the mercantile, unable to move, while her mind worked, trying to brush the thought of him coming back. People were heading to get a better look and brushed past her. She still stood motionless and dazed.
Luke Bennett rode his horse toward the stables, his facial features distinct. He had a mysterious origin — an origin whispered about long ago, but he accepted what his uncle told him. His mother, his sister, died in childbirth and his father lost at sea months before he was born. So, as an orphan, his uncle took charge of him, finding nursemaids to care for him as an infant. The stories grew as he grew up. Slight, but noticeable Cherokee features grew clearer with time, his uncle gave him looks clouded in irritation, but said nothing.
Luke gripped his reins tight, got closer, and there was no denying it. It was the same figure with dark, stick straight hair that went down to the edges of his broad shoulders, kept together with a low leather string, under a worn leather stetson hat, sitting low on over his forehead. Even from far off, his deep brown eyes met her hazel eyes and stuck like glue. Rose couldn’t shake his gaze loose no matter how hard she tried. Gossip rippled around her. She saw him give her a slight smile. It met her frown with apparent trepidation. She remembered his quiet and stoic nature. She once admired his loyalty, but he broke her perceptions. The voices of men carried over the enthralled throng of curious people.
“Hey Bennett, what a surprise seeing you again,” a man said, slapping his back as he tied his horse on the rail outside the blacksmiths. The basket felt heavier in her arms, her fingers clenched into a fist before releasing again. For a moment, as if it came from instinct, she felt the urge to run to him and throw her arms around his neck, but she quickly corrected herself. More men had gathered around him, asking him questions, and she watched him answer in brief bursts of words, casting his gaze from the men and back to her. A cloud gathered over her. Her anger began to bubble deep inside. She turned around and tried to escape, but her name being called stopped her in her tracks. There was a hand that beckoned to her. Someone insisted she return and speak with him. They didn’t understand their history, obviously, or didn’t care. With reluctance, she turned back and walked toward that same figure she remembered, his boots planted like he owned the very dirt under them.
“Rose.” Luke’s voice was low, steady. Too steady, as if he practiced a hundred times before speaking it. She fought the urge to burst into tears — pain, sadness, and anger, all rolled up in one.
Her throat tightened with her name on his lips. She fought her desire to run away. If it was up to her, she would be there in front of him, facing the man that broke her, but manners prevailed, along with the half-dozen eyes watching her. There was an audience gathered, and she was front and center of it all, her emotions on display. They wanted a performance, the more awkward the better.
She narrowed her eyes and drew in a breath. She pasted on the kind of polite smile she used for strangers, and lifted her chin. “Luke. It’s been… a long time.”
He shifted, the brim of his hat shading the flicker in his eyes. “It has.” He glanced at the basket in her arms, then back to her face. “How’ve you been?”
The question was simple, but the weight of everything unsaid pressed between them. Her heart stumbled now, against her will.
“I’ve managed,” she said softly, her voice tight but even. Her calm demeanor even surprised herself. She adjusted her basket in front of her, a barrier between them. “And you?”
Townsfolk started to disperse, leaving them with quiet eyes and gentle gazes.
Luke’s sharp jaw worked hard beneath the bristles of his dark, ash blond beard on his deep tanned face. “I’ve…managed too. It’s been too long.”
Rose fought her tears and tried to keep her gaze unemotional, but she felt the waves of emotional turbulence splashing in her gut. She didn’t want to hear his excuses and reasons for returning to town. There would be nothing that could make her forgive him.
For a moment, silence stretched awkwardly, filled-in with the creak of wagon wheels and the jingle of spurs down the street. Rose forced a nod, polite and practiced. “Yes, well, it was good seeing you again.” She turned and left him standing there in silence. The scent of sun-dried hay encompassed him, stirring memories she had no business keeping.
She had quickened her pace as she tried to get back to her wagon as soon as her legs could carry her. The heavy basket bit into her arms. Luke had watched her leave in silence. Nothing around her registered in her consciousness. Tears had begun to fall down her cheeks as she lifted the basket into the back and climbed into the wagon. Her horse snorted as she urged it away from the post. Her heart pounded in her chest, her hands trembled.
Rose kept her eyes fixed in front of her, the reins tight in her hands, the horse’s mane waved to and fro. Rose slapped its hind quarters to quicken its gait. The desire to get home overwhelmed her. The sound of the steady clip of the horse’s hooves was the only thing she trusted to keep her from unraveling.
Support an Indie author. Head to Amazon to purchase.
