A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Chapter 26--Impasse

June 1,6:00 PM

Rose felt the wagon come to a halt in the barnyard. She glanced over at Woodrow, but he was stepping over the edge of the wagon with his head down.

It had been an awkward, silent trip home from Ennis and Pearl’s. Woodrow had never spoken one word the entire trip. Rose hadn’t either, for that matter. What did his silence mean, Rose wondered?

She stood with a feeling of dread knotting her stomach. Twisting around and backing to the edge of the seat so that she could step one foot down onto the top of the wagon wheel, she felt a strong pair of hands grabbing her firmly around the waist and swinging her on down to the ground.

Quickly though, the hands released her, and Rose heard Woodrow’s boots clomping on the hard-packed dirt as he walked away towards the horse’s head without a word. Had it been only yesterday he had done the small service of lifting her down from the wagon for the first time? Yet now so much had changed.

Rose felt the sting of unshed tears in the back of her throat as she took as a step and was pounced upon by Beulah. A hot, slobbery tongue trailed a wet path from her throat all the way up to her hairline. Rose staggered backwards before she could catch herself.

“Get down, Beulah!” scolded Woodrow before Rose could even react to Woodrow's overeager hound. He released the horse from the wagon and called the dog to him. Beulah hopped down from Rose, and followed Woodrow and the horse willingly into the barn.

Wiping dog slobber off her face with the edge of her petticoat, Rose straightened and walked over to the cabin. It swam in front of her for a moment until she fought back the tears again. Crying was a useless pastime. Blinking rapidly, she walked up the short steps and onto the porch. There she paused and turned back. She let her eyes sweep across the valley she had already fallen in love with. How could she have lost it already?

She reached up and pulled down on the string contraption Woodrow had hanging over the door in place of a lock. Inside, she could hear the latch—a rough-hewn two by four—lift. The door swung inward and Rose stepped into the gloomy darkness; inhaling the woodsy scent with a pang. This was supposed to be her home forever. Now, she didn’t know whether this would be her last night here or not.

Rose stepped over to the table, already familiar enough with her surroundings not to trip over anything. She picked up a box of matches, and lit the lamp waiting there. She had left it ready that morning in anticipation of her return in the evening, taking her homecoming for granted.

Never again. Too many things conspired to prevent that from happening. How fragile any security was, she thought as she adjusted the wick. The war should have already embedded that in her psyche.

She watched a warm glow fill the room with the buttery-yellow light of home, even as the acrid smell of lamp oil and burnt matches she had smelled a million times was bitter in her nose.

As bitter as the scent of war. An odor that still lingered years after peace had been declared, Rose reckoned, as she slipped around the room like a ghost, readying her home for the evening.

She coaxed a blaze to life in the belly of the woodstove. She slammed the door to the firebox shut. Almost mechanically, she readied a pot of coffee and set it on the top of the wood stove to heat. The clink of metal against metal was loud in the quiet of the room.

Next came the fireplace. Despite it being the first of June, there was a chill in the air. How very different than Piney Creek, Georgia, she thought, kneeling in front of the hearth like a supplicant.

She set a match to kindling and sat on the edge of the hearth, her chores done for the moment. Did she regret coming here, she asked herself, and quickly realized the answer was no. Never could she regret meeting and marrying Woodrow Rice. She thought of the tatters her marriage was in at the moment with a catch in her throat, and could hold back the tears no longer.