And if, sometimes, he was lonely, so what? Better to be lonely than to be betrayed. Telling himself he had exactly the life he wanted, he firmly pushed all other thoughts from his mind.
The following morning Jack was packed and ready to hit the road by six. The horizon was streaked with pink and gold by the time he entered the on-ramp for Interstate 20. Because it was early, traffic was light. He would make good time. According to the map, Rose Hill was fifteen miles west of Tyler, and Tyler was only ninety miles from the Dallas suburb of Grandview where the Stockwell home was located, so even stopping for breakfast, as he planned to, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get there.
He debated about what approach to take, whether to head directly for the Johnson farm once he reached the area or to first see what he could find out about Beth Johnson’s situation. Rose Hill was a small town, so he figured he’d have no trouble finding the rose farm. He finally decided it would be best to check in to a motel and do some investigating before going out to the Johnson place. He figured Beth Johnson must know the background of his ancestors and her husband’s family. If she believed as Gabriel Johnson had believed, she probably hated all the Stockwells. Hell, if he just showed up there without warning she might shoot him on sight! Wouldn’t that be ironic? he thought, chuckling aloud—to survive countless dangerous situations, to outwit passionate revolutionaries and the henchmen of despot rulers, and then to be felled by a lone woman defending her farm in Rose Hill, Texas.
When Jack reached the outskirts of Tyler, the sun was high and bright in the eastern sky and clearly illuminated how much harm yesterday’s storm had caused. As he slowly drove through town, he noted the mangled trees, twisted and uprooted signs, broken windows and damaged roofs. In some places, debris blocked part of the roadway. Everywhere he looked he saw people cleaning up. It seemed the storm had been much more severe here than in Grandview. Had they had a tornado?
Less than a half hour later, a small green sign on his right proclaimed Rose Hill, Population 297. The speed limit dropped to thirty, and Jack slowed down. He figured he’d stop at the local gas station and ask for directions to the Johnson place. But just as he made the decision, a small motel appeared ahead. It looked clean, so he swung his Dodge pickup into the driveway and climbed out. Five minutes later he was registered, paying cash in advance for one night’s stay.
The owner, a garrulous old man with a shiny bald head and friendly eyes behind trifocals, handed him a key. “That there’s Unit Seven,” he said in a country twang. “Jest pull your truck along back and you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. Maybe you can help me. I’m interested in touring a rose farm. Does anyone around here give tours?”
The old man frowned. “Mebbe. But this ain’t a good time for tours. That storm did a real job yesterday. Most of the farms had lots of damage.”
“What about the Johnson farm? Somebody mentioned that they have a pretty nice place.”
“Used to when it was Lillian Wilder’s place. But they’ve been havin’ a rough time lately, and they had turrible damage from the storm. Bud Thomason up at the Sack ’n Save told me the tornado hit one of their greenhouses—the one where they do their propagatin’—and I guess all but wiped out their waterin’ system. Poor Bethie was in town earlier buyin’ milk for the kids. On top of ever’thin’ else, her electric has been out since yestiddy afternoon. I feel so sorry for that little gal. For the past couple years, it’s just been one dang thing after another.” He tsk-tsked and shook his head, his eyes filled with sympathy. “I don’t know what she’s gonna do now, what with all the cleanup and replacin’ that waterin’ system. See, her cousin, who was workin’ for her, he left the beginnin’ of the summer. Got him a much better job down in Houston, and I know she can’t afford to hire anybody else.”
As Jack headed toward Unit Seven, he thought about what the talkative old man had told him. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Beth Johnson, but at least now he knew how to approach her.
“Mama, can we go play?” they said in unison.
Beth wearily pushed her hair out of her eyes and straightened up, wincing at the pain that shot through her lower back. She had been working steadily since sunup, trying to salvage whatever she could from the damaged greenhouses. She’d only stopped to make a quick run into town to buy some milk for the kids’ breakfast.
“Please, Mama?”
She considered her seven-year-old son and five-year-old daughter’s request. They were bored. Because of the devastation the storm had caused, she hadn’t wanted them out of her sight today. There were too many ways they could get hurt if they played outdoors unsupervised. Yet she felt sorry for them. After all, they were only kids.
“All right, Matthew,” she finally said, “go on. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep a close eye on Amy and that neither one of you will go anywhere near the sweet gum tree.” When the tornado had struck yesterday, it had completely wiped out several trees at the back of the property, but it had only partially damaged the sweet gum, which sat on the side of the house. Now the sweet gum was unstable, and Beth was afraid it could tear loose and fall over at any time. She would have to do something about the tree, and quickly. It was a danger to her and her children as well as to the house, which had miraculously escaped any serious damage from the storm.
“But, Mama,” Amy said, “our tree house is there.”
“Yes, I know, sugar, but I told you earlier, you can’t go up into the tree house anymore. Not until I can get somebody out here to take it from the tree.”
Amy’s bottom lip quivered. “But my Pooh bear is in it.”
Beth sighed. “I promise you, honey, I will find a way to get your Pooh bear out of there, just not today, okay? Can you be patient a little while longer?”
Amy toed the ground with her sneaker. “Okay,” she finally said.
“I’ll watch her, Mama,” Matthew assured her.
“All right, but I mean it, now. You must stay completely away from that tree. Do you promise?”
After giving her their solemn promises, they ran off happily. Beth watched them for a moment, then turned back to her task. Oh, God, there was so much to be done! Suddenly she felt overwhelmed, and tears blurred her eyes. Why, on top of everything else, did this storm have to happen? Wasn’t it enough that Eben had left them with nothing—no insurance and no savings—and that grasshoppers had all but wiped out their plants last year?
Now this.
Yesterday’s storm had caused enormous damage to the farm. One of the trees hit by the tornado had fallen on the propagation house—the greenhouse where she nurtured the cuttings taken from leftover stock and grew into viable plants. The misting system had been destroyed, and one of the tanks used to catch rainwater had been torn from the ground and thrown a hundred feet. It had missed hitting anything when it landed, which was about the only good thing Beth could say.
The other six greenhouses, which held the more mature plants—the ones she sold—had all suffered damage. Because the greenhouses weren’t covered until November, the plants were sitting under open roofs. At least half of them had been completely ruined by the wind and hail. The ones remaining looked half-drowned, but Beth was hopeful they’d perk up again. If they didn’t, she wouldn’t have any way to obtain new root stock, because she certainly couldn’t afford to buy it.
Of course, how she would tend the baby plants, even if she was able to salvage enough of the mature plants to take cuttings, she had no idea. It would have been hard enough before this happened, seeing as how she had no money to hire help, but now! A misting