Along the way they stopped to visit with several friends. But spotting Sheriff Jensen striding toward them, Rose stepped into his path and with trepidation asked the question looming over her every thought. “Any news concerning Alf?”
He removed his hat and with a slight bow said, “Nothing yet. Sorry.”
After they parted, Rose sighed with no small amount of guilt, grateful that the lack of news ensured her continued care of Alf.
Later, at the corner of Broadway, Bertha Britten approached, her black hat perched just so on her massed hair, one spindly arm hooked into the handle of a shopping basket. Head down, as if on an important mission, she nearly ran into them. “Bertha, good afternoon.”
The woman stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Rose. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time to palaver. I’m in a hurry.”
Alf tugged on Rose’s skirt, “I seed this lady before.”
“Yes, in church. Bertha, you remember my Alf.”
Inexplicably, Bertha’s face turned red. “Of course, I remember, but I hardly think he’s ‘your’ Alf. Why, you’re not even married.” She hoisted her basket in front of her chest like a shield. “Now, excuse me, but I have other things to do.” She brushed past them, tsking as she went.
Rose sagged against a hitching post. Alf sneezed, then tugged on her arm. “That’s a mean lady. C’mon. Get away.” When Rose looked down, his little face was one big frown. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped his nose.
“She could have been nicer, but we’re not going to let her ruin our day, are we? Look over there.” She pointed to the livery stable where two horses were just being saddled.
“Horses!” He broke away from her. “Sett!”
“Oh, no, honey. Those horses are for other men. Seth is working at the ranch.”
His eyes widened in disappointment. “Far away?”
“Yes, but you’ll see him Sunday at church.”
“Sunday. Sett. Good.” He swung her hand back and forth as he led her to study the horses. “Big horse. Brown. Little one. Gray.” He stared at the horseflesh with all the interest of a livestock broker.
Finally Rose succeeded in dragging him away, but not before he’d sneezed several times. Dust from the livery, no doubt. She wanted to go by the nearly completed courthouse, which loomed impressively above the prairie. Just then, though, in the shadow of a basement door overhang, she noticed a couple, oblivious to the world, entwined in an embrace.
Rose stopped in her tracks, aware of a strange tingling in her chest. Once she had known such stolen moments, had felt whiskers caress her face and had melted through and through as warm lips sought hers. What a fool she had been, actually picturing herself swept into the dashing sergeant’s arms and carried off to a future of loving nights, of babies, of actually daring to think of herself as desirable. And maybe he had cared for her. More likely, not. Loneliness can make a man do strange things.
She would never forget her humiliation that day at Fort Larned when she had wandered into the sutler’s just at mail call and seen one of the officers waving a letter and calling out, “Hey, Sarge, lucky you. Here’s a letter from your wife.”
Men. Strange creatures. Not to be trusted. That had been the lesson of that black afternoon. Never again would she put herself in the situation of appearing so foolish, so gullible.
Alf pulled her out of her fog. “I’m gonna go see that lady.”
Still lost in the past, Rose was puzzled. “Go see who?”
“Horse lady.” Alf wrenched away from her grasp and darted across the still barren courthouse lawn. “There!”
Rose scurried after him, but then stopped as the embracing couple broke apart. Horse lady, of course. Sophie. Slowly Rose started forward. Alf flung himself into Sophie’s arms, while Charlie Devane stepped back and swiped a hand through his hair, as if composing himself.
Oh, Seth, Rose thought as she moved quickly toward the trio, no doubt about it. These two are passionately in love.
* * *
Once again Seth had to admit his sister could sweet-talk him into anything. Being thrown from a bronc, though, might be easier than watching Sophie stroll toward the river with Charlie Devane, picnic basket in hand on this Sunday afternoon. It confounded him that his father seemed to take this budding romance in stride.
So, more fool he, he’d once again agreed to wait in town to fetch his sister. Fortunately, Ezra Kellogg, overhearing Sophie’s request at church, had invited him home for Sunday dinner. Given the prospect of spending time with Rose’s cooking and Alf, he hadn’t needed further persuasion.
Even from the Kelloggs’ front porch, he could smell the tantalizing aroma of roast chicken. Ezra greeted him at the door and ushered him into the parlor, where Alf sat on the carpet beside a stack of blocks. “Sett?” The boy let the block in his hand drop to the floor and held out his arms to Seth as he ran toward him. Seth settled in a wooden armchair, cradling the boy against his chest, unfazed by the gray cat who jumped up to join them.
“Alf seems powerful fond of you,” Ezra noted, sinking into the rocker.
“He’s special,” Seth commented, feeling the boy’s small hands gripping his wrists.
“It’s good for him to have a manly influence beyond his tottering old grandpa.”
“I can’t help wondering where he came from. What he’s been through.”
“We may never know,” the older man said. “My prescription for him is love and coddling, and Rose is doing a pretty good job of that.”
Talk then turned to the pastor’s sermon and speculation about Ulysses S. Grant’s presidency. All the while, Seth could hear the clink of china from the kitchen. After a few minutes, Rose, her face flushed, summoned them to the table. As Seth set Alf down in his chair, he wiped the youngster’s runny nose with his bandanna.
The meal lived up to its promise, and there was little conversation until they were all satisfied. When she cleared the table, Rose paused at Alf’s place. “Aren’t you hungry, dear?”
Seth noticed then that the boy had succeeded in making a lake of his mashed potatoes and gravy, into which he’d stirred small bites of chicken, but had eaten little.
Alf hung his head. “Don’t want food.”
Rose set down his plate and put her hand on his forehead. “Papa, do you think he has a bit of fever?”
Ezra got up from the table and took the boy in his arms. He, too, laid a hand on Alf’s forehead. “Perhaps.” He examined the glands along the boy’s chin line and looked deep into his eyes. “How do you feel?”
Alf snuggled against the doctor, his eyes at half-mast. “Sleepy.”
“Maybe he overdid at church,” Rose suggested, her face drawn.
“In that case, it’s nothing a good nap won’t cure,” Ezra said, carrying the boy into the bedroom, trailed by Rose.
Restless, Seth moved into the parlor and sat in an armchair. Surely this was a spring fever. Nothing to be concerned about. Yet his mind defied him as his thoughts turned to the time they had almost lost Sophie when she was a little older than Alf. He now tried to console himself with the knowledge that most childhood illnesses could be survived. Quietly, Ezra reappeared. “He’s asleep. Rose will be out shortly.” He consulted his pocket watch. “While Alf rests, I’m going to work in the garden.”
Feeling out of place, Seth got to his feet.
“No, son, please stay. Perhaps you can divert Rose while the boy gets the rest he needs.”
After Ezra went out the back door,