Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel (4 page)

She reached for the latch on the gate just as Rosemary appeared on the gravel pathway leading from the rear of the building. She wore a faded blue chambray dress and carried a trowel. Her fingers were covered with dirt. The sable and white collie trotted at her heels.

Rosemary’s eyes widened. “You’re Faith, from the mercantile.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “This is a surprise. Please, come in.” She led the way to the porch steps, removing her sunbonnet as she walked. Glossy black hair tumbled loose from its pins. “Fiddle.” Rosemary shook her head, freeing the curls. “Gardening isn’t the tidiest task.”

Faith smiled, enjoying the woman’s casual response to her unscheduled visit. Some people she knew would fly into a dither at unexpected guests. “I can’t stay but a minute. I know it’s presumptuous of me, but I’m afraid I came to ask a favor.”

“Please, sit.” Rosemary gestured toward two wicker chairs on the covered porch. “How can I assist you?”

“I need help, and you’re the first person I thought of.” Heat rose up her neck. Now that she was here, she knew how forward her request would sound. “My grandfather fell yesterday.”

“That was your grandfather? My brother told me he’d taken an old gentleman home.” Her eyes twinkled. “He also said he met a pretty girl with eyes the color of lake water.”

“Oh, goodness.” Faith didn’t think of herself as a pretty girl, not with her straw-brown hair and sturdy figure. She couldn’t compare with the ladies pictured in
Godey’s
.

“And the favor?” Rosemary asked.

Faith talked fast, before she could lose her courage. “Grandpa’s not to do anything strenuous for a few days, so he can’t go to the mercantile. I can’t leave him alone at home. I need a nurse to look after him so I can open the store. Would you come?”

Rosemary paled. She stood, shaking her head. “No. That part of my life is over.”

F
aith recoiled at the vehemence of Rosemary’s response. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to insult you.” She rose and moved toward the steps. “I’ll be on my way. Forgive the intrusion.”

“Wait.” Rosemary held out a soil-stained hand. “Please understand. I came to Noble Springs to start fresh. You called today because you heard the gossip about me, didn’t you?”

Embarrassed, Faith nodded.

“We lived in St. Louis when the war started. Within a year, Jefferson Barracks was transformed into a hospital complex for the wounded. I felt the Lord calling me into nursing, and offered my services to Major Surgeon Randolph.” Rosemary closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they glistened with tears. “So many wounded men—hundreds—and not enough hands to care for them. In spite of his hesitation at using a female, Major Randolph agreed. I had quarters on the post with the other ladies who eventually arrived, so it wasn’t until I left a few months ago that I fully realized how much I’d be condemned for my service.”

Faith looked at the floor, wishing she could escape. She knew she’d been guilty of similar self-righteous thoughts. “Judge not, that ye be not judged” ran through her mind. The pain on Rosemary’s face illustrated how deeply she’d been hurt by finger-pointing and whispers.

Faith met the other woman’s eyes. “You can’t imagine how small I feel right now. I’d give anything not to have intruded.”

Rosemary’s expression softened. “It’s I who must apologize, burdening you with my story.” Her lips curved in a half-smile. “A simple ‘no, thank you’ would have been sufficient. Truly, I’m happy you stopped by, whatever your reason. I’m lonely here. As you can imagine, I haven’t been flooded with invitations to join the ladies’ sewing circle or literary discussion group.”

Faith snickered. “They’re boring anyway.”

“Yes, I expect they are.” Rosemary chuckled, then turned serious. “If you can overlook my refusal, I’d be pleased if you’d come by again one day for tea and a real visit.”

Faith covered the distance between the Saxons’ home and the mercantile at a rapid pace. Too much time had elapsed since she left Dr. Greeley with her grandfather. The doctor would be furious.

Her thoughts tumbled over one another like the darkening clouds massing overhead. Without help, she had no choice but to remain at home with Grandpa. What would happen to the business? They still had a ways to go to recover from the deprivations of the war.

The wind changed, thick with the scent of rain. A few more minutes and she’d be home, but first she needed to collect Grandpa’s papers from the shed behind the mercantile.

The floor creaked when she stepped inside. Everything was as he’d left it yesterday morning. Faith placed filled sheets on top of the blank pages and glanced at the words in her grandfather’s spiky handwriting.

I am now seventy years old and have had a most eventful career, a history I propose to write for the benefit and satisfaction of my descendants . . .

Feeling like a spy, she rolled the papers into a tube and closed the door of the shed. When Grandpa wanted her to read his recollections, he’d offer them to her.

Fat raindrops splattered on the boardwalk. Faith tucked the manuscript pages inside her shawl, protecting them with her arms, and strode toward home. When she passed the livery, she darted a quick glance at the doorway, disappointed when she didn’t see Mr. Saxon. His kindness yesterday deserved greater thanks than she’d displayed. Perhaps she would drop by with a plate of spice cookies tomorrow. That should bring a smile to his face.

In the distance, three men rode in her direction along High Street. The one in the center was mounted on a tall black stallion. He sat straight in the saddle, his hat pulled low against the rain. All three men wore canvas overcoats. As they approached, Faith ducked her head so she wouldn’t be caught staring. Her hands clutched the papers under her shawl. She dared another quick glance.

The rider on the stallion looked like Royal Baxter.

On Friday, Faith stood at the kitchen table rolling spice cookie dough into balls and dipping them into a bowl of sugar. The fragrance of molasses and cinnamon swirled from the oven. Cooling cookies rested on brown paper spread over a shelf under the window. Once the final batch left the oven, she’d take a plateful to the livery.

She hummed while she worked, grateful that she and Grandpa had Dr. Greeley’s blessing to return to the mercantile on Monday. Faith prayed that their enforced absence during the week hadn’t affected trade.

Her mind returned to the riders she’d seen on Tuesday. They were adequately dressed and well mounted, so they didn’t look like displaced stragglers. Could the tall man on the black stallion really have been Royal Baxter? She’d had only a glimpse through the falling rain. Besides, she hadn’t seen him since she was sixteen. Time and war changed a man. No telling what he might look like today.

The smell of smoke stung her nose. Faith jerked the oven door open and removed a pan of scorched cookies. Grandpa poked his head into the kitchen. “You making charcoal in here?”

She giggled. “Just one pan full. Want some?”

He entered the room and squeezed her shoulder. “Believe I’ll try one of these instead.” He lifted one of the sugared treats from the cooling shelf. Around a mouthful, he asked, “Are we still going to have sweets when you’re busy at the Mercantile?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t be supper without dessert, would it?”

Faith approached Ripley’s Livery with her gift of cookies tucked into a basket. Neither Mr. Saxon nor Mr. Ripley were visible, so she entered the shaded stable. The smell of horseflesh and manure assailed her the moment she stepped inside. Thick underbrush swayed beyond the open rear doors, propelled by wind that gusted around the enclosure.

Mr. Ripley peered at her over the top of a stall door. “Afternoon, Miss Faith. What brings you here? Granddad ailing again?”

“Thankfully, no.” She took a quick glance around, hoping to see Mr. Saxon.

“You looking for Curt?”

“I brought a token of appreciation for him—for both of you—for helping us the other day. It was a trying time.”

He closed the stall door and walked to the center of the building. Tipping his head back, he bellowed, “Saxon! Lady to see you.”

A flush burned Faith’s cheeks. “I just came to deliver a thank-you.” She held out the basket. “If you’ll take this, I’ll be on my way.”

“What’s your hurry?” He pointed at a ladder leading to the hayloft. “Here he comes now.”

She bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to seem to be pursuing the stableman. Minutes seemed to pass as she watched him approach. A smile creased his face.

“Miss Faith. What a fine surprise.”

“These are for you and Mr. Ripley.” She thrust the basket at him, her tone formal. “You helped us so much on Monday. I wanted to thank you properly.”

Mr. Ripley stepped close and lifted the napkin. “Well, looky here, a heap of cookies.” He reached inside and removed a handful. “Mighty nice of you, Miss Faith. Anytime you want my help, just holler.”

“Thank you,” she said, taken aback. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned. Mr. Saxon was the one who’d done the most on her grandfather’s behalf. Faith lifted her head and caught a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Looks like you brought plenty.” Mr. Saxon cocked an eyebrow at his employer. “Good thing too. Rip’s fast on the draw when it comes to food.”

“Thought I’d take my share and go sit in my office so’s you two can visit.” Crumbs danced on Mr. Ripley’s beard while he spoke. He winked.

The afternoon was going from bad to worse. She should have waited until tomorrow and left the cookies when she and Grandpa walked to the mercantile. Faith looked at Mr. Saxon, the flush on her cheeks hotter than ever. “I mustn’t keep you from your work.”

“Can’t think of a more pleasant interruption. Matter of fact, I was planning to call on you and Judge Lindberg tomorrow.” He shifted the basket from one hand to the other. “Can I offer you a ride to church on Sunday?” The scar on his neck flared. “It’s a long walk clean across town. Might tire your granddad, being so far and all.”

Faith drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She’d already wondered if they should miss church until Grandpa was steadier on his feet. Mr. Saxon’s suggestion would be a solution, as long as he realized she agreed only for her grandfather’s sake.

“I’ll tell Grandpa of your kind offer. I’m sure it will be most welcome.” She extended her hand as though confirming a business arrangement. “Until Sunday, then.”

After Faith left, Curt could still feel the daintiness of her fingers against his palm. Such small hands were better suited to cooking than commerce. Her blue dress fluttered in the wind as she hurried away.

She acted like she couldn’t wait to escape him. It had to be his scar. He could come up with a dozen ways to impress her, but he’d never overcome the way his skin puckered around the place on his neck where an enemy saber had sliced down to the muscle.

A wave of fear washed over him. He dropped the basket and whirled, staring at the underbrush growing behind the stable. Sweat prickled his forehead. Where was his rifle? Not again. He’d forgotten the first rule of combat. Don’t leave your tent without your rifle.

Ducking, he ran into an empty stall for cover and threw himself flat on the straw. If he didn’t move, they’d pass by without seeing him. As soon as darkness fell, he’d find his unit.

“Saxon!”

Curt shuddered. How could the Rebs know his name?