River Queen Rose Page 2
* * * *
Afterward, Rose had only a vague memory of those terrible moments after they learned her husband was dead. Drucilla breaking into rare tears. Coralee’s piercing scream and near collapse, and Ben and Raymond holding her up. Rose couldn’t remember how she acted, other than she stood frozen in shock, staring in stunned disbelief.
Ben was the first to speak. “Tell us what happened.”
“There’s something you must see.” Murphy turned, motioning them to follow. Along with the rest of her stricken family, Rose trailed him around the side of the porch where a row of tall Eucalyptus trees shaded the house. A grave lay under one of the trees. Plainly, it was newly dug with its mound of dirt on top, strewn with fresh bouquets of flowers. Rose drew close. On a small, roughly constructed cross at the head, someone had neatly printed, EMMET PETERSON.
In stunned silence, the family gathered around the grave as the neighbor continued to speak. “A fine man if ever there was one. If we’d known you were coming so soon, we would have waited, but we didn’t know, so we held the service this morning. Quite a few came. Neighbors. People from town. Reverend Walters was in charge. You can rest assured, Emmet got as fine a sendoff as his friends could give him.”
Ben’s face had turned a sickly white. His arm around Coralee, who was quietly sobbing, he asked, “My God, what happened? Far as I know, my son was in good health.”
Murphy shook his head. “He didn’t get sick, Mr. Peterson. Health had nothing to do with it.”
“Was it an accident?”
“No.”
“Then…?” Ben could hardly get the words out. “You mean he was murdered?”
“Not exactly. You could say he was and he wasn’t.”
Through gritted teeth, Ben exploded, “For God’s sake! Tell us what happened.”
Murphy heaved a regretful sigh. “I wish it had been his health, a stroke maybe, or his heart. Or some kind of accident, but the truth is, Emmet was killed in a duel with a fellow named Mason Talbot. He’s a big man in these parts. Owns a brewery as well as the Egyptian Hotel. He keeps a collection of paintings there and fancies himself an art connoisseur. The thing is, I reckon you can’t call him a murderer, being as Emmet started the whole thing. He’s the one who did the challenging.”
Ben’s jaw dropped open. “Emmet never held a sword in his hand in his life.”
“Oh, it wasn’t swords, Mr. Peterson. It was dueling pistols. I don’t know if he ever held a gun in his hand either, but a bullet to the head is what killed him.”
Chapter 2
My husband is dead. Rose kept repeating the words, but they had yet to sink in. Thank goodness, that nice lady had taken Lucy into the house so she hadn’t witnessed the family’s outpouring of grief when they heard the news. Of course her daughter must be told, but she’d find a way to break the news as gently as possible. The family didn’t stay long at the grave. Coralee would have collapsed if Ben wasn’t holding her up. Drucilla had turned white and looked as if she might faint at any moment. Both should be lying down. Being the men of the family, Ben and Raymond struggled to show a brave front, but clearly they, too, were shocked and torn with grief.
As they headed back to the house, Tom Murphy gave them some useful advice. “Emmet had a cook named Bridgett who already took off. You’re going to need a new one. Then you’ve got the farm to think of. There’s the chickens to take care of, stock to feed and the like, but at least the hired help is still here. Deke Fleming. Comes from Australia. He’s crippled, so he can’t do much, but he’s a good man. Like as not, you’ll find him in the barn.”
Rose was about to follow her family into the house when she noticed the two wagons and their teams of oxen left neglected in the driveway. Ordinarily the men saw to the animals, but this wasn’t an ordinary day, so at the moment, the poor beasts stood thirsty, hungry, and forgotten after long hours on the road. She wasn’t sure she knew what to do, but one thing she did know—she couldn’t let the animals suffer. “I’ll be right in,” she called. She grabbed the reins of one of the teams. Tears kept filling her eyes as she led the four oxen, still hitched to the wagon, toward the large barn in the back. Once she stumbled, so blinded with tears she hadn’t seen where she was going. All right, no more crying; not now anyway. This chore had to be done right now so she could get back to Lucy. She couldn’t unyoke the oxen by herself, or at least she’d never tried, but hadn’t Mr. Murphy mentioned the hired man from Australia? Surely he could help. When she reached the barn, she halted the team and was about to go inside when a man appeared in the doorway. Tall, lean, and sinewy, he had straight brown hair that nearly reached his shoulders. He was dressed in a workman’s clothes. “Are you the hired man?” she called.
“That I am,” he answered in a friendly voice. His face lit in recognition. “Blimey, you must be the family.”
“We just arrived. We had no idea.” More tears welled. With an effort, she forced them back. “Emmet told you we were coming?”
The man came closer, slowly because he was hobbling on crutches. “It was all he talked about. He could hardly wait.”
He’s crippled. She dropped her gaze. His right pant leg was split to the knee, a cast visible beneath. But staring was impolite. She quickly looked up. “I’m Rose Peterson, his wife. This is all so sudden, and I…” A lump rose in her throat and she couldn’t go on.
“It was sudden, all right. I’m Decatur Fleming. Call me Deke.” He regarded her with warm, grey eyes. “Looks like you got the bad news.”
“Mr. Murphy just told us. I can’t quite believe it yet.”
“Of course you can’t.” His voice held an infinitely compassionate tone. “Everyone’s shocked. Emmet Peterson was fair dinkum. Shouldn’t have happened. Do you want to sit down? Can I get you some water?”
“No, no. I’m fine, thank you.” Strange, the way he talked. Fair dinkum? What did that mean? She’d never heard an Australian accent before. It was thick, although she could easily understand him. He had a nice face, too craggy to be handsome, but somehow appealing with its generous mouth and square jaw. He must have been in the sun a lot, what with that bronzed skin and those tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Age couldn’t have caused them because he didn’t appear to be past thirty or so. She gave Maggie, the nearest ox, a pat on the head. “There’s this team and another in the front that need to be unhitched. I was hoping you could help me, but I didn’t realize…” She glanced at his cast again. “I’ll get my brother-in-law to help.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Of course.” She’d caught the quick glint of resentment in his eyes and realized her mistake. Men had their pride, and here she’d just insinuated he wasn’t capable of helping her. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Fleming…Deke.” How he could lift those heavy yokes off the oxen while on crutches, she couldn’t imagine, but she wouldn’t argue.
His mouth curved into a crooked little grin. “Don’t worry. Stand by. You can put them in the corral when I get them unhitched.”
At least he wasn’t so prideful he couldn’t admit he needed a bit of help. She watched as he threw one crutch aside, hobbled over to the four oxen, and proceeded to lift the yokes off with little difficulty. Amazing what he could do while standing on one foot. Of course, his exceptional strength didn’t hurt. She couldn’t help noticing how the muscles in his arms rippled beneath his shirt sleeves when he lifted the yokes off the animals’ necks. Soon as they were unyoked, she led each pair to the corral and penned them inside. She brought the second wagon around to the barn, and they did the same. At least the chore kept her busy for a while. Tending to the animals left her little time to think, but when all the oxen were penned, watered, and fed, thoughts of the horrible events of the day came rushing back. “I’d better go inside now.” Her voice was shaking. There was nothing she could do about it, and she was beyond caring. “I thank you very much for your help, Deke.”
She hadn’t thought about it until now, but he must also be grieving. And he must know more about what happened. “Mr. Murphy said my husband was killed in a duel. How is that possible?”
“That’s a good question. Duels are illegal in this county.” He frowned with concern. “It’s a long story that maybe you’d best wait to hear ’til later.”
He was right. At the moment, all she wanted was to get in the house and find Lucy before somebody else told her the news. “Yes, it can wait. Good day, Deke. Thanks for your help.”
The shadow of a smile crossed his face. “If you need someone to talk to, I live in the barn”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“any way I can help, I’d be glad to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Maybe she would. Deke might be just the hired help, but there was something about him—maybe his sincerity and the compassion in his eyes—that made her think she’d seek him out again.
* * * *
Deke Fleming watched after the retreating figure of Rose Peterson until she’d rounded the house and was out of sight. The poor woman had just lost her husband, yet she’d shown a lot of strength and hadn’t fallen apart. She’d put the animals first—apparently no one else in the family had—and he admired that. He also admired the tall, straight way she carried herself and how her thick, shiny hair, sort of a gold-bronze color, hung loose around her shoulders.
He looked down at the cast on his leg and gave a cynical laugh. Oh, sure, Deke, that wasn’t pity you saw in her eyes. She’s already crazy about you.
He’d lived his whole life in the Australian outback. He hadn’t known a lot of women, but those he had met were nothing quite like the newly widowed Mrs. Peterson.
* * * *
Rose found Raymond sitting on the porch, head in his hands. He looked up when he heard her coming up the steps, and she saw he’d been crying. “I can’t believe it,” he said in a bewildered whisper. “Emmet was… Emmet was…” He wrung his hands. “What are we going to do?”
She bent and took his hand. “Emmet was a wonderful brother to you, and you must always remember that.” Indeed, her husband had always treated his younger brother with the greatest of kindness, despite all his faults. “I know how you feel. This is so hard for all of us. Was it only hours ago we’d started our last day on the road, everyone cheery and joyful? Now look at us.” She patted Raymond on the shoulder. “We’ll talk later. Right now, I must find Lucy.”
Heartsick, she left Raymond and hurried inside. She glanced around. At another time, she would have been eager to see the whole house, but now all she wanted was to find her daughter. After a quick search, she found Lucy sitting at the kitchen table, a slice of bread covered with butter and jam in front of her. Tom Murphy’s mother stood at the sink. “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Peterson,” she said in her raspy voice. “Lucy said she was hungry, so I fed her.” She gave an indignant sniff. “Couldn’t find much. Looks like Bridgett made off with all the food. I never liked that woman.”
“Of course I don’t mind. That was very kind of you.” Rose stepped to the sink and spoke softly. “Does she know?”
The old lady shook her head. “Thought you’d want to tell her,” she whispered back. “You’d better do it soon, though. She knows something’s wrong.” She flicked her gaze upward. “Emmet’s ma is in a state, and his pa has got her lying down. The sister’s lying down, too. I’ll be going now.”
“You don’t have to leave, Mrs. Bidwell.”
“Call me Dulcee. Everyone does. It’s best I go. If you need to talk to someone, I’m right next door, the house with the big red barn.” Her faded eyes filled not only with compassion but keen understanding. “I reckon sooner or later, you’ll need someone to talk to, so come over any time. I fix a fine cup of tea, if I do say so.”
After she left, Rose sat at the table, across from Lucy. Dulcee was right. The uneasy expression on her daughter’s face signaled her sense that something was wrong. Rose hunted for the right words, but whatever they were, they eluded her. Best to tell her straight out and not worry about perfection. “I have something very sad to tell you, sweetheart.”
“Is it about Daddy?”
“Yes. You see…” Her voice caught, but she must control it. This was no time to break down. “You won’t be seeing Daddy for a while. He’s in heaven now.”
“You mean he’s dead?” A tear slid down her little girl’s cheek.
“Yes, he’s dead, and I’m so sorry. This is a terrible time for all of us, but you must be strong. I must be strong.” She couldn’t help it. Tears blinded her eyes and choked her voice.
Without another word, Lucy slid from her chair, came around the table, and put her arms around her. “We’ll be all right, Mommy. Please, you shouldn’t cry. It doesn’t do any good to cry.”
Rose hugged her tight. What a brave little girl, and she was right. She didn’t need the wisdom of a five-year-old to tell her tears were useless. She didn’t know what sorrows the future held, but from this moment on, she was done with them.
For the rest of the day, Rose found plenty to do. First off, she found a tiny bedroom off the kitchen that no doubt had belonged to Bridgett, the infamous cook. She put Lucy down for her nap on the single bed. That was only temporary. Later they’d decide which upstairs bedroom would be hers and Lucy’s. Now was her chance to see the house. Downstairs, she walked from the kitchen into the dining room and then the parlor. How spacious the rooms were, and nicely furnished, too. On the second floor, everyone was lying down. Tiptoeing, she found three large bedrooms and what looked like a sun room. How sad Emmet wasn’t here to see how impressed she was. If all had gone as expected, she’d be celebrating right now, reunited with her husband, joyful that this beautiful home far exceeded her expectations. But she had no time to dwell on what might have been. Tom Murphy had warned about the cook running off. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have mattered because Coralee did the cooking and was always in complete control of the kitchen. Not today, though. Her mother-in-law was in no shape to cook and neither, it appeared, was Drucilla. Despite their grief, they’d all still be hungry.
She would cook the dinner herself. Back in the kitchen, she searched the cupboards and icebox and found them practically bare. While she was mulling over what she could possibly serve, her sister-in-law appeared. Ordinarily, she looked the picture of health, but now her pale cheeks reflected her grief. “Drucilla, you should be lying down.”
“Nonsense. I might as well grieve standing up as lying down. I’ll help with dinner.”
Rose knew better than to argue. To say Drucilla had a mind of her own was an understatement. To say she was the despair of her mother was also an understatement. Nearly six feet tall, she’d reached the age of thirty with nary a suitor in sight. As Coralee had pointed out perhaps a million times, she possessed a pretty face and nice figure, and if she “applied herself,” she would surely find a suitable husband despite her height.
“Suitable husband, my foot,” would come her daughter’s reply. “I’ve better things to do with my time than sit around simpering over some vapid fool who’s shorter than I am.”
Rose understood. Indeed, her sister-in-law was not one ever to sit around. An avid reader, she devoured books on all subjects, not only books of fiction, but scholarly tomes on mathematics, history, and the classics. She spoke several languages fluently, especially French, which she spoke like a native. The dream of her lifetime was to travel to France where she could study the famous chateaux of the Loire Valley. “An event not likely ever to happen,” she would remark with a typical disdainful sniff.
Drucilla looked in the cupboards. “They’re bare. What are we supposed to eat?”
A knock came at the back door. When Rose answered, she found Deke standing on the stoop. Despite the crutches, he was holding a bag of what lo
oked like greens in one hand, a newly butchered chicken dangling from the other. “Please come in,” she said.
He shook his head. “Bridgett ran off with everything she could get her hands on. I figured you couldn’t give dinner a fair go without food in the cupboard.”
“Why thank you, Deke. How very thoughtful.” A fair go? Another strange term, but she found it rather charming.
Balancing on one crutch, he held up the bag. “Here’s some string beans. Emmet had a garden back of the barn, so I just picked these.” He switched his balance to the other crutch and held up the chicken. “It’s fresh. Do you know how to clean it? Not meaning any disrespect, but there’s some ladies who’d fair faint away before they plucked the first feather.”
She smiled. “I’ve cleaned many a chicken, so no worries there.” And so she had. All the time she’d lived with the Petersons, it was she who was assigned the thankless task of plucking and cleaning the chickens. Before that, she’d done the same. Her parents, both gone now, had owned the Birchwood Inn on the outskirts of Cairo, Illinois. Ever since she could remember, she’d helped with everything from making beds and scrubbing floors to working in the kitchen, and that included the task of cleaning whatever fowl was being served for dinner. She’d done it so often, she never thought twice. Some might think it was an onerous task, but to her it wasn’t unpleasant at all. She took the string beans and chicken. “You’re sure you won’t come in?”
“No, but I’ll be back with some milk for the little girl, soon’s I milk the cow.”
“But how can you do all that when you—?” Uh-oh. There went that glint of resentment in his eyes. Again, she’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean…”