To his credit, a look of surprise registered on his face, followed by something akin to shame. “You’re still going,
then?” His voice tightening, he looked everywhere but in her
eyes.
“Yes.” Her voice caught on the word. She could see no reason to stay. Jacob would soon be marrying Sophie. As fond as Rosaleen was of Sophie, she couldn’t bear to stay and watch it happen.
“Guess I should give this to Mr. Ralston, then,” he said.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched Jacob hold in his open palm the piece of jewelry she’d treasured all her life.
“He’s—he’s not been feeling well for the past couple of days.” She stumbled, not wanting to lie, yet at the same time, trying to keep Alistair’s injury secret. “Would you please keep it until he’s better?”
“Of course.” A hint of a smile?
Brushing past him, she fled down the stairs. Alistair needed the fever medicine, and Jacob Hale’s nearness inflicted far more torture on her heart than Rosaleen cared to endure.
❧
Jacob started toward his room but stopped at the door. He gazed at the jeweled pin in his hand. It reminded him of his love for Rosaleen. No matter what her relationship with Alistair Ralston, Jacob knew he would always love her. Why should he keep this reminder of his loss a minute longer than necessary? If Ralston had a throbbing head from drinking whiskey down at the Billiard Saloon, that was just too bad.
“Mr. Ralston? Mr. Ralston?” He rapped twice on the man’s door. Getting no reply, he pushed it open. What he saw set him back on his heels.
“Go away! She said she wouldn’t tell.” Ralston reared up then fell heavily back onto the pillow, coughing.
Like a lightning bolt, the larger reality shot through Jacob. Ralston must have been the man knifed down at the Billiard. “You’re in a bad way, man.”
Jacob walked to the bed where Ralston lay shirtless, a
bloodstained bandage covering his chest. He realized, too, that what he’d imagined happening between Rosaleen and Alistair two days ago could not have been possible. Jacob’s groans echoed those of the wounded man on the bed. “Rosaleen
never told me. She only said you weren’t feeling well. I
supposed you’d just had too much to drink.”
“You won’t tell anybody about my. . .accident, will you, Rev’rend?” Fear flickered in the big gambler’s eyes.
Jacob glanced at the bloody bandage covering the man’s chest. “I won’t tell if you don’t want me to, but if a doctor doesn’t attend you soon it won’t matter. You’ll be dead.”
“There was a bit of a misunderstandin’ down at the Billiard a couple nights ago. I don’t want to go to jail—” A wheezing cough swallowed Ralston’s words.
Jacob lifted the bandage. “My brother-in-law is a doctor. Ephraim won’t tell the sheriff. He’ll simply tend to you.” The look of relief on the man’s face sparked sympathy in Jacob.
Tension seeped out of the man’s ashen features. “All right, but would you promise me something, Rev’rend?”
“Sure.”
“I—I don’t have much, but if I die, would you see to it that Rosaleen gets everything?”
“Yes, of course.” Jacob gave the man a small smile. “I’ve seen men in worse shape make it.” He hoped his voice carried more conviction than he felt. “Would you like me to pray for you?”
Alistair’s soft chuckle turned to a series of coughs. “Sure, Rev’rend. Rosaleen’s been prayin’ over me for two days. Maybe somethin’ will get through, huh?”
“It all gets through, my friend,” Jacob said, patting the man’s shoulder. After offering up a prayer for Alistair, Jacob added a silent prayer, asking God’s forgiveness for misjudging Rosaleen.
“I believe I have something of yours, Mr. Ralston.” Jacob fished in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the brooch. “Rosaleen tells me she sold this to you some days ago.”
“Yeah.” Alistair’s eyes grew wide and, with a deep groan, he pushed up to a sitting position.
“Was this still in your possession when you left the gambling table?” If he’d lost it in the game, Jacob would hand it back to Rafe Arbuckle to put in the sheriff’s sale.
“Yeah. I’d just thrown it into the pot, but it was still mine. I never got the chance to finish the hand.”
“You swear that’s the truth?”
“That’s the truth, Rev’rend.”
“Then I’d like to buy it from you.” Jacob didn’t blame Rosaleen for hating him. He’d accused her without allowing her an opportunity to explain. He didn’t deserve her love or her forgiveness, nor did he expect them. The thought skewered his heart. He could never make up for how he’d treated her, but he
could
do this for her. “How much did you pay her for it?”
Alistair glanced down at the patchwork quilt. “Seventy-five dollars.”
A quick anger replaced the sympathy Jacob had felt for the man. Rosaleen had offered him fifty, and his heart told him she would have offered all she had. “This is no time for a ruse, Ralston,” he growled. “I’ll give you fifty.”
“Fifty will do.”
Jacob walked to his room and reached under his bed for the tattered cigar box. A feeling of gratitude washed over him. Perhaps this was why he’d resisted spending his bell money even after the church burned.
Thank You, Jesus, for whispering to me not to spend this on new lumber.
Back in Alistair’s room, Jacob counted out the money. “Fifty dollars.”
“Put it in my vest pocket.” Ralston rammed a thumb toward his gold brocade vest draped across the back of a wing chair.
Jacob stuffed the bills into the showy piece of apparel then turned back to the man. “Mr. Ralston, I made a promise to you, and now I ask you to make a promise to me. Don’t tell Rosaleen that I bought the brooch.”
“I won’t. You love her that much, don’t you?” His soft tone sounded distant.
“Yes.” Jacob watched the expression on the man’s face closely, but Alistair gave little away. The wince could very well have been from the pain of his wound.
“She’s in love with you, too, you know.” An odd grin pulled up the corners of Ralston’s lips. “In my line of work, you learn to read people. Listen”—a frown puckered his forehead—“beware of a gent by the name of McGurty. He’ll have designs on Rosaleen.”
“She told me about him.” A sudden fear twisted inside Jacob. What if he were in Madison? “The man survived the sinking of the
Cortland Belle
?”
“Can’t rightly say.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
Ralston shook his head. “No. Heard it both ways, but then—” Several more wracking coughs took him. “You can’t take as gospel what fellers deep in their cups say over a blackjack table.”
Jacob studied Ralston’s face. The best he could discern, the man’s answer seemed candid. “What does McGurty look like?” Madison teemed with strangers from the steamboats. A description of the man would be helpful.
The gambler’s features took on a thoughtful look. “ ’Bout your height. In his forties, I’d reckon. Black Irish. Black hair, thinnin’ some and streaked with gray. Little black eyes, dead cold as polished onyx—stares right through a body. Chills ya to your soul. Got a bit of a paunch. Likes good food, drink, and women, not especially in that order.” A wheezing cough that troubled Jacob interrupted Alistair’s description of McGurty.
“Here, take a drink of water.” Jacob filled a glass from the pitcher Rosaleen had left on the table by the bed.
“A real dandy dresser,” Alistair continued after a sip of the water had eased his cough. “Always carries a silver-headed, ebony walking stick.”
“Thanks.” Jacob offered the man his hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip, even in his weakened state. “I’ll fetch Dr. Morgan.”
Later, Jacob placed the brooch in the cigar box where he’d kept his bell money. In a few days, Rosaleen would be leaving for New York. He’d like to think that Ralston’s perception of her feelings about him were correct. Maybe they had been once. But he felt certain he’d destroyed any hope of rekindling her love.
His heart twisted as he gazed at the jeweled pin. Maybe when he presented it to her as a farewell present, she’d at least remember him with some measure of kindness.
After Dr. Morgan treated Alistair Ralston, Rosaleen followed him and Jacob to the hallway outside Alistair’s room.
Ephraim Morgan turned a stern look toward Rosaleen. “Jacob was right to fetch me, Rosaleen. I know you were trying to protect Mr. Ralston, but by not calling me sooner, you allowed your friend to become dangerously ill.”
Rosaleen gave him a penitent nod. She sent up a prayer of thanks that God found a way to get the doctor here without her having to break her promise to Alistair.
The doctor’s features relaxed to a reassuring smile. “He should heal fine as long as the fever doesn’t return and the wound doesn’t become infected again.”
Brightening, Dr. Morgan turned his attention to Jacob. “Becky tells me Roscoe Stinnett has offered to put up the collateral in order to procure a loan for the church. That’s great news.”
“Yes, it is.” Jacob fidgeted, seeming uninterested in elaborating on the subject.
An awkward moment of silence ensued while Rosaleen and Jacob watched the doctor descend the stairs.
Rosaleen broke the silence. “I’m glad you’re going to get your church rebuilt, Jacob. That is wonderful.” She meant it, too, but at the same time wondered if he’d taken Roscoe up on his offer concerning Sophie after all. If so, why had Jacob not told her? Was he too embarrassed to admit he’d made such a deal?
“Thank you.” His gaze skittered away from hers.
She managed to push her trembling lips into a smile. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me and went in to see about Alistair.”
“Me, too.” He grinned. “He’s not such a bad fellow for a gambler and a rogue. He’ll soon be off running his thimble-rig again with the best of them.”
“I’d like to think I could convince him to reform, but I’m afraid it is unlikely, even with all my prayers.”
“I’m sure you’ve planted the good seeds, Rosaleen. In the end, praying is the best thing we can do.” His smile faded. “You’ll be leaving with him, then?”
“No.” Rosaleen’s heart felt as wounded as Alistair’s chest. If only she could have stayed. If only things had turned out differently. “Alistair will be going places I don’t care to go now and doing things I know Jesus would not want me to be a party to.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Then you’ll be leaving on your own for New York?” His voice sounded strained. Did he want her to stay?
She fought the tears stinging behind her eyelids.
Please, Jacob, beg me to stay. Take me in your arms and tell me you want me to stay here with you forever.
She struggled to inject lightness into her answer. “Yes, I promised Alistair I’d take care of him until he’s well. Then I’ll begin my journey to New York.”
The corner of Jacob’s mouth lifted. “I’d very much like it if you’d continue to play for services while you remain in Madison. Would you do that for us and save the congregation a little while longer from Myrtle Stinnett’s charity?”
Her heart galloped when he took her hands into his. Both their gazes focused on their clasped hands.
“Yes, Jacob, I’d like that very much.” Hope withered. If he still loved her and hadn’t given his promise to Sophie, now was the time he should beg her to stay—to entreat her never to leave him. Tears she couldn’t allow him to see stung Rosaleen’s eyes. Pulling her hands away from his strong, warm fingers, she fled down the stairs.
❧
During the next couple of weeks, Rosaleen used the excuse of caring for Alistair to avoid Jacob. Though she’d relinquished the hope of ever becoming Jacob’s wife, she held tight to her newfound faith. She’d always love Jacob. How could she not? He’d led her to the knowledge that God did indeed love her and would one day welcome her into heaven.
She longed to share this promise with others. Perhaps she could find a way to use her musical talents for the Lord. At present, she’d content herself with sharing the gospel with Alistair. Though an admitted challenge, he presented a captive audience.
“Never thought you’d become a church lady.” Grinning, he shook his head, interrupting her daily scripture reading.
“I’m not a church lady. I’m a Christian.” Rosaleen closed the Bible on her lap. “Alistair, you could have died. Aren’t you concerned about what lies beyond?”
“Don’t reckon I like to give it much thought.” He grimaced, shifting to a more comfortable sitting position on the bed.
“Well, you need to think about it.” She set the Bible on the table by the bed and bent over to adjust the pillows behind his head.
“You’ll make a right pretty angel someday, Rosaleen.” His gray gaze looked a little sad as he ran the back of his curled fingers across her cheek. Then his demeanor perked up with his voice. “I do like the music, though. I never knew you played the piano.” He leaned his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
“I didn’t before I went to the finishing school. I suppose I can thank my guardian for that, even if he did send me for selfish reasons. Funny how the Lord can take a bad situation and turn it into a blessing.”
She’d been astounded at how much lighter her heart had become after she obeyed Christ’s command and forgave Wilfred and Irene Maguire. With repeated reading, she’d etched into her heart Jesus’ words from Matthew 5:44:
“But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”
Black Jack Bill McGurty? He’d be far harder to forgive, but Rosaleen would try.
Alistair rolled his head on the pillow, his gray eyes peering at her from beneath half-open lids. “Would you sing me that song again? The one about the rock.”
Rosaleen smiled. Perhaps she could get through to Alistair with her music. She softly sang “Rock of Ages” until his deep, even breathing told her he’d fallen asleep.
A recurrence of infection along with another bout of fever had kept Alistair bedridden. But under the watchful care of Dr. Morgan, he was now showing steady improvement, causing the doctor to predict Alistair would be back on his feet within the week. Rosaleen would soon be free to leave for New York. A pang of sadness accompanied the thought as she slipped quietly from Alistair’s room and climbed to her own room in the attic.
Knowing she would need to prepare for that day, Rosaleen stuck her hand into the mattress slit and felt for the calico sack. Finding it, she separated one of the ten-dollar notes from the fold of bills, shoved it into her apron pocket, and headed downstairs.
Exiting through the kitchen door, she paused on the path between the boardinghouse and the garden to glance back at the gray brick building. It hurt to think of leaving Madison and all the people who’d become dear to her. Yet if Jacob had wanted her to stay, he could have asked. Her heart still stung from the fact that he hadn’t.
Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin. She must concentrate on practicalities. She’d need a small steamer trunk or portmanteau to transport her few but precious possessions to New York. She could probably procure what she needed at King and Brother Merchants on Second Street.
“Rosaleen!” Patsey’s cry sounded tight with pain.
Whirling toward the garden patch, Rosaleen caught sight of Patsy’s red head kerchief, just visible above the browning leaves of the potato plants.
“I—I think the baby’s comin’.” Sitting in the dirt amid the drying vegetation, Patsey glanced down at her drenched calico skirt.
“But it’s too soon! It’s almost a month too soon.” Rosaleen fought mounting fear.
“Reckon you’d best tell that to this young’un.” Groaning, Patsey doubled over.
Rosaleen’s mind raced with her heart. Andrew was down at the building site of the church with Jacob. She didn’t know whether it would be better to help Patsey up or have her sit until she could get Andrew.
Oh God, just help me know what to do.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced her mind to rational thought.
Mrs. Buchanan will know what to do.
“Just sit still, Patsey. I’ll find Opal.”
Patsey’s answering groan warned there might not be a moment to spare.
Racing through the kitchen, Rosaleen began calling for Opal.
“Rosaleen, what on earth—” Opal began as she emerged from the dining room.
Interrupting, Rosaleen caught her hand. “Patsey’s in the garden. I think she’s in labor.”
Opal paled and bolted for the kitchen door.
Rosaleen ran to catch up with the older woman’s long-legged strides, directing her to the spot where she’d left Patsey.
“Come on, Patsey, you can’t have this baby in the tater patch.” Opal grasped Patsey under the arms and carefully but firmly lifted her straight up.