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Wild Prairie Roses

By Lena Nelson Dooley, Lisa Harris, Laurie Alice Eakes

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Prologue
April 1867
Dawn sent fingers of sunlight between the Ozark mountain peaks, bathing Constance Miller in warmth she needed on this early spring morning. She stood near a window, gazing out at the pastel colors spread across the sky by the rising sun, and thanked God for the beauty around her. Raspy breaths across the room behind her broke the stillness and drowned out the first twitters of birds awakening to the new morning. How she hated the sound that meant her father’s death could be imminent.
When the doctor left yesterday, he held out no hope for recovery. Without her father’s strong presence in her life, Constance’s future looked bleak. She couldn’t farm this land by herself, and there wasn’t a man on the mountain, or even in the valley below, who she would consider marrying. Where did that leave her?
Other young women had ventured far from their Arkansas mountain home, but she felt no yearning to move away from here. Her gaze was drawn to the golden tint now rimming the tall budding trees, some with tender green leaves, that surrounded their home place. Spring was her favorite time of the year. It usually made her think of a new beginning. But the wheezing gasps coming from the man in the bed on the other side of the room signaled an ending instead. She clasped her arms tight across her chest and shivered in her flannel nightdress.
“Connie.” Her father’s rasping voice was hardly distinguishable. “Come here, gurl.” The last word faded into nothingness.
She whirled and rushed to kneel at the side of wooden platform covered with a ticking filled with dry corn husks. “I’m here.” She removed the rag that now felt hot and dipped it into the cold water in the basin on the floor before replacing it on her father’s brow.
His bony arm snaked out from under the covers, and his hand gripped her forearm with amazing strength. “You hafta promise me somethin’.” His eyes bored into hers, and a fire of determination burned in them.
“Anything, Pa.” She wanted to keep him calm. Too much excitement could leach his waning strength too quickly.
“I ain’t got much time.” He stopped to take another noisy gulp of air. “You gotta listen real good.”
Constance nodded and leaned closer to him, so he wouldn’t have to try to talk so loud.
“I done something real bad when I was gone.”
She knew that war was ugly with men killing each other and all, but she didn’t think he was talking about that aspect of the war. Surely her Pa hadn’t done much else. When she started to tell him that, he interrupted her.
“I come up with a plan to steal some gold from those Yankees. It was only Jim Mitchell and me who talked about it, but the next day, I knew God didn’t want me to do it.” His hold on her arm slackened. “The war made me lose my way for a bit.” His hand dropped to lay motionless on the tattered quilt that covered his emaciated body.
She grasped her father’s hand. “I knew you couldn’t have done anything too bad, Pa.”
His eyes fluttered open. “But someone did steal the gold, and they did it jist the way I planned. It had to be Jim.” Once again his speech faltered, and his eyelids closed.
Constance moved her head closer to him once again and was thankful that the morning sun began to take the chill from the room as its rays crept across the rough wooden floorboards. “If you didn’t do it, then you’re not guilty of anything.”
Her father opened his eyes again. They held a sadness that went straight to her heart.
“I’m guilty of two things. I hadn’t oughta come up with the plan, and I never took the time to tell Jim about God.” Once again he relaxed with his eyes closed.
“We all make mistakes, Pa.”
“Not like these.” He didn’t open his eyes this time as he continued. “I cain’t go to my rest unless you make me a promise.”
Constance didn’t know what she could do about any of this, but she didn’t want her father fretting. “I’ll promise you anything you want.”
Once again, his watery eyes opened, and he stared at her face as if memorizing every inch of it. “Connie gurl, you gotta go to Iowy and find Jim Mitchell. You gotta tell him about Jesus, then convince him to give back the gold.”
She couldn’t keep from showing her surprise. “I can’t do that. The only time I’ve ever left this mountain was when I went to school, and that was only in the next valley. I don’t even know where Iowa is.”
“You gotta find out. Get that schoolmarm to help you. . .or the new preacher, but you gotta go. I won’t rest easy unless you promise.”
Constance stood and walked over to the table where the wash basin sat beside a bucket of water. She picked up the tin dipper and took a drink, noticing that the container was almost empty. That would mean a trip to the clear stream that ran down the mountain a few yards from the house. She dreaded leaving her father for even the few minutes that would take.
How could she make her father a promise like that? Uncertainty and fear crowded her thoughts.
His breathing became more labored and echoed in the stillness. He wasn’t long for this world. Oh, God, what am I supposed to do?
A loud snort was followed by her father calling her name again. She rushed over and fell to her knees on the floor, not even being careful about splinters this time.
“I’m here.”
A faint smile lit his face for a fleeting moment. “You look jist like your ma.” Then his eyes slid closed again, but he continued to speak softly. “If you stand at the window on the west wall of the cabin and count to the seventh board on the floor, you’ll find my stash of money.”
Constance’s gaze went to the wall, and she counted over to where he was talking about. It looked like the rest of the unpainted floor.
“Where the boards come together, the one to the south ain’t nailed down. Pick it up, and you’ll find the money I’ve been saving. I meant to go find Jim m’self, but the good Lord had other plans. Jim wrote down the name of the town where his family lives on a piece of paper, and I kept it all this time. It’s with the money.”
All his energy must have been spent, because he went so slack that Constance thought he might have died right then. She laid her hand on his chest and felt the faint beating of his heart. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with the backs of her hands. More took their place. She watched him sleep for a few moments before she went over to the board. Constance lifted it and saw a large rusty tin can with a rag tied on the top. She picked it up and took it to the table. After untying the dirty string and lifting the scrap of cloth, Connie’s eyes widened at the large roll of paper money stuffed in the can.
She and her father had always had enough to eat and clothes to wear, but that amount of money would have made a difference in their life. Her father wouldn’t have had to work so hard, and they could have had a few more nice things. Why had he let his guilty feelings rob them of a better life?


Chapter 1
Hans looked at the words he painted on a new board Van de Kieft Smithy. Today he would hang it right after the stagecoach delivered his new anvil. Finally, he was a business owner. He’d worked hard as an apprentice for Homer then continued working for him several more years before the blacksmith decided to retire on the farm he had bought about five miles from town. Of course, Homer planned to do all his own smithy work, so he wanted to keep his own anvil.
The stage wouldn’t arrive for a while. Hans might as well go ahead and hang the sign while he waited. He picked up several nails and stuck them in his shirt pocket. He shoved the head of the hammer into one of his hip pockets before picking up the sign. After standing in the street in front of the blacksmith shop for a few minutes looking at the building, he decided to nail it up over the top of the large doorway. He set the sign against the side of the building and went inside looking for his ladder.
Hans wasn’t excited about climbing on the thing. He never had liked heights. When the boys played in the hayloft while he was growing up, he tried to stay on the ground as much as possible. He closed the doors and latched them together before he leaned the ladder against them. After testing it to see if it was stable, Hans took a tentative step up. Another followed. How many rungs would he need to climb before he could reach far enough to attach the sign?
Good thing he was over six feet tall, so he could reach pretty high. He stepped down and decided to only climb back up four rungs. After hefting the sign over his shoulder, he took a firm grip with his other hand on the ladder. This time, his steps were slower. Finally, he felt secure, but he decided not to look down.
About the time Hans had the sign placed exactly where he wanted it, the ladder swayed. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and a voice came from behind and below.
“I’ll hold the ladder for you, Hans, while you pound in those nails.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.” Hans didn’t dare look at his friend, but was glad he had come by. “I appreciate it.”
He quickly pounded nails into the four corners of the sign and stepped back down the ladder. When he was standing safely on solid ground, he thrust out his hand toward the sheriff.
Andrew Morton shook it then turned to look up at the sign. “It looks nice. You did a good job on the lettering.”
“Mother made all of us learn good penmanship, even the boys. I’m glad now.” Hans stood in the middle of the street with his hands on his hips to get the full effect. “Everyone should be able to see the sign most anywhere on the street.”
He rubbed his hands down the legs of his denim trousers. “I’m going to leave the door closed. Isn’t it about time for the stagecoach to arrive? My anvil should be on it today.”
Hans started toward the station, and Andrew walked beside him. “I think I’ll mosey that direction, too.”
*****
Constance glanced around the crowded stagecoach, trying not to show her distaste. The trip had been way too long and way too hard. Some of the people who shared the space with her didn’t understand the importance of cleanliness. She could hardly wait to arrive at Browning City, Iowa. When she stepped out of this conveyance, she planned to breathe in a lot of clean, fresh air. She pressed her hand down the length of dark green gabardine that covered her lap. When Constance donned the traveling suit in Fort Smith, it had been the most beautiful outfit she had ever owned. She felt sure she didn’t need to be ashamed of the way she looked.
Layers of dust almost obliterated the color of the fabric. Several times, she had been given the choice of whether to spend the night at way stations and catch the next coach or continue on this one when the fresh horses were harnessed to it. Because of her eagerness to take care of her final promise to her father, she always chose to go on. Now she regretted it. The driver had told them that the next stop was Browning City, and she would arrive dirty with her traveling clothes completely wilted. Why was she always so impetuous? Mother had often warned her to take longer to make decisions. Why hadn’t Constance listened?
The grizzled man who sat in the opposite corner of the coach leaned his head out the window and turned toward the direction they were going before pulling back into the cabin. “I can see the edge of town up ahead. How many of us are stopping here?”
When Constance was the only one who lifted her hand, he smiled at her.
“I’ve got a brother who lives several miles west of Browning City. I’ll be getting off, too.”
Constance glanced out the window in time to see several boys running alongside the vehicle as it began to slow down. A puppy romped around their legs. The houses on her side of the street looked inviting, each wearing a coat of whitewash or paint. None of those unpainted gray cabins such as hers back home in the Ozarks. Some houses had picket fences, while iron railings corralled other yards. This looked like a nice town. Too bad she was only here for one reason.
When the driver stopped the coach in front of the station, Constance noticed two men standing on the boardwalk, eyeing the people in the windows of the coach.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair long enough to touch his collar turned to his companion. “My anvil is probably in the boot. I’m sure no one wanted to lift it up on the luggage rack on the top.” He stepped off into the street.
The driver opened the door. “This is your stop, Miss. I’ll get your carpetbag down for you.” He stepped up on the front wheel of the coach to reach it.
Constance gathered her reticule and stood up as well as she could in the confines of the coach. She had been sitting so long that her legs felt stiff. She planned on taking a long walk after she checked into a hotel or boardinghouse. Exercise would work the soreness out.
When she reached her foot down for the step, somehow she missed it. She realized that she would land on her face in the dirt. Just what she needed for her entrance into a new town. Constance grabbed onto the handle of the door, but it only swung wider taking her with it. After shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath, preparing for her inglorious landing in the street.
Instead strong arms lifted her up and away from the coach. Her eyes flew open, and she peered into a handsome face with eyes the color of the sky above.
*****
Without thinking, Hans reached for the woman to stop her from hurting herself. When he lifted her, she felt like a feather in spite of all the layers of skirts that swirled around them. The green hat that matched her clothes was knocked askew and fell over one side of her forehead almost covering one eye. Her arms clutched him around his neck as she opened her eyes and stared at him.
Everything around them disappeared. When Hans stared into her eyes, they flashed green and brown all at the same time. Golden flecks glistened in the bright sunlight. Fear, surprise, then a questioning look followed each other across her face leaving her with a vulnerable expression.
Heat suffused his arms and every part of his body that touched her. His stomach began a strange dance that it had never done before then it turned over and knotted up. Hans had experienced reactions to young women before, but he had always been able to control them. This felt different–more intense and. . .somehow strange.
Some of the young woman’s abundant brown hair fell out of the bun she wore low on her neck. Her cheeks turned red, and her rosy lips parted slightly. His mouth went dry, and Hans tried to swallow, never taking his gaze from her face. The most beautiful face he had ever seen.
As Andrew walked past Hans, he leaned close and whispered for his ears alone, “You can put her down now.”
How long had Hans been holding her? He didn’t want to look around, because he was afraid of what other people might see on his face. Never had he experienced anything quite this intense. It was uncomfortable, and yet special somehow. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this moment.
Hans whirled and carefully made his way to the boardwalk. He gently set the woman on her feet and turned back toward the coach. He needed to get his anvil and hurry to his place of business.
“Thank you.” Her soft words followed him, but he didn’t turn around.
He only hoped she was not staying in town long. He wasn’t ready to confront these strange feelings, and he surely didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

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