Chapter 10
The first snowflakes fell like whispered warnings against the kitchen window as Rose placed a cloth over the soaking beans. The men were pushing so hard to get the hay stored before this very event.
From what Enoch said that morning, they still had at least two more days’ work after today. Maybe this would only be a few flakes. Not enough to stick.
For their sakes, God, maybe You could make it hold off. God hadn’t answered her prayers in so many years, but perhaps for the Balfours, He’d listen.
“Rose, child.” Mrs. Wang—Bea—appeared at her elbow, drying her hands on her apron.
“Mandie’s gone up for her nap, poor thing.
This baby’s wearing her out.” She glanced toward the window where the snow continued its gentle assault.
“Snow comes when it comes.” Her mouth curved into a soft smile.
“God sends it, so we take what He sends and make warm food.” She winked as if it were the simplest arithmetic.
She could barely fathom faith like that. No bargaining. Just a peace that what God sent would be exactly what they needed. No fear that one misstep might turn His face away.
Bea motioned for her. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you while we have a quiet moment.”
Rose followed her through the house and up the wooden stairs, their footsteps muffled by the thick runner.
They passed the room where Rose was staying, as well as those of the three younger brothers.
At the end of the hallway, Bea opened a narrow door that led to another set of stairs, steeper and more cramped than the main staircase.
“Mind your head.” Bea pointed to the low rafters as they climbed into the attic.
The space was dim and dusty, filled with the scents of old wood and dust. Weak light filtered through a small window at the far end, illuminating cobwebs dancing in the drafts. She had to duck a little as she followed Bea, her skirts brushing against wooden crates and cloth-covered furniture.
“Here we are.” Bea stopped beside a medium-sized wooden crate, its surface gray with dust. She brushed the top clean with her hand, revealing faded initials carved into the wood: M.P. “This belonged to your mama, child. And to you.”
Rose’s breath caught in her throat. Margaret Prescott. Her mother’s maiden name, before Vincent, before everything had changed.
“These are all the things I found when we cleaned out your room after you and your mama left so sudden-like.” Bea rested her hands on the crate’s lid. “I kept them here in case you ever came back.”
Rose’s chest clenched, and she dropped to her knees beside the box. Bea moved aside to allow her access.
She brushed a hand over the carved initials. Eleven years. These things had waited here gathering dust while she’d been trapped in Virginia City.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the wooden lid.
On top lay a small wooden doll, its painted face faded but still smiling. Rose’s throat tightened as she lifted it from the crate. She’d carried this doll everywhere during those early days at the ranch, whispering her secrets during the long nights when this new world felt too big and frightening.
“I—” Her voice caught. “I thought she was gone.”
“You called her Emma.” Bea’s gentle murmur felt like a hug—a mother’s hug. “Used to have tea parties with her in the garden behind the kitchen. You’d make the younger boys come join you, as often as you could talk them into it.”
She cradled the doll against her chest, the weight of memory settling around her like a familiar shawl.
Emma. She’d forgotten the name, but now it came flooding back with images of summer afternoons spent arranging wildflowers in tiny cups, chattering away to her companions about everything and nothing.
Most of the time that companion had been James, but occasionally Robert or Thomas, or even a pretty leaf or rock she found, if the boys were occupied elsewhere.
Beneath the doll lay other treasures—a wooden box filled with colored stones she’d collected from the creek, a book of fairy tales with her name written in careful childish script inside the front cover, and a small blue hair ribbon Mama used to tie in her braids.
But it was the items clearly belonging to her mother that surged tears to her eyes. A pair of white gloves, yellowed now but still soft. A small leather journal with a brass clasp. A glance inside showed its pages filled with her mother’s careful handwriting.
Rose lifted the journal. She’d never seen this before—Mama must have hidden it away, keeping her private thoughts safe from prying eyes. The leather was worn smooth, as though it had been handled often.
She traced the brass clasp with her fingertip. The thought of reading her mother’s words felt both precious and intrusive, as if she were stepping into a sacred space she’d never truly been invited to enter.
“There’s more underneath,” Bea prodded. Maybe she realized reading these might be too much for now.
Rose set the journal aside and reached deeper into the crate.
Her fingers found fabric. Silk, by the feel of it.
She drew out a cream-colored shawl, so fine it was nearly transparent, with delicate blue embroidery along the edges.
The threads had tarnished a little with age, but the pattern of tiny roses and leaves, was still clear, worked in what had once been silver.
“Your mama wore that for special occasions.” Bea’s voice hummed soft with memory. “Lady Balfour gave it to her the Christmas before she died. Said it brought out the color of Margaret’s eyes.”
Rose held the shawl up to the dim light filtering through the small window.
She could almost see her mother in it, could almost remember the way it had floated around her shoulders as she walked.
The silk was so delicate it felt like it might dissolve at her touch.
Yet it had survived all these years in this dusty attic, waiting.
Mama had said so many kind things about Lady Balfour, what a gracious and giving woman she was.
A memory crept in, one she’d long since forgotten about. Mama had mentioned something else she accidentally left at the Balfour ranch during their sudden departure. A treasure she’d longed for, but didn’t dare go back for or even send a letter of inquiry.
Rose glanced at Bea. Would it be all right to ask? Surely so. Bea had been nothing but overwhelmingly kind since Rose returned. “Do you remember a necklace and eardrops my mother also left behind? I believe they were a gift from Lady Balfour too. Rubies, I think.”
Bea’s face grew thoughtful, her dark eyes distant as she reached back through the years. “Rubies…” She pressed her lips together. “I remember them. Beautiful pieces—a necklace with three teardrop stones and matching earbobs. Lady Balfour gave them to your mama for her birthday that last spring.”
Rose’s heart quickened, and heat burned at her eyes. They did exist. The memory wasn’t some fevered dream from childhood.
“But I haven’t seen them since you left, child.
” Bea’s hands smoothed her apron, an act that seemed to be the older woman’s way of thinking through a problem.
“I cleaned your mama’s room myself after you moved away, packed everything I could find.
If they’d been there, they would have gone in this crate with the rest.”
The disappointment settled in Rose’s chest like a stone, though she’d hardly dared hope the jewelry would still be here after all these years. Still, the loss felt fresh, as though she were losing her mother all over again.
Bea tapped her finger against her chin. “I suppose if they were left behind and we didn’t find them, they would still be in your old room.
The one you’re staying in now. Your mama kept her jewelry box on the little table by the window, remember?
Sometimes precious things slip behind furniture and get forgotten when we’re in a hurry.
We can ask the men to move the chest of drawers when they come in tonight so we can do a proper search. ”
Rose nodded, though she couldn’t wait for tonight. She could shift the furniture herself.
After placing her treasures back in the crate, she stood and smiled at Bea. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping it all safe.”
The older woman’s hand settled on her shoulder. “They were always yours, child. I was just the caretaker until you came home.”
Home. That word again, wrapping around her like the silk shawl had wrapped her mother’s shoulders all those years ago.
Yet this wasn’t her home. It couldn’t be.
Vincent had already proven this place was far too close for any lasting safety or peace.
She would stay safe here through the winter, and in spring when the rivers thawed, she might have enough saved for passage east. Surely St. Louis would be far enough from Vincent’s clutches.
She could find work there. She could start over completely. Find a respectable job, perhaps as a music teacher for children of wealthy families. Use her voice for something beautiful again, instead of as bait to keep men drinking and gambling away their decency.
She carried the wooden crate back to her room, her arms trembling a little under its weight—though whether from the physical burden or the emotional one, she couldn’t say.
Her chamber felt different now, full of possibility.
She set the box on the bed and moved to the window where the snow continued its gentle descent.
The flakes were larger now, more persistent, though they still didn’t stick to the ground below.
Her heart clenched for the men working desperately in the fields.
But she had her own task to accomplish.
Finding that necklace and eardrops would give her one more treasure to connect with Mama.
And she would have it as an option to sell if she needed more money on her journey.
She would never dream of taking anything from the Balfour home, but this…
this was her own mother’s belongings that had been lost.
She turned to study the heavy oak chest of drawers against the far wall.
It was an enormous piece, clearly built to last generations, and she could see why Bea thought it might need the men’s strength to move.
But Rose had learned to be resourceful during her years in Virginia City. She’d had to be.
She pushed against one corner of the chest, testing its weight. The frame groaned in protest but shifted a little, revealing a sliver of dusty floor behind it. Her pulse quickened. If something had fallen back there during their hasty departure all those years ago…
Bracing her shoulder against the side of the chest, she pushed harder.
The heavy piece scraped across the wooden floor with a sound that made her wince, but it moved another few inches.
Dust danced in the afternoon light filtering through the window, and she could see more of the space behind the furniture now.
Nothing metal glinted there.
She pushed harder, her muscles straining against the stubborn furniture. The chest scraped another inch across the floor, leaving grooves in the dust. Still nothing but bare wooden planks and accumulated grime.
She wiped her brow with her sleeve. Perhaps the jewelry had never fallen behind the furniture at all. Perhaps Vincent had somehow gotten his hands on it years ago, through means she didn’t want to contemplate. He’d always been resourceful when it came to acquiring things of value.
But she couldn’t give up. Not yet.
With a final straining push, she managed to shift the chest far enough to reveal the entire space behind it. Her heart sank as she stared at the empty floor, marked only by the rectangular outline where the furniture had stood for years.
No glint of ruby. No jewelry box that might have slipped into the shadows. Just dust and disappointment.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, her body drooping with exhaustion that had little to do with moving furniture.
Of course the necklace wasn’t there. Nothing in her life had ever been that simple, that easy.
She’d been foolish to hope that something so valuable would simply be waiting for her after all these years.
Vincent had probably claimed it long ago, adding it to his collection of things that had once belonged to her mother.
She glanced at the wooden crate beside her, its contents now feeling even more precious.
At least she had these memories, these tangible pieces of the life she’d shared with Mama before everything changed.
The wooden doll gazed up at her with painted eyes that seemed to hold all the innocence she’d lost.
She may not be innocent anymore, but at least she had a plan. She’d escaped from Vincent, and by this time next year, she’d be in St. Louis.
Living her new life. A life she would finally have control over.