RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Ninety-Three
October 5, 1917
Jack and Rose sat on a bench looking out over
the main street of town, eating their lunch. It had been a long, cold night in
the small, unheated room, but they had kept each other warm, finally awakening
refreshed at mid-morning.
After they had gotten up, Jack had shown Rose
around the town where he had grown up, showing her the schools he had attended,
the stores where his mother had shopped, and even the bar where he and his
friends talked the bartender into selling them beer when they were barely twelve.
Rose had laughed at the stories, recognizing his carefree spirit even at such
an early age.
At noon, they had stopped at the market and
bought food for lunch, then carried it to an out-of-the-way bench overlooking
the main street of town. Jack’s walking stick had thumped as they walked along,
though the rest and the simple pleasure of showing Rose around his hometown had
lightened his step considerably.
Now, Rose leaned closer to him, nibbling on
her food. Laughing, Jack put an arm around her shoulders and leaned back, watching
the people on the street and pointing out those he knew. A few had done a
double take upon seeing him after so many years, and a few had come up to talk
to him, but he was really no longer a part of this town.
"I guess it’s true when they say you can’t
go home again," Rose murmured, leaning against him.
"What do you mean?"
"You can visit the same place, but it
isn’t the same. Maybe the place has changed, or you have, but it’s never quite
the same as when you left. You see things differently, and people see you in a
different light, too. Sometimes, it seems like they’ve changed a lot from when
you left, but maybe it’s just that you’ve seen something new and gotten a
different perspective of the world. It makes you different, and people see
that."
Jack nodded, understanding. He had thought
about the same thing himself, but in a different way. There had been changes in
the town since he had left ten years earlier, but it had still seemed the same
small, tightly-knit community he had grown up in. Outsiders were suspect, and
often unwelcome. It even seemed—dare he think it—more judgmental than he
remembered, people expecting a certain level of conformity and ostracizing
those who did not fit in. He had never really noticed this as a child growing
up, but after ten years away, after seeing more of the world than most of those
he had grown up with ever would, he saw things that had not been visible before—the
staid, self-assured people, confident that their way was right and just—people
equally narrow-minded with the society Rose had left behind.
The world was changing, but many people never
looked far enough outside themselves to see what was happening. They had their
own lives and cares to think about, and the outside world’s changes were of
little concern until the consequences hit them head-on—as the war they were now
fighting had. It was true that a person couldn’t go back to what they knew
before, because it no longer existed—and maybe never had.
Rose looked up then, gazing at him
questioningly. "Jack...yesterday, when we visited your parents’ graves,
you said something about realizing that they don’t blame you for knocking over
that lamp. What happened?"
He sighed, leaning back against the bench. He
had never told this story to anyone before—but Rose needed to know. There could
be no secrets between them.
"It was an October evening in 1907. It
was getting cold by that time, so we were working inside as much as we could.
Out there on the farm, we didn’t have any of those things like electric lights
or running water. So we still had kerosene lamps." He paused, then went
on. "Pa was mending a harness. I guess we could have had that done in
town, but it was easier to just do it ourselves. I was helping him—sort of. I
wasn’t very good at it. At any rate, I picked up one end to stretch it out so
we could see how much work would be needed—and I accidentally hit the kerosene
lamp with my elbow. I was all arms and legs back then, like any boy that age,
and a little clumsy to go with it. The lamp was heavy, but I was being
careless, and hit it just hard enough to knock it off the table. The glass
shattered, with flaming kerosene flying everywhere. Everything—all of Ma’s
embroidered cushions, the few books on a shelf, the tinder by the fireplace—it
all went up immediately. Worst of all, some of the kerosene landed on Pa, and
his clothes just went up in flames. Ma could have gotten out—she was in the
kitchen washing the dishes—but instead she ran to Pa and tried to help him.
There wasn’t anything she could do, but she wouldn’t stop. Ma and Pa—they would
do anything for each other. That was the kind of relationship they had. Anyway,
her skirt caught fire, and as I tried to help them, she screamed at me to run
and get help from the neighbors. By that time, the house was in flames. I was
lucky to escape without injury. The next house was a quarter-mile away...I
think I ran that quarter-mile in less than a minute. The neighbors ran back
with me, but by then it was too late. Ma had managed to get Pa out of the house,
but they were both so badly burned that there was nothing anyone could do. I
ran to them, even though someone tried to hold me back, and just begged them to
be all right, to not die. When I said I was sorry for knocking the lamp over,
Pa told me that he didn’t blame me for it, that it was an accident that could
have happened to anyone. And that was when he died, and Ma with him. Two weeks
later, I left Chippewa Falls. I always remembered Pa’s words, but I could never
believe them—until now."
His eyes overflowed as Rose put her arms
around him, holding him close. "Sorry," he mumbled, quickly wiping
his eyes.
"Don’t be. I’ve cried my share of tears
over past griefs, too. Sometimes you have to in order to get past them, as
though tears were cleansing."
"Maybe they are."
They sat together, arms wrapped around each
other, for a few minutes more before standing to go back to the hotel.
*****
As they were about to enter the hotel, a man
with a briefcase and a stack of papers in his hand rose from his place outside
the door and walked over to them.
"Mrs. Dawson?" he asked, looking at
Rose.
Automatically, Rose turned to him, wondering
how he knew her name. She stiffened, suddenly wondering if another part of her
past best left forgotten was about to be revealed. The man looked oddly
familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him.
"Mrs. Dawson, I’m Gary Jennings,
assistant to Paul Brinkley, Esther Henke’s lawyer."
Rose was immediately alert. What could anyone
possibly want with her here? Esther was dead, and so was her grandson. Rose had
had no part in those deaths, and she had taken only her own belongings from the
ranch when she left. What if someone were blaming her for Guillermo’s death, or
Esther’s?
Jack felt Rose tense beside him, her eyes
darting about nervously as she looked for an escape. What did she think she’d
done? Why was this assistant lawyer here in Chippewa Falls?
"I would like to speak with you in
private, Mrs. Dawson, if I may."
Rose stared at him, her eyes wide and
terrified. Someone else from her past had tracked her down—but how? And for
what purpose?
As she tensed, ready to run, she felt Jack’s
staying hand on her shoulder. She calmed slightly, remembering her promise not
to run anymore. But could she keep it?
"Go ahead, Rose," Jack told her.
"There’s a café across the street where you can talk." He looked at
her significantly. "I’ll wait for you upstairs."
Rose nodded, understanding what he meant. He
would wait to see if she came back, or if she ran again. At that moment, she
honestly couldn’t say which she intended.
"All right," she told him, kissing
him quickly. Taking a deep breath, she followed Jennings across the street.
Jack watched her go, leaning on walking
stick. He honestly didn’t know if she would come back. He could only hope that
she would find the strength to honor her promise not to run anymore.
*****
Rose walked into the café behind Jennings. He
looked at the waitress, indicating that he wanted a corner table. When they
were seated with cups of coffee before them, he set the papers on the table.
Putting on his glasses, he began, "As
you know, Esther Henke died of cancer late in January of this year, and her
grandson, William ‘Guillermo’ Henke, died in an airplane crash in the Mexico
desert."
Rose nodded shakily, sipping her coffee.
"We were shot down by bandits." Was this what he wanted to talk to
her about? Was she blamed for Guillermo’s death? Her hands trembled as she
lifted the cup again, clutching it as though it would keep her from running.
"Mr. Brinkley tried to approach you in Aguanga,
but you left town without speaking to him or leaving an address. Recently, a
story was published in the newspaper about you. It seems that you killed a
notorious bandit in the desert and were the recipient of a sizable award."
Rose set down her cup, wiping her damp palms
on her skirt. Was this what this visit was about? Did the remaining family
members want the money she had received? They could have it. She didn’t want
it. She never had. If it enough to compensate for Guillermo’s death, she would
be glad to hand it over.
"They can have the money," she told
the man, picking up the cup again. "Every cent of it, if they think it
will help."
"You mean the Henke family?"
"Yes."
"There’s only a few members left, all of
whom are comfortably situated. They have no interest in your reward."
Rose’s mind raced. What could they want,
then? She had left Esther in good hands, and Guillermo’s death was the fault of
the bandits, not her. Was she to be arrested for a crime she didn’t commit?
"What do they want, then?" She slid
her chair back, ready to flee.
"Mrs. Henke changed her will before she
died. In it, she stipulated that if her grandson was not found, or if he did
not accept responsibility for his inheritance, then her entire estate was to go
to you, Rose Calvert, now Dawson, the granddaughter of her heart, who cared
when no one else did."
Rose just stared at him in shock for a
moment, his words slowly sinking in. Esther had willed the ranch to her? The
open, beautiful land that she had come to love was hers now.
Then his other words sunk in. "The
granddaughter of her heart?"
He nodded. "Few of her family members
visited in her later years, as I’m sure you’re aware. She struggled to care for
the house and run the ranch alone, even in her declining years. Then you came
along and helped her more than her children or grandchildren ever had. It was
to have gone to a family member—Guillermo—but if he did not claim it, she
wanted someone who loved and cared about the place as much as she did to have
it. The ranch had been in her family’s hands since the 1790’s, and she wanted
the new owner to be someone who knew and respected its history. So she chose
you."
Rose was overwhelmed. She dabbed at her eyes
with a napkin, remembering the old woman who had been like a mother to her in
the time she had lived with her. Rose had never asked for anything from her,
save knowledge—but Esther had known how much she loved the ranch, and had
willed it to her.
"I...I don’t know what to say," she
gasped, wiping streaming eyes with the napkin. "She knew...that was one of
the few places I could ever call home."
"And it’s yours, now." He handed
her a handkerchief.
Rose sniffed and wiped her eyes.
"Esther..." she whispered. She handed the handkerchief back to
Jennings. "Thank you. Thank you so much," she told him. "I never
imagined this." She paused, still curious about one thing. "How did
you find me here?"
"The newspaper article said you were a
guest of the Hockleys in Philadelphia. I sent a telegram, trying to contact you
and explain the situation...and a Ruth Hockley informed me that you had left
for Chippewa Falls. That was four days ago. I just arrived today, and was lucky
enough to find you at the hotel."
Rose shook her head, trying to understand the
strange twists and turns that life gave them, and then smiled at the man,
reaching out to shake his hand.
*****
It was late afternoon when Rose returned to
the hotel, a folder holding the necessary papers in her hand. There were a few
people in the lobby, but she swept past them, climbing the stairs to the tiny
room she shared with Jack.
He was there waiting. Standing at the window,
looking out at the street below, his shoulders were hunched, as though there
were a great weight on them. As she closed the door, he turned, his eyes searching
hers.
"You came back."
"Yes. Jack, I..."
"I was afraid you wouldn’t."
"I didn’t run this time, Jack. Even when
I wanted to, I remembered the promise that I made. To break that promise would
destroy what we’ve built together. How can there be love and trust between us,
if I run every time I fear something?"
"You did before."
"Not this time. I’m staying—because I
want to."
His face softened then, the worried look
leaving his eyes. Abruptly, he pulled her close, hugging her so hard she thought
her ribs might crack.
They kissed, renewing the promise they had
made to stand beside one another for a lifetime.
"I didn’t run this time, Jack—and I
never will again."