The Yellow Rose Read online

  Brodie shook his head mournfully. “Well, Ma’s right, but Clinton is peskier than chiggers. As a matter of fact, I’d take the chiggers any time over his blasted preachin’!”

  Clay walked down toward the river and found Clinton there, as he had suspected. Clinton was fishing, which he did with every free moment he had. Clay came up and sat down beside him.

  “Caught anything?”

  “No.”

  Clinton’s answer was terse, but Clay ignored it. “You know, I’ve been thinkin’, when this shootin’ war with the Mexicans is over, you and me might make a trip to the mountains where your pa and me used to trap. You’ve never seen the high country, have you, Clint?”

  “No, I never have.” Clinton relaxed slightly. All the rest of the family was irritated with him, but Clinton could not seem to help being what he was. Clay Taliferro, however, was different. It had been Clay who had come back from the mountains and stayed until, at Jerusalem Ann’s request, he had led them to Texas in search of Jake Hardin. Clay had become such a part of the life of the Hardins that when strangers came by, they almost automatically assumed that Clay was Jerusalem Ann’s husband. Clinton sat there listening as Clay spoke softly for a long time about the things that they might do in the mountains. He finally said, “I know I’m a pain in the neck, Clay—but I can’t help it!”

  Clay smiled and, doubling up his fist, struck Clinton fondly on the shoulder. “Don’t fret yourself, Clint—they’s a whole tomorrow out there that ain’t even been touched yet!”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Looking up from the dress that she was mending, Jerusalem fixed her eyes on the approaching rider and then smiled. “Look, Mary Aidan, there comes your gentleman friend.”

  Mary Aidan was sitting flat on the porch with her legs stretched out in front of her. She was wearing an old shirt of Brodie’s that came down halfway to her knees and had been cut off at the elbows. Her red hair, fine as gossamer, caught the afternoon sunlight, and she jumped up at once and ran down the steps. “Rice,” she cried. “Rice!”

  Rice Morgan stepped out of the saddle, patted the gray on the shoulder, and then draped the lines over a sapling that had been tied across two posts to make a hitching post. He turned quickly, and a smile lit up his face as Mary Aidan ran straight toward him. He caught her under the arms and tossed her high in the air and laughed as she squealed. Rice squeezed the child and gave her a kiss on the cheek, saying, “How’s my best girlfriend?”

  “Rice—play with me!”

  “All right. I don’t have a thing in the world to do but to play with pretty girls.” He carried her up the steps and took his hat off and tossed it on the floor, then sat down flat as he said, “Hello, Jerusalem.”

  “Hello, Rice.” Jerusalem took in the figure of the man who sat there. Rice Morgan’s actual name was spelled R-h-y-s when he had lived in Wales, but everybody thought it was Rice, so that was what he had become. He was a trim man of five feet ten, well-built, with a deep chest and strong muscled arms. Years of hard work in the coal mines in Wales had formed his upper body, and he was stronger than most. He had jet black hair, direct gray eyes, and when he smiled, two creases appeared on each side of his mouth. He was a neatly handsome man but seemed to have no knowledge of the fact. He also had the fastest reflexes of any man that Jerusalem had ever seen. She had seen him sparring with the young men, and he had merely laughed as he pulled his head out of the way of their blows and softened his own. She knew that he had done some prize fighting in Wales, although he rarely spoke of that.

  “This is my baby. Her name is Abigail,” Mary Aidan said, holding up the rag doll that Jerusalem had made for her. “You be the pa, and I’ll be the ma, and she’ll be our baby.”

  “I think that’s a good arrangement.” Rice nodded. “We’ll pretend that I’ve just come home from work and am playing with Abigail.”

  Jerusalem put her sewing down in her lap and sat there quietly watching the gray-eyed man play with the red-haired girl. There was something pleasing to her about the way Rice could adapt himself to the world of a four-year-old. She did not know many men who could do it, and of her own children, only Brodie could unbend at times to play with his younger sister.

  Julie stepped out of the house and came over to sit down in a cane-bottom chair. “Hello, Rice,” she said. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I’m not Rice. I’m Pa. This is Ma, and this is Abigail.”

  Julie smiled. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I made a mistake.”

  The two women sat quietly and saw that Rice Morgan had no embarrassment at all about sitting down on the porch and playing with the child. Jerusalem never remembered a time when Jake sat down and played with the children like this. He had taken the boys hunting on occasion, but never had he known how to reach out to Moriah.

  The game went on for quite a while, and finally Mary Aidan crawled up into Rice’s lap and asked him to sing for her. He had a fine tenor voice and sang one of the well-known ballads from the old country. Mary Aidan was tired, and soon she put her head against his chest and went sound to sleep.

  “I declare, that child is worn out,” Jerusalem said. “Put her up here. I’ll hold her, Rice.”

  “She’s all right where she is.”

  “You’re good with children,” Julie observed. “That’s a rare thing in most men.”

  “Well, devil throw smoke! Why wouldn’t I be good? Didn’t I raise my own four brothers and sisters?”

  “You raised them? What about your parents?” Jerusalem inquired.

  “My pa, he got killed in the coal mine when I was only thirteen, so it was up to me to step in and help.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “Sickly she was most of the time, and so I had to learn to do women’s work as well.”

  “Most men wouldn’t have done that,” Julie said.

  “Well, there is dull you are, Julie Satterfield! A man does what’s to be done when it comes to family,” Rice said as he stroked Mary Aidan’s hair gently.

  Both women noticed how his hands were almost square and looked very strong. There was an old scar on one of them, and Julie said, “How’d you get that scar?”

  “Foolishness.”

  “I’m surprised you were ever foolish, Rice. You’re so proper now.”

  Rice grinned at her. “Go and scratch. I’ve had my share of foolishness like all men. Where is everyone?” he said, looking around.

  “Clay’s fishing with Clinton down at the river, and Brodie’s gone to make a fool of himself over a girl.”

  “Well, I will go to my death,” he said. “Brodie is a fine boy. He’ll not make a fool of himself over a skirt.”

  “That’s what you think.” Julie grinned. “You don’t know near as much about women as you think you do, Rice Morgan.”

  “Saying nothing against him, I was. But he’s a fine broth of a boy. He’s got more sense than to go wild over a female.”

  Both Jerusalem and Julie broke forth into laughter.

  His feelings slightly hurt, Rice stared at them. “Well, why are you laughing? Am I a rat with green teeth, then?”

  “Rice, the only person who knows less about women than you do is Clay Taliferro,” Jerusalem said. She shook her head in dismay and said, “You’d better stick to your preaching and leave women alone.” Getting to her feet, Jerusalem reached over and picked up Mary Aidan. “I’m going to put her down for a nap. She sleeps like Bob. I’m afraid she’s died sometimes.” She left and went into the house.

  For a moment there was silence between Rice and Julie. Finally, Julie said, “Rice, I think you’d better warn Brodie about Serena.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Julie was examining a slight cut on her thumb. She did not answer for a moment, but when she looked up, there was a strange expression in her eyes. “Because she’s like me.”

  “Like you in what way?”

  “She’s got it in her to be a bad woman.”

 
“Oh, there is dull you are! All of us have meanness in us.”

  “No, it’s different,” Julie said. “Look at Jerusalem and me. Did you ever see any two women more different? She’s good and I’m bad.”

  Rice ran his hand through his black hair. A lock of it fell down over his forehead, but he paid no attention. “I don’t agree with you about yourself. We can be what we please, Julie. You’ve got something in you that’s good.”

  “Jerusalem was right. You’re a fool about women.” Julie might have said more, but then Zane Satterfield stepped out of the house, accompanied by Jerusalem.

  “Hello, Rice. You have any news?”

  Rice got to his feet and picked up his hat. He held it, tapping it against his leg, and shook his head. “Santa Anna is on the march toward here.

  Everybody’s running like rabbits.”

  “You can’t blame them after what happened at Goliad,” Zane said.

  “Santa Anna turns those soldiers loose, nobody will be safe. What about Sam Houston?”

  “The word is,” Rice said, “that he’s gathering men to make a fight of it. As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to join him.”

  “You’re going to join the army!” Julie exclaimed, staring hard at him. “How can a preacher be a soldier?”

  Rice looked embarrassed. “I guess I’ll have to put my preaching aside. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself unless I did what I could to help make this land fit to live in.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Zane said. “Both of us might as well be fools.” He turned and looked toward the river and said, “I don’t know about Clay, if he’s able to go.”

  Clinton and Clay had appeared down the path that led to the house. Clinton was carrying a string with some large catfish on it, and when he came closer, he held them up and said, “Look here. We caught some big ones. Ma, let’s have fish for supper.”

  Jerusalem smiled. “All right, but you’ll have to clean ’em. I purely hate to clean catfish.”

  The meal had been so good that Clay had pronounced it a sockdolager and had gotten no argument from anyone. Julie and Jerusalem and Moriah had ganged up on the cooking and fried up not only a mountain of fresh catfish but also prepared the rabbits along with fried potatoes, hush puppies, and a huge platter full of wild green onions that flavored the meal.

  Clinton had not said anything to Moriah about preaching to her, but once during the meal he said, “I know how much you like fish, Moriah. I caught these just for you.”

  Moriah smiled. She loved her brother when he was not throwing one of his religious tantrums and reached over and squeezed his arm. “I sure appreciate it, Clinton. You’re the best fisherman in Texas.”

  The talk soon turned to the upcoming battle with Santa Anna and his well-trained troops, and how Rice and Zane were going to join the fighting. The conversation had not gone far before Brodie, who’d said almost nothing since returning to the house from his visit, declared loudly, “I’m going with you two.”

  “Son, you don’t need to be running off to fight,” Jerusalem said, but she saw that Brodie’s face was set in a determined expression. That girl is giving him a hard time, and he’s going to show her what a fine man he is. But there’s no point to tell him that. “Just stay around a while longer. You’ll have plenty of chance to fight.”

  “No, Ma, I don’t mean to disrespect you, but I need to go with Zane and Rice.”

  Everyone at the table, with the exception of Mary Aidan, knew exactly what was happening. Brodie, at the age of nineteen, was physically tough, but emotionally he was overly sensitive—especially where Serena was concerned.

  Clay had said little during the meal, but he saw the stubborn streak that held Brodie and decided to wait until after dinner to say anything.

  Jerusalem had gone out on the porch, where a breeze was blowing, to churn butter. Clinton had stayed inside to help clean up. As Clay sat down and watched Jerusalem churn, he was aware that she was the one woman in his life that he felt most comfortable around—at times. At other times she had a way of making him feel totally out of step and embarrassed, and he could not say why. He had said once to Rice, “That woman can pin me to the wall with just a look!”

  “I’m worried about Clinton,” Jerusalem said. “His religion is too harsh.”

  “He’s got a good heart. He’s just caught up in something that’s real to him. Give him some time. He’ll change.”

  “I hope you’re right, Clay. I know there’s such a thing as judgment, but I’ve known some Christians who were so hard that you could strike a match on them.”

  Clay did not respond. He sat there quietly, trying to think of some way to speak of what was in his heart. The trouble was he didn’t know what was in his heart. He only knew that this woman stirred him in a way that no woman ever had.

  “Have you seen the way Rice looks at Julie?” Jerusalem asked abruptly.

  “Why, I don’t reckon I have.”

  Jerusalem shook her head in disgust. “You can see further than any man that I’ve ever known with your eyes, but you can’t see what’s right in front of you. He’s fallen in love with her. That’s what he’s done.”

  “But he’s a preacher, and she’s—” Suddenly, Clay found himself in over his head. He had started to say, “She’s a scarlet woman,” or something of that nature, but he found he couldn’t say that to Jerusalem. He added lamely, “Well, she’s pretty wild, Jerusalem. It would never work.”

  Jerusalem was not satisfied with Clay’s response. “I don’t think you know any more about women than he does.”

  “Than who does?”

  “Who were we talkin’ about? Rice Morgan. He wouldn’t be the first preacher to get his head turned by a pretty face.”

  Clay chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. He put his finger on the scar beside his mouth, something he often did when he was nervous, and said, “Well, to tell the truth, I have noticed that Rice looks at Julie from time to time.”

  “Oh, you have!”

  “Yes, and he has no business doin’ it.”

  Suddenly, Jerusalem stopped churning. She half turned and faced Clay. He was caught by her motion and found something in her eyes that disturbed him.

  “How have you been looking at me, Clay Taliferro?”

  Clay flushed, knowing that he was doing exactly what angered and embarrassed him. He could not think of a single reply.

  Jerusalem laughed a good hearty laugh and said, “Did you think I didn’t know you’re looking at me the same way?”

  Clay dropped his head for a time, unable to meet her gaze. After a moment, he looked up and shrugged, trying to speak as nonchalantly as possible. “Well, I guess I knew it, but I thought no matter as long as nobody said anything.”

  “Clay, go away! You are the champion dummy where women are concerned!”

  Inside, while Jerusalem and Clay were talking, Julie said, “I’m going out to the garden, Rice.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Rice said. He followed her out the back door, and she picked up a hoe. “I’ll do that,” he said, taking it from her. He went down to the garden and began to hoe for a time. He started to speak of what was going to happen when the war was over, and Julie suddenly interrupted him.

  “Don’t get serious about me, Rice.”

  Surprised, Rice turned to face her. He held the hoe in both hands, resting it on the ground, and studied her. She was not just beautiful on the outside, which everyone saw. He saw something that others did not, something deep inside her, which drew him. He could not define it even to himself, and finally he said, “Why not? You must know I’m beginning to care for you.”

  “I’m a bad woman, and you’re a good man. People are what they are, and nothing can change it.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that, Julie. We can choose. We can be different if we want to.”

  “I wish I could care for you, Rice, but when two people come together, a man and a woman, one of them may drag the other one down.

  I don
’t want to be the one who drags you down. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known, but you don’t know me.”

  Rice stood there for a moment, and then he shook his head. “You’re wrong, Julie. Each one can help the other choose to be better. I’m going to fight with Houston, but I’ll be back.” He looked over toward the house and said, “I hope Jerusalem will leave the ranch. It won’t be safe here.”

  Julie felt weary. These talks with Rice always seemed to drag her energy down and cause her to think on things she’d rather not have to confront about herself. “She won’t do that. She loves this place, and she’s stubborn.”

  Lucita Lebonne looked up and saw Brodie Hardin approaching. She stood beside the house, holding the clothes that she had hung out to dry, and waited until he dismounted. She was thirty-four now, pure Spanish, and still beautiful, with glossy black hair and warm brown eyes. She had lost her husband to sickness, and it had been the Hardin family who had kept her and her two children, Mateo and Serena, from abject poverty. Jerusalem and Clay Taliferro had brought her from the shack, where her husband had spent his last days, and seen to it that she got a land grant from Stephen Austin. Clay Taliferro had been her husband’s friend in the old days, and he had been kind to her, helping her after her husband had died.

  “Buenos días,” Lucita said. “How are you, Brodie?”

  “I am fine,” Brodie said. He stepped off his horse and removed his hat, the breeze ruffling his hair. He looked very young, but he was tall and lean and strong.

  “How is all your family?”

  “Well, I guess they’re kind of scared like everybody else. I reckon Santa Anna will be here pretty soon with his army.”

  “Will your people leave, do you think?”

  “I don’t reckon anybody could make Ma leave.” Brodie smiled. “She’s as stubborn as a blue-nosed mule.”