Chapter Two

Charles offered Rosiehis arm as they began the trek to his homestead. The path wound through groves of trees. Rosie's wide eyes roamed over the landscape, drinking in the sight of distant mountains. She marveled at the wildflowers that seemed to welcome her to this new life.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Charles asked, his voice betraying a hint of pride.

"Oh, yes," Rosie replied. "I hope I never look around me and take the scenery for granted."

Charles chuckled, a sound that seemed out of place. "If it ever seems like you are, I'll find a stick and poke you with it."

Rosie couldn't help but giggle. It sounded like something her mother would have said, and as much as she missed her mother, it felt good to be reminded. So good.

As they crested the final rise, the homestead came into view. It was a sturdy structure that looked as if it could survive harsh winters and blistering summers. But as they approached, Rosie saw that the house had been neglected. Dust stained the windows, and cobwebs clung to the eaves like tattered lace.

"Here we are," Charles said, gesturing toward the house with a sweep of his hand.

Rosie stepped inside and was greeted by a kitchen that seemed to have been abandoned mid-meal and left to the mercy of time. A fine layer of dust coated every surface, and pots and pans lay scattered, bearing the crusty remnants of meals long past. The entire kitchen smelled sour.

"Seems I've got my work cut out for me," Rosie said, rolling up her sleeves. She was thrilled to know she was needed. "Can't start supper with the kitchen in this state."

"Apologies," Charles murmured. "It's been some time since anyone took care of the place."

"Then it's high time someone did," Rosie replied with a smile.

She filled a bucket with water drawn from the pump outside. She was no stranger to housework, and though she'd rather bake any day, she was happy to have a purpose here. As she scrubbed at the grime, the soapy water turned murky with neglect. The task was arduous, but Rosie found satisfaction in the way the room slowly transformed under her care. Here, at least, she could make a difference.

"Looks like you've done this before," Charles observed from the doorway.

"Many times," Rosie said, dipping a rag into the bucket. "Though I confess, I never imagined doing so in my own home."

"Your home," Charles repeated softly. "It's growing late, and I'm getting hungry."

Rosie knew Ana would have told him that supper would have long since been over if the kitchen had been clean, but she wasn't her sister. "I'll get it as soon as the kitchen is clean enough to cook in. Is there a restaurant in town you could go to, and I'll just make myself something when I'm done?"

Charles sighed. "You're here so I don't have to eat at the diner so much."

Rosie sat back on her heels. "The way I see it, you have two choices. You can wait until I'm finished and can cook for you, or you can go to the restaurant."

"I'll wait."

With each swipe of her cloth, Rosie uncovered more of the kitchen's potential, imagining the meals she'd prepare and the warmth she'd infuse into this space. She so loved it when the house smelled like something had just been baked.

"Better?" she asked, standing back to survey her handiwork.

"Much," Charles agreed.

"Supper won't be grand tonight," Rosie warned, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "But it'll be made with care."

"That's all I can ask for," said Charles, his gaze lingering on her longer than necessary before retreating back to the safety of distance. He'd married a very beautiful woman...again. Why hadn't he specified an ugly woman in his letter?

Rosie cracked the last egg into the sizzling skillet, the rich aroma of frying bacon mingling with the smell of cleanser still lingering in the air. She had found the larder nearly barren, save for these few staples. Staring at the cast-iron pan, she wished for bread to sop up the yolks, but there was none to be had.

"Supper's almost ready," she called over her shoulder, feeling a curious blend of domesticity and independence.

Charles sat at the head of the rough-hewn table, his chair creaking as he leaned back, watching her with an intensity that made her hands fumble with the spatula. "It smells good," he said, his deep voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation that warmed Rosie more than the heat from the stove.

"Thank you," she replied, her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow. She plated the food with care, setting down the heavy dishes with a clatter that seemed too loud in the quiet space between them.

As they began to eat, Charles cleared his throat, a sure sign he was about to impart something of importance. "I reckon I should tell you more about what keeps me busy," he started, piercing a piece of bacon with his fork. "I got a large herd of cattle, which means most of my time is spent out on the range."

Rosie nodded, silently urging him to continue as she took a careful bite of her egg.

"And besides that," he continued with a smile, "I have the town business to attend to." It was only the second time she'd seen him smile, and it made Rosie's heart flutter. "That's why I have five ranch hands to help out. You needn't worry about them. They tend to their own meals."

"That's a relief," Rosie said. Her mind raced with visions of town functions and political gatherings.

As they ate, Rosie found herself studying the lines of his face, the stern set of his jaw that softened when he spoke of his work, the subtle furrow of concentration between his brows. He was a man of many layers, she decided.

"Busy as I am," Charles said, breaking into her thoughts, "it's crucial to have someone looking after the homestead. Someone who understands the value of hard work and...companionship."

"Companionship," Rosie repeated, letting the word roll off her tongue as she contemplated its implications. She would stand by this man and share in his public life.

As Rosie was doing dishes, Charles walked into the kitchen to speak with her. "Rosie," Charles began. She turned, drying her hands on the apron tied around her waist, and found him leaning against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

"Yes, Mr. Jordan?" she responded, noting how the shadows played across his rugged features.

"Please, call me Charles," he corrected gently, then cleared his throat. "I think it's time we lay our cards on the table."

"Of course, Charles." Rosie's heart picked up its pace, not from exertion but from the intensity gathering in his steel-blue eyes.

"I sent for you with a clear purpose in mind," he continued, his words deliberate. "I'm not looking for roses and romance, Rosie. I need someone to stand beside me at town functions, to keep my house, cook meals...someone who understands the value of partnership without the entanglement of love."

"Entanglement," she asked, wondering who had hurt him so much.

"Indeed." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the wall where a portrait hung—a woman with kind eyes and a soft smile. "My late wife, Margaret. She passed on a few years ago. It left a void, one that can't be filled nor should anyone try. What I am offering is a practical arrangement, nothing more."

Rosie felt a pang in her chest, a twinge of empathy for the man before her. She saw the subtle tremble in his hand as it brushed the back of the chair, a sign of vulnerability he quickly masked.

"Charles," she said, her voice steady, "I believe you loved your wife deeply. To live without her..." She trailed off.

"More than I can bear," he admitted in a whisper so faint, it was almost carried away by the wind that whistled through the cracks of the old homestead.

Rosie nodded, feeling an unexpected kinship with this stoic man. She respected his honesty, the raw edge of his sorrow that he worked so diligently to keep sheathed. They were both seeking something in this arrangement.

"Understood, Charles. You have my word—I'm here to help, not to replace."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting moment of gratitude that softened the hard lines of his face. "Thank you, Rosie. That means more to me than you might realize."

And Rosie was content. She would be married to a man who would be her lifelong companion, and she would do everything she could to make him happy. There was no need for love, though she was certain it would come. With time.

Rosie followed Charles, an oil lamp clasped in his hand lighting their way. They arrived at a door, slightly ajar, its paint chipped and bearing evidence of many years of use. He pushed it open with a gentle nudge of his elbow and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

"Your room," he said simply, gesturing into the modest space.

"Thank you, Charles," Rosie replied, crossing the threshold to survey her new sanctuary. A brass bedstead stood against one wall with its covers rumpled. A sense of purpose surged within her as she imagined transforming this neglected chamber into a haven of comfort. The only thing missing was her sisters.

Charles lingered awkwardly in the doorway, the lines of his face etched with the day's fatigue. "I'll leave you to settle in. Goodnight, Rosie."

"Goodnight." Her voice was soft but carried the steel of her resolve. She did not mind the separation of their rooms. One day they would be together, she was certain, but for now, she understood Charles still loved his first wife.

As his footsteps retreated down the hall, Rosie closed the door and exhaled, her breath mingling with the stale air of the room. With determined strides, she moved to the bed, stripping away the dusty linens with brisk efficiency. Underneath, the mattress bore the imprint of time but promised rest for weary bones.

Once satisfied with the bedroom's improved state, Rosie ventured into Charles's room. The sight of his dwelling tugged at her heartstrings—a stark realm devoid of feminine touch. She worked silently, methodically, her hands smoothing out creases on his bedspread, erasing remnants of solitude that clung stubbornly to the fabric.

Fluffing a pillow, a chuckle escaped her lips, acknowledging the absurdity of her situation—here she was, Rosabelle Winslow Jordan, a mail-order bride playing housemaid in a stranger's home. Yet the act of cleaning, of bringing order to chaos, filled her with a sense of accomplishment, of belonging.

Rosie tiptoed through the shadowed parlor, her heart thumping gently with the newness of the house at night. The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the window, casting a silver hue over the furniture that Charles had likely chosen with his late wife.

"Charles?" Her voice was a whisper, half-hoping he'd already surrendered to slumber. There was no answer, only the silent affirmation that the man had retreated to the solitude of his own room. She was surprised they hadn't passed one another in the hall. Perhaps he'd just gone to the outhouse? A curious blend of relief and disappointment fluttered in her chest. She had wanted to bid him goodnight.

With Charles's absence noted, Rosie's attention turned to the business of getting clean. The kitchen, with its rough-hewn counters and the lingering scents of their simple supper, offered sanctuary. She spied the bathtub tucked away under the workbench—a humble basin, hardly fit for luxury, but promising the comfort of warmth against her skin.

Water sloshed as she poured bucket after bucket, steam rising and mingling with the cool air of the kitchen. She undressed with an efficiency born of necessity, leaving her garments folded neatly on the chair beside the stove. Slipping into the hot embrace of the bath, Rosie closed her eyes and exhaled, the heat seeping into her weary bones.

It was during this moment of blissful solitude that the door creaked open. Charles stood there, framed by the doorway, his features sharpening as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His breath caught at the sight before him—Rosie, with her fair skin, hair piled atop her head in a loose knot.

"Rosabelle," he began, the name tumbling out in a hushed reverence he hadn't intended.

"Charles!" Rosie's eyes snapped open, her hands instinctively reaching for the water's surface to preserve her modesty. "I—I thought you were asleep."

"Apologies, I—" He stumbled back, color rising to his cheeks. The image of her, so serene, so unexpectedly enchanting, seared itself into his mind. It wasn't what he had envisioned when he requested a bride. Yet here she was, defying his plans with her unadorned beauty, stirring something within him that felt perilously close to longing.

"Goodnight, Rosie." His words were clipped, a feeble attempt to regain composure as he retreated hastily to his room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

The silence settled once more, leaving Rosie blinking against the stark contrast of the warm water and the sudden chill of isolation. She let out a shaky laugh, finding humor in the absurdity of it all—their mutual surprise, the unspoken tension, the dance of propriety they both seemed eager to maintain.

"Goodnight, Charles," she whispered to the empty space, a smile playing on her lips. With a gentle sigh, Rosie submerged herself once more, allowing the water to wash away the embarrassment.

Under the heavy quilt, Charles shifted restlessly, his body tense as he tried to find a comfortable position. The mattress creaked under his weight. Each time he closed his eyes, the vision of Rosie bathed in the warm glow of the kitchen lantern flashed across his mind.

"Damnation," he muttered under his breath, turning onto his side with a huff. He was supposed to have married a plain woman, one who wouldn't stir these relentless yearnings. He had chosen practicality over passion, responsibility over romance. Yet, here she was, Rosie, inadvertently unraveling all his well-laid plans with her quiet grace.

He wanted to touch her, to know the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, but such thoughts were treachery against his late wife's memory. He clenched his jaw, frustration mounting. Why couldn't Rosie have been plain? It would have made everything simpler, and easier to bear.

But she wasn't, and as the night dragged on, Charles found no reprieve from his desires. But if he only knew one thing about life, he knew that he couldn't allow another woman to know he desired her. He wouldn't go through that again.

"Confound it all," he whispered into the darkness.