Chapter Three

Rosie's eyes flutteredopen. Her body protested the early rise but she pushed the quilt aside with a sense of purpose that was new and invigorating. She slipped into her worn boots and tiptoed through the still house, careful not to wake Charles, who was likely exhausted.

The chill Colorado air nipped at Rosie's cheeks as she stepped outside, sending a cascade of goosebumps down her arms. It was still dark outside, but Rosie was determined to be the best wife she could be, and there was so much to be done.

Rosie made her way toward the henhouse, her steps light on the dew-kissed grass. She'd always taken comfort in these simple tasks, the kind that connected her to the earth. She'd loved planting, weeding, and harvesting the kitchen garden her mother had kept back home.

She knew she should probably be sadder than she was about her mother's death, but she chose to remember every minute with her mother with a smile. Every little thing that reminded Rosie of Mother caused happy feelings, not sad.

She and her sisters would have left home much earlier than they did if their mother hadn't been there for them. They'd stayed for her. Rosie couldn't count the times she or one of her sisters had gotten between their father's fist or belt and their mother. Keeping her safe had become one of the most important things she could do.

She unlatched the door and peered inside, where a few hens clucked on their perches. Rosie coaxed them aside to gently gather the eggs they'd left nestled in the straw. Her fingers were deft and used to farm work. A ranch wouldn't be a great deal different.

With her apron cradling the eggs, Rosie returned to the kitchen. She set a cast-iron skillet on the stove, the bacon sizzling as it hit the hot surface. There was no meat greater than bacon in her mind, and she hadn't had it nearly enough. Next, she whisked the eggs, pouring them into the pan where they began to dance and bubble into a fluffy scramble.

As the eggs cooked, Rosie found herself humming a tune her mother used to sing, the melody intertwining with the sounds of breakfast.

Rosie plated the food and poured two cups of coffee, setting the table with care. Maybe, just maybe, this simple breakfast would be the beginning of something new. Perhaps it would be the first step toward a true partnership.

Rosie allowed herself a small smile. For now, she had eggs to serve, and a day full of possibilities ahead. Maybe Charles wouldn't fall in love with her in the next week, but she had no doubt he would within the next decade. She wasn't a child. She could wait.

Rosie noticed it immediately—the way Charles's gaze looked away from hers. He busied himself with the cuff of his shirt, adjusting and readjusting a button that was already perfectly in place. The air between them was thick with the unsaid, filled with the echoes of last night's accidental encounter in the kitchen when she had been in the bath.

"Good morning, Charles," she said, her voice a soft melody meant to smooth over the wrinkled fabric of his embarrassment.

"Rosie," he replied, his tone clipped, but not unkind. His eyes finally met hers, a brief flicker before darting away to focus on something, anything else. "You're...up early."

"Couldn't sleep," Rosie said with a shrug that felt heavier than she intended. "I wanted to get breakfast done early. I should be able to get a lot of cleaning done today."

"We have church this morning," he told her, looking surprised she hadn't mentioned it already.

"Oh, will we attend church?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't we? Didn't you go to church when you were in Massachusetts?"

"Mother took us when we were small, but then Father forbade us to go anywhere when we were five. So we never went to church again. Mother read to us from the Bible, and we're all Christians, but we just never had the opportunity to go to church."

"That's sad," he said, frowning. The more he learned about her childhood, the more he disliked her father.

She shrugged. "I had my two best friends sharing a room with me. While Father worked, Mother taught us to read, write, and do arithmetic. My childhood was a good one." When my father wasn't beating my mother or one of my sisters. She hadn't minded as much when he hit her, but she'd hated it when someone she loved was the one being abused.

"All right," he said. He wasn't going to argue with her about how her childhood had been, but it sounded miserable to him.

She took her seat across from him and offered him the bowl of pepper. "I don't think I put enough on the eggs, but I wasn't sure how much you like."

"Thank you," he murmured. Taking the bowl and spoon from her hand, he added a liberal amount of pepper, aware that she was watching him closely.

Finally, Charles cleared his throat, a determined set to his jaw as he finally looked up at her.

"Make sure you wear something pretty for church."

Rosie frowned. "I can only wear the dresses I have. If you want pretty, it's time for me to make something new."

She and her sisters would be the three worst-dressed women there. She had no doubt. But it didn't matter. She would see her sisters!

"You'll need to make something new then." Charles shook his head. "We should leave soon. Wouldn't want to be late."

Rosie rose from her seat with a sense of purpose. They were to be seen together, the mayor and his new bride, playing their parts for the town. She hoped that under the watchful eyes of their neighbors, they could find a moment of genuine connection.

Rosie's heart fluttered as the wooden doors of the church swung open, ushering in a shaft of sunlight that seemed to pierce through the weight of her uncertainties. The pews were a sea of Sunday bests and hopeful faces, but among them, there was only one she sought.

"Charles," she said, clutching his arm, "I do believe I see my sister."

Before he could offer any word of caution or concern, Rosie had already hurried away. When her eyes finally found Izzy, they sparkled with joy.

"Izzy!" Rosie embraced her sister. "I've been so eager to see you."

"And how is married life treating you?"

"Oh, Charles is a dear," Rosie confided. "He's sweet and ever so kind." Though she wished for more, she didn't want her sisters to know. Not yet, anyway.

"Is he now?" Izzy raised an eyebrow.

"Truly, he is," Rosie insisted, though the words carried the weight of incompleteness—a story untold, a book with pages still unturned.

The murmur of the gathering crowd hushed as another figure approached, and Rosie's eyes lit up anew. Ana joined them, hugging them each in turn.

"Ana!" Rosie's exclamation was a soft gasp of delight. "It feels like years since we've all been together."

"It's been less than twenty-four hours," Izzy said, shaking her head.

"It did feel longer," Ana said. "But here we are, under God's grace and each other's gaze."

"Isn't it wonderful?" Rosie beamed, her hands clasping those of her sisters. "Just like old times, only...different."

"Better," Izzy chimed in, "because now we're three strong women, each with a husband of our own."

"Yes," Ana agreed. "And we'll figure out how to be good wives. We have no choice."

As the bell called them to worship, the sisters stood shoulder to shoulder. Each of them hurried to find her husband and join him for service.

Rosie glanced sideways at Charles, standing stoically at the end of the row. Perhaps this public display of unity could ignite a private connection yet. For now, she picked up a hymnal and did her best to sing along.

After the service concluded, Rosie was thrilled to join her sisters again.

"Shall we dine together?" Dr. William Mercer proposed, his gaze sweeping over the group.

"An excellent idea," Albert Thoreau agreed.

As they walked, Rosie watched Albert, thinking there was something not quite right for Izzy about him, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. Her sister looked happy enough, but there was sadness in her eyes.

Charles, standing a trifle apart, gave a small nod before his gaze met Rosie's. She smiled at him, taking his arm with her hand. He wanted a wife in public, and he was going to get one.

The three couples settled at a robust wooden table near the window of the diner. Laughter punctuated the meal as stories were swapped, and Charles's occasional smiles, though fleeting, did not go unnoticed by Rosie.

As plates were cleared and cups of coffee served, the conversation turned to plans for the following day. Izzy, her eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned forward.

"Tomorrow, let's meet at the general store after lunch," she suggested. "I've been dying to make a new dress, and I can't imagine doing it without you two."

"Indeed," Ana said, her practicality always at the helm. "It's high time we add some fresh stitches to our wardrobes. What do you say, Rosie?"

"Nothing would please me more," Rosie replied, the prospect of shared sisterly endeavors warming her like the afternoon sun.

"Let's each pick a different color," Izzy chirped, already lost in visions of vibrant fabrics.

"Of the same pattern," Ana added, ever the organizer.

"Perfect," Rosie sighed contentedly.

William chuckled softly. "I suspect the general store won't know what hit it when the Winslow sisters descend."

"Nor will Charles, once he sees the bill," Albert jested, earning a playful glare from his friend.

"Whatever my wife desires," Charles stated, a touch of warmth seeping into his voice as his glance slid briefly to Rosie.

"Then it's settled," Izzy declared, her smile as wide as the prairie sky. "Tomorrow, we create!"

With cups emptied and farewells exchanged, the party dispersed, each couple stepping out into their separate lives. Yet, for Rosie, the promise of tomorrow was a thread pulling her heart toward a future rich with possibilities.

*****

LATER, HOME WITH CHARLES, Rosie thought about what cleaning project she should tackle first.

"Rosie," Charles said suddenly, "there is something I should show you." His tone held a note of formality that piqued her curiosity. With a courteous hand at her elbow, he led her toward the house and then veered off toward the cellar door.

"Most folks keep their ice boxes in the kitchen or pantry," he explained as he opened the door, revealing the wooden steps descending into cooler shadows. "But Margaret—my wife—she believed it would be better down here, where the air stays cold."

"Practical," Rosie murmured, trailing behind him, her boots echoing softly on the stairs. The cellar held rows of preserved goods and neatly stacked firewood, but what caught her eye was the large ice box sitting against the far wall.

"Quite," Charles agreed with a nod. "She was always full of such notions."

As he opened the box to reveal its chilly contents, Rosie leaned forward, her breath forming a faint mist. There, nestled among the blocks of ice, lay an assortment of meats, vegetables, and dairy products. Her hands reached for a cut of beef, envisioning the rich aroma of stew bubbling over the fire.

"Supper," she announced.

"All right," he replied, his words clipped.

With arms laden with provisions, Rosie climbed back up to the warmth of the kitchen. As she set about preparing the meal, she couldn't help but wonder at the oddities of marriage.

Soon, the stew simmered, fragrant and hearty. Rosie watched Charles from the corner of her eye as he pretended not to notice the way she moved around the kitchen that had been his first wife's, now hers by both right and necessity, transforming raw ingredients into a meal that spoke of home.

*****

ROSIE WAS ALREADY AWAKEbefore there were any signs of morning the following day. She dressed quickly, tying her apron tight around her waist, a determined glint in her eye. Today, she would spend the afternoon with her sisters, a reunion of hearts and laughter. But first, there were chores to be done, a testament to the endless rhythm of domestic life.

She gathered the laundry. With practiced ease, she plunged each item of clothing into the wash basin, scrubbing and rinsing until her fingers pruned. One by one, she pinned the garments to the line.

In the kitchen, she started breakfast. The coffee pot gurgled happily, sending forth tendrils of steam that fogged the windowpanes.

"Good morning," Charles greeted, his voice groggy with sleep. He eyed the spread with appreciation, though his gaze lingered only briefly on Rosie before skittering away.

"Morning," she replied, her tone chipper despite the early hour.

"I'll be with my sisters this afternoon. Perhaps we can invite them as well as their husbands for supper soon?" Rosie asked, pouring the coffee with a steady hand.

Charles paused, his fork midway to his mouth. "I have...duties," he said.

"Of course," she nodded. She was happy her sisters had married friends of his because he would be much more likely to be willing to have them around.

She gathered the soiled bedding from Charles's room. She was methodical as she plunged the fabrics into the soapy water, her arms working with the kind of fervor found only in those who understand the value of hard-earned cleanliness.

Rosie tackled the pantry while the clothes on the line dried. She scrubbed at the floorboards until they shone, and the walls—once dulled by layers of dust—now gleamed.

"Rosie Jordan does not shy away from elbow grease," she muttered to herself, a wry smile playing on her lips.

Later that afternoon, Rosie met her sisters at the general store. Her heart swelled at the sight of them. Never in her life had she spent more than a few hours without the company of either sister, and life felt so different without them. No one who wasn't a multiple could ever understand the bond between her and her sisters.

"Rosie!" Izzy called out.

Minutes later, they were all in the store, looking at the bolts of fabric the store had to offer.

"Look at these patterns," Ana said.

Yet it was the simple calico print that caught their collective gaze—a delicate floral motif that seemed to whisper of springtime promises and sisterly bonds.

"Let's all make a dress out of this one," Rosie proposed, tracing the outline of a petal with her fingertip. "Each in a different color."

"We won't be identical like Mother always preferred, but people will know we're a unit," Izzy said as she selected cream colored fabric with the pretty ivy for her dress.

"Reminds me of when we were little, twirling around the parlor in matching frocks," Ana said, reaching for a green bolt.

And so it was decided. Rosie picked out a warm shade of rose, her namesake color. It was more than mere fabric; it was a tapestry of kinship, of shared laughter and whispered secrets beneath the quilt of stars that blanketed their childhood nights.

As they made their purchases, Rosie couldn't help but feel a tug at her heartstrings—a pull toward the past mingled with the thrill of forging new memories.

"When we're done," Rosie declared, "we'll be as sisters reborn, each a reflection of the other, yet uniquely ourselves."

*****

THE AROMA OF BAKINGsugar and butter wafted through the air as Rosie, Izzy, and Ana bustled around the kitchen in a symphony of sisterly cooperation. Ana's house was filled with activity. The oven, stoked to a steady heat, stood ready to transform their efforts into golden morsels of sweetness.

After they'd finished their tea and cookies, they all sat down to work on their dresses.

"Rose suits you," Ana said, glancing at her sister with approval.

"New beginnings," Rosie mused, her heart fluttering at the thought. She had come here as Charles's bride, but she still felt like a little girl.

As their scissors snipped and their needles danced, the patterns began to take shape. They chatted about everything and nothing, the hum of their voices a comforting blanket that wrapped around them. They spoke of the townsfolk, of the miners, and Elizabeth Tandy, whose matchmaking skills had set them on this path.

"I never imagined myself a lazy wife with a rich husband," Izzy said, her needle pausing mid-stitch.

"Nor I as a mayor's," Rosie replied, her gaze meeting Ana's. "But here we are, defying expectations."

"Speaking of expectations," Ana quipped, "let's make sure these dresses fit well enough to impress our respective gentlemen." She winked, and Rosie couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ah yes, because heaven forbid, we don't uphold societal expectations in our attire," Rosie said, rolling her eyes playfully.

"William will be pleased with whatever I wear. He's such a kind man," Ana said.

Izzy looked uncomfortable but said nothing.