Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

to grow up in this barren wilderness.
    “Don’t tell him that,” George cautioned, the first smile Rose had seen in hours fracturing his solemn expression. “He thinks he’s as grown as the rest of us.”
    “There’s still one more.”
    “Jeff.”
    He said the name as if he deserved an entire chapter to himself, as if all rules no longer applied.
    “Jeff lost his arm at Gettysburg. A minié ball shattered his elbow.”
    Why did each word feel like an accusation hurled at her? He hadn’t looked at her, she could hear no condemnation in his voice, but she felt it nonetheless.
    “He spent the rest of the war in a prison camp.”
    Rose couldn’t think of anything to say.
    “He pretends to have accepted it, but he hasn’t. Don’t refer to your father’s being a hero in the Union Army.”
    “You mean to keep it a secret?”
    “I don’t see how mentioning it would cause anything but trouble.”
    Rose had to agree, but she hated lies, even lies she hadn’t told. “Tell me about the others.”
    “I hardly know them. Zac was a baby when I left, Tyler only eight.”
    “And the twins?”
    “They’ve grown into young men I hardly understand.”
    No one came from the house to greet them. The silence of the midafternoon grew oppressive. The enervating heat of summerwas still a month away, but Rose felt as if she had stepped into a still life. Nothing moved. Nothing made any sound.
    George dismounted, but she couldn’t move her lower body. She couldn’t even feel her legs.
    Like a gentleman, he helped her down. He went through all the motions, said all the words, but there was no warmth in his touch. She leaned on him at first, then decided she preferred her horse. He might kick her, but at least it would be a sign of emotion.
    “We sleep on this side,” George said, pointing to the left half of the house as she worked some kinks out of her muscles. “This is the kitchen.”
    She could tell that from the chimney. The yard, if the area around the house could have been dignified by such a name, hadn’t been swept in weeks. Rose privately wondered if it had ever been swept. In addition to being the place where they kept their saddles and harnesses, the dog trot seemed to be the place where they threw everything that had lost its use. The windows contained real glass, but Rose doubted she would be able to distinguish much more than daylight and dark until they were cleaned.
    Then George opened the door to the kitchen.
    Rose’s knees nearly buckled under her. The room was in such a state it was scarcely recognizable as a kitchen. A huge iron stove stood piled high with every pot in the house, each covered with remnants of food. Dirty plates and glasses covered the table. On closer inspection Rose discovered that most were chipped and cheap, with a few extremely fine china and crystal pieces. Around the rough board table stood eight ladder-back chairs, slats cracked, rungs worn from use, and cane seats coming loose.
    Thrown together, cheek by jowl, were wooden buckets, a crusted Rochester brass hanging lamp, a battered coffeepot, a crude worktable, and a pile of discarded tin cans. The curtains were gray with grease and dust. The woodbox contained little besides splinters.
    The strong smell of old grease pervaded the room.
    “Tyler has been doing the cooking, but he doesn’t know much about food. I’m afraid none of us is very strong on cleaning up.”
    “Where’s my room?” Rose asked. If she didn’t lie down soon, she would collapse right here.
    “Up there.” George pointed to a ladder leading to the loft. Rose’s spirits sank to rock bottom. Gone were her visions of a sunny room with chintz curtains and a soft bed with plenty of sunshine and fresh air.
    Through the open door Rose could tell the loft was barely tall enough for her to stand up in. She just hoped mice hadn’t found their way up there. She was sure doves and owls had already staked out a claim on her bed.
    George went out to get her bags