Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

her, a sharp pain stabbing her in the side where John’s boot had met her ribs. At the top she crawled through the square opening and out onto the hay-strewn floor, dizzy and gasping.
    “There,” Lupita said, tugging on Rosa’s sleeve and pointing to a mound of hay in the corner. “He put them under there. He doesn’t know I saw him.”
    Rosa forced herself to stand and made her way across the hayloft, picking up the discarded pitchfork on the way. Dubious that she would find anything useful, mindful of the swiftly passing minutes, she tossed the golden strands of hay aside until the tines struck something hard. Setting the pitchfork aside, she brushed the rest away with her hands and discovered several wooden crates, some large, some small, and three brown leather valises.
    Rosa stared at the strange cache. What was John hiding?
    “See?” said Lupita, slipping her hand into her mother’s. “I told you.”
    “Yes, you did, sweetheart.” Rosa squeezed Lupita’s hand, stooped to open one of the valises—and when it snapped open, she fell to her knees, stunned. The valise was stuffed with cash, hundreds of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills bound into neat, orderly stacks.
    “That’s a lot of money,” said Lupita in a small, shocked voice. “Is that Papa’s money?”
    “I don’t know.” Rosa opened the second valise and found more of the same. “I suppose it must be.”
    “Where did he get it?”
    “I don’t know.” Not by mortgaging the farm, that was certain. Rosa waded through the hay to the nearest large crate. It was nailed shut, but when she gave it a hard shove, she heard the tinkle of glass and a faint slosh of liquid. Surely it was alcohol. What other liquid would John need to hide? Somehow her husband had become entangled with bootleggers. That would explain everything—the cash, the roadster, and his mysterious errands.
    The remaining large crates surely held more liquor, so Rosa turned to one of the four smaller crates. They were about half the height of the larger crates, long and shallow, but when Rosa nudged one, it made no sound, though it was heavy. She snatched up the pitchfork and tried to pry the nails loose, but her hands shook and the nails held fast. Turning the pitchfork around, she smashed the handle into the top of the crate, hitting it again and again, her teeth clenched against the pain in her side. Finally the plywood cracked and splintered. Dropping the pitchfork and falling to her knees beside the crate, she peered through the hole in the lid and glimpsed the gleaming, polished stock of a tommy gun.
    She scrambled to her feet and backed away. “Lupita,” she said as steadily as she could, “go back to the house and tell your sisters to put on their shoes.” She took the handle of a brown leather valise in each hand and glanced up to find Lupita gaping at her. “Lupita, go!”
    Lupita flew across the hayloft, down the ladder, and out ofthe barn. Rosa dropped the valises through the square opening one at a time, breathing a sigh of relief when they hit the stone floor of the barn and fell over without bursting open. Painfully she descended the ladder, seized the valises, and threw them into the back of the wagon. They had too much to carry to flee on foot.
    She hitched up the horses and dashed back to the house through a thin drizzle, clutching her aching side. The girls waited in the front room. Marta carried Miguel, who rested his dark, curly head on her shoulder and whimpered.
    “Mamá,” said Ana, her little brow furrowed anxiously, “your face looks scary.”
    “Lupita, get my sewing basket, please.” Rosa went to the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, and splashed water on her face. She could not bear to look in a mirror and see the ugliness of her marriage written in blood and bruises upon her features. A long time ago, she had been beautiful. She had been loved. Now—now she was frightened, and broken, and alone, and desperate to protect her children from the