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Sweet Briar Rose
Sweet Briar Rose
Sweet Briar Rose
Ebook184 pages2 hours

Sweet Briar Rose

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About this ebook

A delightful historical western romance from the author of The Unexpected Bride.

Colorado 1880

Rose was once a barefoot dreamer, carving whimsical creatures from the driftwood she found on the beach. However, after the death of her father, Rose finds herself cut adrift. So she answers an advertisement to become the bride of a blacksmith in Sweet Briar, Colorado, bravely leaving behind the coast of Maine and her beloved sandy beaches.

Living in the shadow of the Rockies, Emmett Southerland is a bit of a hopeless romantic. He's been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the dark-haired beauty in the photograph he keeps over his heart. However, soon he and Rose find themselves snowed-in during the worst storm Colorado has seen in twenty-five years.

This sweet mail-order bride romance very loosely reimagines the classic tale of Sleeping Beauty, complete with a satisfying happily-ever-after. A short novel of approximately 42,000 words.
 

Historical Western Romance
No graphic content or swearing.

"I love a good mail-order bride story, and this one delivered!" (HEIDI READS)

"Sleeping Beauty with a western twist." (CARISSA'S BOOKSHELF)

"A great curl-up-on-a-cold-night read, so go grab a copy for yourself!" (USA TODAY on The Unexpected Bride)

LanguageEnglish
PublisherSix Sundance
Release dateJun 3, 2018
ISBN9781386040613
Sweet Briar Rose
Author

Lena Goldfinch

LENA GOLDFINCH writes heartwarming romance and romantic fantasy for adults and teens. She's a sucker for a good old-fashioned romance, whether it's a novel, novella, or short story, young adult or adult, fantasy or realistic, contemporary or historical. Elements of romance, fantasy, and mystery have a way of creeping into her writing, whether she's writing historicals or something light and contemporary. Her works include: * THE UNEXPECTED BRIDE (Sweet Historical Romance) -- Coming October 6, 2014, Now Available for Pre-Order! * THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS * AIRE * SONGSTONE * HAUNTING JOY * TAKE A PICTURE: A Novella * CHAIN REACTION: A Short Story (Prequel to HAUNTING JOY) Future works: HAUNTING MELODY (HAUNTING JOY : Part 2) "Danger, magic, romance, and royal intrigue, AIRE is a must read!" --NYT Bestselling Author JESSICA ANDERSEN "Looking for something fresh and new to read? Try Lena Goldfinch's AIRE." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "SONGSTONE sings with characters who come to life, a story full of magic, heart and adventure, and a world that lets you smell the sea air and feel the tropical sun on your back." --LISA GAIL GREEN, author of The Binding Stone "SONGSTONE...an original fantasy world inhabited by superstitious tribal nations and intriguingly developed characters." --SERENA CHASE, USA Today HEA "THE LANGUAGE OF SOULS...the perfect tiny romantic escape." --Tales of Whimsy Twitter: @lena_goldfinch FB: https://www.facebook.com/lenagoldfinch Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/lenagoldfinch Website: http://www.LenaGoldfinch.com

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    Book preview

    Sweet Briar Rose - Lena Goldfinch

    Chapter 1

    Boothbay, Maine, October 1880

    Rose walked across the beach, her eyes seeking out pieces of driftwood to bring back home. She had a good bundle started under one arm, her bonnet dangling from her fingertips. A cool salty sea breeze lifted a few loose strands of hair off her face, bringing with it the smell of dried seaweed and something else...perhaps the hint of a storm later .

    The horizon was darkening with gathering clouds, even though it was still morning. The tide lapped at the beach, chasing away shorebirds sticking their beaks into the sand. A few gulls cried out, circling above, likely looking for a morsel of clam to steal.

    Rose bent to pick up a nice length of driftwood. It was too pretty for the fire. A soft smoky-gray color. Smooth and sinuous under her finger’s touch. She could imagine one end as a mermaid’s tail. If her mother were still around, she’d call such thoughts fanciful. But Rose’s father would always encourage her to keep whatever pieces she wanted, so she could carve them later and sell them in the village shops. He called her little sculptures charming. She smiled to herself as she added the stick to her bundle. Papa was sure to like a mermaid.

    The breeze turned sharper, tugging at her heavy wool skirts. Urging her on as if there were something to hurry to.

    Rose lifted her head. Coming toward her at a run was a youth in white sailor’s broadcloth.

    Her heart seized up, then loosened free, allowing her to rush toward him. She was the only one out on this stretch of the beach. He had to be coming for her. Something had to be terribly wrong.

    She dropped her bundle of driftwood, scattering it at her feet. Her bonnet fell from her fingers.

    Her shoes and stockings were back on the boulders. Her feet bare. The shells and rocks dug into her feet, but still she ran, holding her skirts up so she didn’t trip.

    The boy met her, panting from his run. She recognized him. One of the boys who worked for her father. Robbie O’Brian, or something-or-other?

    What is it? she asked, one hand pressed to the stitch at her side. Her stays were too tight for running.

    Your brother...sent me. He stood before her, chest heaving. He must’ve run the entire length of the beach from the harbor. There’s been an accident. Your father.

    Rose stared at him, but all she could feel was the beach tipping away from her. The storm clouds gathering. The sudden mist of rain. It may as well have been ice. Her heart was frozen.

    A few days passed in a dazed maelstrom of funeral preparations. Days of tears spent, of wandering around feeling lost. Rose remained behind after the seaside service. The beach was empty now. All the mourners had gone home, leaving only their footprints in the sand. She’d wanted to invite them over to the house for a funeral breakfast. She’d planned to, earlier, but somehow in all the planning, she’d lost heart. The invitation never sent out. Her own quick breakfast—dry toast and black tea with milk—lay heavy in her stomach.

    Before her, the sun rose over the ocean, sending a golden glow of light out along the horizon. The sun itself was a muted fire of brighter gold, burning steadily. A new day. She watched the shorebirds wading through the shallows with their beaks thrust down into the sand, searching for whatever morsels of nourishment they could find. Just another day for them. They couldn’t know her life had changed completely.

    And the ocean... Rose had never seen it quite this color. It was always shifting and turning depending on the light. Today it was quicksilver, a sheet of soft glistening gray. It lay still as a mirror, with only the gentlest waves stirring its surface. The only sounds were the ocean’s constant surging and breaking and the ever-present calls of gulls spinning through the skies.

    She never tired of this place, even in the midst of all her numbness. It still didn’t feel real. She had to keep reminding herself that Papa wasn’t going to be at the dinner table. Or needing his shirts washed and pressed.

    He’d never be back.

    She’d chosen her best wool suit for the funeral. Its slim-fitting coat and skirt were no longer a flattering cream with narrow braided piping in a cheerful robin’s-egg blue. She’d dyed the fabric midnight-black, top to bottom, for mourning.

    Warmer now in the sun, Rose loosened the shawl from around her shoulders and let it fall to her elbows. Funny how she could feel anything besides the awful chill that had tagged along with her since the news of Papa’s death.

    He would rest forever in the ocean now, as had been his wish. It was appropriate, him being a man of the sea, but where did that leave her? She had no grave to tend, no place to leave flowers like other daughters. And every time she stood here at her favorite spot, she’d be forever reminded of this sad day and the awful moment when Robbie had run to bring her the news.

    Even sadder, now she was alone.

    Frank had deserted her. He’d left a note—a note of all things, in his tortured cramped handwriting—telling her he was going to live with Mother. He’d left all the funeral arrangements to Rose and simply gone. He’d sailed aboard the ship for their father’s burial at sea, but he hadn’t attended the seaside memorial service today. He hadn’t even waited for her to awaken from her hard slumber so he could give her a last embrace.

    Why? Why would he do that? Just leave. Going to Mother, who had hated the life of a captain’s wife. Who’d left to return to society. And now Frank was joining her. The coward.

    The business was in shambles, Rose had learned, due in large part to Frank’s mismanagement and to their father’s worsening memory. Papa had begun to lose his balance occasionally as well, which was why the accident happened in the first place. A slip on the deck, striking his head. Even though the ship had been docked in the harbor, his tumble into the water had likely killed him instantly, or so the attending physician had said. He’d assured her Papa hadn’t suffered. Perhaps the good doctor had only said that for her benefit, to spare her? She didn’t care to think of any other scenario.

    The house would be sold by the bank soon, to pay off debts.

    And where did that leave her? She wouldn’t run to Mother in New York, like Frank had. Rose had no wish to spend the rest of her days with the woman who had done nothing but criticize her from birth.

    Rose, you spend entirely too much time alone on the beach.

    Wood carving is not a proper occupation for a young lady.

    Her hair had been too untidy, always.

    Her habit of walking barefoot in the sand, a scandal.

    But what did her mother’s disappointment in her matter now, considering her present uncertain future?

    Soon Rose would be without a home and with no prospects besides her wood carving. How far would her earnings from her sculptures go? Not far enough to feed and shelter her.

    Inside the pocket of her suit coat was a newspaper clipping that Angela, her good friend from school days, had handed to her, folded over, yesterday.

    An ad to become some stranger’s bride, to help him build a family out west. To become his companion of the heart. Or so the ad said. His choice of words seemed oddly romantic given the nature of his appeal—an advertisement in The Marriage Papers. Rose couldn’t imagine anything less romantic than advertising for a marriage of convenience.

    What sort of prospect was that for any woman? For Rose, it would mean leaving her life here, everything she’d ever known. Leaving her beloved ocean and crossing to the deep unknown of the western part of the country. Colorado. Where there was no ocean. They had their mountains, of course, but how could ragged lumps of earth possibly compare to endless stretches of water?

    Still, as she stood here alone, it was the only opportunity she felt even the slightest flicker of interest in pursuing. There was really no other good option but to answer the ad.

    Companion of the heart? They didn’t even know each other’s names, let alone their hearts. Rose may have once dreamed of romance, but now was not the time for dreams. Now was the time to be practical.

    Chapter 2

    Sweet Briar, Colorado, November 1880

    Emmett Southerland left his forge for the day and leaned outside against the cold stone wall of his growing business, Southerland’s Blacksmith and Horseshoeing. He looked over the small town of Sweet Briar. Main Street, such as it was, was deserted .

    The few cramped storefronts that lined the road were closed for the night, their windows black as pitch within. The awning-covered boardwalk was quiet, the only sound an echoing hum in his ears from hammering all day. His hands tingled with lingering numbness, a feeling so familiar he was barely aware of it. Smoke and metal—the unique smells of his work—clung to his clothes, tingeing the fresh air.

    He dug a peppermint stick from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. Though his hollow stomach tightened in protest—he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, hadn’t had time to stop—the sugary treat would have to hold him over until supper. He still had some cold ham in the icebox and jars of pickled beets and green beans. He only had to heat up one plate and not cook a whole meal. Another supper alone. With only his dog for company.

    Up the way, a long dirt road led out of town, disappearing into the thick forest of majestic pines and graceful aspens stripped bare of leaves. Most folks lived outside the town limits, on the ranches that lined the valley. It made for quiet evenings like this one, everyone having gone home by now.

    The Rockies in the distance were a dusky blue and purple in the fading light, soothing his eyes after a long day bent over the heat of a blazing red fire, working iron into horseshoes, fire tools, and door hinges. The sun had already eased down behind the mountaintops, and the sky was darkening with streaks of purple.

    Peaceful, but lonesome.

    His family in the rolling foothills of Virginia seemed so far away, especially when he had the place here entirely to himself at night. The other business owners in town were sitting down to supper with their families, most likely. And here he was alone, an unmarried man, more than ever aware that he was trying to make a go of a business in Colorado. In a town no bigger than a speck on the railroad map. Set in a valley known for this spectacular view of the Rockies.

    Was there anything in this world as beautiful as these mountains?

    She was sure to fall in love with them the moment she set eyes on them.

    Rose.

    It had to be one of the most beautiful names ever. Her portrait too—a soft-focused photograph, in familiar tones of cream, caramel, and rust—was of a natural beauty. He retrieved her photograph from his inside coat pocket to peer at her face again, as he often did in the evenings.

    Dark hair, pearly white skin, her eyes some lovely pale color. Were they blue or green? He imagined them a mixture of both, like the ocean she’d written of. Her far-off expression could only mean she was thinking of marriage and a new life with him.

    Surely.

    Emmett’s lips twitched at his fanciful turn of thoughts. He couldn’t help himself. He’d always been his mother’s son. His father called them both dreamers and romantics, two fools who loved tales of adventure—and romance—almost as much as they loved horses.

    And so, from the first, Emmett had looked at Rose and fallen instantly in love. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing, to give his heart so completely to a woman he’d only seen once, and that just an image of her. A single moment in time captured on glossy paper. But there was something about her. Some immediate and instinctual connection to her. To her spirit and heart. There was a sweetness of expression, a goodness about her that surely couldn’t be faked. From the demure way she folded her hands on back of the wing chair the photographer had used as a prop. To the graceful curve of her cheek and neck.

    She’d chosen to wear a simple white linen blouse with a stand-up lace collar. Her skirt was some dark color, navy perhaps. He couldn’t see much

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