A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Chapter 8--Welcome Home, Rose

Rose saw her new home the first time by starlight.  The moon had long set by the time they arrived at Woodrow's ranch, The Flying W.  Maybe she was just tired, but she had been expecting something more.  Everything seemed too bare; too raw.  Even the starlight could not soften the homestead so newly-carved out of a virgin country. It had been too swiftly shaped into the rambling ranch taking up half of the gentle valley below.  Age had not had time to soften the biting scent of raw lumber and fresh-turned earth that clung to the night air like an unfamiliar odor.

 She did like the gentle slope of the land.  It sprawled across a huge valley like a mammoth cat curled up in the darkness.  The starlight only gave the merest glimpse of the terrain.  It was enough, though, for her to able to have a general idea of the layout compared to her father's plantation back home.  Rose briefly wondered what Aunt Mary, who had insisted on staying back at the hotel in Yankton, would think of Rose’s feelings about her new home.

Her new brother and sister-in-law in the wagon ahead of them, turned onto a wagon path that split off from the main track, as soon as the small party had come over the rise.   Their disappearing wagon made a quiet shushing sound as the wheels waded through a glistening creek that wended its way across the bottom of the shallow valley like a silver ribbon strewn carelessly across the ground.

Woodrow stopped their wagon and turned to look at his new wife.

Rose looked up at her husband silhouetted against the darker black of the star-lit sky.  She felt an unfamiliar clinching deep inside her.  Part nervousness, part curiosity, and part fear of the unknown, she tried to hide what she felt.  She couldn’t stop the fluttering of her heart, however, as she sat there wondering why he had stopped. 

“This is the beginning of my homestead,” Woodrow said shyly in that husky voice of his that did all kinds of quivery things to Rose’s heartbeat.  “Everything you see, or touch, or step on from this point forward, west of the creek here, is our land,” Woodrow said quietly.  “Welcome home, Rose.”  

Then smiling down at the sweet, startled, wary look he could sense more than see in the starlight reflected in her eyes, Woodrow leaned forward and kissed his bride for the first time, on his own land.

Rose saw her husband’s silhouette descending against the backdrop of a thousand stars, and tilted her head up in welcome to meet him halfway.  His arms slid around her waist, searing her skin even through her clothes.  This kiss, she knew, was just a prelude of the lifetime of kisses in store for her from this stranger, her husband.  Rose smiled a secret smile of joy at the thought of a lifetime of such kisses.  She felt the softness of his beard a split second before his lips melted against hers.

Rose felt immediately this kiss was different from the kiss she had received from him in front of the Judge earlier.  She felt the pressure of Woodrow’s lips, insistent and warm, against her own, and was more than happy to return his sweet kiss.  The brush of his tongue across the inside of her lips, however, caused her to jerk away from him, startled, a small gasp she couldn’t stop, breaking the cloak of silence surrounding them. 

 “Forgive me,” she whispered so softly Woodrow barely could hear her when she realized what she had done.  This man was not Silas Farthingham, she had to remind herself.  His memory was not going to ruin this tender moment between her and her husband.  In her innocence, Rose did not realize it already had.

 “I’m just a little nervous,” she murmured into his warm chest.  His scent filled her senses.  The mixture of spicy, sweet-smelling bay rum, fresh-cut forests, and something uniquely Woodrow, drew her to him like a magnet.  She scooted closer to him on the wagon seat and deliberately pushed her tight lips against his again, defying her own fear.