A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Chapter 13--A Morning for Learning

The sound of a rooster crowing, and the smell of coffee brewing woke Rose from a sound sleep.  Not the sickly, chicory brew she had drank at Aunt Mary’s, nor the bitter mud they’d served on the steamboat.  This was the smell of honest to goodness, fresh-ground coffee filling the air with its fragrance. 

 The rooster crowed again, and Rose’s stomach knotted with hunger.  She hadn’t heard the sound of a rooster in months.  Not since she and Aunt Mary had sacrificed their last one to appease their semi-starvation.  Rose couldn’t even remember how long ago that had been.  Rose closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrant air.  The smell of real smoked bacon had added itself to the symphony of smells tantalizing her until she couldn’t stand it another minute.

In the briefest time possible, Rose threw on a robe over her gown and opened the door, only to stop short.  There stood Woodrow, one hand raised to knock, the other holding a steaming cup of coffee.

They both took a quick step back.  Woodrow was the first to smile.  “Good morning, Rose.  You’re up, I see.”

Rose smiled back, a little shyly.  “Good morning, uh, Woodrow.  Yes, I’m up.  I think I overslept.”  She looked past Woodrow to the dust motes drifting in the bright sunlight filling the cabin.  It was a homey kind of light coming in through the windows and open doorway.  It welcomed her with its sunny, golden warmth.  Rose returned her gaze to Woodrow.

They stood looking at each other, not knowing where to go from here.  Finally Rose asked, “Is that for me?”  She pointed to the cup Woodrow was still holding.

“Oh right.  Right.  Of course.  Here, why don’t you come to the table.  The cup’s hot.”

Woodrow lead her back to the table and sat the cup down in front of her.  Quickly he pulled out a chair for Rose.  Smiling shyly, she sat down.  “It smells heavenly,” she said reaching for the cup.  It was a dark blue enamel with white dots.  A hand carved overlay for the handle kept it from burning Rose’s hands.

“I didn’t know if you liked cream in it or not, so I left it black,” he said, walking over to a dry sink sitting beneath one of the sunny windows. 

“You have cream?” Rose asked of Woodrow’s back.  “Real cream?” She repeated.

Woodrow looked over his shoulder at Rose and scrunched his eyebrows together ruefully. 

“Too much cream, to be honest.  I have three fresh cows right now.  Most of it has been going to the hogs.”

“Oh,” Rose gave a tiny groan of dismay.  “What a waste.”

Woodrow picked up a matching cream and sugar bowl, and started back to the table with them. 

“The hogs don’t think so.”  Woodrow grinned playfully.  “You don’t happen to know how to churn butter and make cheese, do you?”

“It has been a while.  Because of the war, you understand.  We hardly had anything like a fresh cow in a long, long time.”  Rose poured cream and spooned sugar both into her coffee, and took her first sip.  She closed her eyes for a moment to better savor the flavor.  Woodrow became absorbed in the way her lashes fanned out on her cheeks.  Her lashes were a deep auburn, rather than black, like her eyebrows.

Rose opened her eyes, but she was thinking back to another, happier time, so she didn’t notice his scrutiny.   “I remember helping Aunt Mary make both butter and cheese.  I’m sure I can make the butter by myself.  I’m just not sure about the cheese.”  She took another longer sip of coffee.

Woodrow could hardly tear his gaze away from watching the way her heat-pinked lips lay against the rim of her coffee cup; the way they slightly puckered when her lips blew the coffee to cool it.  Could this woman really be his wife?  He wondered in awe.  He shifted his gaze from her lips to her hair and studied the way the sunlight shimmered through her sleep-tousled curls.  As long as he lived, he would never forget the sight of her, this first morning, sitting at his table.  He’d never see a prettier sight than her, he felt certain as long as he lived.