“It can’t lead anywhere.”
“Does everything have to lead somewhere?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I like you, Rose. I like you very much.”
“I like you, too, but that’s no reason to go walking together.”
“Why not?”
“People sometimes say things they don’t mean. They might even do things they don’t want to.”
“Like this?” George tried to kiss Rose, but she backed away.
“I don’t think we ought to do that again.”
“Why?”
“Be reasonable, George. I’m your housekeeper. Suppose I let you start kissing me, catching me in corners, and…” Rose couldn’t finished that sentence. “Zac caught us. One of the other boys soon would. Then what would happen?”
“It was only a kiss.”
“I couldn’t stay here.” Rose meant to stop there. She didn’t know what made her say the next words. “It would be different if you wanted to marry me.”
“I don’t intend to marry anybody.”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t mean any harm.”
“I know that, too, but I can’t let you kiss me.”
She made him feel guilty, and that made him angry. “Why didn’t you stop me at the creek?”
“You caught me by surprise.”
“Is that all?”
“I guess I liked it.”
George started forward, but Rose stepped back again.
“I won’t do it again.”
“Why not?”
“Once something like this gets started, there’s no way to stop it except…”
“Except marriage,” George finished for her, an edge on his voice. “Is that all women think about? Can’t they imagine two people just enjoying each other?”
“Maybe I could, but other people can’t.”
“Are other people so important to you?”
“I’ll have to leave this ranch someday. What kind of work am I going to find if people think I’ve been carrying on with you? That would be worse than being a Yankee.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I do. You’ll leave, and the boys will find wives.”
“There’ll always be a place for you.” Why was he always saying that? They’d never intended her employment to be permanent.
“To do what? Be a nurse for other women’s children? To cook and clean so they can spend more time with their husbands? I want a husband and children of my own. I don’t want to be on the outside looking in.”
George couldn’t imagine Rose being anywhere without being the center of attention. It wasn’t just her looks or the fact she had a knack for organizing their lives and making them like it. She would be a very special person anywhere she went.
“Where are you going to find a husband?”
“Don’t be cruel,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve already said nobody in Texas would have you. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not your concern.”
“Maybe not, but I am concerned.”
“Don’t be,” Rose said, fighting to hold back her tears. “Don’t pretend you care.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You like me, and you want me. That’s not the same thing.”
Wasn’t it? Liking and wanting. Because he felt both very strongly.
One of the horses in the corral neighed.
“Somebody’s coming,” Rose said, dashing a tear from her cheek. “No matter what you or I feel, there can be nothing between us. Not unless you mean marriage.”
She fled to the kitchen.
George felt like a skunk. He had warned himself against this from the start, yet he’d gone right ahead, knowing he couldn’t offer marriage, knowing he planned to leave within a year. Rose should have slapped him. She should be packing to leave right now.
A feeling of self-loathing swept over him. If his selfishness caused her to return to Austin and the likes of Luke Kearney, he was truly his father’s son.
George wanted to go after her, but the rider, a stranger, had reached the house. George walked forward to meet him.
He was nearly as tall as George, but he had none of his size. He had narrow shoulders, was whipcord thin, and rode bent over from the waist. He looked dirty and unshaven, but his worn and patched Confederate uniform guaranteed him a welcome.
“Howdy,” the man said. “I’m looking for a job. I heard your ranch had come through the war better than most.”
“Look around you,” George said. “Is this your idea of better than most?”
For the first time since his return, George looked at his home with a stranger’s eyes. The results staggered him. The rough logs of the house, the mud that filled in the cracks, made it look like the home of a poor dirt farmer, something George’s grandfather would have been ashamed to let his slaves live in. The scattered corrals, thriving garden, and brand-new chicken coop couldn’t negate the effect of clothes hanging on a line in the front yard, chickens scratching for grubs, and a wash pot nestled on a bed of ashes only a dozen feet from the front steps. Steps led to an open breezeway between the two halves of the house, not the elegant wallpapered passage of Ashburn with its polished heart-of-pine floor and winding double staircase.