When the Black Roses Grow Read Free Page B

do not wish to keep the man waiting. Thank you for fixing the post.”
    “Ya welcome. Good day to ya, then, Mis’ress Hawthorne.” With another quick nod, he retreated to my garden, bending down to fetch the shovel along the way.
    I untied the rope of the gate and entered the goat pen. Nannies and kids scurried around me, full of excitement, hopping like deer in the forest and snorting breaths out of their noses. A couple of the young does fled from the unruly young bucks rearing on their hind legs to butt heads with one another.
    The ever-present struggle for dominance engrained from the day they were born.
    After securing ropes around the nannies necks, I shoved the gate open and led them out of the pen. The kids followed without question, although all of them impetuously sprinted in several different directions. Anxiety fueled their mothers, who attempted to follow. They began spinning in circles and tangling me in a plethora of ropes—a spectacle, surely, for any who watched an awkward young lady trying to herd uncontrollable goats, bleating loudly.
    “Ya certain ya do not need help?” Jeb laughed.
    I waved off his question with my own laughter as I followed the herd out onto the peddler road, bustling a little quicker than I desired behind dozens of small hooves.
    Townsfolk either still asleep or enjoying their morning breakfast left the village deserted in the early morning hour, and I strolled alone, drinking in the silence.
    As I passed the last house on the street, the front door slammed shut. I jerked my head, meeting the wide-eyed gaze of John Coleman. He cleared this throat as he shoved his hands in his pockets, trotted down the porch stairs, and through the gate to the road.
    “Good morning, Miss Hawthorne.” He tipped his hat.
    “Good morning, Mr. Coleman.”
    An old friend of Joseph, my late husband, John had helped us build our home, plant our first garden, and shared many evening suppers and picnics by Frost Fish Brook with us. Even through his shy nature, he was a kind man, always the first to aid another in need.
    “I suppose I should not be surprised another would be out enjoying the sunrise on this fine morning.” His brown eyes twitched with his nervous chuckle.
    I bit my lip and glanced from him to the home that belonged to Rebecca Junior and not his betrothed Julia Clayton.
    “Yes, ‘tis quite a beautiful morning,” I whispered.
    With my words, his shoulders hunched and he closed his eyes. Guilt plagued him, his secret exposed, caught in the home and perhaps the bed of another woman.
    “Miss Hawthorne, I . . . I just . . .” He bit his lip, unable to finish his sentence as his embarrassment oozed through every muscle of his tall, thin body. His stance stiffened, his shoulders ridged.
    I raised my hand to ease his suffering. “No need to speak of it, Mr. Coleman.” With my own public family humiliation and secret lust for a man courting another woman, clearly his choices were none of my concern. “Of all who could place judgment upon the life of another, I certainly am not one of them.”
    He smiled, understanding the hint toward my own culpability. “Julia and I were discussing the other night how we hath missed thy company, and Joseph’s, of course. He was a good friend. Perhaps, you will join us for supper one evening, soon.”
    “Surely, you doth not wish for the company of a dull widow, but thank you for the offer.”
    He nodded. “Well, if you ever change thy mind.”
    A flash of yellow caught my attention. Rebecca stared at us through the window of her home. The oiled cloth covering she had just yanked open still swished sideways from her sudden grasp and her lungs heaved heavy breaths with her sobs.
    John glanced toward her, too. His once squared shoulders deflated, brooding with the same heartbroken sorrow in his eyes as in hers. The hint of deeper emotions than just a simple affair whispered in their silent exchange.
    “Good day to you, Miss Hawthorne.” John’s