Loving Beth Book One, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Bonnie Rose Ward
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
The characters and events in this fictional work are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, is coincidental.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Cover design by Evelyne Labelle at Carpe Librum Book Design www.carpelibrumbookdesign.com
Back Cover Copy created by BlurbWriter.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9996987-4-7
DEDICATION
To the love of my life, my husband, Samuel Ward. We have been blessed to share nearly a half-century of wonderful adventures together. If I could turn back the clock and do it all over again with you, I would do so in a heartbeat! I look forward to sharing many more years with you, honey. Thanks for always having my back and being the best thing that ever happened to me. You and Jesus are my rock!
To my forever hero, 94-years-young father, Donald Rose. A daughter couldn’t ask for a better father than you, Dad—a wonderful family man who also loves God and served his country. You are a blessing to all that know you. Thank you for always being supportive.
To my sisters, Connie Zachary and Dawn Rose, my always and forever friends, no matter what life brings or how many miles separate us, you are always in my heart.
In honor and memory of my beautiful mother, Joan Harriet Morrison Rose, who left us long ago at too young an age, I owe whatever writing success I’ve achieved to her. She was the one who most believed in me and inspired me to write, right up to her dying day. I will always be grateful to her for lighting that fire under me. Thanks, Mom! You are forever in my heart.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Letter to the Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Bonnie Rose Ward
CHAPTER 1
Rosewood, West Virginia
October 1, 1878
Esther straightened and blew a wisp of graying brunette hair from her face. She removed the strap from around her neck and set the bag of precious roots on the ground next to a large, uprooted maple. She stretched her back, then sat down on the log. Here, deep in the Appalachian Mountain forest, the thick overhead foliage provided sweet cool respite from the heat of the sun. She lifted her face, closed her eyes, and inhaled the pungent, musky earth scent rising from the damp forest floor. This was her home. Nothing calmed her soul like being surrounded by God’s creations.
For as far back as she could remember, her folks had dug ginseng for medicinal purposes as well as for extra income, always taking care to leave some for seed. Esther raised the bag of ‘seng and smiled. It was heavy. There should be plenty there to make a payment on her little farm with enough left over to treat her daughter. It was time to call it a day.
She loosened the handkerchief from around her neck as she stood and turned around, facing the log she’d just sat on. Up ahead about seventy-five feet, on the north-facing slope, a good-sized patch of the familiar leaves with little red berries grew under the shade of an old oak tree. She hesitated. She already had as much as she could comfortably carry. Yet, those roots begged to be harvested. It wasn’t far. And, if she went home with that much ‘seng, they could put a little money back for the next rainy day.
Esther picked up her bag and adjusted the strap around her neck. The afternoon sun would soon cast long shadows on this valley floor. She would dig just a few more, then head back.
She lifted her skirt to step over the fallen log. The maple was so big around she couldn’t see the ground on the other side, but trusting the ground to be solid, she swung her leg around the log.
An eerie rattle made her freeze, but it was too late to stop her right foot from landing in the soft earth on the other side. Her left leg was already airborne and her weight had shifted. If she tried to stop, she’d land face down on the ground—and that’s the last position she wanted to be in if rattlers were around. Dear God . . . .
But it was too late for praying. Sharp pain stung her right ankle. Esther screamed out, her body instantly reacting. She jumped away from the two hidden rattlesnakes. As they slithered away, Esther dropped to the forest floor, landing on her bottom. Another rattle, and searing pain radiated through her right hand. A third snake had stayed behind. She scampered as far away from the log and the snake as she could get. Once at a safe distance, she examined her wounds. Four holes punctured her ankle; two more her hand. She’d been struck three times.
As the pain increased, Esther gasped for breath, then forced her breathing to regulate. She needed to remain calm to slow the movement of venom that now coursed through her body. Mr. Hadley, the town drunk, had been bitten by a rattler a few years back. He was fortunate enough to live to tell about it, but rumors were he had lain in bed thrashing about in great agony for many days. Some said it was all that alcohol he drank that saved him. And if Mr. Hadley had survived, albeit with a nasty scar and a limp, then maybe she could, too. But then Mr. Hadley had only been bitten once, and she’d been bitten three times! Esther’s lips and face tingled. Her hand was swollen to almost double its size—as was her ankle. Panic rose within her like a poison—she could taste its bitterness in her mouth.
But sitting there worrying about it wasn’t going to help. Esther used her ginseng hoe to help her stand. She had to get home. Nobody would find her here in the wilderness. A wave of nausea almost sent her reeling back to earth. She steeled herself to walking no matter how much it hurt. She thought of her daughter and knew she had to get home. Esther gritted her teeth and put one foot in front of the other, each step more painful than the last.
She walked what seemed like a long distance, although it wasn’t more than a hundred feet. She leaned against a young poplar tree and clung to it for support. The pain in her right leg was excruciating. And her hand was so swollen and bruised, Esther could barely move it. The bag of ginseng still hung around her neck, and no matter how difficult it was, she wasn’t about to leave it behind. They needed the money these roots would bring.
A short distance away, she glimpsed a gray squirrel spiraling down a large red oak. Somehow, this distraction gave her comfort. She didn’t feel so alone. She watched the squirrel leap to the ground and rustle through the leaves in jerking motions, his fluffy tail bobbing behind him.
Violent churning in her stomach ended Esther’s respite. She lurched forward, her good hand grabbing hold of the tree for support as bile rose up to her throat and ejected the cold biscuit and porridge she’d eaten earlier that morning. She groaned and continued to retch, even when there was nothing left in her stomach. Pain wracked her body and her knees buckled beneath her. She fell to the ground, her heart pounding, her head spinning.
In time, the nausea passed. Esther opened her eyes and spotted the squirrel sitting straight and still, staring at her with an acorn in his mouth. In spite of her misery, a weak laugh escaped her lips. “I didn’t mean to startle you, little one.”
The squirrel bounded for the oak tree. Esther’s eyes followed him all the way up the trunk until he disappeared into the canopy. The leaves blurred and Esther rubbed her eyes and blinked several times. Her eyes refused to focus. She squeezed them shut, and when she opened them, everything spun around her. She struggled to stand. She had to get moving. The sun was sinking fast behind the ridge. Darkness would fall fast in this little valley, as would the temperature. Esther forced herself to continue walking.
Another wave of nausea assaulted her. And right behind that, another bout of retching. Esther was a sensible woman, a realist. She looked at life full on and never tried to fool herself about anything. And that wasn’t going to change now. She was going to die. The only thing that mattered to her was getting as close to home as possible.
She wanted to lie down, but if she did, she’d never get up. Instead, she visualized her beautiful daughter. Beth, who would be eighteen soon, had been a great joy. She was petite like Esther, but with dark, radiant curls all the way to her waist. So many times when she’d looked at her daughter, she was reminded of her husband. Beth’s emerald eyes sparkled like John’s—and her temper and spunk did him proud.
Esther sucked in a shallow breath. Oh, how she missed John. Her ache for him never lessened—not since the day that horrid Civil War took him from her. They had experienced a lot of life in their short years together. They’d built the wood-frame house on the farm Esther loved. They’d buried twin babies who’d died at birth. They’d shared joys and they’d shared tears.
A smile played at her lips. John seemed close to her now.
She straightened and wiped her face with the sleeve of her dress. She adjusted the strap around her neck. The bag of ginseng grew heavier, but she would not put it down. Esther could only step with her left foot and drag her right. Step, drag, step, drag.
The pain seemed less as she continued. In the distant fog, a man’s figure appeared. John. Her John. He had come to save her.
CHAPTER 2
Earlier That Day
The little bell on the door rang out as Beth entered the mercantile with a basket of eggs.
Mrs. Bartley, the storekeeper, a plump and matronly woman with warm brown eyes and a gentle heart, looked up from the discussion she was having with Mrs. Woodrow. “Good morning, Beth,” she said cheerily. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, dear.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Bartley. I’m in no rush.” Beth smiled at the two women as she set her basket of eggs on the counter next to the huge coffee grinder. She paused long enough to sniff in the aroma of freshly ground beans that still lingered in the air from a previous customer.
Mrs. Bartley turned her attention back to the elderly woman. “Now, Mrs. Woodrow, I’m sorry, but you never placed an order with me.”
“Agnes!” Mrs. Woodrow raised her scratchy voice an octave. “You’re the only store in this town, aren’t you?” The elderly woman pounded the floor with her cane for more emphasis. “Why do you keep telling me I never placed an order here, when I know darn good and well, I did?” She thrust her cane forward. “Just look again!”
Mrs. Bartley heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Woodrow,” she replied in a gentle voice as though soothing an upset child. “I’d be more than happy to take your order now.”
Beth turned away from the counter. Poor Mrs. Woodrow. Nobody knew how old she was, but she was ancient, and each time Beth saw her, her mind had slipped a little more. She worried about the woman living alone in the shanty way out past the end of town.
The women’s voices faded as Beth drifted past the barrels of dry beans, crackers, and tobacco. Overhead, cast iron cookware, horse collars, and leather harnesses hung from the dusty rafters alongside lanterns, washboards, and galvanized tubs. Nearby shelves displayed Blue Willow China and glass lanterns, and another shelf held neatly folded pants and shirts. The little store utilized every inch of space for goods the citizens of Rosewood might need. However, none of these things held Beth’s interest today. She headed to the back of the store where the bolts of fabric called to her. Surrounded by an assortment of buttons, ribbons, thread, and other sewing notions, she searched for the one bolt she hoped was still there. Beth pushed past the calico and gingham until the emerald velvet sang its siren song.
She smiled. “There you are!” She pulled out the bolt but frowned at the weight of it. Much of it was missing. Was there still enough for the dress she hoped to have made from it one day? If she and her mother could ever scrape up enough money? Her mother considered such extravagance as foolish. But Beth was about to turn eighteen years old, and for once in her life she wanted a beautiful dress. She had hounded her mother about it ever since the fabric arrived a month ago. She rubbed the velvety softness. How nice it would be to wear a dress made from the green velvet that matched her eyes.
The bell on the door rang out. Percival Penrose, the banker’s son, walked in escorting a young woman Beth had never seen before. The woman, who stood a couple inches taller than Percival, was so lovely she took Beth’s breath away. She was dressed fancy like the ladies back East—nothing like the plain cotton dresses the ladies in Appalachia wore. Her dress was made of royal blue silk with a fitted bodice. Small pearl buttons ran from her waist all the way up to the delicate lace at her neckline. The multiple layered skirts, lavished with ruffles and lace, flowed like drapes to the back of the skirt, where they were gathered to form a bustle. Never before had such an exquisite dress been seen in Rosewood—except for in the catalog the store kept on the counter. Dainty kid leather boots showed when she walked, and a hat adorned with feathers sat at an angle on her head. She was the most beautiful thing to ever hit these parts.
Beth unriveted her eyes from the lovely attire and looked down at her own yellow calico dress with a fitted bodice. It was her favorite dress, and she usually felt pretty when she wore it. Now, however, it looked worn and tacky. Plain. She returned her gaze to the woman’s face. There, the beauty stopped.
The woman stared straight at Beth. Her thin lips twisted into a smirk and her arched eyebrow showed her superiority.
Heat rose in Beth’s face as she quickly put the bolt of fabric back on the rack.
Percival cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Ladies,” he said in his snivelly, high-pitched voice while dramatically removing his bowler hat and nodding toward the woman at his side. “I want you all to meet my lovely wife, Isabel.”
Beth’s mouth gaped open, but she quickly shut it. His wife? Percival had been gone for some time on a trip back East, but no one mentioned he’d gone there to get himself a wife! She tried to hide a smile. Now, perhaps, the scoundrel would leave her alone. Beth wanted nothing to do with the cocky little man, which she’d made clear to him many times.
“You may call me ‘Mrs. Penrose.’” Isabel walked straight toward the back where Beth still stood. She ignored Beth, and instead ran her fingers across the bolts of fabric. They stopped at the very bolt Beth had just put away. Isabel pulled it from the rack and looked at Beth, a wicked little grin on her lips. Light brown curls escaped from Isabel’s hat, but Beth focused on her too-small eyes. They were gray, cold, and unfriendly.
Isabel turned and addressed Mrs. Bartley. “Surely, you have something better than this?” She shook her head distastefully. “This will never do for my style.” She turned toward Percival. “You know I need the finest fabrics like I get back home.”
Percival’s thin lips opened and closed. “Now, now, Isabel. I’m sure Mrs. Bartley can order anything you want.” He looked pleadingly at Mrs. Bartley. “You-you can, can’t you?” He wrung his hands.
Isabel grunted and lifted her chin. “I should hope so, Percival!” Her smug voice almost sounded like a threat. She followed Beth to the front of the store.
The interaction between Percival and his wife had left Mrs. Bartley and Beth speechless. Even old Mrs. Woodrow, who never minced words, stared with mouth agape.
Beth had to get within a couple feet of Percival to grab her basket of eggs, and their eyes met. But in that brief moment, Percival, who seconds before had cowered under his wife’s reproach, now straightened as he looked down at Beth, his eyes dark and sinister. He smiled slowly and licked his lips.
Beth shivered. He was like a little bantam rooster getting ready to jump on her with both spurs. He never let the opportunity pass to let her know he was still angry at her for turning down his advances. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and met his eyes, her composure back in place. She wasn’t going to let him get the best of her. “How is your father doing?”
“Not well,” Isabel said before Percival could answer, her tone much too cheerful for such news. She rolled her eyes. “He’s a little . . . ah, shall I say . . . .” Isabel pointed her index finger near her ear and moved it in circles.
Beth couldn’t help but stare at her. This despicable woman had gall to talk so disrespectfully about her own father-in-law—a man Beth and her mother both dearly loved. Mr. Penrose was nothing like Percival. He’d always been a good friend to Beth and her mother.
Beth had been just five months old when the Civil War broke out. Her father and Mr. Penrose joined the Union war efforts and fought side by side on the battlefields. Sadly, her father had died from taking a musket shot to the chest. Mr. Penrose told Beth’s mother he’d promised her husband he’d watch over her and Beth. When the war was over, that good man returned to the battlefield where Beth’s father had died, retrieved her father’s remains, and brought him home to Esther. This was a luxury not afforded to many thousands of grieving widows who would never know where their husbands’ remains lay.
