Red Rose County - A Novella

By Sarah Jane North

Seek, and ye shall find.

Cate is a young woman with her future all planned out, right down to the colour of the roses at her forthcoming fairytale wedding.

When things fall apart at the last moment, she flees to a small town in Lancashire, but soon learns that if you don't face your problems, they keep following.

Zach has his own demons. He knows he can't even talk about them, or risk destroying his new future. As love blossoms with Cate, he questions his own motives, and is forced to make the hardest decision of his life. There can be no compromise between love and duty.

But with grace, can another way be found?

This is a novella of 25,000 words - just under half the length of a regular novel, written to be a quick and satisfying read. It has Christian themes of faith, hope and love. It is a standalone novella with a complete ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Jane North
• Release date: Sep 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502230843

Sarah Jane North

Sarah Jane North is a wife, step-mother, Quaker, and Lancashire lass through and through. She lives in an old stone house (cold - but pretty!) with stunning views of the West Pennine Moors. She's a homemaker-in-potential, with more books on making preserves than actual completed jars of jelly. She enjoys gardening, knitting, and a slower pace of life.  

Book preview

Author's note

I am a British author and my stories are set in North West England. Therefore my characters use UK spelling and punctuation. My editor is also British. International readers may find the spelling unfamiliar (colour for color, for example) but please be assured these are just variations of the English language!

This is a faith-based novella with a non-denominational view of Christianity.

This is a standalone novella of 25,000 words (about half of a standard novel) set in the same community as the Red Rose County Series. Sign up to my mailing list at http://eepurl.com/2Hx4v or visit sarahjanenorth.com to find out more!

Chapter One

––––––––

It was hardly Cardiff.

Cate had had one glass of red wine - large, spicy and rich, just like her preferred men, she'd joked - and now she was drinking a lime and lemonade. Thursday night was pub quiz night at The White Hare, apparently. Half of the busy village pub was given over to small groups huddling around tables, pretending not to be using their smartphones to search for the answers online.

Allan looked at his watch. I'm sorry, Cate. I've got a heap of marking I haven't done yet. I'm going to have to go.

It's okay. No one in here looks remotely like they're about to pounce on me. More's the pity. Still, it's busier than I expected it to be.

The barmaid, a back-combed beehive towering about her youthful face, grinned as she pulled a pint near where Cate and Allan were standing. There's nothing else to do around here, you know, she said, her Lancashire accent broad and warm.

There's always Church, Allan said, aiming his remark at the barmaid. She stuck her tongue out at Allan and he laughed at her. One day, he said. "One day. Anyway, Cate. Can I walk you home?"

What? she said with an inelegant snort. The remark about Church had caught her off-guard. She was here to escape all that. Those well-meaning lies and those two-faced people. She didn't know what Allan had meant but she got the feeling he was teasing the barmaid in a long-running private joke. She shook her head. No, thanks all the same. I'll finish my drink and stay for a bit.

Will you be all right?

I am pretty sure I can find my way home after one glass of wine! I've lived here four weeks now, and it's so small I knew my way around as soon as I looked out my front door. But thanks. Go on with you, now.

Allan hesitated, but he glanced at his watch again, and grimaced. Okay then.

She watched him go. The barmaid had a moment of peace, and was wiping up some spills with a towel. You're not from some remote Welsh village, then? she asked.

Everyone thought that, as if Wales was nothing but isolated farms and very worried sheep. No. Cardiff. You know, the capital city? We've got running water and even electricity now.

The barmaid flashed her a direct glare, and Cate felt awful immediately. No doubt the young woman was used to dealing with idiotic comments, but there was no reason for Cate to be nasty. I am sorry, she said, straight away. I'm tired and new here and... oh, loads of really bad excuses.

Don't worry about it. Want another? She nodded to Cate's now-empty glass. I'm Harriet, by the way.

Cate. Thanks. I don't know... go on, then. A small red wine. Same as before - but smaller this time.

Harriet filled up the glass and smiled. I did like your phrase about rich and spicy men. Single, then? Allan is...

Oh goodness me - thank you. Yes, single, and happily so. But her right hand crept over her left, and touched the empty space on her finger. "Allan is lovely, and has taken me under his wing at work. But I'm off men. Totally. For ever."

Oh, they all say that, Harriet said, rolling her eyes. She was called over to serve someone at the far end of the bar, and Cate let out a stifled sigh. There was no surer way of advertising you were fresh out of a bad love affair by declaring you were off men.

She absorbed herself for a moment in the sights and sounds of the pub. Yes, it was hardly Cardiff - the accents were different, the range of guest beers unfamiliar, and the décor in the pub lacked the usual red-dragon motif of the more nationalist pubs in the principality. Instead, there were red roses everywhere - the symbol of Lancashire, and there was just as much local pride as she was used to, back home. In Cardiff, she'd been fiercely Welsh. But here in England, these people didn't shout about being English. They were Lancashire Folk, and woe betide anyone who mistook their accent for Yorkshire.

Harriet had finished serving, and began to stack the dishwasher that nestled under the bar. Cate swung her legs idly, kicking against the tall bar stool she was perched atop. The red wine was slipping down far too easily. Since coming to Barlby, she'd found herself drinking more at home than she'd ever done, and that was part of the reason she'd asked her workmate Allan to show her the pub. It felt better to drink in company.

Better still not to drink at all, her conscience told her, but she shrugged at it. Hey, I've a broken heart, it's what we do to drown our sorrows, yeah?

Harriet stood up and wiped her hands, but her attention was fixed over Cate's shoulder. Her expression changed from her usual pleasant welcoming smile, to something darker. And wolfishly appreciative. Her eyes narrowed but her smile widened. Hello, there. What can I get you?

Cate turned, and stared, and tried not to stare, and then gave up, and stared a bit more.

Now this was a man. Forget your pleasant work colleague with the sensible shoes. Forget the boy-next-door. Forget ... Owen.

Here was a man worth getting into trouble with, she thought, and quashed down her conscience again, before it could pipe up with a note of caution. Shut up!

He met her gaze. His eyes were dark brown, and his hair almost black, and shoulder-length, tied back roughly with a strip of thin leather. He wore ripped denims, and a white t-shirt that didn't so much clothe his lean body as accentuate it.

Had some movie star come to town, she thought. His face was thin, and his cheeks slightly lined and weathered; was he as old as his skin said, or as young as his eyes suggested? Anywhere from mid-twenties to late thirties, she thought, but his confidence is towards the upper end.

Hi there. His accent wasn't local and he didn't speak to Harriet as if he knew her; everyone