The Enterprising Bride: The Masons of Brightfield

By Claire Sanders

It's finally John Mason's turn to secure the love he found with Rosalind Walker. John is a cautious man. He's been putting off getting married until everything is perfect. But his fiancee has different ideas. She's started a business growing and selling flowers to local florists. She's ready to expand her operation, but she needs John to finalize wedding plans before she can increase her profit.

 

Their relationship is already strained when Rosalind's girlhood love returns to Brightfield. Patrick Montgomery is financially secure, young, and handsome. His renewed interest in Rosalind is enough to make John's blood boil. But is it enough to make him finally act?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claire Sanders
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201292591

Book preview

For Tyler:  I’m glad you’re part of our family.

CHAPTER ONE

FROM HIS PERCH ATOP the hay mower, John Mason examined the cloudless summer sky that stretched above him. He breathed deeply, taking in the fresh smells of clean earth and healthy crops. How he loved this land. His father and grandfather had farmed the one hundred fifty acres, and John would be the next. As he listened to the rusty-hinged songs of red-winged blackbirds, he smiled to himself. The little thieves would be feasting in his wheat field soon, and although other farmers considered the birds to be pests, John didn’t begrudge the pittance they took from his harvest. We’re helping the Lord feed his creatures, his mother had told him when he’d been little more than a boy. Since then, he’d considered the loss a kind of tithe. He could share his bounty with wild creatures and still have enough to make a profit at harvest time.

John scanned the alfalfa field. The morning breeze rippled the seed heads, causing them to sway like dancers in the field. John had tilled the soil, planted the seeds, and worried over the plants for months. Now, as he prepared to make the first cutting, he remembered to offer thanks for the healthy crop. The health of his horses depended on adequate forage.

If the weather held, he should be able to cut the entire field in one day. One day to cut, one day to dry, and one day to gather. A farmer’s life revolved around the weather. Sometimes he prayed for rain to nourish the crops. Other days, he prayed to protect his harvest from hail or tornadoes. John loved being a farmer but hated how unpredictable it could be. No matter how hard he worked, he could lose everything due to the fickle market, or disease, or drought, or flood, or...

He shook his head as if to banish the dark thoughts. He had to do the work no matter what the weather had in store. He lowered the mowing apparatus and directed his horses into the field. As the triangular sickles cut through the crop, the pungent, earthy scent of alfalfa enveloped him in an invisible cloud of freshness. It was the smell of summer.

Autumn brought the scents of wood smoke and apples, and spring produced the aromas of wildflowers and freshly turned soil. But summer brought baseball. His whole family loved the game, and, as the catcher for the Brightfield Bobcats, he could hardly wait for the first game of the season. This year, his team had more to prove than usual. At the end of twelve weeks, the two teams with the best records would square off to determine the championship. It had always been the Bobcats and the Green Stockings, and John’s team had always placed second.

Until last year.

Last year, the Bobcats had won the Town League Championship.

John and his teammates were determined to finish in first place again this year. That would put an end to the talk of flukes and lucky breaks, and worst of all, the gibe that his sister had won the game for the Bobcats.

His sister!

John reached the end of the field and turned the team to make a return sweep. He had practice tonight, and he’d invited Rosalind to meet him at the ballpark. Two things to look forward to — baseball and his fiancée. Rosalind was sweetness and loveliness and kindness all wrapped into one beautiful girl. He’d been so nervous when he’d proposed last year, but she’d looked past his stuttered speech and seen into his heart. Thank goodness she’d agreed to marry him. Someday they’d live in their own house and the farm would be his. Neither one of his brothers had wanted a farmer’s life, and his sister, Abigail, lived in town with her husband. When the time came, he and Rosalind would have the land for themselves. She was a farmer’s daughter, so she knew what to expect. There would be long days and hard work, but they would be together.

If only his sister would stop pushing him about the date of his wedding. Rosalind understood his need to wait. When he had enough money in the bank to tide them over in case disaster struck, he and Rosalind would sit down and decide when and where they’d get married. Another good year, or two, and he’d have enough. Then he’d feel secure enough to take on the added responsibilities of a wife and the children that would follow.

John chided himself for allowing his thoughts to wander to the topic of children. He was a patient man – all farmers were – but choosing to delay his wedding also meant he had to leash his desires. Until Rosalind was his wife, he was restricted to kisses and embraces, and he took every chance he had to enjoy those. But crossing that boundary had serious consequences.

All he needed were two profitable years. Then he’d be ready and anxious to meet her at the altar.

ROSALIND WALKER REMOVED her gardening gloves and stretched her arms above her head. Roses of every color lifted their feminine scent into the summer breeze. Cheerful zinnias, dahlias, and lilies filled buckets of water at her feet. The Brightfield florist had doubled his order in preparation for upcoming weddings, but Rosalind wasn’t complaining. She’d just doubled her profit for the week. She straightened her spine and filled her lungs with summer air. Her business had grown faster than she’d ever imagined. If her father would give her more land, she could expand her business to more of the florists in nearby Greenville. But her father had made it quite clear he had no plans to indulge her hobby by sacrificing more of his valuable acreage.

Rosalind’s anger rose like mercury in a thermometer every time her father used that word. Hobby? Flowers were her business. Since leaving home was an impossibility and attending college was beyond her parents’ imagination, she’d had no way to make her own money except to go into business for herself. A neglected greenhouse had sparked the idea, and her father had grudgingly agreed to replace the broken glass panes. The rest, however, had been up to her.

She’d taught herself how to repair the existing shelves and how to build new ones. She’d transformed parts of a broken fence into three-sided bins for compost and had filled every suitable pot she could find with rich topsoil from the farm. She’d always helped her mother in the kitchen garden, but she’d known little about flowers. What a relief it had been to discover plants were more alike than different. She’d collected seeds, bulbs, and cuttings from every gardener in Brightfield, and had spent the first winter nursing the seedlings like a mother with a newborn.

When her plants had finally been strong enough to move to the plot of land her father had given her, the first spring had been a time to celebrate each bloom, to weep over plants that failed, and to learn. Bit by bit, her greenhouse collection had grown until she had enough flowers to sell at the weekly Farmers’ Market in town. Those bouquets had caught the attention of the Brightfield florist. Now, in her third year of business, she was ready for a larger greenhouse and an acre of land.

Rosalind hoped John would support her dreams of expanding the business. The Masons had more acreage than her father, so asking John for two acres – one for the greenhouse and one for the outdoor plot – shouldn’t be a problem. She hadn’t spoken to him about her plans, and a wedding date hadn’t been determined, but her goal was to sell her flowers to all the florists in the county. And after cornering the market in the county, she’d expand to the regional counties, and the entire state, and...

A soft laugh rose from her throat. Rosalind Walker, queen of the flower growers. She may as well buy a crown. Shaking her head in self-mockery, she hoisted the buckets into the wagon bed and walked toward the barn. As soon as she hitched the mare to the wagon, she’d drive into town, deliver her flowers, and pick up her payment. Her bank account was growing as well as her flowers. When her wedding day finally came, she wouldn’t be a penniless bride, totally dependent on her husband.

It was time to pin down a date for that wedding. Her business needed John’s support, and although he knew she sold bouquets at the Farmers’ Market, she’d never shared her dreams for expansion. She could use her funds to build a larger greenhouse on the Mason farm, but she needed at least an acre if she wanted to sell to all the florists in the county. She’d see John at tonight’s baseball practice. That would be a perfect time to talk to him about their wedding and her plans.

THE BRIGHTFIELD BASEBALL field had been readied for the new season. The grass had been cut, the chalk lines redrawn, and the scoreboard repainted. John stood at home plate, hands perched on hips, and surveyed the players who would make up this year’s team. His brother, Andrew, fielded a ground ball and threw it to second base. Andrew always had been an exceptional shortstop who could move with almost balletic grace on the field, and he hadn’t lost any of his skill during the off season.

His brother, George, however, lumbered onto the field, dropped a fly ball he should have caught, and batted as if he’d been wearing blinders. George was a reliable power hitter, but his skills were not as good as they’d been last summer.

The team’s pitcher ambled toward him. Nothing wrong with your arm, John commented. Your curveball is a thing of beauty.

Benjamin Connor grinned at the compliment. I had nine months to rest. The only time I pitched was on Sunday afternoons when we played on your family’s diamond.

John’s heart warmed as he recalled those family games. Shortly after Andrew and Abigail had been born, his father had leveled a plot of land to create a playing field. Even now the family would gather after Sunday lunch for a modified game. Those games were usually your wife’s idea.

Benjamin nodded in agreement. There’s no denying Abigail loves baseball. It’s a shame she couldn’t find enough interest to create a women’s team. Most of the ladies thought she was crazy for asking.

Surely you’ve learned by now my sister is crazy.

Benjamin studied John for a few seconds. Since my wife is your sister, I’m going to ignore that insult. Besides, you’re baseball crazy yourself.

Guilty as charged.

Benjamin leaned his head toward the bleachers. I see Rosalind came to watch practice.

Yep. I’ll take her home when we’re finished here.

Everything all right in your love life?

John looked askance at his brother-in-law. Abigail often pestered him about Rosalind, but it was unusual for Benjamin to encroach on such a personal matter. Why are you asking?

No special reason, Benjamin answered with a one-shoulder shrug. I noticed how touchy you’ve been whenever Abigail asks you about it, and I thought —

Everything’s fine, John interrupted. Nothing for you or my pesky little sister to worry about.

The look Benjamin gave him was both friendly and cautionary. Be careful how you talk about my wife. She’s concerned about you, and from what I’ve seen, she has a reason to be.

John considered Benjamin’s gentle reprimand. They’d been friends and teammates for many years, and, although he didn’t like to admit it, Benjamin was probably right. John had been surly.

Before John could reply, the team’s manager, Amos Peterson, blew a whistle and gestured for the team to gather around him. When all eleven players had assembled, Amos stuck his hands in his back pockets and frowned. Well now, it seems I may need to bring an oil can to Saturday’s game. Most of you are mighty rusty!

The men chuckled and elbowed each other.

We’re up against the Clinton Chargers this week. Just ‘cause we beat ‘em last year is no promise we’ll win this year. You’ve got three days to work on your skills. I hope some of you will get together and practice a bit more.

Lester Reed, one of