Wild Rose

By Laurel June Thompson

The McAlister family story continues with Wild Rose, a sequel to Born for Adversity. McAlister Grange comes to life once more when Rose McAlister, a successful equine veterinarian in Southeastern Pennsylvania, makes a surprising discovery, awakening a new desire to delve into her past through a secret, hidden journal penned by her ancestor over a century before. Wild Rose explores Rose’s journey through the past, while taking some startling and sometimes dangerous turns in her present and future as well. Romance, adventure, heartbreak, sacrifice, and even a mysterious crossover into the Otherworld make for a dynamic and thrilling read, all leading to an epiphany of faith and understanding of what family truly means.

Peek around the corner of time to reach into the lives of generations past, finding that those who have gone before are so much more than a dash between two dates on a gravestone. See how each generation helps to shape the next, both for good and ill, by every decision made, no matter how insignificant a choice it may seem at the time.

Decide if fate or free will is the driving force in life, carving one’s family tree through the centuries into a thriving, towering elm or a stump of deadwood, only good for the fire. See how the families McAlister, O’Donnell, Riley, Campbell, DuBois, Reardon, and Livingston interact and intertwine to culminate in a God-ordained destiny for those who choose to follow His leading—for if one is open to divine guidance, there will be signs; only seek, and ye shall find.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664111301

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Copyright © 2021 by Laurel June Thompson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/22/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

835356

I

dedicate this book to my ancestors and my descendants,

even the children of my line not yet born. Related by love,

by blood, by chance, or by choice, we are one family, tied

together throughout the millennia, unbroken.

Contents

Chapter 1     The Discovery

Chapter 2     The Partnership

Chapter 3     The Pioneers

Chapter 4     The Fiancé

Chapter 5     The New Year

Chapter 6     The Irish Rose

Chapter 7     The Basilica

Chapter 8     Cock-a-leeky Stew

Chapter 9     The Betrayal

Chapter 10   The Shock

Chapter 11   The Bleak Midwinter

Chapter 12   Bygone Tales

Chapter 13   The Rendezvous

Chapter 14   The Vacation

Chapter 15   The Aftermath

Chapter 16   The Warning

Chapter 17   The Gypsy

Chapter 18   Best-laid Plans

Chapter 19   Deep Water

Chapter 20   The Prediction

Chapter 21   The Reef

Chapter 22   The Scheme

Chapter 23   Resolute

Chapter 24   The Mambo

Chapter 25   Reversal of Fortunes

Chapter 26   The Vision

Chapter 27   Spirals

Chapter 28   Absolution

Chapter 29   Star-crossed

Chapter 30   The Law of Threes

Chapter 31   The Reardons

Chapter 32   The Heirloom

Chapter 33   The Conundrum

Chapter 34   The Windfall

Chapter 35   Soul Mates

Chapter 36   Revelation

Chapter 37   Kismet

Chapter 38   Chance of a Lifetime

Chapter 1

The Discovery

S OME TREES SEEM to be aware, even sentient. Ancient roots draw life and memory from their telluric foundation, branches whispering secrets to the soughing breeze. Silent witnesses to generations past, ever vigilant, ever watchful. So it was with the great elm standing guard over McAlister Grange for more than a hundred years.

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Rose McAlister stood upon the large, wraparound front porch of the main house, elbows braced upon the white painted railing, staring at the barren elm presiding over the grange like a sagacious, sylvan lord—a leafless scrim against the indigo twilit sky.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic.

Rose silently pondered the stanza conjured from the image of the elm, remembering the famous Longfellow verse she had memorized in third grade for the school poetry contest. Tell me your secrets. Rose realized she had actually spoken aloud and furtively glanced about to make sure no one had heard.

Her father’s daughter, Rose usually lived in the here and now; practicality and reason ruled her heart and mind. But today her thoughts remained pensive and distant, even fanciful. She gazed upon the huge elm, naked limbs reaching heavenward as if in supplication, so tall and majestic even without its leafy garb. Rose couldn’t help but reflect upon something Granddad Ephraim had told her mother, Lily, years ago before her parents were married:

Lily, my dear, that tree was planted by my grandmother, Rose McAlister, before the turn of the century. She and my grandfather settled this land. Together they cleared the trees, plowed the fields, built the house, and planted that elm sapling in the dooryard to watch over and protect the grange for generations to come. Like many old-world Scots, Granny Rose was something of a mystic, unlike her staid and devout husband, Colin. She maintained the elm would repel evil spirits and likewise ensure healthy offspring, crops, and livestock.

Rose recalled her mother relaying this bit of dubious tree lore while pushing her on the rope and plank swing hanging from one of the elm’s lofty boughs when she had been only six or seven. The swing was long gone, like many others before it. Still, she could almost see it hanging from the thick branch and hear the creak of the ropes as it swayed back and forth in the winter breeze, a ghostly image playing tricks upon her mind.

There you are; I’ve been looking for you. Rose’s fiancé, Richard, sidled up next to her, startling her attention from the esoteric musings. He handed her a cup of orange pekoe tea, steam rising from the mug like a miniature wraith. What are you doing out here? It’s freezing! Richard asked, taking off his jacket and wrapping it securely about Rose’s shoulders.

Oh, nothing. Just thinking about all the people who’ve lived here before us. Did you know Mom was married both times under that tree?

Um, no. I didn’t, Richard responded, unsure where she was headed.

I want us to be married there too, like my parents. Is that okay with you?

Sure, of course. Whatever you want, babe, Richard assured her, happy to agree to anything regarding the wedding.

Thank you, Richard. I love you.

Yeah, love you too. Now let’s go inside where it’s warm. I have to leave tomorrow morning to tend to some end of the year business, but I’m really glad we got to spend Christmas together with your family.

Me too. With a parting glance at the giant elm, its formidable silhouette dissolving into the velvet backdrop of the gathering night, Rose let herself be towed into the house where her mother was handing out slices of pumpkin pie. The spacious living room was aglow with holiday candles and shimmering lights from the Nordic Spruce spangled with ornaments and tinsel, ribbons and colored paper strewn beneath from that morning’s gift opening bacchanalia. Children’s laughter punctuated the adults’ more sedate conversations and Rose’s spirit lightened. She joined the family celebration, galvanizing the festive scene into her memory before it, too, became a part of the eternal past.

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A successful equine veterinarian in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Rose had met and become engaged to Richard Thornton Junior, heir to Thornton Downs, a breeding farm of Thoroughbred racing stock. As often as possible, Rose drove the short distance to her ancestral home of McAlister Grange along the banks of the Susquehanna River where she had grown up and where her mother, Lily, and stepfather, Jesse, still resided. McAlister Grange remained one of Pennsylvania’s few family dairies still thriving in the twenty-first century. Largely owing to Jesse’s commitment to maintaining cutting edge equipment, state of the art facilities, a crack dairy staff, and only allowing prime Holstein milkers on the production line, McAlister Grange rivaled the larger, corporate-owned dairies in efficiency and profit. Moreover, the grange had a reputation for quality products and fair dealing, making Jesse the go-to supplier for many of the state’s grocery chains and restaurants.

Formerly a gifted high school history teacher, Jesse McAlister found he likewise retained the knack of training new stockmen quickly and thoroughly, a duty he gladly inherited from the previous head stockman, Charlie, who had recently retired and moved to Virginia Beach. Jesse’s son, Jack, had returned to the grange for good after achieving his master’s degree from Cornell University in agricultural development. Jack resided in the cottage located on the northern edge of McAlister Grange’s three hundred and forty acres, where he and his father had once lived before Jesse married Lily some five years before. Jesse, at fifty-two years of age, was relieved to make Jack a grange partner, happily surrendering the lion’s share of the farm’s administration to him. With Jack living on the premises, Jesse could devote more time to the hands-on training he loved, teaching the greenhorns and honing the skills of the already expert team of dairymen and farmhands working the grange at peak efficiency.

Though regularly checked by his cardiologist, Jesse had so far manifested none of the telltale signs of the heart disease that had killed his father and brother while they were still in their forties. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, or HCM, could be passed genetically, and the characteristic thickening of the heart muscle usually signaled the victim’s early demise. Jesse, however, seemed to have escaped this fate, unlike his beloved elder brother Jackson—Lily’s first husband and Rose and Violet’s father.

Lily was still lovely at fifty, her once flowing mane of fiery red hair recently cut into a very becoming shoulder-length style. She’d been thrilled with the thought of her daughter’s wedding being held at the grange, just the same as both of Lily’s nuptials, first to Jackson, then to Jesse. Rose’s younger sister Violet had eloped seven years before when she’d left college to marry a New York City pediatrician. She, her husband Nick Dimakos, and their two young sons, Nicky and Adam, visited the grange a few times each year, but Lily had missed not having a proper wedding for Vi. Rose and Richard had announced their engagement at Lily’s 50th birthday dinner the night before on Christmas Eve, 2004. Early the next morning, the whole family together under one roof with Lily’s birthday, the holiday, and the upcoming wedding to celebrate, Lily had invited Rose to accompany her to the attic; she wished to bestow an heirloom she’d carefully saved and preserved for thirty-one years.

In the misty, pale light of the winter dawn, before Violet and Nick’s kids were up yet to see what Santa had brought, Rose and Lily ascended the rickety pull-down steps that led to the large, steeply gabled attic. Lily tugged on the string attached to the light fixture, and an amber glow radiated throughout the upper room, bringing the many boxes, crates of books, old furniture, and other sundry objects into clear view. Motes swirled and danced in their dusty nebulas as Lily proceeded straight to the far corner where an antique footlocker stood against the slanted wall.

A flash of memory quickened, though Lily’s thoughts remained unspoken. It was atop this same chest that she had discovered Jackson’s notebook disclosing his plan to kill himself so long ago. Jackson was Jesse’s older brother, her first love, and the man she had been wife to for twenty-three years. The drama that had unfolded on that erstwhile winter day would remain forever etched in Lily’s memory, but silent and hidden. The truth that had so distressed Rose and Violet’s father was not a thing, he had felt, their daughters needed to know. She would honor his memory by never disclosing what Jackson had called a skeleton that needn’t see the light of day.

Mom, I said what’s in there? Rose repeated a little louder, bringing Lily sharply from her wistful reverie.

Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart; I must have been a million miles away.

It’s okay. What were you thinking about?

Nothing, dear. I haven’t been up here in a while, that’s all. There seem to be some lingering ghosts from the past still haunting this place.

Oh, Mother, really. You’re such a mystic.

Well, let’s open this thing, shall we?

With some tugging and pulling on both their parts, they eventually unlatched the tarnished brass hasp and lifted the heavy lid of the trunk. Inside, wrapped securely in a zipped plastic bag, lay the beautiful wedding gown Lily had worn when she had married Jackson in 1974. Lily’s mother, Bridget Reardon-Livingston, had bought the dress in Bangor, Maine and given it to her only daughter to wear at her nuptials when Lily was only nineteen years of age. The elegant ivory silk gown featured a long flowing skirt, a boat neck trimmed with opalescent lace, and bell-shaped sleeves, the design evocative of a medieval fairy princess. When she drew it from its protective sheath and held it up, Rose gleefully gasped in surprise.

I had no idea you’d kept this up here all these years! It’s simply gorgeous!

I think it will fit you perfectly, Lily responded, delighted with Rose’s ecstatic reaction.

Oh, yes. May I try it on?

Of course, though don’t let Richard see. It’s bad luck, you know.

Rose, practical and logical to the core like her father, just rolled her eyes, too distracted by the wedding dress to dispute her mother’s superstitious remark.

Oh, wait, Rose. Don’t forget the shoes. In the bottom of the trunk lay a shoebox containing a pair of delicate ivory ankle booties adorned with silken ribbon laces.

Oh, Mom, they’re exquisite! Rose gushed as she beheld the matching shoes. I’m so glad we wear the same size!

Me too, honey. I’ve always dreamed one of my daughters would wear this dress on her wedding day. It would be a shame to have such a lovely gown only worn once.

Lily, having removed the dress and the shoebox, started to close the lid of the footlocker when Rose glanced into its interior once more before asking, What’s that?

What’s what? Lily replied, re-opening the chest and peering inside.

Look there. The bottom appears to have a seam, like there’s a hatch or something, observed Rose with her hawk-like vision.

Sure enough, when together they dragged the heavy box closer to the light, they could both see what appeared to be a camouflaged panel in the bottom. With a little gentle pressure, using the flat-bladed screwdriver Rose had fetched from the kitchen drawer in record speed, they were able to pry open the lid in what they then saw was a false bottom. Lily stuck her small hand inside the new aperture and felt around. She drew out a single item secretly stashed away for untold years, its owner long since dead and gone.

When they unfolded the oilskin wrapping, they discovered a thick, parchment-leafed booklet, leather bound, with a rawhide string tied roundabout. Curiosity overwhelmed the two women, the silk dress momentarily forgotten. They stepped closer to the attic’s single light source, and without a word Lily gently untied the aged and brittle cord. The book was a journal, its first page displaying faded black ink in a neat, feminine script. In the top right-hand corner, the date of 3 Apr 1890 began the following entry:

Took ship today from harbor at Glasgow. Seas are rough, but captain assures us safe passage. Since I have ne’re been far from home, I dinnae ken what to expect. Colin has high hopes for our new life in America. Many goodly friends have hitherto made the journey and sent reports of a rich country, fertile and open to settlers. ’Twas with a heavy heart I bid farewell to Mam, Da, and wee Casey. May never see kith nor kin again. But my place is with my husband, and he is my kin now.

Did you know about this, Mom? Rose inquired, amazed at the find they had discovered hidden in the farmhouse attic.

No, I never knew it existed. Must be the memoirs of your great-great-grandmother, Rose McAlister. Your father told me that she and her husband Colin came over from Scotland in the late nineteenth century, settled this land, and had six sons, but I never knew much more than that. How wonderful to have a record of her experiences!

May I read this first, Mom? Rose asked, gently flipping through the many delicate pages, all filled with handwritten text in the same faded lettering. I am her namesake, after all, and I can’t wait to get a glimpse into her life and everything that happened to her.

"Of course, Rose. Keep it as long as you like. I will read through it later. She is your ancestor, not mine. Now we’d best get downstairs; the boys will wake up any minute to see what goodies Santa has brought!"

Oh, and Mom, let’s not tell anyone about this yet. I want it to be our secret for a few days, okay?

Of course, dear. I understand.

Rose gazed reverently at the antique journal in her hand, then re-wrapped it in the frayed oilskin and carefully brought it from the attic, along with her mother’s wedding gown, into her old room in the downstairs wing of the house.

Rose hadn’t mentioned the discovery of the diary to anyone that day, not even Richard. She inexplicably wished to privately cherish the preserved familial record as hers alone, just for a little while. That night, after the excitement of gift-opening and feasting had finally concluded, Rose kissed Richard goodnight and retired to her childhood bedroom with a large mug of mulled wine to gently open the old, leather-bound diary. So bewitched by the sacred entries in the hand of her great-great-grandmother, Rose remained riveted to the fragile parchment pages that revealed an otherwise forgotten past, the scenes vividly unfurling inside her imagination as she read the beautifully penned lines within the old relic.

4 Apr 1890

Second day at sea and beginning to feel ill. We docked in Dublin last night to take on cargo and a few passengers. Heading into north Atlantic; seas still choppy with high winds aboveboard. Colin bid me lay quiet in our steerage berth whilst he seems as easy on the plunging, swaying deck as the crew, though he has spent nary a day at sea afore. I’d think him a selkie if I dinnae ken better. His spirits are high, though I admit mine are somewhat more circumspect. Will write more later. My stomach churns and I feel faint. Must rest now.

6 Apr 1890

Feeling much improved today. Yesterday took air aboveboard with Colin and met young Irish lady of some standing. She boarded in Dublin with manservant and two immense wolfhounds she treats like bairns. Her name is Mistress O’Donnell, and she invited me to tea in her cabin. Though very bonnie and a woman of obvious means, she doesnae exude the lofty airs of most ladies of her station. We have become friendly, and the tea was extraordinary. Much finer than the fare of parritch, fish soup, and biscuits in steerage. Seems she is recently wed and her husband, already established in New York, has sent for her. I wished to ask his trade but thought it impolite, so did not.

7 Apr 1890

Today captain offered Mistress O’Donnell, along with Colin and me as her guests, a tour of the ship. Its moniker of RMS Columbia Rose is after owner’s daughter. I reckon ’tis a propitious auger. Learned cargo is mostly overseas mail, cattle, sheep, and whisky, returning with cotton, tobacco, and barrels of an indigenous sweetener called maple syrup from New England. Captain urges us to try this on our morning parritch; claims it to be most tasty.

Weather much improved with light wind and sunshine. Sea is fair and calm. Mistress O’Donnell asked me to call her by her Christian name, Alicia. I responded in kind.

9 Apr 1890

Sighted icebergs today. Weather is cold and rainswept. Stayed below deck yesterday and today. Alicia invited Colin and me for supper. Looking forward to a savory repast. Wolfhounds (named Eremon and Eber Finn) snarled at Colin but allowed me to stroke their shaggy heads. I find them to be noble creatures. Captain expects us to make port three days hence. I shall be sorely grateful for landfall. Learned Alicia is same age as I, both born in October 1871. Hope we may remain friends in America. She divulged her husband is a banker.

10 Apr 1890

Sighted pilot dolphins off port bow today whilst taking air aboveboard. I believe this bodes well for safe landing. Weather has cleared, though bitter cold yet. Alicia and I spent all last evening in her small but well-appointed second-class cabin knitting scarves for our husbands. She gave me a wee nip of sherry afore I left. I shan’t tell Colin. He wouldnae approve. I like Alicia very much.

12 Apr 1890

Voyage nigh complete. Expect to dock late this afternoon. I feel anxious. Colin is uncharacteristically exuberant, his usual reserve overshadowed by his passionate desire to start our lives in America. Hope money is sufficient to stake a proper claim in Pennsylvania, our ultimate destination. If only enough to purchase sylvan land, Colin declares we needs must clear acreage ourselves. Much work ahead I fear. Hope to be ready for stock by summer next.

20 Apr 1890

Remained one week in NY as Mister O’Donnell and Alicia’s guests. Mister O’Donnell met us at disembarkment and assisted with progress through immigration depot at Castle Garden. Never have I beheld such a township. So many smartly dressed people and carriages rushing hither and thither; some buildings several stories high! Alicia’s husband is a somewhat portly gentleman and a goodly bit older than she but mannerly, intelligent, and kind. Mister O’Donnell owns what is termed a brownstone residence in a district called Inwood in upper Manhattan. Alicia seemed somewhat underwhelmed with her elegant new home; I dinnae ken why, for ’tis luxury itself. I feel honored to have shared her first week in our new country of America.

Colin and Mister O’Donnell (Liam, he insisted we call him) get on well. In point of fact, Liam, being acquainted with matters of finance and the current land market in Pennsylvania, provided Colin with the name of a reputable land agent at Wright’s Ferry. There we may purchase a parcel, once inhabited by the now vacated Conestoga Indians, adjacent to the Susquehanna River.

According to Liam, the acreage, though wooded and in need of partial clearing, is fertile and should be priced more affordably than anticipated. He offered Colin a letter of reference to show land agent. How fortunate for us to have made such goodly and helpful friends. We board the train for Harrisburg, Penn. upon the morrow. Colin says there we shall purchase a rig and supplies for last leg of our long journey.

I shall miss Alicia. She bestowed to me a silver locket containing a strand of her bonnie red hair as a token of our friendship. Her generosity caused me to weep. I wish I had a gift for her but alas, no money for such. Thanked God for safe voyage and supplicating Him for remainder of journey. Weather is fair. Hopes are high.

Here, at last, in the small hours of the morning, Rose reluctantly put down the journal and switched off the bedside lamp. She lay still in the winter darkness, the large house enveloped in a somnolent hush, wondering whatever had become of the locket.

Chapter 2

The Partnership

R OSE RETURNED TO her single-story bungalow on the morning of December 29 th , located behind the Lancaster Equine Veterinary Hospital where she worked as one of two horse vets. Gazing trance-like through the rain-spattered windshield, wipers gliding back and forth rhythmically like a metronome, she made her way home by pure instinct, distracted by her ancestress’ story penned over a century before. Nestled in the trunk of her late model, moss green Chevy Impala lay the backpack filled with the few personal belongings she had brought home for the Christmas holiday, her mother’s wedding dress and shoes, carefully wrapped and boxed, and her great-great grandmother’s journal swaddled in one of Lily’s old woolen shawls.

Rose had read no more from the memoirs during her stay at McAlister Grange. Her busy schedule at the veterinary hospital allowed only occasional trips to the grange, and she hadn’t wanted to miss out on precious time spent with her mom and Jesse, her cousin Jack, and her sister’s family for the few days they could share together. She’d decided not to rush through reading more of the journal at night before bed, when she was really too tired to concentrate, but instead to wait until she returned home to Lancaster. Then she would be at leisure to read it slowly and methodically, to galvanize into her mind the imagery and experiences leaping from each page.

She pulled into the narrow gravel drive, still ruminating upon the chain of events that drove Rose and Colin McAlister, ages eighteen and twenty-two, from their Scottish homeland to brave a strange, new world across the sea. Remembering herself and her friends at that age, carefree college undergrads with no more responsibility than cramming for the next exam and making sure the dorm didn’t run out of toilet paper, it was difficult to envision such a young couple enduring the hardships born of carving out a life for themselves so far from the safety and familiarity of home and family. The new perspective Rose had gleaned so far through those aged and faded parchment pages caused her to dwell upon the raw courage and stubborn determination it had required for her great-great-grandparents to have laid, through sheer force of will, the foundation for a new life as landowners and farmers for the benefit of generations to come.

Bolting through the cat door, Mouser greeted Rose with repetitive meows of glee as she climbed from the car and opened the trunk to retrieve her stuff and bring it into the small house. The big orange and white tabby whom she had rescued as an abandoned kitten, half-starved and left upon the clinic’s doorstep in a rusty bucket, weaved in and out of her legs almost causing her to trip and fall, off-balance as she was toting her purse, luggage, and the large box containing her bridal garments. The wool-ensconced journal had been tucked under her arm as she fumbled with her house keys, all the while shoving the caterwauling feline gently out of the way with her foot.

Her mood still pensive, she unburdened herself of her parcels, laying the journal down delicately upon the living room coffee table. Mouser’s vociferations subsided into a loud purr as Rose reached down to scratch him behind the ears, absently murmuring repentant endearments in way of redress for her time away. Upon entering the kitchen, she could see his food bowl was half full of kibble, and fresh water filled another bowl upon a vinyl mat beside the stove. Her business partner and long-time friend from grad school, Dr. Camille Boyd, had once again proved a reliable caretaker of her pets when Rose was out of town. Her tank replete with tropical fish also appeared well and healthy as she absently sprinkled in a pinch of fish food, the aquatic inhabitants eagerly rushing toward the floating flakes in a finned frenzy.

As arranged, Camille had brought in the daily mail and deposited it in an untidy jumble on the kitchen counter. Rose riffled through it, separating junk from bills and an assortment of Christmas cards, unceremoniously tossing the former into the trash. Then after putting the expected bills in a pile for later payment, she grabbed a Coke from the fridge and settled onto the overstuffed sofa, followed by Mouser who promptly curled up on her lap like a furry cinnamon roll. Propping her feet comfortably upon the hassock, Rose began opening the several holiday greeting cards mailed from friends and relatives.

As she popped open the aluminum soda can, two short raps on the front door before it opened heralded Camille’s unannounced arrival, interrupting Rose’s perusal of the festive cards.

You know, Rose, you really should lock up when you’re here alone, Camille’s voice lightly rebuked as she entered the living room and made herself at home in the recliner. Mouser opened one gimlet blue eye in acknowledgment of the familiar visitor before resuming his catnap. Welcome home, sweetie. Did you have a nice visit?

Rose ignored Camille’s reprimand about leaving her door unsecured and cut right to the chase, her silent thoughts brimming to be shared at last. Yeah, it was really great. And you’ll never guess! Mom and I found an old journal in the attic written by my great-great grandmother, also named Rose McAlister! It’s the most amazing story. I can’t get it out of my head.

No kidding, replied Camille, bereft of the proper enthusiasm Rose thought she ought to have displayed. Well, I really missed you at the practice, she went on, disappointingly changing the subject to shop talk. The Caldwells’ mare foaled early while you were gone. I sure could’ve used an extra hand. It was a hard delivery. But all’s well that ends well; they ended up with a fine, healthy colt. And I billed them a little extra for the trouble on a holiday weekend; they can afford it, as you know.

Oh, that’s nice, Rose responded, feeling a little annoyed to have her attention abruptly returned to work. All she really wanted was to delve into her ancestress’ past more thoroughly, to immerse herself in the forgotten memories of her long-dead flesh and blood.

What’s this? asked Camille, spying the large box lying on the floor in the entryway and rising from her chair to inspect it before waiting for an answer.

It’s my mom’s wedding dress from when she married my dad. The mention of her father, who had died prematurely from a genetic heart disease over seven years before when Rose was in college, twisted her innards painfully, like an embedded shard of glass that still festered, even after so long. She missed him, especially now, with her wedding looming on the horizon. How she wished he could walk her down the aisle, kiss her cheek, and speak those time-honored words of response, Her mother and I do. She knew Jesse, her uncle and stepfather, would happily do the honors; he had stepped into his elder brother’s shoes in so many ways, she reflected without bitterness. Jesse was a good man, he made her mother happy, he ran the grange successfully, and he had always treated her and her sister with sincere avuncular affection. But he wasn’t her dad.

All this passed through Rose’s mind while Camille held up Lily’s vintage ivory silk wedding dress, apparently admiring its delicate beauty before replacing it inside its plastic wrappings. So cool you can fit into your mom’s dress. I bet she’s thrilled to see it passed down, finally.

Camille’s reference to Rose’s near miss at spinsterhood was not lost on her. Further peeved to be reminded she would turn thirty just days after her wedding, she sarcastically shot back, We can’t all be child-brides, you know. She rose from the sofa, displacing the cat from his contented slumber, and strode into the kitchen, sharply slapping down the pile of Christmas cards on the coffee table as she went. Camille, married for almost ten years to her college sweetheart, had been doggedly aware of Rose’s biological clock over the years, forever setting her up with eligible client’s sons or neighboring young businessmen in the market for a wife.

Rose had finally put a stop to it some two years before in a heated argument after reluctantly having dinner with one of Camille’s male candidates for the perfect spouse. Her date, a tall young man with dark, slicked back hair and mannerisms that belied his claims of lonely bachelorhood, had tried to imply Rose owed him more than a goodnight kiss after such an expensive meal. His rakish charm had failed, though, and Rose sent him packing after a stinging slap across his smooth-shaven, handsome face. She wasn’t one to put up with that kind of crap, recalling his unsolicited advances in the form of his hand suddenly sliding up the inside of her skirt. She’d had to stop herself from spitting toward the taillights of his garish sports car, a most unladylike urge, that had peeled out of her driveway and swerved down the street in humiliated retreat.

Thereafter, Camille had reluctantly desisted foisting men upon Rose, contenting herself with subtle innuendo in regards to Rose’s antiquity whenever the opportunity presented itself. At last, Rose had met Richard while working a protracted case at the Thornton family’s estate, much to the elation of Camille, who had nearly given up hope of her friend and partner’s prospects for domestic bliss.

Why can’t she mind her own damn business, Rose thought, not for the first time, bewildered once more by Camille’s obsession with her love life.

Camille, slightly plump but very pretty with dark blond hair and hazel eyes, was the same age as Rose and had been her best friend since their first day of graduate school at the Cornell College of Veterinary Medicine. Upon receiving their DVM degrees, they had decided to go in together on a business loan and buy out the former owner and practitioner of The Lancaster Equine Veterinary Hospital, one Doc Chester, who at that time was conveniently retiring from his thirty plus years as the premier horse vet in the region. Camille and Rose were subsequently greeted by Doc Chester’s extensive list of clients—from wealthy breeders of show and racing stock right down to the more impecunious families owning one or two ponies for their kids to ride—with outright suspicion.

It was only after Rose and Camille saved the Triple Crown winner Diamond Gem, a magnificent bay Thoroughbred gelding in his racing prime, from colic—often a death sentence regardless of treatment—that word of mouth finally spread throughout the local equine community, endorsing the new young female vets as competent to treat their beloved and valuable animals. Thereafter, both women enjoyed an affability and respect from their customers that only grew with their ensuing successes in the field. Nearly three years had passed since starting the practice, and already they were well on their way to paying off the business loan, a profound accomplishment for two women not yet thirty years of age.

Since Camille was married with two kids, a boy and a girl, Rose resided alone in the bungalow behind the clinic. She could have afforded more expensive digs, but the convenience made it worthwhile to avoid commuting, and really, she didn’t require anything fancy for just her and Mouser to live comfortably. Raised at McAlister Grange, Rose was accustomed to livestock and content with a simple, rural life. She had practically grown up riding horses, learning as much or more about their husbandry, illnesses, and cures from time spent peering over the vet’s shoulder as she had in school. Horses were in her blood, and being book-smart with an almost eidetic memory, she had sailed through university with relative ease.

In fact, Camille oft remarked upon the unfairness of Rose having it all, beauty and brains, when she’d had to sacrifice so much just to scrape by. Rose knew better, though, and dismissed her razzing with a knowing shrug; Camille was brilliant in her own right and a well-matched and qualified business partner and friend. Iron sharpens iron, Rose frequently quoted in the midst of a difficult case, when both Rose and Camille would put their heads together to brainstorm and finally come up with a viable course of treatment for one of their horsey patients.

Usually a single-minded workaholic, Rose found herself for the first time resisting the call of duty to return to her veterinary routine. Camille continued to rattle off the litany of happenings while Rose had been on holiday at the grange, with only a slight tenor of rebuke embedded beneath her recitation of the list of calls to which Camille had attended, unaided. At last, Camille, noting the lack of attention by her friend and colleague as revealed by Rose’s perfunctory responses of yeah and okay, then, cut short her diatribe to say, Hey, what’s your deal? before adding indulgently, I guess you’re distracted by the wedding plans, is that it?

I’m sorry, Cam. Yeah, that’s it; the wedding.

In truth, the wedding was the furthest thing from Rose’s mind at the moment. She loved Richard and was happy to be settling down at last, but she didn’t spare a thought for the details of the upcoming event. It would be a small ceremony held at the grange, a family tradition, and she was sure Vi could handle all the minutiae of the planning.

Violet, her vivacious, red-haired younger sister and matron of honor, had eloped after two years at NYU and was presently pregnant with their third child. Despite her delicate condition and in addition to caring for Nick and their two boys, Vi enthusiastically had enlisted to produce the wedding, much to Rose’s relief. Somehow Violet managed to admirably balance her homemaking responsibilities, volunteer work at New York City homeless shelters, and the duties of a busy pediatrician’s wife. Still, she did not hesitate to eagerly take on the additional functions related to being Rose’s matron of honor, extraordinaire. This was fun for her. Rose recognized her sister’s ability and propensity to perform as an amazing, multi-tasking genius, and after gratefully accepting her offer and happily giving Vi free rein for the total takeover of the nuptials, she had put the whole affair out of her mind.

But now something else had captured Rose’s attention—the journal. Never before sparing much thought for her familial roots, discovering the first Rose McAlister’s memoirs suddenly and surprisingly stirred up latent feelings of curiosity and wonder about her heritage. She felt somehow connected to this long-ago relation whom she had never met. Rose inexplicably believed they shared something more than a name. Akin to déjà vu, she could almost visualize the thread weaving together the tapestries of their respective destinies, a lifeline transcending time, space, and even death. Not normally given to such paranormal fancies, Rose couldn’t seem to shake her obsession, and after Camille finally took her leave with another word of welcome back and a jaunty wave, she picked up the old leather diary and settled in for another indulgent read.

Chapter 3

The Pioneers

23 Apr 1890

Enjoyed train ride from NY to Harrisburg immensely! Countryside wild and beautiful with such abundance of trees! Harrisburg is large with several steelworks, Colin informed me, when I asked about the factories. We are biding at boarding house near the depot. $1.75 per day for room and bath, including a meal of meat stew and barley bread, forbye. Landlady a kind Scots woman from Aberdeen. Room simple, but clean.

25 Apr 1890

Purchased wagon and team today. Livery had several dray horses for sale and a previously owned Conestoga wagon