Read Online Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel by Jannifer Chiaverini - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jannifer Chiaverini
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long dark hair in front of her cheeks with her fingers, concealing her injuries, praying that the few passersby would be too absorbed in their gaiety to notice her. The sight of a woman with a bruised and battered face sitting in a car full of children downtown on a rainy Saturday night would surely linger in their memories should anyone come around asking questions later.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for Lars, but apprehension and dread kept her on edge. She had come to realize that John was not the only man who might be looking for her. The deputies who had searched the farm after John’s arrest—surely they would have questions for the gunman’s wife. They might assume she was John’s accomplice and arrest her too. How could she prove she had not known her husband had become involved with bootleggers? Who would believe her? And what if the money she had taken was not John’s payment for services rendered, but part of the cache itself? What if she hadstolen from the mob? Gangsters wouldn’t care that the police would have confiscated the valises anyway if she had not taken them. They wouldn’t care that she had meant to take John’s money, not theirs. If they tracked her down, they would punish her all the same.
Sick with dread, she sank lower into the seat—and bolted upright with a gasp when Lars suddenly rapped on her window. “I’ve taken two rooms at the Radcliffe Hotel,” he said, opening the back door and picking up Lupita. With his free hand, he gently shook Marta and Ana awake. “We’ll get you and the children upstairs first and I’ll come back for your things.”
Rosa nodded and climbed out of the car, resting Miguel’s head upon her shoulder and wrapping her shawl around them both. The air was cool and misty and smelled of rain and sodden garbage and the ocean. Lars led them to a discreet entrance off the alley and inside a two-story brick building, up a narrow staircase, and along a dimly lit hallway. About halfway down, he stopped in front of a door, shifted Lupita to his other shoulder, and fumbled to fit the key in the lock. When the door stuck, Marta came forward to help Lars shove it open, but she recoiled from the smell of mothballs and old cigarettes that wafted from the room.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Lars said, leading them inside and groping for the light switch. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the glare, Rosa took stock of the room and noted two beds, a wooden chair, a single window on the far wall, and a bureau stained with bull’s-eye rings from old coffee cups. A narrow door to her right led to a bathroom with a toilet, a sink beneath a chipped mirror, and a clawfoot tub. That, at least, was a welcome sight.
Rosa drew the white eyelet curtains and set Miguel downon one of the beds. Without waking, he promptly rolled over onto his tummy, fists tucked into his chest, right cheek resting on the candlewick bedspread, rump in the air. Lars lay Lupita down beside him, but as he removed her shoes, she woke and sat up. “Where are we?” she said, the words fading into an enormous yawn.
“Someplace warm and dry and out of the rain,” said Rosa, mustering up what she hoped would pass for brisk good cheer.
“When are we going home?”
“Not tonight.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Lars, pocketing the key. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone.”
A small, wild laugh escaped Rosa as she nodded and locked the door behind him. If pursuers really did follow so closely behind them, they were already doomed.
She knew that if she sat down she would not get up again until morning, so she stayed in motion. Exhausted and drained, her head and rib cage throbbing, she draped her damp shawl over the bathtub to dry, helped Ana out of her shoes, and murmured responses to Marta, who had assigned herself the task of determining their sleeping arrangements.
When Lars returned from the car with the feed sacks full of clothing, Rosa sent Marta and Ana into
Exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for Lars, but apprehension and dread kept her on edge. She had come to realize that John was not the only man who might be looking for her. The deputies who had searched the farm after John’s arrest—surely they would have questions for the gunman’s wife. They might assume she was John’s accomplice and arrest her too. How could she prove she had not known her husband had become involved with bootleggers? Who would believe her? And what if the money she had taken was not John’s payment for services rendered, but part of the cache itself? What if she hadstolen from the mob? Gangsters wouldn’t care that the police would have confiscated the valises anyway if she had not taken them. They wouldn’t care that she had meant to take John’s money, not theirs. If they tracked her down, they would punish her all the same.
Sick with dread, she sank lower into the seat—and bolted upright with a gasp when Lars suddenly rapped on her window. “I’ve taken two rooms at the Radcliffe Hotel,” he said, opening the back door and picking up Lupita. With his free hand, he gently shook Marta and Ana awake. “We’ll get you and the children upstairs first and I’ll come back for your things.”
Rosa nodded and climbed out of the car, resting Miguel’s head upon her shoulder and wrapping her shawl around them both. The air was cool and misty and smelled of rain and sodden garbage and the ocean. Lars led them to a discreet entrance off the alley and inside a two-story brick building, up a narrow staircase, and along a dimly lit hallway. About halfway down, he stopped in front of a door, shifted Lupita to his other shoulder, and fumbled to fit the key in the lock. When the door stuck, Marta came forward to help Lars shove it open, but she recoiled from the smell of mothballs and old cigarettes that wafted from the room.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Lars said, leading them inside and groping for the light switch. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the glare, Rosa took stock of the room and noted two beds, a wooden chair, a single window on the far wall, and a bureau stained with bull’s-eye rings from old coffee cups. A narrow door to her right led to a bathroom with a toilet, a sink beneath a chipped mirror, and a clawfoot tub. That, at least, was a welcome sight.
Rosa drew the white eyelet curtains and set Miguel downon one of the beds. Without waking, he promptly rolled over onto his tummy, fists tucked into his chest, right cheek resting on the candlewick bedspread, rump in the air. Lars lay Lupita down beside him, but as he removed her shoes, she woke and sat up. “Where are we?” she said, the words fading into an enormous yawn.
“Someplace warm and dry and out of the rain,” said Rosa, mustering up what she hoped would pass for brisk good cheer.
“When are we going home?”
“Not tonight.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Lars, pocketing the key. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone.”
A small, wild laugh escaped Rosa as she nodded and locked the door behind him. If pursuers really did follow so closely behind them, they were already doomed.
She knew that if she sat down she would not get up again until morning, so she stayed in motion. Exhausted and drained, her head and rib cage throbbing, she draped her damp shawl over the bathtub to dry, helped Ana out of her shoes, and murmured responses to Marta, who had assigned herself the task of determining their sleeping arrangements.
When Lars returned from the car with the feed sacks full of clothing, Rosa sent Marta and Ana into
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