They had traveled for hours—along narrow paths deep in the brush, across several clearings, through dozens of shallow creeks—without seeing a house or any other sign of human habitation. George drove the wagon. Rose sat next to him. Salty rode alongside. All morning he had entertained them with a steady stream of genial chatter. “We had a jim-dandy briar patch back home, but it was nothing compared to this stuff,” Salty said, indicating a towering thicket that stretched for miles. “Can’t understand how your cows get in and out with those horns. Ma had an old milk cow once with horns no longer than a pig’s tail. Got tangled up in a wisteria vine and broke her neck. Shame, too. We never did get another cow that gave as much cream.” George wasn’t interested in Salty’s wisteria vine or his cow. He was aware of only two things: Rose’s nearness and a dawning awareness that his resolve to remain a bachelor wasn’t nearly as firm as he had thought. Rose had never looked lovelier, or more desirable.
