The Touch of Sage (51 page)

“
Thank you, darling,
”
Dahlia whispered.

“
Rose Applewhite!
”
Mary exclaimed suddenly.
“
Yer gonna smother that boy fer certain!
Leave him be.
”

Sage released Dahlia, looking to where
Rose
stood still holding Reb
’
s face.
The mischief in her eyes sparkled like the stars in the sky.

“
Now, Reb,
”
Rose
began,
“
Two little kisses like that are hardly gonna hold me over.
”

“
I
’
m sorry, Miss
Rosie
,
”
Reb said, taking her hands in his and kissing the backs of them sweetly.
“
But you just got the last kiss I
’
m ever givin
’
to any other woman except my brazen hussy over there.
”

Sage gig
gled and
then gasped
,
having all at once remembered the state of her attire.

“
Oh!
”
she exclaimed, turning to Dahlia.
“
I want you to know, Miss Dahlia,
”
she explained, smoothing her dress with her hands,
“
I don
’
t normally dress like this.
I…I…
”

“
I normally dress like this, though,
”
Reb said.
Turning from
Rose
, he gathered Sage into his arms
,
and she sighed, breathless in his embrace.

“
Oh, give her a big lickery kiss, Reb,
”
Rose
said.
“
Just for us.
”

“
Yes, ma
’
am, Miss
Rosie
,
” Reb mumbled. Sage gasped—
her entire being
—her very soul—
alive with excitement as he kissed her then.
The widows giggled with glee as Reb coaxed Sage into sharing a moist, heated, deeply impassioned kiss.

Suddenly, however, he broke the seal of their lips, swooped Sage into his arms
,
and said,
“
Excuse us, girls. I
’
d like to finish this in private.
”

Sage smiled at him, caressed his handsome face with her hands.
He loved her!
Reb Mitchell loved her!
She could see it in the fire in his eyes,
had
sensed it by the way he handled her, tasted it in his kiss.

“
Where are we goin
’
?
”
Sage asked as he carried her.
Oh, she didn
’
t care a lick where he was taking her.
She
’
d go anywhere with him. Still, the smile on his face told her there was mischief in his mind.

“
Outside,
”
he answered, kicking the back door open with one boot.
Stepping outside, he pushed the door closed with one shoulder.

“
Now then
,”
he began, dropping her feet to the ground.
Leaning back against the door
,
he gathered her into his arms, pulling her snuggly against the warm protection of his body.
He paused
,
however, his eyes narrowing as he gazed down at her.

“
Now then, what?
”
Sage asked, resting one palm against the strength of his chest, the other softly caressing the back of his neck.
“
Aren
’
t you gonna kiss me?
”

“
Do ya want me to kiss ya?
”
he asked, his vo
ice low, alluring—fascinating
.

“Oh
yes!
”
Sage breathed, excess moisture flooding her mouth in heavenly anticipation.
“
Please,
”
she added, letting her fingertips lightly trace his lips.

Her simple touch seemed to instantly ignite him, for h
is mouth captured hers at once—white-hot passion flaming between them. Such love—such passion—
such desire Reb evoked within her—Sage had never imagined before knowing him.
She must belong to him!
She had to have won him!
A strange, almost frightening desperation began to rise in her
,
and she tightened her e
mbrace, wanting only to be his—
forever.

He broke the seal of their lips, suddenly.
Pressing his forehead again
st hers, his breath quickened and heavy
, he asked,
“
Will ya marry me, Sage?
”

“
What?
”
Sage breathed, pulling away slightly in order to look at him.

His eyes were narrowed—filled with moisture—
a frown puckered his brow as he said,
“
I…I know ya
’
ve been through a lot today…the widows
’
antics, seein
’
Ruthie, meetin
’
Dahlia
,
and all.
”

“
Rebel,
”
Sage breathed.
She didn
’
t want him to say it again, not unless he truly meant it.
Oh, ho
w she longed for him to mean it!

“
I know yer probably tired and that the last thing ya want to decide right now is
—”

“
Ask me again,
”
Sage breathed.
“
But only if you mean it.
I couldn
’
t bear it if you didn
’
t mean
—”

“
Will ya marry me, Sage?
”
Reb asked without pause.
“
I love you,
”
he said.
“
I love ya
,
and I can
’
t do without ya.
I need you, Sage,
”
he continued,
“
I need ya to smile at me, laugh with me.
I need ya to take long rides out with me…long rides out to Ruthie
’
s pasture.
I want ya to sleep in my arms.
I want to wake up in the mornin
’
sun and see yer face first thing.
I want my babies growin
’
inside you. I want ya to love me every minute of every day the way I love you.
Sage
,
I
—”

“
You
’
d marry me, Reb?
” she asked in a whisper,
tears streaming over her cheeks suddenly.
“
Would you really marry
—”

“
I love you, Sage,
”
he interrupted.
“
I love you like I never imagined lovin
’
anybody.
Say you
’
ll marry me, Sage Willows.
Say you
’ll marry me…
be my wife.
Say you
’
ll love me forever.
”

“
I already love you forever,
”
Sage said.
“
I will marry you.
I
’
ll marry and be your wife.
”
She reached up running her fingers through his hair.
“
And you
’ll be
mine
…all mine
.
”

“
I
’
ve
always
been yers,
”
Reb said, softly kissing the corner of her mouth.
“
Since the minute that fool dog wound ya up with me on the porch.
”

“
I love you, Reb Mitchell,
”
Sage breathed as he bent
to place
a lingering kiss on her neck.

“
Then marry me,
”
he said.
“
Marry me tomorrow and prove it.
”

“
Tomorrow?
”
Sage asked smiling up at him.
“
Wearin
’
what?
Scarlet Tippetts
’s
old saloon dress?
”

“
We
’
ve already got your weddin
’
dress finished, Sage!
” It was Rose’
s voice.

Sage looked over to the open kitchen window to see five heads of white hair with five smiling faces peering out at her and Reb.

“
We
’
ve been workin
’
on it all week!
”
Livie added with excitement as if there were nothing at all wrong with their eavesdropping.

“
Now ya done it, Rose!
”
Mary grumbled.
“
Ya give us way.
”

“
Shut that window an
d let me love on Sage awhile, you
naughty little banditas,
”
Reb
scolded with a chuckle
.

“
Now ya done it,
”
Mary grumbled, as she closed the window.

Reb
smiled
, shaking his head as he looked back to Sage.

“
They love you so much, Reb,
”
Sage told him.

“
They love
you
so much,
”
he reminded her.

“
Will you kiss me, Reb
el
Mitchell?
”
she asked.
“Will you kiss me…kiss me ’
til I can
’t
hardly breathe?
”

“
You bet,
”
he mumbled a mom
ent before his mouth found hers.
“I’ll kiss ya ’
til
neither of us can’t
hardly breathe.
”

And he did.

Sage Willows’s Cornbread Stuffin’

Cornbread:

2 c. Cornmeal

2 c. Flour

½ c. Sugar

2 t. Salt

6 t. Baking Powder

1 t. Black Pepper

4 Sage Leaves (Finely Chopped)

2 Eggs

½ c. Oil

2 c. Milk

Combine ingredients for cornbread, and bake in

greased 9
×
13 pan at 400 for 20–30 minutes. Allow to cool.

Stuffin’:

1 Chopped Onion

5 Chopped Stalks of Celery

2–8 Fresh Sage Leaves (Finely Chopped)

Strip Leaves from 10–15 Fresh Thyme Branches

2 t. Dried Marjoram

Salt to Taste

Warm
Turkey
or Chicken Broth

Crumble cornbread into large bowl, add marjoram, and set aside. Sauté onion, celery, and fresh herbs in butter, and mix into crumbled cornbread mixture. Add salt to taste, then add ½–1 cup broth until stuffing is moist but not soggy.

Place in glass baking dish or bowl, cover, and heat thoroughly before serving.

In the summer of 1999, our family took a little trip to Wild Horse,
Colorado
, to visit our good friends Lyle and Patsy and their two boys, Brandon and Chris. (Lyle is my cousin, actually—my mother’s cousin’s son.) This trip proved to be not only one of the most memorable our family would ever take—cherished and treasured forever—but also an experience that would seep into our very souls—especially mine.

By 1999 we’d been living in
Washington
State
for two years and desperately needed some sun, wide open plains, cattle, adventure, and time with loved ones! Lyle and Patsy’s family had encompassed all that for us for years, and we couldn’t wait to see them. That trip was somehow life altering—or maybe it was just that it took place during a time before all our lives were about to be irrevocably altered. Either way, our family had one of the most wonderful experiences of our lives! Our cherished time with our loved ones on that oh
-
so
-
memorable trip in 1999 found us steeped in love, laughter, and adventure. We explored an old haunted house, investigated a dead cow (filled with buckets of maggots—very intriguing, indeed), ate like kings on Lyle’s beef, cuddled new puppies, hauled hay, laughed our guts out over stupid jokes, rode an antique carousel, perused antiques, determined that Brandon and Chris (Lyle and Patsy’s sons and my boys’ idols) had very manly hands for teenagers, and drove out in a thunderstorm to watch the lightning in the distance. Though all these experiences were marvelous, lifted our spirits, and gave us tender, wonderful memories to draw on for the rest of our lives—there was one experience in particular that touched me—permeated my very soul somehow. It might seem simple, almost trivial, to anyone else. However, to me it was so affecting as to linger in my heart and mind foremost and forever.

Patsy and I are true kindred spirits. Our love for antiques, family history, and nearly everything from the past has always been a great bond between us. I remember the first time we met—how instantly we became friends. I also remember the first time our family went out to Wild Horse to visit Lyle and Patsy—remember sitting at her feet as she showed me her greatest antique treasures—the ones she would never sell—not for any price—items that had belonged to Baby Doe Tabor. It was Patsy who first told me the story of Baby Doe and of Leadville—and thus, in a roundabout way, inspired
Denver
’s character in
The Visions of Ransom Lake
. We had so much fun together, Patsy and I—and on the trip in 1999, she gifted me one of the most affecting moments of my life—and I suspect she did it without even knowing.

I think we’d been talking about antiques that day—just going over Patsy’s treasures—letting our imaginations and hearts be lost in reminiscing and the past. Patsy said she had something very intriguing she wanted to show me. She explained there was a little grave out in one of the pastures—way out away from any buildings (though in Wild Horse, buildings are rare anyway). She asked me if I wanted to drive out with her—and of course I did. We hopped in her pickup (our family always “hops” into pickups), and she drove us way, way out to an isolated pasture—just her and I. We parked the truck and got out, and she led me to what would become one of the most serene places in my memory. There, out in literally the middle of nowhere, was a small fenced-off plot of ground—maybe 5 feet by 7 feet, at the most. In the center of the fenced area, nearly overgrown with dead foliage, was a little tombstone—Ruth’s tombstone.

The details of that day—of those moments—are few—but they both haunt me and make me happy. As Patsy and I stood there, studying the small grave, she told me about Ruth Paulson—and Ruth Paulson’s story in real life very much mirrors the story of
Ruthie
States
in
The Touch of Sage
. Ruth’s mother had to go back east to settle some sort of business. She left her children there on the homestead—the older brother was fourteen, I think. Ruth became ill, and the older brother fetched an elderly woman for help—but it was too late. When Ruth’s mother returned, Ruth was already gone—buried. Patsy and I stood before little Ruth’s grave, haunted—in agony with empathy for Ruth’s mother. Naturally, our family history/antique juices kicked in. Pasty told me she’d always wondered what Ruth had looked like, what she’d been buried in, and if anything had been buried with her. As we stood there, we were nearly overwhelmed with the desire to “excavate” her little grave—to let her know someone wanted to know more about her—that she was still remembered. It was haunting then—and it still haunts me. At first I was a little depressed. I thought about the poor little girl all alone out there in that vast lonely pasture. But then—then I began to look around me—stood still in listening to absolutely nothing but the soft breeze through the grass. There were no sounds at all, save that breeze through the grass, and the quiet hum of summer bugs. The sun was bright and warm, and the only intrusion Ruth had to worry about was the occasional cow meandering by—perhaps pausing to graze. It was in those moments that my perception changed a bit. Though I still felt sad for Ruth and her loneliness, I marveled at what a perfect resting place it was. In truth, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place to lie down and take a long nap. In those moments, I experienced a sense of pure serenity—of peace and quiet the like I had never known before. My brain was free from stress and worry—my body felt light and healthy. The warm summer air—fresh and untainted—filled my lungs, and I fancied I was breathing better than I’d breathed in thirty years.

Moments like these are rare—and, unfortunately, fleeting. In truth, the bulk of the sensation of serenity lasted only that—moments. It wasn’t even minutes—just moments. But they were profound moments. Even now, as I sit here writing, I can tell you that those moments in Ruth’s pasture with Patsy eleven years ago were the last time I remember knowing such true peace and serenity. It was overpowering to my very soul—and still is. If I close my eyes, I can still clasp it to my bosom—pull the sensations and emotions back to mind. I’ve drawn on that experience often—found peace and comfort in remembering it when things are bleak and overwhelming. Although I still worry for Ruth in her lonely isolation, I’m happy for her as well—for I think there could be no better place to be put to a final rest—for restful is what that space truly is.

Little Ruth’s grave was a big part of my inspiration for
The Touch of Sage
. But there are other things that play into the story, as well. My mom’s maiden name, for instance—States. Patsy Christine States Reed—my mother. It was at a family reunion for the States side of our family that I actually first met
Patricia
“Patsy”
States
(Ruth’s grave’s guardian) as well. However, it’s my mom who inspires me most in life—and thereby inspired many aspects of
The Touch of Sage
.

My mother’s favorite flower is the
Colorado
columbine. She also favors Indian paintbrush—and I remember how delighted she was each summer when we drove to Colorado—how excited she’d get when we’d see the fiery flash of Indian paintbrush on the high plains or in the pastures as we drove. My mother has a sincere love—a true and deep appreciation for nature. For instance, I love to read her descriptions of the weather. Once you’ve read one of my mom’s descriptions of the weather, you might more easily understand why people used to discuss the weather more often. If they discussed it like my mom does, it must’ve once been one of the most interesting subjects at hand. My mom sees things in nature that I think this busy, stressful world we live in misses most of the time.
Pure white diamond-studded snows; crystal clear streams and lakes; crisp, clean, fresh air; lingering twilights, beautiful wildflowers; and the ever quivering, tall, slender, white-trunked quakies (
Aspen
).
—That’s how my mother sees nature—and that’s how Sage sees it.

(Okay—this is totally off topic—but the memory just popped into my head, and it’s so funny I just have to share it! Remember my friend Sandy? The
Sandy
in the Author’s Note of
Weathered Too Young
? The “wielding his enormous wife”
Sandy
from the Author’s Note in
Weathered Too Young
? Well, my darling Sandy went to
Colorado
with her husband one year for a business trip. There she bought a postcard for me—a lovely postcard printed from a picture of a hillside covered in purple
Colorado
columbine. She mailed it off to me, and I received it—delightedly received it, of course. A few weeks later,
Sandy
called me.
“Did you get my postcard?”
she asked.
“Which one?”
I asked in return—for in truth she’d sent me several.
“The one from
Colorado
…the one of the
pretty purple
con
cubines
!” True story—I’m not kidding!)

My mom’s cornbread stuffing also makes an appearance in this book. Oh, how I loved my mom’s stuffing! As a child, it was my favorite thing about Thanksgiving dinner! (It still is!) Delicious! Delicious and bathed in the wonderful, savory taste of sage! I’m sure the reason I love sage so much is because of my mother’s (and now my, of course) cornbread stuffing! It’s why I included my recipe in the back of this book—it’s a throw-back recipe—a family tradition in our family for who knows how long—a way to help the world find a moment of the past—of serenity through an old recipe. I do grow fresh sage as often as I can—pinch off a leaf or two every few days, bend it, and brush it under my nose in order to enjoy the comforting aroma of the herb. It’s one of my sources of “aromatherapy” I guess—the best kind! And yes—that’s where Sage gets the habit from—she likes the feel of the texture of a sage leaf between her fingers—loves the fragrance it gives. Mmm!

My mother’s mother, Opal Edith Switzler States, used to help her father castrate pigs. Yep—it’s true. This family fact—combined with the lingering presence in my mind of an elderly woman I admired named Rachel—mingled to inspire Mary Anne Farthen’s character.

My grandma was by no means “an old grouch.” However, Rachel lived a life not so unlike Mary’s—and I was afraid of her when I was a child and clueless to the masks often worn by others. Rachel was already an elderly women when I was little—kind of leathery looking—a bit gruff and very intimidating. However—as often happens as we grow up—as an adult I matured and was able to see what a true jewel Rachel was—what a true heroine. She knew great loss and hardship in her life—things most of us cannot even fathom—and she wore the evidence of it on her face. Yet, her eyes and her sweet, tender soul were precious. Rachel was the first elderly women I ever looked at and thought,
T
here are so many stories in her
…so much life lived.
She was young and vibrant once…and her heart and soul are still seventeen
. Thus, Mary Anne Farthen is kindred with people I knew—with women I admire and stand in awe of.

Rose Applewhite, on the other hand—now Rose is how I see myself as an elderly women—myself and several of my good friends. Oh, not so much the flirty part of Rose—but the lighthearted, fun part of her. She’s what I aspire to be at sixty-five—wrinkled on the outside and seventeen on the inside! On what do I base this? On the fact that I’m in my forties now—have had friends that are thus far lifelong friends—and, in our hearts, we haven’t aged a day past seventeen! Therefore, it stands to reason we’ll all be more like Rose than we think when we hit our silver-haired years! To me,
that
is the most wonderful of hopes!

So, there you have
it—just a few little tidbits—a few little insights into the workings of my cluttered and ridiculous mind where
The Touch of Sage
is concerned. At this very moment, there’s a fresh (albeit squished up) sage leaf on my desk, a memory of a little girl’s grave lingering in my heart, and a love for the breeze through pasture grasses in my soul!

The Touch of Sage
Trivia Snippets

Snippet #1—
Dugger, Tippetts, and Winery were all names of young men our family knew at one time—young men who begged me to be in one of my books. Tippetts even told me he wanted his character to be married to a saloon girl. In real life, Tippetts had gone online and acquired a “Preacher’s License”—thus Reverend Tippetts and his one-time saloon girl wife Scarlett were conceived.

Snippet #2—
The Touch of Sage
took me longer to complete than any other book I’ve ever written—because I lost part of it the first time! When we moved from
Washington
to
Colorado
in 2005, my computer crashed—irrevocably crashed. My entire manuscript for
The Windswept Flame
as well as seven chapters of
The
Touch of Sage
were lost—unable to be recovered. Therefore, not only did I learn the importance of the words “back up” and “flash drive,” I had to start from Chapter Two and go forward without any of my original manuscript or notes! It was nightmare, and I was so thrown and discouraged that it took me two more years to
finish the book
.