Free Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page B

rustler.” She lifted her chin in his direction. “Apparently, that was you.”
    Billy crossed his arms, frowning. “Well, I suppose this exercise hasn’t been a complete waste of time. I’m fairly confident the mystery rose has a European rootstock. Quite possibly, a German rootstock. But I won’t know more until the bud opens and reveals itself.”
    â€œYou sound certain that you’ll be able to identify it.”
    â€œI shouldn’t sound too sure,” Billy admitted. “Sometimes the trail goes cold.”
    â€œWhat happens then?”
    â€œWell, usually, if a rose has an uncertain origin, then it’ll be given a provisional label, like a temporary tag, until it can end up with a permanent ID. Sooner or later, after doing a lot of comparative analysis, the identity gets tracked down.” He settled himself on the wooden stool. “That’s what being a rose rustler is all about—tracking down clues to a rose’s identity by looking through old botanicals, nursery catalogs. Once, I even traced a rose’s identity through an old traveler’s diary from Bermuda.”
    â€œI’ve read a little about the Bermuda Rose Society.”
    Billy straightened up like a shot. “You know of the BermudaRose Society?” He repeated each word clearly so that there would be no mistake. That Society was the main reason so many genealogical rose puzzles had been solved.
    â€œYes, of course,” she said, keeping her voice steady as if she was barely holding back her annoyance with him. “I read about a survivor of a Spanish shipwreck in 1639 who described the roses in Bermuda. It’s supposed to have the perfect climate for roses.”
    Billy nodded. “Bermuda doesn’t have any native roses—they’re all imported by settlers. The chain of islands sits in the middle of centuries-old trade routes. It’s an incredible source for old, old vintage roses. R. galica officinalis —”
    â€œThe Apothecary’s Rose.”
    â€œâ€”and the R. damascena .”
    â€œThe Damask Rose.”
    Again, he was startled by her knowledge. When did she get so smart?
    â€œSomeday, I’d love to see those roses,” Bess said in a wistful voice. “In the springtime, when they’re in full bloom.”
    A soft look came over her face, as if she were imagining a sea of roses, a riot of color. He had the same dream—to see Bermuda’s roses in the springtime. In fact, that was why he tried to save money and live as sparingly as he could. Dreams were good. One day, he would travel to Bermuda in the spring and see those flowers in bloom. And he would see an ocean that reflected the tropical blue of Bess’s eyes.
    Her eyes traveled to the mystery rosebush, nestled in the corner of the greenhouse. “What should we call the rose?”
    Billy shrugged. “Don’t get too attached to any name. If I can find its true identity, its Latin name, that’s what it’ll be known by.”
    â€œBut that’s not always the case.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Not for Louise the Unfortunate.”
    A slight smile tugged at the corners of Billy’s mouth. Little was known about the actual Louise the Unfortunate, except that she traveled to Natchez, Mississippi, as a mail-order bride and her husband-to-be never showed up to claim her. Desperate to survive, she was forced into prostitution, then died young and penniless. A sympathetic Natchez minister raised enough money for a proper burial. Someone named a rose climber after Louise and the name stuck. “No, not poor Louise. In Bermuda, they call the Louise the Unfortunate climber the Spice Rose.”
    â€œMaybe because Louise had a spicy life.”
    Before he could suppress it, a laugh burst out of him. Their eyes met; he saw a blush rise in her cheeks as she realized what she had inferred, and he felt something pass between them,