Chapter 215: The Moment Nolan Brooks Left

The moment Nolan Brooks left, Rose Jackson let out a long sigh of relief.

Something had felt off these past few days. The way Nolan looked at her had changed. Before, though friendly, there had always been a polite distance. Now his gaze burned with an intensity that made her skin prickle. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

She’d hidden in the house all morning, afraid of running into him. Only after he was gone did she dare step outside. The basket of eggs still sat in the storage room—she’d have to wait until the next market day to sell them.

"Mom!" Luke and Aaron came bounding over, faces flushed with excitement. "Uncle Nolan knows everything about raising pigs! If we keep learning from him, we’ll be experts in no time. Then we can raise a couple more, and you won’t have to work so hard." The teenage boys practically glowed with enthusiasm.

Rose’s heart warmed. "Good. I’m counting on you both."

"Mom," Aaron asked casually, "why hasn’t Uncle Nolan ever married? I wonder what kind of woman would be good enough for him."

Rose’s hands jerked, nearly tipping the winnowing basket. "Your uncle has... high standards."

"Mom!" Luke suddenly leaned in. "I think Uncle Nolan likes you!"

Clatter—the broom slipped from Rose’s grasp.

"Don’t talk nonsense!" Her ears burned. "What kind of man is your uncle? And what kind of woman am I? If word got out—"

Luke crossed his arms. "I’m sixteen. I know what I see. Why does he always come here? He says it’s to check on the pigs, but he spends every visit helping you in the yard. The second you lift a water bucket, he snatches it away. If you pick up an axe, he takes it from you—"

"Enough!" Rose stamped her foot, voice sharp. "I’m a divorced woman in this village. That’s shame enough. Never say such things again!"

Seeing their mother’s genuine distress, the boys quickly made excuses. "We’ll go dig up worms for the chickens."

Only after they’d gone did Rose steady herself. Lifting the rough cloth covering the eggs, she froze. Tucked in the corner was a handkerchief—unfolding it revealed a brand-new jar of snowflake cream.

No one but Nolan had touched that basket.

Her nose stung. All those subtle gestures of care over the years had now been laid bare. But what did it matter? Walter Brooks would never accept his eldest son marrying a widow...

At dusk, Nolan stood by the reservoir as usual, lost in thought, when a familiar scent of soapberries drifted toward him.

"Did you leave this?" Rose opened her palm. The snowflake cream gleamed pearly white under the moonlight.

Nolan feigned ignorance. "Not mine."

"Take it back." She turned to leave. "And don’t come to my house anymore. People will talk."

"Wait." Nolan shot to his feet, voice like ice. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Rose clenched the hem of her shirt. "I’m divorced with three children. You’re unmarried. It’s not proper for you to keep visiting."

When he took a sudden step forward, she flinched, arms flying up to shield her face. "Don’t hit me!"

Nolan’s outstretched hand froze midair. His eyes reddened. "If I ever raised a hand to a woman, may lightning strike me dead."

The night wind carried the damp scent of water between them, leaving only the weight of their ragged breaths.