Newbourne was inside the house overseeing the activities of the servants. They covered everything in white sheets: the chairs, the tables, and the counters—all the furniture in each bedroom upstairs and every room downstairs. Everything was covered.
There was a rapid knock on the front door. Newbourne stopped surveying, walked into the foyer, and opened the door.
Standing on the porch was a young Indian dressed in a red and black striped poncho leaning his left hand against the doorframe, panting hard.
Newbourne's eyebrows raised high in disbelief. "Burning Eagle?"
The Indian looked up. "John! I am glad you answered the door." He stood up straight. "I have come to talk to Miss Cohen. May I see her?"
A grave expression crossed Newbourne's face. "My dear boy, she's gone."
The man's skin went pale as his heart nearly stopped. "What?"
"She's gone, Lad…"
"When? How long ago?!"
"She and her family left about half an hour ago."
"Will they be coming back sometime?"
"I'm afraid not, my Lad."
"Where did they go?"
"They went back home. To England."
Paralyzing shock numbed his body. "Will she ever come back?"
Regret consumed Newbourne's expression. He shook his head.
Burning Eagle began to back up slowly. The same look that was once on Rose's face was now on his own. His eyes began to swell. The roses fell out of his hand and landed on the white porch.
The sound of gunshots and the shouting of men proceeded from the backyard.
The young Indian's face became alert. "No… No! Not now! Leave me alone!"
Newbourne looked down and saw the blood on the young man's pants and loincloth. He noticed that it came from what appeared to be a bullet wound on his left side. "Burning Eagle! What happened to you?"
The young Indian did not hear Newbourne; everything was in a fog for him. "Rose! Rose!!"
Tears began to flood down his face.
The gunfire sounded closer, forcing Burning Eagle to think as clearly as possible. He forced himself to move despite his anguish. Then, without another thought, he raced down the right side of the porch, hopped over the railing, and dashed in a full sprint across a meadow toward the edge of the woods.
"There he is," shouted a man from behind the house.
Shots were fired repeatedly.
Newbourne ran down the right side of the porch and stood at the railing. He saw a band of men carrying rifles, pistols, ropes, and torches chasing the Indian into the woods, shooting their guns whenever they saw an opportunity.
"Stop!" Newbourne shouted to the mob at the top of his lungs. "Stop!! It wasn't him! He was not one of them! He was not one of them!! Don't shoot!"
The mindless rabble did not hear his plea. They chased the young Indian into the forest like a pack of wild dogs after a rabbit. Burning Eagle made it to the edge of the woods and darted into the thicket like a sparrow. The savage townspeople plowed their way through the thorns and vines bordering the forest's edge and continued deeper into the trees until the light of their torches was no longer visible.
Newbourne's eyes were wide in horror. Dear God, please, protect that boy.
"Mr. Newbourne," came a voice behind.
He turned around and saw one of the maids standing behind him, a look of alarm on her face.
"Sir, I heard gunfire!" she exclaimed.
She noticed Newbourne's fainthearted expression as he grabbed his chest. "Mr. Newbourne, are you alright, sir?"
Newbourne stared wide-eyed at the porch floor, stroking his hand across his forehead. "I'm sorry, Miss Mandy. Could you please restate the question?"
"I asked if you were alright, sir?"
Newbourne took his handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped down his face. "I'm sorry, Miss Mandy; please, one more time."
Mandy placed her hand on Newbourne's shoulder. "Mr. Newbourne, I think you need to see a doctor, sir."
Newbourne slowly came out of his daze. "What? No. Nonsense! I'll be just fine, thank you."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, yes! I'll be just fine. Is there anything else that you need me to help you with?"
Mandy looked past Newbourne into the woods in the distance. Two bright flashes of light exploded in the woods, followed by the quick sound of two rifle shots.
"Ignore it, Miss Mandy," said Newbourne sternly.
Mandy looked up into Newbourne's strict yet worried eyes.
"We cannot do anything about it," he said. "It's beyond our reach now."
Mandy nodded her head.
"Now, is there anything else I can help you with?" he asked.
Two more gunshots echoed from the woods.
Mandy did her best to ignore the gunfire, focusing on Newbourne's eyes. "We are done with draping all the furniture, sir. All the remaining items belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Cohen are ready to be transported. The only room I have not touched is the young Miss Cohen's room upstairs. Shall I proceed with hers now, sir?"
Newbourne looked up past the balcony above him, through all four stories again, at Rose's room. "No, Miss Mandy. I thank you for your services, but that room is not to be touched by anyone."
"Sir?"
"It has been a special request made by Miss Cohen. I shall oversee its security myself."
Newbourne walked past Miss Mandy.
"Mr. Newbourne," said Mandy, "he wasn't one of them, was he?"
Newbourne stopped walking and looked over his shoulder back at Mandy. "Who wasn't?"
"That young Indian. He was not one of them from that other tribe that tried to hurt Miss Cohen, was he?"
Newbourne glanced at the edge of the woods behind him out of the corner of his eye. "No, he wasn't."
"Who was he, sir?"
Newbourne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "One that loved her more than his own life, Miss Mandy. That's who he was."
Newbourne looked down and saw the seven roses the young Indian had dropped lying at his feet. He knelt and picked up each one. Then, carrying them in his hands, he walked back inside and up the stairs to the second story. Turning left, he came to the metal staircase that spiraled all the way to the fourth story. With slow steps, Newbourne made his way to the top floor. He looked at the roses in his hands, stroking their petals with his fingers.
That's odd. They're warm.
He looked inside the rosebuds and saw a small light blooming.
What in the world?
Slowly, the light withdrew deep into the heart of the rosebuds.
Newbourne shook his head. My mind must be playing tricks on me again.
He reached the very top and stepped onto the wooden floor of the fourth story.
Silence. It filled the whole room. The confinements that once held the bellowing of an angry mother and a crying daughter were left to the haunting stillness of history. Newbourne walked over to the vase on the small table to the left. He gently placed all seven roses in its waiting water.
Why did she trust you with all her stories, John? She shared with you the truth. You know it's the truth, too. Oh, but it sounds so ridiculous! Could all of that really be possible?
Newbourne looked through the open bedroom door as the last few seconds of sunlight bled into the foyer. He stepped inside the room and glanced one last time through the bay window, taking in the fading horizon of the silhouetted tree line and the bleeding red sun falling out of sight in the distance.
She will never stand there again. She will never feel his touch again. What good could have come from all this pain and suffering? How could this be the great plan? Is there any chance of that love finding them again?
He walked outside the room, reached inside his coat pocket, and pulled out a brass key. He pulled the door closed and, with the turn of the key, sealed it off from the rest of the world.