Prairie Rose

by Catherine Palmer

  “There’ll be twice as much next spring,” she said, sitting on a stump across from Chipper. “You’ll hardly believe how good I am at pickling and canning. My cheeses and sausages are wonderful— though at the Home we never seemed to have enough to go around. Everyone says my—” She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m boasting. You’d better pray quickly, Mr. Hunter.”

  She stretched out her hands to him and Chipper and bowed her head. Thrown off-kilter by her action, Seth cleared his throat. Across the table, the boy slipped one hand into Rosie’s, but he firmly tucked his free hand into his lap. Deciding the whole business of holding hands was for children, Seth propped his elbows on the table and closed his eyes.

  How long had it been since he had prayed? During the war, maybe. A battle. Cannonballs bursting all around. A prayer for preservation. A cry for safety. Nothing more. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken with God. Or listened. After all, God had allowed the Cornwalls to banish him from their property, allowed his best friend to be killed, allowed Mary to die.

  “Are you going to pray before the supper gets cold, Mr. Hunter?” Rosie asked, slipping her hand into his. “At this rate, the turnovers won’t be worth feeding to the chickens.”

  Seth glanced at her. Then he looked down at their clasped hands—his large and hard, hers much softer. An ache started up inside his chest. He couldn’t speak. Could hardly move.

  “Dear Father,” Rosie said softly, “I thank you so much for our safe journey across the prairie. Thank you for this beautiful home Mr. Hunter has built. Thank you for providing us with this fine supper—surely more than we can even eat. In the name of Jesus Christ I pray. Amen.”

  Rosie gave Seth’s hand a gentle squeeze. Then she picked up her spoon and began to dish out the scrambled eggs. “I have never, never in my whole entire life felt so happy,” she said. When she looked up at him, Seth saw that a streak of stove blacking smudged her cheek and a puff of white flour dusted the end of her nose. Unaware, she gave him a warm smile.

  “Have you ever been this happy, Mr. Hunter?” she asked.

  Scooping up a spoonful of greens, Seth couldn’t bring himself to answer. He felt a strange tickle at the back of his throat. And he had the terrible feeling he was going to cry.

  CHAPTER 5

  ROSIE had been happy at supper. But when she saw where she was to spend her summer nights, her spirits flagged. The barn smelled to high heaven. What little hay was left over from winter had grown stiff and moldy. Three milk cows and the mules used the barn for shelter. The chickens roosted in its rafters. And as she climbed the rickety ladder into the loft, Rosie gasped and stiffened in shock. On the moonlit barn floor below her, a five-foot-long blacksnake slithered out from under a tuft of loose hay and disappeared behind a wagon wheel.

  “Don’t worry about that fellow,” Seth called up. “He’s not poisonous. He keeps the barn cleaned up for me—eats mice.”

  Wonderful, Rosie thought. How comforting.

  “Are you all right up there?” Seth asked.

  Rosie looked over the edge of the shaky platform. “What about grizzly bears?”

  “We don’t see them around much. They follow the buffalo.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Same.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Would you like to keep my rifle on hand?”

  Rosie shook her head. She could cook and clean and can and pickle—but she didn’t have a clue how to shoot a gun. Seth glanced around the barn before looking up at her again.

  “Well, then,” he said, “good night, Miss Mills.”

  “Wait, Mr. Hunter!” she called out. “Please send my bonnet back to the Home. It’s to go to Lizzy Jackson—after I die, I mean.”

  “Die?”

  “Just see that it goes to Lizzy. She’s wanted it ever so long, though Cilla gave it to me instead. I’d like Lizzy to have it.”

  Seth shook his head. “You’re not going to die in the barn tonight, Miss Mills.”

  “Tomorrow you might put a bolt on the door.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.” Rosie drew back from the edge of the loft, but through the chinks in the floor she could see Seth staring up at where she’d been standing. She thought he had half a mind to allow her to sleep in the house—though she wouldn’t do it. Such a thing would be improper. No, she would just make do in the barn, with the mice and the snakes. …

  Seth finally left, and the absence of the lantern plunged the barn into darkness. Fortunately, through the open planks in the roof, Rosie could see the stars. They reminded her of how big God was, how powerful, and how very loving. The knowledge that a God who had created such beauty loved Rosie Mills—loved her enough to die for her—sent a wash of warm peace drifting through her. In spite of her fears, she curled up on the hay and pulled a threadbare quilt over her knees.

  Seth woke with the sudden sense that something had gone wrong. He grabbed his rifle and sat up in bed. On the floor, the pallet beside the big bed was empty. The door hung ajar, admitting a draft from the night breeze.

  Chipper? Confound it, the boy had run off. Or maybe Jack Cornwall had come in the cover of darkness and stolen the child away! Seth stepped into his boots, pulled on his shirt, and hitched his suspenders over his shoulders. Which would be worse? If Cornwall had taken Chipper, Seth would have no choice but to follow his enemy until he had tracked him down. This time, their confrontation would be bloody. Maybe even fatal.

  But if Chipper was wandering around alone on the prairie, no telling what kind of critters he’d run into. True, wolves and bears followed the buffalo, but they kept a close watch on their whole territories. A straying child would be easy prey—weak, frightened, defenseless. …

  His heart tight in his chest, Seth hurried outside. The moon was high overhead, a brilliant white coin. Chipper could see well enough in this light to travel a long way. And he’d been exploring the creek all afternoon. Bluestem Creek was tricky, even when it ran low.

  A cold sweat dampening his shirt, Seth dashed toward the barn. He would have to wake Rosie. Two searching would be better than one. If Cornwall had kidnapped Chipper … if anything happened to the boy … his son—

  “He’s a very good man.” Rosie’s soft voice drifted down from the loft as Seth stepped into the barn. “He drove his wagon all the way to Missouri to get you because he loves you so much.”

  “He don’t love me,” a gruff little voice countered. “He don’t even know me.”

  Chipper! Seth sagged against the barn door frame and let out a deep breath. The boy was in the loft with Rosie.

  “He hasn’t had time to get to know you, sweetie,” she said. “And after all, you do keep calling him an old Yankee. I’m sure he doesn’t think that’s very polite.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks. He’s a rotten, mean, good-for-nothin’ Yankee.”

  “I see.” Rosie was silent for a moment. “By the way, Chipper, exactly what is a Yankee?”

  “A bad man. Evil. Gramps used to tell me if I was naughty, he’d turn me over to the Yankees, an’ they’d string me up by my thumbnails.”

  “Oh my!”

  “They’re ugly monsters with big yellow teeth an’ hair all over.”

  “I don’t think your father has yellow teeth … although he does seem to have a lot of hair.”

  “An’ they come up behind you and grab you!”

  “Oooh. Yankees do all that?”

  “He grabbed me, didn’t he? Probably tomorrow he’s gonna string me up by my thumbnails.” His voice went quavery. “I’m sorry I stole that piece of strawberry pie off the windowsill, Rosie. Gram switched me good for it, an’ I figured that was enough. But then that Yankee came an’ took me away—”

  Chipper broke into sobs. From the barn floor, Seth could hear Rosie’s soothing words of comfort and reassurance. He sat on the crossbar of a sawhorse, unwilling to interrupt—even though he sensed it was wrong to eavesdrop. All the same, the boy�
�s words had stunned him. Chipper thought of his father as a monster? He believed he’d been taken away from his grandparents as a punishment for stealing a piece of pie?

  “Let me tell you about Yankees,” Rosie said to the little boy. “They’re not such bad folks, really—once you get to know them. In fact, they believe in some very good things. Yankees believe that all people ought to be free.”

  “Even slaves?”

  “Slaves are people, too, aren’t they? They’re just like us, only a different color.”

  “They’re black.”

  “Yes, they are. Apples can be red or yellow or green—but they’re all still apples. Each color is just as good as the other. Slaves are people even though they’re black. Indians are people even though they’re brown. And you and I are people even though we’re white. Yankees believe no person should be able to own any other person. Your papa fought in a war to see that everybody—no matter what color their skin—could be free to walk around, do as they please, and live exactly as they like.”

  “That ain’t true! If my papa wanted me to be free, why did he take me away from Gram and Gramps?”

  Seth clenched his jaw, waiting for the reply. It was a good question—and it revealed more wisdom than he expected from a child as young as his son.

  “Your papa loves you more than you can ever imagine, Chipper,” Rosie whispered, and Seth felt a shiver run down his spine at the caress in her words. “God loves us so much we can’t understand it. And your papa loves you in the very same way. He wants only the best for you. He knew your mama had gone to heaven—the woman he treasured most in all the world—and he figured you needed someone big and strong to look after you. Who better to look after a little boy than the papa who loves him most?”

  “That Yankee loved my mama?”

  “Sure he did. Just as much as you loved her.” She paused a moment. “Tell me about your mama, Chipper. Tell me everything you remember.”

  “Mmm. She was pretty. She had yellow hair. Big long curls of it.”

  Seth smiled, remembering Mary and her curls. That hair had been her pride and joy. It was all her mother could do to make her wear her bonnet. As often as she could, Mary would whip it off and flounce her curls around. To the young farmhand she had set her cap on, she had looked like a porcelain doll—gorgeous, expensive, and untouchable. Until that day in the barn when she had stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  “Mama liked to cuddle me in the rockin’ chair,” Chipper said. “She used to sing, too, but … but I don’t want to sing those songs now.”

  “Did she read stories?”

  “Naw. Mama didn’t like to read. She said readin’ was borin’; school was borin’; hard work was borin’. Dancin’ was fun. She liked to dance.”

  Seth had never known the motherly side of Mary. The thought of her holding a baby and rocking … singing … But he had watched her dance. Oh, Mary. How the young men would stare when Mary Cornwall whirled across the floor.

  “Mama liked to go to town to buy things,” Chipper said. “An’ she would take me along. We would walk down the boardwalk together sayin’ hello to all the men an’ ladies. I used to like to watch her get dressed. She had pretty clothes—lots an’ lots of dresses an’ petticoats. She would stand in front of the mirror an’ turn around an’ around. I would help her get her hems straight.”

  “I’ll bet that was fun,” Rosie whispered.

  “Uh-huh. But when she got sick, she wouldn’t rock me or sing. She just lay in bed gettin’ skinny an’ yellow an’ … an’ Gram would cry in the parlor … an’ Gramps would run me out of the room. Until one day they called me in where she was lying still an’ cold—”

  “Chipper!” Seth called, cutting into words he couldn’t bear to hear. “Chipper, are you in here?”

  Silence fell over the barn. A small voice whispered. “He’s gonna whip me.”

  “Chipper is up here with me,” Rosie called down. “We were just having a little visit.”

  “That’s enough jabbering, boy,” Seth said. “Get on back to the house. If you keep us up all night, nobody will be fit to work in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chipper said softly.

  In the moonlight, his white shirt moved down the ladder. The child jumped barefoot onto the dirt floor and started past his father. Just as Chipper scampered out the door, Seth reached out and nabbed him.

  “No more midnight journeys, young man,” he said, lifting him high. He could feel the child trembling in his arms. “You hear me?”

  Blue eyes that matched his own stared back at him. “Yes, sir. Please don’t whip me, sir.”

  “I don’t hold to whippings. My papa gave me enough of those to last two boys a lifetime. But if you pull this again, I won’t like it, hear? Now get on back to bed.”

  He set the child on his feet, and Chipper hurtled out the barn door like a wolf was after him. Seth shoved his hands down into his pockets and looked up into the loft. He could just make out a pale face and a pair of dark, luminous eyes.

  “I thought I told you not to baby him, Miss Mills,” he said. “I don’t want him getting attached to you.”

  “But he is a baby, Mr. Hunter.”

  “He’s five years old.”

  “A mere child. He needs comfort. Who’s going to give it to him?”

  “Not you.”

  “Then who?” She crept to the edge of the loft and set her bare feet on the first rung of the ladder. “Why won’t you comfort him, Mr. Hunter? Why must you always brush him aside?”

  “I came and got him, didn’t I? That ought to show him I care what happens to him.”

  “But every time he mentions his mother, you shout at him.”

  “I do not shout!”

  “Yes, you do!” she insisted. “Chipper will live with the pain of his mother’s loss until someone lets him cry it out. Do you want that for your son? Do you want him to live with the same open wound that tears at your own heart? Both of you loved Mary—”

  “You be quiet about my wife!” Seth started toward the ladder. He had half a mind to climb up there and clamp a hand over Rosie Mills’s blabbering mouth. What right did she have to talk about Mary? What did she know of the love … the pain … the loss … ?

  “I won’t be quiet,” she said defiantly. “‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.’ Where is your compassion, Mr. Hunter? Where is your pity? Why can’t you treat your child as a son ought to be treated—with love?”

  “I’ll treat him the way I think he ought to be treated. Who are you to tell me how to look after my son? What do you know about it, anyway? What makes you an expert?”

  The figure on the loft ladder sagged. “You’re right,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter. Please forgive me. I don’t know a thing about families.”

  Uncomfortable at her sudden silence, Seth shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I never had a mother.” The words were barely audible. “Never knew parents of my own. You and Mr. Holloway are right—”

  “Don’t lump me together with him.”

  “I won’t interfere again. You must be whatever sort of father to Chipper you want to be. You must be the sort of father you had—”

  “No,” Seth cut in. He would never be like that man. He stopped himself from blurting out the truth about his own childhood. “Leave Chipper to me. I’ll look after him.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “You do that.”

  Seth turned to the barn door. “And if he comes here again, send him straight back to the house.”

  As he stepped out into the moonlight, he could hear Rosie’s voice. “Yes, sir,” she said in the same resigned tone his son had used. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hunter.”

  Rolf Rustemeyer did not show up to build the bridge the following morning. Rosie kept one eye on the trail as she fried eggs and salt pork over a fire she built outside. She could see nothing but pale green grass stretching endle
ssly to the horizon. A jackrabbit bounded across the road, but that was all. No Rolf.

  Sometime in the night Rosie had concocted a drama in which the big blond German rode up on his mule and carried her off to his homestead—like King Arthur and Guinevere, or Prince Charming and Cinderella. Rosie had read those stories over and over to the children at the Christian Home. Fortunately, Mrs. Jameson had permitted the fairy-tale book a place with the copies of the Bible, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Milton’s Paradise Lost. What Rosie wouldn’t have given for a Sir Lancelot. Or even a Frog Prince.

  Instead, she spent the morning putting the rest of the stove back together and searching for kindling along the creek bank. When she discovered an old willow tree about a mile downstream, she asked Seth to cut some branches for her so she could weave seats for the chairs. Chipper followed her everywhere, but Rosie made a point to give kind yet brief responses to his thousand questions.

  After lunch, Seth sent Chipper off with a burlap bag to gather dried buffalo and cow chips for the fire. Rosie didn’t like the idea of the little boy wandering alone across the burning prairie, but she kept her mouth shut. What did she know about being a parent, she reminded herself. Seth continued his plowing, even through the worst of the heat. And Rosie made up her mind to work just as hard as father and son.

  She took down the tattered window paper and tacked up the gauzy cheesecloth in which her skillet had been wrapped. This screen let in scant light, but it kept the flies and mosquitoes outside where they belonged. Then she fashioned a broom by shaving a sapling into fine splints and binding it with a rawhide thong. She swept the pounded dirt floor of wood chips, food scraps, and other evidences of bachelor habitation. Small piles of rodent droppings made her wish that the household included a cat.

  By dinnertime, Rosie had cleaned the chimneys on all the lamps and nailed up shelves for the pots and pans. Then she had cooked a big supper of corn bread and stew. Chunks of squirrel meat swam with potatoes, wild onions, and beans in a rich broth that made even little, sunburned Chipper perk up.