Prairie Rose

by Catherine Palmer

  “Coffee …” Rosie pondered the offer for a moment. “A pound will do. One for each of the three wagons.”

  The grin grew wider. “You don’t have any blankets for trade, do you, ma’am? We been colder at night than we expected.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have blankets.” Rosie could hardly believe her good fortune. She had more blankets than she knew what to do with in the big chest. But coffee—now that was a treasure hard to come by. Real coffee had a flavor that chicory couldn’t match, and everyone at the barn dance would appreciate the unexpected pleasure.

  She hauled two long planks from Seth’s remaining lumber pile and laid them side by side across a pair of sawhorses. Then she opened the storage chest at the back of the barn and began to take out her trade goods. “I have five blankets,” she said, laying them across the makeshift counter. “This one is really nice. Pure wool. I’d need more than coffee for it, though. I took this blanket in trade for the toll on seven wagons.”

  The man’s eyes widened as Rosie took out a handmade quilt, a crock of pickles, and a small keg of nails. In a flash he left to fetch his wife from the wagon. Pretty soon, she and the travelers from the other wagons had gathered in the barn to look over the items. Even Sheena craned her neck to admire a little round mirror someone had traded in.

  “Would you be willing to take a packet of needles for that ball of yarn?” the man’s very pregnant wife asked. “I’d like to knit booties for the baby.”

  “Silver needles?” Rosie asked. You could never be too careful about this sort of thing. The woman nodded. Rosie smiled. “And let me tell you that coreopsis will make the most beautiful yellow dye. Be sure to gather the flower heads when they’re in full bloom.”

  “What about blue? I was thinking of blue booties.”

  “Indigo—but it’s not water soluble, so it’s very hard to work with. I’d stick with yellow, if I were you. Do you like that knife, sir? I’d be willing to take an extra ax head you might have. Or a razor.”

  “Look, she has dried apples, Mama!” a child cried out.

  “They’re all the way from Pennsylvania,” Rosie said. “Do you like apples? Here, take this one. Your mother can have a few more apples in trade for that half pound of lard she seems so eager to be rid of.”

  “Oh, thank you kindly, ma’am. We haven’t had apples for weeks. Can I take five?”

  “Take seven. That way you can bake a pie. Or a big juicy cobbler. I’ve found children love cobbler, especially if you add just a pinch of—”

  “Miss Mills.” The icy voice gripped Rosie’s stomach like a vise. She looked up to find Seth Hunter—hat in hand, sweat dampening his brow, hands planted on his hips—staring at her from the door of the barn. “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

  CHAPTER 10

  SETH could hardly believe his eyes. Right there in his barn stood Miss Rosenbloom Cotton Mills and fifteen complete strangers haggling over coffee, blankets, mirrors, and sewing needles. Where had she gotten all these things? Who were these people? What were they doing in his barn?

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Hunter,” Rosie called, giving him a wave. She smiled, but he could see that her face had paled at the sight of him. “We’re just working out an exchange for the bridge toll.” She dropped her voice. “And a few other things.”

  Seth crossed his arms and stared at the unexpected scene. Chipper skipped over to Rosie’s side and gave Stubby a pat. The dog wagged his tail. “Where’d you get this stuff, Rosie?” the boy asked as she handed a man a knife and took a big iron soup ladle in trade. “This looks almost like a regular mercantile.”

  “That’s a funny thought, Chipper,” Rosie said, giving Seth a wary glance. “You know good and well this is just the barn. I keep a few things stored away in case somebody would rather trade than pay the toll.”

  “A few things! You gots lots of things. You even gots beads and shoes and a pair of scissors. What’s in these cans?”

  Seth stepped forward and lifted a tin. Oysters! Oysters were a luxury item only the rich could afford. How had she managed to get her hands on five tin cans of them? Beside the cans sat a ream of writing paper. And bullets. Rosie had a stack of ammunition that could keep Fort Riley in business for at least half a day. Where on earth had it all come from?

  “If you had a post office here,” the man with the huge mustache told Rosie, “you could set up your own store. Your prices are fair. You deal honest with folk. And you got good quality merchandise. All you need is a post office commission, and you’d pick up twice the trade.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that,” Rosie said. “I have so much work to do around the house.”

  “Put your son to work doing chores.”

  “Chipper isn’t my son. He belongs to—” Again she gave Seth a nervous glance. “He belongs to my employer.”

  “You mean you’re a hired hand? Well, your boss would be smart to put you to running the mercantile and hire someone else to do the cleaning.”

  “That would never do,” Rosie mumbled. “Really, we’re very satisfied with things the way they are. This is all just for … just for the toll bridge.”

  As he passed, the man gave Seth a long look. “I’d think about that post office commission if I was you. She’s got a good eye for business, that one. She could turn you a handsome profit.”

  Seth kept his focus trained on Rosie as the line of travelers wound out of his barn and back to their wagons. When she began to pack all her goods back into the chest, he decided it was high time to take up the differences between them. If she was going to work for him, she would have to do things his way. And the sooner he got her out of his homestead and married off to Rustemeyer the better.

  Rosie Mills was trouble. Every time he looked at her, something twisted up inside him. A knot of pain formed in his stomach and began to torment him in a gently luring voice he found impossible to resist. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She’s a good woman. Chipper adores her. She sure knows how to run a house. No matter how hard Seth would try to silence the voice, it only grew louder. Take the risk, Hunter. Reach out to her. Open your heart and let her heal you.

  “No,” he said out loud.

  “What?” Rosie swung around, her arms full of brightly colored wool blankets.

  “I said no. You do not have my permission to do this.”

  “Do what? Take a few items in trade for the bridge toll? I can’t see what harm it does, Mr. Hunter. You heard the man yourself. I’m fair and honest.”

  “No.” He placed his hands palm-down on the makeshift counter. “I don’t want you to do it.”

  “But trading helps everybody. The poor man had brought enough coffee to drown two armies, and he needed blankets for his wife.” Rosie leaned across the counter and whispered conspiratorially. “She’s going to have a baby. Their first.”

  Seth stared into her big brown eyes. Big, warm chocolate eyes. A pang ran straight through his heart. That awful knot began in his stomach, and the voice began. Kiss her, Hunter. Shut up and kiss that pretty woman. He couldn’t breathe.

  “If you’re worried I’m not taking in enough cash,” she said, “I can assure you there’s plenty. And it’s well hidden, too. Is that the problem?”

  “No,” he managed. No, the problem is you, Rosie Mills. You scare me. You make me want to hope again. You make me want to dream of things I was sure I had put away forever.

  “Don’t think I’m hoarding all these goods for myself,” she said. “No sir. I can promise you everything will be divided equally among the three men: you, Jimmy O’Toole, and Rolf Rustemeyer. Just say the word, and I’ll split up the goods, and that’ll be the end of it. But let me tell you, Mr. Hunter, that bridge you men built is as good as a gold mine. We’ve got floods of travelers coming across it every day—going both ways. Don’t we, Sheena?”

  “Aye, that we do,” the Irishwoman called. She and Chipper were playing with the puppy.

  “Settlers, cowboys, fur trappers, even some ri
ch landowners from back east. They all stop by here—every one of them—and we make a trade. Well, how do you think I got those oysters? It was a Mr. Hercules Popadopolous. He’s a Greek fellow who said he owns half of New York state. He gave me the oysters in trade for a large buffalo skin I had accepted from a trapper who had bartered it from an Indian. I told the Greek man it wasn’t a fair trade, but he insisted mine was the first real buffalo hide he’d ever seen, and he was bound and determined to have it. And what do you think he did when I handed over the hide? He knelt down on the ground and kissed my hand just like I was a lady from the Middle Ages, and he was a knight in shining armor. I told you about that, didn’t I, Sheena?”

  “That you did,” she called.

  “Did you see the mirror?” Rosie went on. “It was given to me by a gentleman from Virginia—a Confederate general. He said he had lost everything in the war, and he was going to California to make his fortune in land speculation. But I don’t think he really had lost everything, because you should have seen his carriage. And all the things in his trunk! The mirror was the least of it, let me tell you. He had gold chains and candlesticks and pieces of cut lead crystal. I warned him he might get robbed if he didn’t watch out. He paid his toll in cash, but then he turned around right before he crossed the bridge and handed me that mirror. And do you know what he told me, Mr. Hunter?”

  Seth swallowed. If he didn’t say something soon, Rosie Mills would talk herself blue in the face. Worse, the more she talked and the harder he looked into her brown eyes, the crazier he felt. Crazy enough to kiss her. Crazy enough to just haul right off and ask her to marry him.

  “No,” he said. “No … I … I don’t know what he told you, but I do know that you’d better not be taking oysters and gold mirrors off single men, Miss Mills. It’s not safe. You don’t know the first thing about these fellows. They could be robbers, or confidence men, or worse.”

  Her face paled. “They seemed nice enough to me. They just stopped by to pay the bridge toll—like they would at any other town or station that had a creek.”

  “But this is not a town, Miss Mills. It’s not even a station. This is a homestead. Do all these travelers know who lives here? Have you told them my name is Hunter?”

  Rosie glanced at Sheena, and her pale face went even whiter. “You’d better tell him,” Sheena said.

  Rosie knotted her fingers together and swallowed hard. “I did mention … that is, I have said on occasion … I more or less did say—”

  “She calls it Hunter’s Station,” Sheena said, coming to her feet. “And what of it, Seth? This is your place, isn’t it? What harm is she doing? Why are you acting the sherral about her trading? She’s a good woman, and people like to do business with her. All she’s done is—”

  “Is spread the word from New York to California the exact location of my homestead!” Seth exploded, his fear overriding every need he felt to hold Rosie and bury his pain in her embrace. “Don’t you see? Now everyone knows. He knows.”

  “Jack Cornwall?” Sheena said.

  “Shh!” Seth cast a quick look at his son. Chipper was studying the three adults as Stubby attempted to nip off a mouthful of his hair. “Don’t mention that man’s name aloud.”

  “And why not? Chipper knows his uncle is searching for him. Don’t you, boy?” Sheena held out a hand and pulled Chipper to his feet beside her. “But you live here now with your own good papa. Even if that Jack Cornwall came to fetch you, would you go with him? Would you go away and leave your own soft bed? Little Stubby? My fine Will and all the other wee friends you’ve made? And Rosie? Would you leave her?”

  Chipper stuck his hands in his pockets and eyed Sheena. Then he looked at his father. His blue eyes narrowed. “I might,” he said.

  “Would you then?” Sheena asked, her voice high. “To tell God’s truth, I never would have thought it. And you such a fine boy. Such a good boy. Your papa needs you here, so he does. I can’t think why you’d ever want to go away with that Jack Cornwall.”

  Chipper stuck out his chin. “Uncle Jack and me always make popcorn strings at Christmastime. He lifts me up high, and I hang the strings on the tree. And Uncle Jack gots a mouth harp that he plays when I’m sitting in his lap. When my mama died, Uncle Jack held me tight and we cried and cried. He loves me.”

  “Oh, but, Chipper, your papa loves you too!”

  Seth could hear the Irishwoman’s voice, but he could stand the pain in his chest no longer. He felt as though his heart had been ripped away. Turning on his heel, he walked out of the barn. A razor-sharp lump formed in his throat. His eyes burned. If he could just make it back to his plow. Just bury everything in the rich prairie soil.

  “Seth!” Rosie’s hand slipped into his and pulled him up short. He couldn’t make himself look at her.

  “Don’t take what Chipper said as a rejection of you,” she said softly. “Learn from it. Didn’t you hear what he loves about his uncle? It’s the touching! His uncle lifts him up to hang popcorn strings on the Christmas tree. His uncle lets him sit in his lap. And they cry together. Seth, please hear what your son is trying to tell you. If you want his love—and I know you do—you must touch him! Wrap your arms around him! Let him come into your heart!”

  Seth clenched his fists. His own father had never behaved in such a way. Never held or touched him. How could it be right? Wouldn’t the boy turn out weak? A sissy? Wouldn’t he disrespect a father who showed tenderness of heart?

  He could feel Rosie moving closer to him. Her hand slipped up his arm, and she leaned against him. “Please, Seth,” she whispered. “You’ve built such a wall around yourself that no one can come inside. You won’t let anyone care for you. You won’t let anyone love you. Please, please don’t shut us … shut him—Chipper—out of your life.”

  “I don’t …” He struggled to express himself. “I don’t understand … how … how to touch him.”

  “But it’s so easy.”

  “No!” he exploded again, turning on her and taking her shoulders in his hands. “No, it’s not easy. I can’t … I’ve never … my father didn’t … I can’t do it.”

  “You can learn,” she said, her brown eyes melting the edges of his frozen heart. “Ask God to teach you how to touch Chipper. Pray, Seth. Pray for the wisdom to win your son’s love.”

  “Pray? You heard the verse from Deuteronomy. If God can shut his heart to a foundling child, what makes you think he’d listen to me? Why would I want to ask him anything?”

  “No,” Rosie said, laying her hands on his chest. “We read the Scripture all wrong that morning. I understand it now. Anyone who surrenders his heart to Christ becomes a child of the heavenly Father. I’m an heir to the kingdom of God, Seth! I can walk boldly before his throne—and I can call him my Father … my Daddy … my Papa. He welcomes me, and he welcomes you, too. He’ll teach you how to be a good father to Chipper. Ask him. Ask him!”

  She laid her cheek on his shoulder for a moment; then she turned and pulled out of his arms. He watched her as she walked back to the barn, her long hair blowing in the early summer wind. I love her. His soul spoke the words, and he realized they were a prayer. I love her, and I don’t know what to do about it. Teach me. Teach me … my heavenly Father. Break down the wall and show me how to love my son. Guide my hands to touch him, hold him, draw him into my heart.

  Seth felt the tension slide out of his arms. His fists unknotted. The lump in his throat melted. Tears spilled down his cheeks. And about Rosie, God. Tell me what to do about Rosie.

  The barn wore a coat of bright red paint. Chipper sported a new white shirt, a pair of sturdy canvas overalls, and a handsome haircut. Seth almost matched his son in his own starched white shirt, blue denim trousers, and carefully combed hair. Rosie could not have been more proud of her handiwork as the two stood side by side to greet the stream of guests driving over the new bridge for the party.

  Seth had insisted Rosie make herself a dress from a bolt of blue gingham he had noticed in her
storage chest. She had protested. After all, she had given a wagon’s toll and an iron stew pot in exchange for that fabric. Surely it would bring a nice trade-in someday.

  But Seth had told Rosie he was tired of that old skirt with the burned hem, and it was high time she had something new. As for the chest and Rosie’s trading business, he reluctantly told her she could continue trading for bridge tolls as long as she kept a close eye out for trouble, especially trouble in the form of one Jack Cornwall. And she was no longer to refer to the barn as Hunter’s Station. If it needed a name, she would have to come up with something else.

  Pleased to have his permission, Rosie set to work sewing herself a new blue gingham dress. By the afternoon of the dance, she finished the hem and slipped on her creation. It was pretty. She couldn’t deny it. The bodice had puffed sleeves, and the skirt billowed out from her waist to her ankles in a cloud of airy fabric.

  If only she had a bonnet, she would feel like a queen. But as hard as she tried, she could not fashion a bonnet brim that would stand stiffly in place. Everything she attempted flopped down in her face, until she was forced to abandon the project and put her hair up in a high bun. Fortunately, she did have pins and a ribbon— having traded the gold mirror for them.

  “Glory be, but you’re the vision of a lady!” Sheena exclaimed as she and Rosie carried trays of doughnuts from the cooking fire to the barn. “Has Seth laid eyes on you yet?”

  Rosie shook her head. “No. He was in such a hurry to be out and about as the guests arrived. Before I dressed, he and Chipper went out to the bridge to welcome everyone. He’s been looking forward to showing off the bridge. To tell you the truth, I think Seth is very proud of the work the men did and all the bridge has meant to our community.” “Community!” Sheena laughed. “Sure, you always think bigger than the rest of us, don’t you, Rosie? We build a little pontoon bridge, and you turn it into a grand gold mine. Seth puts up a rickety barn, and you have it shingled, painted red, and transformed into a social hall before half the summer’s passed. Two families live across a stretch of creek, and suddenly we’re a community.”