Prairie Rose

by Catherine Palmer

  “You want me to work for you?” she asked. “For room and board? Like I work for Seth?”

  “Ja, ja.” He nodded. Then, seeming to realize the significance of her question, he shook his head. “Nein! Not vorken only. You marry vit Rolf Rustemeyer. Haf baby. Ja?”

  “Wife.”

  “Ja.” He smiled, his warm gray eyes filled with hope. “Ist goot?

  Voot Haus. Vife. Childrens. Ja? Ist fery goot.”

  “I don’t know, Rolf. I thought I knew. A month ago I would have said yes just like that.” The words gushed out of her—all her pent-up emotions. “I should probably say yes right this very moment. But so many things have happened. I suddenly feel so strange inside. I’m sure you can’t understand, because I don’t think you’ve felt this feeling before, Rolf. If you had, you wouldn’t be asking me to marry you. It’s clear you don’t feel it. You’re talking about cooking and washing, and all the things I thought marriage was about. But it’s more than that. At least I think it ought to be more than that. There ought to be some sort of passion between a husband and wife. Do you know what I mean? Rolf?”

  “Ja, ja, ja.” He nodded absently. “Danz? Ist danz now? You danzen togedder vit me, ja?”

  He grabbed Rosie’s hand and pulled her to her feet. A space had been cleared in the mill yard, and many of the young couples were hurrying to form squares. The makeshift band struck up a tune. People began to clap. Rolf whirled Rosie onto the floor.

  She danced. In fact, she danced all afternoon with hardly a moment to sip at her glass of lemonade. She danced with Rolf and Mr. Hill and Mr. Chavez and all the young men who had bid on her box lunch. Then she danced with all of them again. Every time she danced with Rolf, he talked about his voot Haus. But she managed to avoid giving him an answer to his marriage proposal.

  In fact, she realized that the more she talked, the less Rolf understood. This provided a perfect solution to her dilemma because every time Rosie became nervous, she talked too much. Their attempts at conversation shut down, and the focus returned to dancing.

  Rosie knew she needed to pray. Desperately. But she couldn’t very well run off and climb a tree. And she couldn’t concentrate on anything with all these young farmers bidding for her attention. Finally she resorted to quick whispered pleas—accompanied by furtive glances at Seth. He had taken a seat at the edge of the dance floor. Violet sat beside him, and they talked. They laughed. They pointed at things and laughed some more.

  Rosie had never considered that playing the part of Cinderella at the ball could be a miserable experience. As the sun set, Mr. LeBlanc lit lanterns around the dance floor. By that time, Rosie’s feet felt like lead weights. Her shoulders wanted to sag. A length of eyelet lace trailed from her petticoat where Rolf had accidentally stepped on it.

  Worst of all, she couldn’t find Seth. He and Violet had disappeared long ago. How could she blame them for enjoying each other’s company? They had so much in common. Both had lost spouses. Both had small children. Both were trying to manage farms on the prairie. They made a perfect match.

  As Gabriel Chavez bowed to Rosie after a particularly spirited dance, she spotted Rolf eagerly elbowing his way toward her. No. She couldn’t take it anymore. Not another dance. She swung around and stepped out of the circle of light.

  A warm hand cupped her elbow. “Miss Mills? Would you care to dance with me?”

  “No, please. Thank you, but I’m … I’m—”

  “Are you too tired, Rosie?”

  She looked up into Seth’s blue eyes. Her heart spun around, and the pain in her blistered toes evaporated. “Tired? Me? Of course not. Never.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “Well, come on then. I reckon it’s my turn with the fairest flower of the prairie.”

  Rosie gave a silly, dizzy giggle as he escorted her onto the floor. Just then, the band struck up a waltz. A collective gasp came up from the crowd. Waltzing was considered by many a sinful and wicked thing. Some of the elderly glowered at the change in the music to three-quarter time. Some stomped off in disgust as the tempo slowed down, the squares dissolved, and couples began to move in time to the dance. Rosie herself had heard that waltzing was the devil’s tool. But she and some of the girls at the orphanage had practiced the steps and turns in the attic, and none of them had felt the least bit sinful afterward.

  “I reckon it’s okay to waltz at a church benefit,” Seth said, taking Rosie into his arms. “Don’t you?”

  “It’s for a very good cause.” Wild horses could not have dragged her away.

  Rosie felt exactly like she was floating. Seth’s blue eyes gazed down at her. His dark hair gleamed. One hand slipped around her back and the other clasped her fingers. Her feet positively had wings.

  “I don’t think God has a specific command against waltzing,” Seth said. “Although if we looked hard enough we might find it someplace in Deuteronomy.”

  She laughed. “If it’s a sin in the Bible, Mrs. Jameson could probably find it for us.”

  “Mrs. Jameson is in Kansas City. You’re here.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m glad of that.” He leaned close to her ear. “You’re beautiful, Rosie Mills.”

  She thought her knees were going to buckle. “It’s … it’s Sheena’s dress.”

  “It suits you.”

  “My petticoat shows.”

  Oh, that wasn’t polite. She shook her head, embarrassed. She was talking about her underthings! In front of him!

  “The dress is a little short, is what I meant to say,” she mumbled, and she could hear her own voice begin to speed up in her nervousness. “I really don’t mind. About the petticoat, I mean. I’m not ungrateful. In fact, I’m very grateful. I had the blue gingham, but then Sheena said she had brought this pink one all the way from Ireland. She couldn’t fit into it anymore after all the children, so the dress was wasting away in her trunk. She suspects her sister Caitrin might be able to wear it when she arrives. Caitrin is coming from Ireland next month for a long visit, and I’m … I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

  He was smiling at her, the corner of his mouth tipped up just a little and his gaze lazily studying her face. “I like the sound of your voice.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say after that, so she just drifted along in the soft, sweet music and enjoyed the sensation of Seth Hunter standing so close and holding her in his arms. He smelled very good. Like lemons. She felt the greatest urge to lay her cheek on his shoulder. God had given Seth such strong shoulders—shoulders that could hold up the world. Her daisies began to drop out of her hair one by one, but she didn’t care. Seth whirled her around and around until her feet lifted off the ground, her dress billowed, and her heart soared.

  When the music stopped, she was so surprised she let out a little gasp. Like coming out of a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, and the reality of persistent Rolf Rustemeyer was bearing down on her again. “His wood house,” she said, taking a step toward Seth. “He’ll want to talk about his wood house.”

  “Rustemeyer’s building a house?”

  “He took all his money out of the savings, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Please. Can we go home now?”

  Seth tucked Rosie’s arm under his. “We’re … going,” he shouted at Rustemeyer. “Chipper … is … tired.”

  Rosie could feel Rolf staring at her as she and Seth left the dance floor and walked toward the old pine tree. Good manners dictated that she thank Rolf for his company and for the bid that won her lunch box. She should give him some response to his proposal of marriage.

  But she squeezed her eyes shut against her conscience and let Seth guide her away from the gathering. Forgive me, Lord. If you want me to marry Rolf, I’ll try. But not now. Not yet. Please, not yet.

  Chipper was curled up asleep on the blanket, his head on Violet’s lap and Stubby at his side. Seth knelt beside the young widow and picked up hi
s son. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said in a low voice. “I enjoyed the afternoon.”

  Her eyes deepened. “You’re so kind, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.” As he turned away, her fragile voice stopped him. “Mr. Hunter, you’d be … you’d be welcome to stop by our place anytime. If you’re passing thataway. Or if you’d just like to come … to come calling on me. Me and the children, I mean. You could bring Chipper to play.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’m much obliged.”

  As Rosie and Seth walked toward the wagon, she reflected on the plight of the lonely widow with her three children and a baby on the way. Guilt began to eat at her again. Maybe it wasn’t right to ache so deeply in the hope of winning Seth’s love for herself. Violet Hudson needed him more than she did. And Rolf was a good man—an honorable man—who wanted Rosie for his wife.

  Back in Kansas City this would all have seemed so simple to her. The widower marries the widow who needs a father for her children. The German bachelor marries the homeless woman who has always wanted a house and a family. How much more logical could the arrangement be?

  But then Seth slipped his hands around her waist and lifted her up onto the wagon seat, and Rosie laid a hand on his broad shoulder—and Seth, only Seth, was right for her! He tucked a blanket under his sleeping son’s head, loaded the dog, and walked around the wagon to join her.

  As the mules pulled them onto the road home, Seth reached over and draped Rosie’s fringed shawl over her shoulders. “Cold?” he said.

  “Mm.”

  It was the hottest night of the year. But he left his arm around her, and she snuggled against him. Never in her entire life had she known a feeling so wonderful. So secure. So absolutely perfect. “Did you enjoy the picnic?” Seth asked.

  “Mm.” Rosie felt like she was drifting on a soft white cloud. She didn’t care about the picnic. She didn’t care about anything.

  “That fried chicken you made sure was good.”

  “Mm.”

  “I guess Rustemeyer liked it.”

  “He likes everything I cook,” she murmured.

  Seth fell silent for a moment. “I reckon Rustemeyer took his money so he could outbid everybody.”

  Rosie’s cloud began to fade just a little. “He wants to build a wood house. That’s why he took his money.”

  “A wood house. What’s he want to do that for? Doesn’t he think a soddy is good enough for him?”

  “He’s just thinking of the future, Seth.”

  “The future? What else does he have in mind for the future?”

  An alarm bell went off in Rosie’s head, and her fluffy cloud vanished completely. “A wood house,” she said. “He’s been thinking about a wood house.”

  “I think he took the money in order to win you at the auction. And I think he wants to build a wood house so he can put you into it.”

  “Rolf didn’t win me at the auction. He won my box lunch.”

  “And the right to your company.”

  “Are you angry because he outbid you?”

  “Angry? I’m not angry.” He removed his arm from her shoulder and flicked the reins. “If that hound dog wants to spend his hard-earned money on a box lunch, that’s fine with me. I just don’t see the point of spending ten dollars on a few pieces of cold fried chicken.”

  “The money goes to the new church. And what’s wrong with my fried chicken?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with the chicken you made. It was good chicken. Better than Violet Hudson’s ham sandwiches, that’s for sure. But ten dollars? Ten hard-earned dollars.”

  “Those were bridge-toll dollars. The hard work Rolf put into the bridge was paid off a long time before those ten dollars came along. If he wants to put ten dollars into the new church, why shouldn’t he?”

  “If you hadn’t kept on with those bridge tolls of yours, he wouldn’t have ten dollars to pay for a box lunch.”

  “You don’t like it that I take the bridge tolls, do you? You never have liked that. But I’ve been doing it for you. You and Chipper. I want to give you what I can. I want to leave you something.”

  “We have all we need.” He let out a hot breath. “We have you.”

  Rosie grabbed the edges of the plank wagon bench. Please, Father, help him to open his heart. Let him see how much I care.

  “Rolf Rustemeyer’s ten dollars mean nothing to me,” she said carefully. “Though I’m glad they’ll help build the new church. And as for his wood house—”

  “I’ll build a wood house one of these days.” Elbows on his knees, Seth stared out into the darkness ahead. “I have big dreams for my place. I want fences and cattle. I want a better plow and a new seed planter. I plan to chink the barn, and put a floor in the well house, and buy a horse. And I’ll build a frame house, too—double storied with real glass windows and a big front porch. I’d like a new wagon. Maybe I’ll even get myself a carriage with a black-cloth top and a pair of big, shiny—”

  “Seth.” Rosie laid her hand on his arm. “Wood houses don’t matter. Not to me.”

  He turned and studied her for a long time. She could feel his eyes searching her face in the moonlight. He dropped the reins and lifted a hand to her hair. Slowly, very slowly, he sifted his fingers through the loose strands. He picked a daisy out of a curl and rolled the stem between his thumb and finger. Then he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, firm, and over in a breath.

  “Rosie,” he said, “I meant what I said. Chipper and I … we’re glad you came. Both of us. Me, especially.”

  “Especially you?”

  “Especially me.” Then he bent over and his hands cupped the back of her head. When his lips met hers in a long, satisfying kiss, her breath hung in the back of her throat. She slipped her fingers up his arms to the solid round muscle of his shoulders. He pulled her closer, and his mouth found hers again.

  “Rosie,” he whispered.

  She started to answer, but something popped against the side of her head—a tiny lead pellet. And then another hit her in the cheek. On the neck. In the ear. She drew back in pain.

  “Shotgun!” Rosie cried. “It’s Jack Cornwall!”

  Waving her hands over her head, she fought the hundreds of tiny missiles that suddenly came at her from every angle. Was Chipper all right? She could hear him wailing in the back of the wagon. Stubby began to howl. Oh, Lord! They would all be killed. “Seth, he’s shooting at us!”

  Seth kept one arm around Rosie as he struggled to capture the reins of the bolting mules. “It’s not Cornwall,” he shouted. “Take cover, Rosie. We’ve got grasshoppers!”

  CHAPTER 14

  IT TOOK all the strength Seth could muster to keep the frightened mules on the track. Chipper screamed in terror as Rosie hauled the boy into the front of the wagon and wrapped him in a blanket. Stubby raced around in circles, yapping and howling. All around them, invisible except for the teeming shadow they cast over the moon, the grasshoppers flew. They settled on Seth’s hatband. Climbed up the legs of his jeans. Nestled in Rosie’s hair. Rode the leather driving lines like a long string of hideous ornaments on a monster’s necklace.

  While Chipper whimpered and Rosie cringed against the bench, all Seth could think about were his crops. Would the grasshoppers eat his corn? He had heard the stories, of course. Terrible tales of devastation from the few homesteaders who had been in Kansas long enough to remember the insect plagues. If he lost his crops, he’d be all but ruined.

  “Giddap!” he shouted, flicking the reins and sending the hoppers off in every direction. “Come on, Nellie. Don’t quit on me now, Pete.”

  But the mules wouldn’t take another step. All around their long ears the grasshoppers flew, their wings buzzing, crackling like the rush of a prairie fire.

  “We’ll have to walk home,” Seth said to the bundle of blanket that was Rosie and Chipper. “You go on ahead, and I’ll catch up. Can you manage the boy?”
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  The bundle nodded. As swarms of grasshoppers flew into his face and hit him on the head, hands, and chest, Seth climbed down from the wagon. Crunching his way over the insects that had landed on the trail, he grabbed the mules’ bridles and spoke whatever soothing words he could think of.

  Stubby snapped at the insects as Rosie helped Chipper out of the wagon. They walked past Seth, a moving shroud. He put one arm around them and peeked under the drape covering Rosie’s face. “You know the way to the soddy?” he said.

  “I can find it.”

  “Here, take the gun.” He pressed the pistol Jimmy O’Toole had given him into her hand. “If you see Cornwall, don’t stop to think. Protect yourself and the boy.”

  He knew Rosie would rather do anything than carry a gun. But she took the weapon in silence. “Seth,” she whispered, “what will we do?”

  He said the only thing that came to mind. “Pray.”

  Then he kissed her cheek and lowered the blanket to cover her face. She moved away into the swarm, and he returned to his team. Frightened and confused, the mules were straining to escape the harness. Old Nellie had made up her mind to stay put, and she was doing her best to sit down between the leather trace lines. Pete wanted nothing more than to run. He pulled against the neck yoke, thrashing his head around in torment as the hoppers assaulted him.

  Seth muttered a prayer for Rosie and Chipper and then concentrated on the mules. He had invested most of his army savings in the mule team and wagon. If they ran off, hurt themselves, or overturned the wagon, he’d be in deep trouble. Crushing grasshoppers with every step, he worked to calm the terrified animals. Pete’s mouth grew bloody from straining against the bridle bit, and Seth’s heart sank. Even if the grasshoppers didn’t eat up his crops, Pete wouldn’t be much use until he healed. Nellie kept trying to sit.

  As the moon climbed through the night, the swarm in the sky gradually began to taper off. But Seth realized he couldn’t afford to relax. The grasshoppers hadn’t flown away. Instead, they had settled. Everything Seth touched—the driving lines, the wagon, the road—was covered in tiny, restless insects.