Everyone turned to stare at Rosie. She wished she could sink right into the hard prairie sod. She shrank into herself, her eyes pleading with Sheena for a rescue. But Sheena was suddenly preoccupied with her children.
“A mercantile?” Jimmy said.
“A post office?” Seth said.
“A town?” Rolf said.
“Right here!” Caitrin lifted her arms and turned around and around. “Surely Rosie, Sheena, and I are not the only ones who see it. It’s Hope, of course. A town called Hope!”
Rosie had never known that things could go so very well—and so very badly—all at the same time. On the good side of things, August and September brought the planting and healthy growth of a whole new range of crops. Chipper and Stubby at his side, Seth worked the fields from sunrise to sunset, stopping only to wolf down the meal Rosie had packed for him in an oak splint basket.
Rosie had more to do than she could possibly accomplish. The post office and mercantile brought a stream of visitors day and night across the pontoon bridge. The stash of bright silver dollars rose to the top of the buried crock again—and Rosie was obliged to bury a second crock. And then a third.
Jimmy had flat-out forbidden Sheena to have anything to do with the enterprise. She was a mother, he reminded her, with five children who needed corralling. But every morning Caitrin Murphy strolled across the bridge bearing goods to sell to the travelers—baskets of hot bread Sheena had baked and bowls of fresh eggs the children had gathered.
Invariably, the young Irishwoman stayed most of the day at the barn. Not once did she mention a desire to set up a school or begin soliciting students. She loved the work of selling, bartering, and trading, and in the process, her greatest talent blossomed. Caitrin Murphy, as it turned out, was a genius in the art of transformation.
“We need windows,” she announced one afternoon in early October. “Do you know what I mean, Rosie? Grand big windows right in the front of the mercantile. With glass panes to show off all our merchandise.”
“Don’t forget this building is really a barn, Caitie,” Rosie said. She was folding bolts of fabric to stack on the row of shelves Caitrin had nailed up and down the barn walls. “I don’t think Seth would like the idea of glass windows in the same place he’ll be housing his livestock this winter.”
“Livestock. Oh, the very thought of it! Sure we can’t have the nasty beasts in here. They’ll ruin all our work.”
“It’s a barn, Caitrin.”
“Not anymore it isn’t. Look at this place! We’ve put the chickens to roost in the new coop. The cows are out in the pasture. The mules work in the fields every day. We’ve carpets on the floor and even these glass-topped counters. It’s not a barn anymore. Truly it’s not.”
“You’re right,” Rosie acknowledged. “You’ve changed it.”
She still could hardly believe the way Caitrin Murphy had managed it. In the two months since arriving from Ireland, Cait had talked Rolf Rustemeyer into building a large wire chicken coop. She had talked Jimmy O’Toole into hauling three enormous counters across the trail from Holloway’s station—after she had persuaded Rosie to buy them from the family who had taken over the Holloway homestead. She had talked Carlotta Rippeto into lettering a big wooden sign that read Hope Mercantile and Post Office, and she had talked Sheena into painting the sign in bold black strokes.
In fact, Rosie sensed the whole enterprise had gotten completely out of hand. And that was the bad part of the way things were going. Ever since Seth had returned from Topeka, he had retreated farther and farther from Rosie. He worked all day in the fields. In the evenings, he went out to the barn to cut shingles, sharpen tools, or build furniture.
When he did chance to cast a glance Rosie’s way, his blue eyes were inscrutable. What was he thinking? What did he want? Why wouldn’t he say it in words?
She could only assume he resented the mercantile and post office. She knew he didn’t like people traipsing across his land any more than Jimmy did. And she had the feeling he was still concerned about Jack Cornwall. No rumors of the man’s whereabouts had filtered out to the homestead, but Rosie couldn’t imagine that any person so determined would give up.
Rosie sighed. “Mr. Hunter will be the one to decide about putting plate-glass windows in his barn,” she told Caitrin.
“Mr. Hunter this. Mr. Hunter that!” Caitrin set her hands on her hips. “Why do you care so much what that man thinks?”
“I work for him.”
“You love him!”
Rosie drew in a deep breath. “Caitrin, the harvest is starting to come in now. In a week or two, I’ll probably be on my way back to Kansas City to work at the Christian Home for Orphans and Foundlings. My feelings for Mr. Hunter don’t matter in the least. Winter is coming, and I won’t be needed anymore.”
“Not needed! That man needs you more than he needs his own life’s blood.”
“You sound just like Sheena.”
“Of course I do. And I’ll tell you the truth. If I were you and I had found a man as good as Seth Hunter, I’d marry him double-quick, so I would. But you go about your work, and he goes about his, and the two of you are just like a pair of courting chickens— dancing this way and that and never getting down to the business of it.”
“Caitrin!”
“The business of marriage I mean. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Anyone with two eyes in her head can see that the two of you belong together. You should marry him, Rosie, and the sooner the better.”
“I notice you didn’t marry the man intended for you in Ireland, Caitie.”
“That oaf? Not likely. Besides, I love a man I’ll never marry.” A wounded glaze came over Caitrin’s green eyes. “Sean O’Casey is his name, and he’s the finest man that ever lived. I love him. I’ll love him always. My heart belongs to no other, nor shall it ever.”
Rosie smoothed her hands across the flat folds of fabric. Caitrin’s words mirrored her own feelings for Seth exactly. “Why didn’t you marry Sean O’Casey?”
“Because he’s already married, that’s why. Don’t look so shocked. Nothing wicked ever passed between us. Sean’s father is a rich man. Four months ago, Mr. O’Casey forced his choice of a bride on his son. It wasn’t me. My own father had picked out my bridegroom, you see. But how could I live the rest of my life in that little village? Watching Sean and Fiona together day after day? Loving Sean as I do—and him loving me? No, I told my father I wouldn’t do it. I would go to America to live with Sheena instead. And here I am. Bound to live alone the rest of my life and happy with my choice.”
“Oh, Caitrin.” Rosie didn’t know when she’d ever heard such a woeful tale. It made her think of poor Rapunzel locked up in the tower by the wicked witch.
“But you,” Caitrin said, “you have nothing to keep you from the man you love.”
How little the Irishwoman understood, Rosie thought. “In many ways my problem is just like yours,” she said. “You see … I believe that in his heart, Seth is still married to his late wife. Even though their marriage was difficult from the beginning, he must have adored her. When she died, I think something must have died inside Seth. He’s afraid to let himself truly love again. He holds back. He throws himself into his work—night and day— anything to keep away from me and the feelings. …”
“That settles it,” Caitrin announced. “The two of you belong together—never mind the man’s long lost wife, God rest her soul. What we need is a grand occasion.” She pondered a moment; then she snapped her fingers in delight. “I have it! We’ll hold a harvest feast, so we will. We’ll have it right here in the mercantile, and we’ll invite all the farmers from miles around.”
“Caitrin, if you want to have a party, why not hold it in Jimmy’s barn? I’m afraid I’ve already pushed Seth too far with all these changes.”
“But this is the perfect place for a feast. Two weeks should give us enough time.”
“Enough time for what?”
“Enough time
to get ready. Enough time to convince Seth Hunter he can’t go on living without you.”
“Oh, Caitrin, you don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re trying to change everything, but you can’t! It isn’t right. You can’t just go around changing everything that doesn’t fit with your dreams. You can’t change barns into mercantiles. You can’t turn a bit of prairie sod into a town. And you can’t make Seth Hunter want to marry me. Besides, in two weeks, I’ll be gone.”
“Nonsense, Rosie. You’ll be right here.” Caitrin pressed a slender finger into the button at Rosie’s collar. “I’m going to see that you wear the prettiest dress on the Kansas prairie. I’m going to arrange for music, dancing, and the perfect evening for a proposal of marriage. We’ll have lanterns strung around the mercantile, hot cider, fried doughnuts, bobbing for apples, pies—lots of pies—and sticky buns with raisins on top, and …”
For a few moments, Rosie drifted in the scene that this genius of transformation painted with her words. It would be lovely indeed. The fragrance of cider and cinnamon drifting in the air, the aroma of freshly baked pies and cobblers, the scent of candles, the laughter of children. The feel of Seth’s arms as they slipped around her and drew her onto the dance floor. So perfect.
Yes. She would wear one of Caitie’s beautiful Irish gowns. Something in a pale silvery blue or deep russet … or plum, velvet plum. Caitie would pin up Rosie’s hair and set jewels in the curls. Maybe she could even dust a little of Caitie’s cologne across her skin. Seth would be entranced. He would fall under her spell. And then—
“Mail, Miss Mills!” Mr. Bridger from the Topeka post office marched into the mercantile and flopped a heavy sack of letters across the counter. “Got a letter for you this time. Seems like there might even be two.”
Rosie sank out of her daydream like a hot cake in a drafty window. Silly. How silly to live in fairy tales. Seth hardly looked at her these days. Their conversations were short, matter-of-fact, and all about the business of daily life. If she had been right and working amicably side by side was all it took to make a marriage, it would be an empty lot in life. Now she understood how much more was needed to make a marriage truly fulfilling. Gentle touch. Quiet conversation. Longing looks. Passion.
No, Seth was not a man in love. And a harvest celebration was unlikely to change that. Lord, help me to let him go. Please help me to do your will. …
“Let’s see now,” Bridger said. “This letter here is for Rippeto. It come all the way from Italy. You ever seen such crazy writin’ as this?”
Rosie studied the letter. She must concentrate on the here and now. And she must prepare herself for whatever God would lay in her future. “I can’t read a word of it,” she said. “Only the address.” “Hope,” Bridger said. “Hope, Kansas.”
Rosie rolled her eyes at the name and began to help him sort through the mail. “Here are two for Mr. LeBlanc,” she said. “They look like business letters. Probably payment for milling. This one’s for the young widow Hudson. Violet loves to hear from her sister in Ohio. This ought to cheer her up as the time for the baby draws near. And here’s one for Jimmy, and two for Rolf Rustemeyer. Look at that writing. It’s German, you know.”
“Good thing that feller’s been learnin’ how to talk,” Bridger said. “It ain’t halfway hard to understand him now.”
“Mr. Rustemeyer is a good man,” Caitrin put in. She was sliding the letters into the cabinet of wooden mail slots she had talked Mr. Bridger into hauling all the way from Topeka for the mercantile. “He’s a very hard worker.”
Rosie chuckled. “I used to think that was enough in a man.”
“Ain’t a hardworkin’ man good enough for you women?” Bridger asked. “Surely you don’t figure to get good looks, a charmin’ personality, manners, education, and all that out of a prairie farmer, do you? ’Cause if you do, you’re gonna be in for a long wait. Here’s your letter, Miss Mills. Looks like it come all the way from Kansas City.”
Rosie held her breath as she took the letter. She recognized the handwriting at once. “Mrs. Jameson,” she whispered. She tore open the envelope, and a scrap of paper that had been tucked inside fluttered to the floor. Scanning the letter, she absorbed the information.
“What is it?” Caitrin asked.
Rosie lifted her head. “I’ve been offered a position at the Christian Home for Orphans and Foundlings—where I grew up. The director writes that she has purchased a one-way coach ticket to Kansas City at great expense. I’m to be the head cook and earn three dollars a week plus room and board.”
“Three dollars a week?” Caitrin exclaimed, sweeping the stagecoach ticket from the floor. “Why, that’s highway robbery, so it is! You can make twice that in an hour with your bridge tolls. And the mercantile—”
“You don’t understand, Caitie,” Rosie said, taking the ticket. “They need me at the Home. They need what I have to give. Money is not, and never has been, the reason I work. I want to do God’s will. I want to go where I can be most useful. And the children need me, Caitie, truly they do.”
“We need you!” Caitie said. “We all do. Don’t we, Mr. Bridger?”
“Hate to lose you, Miss Mills,” Bridger said. “You sure have brightened up the prairie since you came along. Well, take a gander at this letter. Maybe it’ll change your mind. Looks like it went all the way from here to Topeka and back again. That figures. It’s from that German feller. Rustemeyer.”
“From Rolf?” Rosie took the note and scanned it silently. English and German words were jumbled together, but the meaning was perfectly clear.
“Well, what does he write?” Caitie asked. Her green eyes flashed. “He doesn’t want you to cook something for him, does he? The man eats like a horse, so he does.”
Rosie looked again at the letter—so well-meaning and earnest, just like Rolf. These words would demand an answer. Confusion overwhelmed her, and in the end she could only chuckle and shake her head. “As a matter of fact, he does want me to cook for him—and wash his clothes, tend his garden, and have his babies. It’s a formal proposal of marriage, Caitie.”
“To that great glunter? Well, well, well. So you are needed out here after all.”
“And in Kansas City, too. As a cook in both places.” Dismay mingled with humor at the situation into which she had stumbled. “That skill seems to have emerged as my greatest offering to the world.”
“What are you going to do, Rosie? Will you go and look after the fatherless children? Or will you marry that big hungry galoot? Or will you let me organize the harvest feast for you and Seth Hunter?”
Rosie slipped the letters into the pocket of her apron. “You can plan the feast, Caitrin,” she said. “What I’m going to do is pray. In two weeks, I’m sure I’ll have my answer.”
CHAPTER 17
AFTER his return from Topeka, Seth had made up his mind to focus on his farming. His fields demanded his constant attention. And farming was a good way for him to spend time with Chipper. In the two months since their trip, the little boy had become his shadow. They plowed together, planted together, even hoed side by side down the crop rows. With three good rains and plenty of sunshine, it was beginning to look like Rosie had chosen a good name for the place. “Hope” was thriving.
But in his heart, Seth felt the coming of winter. Dormancy. The end of growing things. The long silences. The cold.
Would Rosie go away? Would she marry Rolf Rustemeyer? As Seth knelt to check his turnip crop, he turned the situation over in his mind. Rolf had insisted that Rosie was going to become his wife. Though Seth had doubted the German at first, he now felt sure it must be true. One day he had spotted a scrap of paper lying below the hook where Rosie hung her apron. As he picked it up, his eyes fell across the message. A marriage proposal from Rustemeyer. Had Rosie answered? Why not? She had nothing to turn to but a life in the orphanage where she’d grown up. She deserved more than that.
Seth longed to give Rosie a new life. A b
etter life. Did he dare? He ran his fingers over the bright green leaves of his turnips. What kind of a future could he offer Rosie? Not much better than what she would have at the orphanage. Hard work. Children to mind. Clothes to wash. Meals to cook. Only real difference was that she’d have a house to call her own.
He looked up at the little soddy he had built. Not much to speak of there. A house made of dirt. No glass in the windows. Not even a real wood floor to sweep. When winter came, the place would be snug and warm enough. But there would be no idle pleasures— no trips to church or visits to a row of bright shops. Nothing but sitting by the woodstove and quilting or darning socks.
“Whatcha think of them turnips, Papa?” Chipper asked. “You been studyin’ long an’ hard over ’em.”
Seth looked up at his son and realized the boy had been examining the crop as diligently as his father had been lost in thought. “I reckon we’ll be pulling these turnips in a couple of weeks, Chipper. What do you think?”
“I think so, too. I bet Rosie’ll put ’em into a big stew for us.” He sobered for a moment. “A long time ago, Rosie told me she’d be goin’ away in the fall. Is that true, Papa?”
“I don’t know, Son. There’s not much to hold her here.”
“There’s me!”
“Yep, there’s you. Rosie loves you an awful lot. But she’s got to think about the rest of her life. She might not want to call a prairie soddy home, you know.”
“I reckon she wants a family. And out here she gots me. She gots you, too, Papa.”
Seth scratched the back of his neck. “I doubt I’m much of a catch, Chipper. I don’t have a barrel of money to offer, or a big fancy house, or a carriage and team. Truth is, I’m about as poor as the dirt this turnip’s growing in. So if Rosie had her druthers, I kind of doubt I’d be her first choice.”
He stood and slapped his hands on his thighs to brush off the dust. As he and Chipper started toward the soddy, Seth glanced in the direction of the barn. Silhouetted by the setting sun, Rosie stood on tiptoe taking laundry off the line. Her slender hand reached for the pegs, plucking them one by one and dropping them into her apron. Across the field, Seth could hear her humming a hymn—something she did all day, every day. He tried to remember how it had been around his place before Rosie. Mighty silent, he recollected.
Prairie Rose Page 23