Prairie Rose

by Catherine Palmer

  Lord, he breathed, lifting a prayer as he had seen Rosie do so many times when she thought he wasn’t looking. Lord, I’ve been awful angry with you. The grasshoppers and Cornwall and all. But I reckon Rosie was right when she said love took faith. Faith in you. Lord … I love that woman. I think … No, I know I love her enough to take the risk that I might lose her one day the way I lost Mary. But, Lord, dare I ask Rosie to take on this hardscrabble life? Show me. Somehow teach my heart the truth. Would Rosie want to mother a child who’s not her own son? Could she love a man who is secondhand goods? And the house? Lord, could she ever come to feel that a dark, dusty, cramped soddy was a home? Her home?

  Seth sighed deeply and lifted his head. As he studied the little house he had built, he spotted something he had never noticed. Outlined by the pink sky of sunset, a large cluster of bright purple flowers nodded in the evening breeze—flowers growing on the soddy roof.

  “What’s that up there, Chipper?” he asked. “Up on the roof. Looks like some kind of weeds or something.”

  “It’s purple coneflowers,” Chipper said. “Don’tcha remember? You gave Rosie a seed head on our trip out to the prairie. She put it in her treasure bag that she wears around her neck. Back in the spring, she planted the seeds on the soddy roof.”

  “On the roof?” Seth gazed in amazement at the simple, natural beauty of the dancing purple wildflowers. “Why did she plant them on the roof?”

  “So the soddy wouldn’t be a house anymore.” His voice took on a note of disgust. “Don’tcha know anything about Rosie, Papa?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “She says you got to have flowers,” Chipper said. “Rosie says flowers make a house into a home. That’s why she planted them, Papa. ’Cause now we don’t just live in a house anymore. We live in a home.”

  “Exquisite!” Caitrin Murphy crossed her arms and stepped back to admire her latest transformation. “Miss Rose Mills, you are a true beauty!”

  “That you are, Rosie!” Little Erinn O’Toole fingered the ruffles on the deep claret-colored gown her Aunt Caitie had loaned away for the evening. “You look like a fairy princess.”

  “Snow White,” four-year-old Colleen announced. “Rosie looks like Snow White.”

  “Where are the gloves?” Sheena asked. “Cait, you must let Rosie wear your gloves. The white kid ones with all the buttons. Where are they?”

  Rosie stood in front of the stove in Sheena’s house and stared down at the rippling, purple-red silk gown. Her waist, cinched tightly with a borrowed corset, curved inward and then out into the billow of a great hooped petticoat. She took a step forward. The skirt bobbed and swung. Beautiful! Oh, it was beautiful!

  “Now the garnets,” Caitie said, snapping her fingers. “Erinn, pass me the garnet necklace.”

  Rosie gasped as the chilled metal slipped around her throat. A narrow cascade of deep red garnets dripped down her bare skin to the delicate point of her bodice neckline. She had barely accepted the reality of wearing her first necklace ever, when Caitrin began screwing a pair of dangling earrings onto Rosie’s lobes. Earrings! What would Mrs. Jameson say to such luxury? Such extravagance!

  “Now my shawl,” Caitie said. “The black one. Not that. The one with the fringe, Erinn dear.”

  Caitrin draped the soft wool shawl around Rosie’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. “There you are. Perfect. If only we had a looking glass, you would see you’re a very queen tonight. Sure, your hair will be enough to send poor Mr. Hunter straight over the brink.”

  “You look like Snow White,” Colleen said again.

  “I think she looks like Cinderella,” Erinn said.

  “How do you feel?” Caitrin turned Rosie around and around on the packed dirt floor of the O’Toole soddy. “Do you feel like a queen?”

  Rosie nodded—but not too hard. She was afraid her hair might fall down. Caitie had done it all up in loops and braids and curls. Then she had piled it so high and stuck it with so many combs and jewels and shingerleens that Rosie feared the slightest breeze would send the creation crashing like a great Christmas tree, scattering ornaments left and right. She wove her gloved fingers together. “I feel very … very wonderful.”

  “And you look it!” Caitrin clapped her hands together. “Now for the grandest surprise of all. A gift to you, Rosie. Can you guess who sent it? Seth! It’s from Seth himself, so it is. He said, ‘Give this to Rosie when she’s getting ready for the dance. I think she’ll like it.’”

  “Seth said that?”

  “Every word of it.” Caitrin set a small flat box on the bed and gave Rosie a quick kiss. “We won’t stay to see you open it. Sure, the rest of us must hurry over to the mercantile and join the guests. Rosie, you’re to make your entrance at seven o’clock exactly. Not a second sooner. Erinn, the moment she walks through the door, you’re to gasp loudly, so you are. Do you remember how we practiced?”

  Erinn let out a loud gasp. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect. And, Colleen, what are you to say?”

  “I’m to say, ‘Look at Rosie! She’s magni … si . . fi . . shent. Magnishifent.’”

  “Magnificent. Oh, just say she’s lovely.” Caitrin smoothed out the flounces on her own gown of deep blue. “Come along then, everyone. Rosie, we’ll leave you here. Be sure to study the time. Don’t be a moment late. Seven o’clock!”

  Rosie stood, half-afraid to move, as the O’Toole women traipsed out of the house toward the bridge. She gingerly took a single step toward the fireplace. The clock on the mantel read six thirty. Half an hour to wait. She eyed the package on the bed. But she couldn’t sit down to open it. If she did, how would she manage to keep from flipping the hoop straight up to the ceiling?

  Rosie bent over carefully and picked up the flat box tied with a pink ribbon. For two weeks, she had watched the world turn upside down around her. Caitrin and Sheena—and even Seth himself—had slowly altered the character of the barn. While the two women were busy filling the front with lanterns and tables and paper decorations sent in the mail from Topeka, Seth was piling the back with radishes, lettuce, collards, cauliflower, carrots, and cabbages. His biggest cash crop would be the beets he was just beginning to harvest, and Rosie knew he had great hopes for them.

  Three times Seth had stopped Rosie and asked if he could have a moment of her time. There was something he would like to say to her. But twice Caitrin had cut in—calling Rosie to help with customers or to rescue her from some little emergency. Once, just as Seth had been about to speak, Rolf Rustemeyer had dropped by. The moment had vanished—and Rosie had too. She was terrified that Rolf would ask for an answer to his letter. She wasn’t ready to give it. She hadn’t prayed hard enough yet. She didn’t have an answer. She didn’t know what to do.

  With shaky fingers, she tugged apart the pink bow. Gingerly, half-afraid to see what was inside, she lifted the box lid. Fabric lay flattened on a sheet of newsprint. She pulled it out into the light and let out a gasp of delight. It was a bright yellow calico bonnet! Crisp and brand-new with long ribbons and a firm round peak, the bonnet had a gathered crown that would easily hold all her hair.

  A bonnet! Oh, Seth—what do you mean by giving me this? Is it a thank-you for my hard work? A farewell present? An apology for the loss of the old bonnet? Or could it be … did he understand how much a new bonnet would mean to her? And did he want to please her with a gift that would draw her heart to his?

  She needed to pray! Dear Father, what do you want from me? Rosie turned toward the door, and her dress spun like a carousel. How could she even concentrate enough to pray in this getup? This wasn’t her. This wasn’t Rosenbloom Cotton Mills. She should be cooking a big hot stew for Chipper and Seth. She should be tending a bowl of rising bread. She should be piecing her quilt. She should be seeing to the six forty-five stagecoach from Manhattan. The stagecoach …

  Father! Am I supposed to get on that stagecoach? Am I supposed to go back to Kansas City and help Mrs. Jameson?

  Oh,
she didn’t know the answer. Why couldn’t God hurry up and tell her what to do? She’d given him two weeks!

  Maybe she was supposed to marry Rolf Rustemeyer. She could tell him her answer tonight at the harvest feast. Yes, Rolf. I will marry you. We will be the Family Rustemeyer. Washing clothes and growing potatoes and bearing him babies.

  No! That wasn’t right.

  Rosie wrung her hands. What did Seth’s gift mean? What had he been trying to tell her in those vain attempts to have a private word? Did he want to discuss her trip back to Kansas City? That must be it. What else could he have on his mind? The harvest was coming in. Winter was in the air. It was time to go back to the orphanage—and a new bonnet would send her off in style.

  Oh, why was she wearing this silly outfit? She didn’t belong in silk and garnets. She belonged in calico and gingham.

  Father, what shall I do?

  Knowing only what she couldn’t do, Rosie stripped off the white kid gloves and threw them onto the bed. Then she began to pull the combs and ribbons from her hair. With every stage of her transformation from Cinderella-dressed-for-the-ball to Cinderella-of-the-ashes, Rosie felt better and better.

  She unbuttoned the scores of tiny buttons down the back of Caitrin’s dress, stepped out of it, and laid it across the bed. Then she took off the hooped petticoat. Then the corset. In seconds, she had slipped on her faded blue gingham dress and run her fingers up the mismatched buttons. She twirled her long hair through her hands and wound it into a familiar, comfortable bun. Slipping the new bonnet over her head, she tied the long ribbons into a bow under her chin.

  Yes, the voice in her soul said. Yes, Rosie. This is who you are, my child.

  In the distance, she could hear the six forty-five stagecoach approaching, hoofbeats and wheels clattering down the trail. In moments it would pass the O’Toole house and cross the pontoon bridge. Then the driver would stop at Seth’s barn to pay the toll.

  If Rosie got on the coach, she would leave behind everything she had come to love—Seth, Chipper, the little soddy. But how could she ask more of Seth than he had to give? And how could she turn away from the orphans and foundlings who needed her?

  The stagecoach. Yes, she should be on the stagecoach. She grabbed a piece of charcoal from the edge of the fireplace. Dear Sheena, she scratched out on the wood table. I have gone back to Kansas City to help the orphans. It is the right thing to do. I love you all. Rosie.

  Yes, she loved them all. She did. But in the time she had spent on the prairie she had done little more than create havoc. Seth had never wanted a post office or a mercantile—or even her. She had forced her way into his life. It was time to go.

  She shrugged her old white shawl over her shoulders and stepped out into the darkness. Half-blinded by unexpected tears, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the stagecoach ticket. As she started for the bridge, the coach passed her.

  She waved and began to run behind it. The coach would stop at Seth’s barn for only a moment. Rosie would speak to Mr. Dixon, the driver. She would get on with the other passengers. Father, help me to leave! Help me to have the strength to leave this place!

  Rosie ran across the pontoon bridge. Up ahead she could see the barn strung with lanterns. Guests milled around the open front doors and gathered at the tables inside. The little band was tuning up. Children played hide-and-seek around the wagon wheels.

  The stagecoach pulled to a stop. In the dim light, Rosie could see the driver talking with Caitrin. She took his toll money and chatted for a moment. Then he sauntered back toward the stagecoach. Time to go, time to go. Rosie brushed a hand across her wet cheek, lifted her skirt, and hurried up to him.

  “Mr. Dixon,” she said, thrusting out the ticket. “I want to book passage with you to Kansas City.”

  “Well, howdy there, Rosie. Kansas City, huh?” He looked her up and down. “You ain’t stayin’ for the festivities tonight?”

  “No. I need … I need to go.”

  The driver raised an eyebrow. “If I was you, I’d stick around. Smells like some mighty good cooking’s been done for this shindig.”

  “No, sir. I won’t stay.”

  “Suit yourself then.” He took the ticket. “Climb in round to the other side. I’ll give the horses a quick check, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Nodding, Rosie glanced inside the barn. She could see Seth talking with Violet Hudson. The widow was showing him her newborn baby. The look on the man’s face was soft. Caring.

  Let him go! Father, help me to let Seth go. Others need him more.

  Rosie spotted Chipper in the doorway gnawing on a candied apple. Will O’Toole had slung his arm around his friend, and the two boys were laughing at some shared joke.

  Let him go! Let the child go. Others can care for him as well as I.

  Where was Rolf? She really should say something to Rolf. There wasn’t time. As he had written to her, so she would write to him from Kansas City—a kind letter, full of respect and admiration for him, yet firm in her refusal of his offer. She put her foot on the coach step and her hand on the door. As she leaned into the stagecoach, someone touched her elbow.

  “Rolf?” She swung around.

  “Miss Mills.” Jack Cornwall took off his hat. “I’d really hate to accost you as I did once before, but I do need my nephew. So, if you’ll just come with me now.”

  Seth’s stolen rifle was slung across the man’s back. He cradled his own shotgun in his arms, one hand resting loosely near the trigger. Her tears transforming instantly to icy fear, Rosie stepped back onto solid ground. Cornwall linked his arm through her elbow.

  “Fine night for a party,” he said. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?”

  Unable to speak, Rosie walked beside him toward the barn. She could see Chipper and Will still munching on their apples, completely oblivious to the threat. In the half darkness, it would be easy to lure the boy away from the barn. Cornwall would use her to do it. She guessed he would take them both—using her as insurance—in his flight across the state. So she would return to Missouri after all … if Cornwall let her live that long.

  “Call the boy,” he said, prodding her forward a little. “Go on. Call him.”

  Rosie swallowed. “Chipper!” “Hi, Rosie! Erinn said you were all gussied up. But ’cept for that bonnet, you look the same as ever to me.” Chipper walked across the lighted open doorway of the barn and into the semidarkness. “Who’s that with you?”

  “It’s your uncle Jack,” Cornwall said. “Hey, Chipper. How’ve you been?”

  Chipper stopped and stared. “Hi, Uncle Jack. Did you come here for the harvest feast?”

  “I just came to get you.” His voice was soft, beckoning. “You want to go home to Gram and Gramps? They sure have missed you this summer.”

  Chipper took two more steps toward Cornwall. “I miss them, too. How are they?”

  “I haven’t seen them in a while. You know what happened? That ol’ Yankee you’ve been staying with shot me. Right in the shoulder.”

  “Papa shot you?”

  “You don’t call that fellow papa, do you? Aw, he’s just been tricking you. He’s an ol’ Yankee, don’t you remember? He shot me, and I haven’t been able to get home yet. But I’m ready to go now. Come on, and let’s head out together, Chipper. You and me. I bet Gram will bake us one of her apple pies when we get home. You remember Gram’s apple pies, don’t you?”

  “I love Gram’s apple pies,” Chipper said. “Can Rosie and Papa come with us?”

  “We’ll take Rosie part of the way at least. How about that?”

  “Okay. If Rosie’s goin’, I’ll go, too. Lemme tell Papa good-bye first, Uncle Jack. He don’t much like me to go off without tellin’ him.”

  “Wait! Don’t go. If you tell him you’re leaving, he might try to stop you. Come on. Let’s ride out. Just the three of us.”

  “Chipper—,” Rosie began.

  “Come on, Chipper,” Cornwall cut in, squeezing her arm hard to si
lence her. “Let’s go, buddy. I’ll let you ride on my black horse. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Chipper stood for a moment. He studied Rosie. Then he eyed his uncle. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Naw, Uncle Jack,” he said with a shrug. “I reckon I’ll just stay here with Papa. You can tell Gram and Gramps to come over for a visit. Know what? Papa says maybe we can all make peace one of these days. I sure would like that, ’cause me and Papa an’ Rosie would really be happy if you lived near us. Wouldn’t we, Rosie?”

  Rosie did her best to nod. “Chipper, why don’t you step back—”

  “Come over here, Chip,” Cornwall said. “Give your uncle Jack a hug before I head off.”

  “Chipper, no!” Rosie said.

  Cornwall jerked her with him as he lunged at the little boy. Chipper tumbled to the ground beneath his uncle. Behind him, Will O’Toole let out a howl. As Rosie fell, the shotgun barrel jabbed into her stomach. Shouts filled the air.

  “Chipper!”

  “Let go, Uncle Jack!”

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  “Rosie, Rosie!”

  “Seth, where are you!”

  “Help them!”

  Rosie struggled to move the gun barrel that was wedged beneath her ribs. She could hear Chipper shrieking in terror. Father, she prayed. Father, help us!

  “Get off my boy, Cornwall!” Seth’s big hand clamped onto the man’s jacket. Cornwall sprang at his adversary. The shotgun jerked and went off. Rosie screamed as pellets peppered the dirt beside her.

  “Chipper!” she shouted. “Chipper, where are you?”

  “Rosie!”

  In half a breath, the boy was in her arms. She scooped him up and struggled to her feet. Without a glance behind her, she ran with the child through the darkness, dodging around the stagecoach toward the bridge. Get away. She must get Chipper away. Take him to safety.