Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Miz Audi,” Flossie said with a look of astonished curiosity on her face. “What can I do for you?”

  Again, Rosa wondered at the rudeness of these Americans. Signora Flossie did not seem willing to invite her in out of the intense noonday heat. Rosa looked right and left before she voiced her request, but dared not turn around. He might still be watching. “I may come in to speak to you?” Rosa asked softly.

  The older woman’s surprise was evident, but she immediately stepped back into the cool, shadowed interior of the parlor. “Of course. Why, I didn’t even think to ask a lady such as yourself if you’d like to come in. Then again, it’s no wonder I forgot my manners. Haven’t had a lady come to the door since I can remember.” Flossie mumbled the last remark more to herself than to Rosa.

  Rosa swept in and waited in the center of the room while her astonished hostess sent the young blonde off to fetch a pot of tea.

  “Tea?” The blond girl’s voice rose as she stared dumbstruck at Flossie.

  “Tea,” Flossie reiterated. “If you can’t find some in the back cupboard, run over to the Yees’ and ask for a pinch.” She turned back to face Rosa. “Sit down, Miz Audi, and let me make up for my poor show o’ manners.”

  Rosa sat, grateful to be in out of the sun’s intense glare. She stared around the room, thinking it one of the loveliest she had ever seen, still amazed to think she was inside a bordello. The walls were covered with deep crimson paper gilded with an ornate design. Sconces that dripped with crystal teardrops and cradled oil lamps were scattered at intervals about the ruby-colored walls. Flossie sank down onto a mohair settee, its upholstered surface rubbed to shining with long wear.

  “What can I do for you, Miz Audi. I thought you were leavin’ town.”

  “I choose to stay.”

  Flossie Gibbs arched a brow. “I see.”

  “And now I need a job.”

  Flossie’s eyes widened. “Here? I was only teasin’ you when—”

  “No!” Rosa said a little too quickly, then feared she might have insulted the signora. She smiled and lowered her voice. “No. I come to talk. Signor Paddie tells me about stores here in Busted Heel. He says if I open a store, everyone she’s still going to buy from the old one.”

  “He’s probably right.” The madam nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you know how to do?”

  Before Rosa could respond, the blonde reentered the room with a pot of tea. Flossie pointed to the side table, then once more devoted her attention to Rosa. Leaning forward to accept a cup of tea from the blonde, Rosa considered Flossie’s question. She blew on the steaming liquid, then looked up.

  “You can go now, Chicago,” Flossie Gibbs told the young girl. With a disgruntled look, the girl left the room.

  Rosa listed her talents. “I can cook, clean, read, write ... but not so good in English.”

  “Can you sew?”

  Rosa made a face. “My aunt would say no.”

  Flossie laughed. “It was just a thought.”

  “I have now an empty store. I need to know what is possible to sell there.”

  “What people need and what they want are two different things. Folks around here are either farmers needin’ seed and feed and calico, or they’re cowboys needin’ whiskey, a little tobacco, and comfortin’.” She thought for a moment and then added, “But what they all want at one time or another when they come to town is good, decent vittles.”

  “Ahh,” said Rosa sitting up a bit straighten “Vittles!”

  “Yep.” Flossie nodded, obviously pleased with herself.

  “What is vittles?”

  Flossie threw back her head with hearty laughter that set her wide bosom jiggling. “Food, Miz Audi.”

  “The other store does not already sell food?”

  “Not hot cooked meals. Why, the only way a body can get anything to eat here in Busted Heel is to cook it themselves or resort to eatin’ Bertha Matheson’s food, and her slop ain’t fit for hogs.”

  Rosa thought back to the poor excuse for a meal that she’d pushed around her plate at breakfast and had to silently agree with Flossie’s apt description.

  “So,” Flossie went on, “the way I see it is that you have two choices: you can work here, cookin’ for me and my gals— seein’ as how I been thinkin’ of hirin’ my own cook lately—or you could open up a café. Serve folks some vittles they wouldn’t have to close their eyes and hold their noses to eat.”

  A caffè. A ristorante.

  Rosa tried to imagine the musty, empty store filled with customers enjoying delicious meals, the likes of which she had not tasted since she left Corio. The Piedmont region of Italy was famous hot only for its main course dishes but also for puddings, sweets, melted cheese fondute, and wines. Perhaps, she thought, with a lot of hard work and a little luck...

  Flossie interrupted her musing. “O’ course, it’ll take you some time, not to mention money, to get set up. Why don’t you take a job here with me until you get on your feet? With your husband dyin’ and all... well, maybe you need a little time.” Flossie eyed her carefully. “You might change your mind about leaving.”

  “Signora Flossie,” Rosa began, confidently meeting the older woman’s green-eyed stare, “my husband send for me. Now I am here. I must eat to live. To eat, I must make money.” Rosa reached down for the valise at her feet. “I want to thank you. You are much help to me. I go now to my store and think about all you have said.”

  Flossie stood as Rosa did and walked her to the door. “I’ll help you in any way I can, Miz Audi. You jes holler.”

  “Please call me Rosa, Signora Flossie.”

  “Sure thing, Rosie.” The old woman looked pleased. “It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Grazie, Signora Flossie. Buon giorno.”

  “Bon-journey to you, too, Rosie, and good luck!”

  Brushing her hands against the once-white dish towel tied around her waist, Rosa walked toward the shanty that stood behind the row of stores fronting Main Street. The yard around the place was littered with all manner of refuse. Broken wheels, lengths of wire, and empty cans and bottles were strewn about the ground around the clapboard shack with the vegetable garden beside it. As she took in the jumble of trash, the split-rail fence that housed a lazy sow and her shoats, and the chickens that scratched with futility in the well-packed earth about the yard, Rosa slowly became aware of the aches and pains that were beginning to settle into her limbs. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was moving all too quickly toward the west. Rosa gauged its progress and felt a sense of relief coupled with frustration. It would be good to stop work, but there was still so much to do.

  The hours of the afternoon had flown by as she put her plan to open a café into effect. After her conversation with Flossie, Rosa had returned to Giovanni’s store and assessed her situation. The place was knee deep in dirt. She took stock of the furnishings the rooms possessed. Aside from the dust, the cot, and the stove, there was an empty water barrel, a battered tin tub, and what was left of a straw broom.

  What were you thinking of, Giovanni? she wondered as she glanced around the pitiful supply. What was your dream?

  Shrugging off the questions that had plagued her since morning, Rosa had then sent for her trunk, making good the small Negro boy’s offer to help. The child was the same one the marshal had spoken to earlier in the blacksmith’s barn. He informed her his name was G. W. Davis and that he lived in the place just behind her store. It seemed that only pennies for candy were required to convert the small boy into an able-bodied co-worker. She welcomed G.W.’s company and put the boy to work immediately. Once he had carried a message to John Tuttle and her trunk was delivered, G.W. informed her that the Wilkies’ sons—Robbie, Ritchie, Rudy, and Roy—took turns oiling the tall windmill at the edge of town and delivering water to the residents. She sent him along to the store with the message that she would like to pay for and receive her share of water as soon as possible.

  While G.W. swept th
e floors from one end of the place to the other, Rosa changed into one of her familiar everyday dresses, tied on a makeshift apron, and took the stove to task. Her hands burned from the lye soap she used to polish the relic, and she promised to herself to keep the stove shining as long as it promised to turn out wondrous culinary delights in return.

  Now, as she stopped outside the shanty, Rosa waited for the woman moving about inside to notice her. The door to the place was open, so Rosa could see nearly all of the one-room cabin. The place was crowded with a table and four chairs, a double bed in the corner, and the stove near the door. Rosa imagined the family seated about the rickety table and felt sad. It had been weeks since she had seen her own family, and now that Giovanni was gone, she would not know the luxury of having anyone to share her meals with. Determined not to cry, she fought back the tears that threatened and told herself that soon the café would be full of customers and she would not feel so alone.

  The tall Negro woman she had seen only from afar was bent over an open oven door. The heat inside the small room must have been nearly overpowering. Rosa wondered how the very pregnant woman could stand it. Finally, the woman G.W. had informed her was his mother, Zetta, straightened. When she noticed Rosa standing outside, she smiled. She wiped her hands on her tightly stretched apron and reached up to be certain the scarf tied around her hair was straight.

  “Yes?” Zetta Davis’s smile was shy but welcoming.

  “I am Rosa. Rosa Audi. Maybe you know my husband, Giovanni?”

  “I did,” Zetta said. “Spoke with him once or twice. Sorry about him gettin’ hisself kilt.” She looked Rosa up and down. “Decatur tol’ me you was in town.”

  Rosa nodded, still ill at ease when offered condolences. “I am wondering. Can you tell me about the table?” She pointed toward the back of her store. “Was his?”

  Zetta glanced toward the buildings. There was a weather-scarred table standing abandoned near the rear of Rosa’s store.

  “Yep. Used it to clean them vegetables he was settin’ to sell.”

  “You know his ideas?” Anxious to hear more, Rosa raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “He was plannin’ to cart in vegetables and fruits from Cheyenne. Seems a group of you folks was startin’ up a colony there and been growin’ all kinds of gardens. Why he thought anybody here in Busted Heel be needin’ more than what we already had, I don’t know. They already sellin’ vegetables at Al-Ray’s; most are mine, some the farmers bring in in trade. I got my own patch I used to make a little money now an’ then. Weren’t any need for any more vegetable sellers hereabouts.” She squinted at Rosa. “You thinkin’ on sellin’ vegetables?”

  “No. Cooking. I will start a café.”

  “Sho’ nuf?”

  “Sho’ nuf?” Rosa had never heard the phrase, but thought it bore repeating. “Sho’ nuf.”

  “Well, I’ll be. A café, you say? Ain’t this place turnin’ fancy, now?” Zetta laughed and called out to the children waiting for Rosa on the back step of the store. “You two childrens come on home right now! Time for dinner. Yore pappy’ll be home shortly.” Her attention on Rosa again, Zetta said, “My husband Decatur’s the town blacksmith. You ever need anything fixed, you come to me, an’ if G.W. and Martha get to pesterin’ you too much, you jest shoo them on home.”

  “Grazie. You said you sell vegetables?”

  “Sho’ nuf.”

  “I want to buy. Tomorrow we will talk again.”

  “Nice meetin’ you, Miz Audi.” Zetta smiled.

  “Rosa,” she said over her shoulder. As she recrossed the yard, sidestepping the scattered chickens running to and fro, Rosa practiced the curious new phrase she had learned from Zetta Davis and looked forward to a bath.

  Chapter

  Six

  As the sun moved on, easing its way across the plains until it disappeared beyond the horizon, dusk began to gather like fog about the town of Busted Heel. As the shadows between the buildings intensified, Kase Storm stood in his office and stared out of the dust-streaked window that fronted Main Street. With his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his feet spread wide against the pine plank floor, he let his expression mirror the growing shadows outside.

  From where he stood he could not see into the small storefront across the street, and it irked him more than he liked to admit. He had a clear view of Flossie’s place, a partial look into the well-lit saloon, but only a slant-eyed peek into the darkened interior of the shop Rosa Audi intended to call her own. Although darkness was rapidly settling in for the night, there was still no light visible through her front window. Kase wondered how long it would be before Rosa Audi decided it was time to light a lamp.

  If she even owned one.

  He shifted his weight to his left foot and ignored the sound of Zach Elliot entering the office.

  “Still worryin’ about the widow woman?”

  Kase turned on his friend. “I’m not worrying. Not about her.”

  “No? Then why you been wanderin’ around this place like a pony with his bridle off? You got the worried look of a fish floppin’ on a grassy bank wonderin’ how he got there.”

  “You got a real way with words, Zach.”

  “No sense in shootin’ straight and talkin’ crooked.” Zach frowned and rubbed the stubble of his beard with an open palm. “Been speculatin’ on where a man might get a bite to eat tonight. What’re you plannin’ on? Cold beans in a dirty bowl again?”

  “I was thinking of ordering a meal at Bertha’s. Tonight’s fried chicken night. It’s the one thing she can’t ruin.” Kase shrugged.

  “Yeah? I’ll tag along.”

  Kase cleared his throat before he said, “I won’t be eating there. Floss always brings me some when she picks up hers.” He figured the old man might as well know where he stood with some of the townsfolk. “Bertha won’t have a half-breed at her table.”

  Zach paused for a moment before he said, “Which doesn’t sound like punishment from what you said a minute ago.”

  Kase cocked his head and half smiled. “I guess not, now that you mention it.”

  Kase reached up for the black hat slung over the rack near the open door and settled it on his head. “I think I’ll just take one last walk around town and then meet you over there. If you run into Flossie Gibbs, introduce yourself. And be polite. She’s a friend.”

  Zach rolled his eyes heavenward. “Already met her. Tough as an old hen. Wears so much paint she can’t blush.”

  “She’s got a heart as big as Wyoming, though. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember I told you that.” Kase’s voice was smooth as silk, emphasizing the strong warning behind the words.

  “Defending old women, widows, and orphans seems to set real well with you, boy.” Zach clapped Kase on the shoulder as he stepped outside. “I’ll try and save you a drumstick.”

  Darkness quickly smothered the remaining sunlight. Kase sauntered down his side of the street, pausing long enough to thrust head and shoulders between the faded black drapes that hung in the doorway of the Yee family’s laundry. The place was no bigger than his dressing room in the Storm mansion. It was filled with the eye-smarting smell of lye soap mixed with the cloying scent of incense. Flossie and the girls kept the family in business. So did Paddie, who wore a spanking white shirt every day, regardless of the fact that he had few customers who would even notice. As usual, the Chinese couple were arguing with each other while their daughter, a soulful twelve-year-old, looked up at Kase and smiled. He waved and ventured on.

  One or two horses were tied up outside the saloon across the street. Cowboys from Mountain Shadows and other nearby ranches would be arriving now that the sun was down. But unless they got too liquored up, Kase did not expect any trouble. That was the reason he liked to sit unobtrusively at a corner table in the saloon until closing time. It helped pass the empty hours of an evening as well as curb the cow punchers’ appetites for too much whiskey. After all, he reasoned, that was why Quentin Ra
wlins had hired him—to keep the peace in Busted Heel. The job kept him occupied while he tried to put his life back in order.

  At first Kase had wondered why a man as wealthy and removed from the town as Rawlins even cared about Busted Heel’s growth and reputation, but within a few hours of proposing the job to Kase, the man had explained. They had discussed the offer over dinner at the Grand Hotel in Kansas City just after they recognized each other on one of the city’s main thoroughfares.

  “The reason I want a good man out there, a man I can trust,” Quentin said, leaning back on a thick rolled Havana cigar, “is because my spread’s the biggest outfit near Busted Heel. I hire the most men, and I’ll admit, running an operation as big as Mountain Shadows doesn’t leave any room for getting to know the type of men I hire. I can only hope that I’m as good a judge of men as I am of cattle. But, times being what they are, with my investments spreading out over Wyoming and beyond, my foreman does most of the hiring these days. I guess what I’m trying to say”—he inhaled and set the tip of the cigar glowing—“is that I don’t want to be responsible for any of my boys going hog wild and harming innocent townsfolk.

  “I’ve known your father since we worked together for the Bureau. I’d trust him with my life, and I’d say the same for you, just knowing you’ve been raised by him. I won’t tell you Busted Heel’s not a lonesome, forlorn place right now, but I foresee the town growing in the next few years, right along with the rest of Wyoming. Statehood’s just around the corner,” the cattleman had predicted, “and that’ll bring in all kinds of folks.”

  One of whom was a golden-eyed Italian girl with a head as hard as a mule could kick, Kase thought as he stood at the end of the sidewalk, staring at the dark interior of the empty shop across the street. He could pretend to Zach that he hadn’t paid her any mind since she stalked away from the jail at midday, but he could not deny it to himself. That would make him twice the fool. Without wanting to, he had tracked her every move, tried not to notice when she left Paddie’s with a smug look on her face and, he suspected, the key to the run-down store safely tucked in her pocket. He had only glanced up from the newspaper for a moment when he caught a glimpse of her leaving Flossie’s. Then it took every ounce of fortitude he had not to walk over and ask Floss what the girl had wanted. He could just imagine the belly laugh Flossie Gibbs would enjoy over his uncalled-for curiosity.