Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  “Because.” He stared once more into the flames, as if trying to fight her magic. “Where I live, men and women don’t have relations without being married. Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Rosemary persisted.

  “Unless the woman is being paid, like the saloon girls you’ve seen.” He sounded stern now. “You should go back now, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Rosemary snorted. “That’s the biggest bunch of foolishness I ever heard. You mean it’s all right for the men, but not for the women?”

  Michael grew uncomfortable. “Something like that.”

  “Well, then, I don’t believe in it, and I’m glad I don’t live there. Here miners take a woman whenever they can find one. So do the trappers and hunters. Some of them even take squaws, when white women are scarce. And no one asks if they’re married. I guess out here it’s just more natural.”

  Michael sighed, taking her into his arms. “You sure make it difficult to refuse you, you know that?”

  Rosemary smiled. She was going to make it more than difficult. She was going to make it impossible.

  The leaves of the hardwood trees had faded to a dismal green as fall approached. The late summer flowers bloomed riotously, knowing, somehow, that their time was near an end. The landscape changed subtly, from flat fields to gently rolling hills, and the wind held a sharp bite. In the distance the Rocky Mountains rose from the ground like an empress above the great valleys, her shoulders wreathed in a cloak of ermine clouds. Rivers flowed through those mountains like pulsing, living veins, carrying with them secrets of gold, silver, and precious ores, and the lives of the men who wrestled their wealth from the riverbeds.

  Towns sprung up along the way, hastily constructed of clapboard or sod, their main streets made up of wagon ruts and well-tread paths from the train stations. Between these lay military forts and mining camps, the latter populated with a group of wiry, fearless men who rose with the first light of dawn to patiently pan the Colorado rivers or delve into the earth with a pickax, searching for gold. Poor men rubbed elbows with the newly rich at the saloons, while the assayers measured each man’s hope in terms of ounces and nuggets.

  Rosemary loved it. The mining towns were home, for these people were just like her: displaced by choice, lonely, and in need of the color and excitement the circus could bring. After panning for months in snow-swollen rivers, their legs numb, their fingers raw from scraping mud, the miners were eager for any kind of human communication, whether it was from the show itself or the taproom afterward. It was the rare miner, no matter how poor, who could not scrape up the money required to see the show, and would not come back later to thank Carney.

  This year the days took on a brilliance that Rosemary could only attribute to her feelings for Michael. Never before had the loss of summer seemed so poignant. It wasn’t that she believed Michael would leave her when the season ended; she didn’t allow herself to think that far ahead, nor to dwell on the possibilities of a tomorrow. It was just that the earth seemed to take on a new significance, the very air was spiced and sharp, the sky an obsidian blue.

  And the nights! Rosemary remembered watching the stars when she was a child, when Sean and the clowns would sit around a campfire and tell stories of Ireland, of druids and fairies, of lost kings and hidden gold. The clowns would relate their own experiences, of the farmlands they’d left behind, of sweethearts and lovers who waited ahead. Rosemary would sit with her arms wrapped around her crossed knees, and listen drowsily while her eyes were fastened on the tumult of stars above. Then they had been comforting, fairy lights, Sean had told her, but now they seemed unbearably beautiful when she slipped out of Michael’s tent, sated with lovemaking, her body and mind incredibly alive. Michael filled an emptiness within her that she hadn’t really known existed.

  It was all like a wonderful dream, days floating into endless nights, nights becoming weeks. And they were heading into Denver, the glittering jewel of the mining towns. It couldn’t have been timed better if she tried.

  “Hungry?” Michael leaned closer to her as the wagon rolled toward town. In the distance she could see the grand hotel buildings, the opera, the shops and restaurants that had been built with Colorado gold. Sighing, the snuggled closer to him and nodded.

  “Starved.”

  “Good. When we get settled, I’ll take you out to dinner. And maybe the opera. Have you ever seen Mozart?”

  Rosemary shook her head, her freckles crinkling. “No. Is that anything like the dance hall girls in Reno? I saw them with Griggs and Rags once. They were real pretty.”

  Michael chuckled and ruffled her hair affectionately. “No, it isn’t like the dance hall girls. But I think you’ll like it much more.”

  Rosemary nodded. “All right, we’ll go. But this afternoon I want to go riding. I have some friends I’d like to see here.”

  Michael nodded. “We’ll have time during the setup. I could use the exercise myself. Mind if I join you?”

  Rosemary shook her head, giving him a beaming smile. He had changed so much from the cold and calculating banker she’d met just a couple of months ago. It was hard to believe that the tender and considerate man who sat beside her had once put a snake in her bed. Part of her mind warned her not to forget, but she was too much in love….

  In love. Rosemary marveled to herself. She loved him! A delicious grin spread across her face. So this is what it was like. It should have been all wrong, but it felt so right. It was wonderful, like a cup filled with golden honey, warm and sweet. Rose was filled with happiness.

  “You’d better stop looking at me like that,” Michael said softly, but his eyes glowed at the expression on her face.

  “Like what?” Rosemary grinned impishly.

  “With that sort of reverence. For God’s sake, Rose, I’m just a man, like any other.”

  “Not like any other,” she corrected him. “I don’t I—”

  “Don’t,” he said quickly, his face tightening. He saw her look of dismay, then laughed resignedly. “All right, if you have to love the ground I walk on, I can live with it. But in town it might be best to conceal your feelings. People can be cruel.”

  “All right.” Rosemary shrugged, not having the least idea of what he was talking about. Where she was taking him, they’d understand completely.

  Just as she did.

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  They’d been riding for the better part of an hour, and the invisible path they were taking wound down through the mountains and into a thickly wooded grove. Aspen leaves trembled in the wind like a thousand gold coins, and the river ambled beside them like a silver ribbon.

  “It’s not much farther. Just past the next bend.” Rosemary urged her mount forward, her manner sure and certain.

  Michael shrugged, admiring the figure before him. She was the best horsewoman he’d ever known, and she handled the chestnut mare with all the calm surety that most women handled needlework. Clad in the hated clown suit, her hair pulled back in a braid, she bore little resemblance to the sensual woman who nearly sent him out of his mind last night.

  It was useless to resist, and he knew it. Initiated into the art of lovemaking, Rosemary responded to him with an uninhibited passion that astonished him. Just the previous night she had somehow figured out that whatever he did to her that felt good must feel good to him. She made love to him, with her hands, her fingers, and her lips, and when he finally consummated the act, it was so unbelievably good that he held her for hours later, feeling as though she would consume him. She was like no other woman he’d ever known, and no matter what the outcome, he’d never forget her.

  “There.” Rosemary stopped in the midst of the trees at some invisible marker. Gracefully she slipped down from her horse and tethered the mare to a tree. Michael followed her example and joined her on the ground.

  “Now what?” They were in an impenetrable thicket. Trees enveloped them on all sides, while the ground cover grew only
as high as their ankles. A bird fluttered somewhere overhead, and a red squirrel hopped from branch to branch, pausing to peer inquisitively at the intruders.

  “We walk. But wait a minute.” Rosemary inspected his crisp white shirt, his dark trousers, and his flawless collar. “That will never work.”

  “What the hell—” Michael stared in disbelief as she bent down to the ground, scooped up a handful of dirt, then rubbed it into his shirt.

  “That’s better.” Rosemary worked the mud into his sleeves, then brushed her hands and grinned in satisfaction. “I don’t want you looking too much like a tenderfoot.”

  “Rosemary, where are we going?”

  She took his hand and led him through the thicket. Immediately the horses disappeared behind the wall of trees, and he wondered if they’d ever find their way out.

  “Trust me.” She grinned at his expression. “No knives or lions, I promise.”

  He followed her farther into the woods until just ahead, the trees broke out into a clearing that was completely hidden from the path. The river gurgled nearby, and he could see primitive canoes and small lean-tos encircling what appeared to be a campfire. There were tools scattered about, shovels and picks, hammers and chisels, and shallow metal pans. He stopped when he reached the mouth of the clearing and stared in stunned surprise.

  “My God, Rose,” he whispered, drawing her closer. “Indians!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THERE WAS NO MISTAKING THEM. Michael stared in astonishment at the tall and well-proportioned men, clad in smooth buckskins decorated with intricate featherwork. Around their necks they wore beads strung together with pieces of flint and chunks of metal, while amulets adorned their upper arms. Their bodies were bronze and moved with a quiet mastery of the forest and the rivers beyond. They gazed in silent inspection at the young woman who walked boldly past them to a rugged miner who resembled a dwarf.

  “Carney!” The miner dropped his pan and opened his arms, embracing Rose with all the exuberance of a long-lost father. “Where the hell’ve you been! It’s a long time since you’ve come. Who is that with you? It isn’t Griggs, I suppose?” He squinted at Michael while the Indians waited nearby like silent sentinels.

  “No, it’s a friend of mine. I didn’t think you’d mind. Michael Wharton, Black Jack Dunnegan.”

  Michael stepped forward, pale and uncertain. He glanced toward the Indians, who watched him as carefully as he did them. As an easterner, he’d read all the newspaper stories of atrocities, of ruthless, murdering Indians who scalped white men and buried them up to their necks in the dirt. What happened next he couldn’t bear to think about.

  “Rose, those are Indians….”

  “Well, of course they are,” the miner boomed. “They aren’t Frenchmen, though which is better company is an argument. They won’t hurt you, lad.”

  Still watching carefully, Michael came forward and extended a hand. The one that took his was surprisingly strong and as rough as sandpaper.

  “Wharton, is it? I knew a Wharton once. Horse thief, I recall. Hanged him in Dodge City and buried him in a pine box. Ye aren’t related, are ye?”

  “No, can’t say that I am,” Michael replied dryly. He saw Rosemary’s twinkle and knew instantly how these two seemingly unrelated people had become friends.

  “Ah, sorry to hear that. Grand name he had, old Sirus Wharton. Should have kept his hands off that horse. You’ll be staying a while, I suppose? I just put coffee on. These damned Indians can’t brew a pot to save their life.”

  “We’ll stay,” Rosemary answered for them both. “We have to be back before night, though.”

  “The show.” Black Jack grinned. “When I see Rose Carney, I know the circus is in town. Do you still miss your father so much?”

  The question came out of nowhere, and Michael turned away from his inspection of the Indians to see Rosemary’s reaction.

  She nodded, and her eyes misted. “All the time. And what of you? Have you ever gotten over Belle?”

  “Belle Starr? Never. Never been a woman like her and won’t be another. She had the cutest way of…Well, never mind all that. Come and we’ll eat.” He glanced toward the pan at his feet, then stooped for it and showed the tin to Rose. “What do you think, see anything in there glittering?”

  Rosemary sifted through the silt, letting the sand wash through her fingers. She shook her head. “No.”

  “Me, either.” Jack spat, his wizened face twisting. “Nigh on three years and I haven’t had a good run of luck since we found that nugget. I know it’s here, though. Them Arapaho say it’s good medicine.”

  Rosemary glanced unconcernedly toward the Indians for the first time, then back to the miner. “Then you should keep trying. If anyone should know, they should.”

  “That’s what I think. Ah, well, I ain’t had nothin’ better to do for the last few years. Ever since Belle run off.”

  Totally bemused, Michael sat beside Rosemary and Black Jack at the campfire, while the older man poured out thick black coffee and handed them plates of cornmeal mush. They ate avidly, and Michael couldn’t help but notice that most of the miners were immigrants. He heard brogues and burrs, German and Italian. They had left the eastern cities to seek their fortune here, and got nothing more than mud scrapings as a result.

  The river gurgled, and the soft movements of the Indians and miners were the only sounds in the still forest as they sipped the strong, bitter liquid. To his further amazement, the Indians joined them. Michael couldn’t stop looking at them. Intelligence glimmered in their eyes, while a hawklike fierceness seemed inbred in them, giving drama to their movements.

  Several of the other miners joined them, some of them greeting Rosemary by name, some of them newly introduced by Jack. Michael tore his eyes away from the Indians to stare at her in astonishment. She was sitting cross-legged like the Indians, her manner confident and comfortable in the odd assembly. One of the Indians lit a red clay pipe and passed it to her. Rosemary took a deep breath of smoke, then handed the pipe to him.

  “I don’t smoke.” Michael stared at the thin column that traced upward from the bowl of the pipe into the trees. The Indians looked at him solemnly while one of the miners coughed in embarrassment.

  “Ye do now, sonny,” Black Jack advised, pushing the pipe toward him. “Ye don’t want to offend our friends, do ye?”

  Michael glanced at the Indians, then, forcing a smile, he took the pipe and wedged it between his teeth. Inhaling, he instantly choked, the sweetly scented smoke irritating his throat and lungs. His eyes watered, and Rosemary pounded helpfully at his back while the others looked on in amusement. Passing the pipe, he struggled to breathe while the miners chuckled.

  “Happens the first time. It’s good medicine, though, don’t feel too bad.”

  Indeed, the Indians looked on him much more kindly than they did originally, and even some of the gnarled miners gave him a sympathetic smile. When the pipe had passed all the way around, the men settled around the fire and talked softly.

  “Got bit by a rattler last week. Had to cut off half an inch of skin to git the poison out. Ain’t healed proper yet.”

  “Snow’s coming. I can feel it. Wanted to pan for a few more weeks yet.”

  “Got close last month. Hit a few nuggets and thought I’d found a vein. Ain’t panned out yet, though.”

  “When you passed through Kansas, did you hear tell of a girl named Lorrie Anne? Said she’d wait for me.”

  Michael listened as the miners revealed their loneliness, their desperation for gold, their unending quest for the glittering metal that always lay just beyond their reach. It sounded like Tantalus and his constant thirst, the waters receding just as he reached down to drink. Yet, in spite of the frustration of their existence, none of the men expressed a wish to return to civilization. Michael couldn’t help but wonder just how bad their lives had been. He winced when he thought of his own cold words, that there were jobs, that these people freeloaded off his father…<
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  He was forced to reexamine his prejudices. These men could find no other work; it was as simple as that. The West offered free land and the chance for gold. It was a gamble they were willing to take.

  And the Indians continued to fascinate him. As the miners spoke, men introduced to him as Surly John, Red Hugh, Irish, Tin-Armed Willy, and Gabby, he began to appreciate a life he’d never conceived of before. His ledgers and figures seemed meaningless in a world where survival meant finding enough food for one day, and enough means to continue panning for another season. He’d never realized just how sheltered his own existence had been until this moment.

  One of the Indians spoke in a harsh-sounding language, and immediately the men became quiet. He had an expression of silent authority, his brows white but firm above pitch-black eyes, his nose straight and weather-beaten. He spoke quietly, his hands moving sharply like the movements of a bird in flight, and Black Jack translated.

  “He says the traveling moon is upon us. It is good that you are here. He says he will tell you of a young woman named Handsome. Handsome was the daughter of a chieftain and was known for her beauty. In time a young man came to love her, but she scorned him and laughed at him.”

  The Indian paused for a moment, his eyes peering out of a face that resembled an old leaf. For a moment Michael felt a chill as the Indian seemed to look through him, those black eyes soulless and searching. But he returned to his story, emphasizing his words with hands that moved like swooping birds.

  “The young man, crushed by the woman’s coldness, lay in the earth and covered himself with leaves and prepared to die. His family, when they heard of what the woman had done, prayed to the spirits for revenge.

  “Soon after, a young man came into the village clad in furs and wearing many feathers and beads. The women were all dazzled, and Handsome more than the rest. Soon she fell in love with the dashing young warrior, and she wed him.

  “Together they set out to the man’s tribe, to introduce his bride to his family. On the way Handsome’s feet became cut from the rough path, and she wearied of the march. Day by day the appearance of her dazzling husband changed. His feathers fell off, his beads were broken, his face became old. Slowly he dissolved and fell to pieces, and all that was left of him were bones.