Worst of all, she had allowed him to kiss her in a way no man ever had. Certainly Dr. Lowell had never kissed her in such a way. In fact, she could count only two times he had attempted such a liberty, and both had been utterly repulsive.
Dabbing a silk handkerchief to the corner of her eye, Rosie stood from the window seat and went to her dressing table. She spread her rolled teaching certificate and slid it into the edge of the oak frame around her mirror so that she could see it from any part of her small room. She might be a fool when it came to Bart Kingsley, but she was brilliant in every other area of her life.
As she changed out of her city clothes into her white nightgown, Rosie decided that she had taken enough of what other people dished out. She had come to Raton to get a teaching position, and against all odds, she would have one.
“Dear God,” she whispered as she folded her hands. “I’ve made some whopping mistakes, as You very well know. There was all that with Bart…and then I let Pappy talk me into accepting Dr. Lowell’s proposal…and then Bart again. You can’t be any too pleased with me. But, Lord, I had good intentions in coming out here to Raton to be a schoolteacher, only now Mr. Kilgore says he doesn’t want me. Father, please work out this problem. Give me a sign so I’ll know what You want me to do. Amen.”
As she slipped between the cool sheets and shut her eyes, Rosie felt the first peace she’d known since Bart Kingsley crawled out from under her bed.
At one o’clock in the morning the screaming whistle of the switch engine woke Rosie with a start. Gunfire shattered the night’s silence. Shouts and cries echoed through the streets.
“Fire! Fire!” someone hollered below the Harvey House dormitory. “O’Reilly’s Saloon is afire!”
Rosie threw open her window to an ebony sky lit with an orange glow. Red sparks shot upward to mingle with the stars and then vanish. Smoke billowed over shingled rooftops. The members of the hose company dashed down the street.
“Laurie!” Etta barged into Rosie’s room. “Laurie, everyone’s going out to see the fire!”
Wide awake now, Rosie pulled on her robe as they ran into the hall. “O’Reilly’s Saloon is a frame building, Etta! It’ll go up like a matchstick!”
“The whole town might burn down! Oh, isn’t this thrilling?” Etta, frizzy blond hair bouncing, hopped up and down in the hall as the other girls assembled. Even Mrs. Jensen, ruffled nightcap in place, had started for the stairs.
Clad in billowing white gowns, the Harvey Girls followed their matron across the street. Gray smoke hung thick in the night air.
Rosie noted with relief that no wind had sprung up to blow the fire from building to building. Even so, the whole town had come out to view the blaze. Children clung to their mothers’ nightgowns. Fathers lugged buckets of sloshing water toward the saloon. Against the bright orange fire, silhouetted men wrestled heavy hoses to shoot streams of water onto the flames.
“There’s Sheriff Bowman!” Etta cried. “I heard he was the first to spot the fire!”
Through the smoke, Rosie could barely make out the man kicking down O’Reilly’s door. She recognized a good many townsfolk, including some of the sheriff’s deputies and Reverend Cullen.
“There’s Stefan!” Etta gasped. “Oh, Laurie, I hope he doesn’t get hurt! That’s Cheyenne Bill with him.”
Rosie could see the young German’s blond hair back-lit by the blaze as he unrolled hoses from the hose cart. A stocky, long-haired man on the cart was shouting orders.
“Is Cheyenne Bill a real Indian?” Rosie asked. She had heard rumors the man was popular at glove contests. Some townsmen were said to wager large sums on him.
“Sure he’s a real Indian,” Etta said. “Who’s that other Indian with him? I’ve never seen him before.”
Rosie focused on the broad-shouldered silhouette of a man who had leaped onto the hose cart beside Cheyenne Bill. The stranger’s short black hair glistened in the firelight, and his arms gleamed like bronze as he pulled at the tangled hoses. When he straightened to toss a length of hose to a waiting volunteer, ice washed through Rosie’s veins.
“He’s an Indian, all right,” Etta said. “Oh, look, Laurie. The saloon roof is caving in!”
But Rosie could not tear her attention from the tall man on the hose cart.
“She’s done for,” someone shouted. “Let ’er go, boys!”
As the structure collapsed, the stranger vanished in the throng of men running for safety. But Rosie didn’t need to see him again to know who he was.
Bart Kingsley was back in town.
“I’d open for you, fellers,” one of the local saloon owners was saying, “but me and my cook are too tuckered out to fix up a meal this time of night.”
“Who cares about a meal?” someone shouted in reply.
“Open ’er up for the whiskey! Couple snorts of snake poison ought to be good for what ails us.”
As the men laughed, Tom Gable elbowed his way into the street and waved his hat. “There are too many women and children here for you to turn this into a moonshine party. Come on over to the restaurant, and my gals will fix you up with some hot coffee and cinnamon rolls!”
“How-dee!” someone hooted as a stampede for the Harvey House got under way. Children in nightshirts, women in robes and soot-blackened men abandoned the charred saloon.
“Lord have mercy!” Mrs. Jensen shrieked as the full impact of Tom Gable’s invitation hit. “Skedaddle, girls!”
Hand in hand, Rosie and Etta raced down a side street. The other girls were close on their heels. As they scampered up the back steps into the kitchen, they found Stefan and the other cooks already slamming oven doors.
There was no time to think. Rosie and her companions rushed into the empty dining room to take up their positions. In moments, the front door burst open as more than a hundred laughing, chattering Ratonians poured into Harvey House. Formality went by the wayside as the waitresses hurried to brew and pour hot coffee.
In no time the aroma of cinnamon, sugar, raisins and hot yeasty bread blended with the tang of smoke. As Rosie raced out of the kitchen, she ran smack-dab into Etta and nearly dropped a whole plate of rolls. In spite of her jitters, she laughed, lifted her tray a little higher and wove her way among the crowded tables.
How silly and free she felt to be dressed in her nightgown and robe. The counter was crowded with children who had managed to escape their parents. Rosie patted sleepy boys on the head and tucked napkins under the collars of wiggly girls.
“Hello, Miss Kingsley,” a lad called out. “We saw you at our school.” Amid a cacophony of giggles, Rosie waved at the young redhead she recognized from Mr. Kilgore’s classroom.
“Are you going to teach us, Miss Kingsley?” a blue-eyed girl asked.
“Lord willing, I am.” She glanced at Mr. Kilgore, who was surrounded by children at a small table.
“Miss Laura!” The shout came from Mr. Gable. “We’ve got fifteen cinnamon rolls coming through the door. Can you help?”
“Sure thing!” Rosie gave the children a wink as she skipped away.
“Right here, Miss Laura.” Mr. Gable was seating a group of Raton’s prominent townsmen at a large table.
“They’re asking for coffee, too.”
For a moment Rosie thought she wouldn’t be able to make her legs move. She was staring into a pair of green eyes that sparkled like rainwashed leaves. The buckskin jacket was gone. So were the holsters and six-shooters. But she knew that collarless white shirt, thick black hair and confident grin.
“Miss Laura!” Tom Gable shouted.
Jumping to attention, Rosie hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a tray of steaming rolls. Bart! But Bart had left Raton weeks ago! Bart had been captured in Albuquerque and sent to Missouri to be hanged.
Balancing the tray, she returned to the table and began setting a roll at each place. As she circled the table, she glanced across to find Bart watching her.
“Miss Laura, you got any refills on this coffee?�
�� Sheriff Bowman held out an empty white cup.
Sheriff Bowman at the same table with Bart!
“I worked up a powerful thirst fighting that fire.” Now she recognized Cheyenne Bill at Bart’s elbow. With a broad grin, he eyed the other men. “I reckon I organized the whole affair from start to finish.”
“Chances are you lit that fire in the first place,” the sheriff said with a laugh as Rosie filled his coffee cup.
“Would I do a thing like that, now, Sheriff Bowman?” He feigned a hurt expression. “You just ask my cousin Buck. We was over at the Mountain Monarch playing billiards right up until we heard the switch engine whistle.”
Buck? Rosie’s eyes darted to Bart, who had just set his coffee cup in its saucer.
“Worst of it is, I was winning,” Bart…or Buck said.
“Naw!” Cheyenne Bill clapped him on the back. “You boys think I should call a glove contest to settle this matter between me and my cuz?”
“You wouldn’t want to spar with the Terror of the Wicked West, Buck,” the sheriff said. “Ol’ Cheyenne Bill would drive you into the ground like a stake.”
As if a signal had been given, all the men at the table chorused, “Cheyenne Bill is a hard, hard man.”
Amid the ensuing hoots of laughter, Rosie fled to the kitchen. Bart was back! But why? Oh, why now? She leaned against a cupboard and clutched at her churning stomach.
How long had he been in Raton? How had he managed to become the cousin of Cheyenne Bill? And how on earth had he eluded Sheriff Bowman?
She pushed her heavy, loose hair behind her back. Bart. He was a liar, a trickster, an outlaw. And he was the handsomest man in the entire world! Oh, those green eyes. With his short hair and white shirt, he might have passed for a white man except that his high cheekbones and copper skin gave him away. But he certainly was not a full-blooded Cheyenne. He certainly wasn’t named Buck.
And he most certainly was back in town.
“Miss Laura!” Mr. Gable bellowed. “Three more cinnamon rolls just walked in the door!”
Rosie squared her shoulders and hurried back into the dining room. But the big table had emptied, and Bart Kingsley had disappeared just as certainly as he had returned.
Chapter Seven
If any day in Raton could be given over to a little extra sleep, a fishing trip or a train ride to Springer for supplies, it was Saturday. With all the excitement over the Friday-night fire at O’Reilly’s Saloon, Rosie wasn’t sure how many men would haul themselves out of bed to cast a school election vote. Only a scant number of townsmen had appeared at Harvey House for breakfast, and she feared the inactivity didn’t bode well for extending Mr. Kilgore’s free public school for an extra three-month term.
Tired and on edge after the busy night, she scrubbed her dining-room station after the last morning train had chugged away from the depot. The exhilaration of the previous evening had faded during the long sleepless hours in which she had turned the reappearance of Bart Kingsley over in her mind.
When she asked permission to visit the voting boxes, Rosie acknowledged inwardly that she was driven out into the brisk morning by more than a desire to watch men cast ballots.
As she walked, she scanned the front of every building, peeking into windows and glancing through open front doors. She scrutinized every carriage that rattled past her down the street. She carefully inspected every rider, tradesman and merchant.
Several men were surveying the blackened ruins across the street from the Bank Exchange Saloon. Wisps of gray smoke curled into the blue sky to be wafted toward the distant snowy mesas. The local doctor’s dog, an enormous brindle mastiff named Griff, was sniffing around the broken kegs and bottles. Griff had a well-known fondness for hard spirits and had been known to knock a man flat to get at his whiskey. Griff was accompanied by Tom, a mutt that was a favorite of the schoolchildren.
Among the charred beams, a group of boys played hide-and-seek. Rosie recognized one of them as the young redhead who had hailed her the night before.
“G’morning, Miss Kingsley,” he called as he leaped over a charred piano. “Them sure was good cinnamon rolls!”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Rosie answered, lifting a hand to wave. “And how are you today?”
Before the lad could answer, another began to jeer, “Manford Wade is sweet on Miss Kingsley! Mannie has a sweetheart!”
At that moment Griff took it into his massive head to chase the taunter and his pal down the street. Rosie watched the boys’ scrawny legs churn as they ran around a corner, followed paces behind by Tom and Griff.
Mannie had ducked behind a blackened porch post, and now the redhead grinned at Rosie. “Where ya goin’, Miss Kingsley?”
“I thought I’d take a look at the voting booths.” She paused. “I’m hoping Raton will decide to keep you in school another three months, Manford.”
“Three months is a long time. It’ll be hot in the classroom, and most of us boys will be workin’ on the farms or in the mines.”
“Mr. Kilgore believes that if you want to keep up your studies, you’ll need those extra months of school.”
Mannie stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m a good reader, Miss Kingsley. I wouldn’t mind keeping a book handy this summer. But I don’t cotton to figures. When it comes to numbers, I’m as chuckleheaded as an old prairie dog.”
“If the proposal passes and your father lets you stay in school, you’ll have time to concentrate on mathematics.”
“I don’t have a pappy, and my mother don’t care a lick about arithmetic. She needs me to bring in a good wage come summer.” He kicked his heel against a charred window frame. “So you’re gonna have a look at the voting. One of these days, I’ll get to vote. Mind if I come along?”
“I was hoping you’d join me.” Rosie suppressed a grin as the youngster swaggered along beside her. Clearly Manford Wade regarded himself as a gentleman—not easily swayed by the teasing of his mates. Unlike the ragged boys he had been playing with, Mannie wore his shirtsleeves buttoned at the wrists and his tails tucked into his pants.
“You made them cinnamon rolls, Miss Kingsley?” he asked as they neared the line of men standing outside the assembly hall. The large building served as a gathering place for dances, socials, school plays, meetings, even church services.
“Our baker is in charge of the breads,” Rosie answered before making an announcement that would have curdled her father’s blood. “I’m a waitress.”
Rosie stepped onto the wooden walkway and scanned the faces of the men in the line. Bart was not among them.
Had she dreamed he had been sitting at the table with Cheyenne Bill and Sheriff Bowman? If not, where was he now?
“You reckon women ought to get the chance to vote, Miss Kingsley?” Manford asked.
“The right to vote is a highly debated issue,” she told the boy. “My father believes women aren’t meant to take an interest in public affairs. His views led me to consider suffragettes as nothing but a hen party bent on making trouble. But, you know, Mannie, if women could vote, this school resolution would have a good chance of passing.”
“Not if my mama could vote. She’d hold out against it. She wants me in the fields come summer.”
Rosie was formulating a response when someone brushed past her elbow.
“Morning, Miss Kingsley.”
She swung around to find Bart Kingsley already halfway past her. He and Cheyenne Bill were headed for the end of the voting line. He greeted several of the men, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his britches and took up his position to vote in the school election of Raton.
Bart—a wanted outlaw! Rosie clamped her mouth shut and tried to make herself listen to Manford, who was lamenting the possible results of women attaining the right to vote.
“We might even have a lady sheriff,” he was saying. “A lady sheriff? Now that would be bad.”
While Cheyenne Bill bragged about how he had organized the hose company to fight the fire, Rosie st
udied Bart. As he had the night before, Bart wore the white shirt she had bought him, a pair of new denim trousers and the old boots she had once pulled off his feet.
“What about a lady governor?” Manford piped up. “Ain’t no way a woman could manage all them governor jobs and be cookin’, warshin’, ironin’ and such as that. My mama says if women got to vote, they’d turn into men and start smokin’ cigars, drinkin’ whiskey, wearin’ britches, cussin’.”
“Not every woman hankers to cook and clean, young fellow,” Bart put in, his deep voice sending Rosie’s nerves skittering.
Manford stared at the tall, green-eyed stranger. “You’re Cheyenne Bill’s cousin. What’s your name?”
“They call me Buck. I work at the livery stable over by the depot.” Though the words were spoken to the boy, Rosie knew the message was meant for her. “I claimed a homestead near the mesa, and I’ve started building my dugout.”
For the first time since he’d joined the line of voters, Bart looked directly at Rosie. He tipped his battered black felt hat. “Howdy do, ma’am.”
Before she could answer, Bart addressed Manford again. “I’ve got one hundred sixty acres of prime land, and I’m aiming to grow sugar beets for cash, run a few cattle and build myself a snug soddy to live in. I could use a man with a shovel on afternoons and weekends. What do you say to that, young man?”
“I say yahoo! I’d better run tell my mama!” Manford hightailed it across the street before sliding to a stop. “I’ll be right back, Injun Buck. Don’t leave town without me, hear?”
Before Rosie could fall under the spell of those green eyes, she stepped away from the line of men and hurried down the wooden sidewalk.
The dinner crowd brought news that the proposal to extend the school term by three months had passed, and Mr. Kilgore’s free school would hold classes through the end of June.
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