Rather, Rose’s costume sported a split skirt with elastic around the two leg openings that reminded H.L. of the bloomers ladies wore these days for bicycling—and when they wanted to prove to the world that women could wear trousers as well as men. H.L. didn’t begrudge anyone, even women, a dash of defiance. The good Lord knew, he had more than his share of that particular character trait.
Whatever the bottom part of Rose’s costume was called, it sure looked good on her. H.L. didn’t think he’d ever seen bloomers or any other types of trousers set off to better advantage.
Her act was enough to make strong men faint, too. She’d entered the arena at a dead run, on a horse as white as milk. The horse had torn out through a canvas tunnel as if it had been shot from a cannon, it moved so fast. Rose had been bent over, practically hugging the horse’s neck, as if she were trying to create as little wind resistance as possible. The audience had barely caught its breath after her spectacular entrance when it lost it again with an audible whoosh as she performed her first trick.
H.L.’s heart, a generally reliable, rock-solid organ and one not easily stirred, had shot into his throat when she’d suddenly sat up straight and then dived head-first off the horse’s back. A cry of terror and dismay had gone up from the bleachers as the audience feared Rose had taken a probably-disastrous tumble.
But it was all part of the act, as they realized an instant later when Rose’s body slid beneath the horse’s belly, and she emerged on the other side. In one fluid movement, she then climbed up on the horse’s back again. It looked as if she had suction cups on her fingers, since she used neither saddle nor bridle. She guided the horse with nudges and pats of her knees, feet, and hands.
Even H.L., who prided himself on his unflappability, as well as the knowledge that he’d seen and done pretty much everything dangerous there was to do in the world, had gasped in astonishment. The cheer that went up when Rose safely sat once more on her dashing steed rocked the bleachers.
And then, as if she hadn’t frightened everyone to near apoplexy already, she scarcely gave them time enough to swallow their hearts when she was off again. She leaped onto the horse’s back as if her legs were on springs, and stood straight up as the horse raced around the arena.
The Indian-style costume she wore was very effective. Even though she had darkish hair, Rose Gilhooley couldn’t pass for an Indian in a million years. For one reason, her hair was curly, although it was drawn back tightly tonight. But H.L. remembered very well that her eyes were blue. Robin’s-egg blue. Sky-blue. Sapphire blue. Gorgeous blue. And they were as big as saucers.
He grimaced, wondering what was wrong with him that he’d recalled her big blue eyes in such poetic terms. Then he comforted himself with the reasoning that he was only thinking of descriptive words to use in his articles. That made him feel better, and he went back to contemplating the rest of her.
On to her hair, then. He knew, because he’d seen it unbound, that it was a very shiny, very dark brown. Chestnut brown. In order to more thoroughly convey the Wild-West image Cody required, she also wore some type of headband that seemed to drip feathers behind her as the horse rampaged through the arena. The feathers were colorful and reflected the light to perfection.
Cody had made sure there was abundant light flooding the arena, even though his show went on after dark. H.L. thought there must be sparkly things glued or sewn onto Rose’s feathers to make them glitter and shine in the floodlights. The same was true of the beadwork on the bodice of her Indian-style costume.
Her bloomers were heavily embroidered and sported no beadwork, probably because she didn’t want to scratch the horse during her acrobatic routines. They only reached her knees, too, so the audience was treated to quite a display of her shapely calves. The rest of her wasn’t bad in the curve department, either, H.L. noticed with interest when the horse finally slowed to a trot and Rose slid down to ride astride. She didn’t stay there for long, but jumped up onto the horse’s back again and stood in her bare feet as she balanced with seeming ease, her arms outstretched.
He squinted narrowly and decided she wasn’t wearing a corset. Well, how could she, and survive the rigors of that act? The poor creature would faint dead away during her first trick if she had to strap all that whale boning around her midriff. H.L. approved. He liked the natural female shape. A lot. He explored it whenever he got the chance, in fact. He wouldn’t mind exploring Rose’s curves by hand, actually.
Shaking himself hard, he wondered where that thought had come from. He might take a certain pride in a local repute among his peers at the Globe as something of a ladies’ man, but he was certainly no defiler of virgins. H.L. would stake his virile reputation on the certainty that Rose Gilhooley was a virgin.
Innocent. That was a better word for her than cute, but it still didn’t capture the essence of Rose.
Beside him, Sam squeaked. “Jesus H. Christ, H.L.! Did you see that?”
H.L. had seen it. He was, however, unable to speak since his heart had lodged in his throat again. He wished it would stop doing that.
“How does she do those things?” Sam gasped. Then he joined in the roar of cheers.
So did H.L. He and Sam jumped to their feet, applauding wildly and whooping until H.L.’s throat felt raw.
From standing on the horse’s back with her arms lifted in a pose that brought to H.L.’s mind an image of perfect freedom, Rose had suddenly done a spring that shocked the audience into a gasp of alarm and landed on her hands. On the horse’s back. And then she’d done the splits. In mid-air. On the horse’s back. While standing on her hands. That’s when the audience had roared and risen, astounded by Rose’s phenomenal skill.
“By God,” H.L. whispered to himself. “She’s rock-solid. Rock-solid, by God.” He’d never seen anyone ride a horse with as much assurance as Rose Gilhooley.
He found it difficult to reconcile the small, insecure-seeming child-woman he’d met that afternoon with this fabulous performer. “By God, I’m going to do it,” he vowed, again to himself.
Sam, who’d been caught up in the thrill of the moment, heard H.L. that time. Still standing and clapping, he leaned toward H.L. “What? You’re going to do what? I didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing.” H.L. sent an ear-splitting whistle through his teeth, as he’d done when he was a boy trying demonstrate a level of approval for which words weren’t enough. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been moved to express himself thus. But Rose Gilhooley was a goddamned inspiration.
By God, he was going to do more than write one puny article about her. He was going to make her the centerpiece of a whole series of articles. He was going to write about her the way nobody had ever written about anyone before in the history of the world.
He was going to get to the bottom of her talent and tell the world about it. He was going to make her more famous than Buffalo Bill Cody himself.
Rose’s gift was more than mere talent. H.L. knew it. Her entire personality, spirit, and essence went into her act. Nobody—nobody—could perform the way she did unless she threw her whole heart and soul into it.
H.L. had never understood that kind of dedication. His own love of the English language and of the written word had driven him to become the best writer he could be, but he was damned certain he didn’t possess the depth of talent and single-minded dedication being demonstrated right this minute by little Rose Gilhooley. Hell, he was a natural writer, and he earned a living at it. Rose might be a natural rider, but she was more than that, and he wanted to dig around until he found a definition for whatever it was she possessed.
How old was she? Twenty-two? And she’d been with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West for six years? She’d been riding like that since she was sixteen? Jesus. By the time he got through with Rose Gilhooley, he’d understand the phenomenal female inside and out, upside and down, absolutely, positively, and with no room for doubt.
H.L. didn’t know how long her act lasted. It couldn’t have been long, be
cause the horse wasn’t even sweaty when Rose signaled it somehow—to the audience, her commands were invisible, although the horse obeyed them instantly—to a halt in a shower of dust, made it twirl around like a ballerina—a horse, for God’s sake!—then took one last prancing dance to the center of the arena, leaned over, patted the horse’s neck, and threw her arms in the air as the horse—the horse—by God, H.L. had never seen the like—bowed!
Rose herself swept a dainty bow from the horse’s back and threw kisses to the audience. She reminded H.L. of pictures of angels he’d seen in church. Not that he’d seen the inside of a church for years, but it’s still what Rose reminded him of.
She sat on her horse in the center of the arena for a minute or two, looking unbelievably serene and delicate considering everything she’d just done, acknowledging the audience’s whoops and cheers. She made her horse turn a slow circle as she waved back at her fans. H.L. was sure the whole thing was planned and rehearsed, but it looked natural when Buffalo Bill himself rode out on a comparably white mount and gave Rose a big hug from horseback. The audience went wild.
Then Rose Gilhooley took one last bow, saluted cheerfully at the crowd, and rode out of the arena.
And the show went on. But H.L. didn’t care about the rest of the show. With a clap on Sam’s back that made his fellow journalist jump, H.L. got up. “I’ve gotta go, Sam. See you tomorrow. Give my best to Daisy and the kids.”
Startled, Sam half-rose. “Wh-what? Where are you going, H.L.? I thought you were going to—”
H.L. was already running up the aisle. He called back over his shoulder, “Gotta go. See you later, Sam. Gotta start researching these articles I’m going to write.”
Glancing back once, H.L. saw Sam staring after him, dumbfounded, but he didn’t care. He wanted— No. He needed—to talk to Rose Gilhooley. Now. Not later. Now. Right this minute. While he was still under her influence.
Chapter Three
To the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd, Rose directed Fairy, the pretty white horse Colonel Cody had given her and which she’d trained because Gingerbread was getting old, out of the arena. Even though she sometimes thought living in a traveling theatrical exhibition was an odd way to live, she was happy. It was fun to entertain people.
She was greeted by smiles and friendly waves from other members of the cast as she rode Fairy through the group of people gathered to head out into the arena for another educational depiction of old-west activities. The show was a self-contained community, and Rose felt secure within its limits. The rest of the world scared her, but the Wild West was home.
Next on Cody’s agenda was a reenactment of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, so there were hundreds of cast members, both soldiers and Indians, as well as horses, ready to ride out into the arena. Therefore, Rose got to greet lots of friends as she maneuvered Fairy through the mob. Little Elk, the same Sioux who’d helped her refine and expand her riding skills, gave her a brief salute with his highly decorated tomahawk—reality, to Colonel Cody, sometimes required augmentation. “Good riding, Wind Dancer.” His guttural voice always held a smile when he spoke to Rose.
“Thanks, Little Elk. It’s all your fault, you know.” She sent him a grin, which he acknowledged with a nod.
“You were wonderful, Rose. I’ve never seen you ride better or with more grace and assurance.” Annie Oakley walked up to pat Fairy’s neck and hold out a pair of moccasins to Rose.
Rose always put on the moccasins after her performance, and she did so now, slipping them on before she dismounted. While she had to do her act barefoot, she knew it was both unsafe and improper to tromp around the fairgrounds without shoes on. The colonel was very careful to maintain a sanitary workplace, but no one wanted to take a chance of contracting lockjaw, which was always a risk when one worked around horses. Rose knew, too, that no real lady would ever walk barefooted and, while she knew she was no real lady, she always pretended to be one if only for Annie’s sake.
“Thanks, Annie.” Rose gratefully took the hand Annie held up to her and slid from Fairy’s back. “It’s a good crowd. They’re going to love you.”
Rose was in great shape physically, and made sure she stayed that way, never eating too much or too little and doing stretching exercises with her wrists, hands, arms, and legs every day. But the act was hard on her body. Her hands and wrists, which had to bear the brunt of her weight during her act, got an especially rigorous workout. She vigorously shook them after she landed.
After giving them a thorough shake, she wiggled her fingers and turned her wrists as she’d seen dancers in the Egyptian Exhibition do. Little Egypt herself had shocked Rose slightly, because she wore a rather scandalous costume. She appreciated having witnessed her dance, though, because she’d learned movements that helped limber up her fingers and wrists after a hard show. Anyhow, as far as costumes went, some folks were shocked by Rose’s. Rose sniffed with dented dignity.
The feathers on her elaborate headdress were quite effective during her act, but they bothered her once she dismounted. The long ribbon to which they were attached trailed behind her, and the feathers tickled her calves.
She left Annie and the rest of the Wild West cast and led Fairy beyond the arena to the stable area, carefully unpinning the headdress as she walked. Once, during a performance in Italy, she’d almost lost the headdress due to inadequate pinning. These days Rose made extra-specially sure the silly thing was secure. Fortunately, her dense, curly hair helped hold the pins in.
“Miss Gilhooley! Miss Gilhooley!”
Rose jumped and whirled around when she heard her name being called in such excitement. Usually during Cody’s reenactment of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, nobody paid attention to anything else, unless a crisis of major proportion had occurred. Whatever could be wrong?
She frowned when she saw that newspaper reporter—what was his name? H.L. Something?—burst through the crowd of performers and stage hands rimming the arena tunnel and hurry toward her. Whatever his name was, she remembered clearly that he’d found her amusing earlier in the day. In point of fact, he’d laughed at her.
Rose, who felt naive and unsophisticated around big-city folks, resented being laughed at. She didn’t smile as H.L. Whoever-he-was hurried up to her. Nor did she speak.
Evidently this person, who seemed to have a rather high opinion of himself, didn’t need anyone else when it came to carrying on a conversation, because he spoke without waiting for a response from Rose. Rose decided she didn’t like him.
“Miss Gilhooley, I just wanted to tell you that yours was the most spectacular performance I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Hmmm. Rose forgave him a trifle for making her feel small and insignificant earlier in the day. “Thank you.”
She’d learned long ago not to trust strangers. She’d had men try all sorts of unkind, not to mention occasionally downright improper, maneuvers on her in the six years she’d been with the Wild West. Colonel Cody, bless him, tried in all ways to protect the female members of his cast and generally sent pushy fellows off with fleas in their ears. Unfortunately, Cody wasn’t here now. He was in the arena, fighting off Indians and could not, therefore, fight off H.L. Whoever.
Before she could turn and continue to the stable with Fairy, H.L. grabbed her arm. Again she whirled around, this time snapping out, “Stop that!”
Fairy whickered, unnerved by Rose’s sharp command.
H.L. released her instantly. “Sorry.” Despite the word, he appeared unrepentant. “But I’ve got to talk to you, Miss Gilhooley.”
If Fairy was unnerved, Rose was completely upset. She was routinely accosted by press people, but not when she was alone, right after an act, with her horse; and certainly not by one who appeared all but deranged with agitation. Members of the press usually approached her in the daytime, by appointment, and behaved in a respectful and respectable manner.
Right now she needed to attend to Fairy. She needed to calm down, too. Her concentration d
uring her act was so complete as to involve her entire self, inside and out. It upset her routine to have people approach her before she’d had time to collect herself.
She also felt uncomfortable talking to people unconnected with the show while she was still in costume. Rose might have been born on the frontier and grown up in unusual circumstances, but she knew propriety from impropriety—and this costume was a decidedly improper one in which to conduct a polite conversation.
“I don’t have time to talk to you right now, Mr.—” Drat, she could only remember his initials. “Whatever your name is,” she concluded grumpily, irked that he, of all people, should have caught her unprepared.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said blithely. “Maybe I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help, thank you. Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t know what to do for a tired horse.”
She’d meant it as sort of an insult, although Rose was too polite to be rude to strangers unless severely tried, which she was at the moment. H.L. only laughed. “Hell, you can teach me!”
Rose felt her eyes open wide. She might be unsophisticated, and she might have grown up on the American frontier and have little formal education, but she wasn’t accustomed to men swearing in front of her. She barked, “I most certainly can not! I have work to do. Will you please excuse me, Mr.—” Blast. She’d done it again.
“May,” he supplied nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just told him to get lost. “H.L. May. And I’m going to write about you, Miss Gilhooley. Your act was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
This time, she wasn’t so willing to forgive him. He was beginning to worry her, in fact, with his leech-like adherence to his purpose and his feverish intensity of manner. Since his avowed purpose was in direct opposition to her own, which was to enjoy a little quiet time with Fairy after a difficult act so that they could both relax, she didn’t appreciate him one bit.
Coming Up Roses Page 3