Coming Up Roses

by Duncan, Alice

  Annie Oakley was forever being written about. Annie was used to it. Rose wasn’t. She feared she might get big-headed if reporters suddenly started paying attention to her. Worse, she feared that once they got to know her, they’d despise her for her many deficiencies of education and refinement. In Rose’s opinion, that would be much worse than anonymity.

  “Everybody writes about folks who are already famous, Miss Gilhooley. I’m interested in you.”

  “Hmmm.” His statement might be taken in more ways than one, if Rose weren’t so certain of her position in life, which was quite low. If she hadn’t been so superior a natural rider, she’d still be living on a miserable farm outside Deadwood, Kansas, illiterate, ignorant, and shooting game for a living. It was pure dumb luck—and her brother Freddie—that had brought Rose to Colonel Cody’s attention.

  H.L. lifted his arms as if he were presenting Rose to the world. “You’re a true phenomenon, Miss Gilhooley! I’ve never seen anyone ride like you do. You’ve got to be the most sensational performer I’ve ever seen, and you put on an absolutely amazing bareback riding act. Why, you put every single one of the circus performers I’ve seen to shame.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’m sure your story is fascinating. According to the publicity dodger Cody sent to the newspaper, you’ve been with the Wild West for six years. You must have started when you were a baby!”

  “I was sixteen,” Rose muttered, peeved. Why did this man persist in thinking of her as a child? She didn’t want him to. Or maybe she did.

  Fiddlesticks. H.L. May made her brain hurt.

  “That means you’re only twenty-two years old right now. Do you realize what most twenty-two-year-old women are doing with their lives these days?”

  Getting married to nice men and having babies, Rose thought unhappily.

  She said, “No.”

  “Well, neither do I, really.” H.L. laughed.

  This time his self-mocking laughter charmed Rose. She considered her reaction an unhappy indication of her underlying moral depravity. Annie had told her over and over again that poverty did not equate to moral depravity, and Rose tried to believe her, but she had her suspicions.

  “I do know, though,” H.L. went on, “that most of them aren’t riding horses as star performers in the premier Wild West show in the world, as you are.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Rose said dryly. For one thing, they didn’t have to, as she did.

  Because she wasn’t feeling too good about herself at the moment and, more, she didn’t want H.L. May to agree with her self-assessment, she added, “What I do takes a lot of skill and even more practice. Most people, male or female, aren’t willing to put so much time and effort into perfecting a skill.” That was quite good. Rose tried to think of some of the other things Annie and the colonel had said of and to her in their on-going efforts to boost her self-esteem. She couldn’t think of any.

  “That’s right,” H.L. said energetically. “And I’m going to show the world exactly what you’ve made of yourself.”

  Instantly, all of Rose’s insecurities leaped to attention. “What do you mean by that?” She slammed the bucket back into place and was sorry at once when Fairy whinnied and fidgeted in her stall.

  H.L. blinked at her. “Nothing bad, honest. Why won’t you trust me, Miss Gilhooley? I don’t intend anything of an improper nature, believe me.”

  The way he said it made Rose understand that being improper with her was about the last thing in the universe he desired. Oddly enough, knowing that his intentions were honorable didn’t make her feel significantly better. Nevertheless, she said, “Of course not,” because she felt she should. This was so embarrassing.

  She stood as tall as she could, which, at five feet, one inch, wasn’t very, although she was a whole inch taller than Annie Oakley, and tried to sound dignified when she next spoke. “I need to go to my tent and change out of my costume, Mr. May. Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

  He looked exasperated. “Of course, there’s more I wish to say to you! Dammit, I want to write about you!”

  Rose drew her shoulders up even more rigidly. “Please don’t swear at me, Mr. May.”

  The roar of the crowd and the rat-a-tat of gunfire let Rose know that the Little Big Horn reenactment was about over. Pretty soon, General Custer would be the last man standing and would die a brave and honorable death—although how anyone could know how he died was beyond her, unless Colonel Cody had managed to get one of the Indian participants to yak, and they generally wouldn’t—and Rose didn’t want anyone to catch her alone in the stables with H.L. May. They might get the wrong idea.

  “Sorry, Miss Gilhooley.” Again, H.L. May sounded unrepentant about his use of impolite language. “But I need to spend more time with you. A lot of time. Don’t you understand? I want to write a whole series of articles about the Columbian Exposition, and I want more than one of them to be about you!”

  “What you want and what I want are two different things, Mr. May,” she said stiffly. “I shall be more than happy to sit for one interview with you so that you can write your article.”

  She knew good and well that the colonel had been made rich and famous through dime novels, theatrical exhibitions, and newspaper articles documenting his exploits, but the notion of someone writing such things about her, little Rose Ellen Gilhooley, dismayed her. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want the whole world to know she was an uneducated boob! She’d never say so to this man.

  “Nuts. I’ll bet you anything that if I approached Buffalo Bill about doing a series of articles about you, he’d give me his blessing.”

  Rose glared at him—and gave it up. He was right. “There’s no need to ask the colonel,” she muttered. “How do you want to approach this assignment of yours?”

  Chapter Four

  H.L. May’s smile almost knocked her over backwards. “We’re going to have to spend a lot of time together.”

  All of Rose’s suspicious instincts rose up in alarm. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged, as if he couldn’t conceive of anyone ascribing less-than-chivalrous motives to his words. “I want to do a series of interviews with you, but I don’t want them to be stiff and stuffy. I want to chat with you in a relaxed atmosphere.”

  Fat chance of that ever happening, Rose thought sourly. She’d relax around H.L. May the day the earth stood still. “How do you propose to accomplish that?” At least she was speaking properly. Rose was rather proud that her rattled innards didn’t express themselves in poor grammar.

  His speculative gaze made her nerve endings perk up and quiver. She definitely wasn’t sure about this man and his motives. Rose knew she was no femme fatale, but Annie had often told her that men didn’t care how pretty a girl was. If you’re a woman, you’re prey, Annie had said, and Rose believed her.

  “Say, Miss Gilhooley, have you been up in the Ferris Wheel yet?”

  Rose blinked at him. “The Ferris Wheel? Why, no.” She’d been wanting to ride on the spectacular invention, but she wasn’t about to wander around this enormous Exposition teeming with all kinds of people by herself. She and Annie had been intending to ride the Wheel one of these days, but so far Annie hadn’t had the time.

  “How would you like to ride the Ferris Wheel this evening?”

  “This evening?” Rose was so startled, she spoke more loudly than she’d meant to. “But—but—but . . .”

  “I give you my word of honor I only want to show you the Wheel, Miss Gilhooley.”

  The way he said it, as if he were talking to a small child who needed to be humored, didn’t do anything to settle Rose’s uncertainty. While it was absolutely true she had no wish to be obliged to fend off improper advances, she also wouldn’t mind knowing that H.L. May thought of her as a grown-up adult human female toward whom he might conceivably want to make an improper advance or two. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t all that young!

  She had a feeling she was missing some ve
ry important point somewhere, but she had no notion what it could be. “Um, I’m not sure I ought to do so tonight, Mr. May. I have to get plenty of rest, you know, and—”

  “Applesauce!”

  Rose objected to him interrupting her in that peremptory way. She was, after all, something of a star. A smallish star, granted, and one without a whole lot of twinkle, but she deserved at least as much respect as anyone else in the world.

  That being the case, she propped her fists on her hips and frowned at him. “You may think my act is easy for me, given my level of expertise, but it’s not. For your information, I need sufficient sleep and so forth in order to make sure I don’t kill myself out there. And my concerns are not applesauce!”

  “Of course they’re not.”

  He was humoring her again, using that mollifying, condescending tone Rose hated. She turned around and snapped, “Some other time.”

  She’d stomped clean out of the stables before she realized H.L. May hadn’t gone anywhere. Nor had he been intimidated into remaining in the stables. She ought to have known better than to think anything she could say or do would sway this nosy, pushy, aggravating reporter. He was right there by her side, grinning like an imp. She sighed heavily.

  H.L. May gazed down at Rose Gilhooley and thought that she, while annoying as hell, was absolutely adorable.

  “Come on, Miss Gilhooley.” He used his most persuasive tone on her. It had always worked on women before. He couldn’t imagine artless little Miss Rose Gilhooley being less susceptible to his many charms than any other female in the world.

  “I have other things to do.” She didn’t slow down, but continued to march along as if she were trying to kill roaches as she walked.

  Whoa, she sounded ferocious. H.L. hadn’t reckoned on her being twice as stubborn as most women, susceptible or not. Although . . . he guessed she’d worked hard to get where she was. That must take a lot of grit and determination. Stubbornness was probably only an outgrowth of those qualities.

  But that was the whole point, he reminded himself instantly. He wanted to find out what made her tick. What had motivated this tiny woman to become the best in the world at what she did, especially since what she did required an astonishing level of stamina and skill? Damn it, she wasn’t going to get away with this peremptory dismissal.

  “Wait a minute, Miss Gilhooley.” He put a couple of fingers on her arm, and she jumped. Lord, she was touchy. “Sorry.”

  She wheeled around and scowled again. “I don’t like people I don’t know touching me, Mr. May.”

  So . . . did she like people she knew touching her? H.L. would have liked to ask, but didn’t dare. She might slap his face, although she’d probably have to stand on her tippy-toes to do it. Jeeze, she was cute. “I beg your pardon.” He tried to sound humble. “But you did tell me I didn’t need to ask Buffalo Bill’s permission to interview you. And I’m sure he’d approve of what I have in mind as publicity for you and, by extension, the Wild West.”

  H.L. found the lightning-quick change in her demeanor both intriguing and significant. All he had to do was mention Cody’s name, and Miss Rose Gilhooley went tame. It was akin to what that Russian fellow, Pavlov, had demonstrated with his dogs. Only Miss Gilhooley didn’t start salivating when the colonel’s name was mentioned; she started being agreeable. H.L. decided to remember this for future dealings with her.

  “Are you trying to blackmail me, Mr. May? It won’t work. I’ll do pretty much anything for Colonel Cody, because I think he’s one of the great men of our day, and he’s—well, he’s been wonderful to me. But I won’t compromise myself for him or anybody else.”

  H.L. was honestly shocked, and that surprised him. Before he met Rose Gilhooley, he’d considered himself fairly unflappable. “Compromise you! What the hell do you think I’m planning to do to you on that Wheel, anyway? Dammit, Miss Gilhooley, all I want to do is write about you!” He was pleased when she blushed brick red.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “No?” Noticing that his reaction had slightly cowed her, H.L. resolved to take advantage of it. He adopted his best wounded expression.

  “That’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “Well, you heard wrong, then.” Now she sounded exasperated. “But you don’t understand! As a performer, I have to be twice as careful with my reputation as anybody else. Annie has told me so often.”

  “Annie?” All of his reporterly instincts jolted to attention. “You mean Annie Oakley?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were with her this afternoon, too. Do the two of you hang out together a lot?”

  “Yes. She’s my very best friend.”

  Hmmm. The little bareback queen sounded a trifle defensive. This was awfully interesting stuff. H.L. wasn’t about to let it slip away. “I see. Well, for your information, even if I had something dastardly in mind for you, I wouldn’t be able to accomplish it on the Ferris Wheel. The thing’s too public, for one thing, and there would be fifty-eight other people in the carriage with us. And for another thing, I’m not that sort of man.”

  She started walking again, but she gave him a look he’d have resented if he didn’t find it so darling. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t have to trot to keep up with her, although she walked mighty fast for such a shorty. “Anyhow, I know you’ll enjoy it. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Chicago and the Exposition at night, all lit up, from the top of the Ferris Wheel.”

  That got her attention, by God. Her eyes were huge when she glanced up at him. “Really? I’ve been wanting to go, but there’s so little time.”

  “You’ve got time right now,” he pointed out.

  Thunderous applause reached them from the arena. Rose paused to watch. When H.L. did likewise, he saw what looked like a million mounted men, some in soldiers’ uniforms and some in breach clouts and feathered headbands, galloping out of the arena. Rose waved to several of them.

  Colonel Cody and an Indian gentleman spotted Rose and H.L. and trotted over. Rose smiled with unfeigned admiration and what looked to H.L. like adoration at Buffalo Bill.

  “Sounds like the crowd loved you as usual, Colonel.”

  Buffalo Bill saluted H.L. and leaned over to give Rose a kiss on the cheek. “That they did, Rosie. I see you’re giving an interview. Good work!” He reined his white horse around and trotted back toward the arena. “Got to take another bow and introduce Missie. Have fun, Rosie! Show that reporter fellow a good time. It’ll be good for the Wild West!”

  Rose frowned.

  H.L. grinned.

  The Indian did neither. Rather, he stared at H.L. in a noncommittal way for so long that it actually made H.L. uneasy, which was a feat few men had accomplished. Slightly peeved, H.L. said, “Hello, there. My name’s H.L. May. I write for the Globe. He reached up to shake the Indian’s hand, but the gesture was ignored. H.L. chalked it up to cultural differences.

  The Indian transferred his unreadable gaze to Rose. “This man bothering you, Wind Dancer?”

  The fellow’s voice was deep, sort of guttural, and it made H.L. think of prairie grasses blowing in the wind, which was weird, since he’d never seen prairie grasses blowing in the wind. Uneasily, he eyed the rifle gripped in the man’s hand and the tomahawk stuck in his waistband. “I’m not bothering her.”

  Rose opened her mouth, and H.L. held his breath. He didn’t think this guy would scalp him, but he wasn’t sure. After keeping him in suspense for several seconds, Rose finally said, “No. I guess he’s not really bothering me. Little Elk, this man is a reporter who wants to write an article about me.”

  “More than one article,” H.L. hastened to correct her. “She’s great, and she deserves lots of publicity.” He grinned at the Indian, who didn’t grin back, the same way he hadn’t shaken his hand. H.L. sighed.

  “She’s the best rider in the world,” Little Elk said matter-of-factly.

  Rose gave him a pretty smile. “Little Elk taught me everything I kno
w how to do on horseback. He has to say that.”

  At long last, the Indian grinned. “Naw. You’re great.” He made a brief gesture to H.L. “What you going to do with her?”

  H.L. cleared his throat. Shoot, this was worse than asking a proper lady’s father if he could come a’courting. “I was only going to take her on the Ferris Wheel. The lights of the fair and the city are wonderful to see at night from on top of the wheel.”

  Suddenly, Rose gave a start and brightened visibly. “Say, I have a splendid idea! Why doesn’t Little Elk come with us?”

  Damn. H.L. squinted first at Rose, and then at the Indian, who looked smug. H.L. didn’t know Indians could do that. He thought they were supposed to be stoical and impassive.

  What the hell. He shrugged. “Sure. Come on along.”

  At least his acquiescence in the matter prompted Rose to quit arguing with him. That was a good thing.

  # # #

  Little Elk chomped popcorn contentedly. So did Rose. This really was fun. She’d never been to a fair. In England, she’d been introduced to Queen Victoria herself, not to mention the Prince of Wales—he was so portly that she and Annie had privately referred to him as the Prince of Whales—and his wife, and a whole bunch of titled folks. She’d also met the Kaiser and several more royal people in Europe, as well as an African chief, a Polynesian something-or-other, and a Chinese Mandarin.

  But she’d been working then. Her life hadn’t afforded her many opportunities to relax and behave like other young women who, she presumed, visited entertainments whenever they were moved to do so.

  But at this moment, she was visiting the most spectacular Exhibition the world had ever seen, in the company of one of her best friends and an alarmingly exciting man. She glanced up at H.L. May and was thrilled all over again.

  Her reaction to him both troubled and puzzled her. She didn’t really like him. He was too cheeky and aggressive for her taste. He also made her feel like a backwoods yokel. Granted, that wasn’t a difficult feat to accomplish, but all Rose had to do was look at H.L. May, as she was doing now, to feel insignificant, unlettered, and worthless.