At the moment he was surveying the milling throng and the astonishing display of electrical lighting all around them as if he were a monarch eyeing his kingdom. He didn’t find all this tumult and inventiveness intimidating. He acted as if he’d created it himself, like God.
Oh, dear. She was becoming blasphemous, and she’d only been in H.L. May’s company for a little more than thirty minutes. This didn’t seem like a good omen to Rose.
To distract herself, she said, “It is very kind of you, Mr. May, to entertain Little Elk and me this way.” There. Rose didn’t truly think the man was kind at all. She figured he’d only taken Little Elk along with them because Rose wouldn’t have gone otherwise.
Or would she? Shoot, she didn’t know. She hoped she’d have had enough moral courage, or been enough of a proper lady, to resist the lure of an exciting time at the fair.
“Aw, it’s nothing,” H.L. said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s more fun to see the fair with a friend or two along.”
“You have friends?” Rose could have bitten her tongue as soon as the question popped out of her mouth.
H.L. gave her a sharp glance. “Yes, Miss Gilhooley. I have lots of friends. What kind of man do you think I am, anyway?”
She’d probably better not say. Instead, she mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Lordy, now she’d added lying to her list of defects.
“I’ll just bet.”
A low, rumbling sound came from Little Elk. Rose, who had heard that noise before, but only rarely, glanced at her friend, vaguely peeved.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You and your man, Wind Dancer.”
“My man?” Just as Rose hadn’t meant to ask H.L. May if he had any friends, she also hadn’t meant to shriek at Little Elk.
Little Elk winked and offered her more popcorn. She took some because she had to do something or die of embarrassment.
H.L. May, as might have been expected, laughed. He probably thought it was the funniest thing anybody had said in a month of Sundays, since he obviously had no interest in Rose except as a subject for examination and dissertation.
She found that notion so depressing, she decided not to think about it, too, along with all the other things she didn’t want to think about. Instead, she turned her attention back to the fair, and hoped H.L. would forget Little Elk’s comment and her own shriek. “I’ve never seen so many people in my life outside of an arena.”
The manner of H.L.’s smile changed. To Rose, he suddenly looked as if the topic of conversation had turned down a path for which he harbored a degree of fascination most often associated with religious zealotry or romantic love. “You know, Miss Gilhooley, the Columbian Exposition is the most spectacular world’s fair ever put on. I’ve heard it even tops the one they had in Paris a few years back. And I’m going to make sure you see every inch of it.”
Surprised, Rose shot him another look. “You are?”
“I am.” He nodded once, as if that settled the matter.
“Um . . . Why?”
He looked disgustingly self-satisfied, sort of the way Rose imagined a man who’d just discovered a new continent might look. “Because I’ve decided exactly how I want these articles to run. The first one is going to be an introduction. The series of articles is going to be a metaphor, you see. At the moment, you’re becoming acquainted with the Columbian Exposition, even as the Columbian Exposition is being introduced to humanity. The first article will be an introduction to you.” His glance was eager, as if H.L. really wanted Rose to understand his intentions so she’d cooperate with him in achieving them.
She’d have liked to, maybe, if she knew what he was talking about. She thought it over for a moment. Nope. In order to understand, she’d have to know what a metaphor was, and she didn’t. She’d sooner shoot herself than ask H.L. May, so she wouldn’t get an answer until she talked to
Annie, and that would be far too late to do her any good right now. “Um . . . Is that so?” Her often-present feeling of inferiority reared its ugly head and sneered at her.
“That’s so,” H.L. said complacently. “As the fair is presented to you,
so you will be presented to the reading public. Do you see now?”
No. She didn’t see at all. Deciding it would be better for her own
self-esteem to shuffle a little, she said, “I guess I understand that part. Sort of.”
H.L. heaved a sigh, but when Rose inspected his face minutely to see if the sigh might have held disdain or exasperation, she discerned not a trace of either. Actually, the newspaperman appeared quite happy and pleased with himself. “It’s simple, really. You’re a young woman who was thrown into a life of glamour and showmanship at an age when most young women are only getting ready to leave the schoolroom.”
Glamour? For that matter, schoolroom? Rose couldn’t recall having had anything to do with either of those things thus far in her life. There had been an Indian school not far from Deadwood, but Rose wouldn’t have been eligible to attend it even if she’d been able to take time away from feeding her family to do so. “Um, the Wild West isn’t actually very glamorous, Mr. May.” She pondered the Wild West as she chewed and swallowed another handful of popcorn. “Maybe it is to the audience,” she conceded.
“Right. But that’s just it. People see only the finished product. I want them to see it all from the inside.”
Rose was so horrified, she stopped walking. H.L. May and Little Elk, who were digging in their paper sacks for the remains of their popcorn, didn’t notice she no longer accompanied them until they’d walked about five paces. Then H.L. turned around, a question in his gorgeous eyes.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want anybody to see me from the inside, Mr. May.” Blast, her voice was shaking. “I—I value my privacy.” That was not exactly a lie. The truth of the matter was that Rose’s life was so mind-numbingly boring and dull that she’d suffer agonies of mortification if the public, who overtly adored her during her act in the Wild West, learned about it.
Rose was sure his smile was meant to reassure her. “Of course, you do. I’m not planning to invade your privacy, Miss Gilhooley. But the public really craves to know more about its icons. And you’re rapidly becoming an icon of American womanhood and accomplishment.”
“I am?” This was news to her. It might even be flattering, if Rose weren’t so appalled by the notion of a whole bunch of perfect strangers learning her deepest, darkest secrets.
H.L.’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “What do you mean, ‘I am?’ You’re one of the biggest female stars of our day! Figuratively speaking, that is to say.” He grinned one of his stunning grins. “You’re actually about as big as a minute. But you and Annie Oakley are news everywhere.”
“Oh.” That made it even worse. Rose had come to have a faint understanding of the level of popularity enjoyed by the Wild West and Annie Oakley and, by inclusion, herself, but she sure hadn’t known Rose Gilhooley was a household name.
Suddenly she expelled a whoosh of relief. By gum, it wasn’t Rose Gilhooley whose name was splashed all over the newspapers all the time. It was Wind Dancer. Nobody knew Rose Gilhooley from a hole in the ground.
Feeling much better about life, the fair, the Wild West, and somewhat better about H.L. May, Rose began walking again and caught up with her comrades in a moment. Little Elk offered her the last of his popcorn, but Rose declined with thanks. A few treats were fine, but she couldn’t afford to eat much between meals.
Which reminded her that she hadn’t taken any supper yet. She never ate before a performance because to do so would have been most unwise if she valued her digestion. But the few grains of popcorn she’d consumed had whetted her appetite. As if she’d just reminded it, her stomach growled. Rose was completely embarrassed.
“Say, I didn’t think to ask,” H.L. said. “But are you hungry, Miss Gilhooley? You probably can’t eat before performances.” His tone wa
s so natural that Rose was almost not embarrassed any longer.
His perceptiveness made her soften toward him for a second. She didn’t dare let the softness linger, because she trusted him about as much as she’d trust a rattlesnake in her bed. “I am a little hungry,” she equivocated. “I guess I could use—something.”
“I have an idea!” H.L.’s expressive eyes suddenly expressed eagerness. “How about we get you a carbonated drink and a hamburger!
I’ll bet you’ve never tasted either one of those items.”
She blinked at him. “Er, no, I haven’t.”
“Ha!” H.L. flung his arms wide. “I love this fair!”
He was certainly an enthusiastic young man. Rose found herself reluctantly fascinated by him. He was so free with his emotions and gestures. Rose had tried to hide herself behind her Wind Dancer persona for so many years, she couldn’t even imagine being so open and spontaneous.
“Before the Columbian Exposition opened, nobody’d ever tasted a hamburger or a carbonated drink, Miss Gilhooley! They’re being introduced here, at this fair!” He stamped the ground beneath his feet as if confirming the solidity of his statement.
“Oh.” She glanced at Little Elk, who seemed as interested as she in food. “Um, what’s a hamburger?” Rose knew that Little Elk, like most of his Sioux kin, liked to eat meat and resisted the so-called “vegetarian” foods that were being touted as healthy these days. His preference made a lot of sense to Rose, who knew how difficult it was to find meat on the plains, but she didn’t even want to try to explain it to H.L. May.
“It’s ground-up beef formed into a flat patty, then fried, and served on a round roll they call a bun, with condiments.”
What were condiments? As Rose contemplated how stupid it would sound if she asked, H.L. made a question from her unnecessary.
“You can have pickles, prepared mustard sauce, some sort of tomato sauce they call ketchup—I think it was developed by a fellow named Heinz from a Chinese sauce—and onions on the hamburger roll. They’re delicious.”
Again, Rose and Little Elk exchanged a glance. Little Elk lifted one shoulder in his version of a shrug. Interpreting this as compliance,
Rose said, “That sounds nice, Mr. May. We’d both like to try a—what did you call it?”
“A hamburger. I think there’s a vendor here selling sausages on a bun, too. They’re pretty good, especially when he dumps on a spoonful of sauerkraut. The fellow’s German and calls them frankfurters.”
“My goodness.” It hadn’t occurred to Rose until this conversation that people invented different kinds of foods. Or different ways to prepare, serve, and name foods, she guessed was a more appropriate way of thinking about it. And what was sauerkraut? Rose decided she’d probably never have to know and decided not to remember the word, which made her feel slightly better since her memory for words wasn’t infinite and there were several rattling around in there already.
So H.L. Led the way to a food vendor, where he bought hamburgers and carbonated drinks for the three of them. They sat at one of the outdoor tables placed along the main thoroughfare so that diners could watch fair visitors as they munched.
“This is quite tasty,” Rose said. In truth, she was finding it difficult not to gobble her hamburger, it tasted so good and she was so hungry.
“Good,” agreed Little Elk, who looked as if he wouldn’t mind eating another three or four of the delectable meat sandwiches.
“I like ‘em.” H.L. was clearly pleased with himself as he, too, indulged in a hamburger. “How do you like your soda?”
“Soda? Is that what they call this?” Rose held up her drinking glass, which fizzed amusingly. She took a tentative sip and giggled. “It’s very good, but the bubbles tickle.” When she glanced at H.L., she discovered him gazing at her speculatively, his sea-green eyes gleaming. She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression, but it worried her.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever tasted champagne?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“No.” Because the question and his expression disconcerted her, Rose turned to Little Elk. “Do you like your soda, Little Elk?”
The Indian nodded. “Good.”
“Would you care for another hamburger? I know how much you like to eat.”
Although she smiled at her friend to show she didn’t mean anything unkind by her remark, it occurred to Rose that it hadn’t been her money that had provided the first round of hamburgers. She supposed it might be considered impolite for her to offer H.L.’s guest more food.
But that didn’t really matter, she decided instantly. Rose might send most of her money home to her family, but she made a large-enough salary that she was able to keep a supply of pin money on hand. And if buying Little Elk another hamburger would make her feel less uneasy in H.L. May’s company, the money would be well spent.
Little Elk nodded. “I like it.”
“Wait right here,” H.L. said as he got up from the elaborately molded ceramic bench, “I’ll get you another one.” As he loped off toward the hamburger concessionaire, he shot back over his shoulder, “Be right back.”
Rose watched him in dismay. She oughtn’t have done that; she knew better. While she possessed no understanding at all of the polite nuances of behavior required in sophisticated society, her mother had drummed proper manners into her when she was a child. She’d just made a big gaffe, and she was mortified.
“Wait here,” she told Little Elk, leaping up from the bench and hurrying after H.L. “I’ll be right back.” She had to run to catch up with the long-legged reporter. “Mr. May! Mr. May, wait a minute.”
He turned, surprised. “What’s the matter, Miss Gilhooley?” With a wicked grin, he asked, “You want another hamburger, too?”
“No!” Exasperated, Rose started digging around in her skirt pocket, where she carried some change. “I’m quite full, thank you, but it was I who offered Little Elk another one of those sandwiches, so I ought to pay for it.”
“Tut, tut. I invited you to come with me tonight,” he reminded her.
“This evening is my treat.”
“You didn’t invite Little Elk,” Rose muttered, conscious that her friend’s company tonight was a direct result of her own cowardice. “I should pay for him.”
“Pshaw. Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly!” Heat crept up the back of her neck. Rose wondered if she was making too much of this. Probably. H.L. May rattled her composure more than any other human being she’d ever met.
“Here.” She thrust a silver dollar at him.
He looked down at it and didn’t make a move to take it. “Pooh.”
“Blast you, H.L. May! You drive me crazy!”
His slow grin stampeded the heat at the back of her neck into her cheeks. Rose imagined she now glowed like one of those electrical lights hanging all over the place at the Exposition.
“I’m not sure driving you crazy is a bad thing, Miss Gilhooley.” He took her demurely gloved hand and folded her fingers over the silver piece. When he was through, her hand was firmly secured in his own.
“Keep your money. This night’s on me.”
He leaned close to her when he said it, and his warm breath fanned her already burning cheek. Two strong and contradictory impulses warred in her. On the one hand, Rose wanted to turn around and scuttle away as fast as she could. On the other hand, she wanted to throw her arms around H.L. May’s broad shoulders and cling for dear life. The strain of dealing with the wildly disparate hankerings held her rooted to the spot, staring into H.L.’s magnificent, hypnotic eyes.
“You have beautiful eyes, Miss Gilhooley,” he whispered after what seemed like three or four hours.
Rose swallowed, opened her mouth, discovered her brain was barren of words, and shut it again.
“In fact, taken as a package—a very small package—you’re a most appealing female.”
Rose felt her knees go weak. Good heavens, what was he saying? Her ears buzzed. Her m
outh went so dry, she wouldn’t have been able to talk even if she could have found a word or two in her brain somewhere.
H.L. slowly released her hand and patted her on the shoulder. “You just go back to your friend, Miss Gilhooley. I’ll bring him another hamburger.”
She managed to nod, although she could have sworn she had no control over her muscles. He chucked her under the chin, grinned more broadly, and walked away from her. Sauntered away from her. Swaggered away from her. As if he’d just scored a home run and won the game for the home team.
Rose gulped again as the bones in her legs stopped melting and her knees straightened. She realized her mouth was hanging open and shut it. She blinked.
Damn him! Rose, who would never, ever speak a profanity aloud, and who virtually never even thought profanities, wanted to fling hundreds and hundreds of damns, hells, and bastards at H.L. May’s wide back.
Instead, she whirled around and stomped back to Little Elk. Offhand, she couldn’t recall another time in her life when she’d so completely and utterly humiliated. And all because a handsome man had sweet-talked her.
“Ooooooh! That man drives me crazy.”
She resented it when Little Elk’s chuckle rumbled out.
Chapter Five
H.L. didn’t know why he’d flirted with Rose Gilhooley. Hell, she was just a kid, really. He kicked at a wad of paper in his path as he, Rose, and Little Elk stood in line for the Ferris Wheel.
Worse, she was now mad at him. She’d been almost relaxed before he’d succumbed to his urge to flirt. Now she’d gone back to being stiff as a poker, frigid as winter, and as uncommunicative as one of those sightless, earless fish somebody’d discovered in an underground river somewhere in a cave. When she did speak, she used words of one syllable. Hell, she used sentences of one syllable. Damn it, what had possessed him to spoil it all? He needed her cooperation, not her enmity.
Coming Up Roses Page 6