Coming Up Roses

by Duncan, Alice

  He inspected her closely when they reached the head of the line and offered a hand to help her into the carriage. She didn’t want to take his hand; she resisted taking it, even; but he didn’t give her a chance to scramble inside unaided. He simply grabbed her hand and held on. He also revised his opinion of Rose Gilhooley.

  All right, so she wasn’t just a kid. She was curvy as hell, and fully grown, even if she wasn’t very big.

  Well, how could she be big and perform her act so effectively? Annie Oakley was even smaller than Rose Gilhooley, although with her, slightness didn’t seem so odd. After all, Annie Oakley was a sharpshooter. That required skill, but no outrageous degree of athletic ability. What Rose Gilhooley did on a horse was masterful, and it had to require the strength of a Hercules.

  Yet she was a tiny, delicate-looking, remarkably pretty young woman who, if you didn’t know better and you saw her walking on a street, you’d think was a normal, everyday, wife and mother. Or at least . . . Maybe not a wife and mother, but a clerk in a department store. Or a type-writer for some attorney’s firm. A secretary at a bank somewhere, perhaps. Or somebody’s kid sister.

  You sure wouldn’t look at her and think: Wind Dancer, Bareback Rider Extraordinaire. He grinned to himself. She was a goddamned Herculette, in actual fact. He’d have to remember that description when he wrote his first article.

  Funny thing was that you didn’t notice how tiny she was when she was performing. You only noticed how incredible she was.

  It was later, after you’d met her, that you realized she was an adorable, not to mention eminently ravishable, young woman. Damn. He almost wished he hadn’t noticed.

  But that was stupid. H.L. May could withstand lust. And anyway, he wasn’t sure lust was the right word. He certainly felt a powerful attraction to her, but lust didn’t exactly express it. He consoled himself with the thought that he was excited about this writing assignment, and that his enthusiasm was undoubtedly the only reason he felt this—interest. Yes indeedy. Interest. That was it.

  Fascination, even.

  How nonsensical of him to think of it as lust.

  H.L. caught a flash of one of Rose’s well-turned ankles, recalled how shapely her legs were, and had to fight down a surge of sexual awareness.

  Damnation. That wasn’t mere interest.

  Unless . . . Ah, of course. That was it. H.L. had read a monograph written by one of that German doctor Breuer’s colleagues, Sigmund Freud. Freud claimed that nearly every human emotion had something to do with one’s sexual drive. Therefore, H.L. understood that sometimes, when one was particularly intrigued by a subject, one’s carnal nature, being the notoriously ungovernable monster it was, turned one’s intrigue onto sexual channels. That’s the way the human brain worked. It had nothing to do with Rose herself in relationship to him, H.L. May, skeptical and jaded newspaper reporter.

  H.L. smacked himself upside the head with the heel of his palm. Who was he trying to kid?

  “Mr. May! Whatever is the matter?”

  Damn. Rose clearly hadn’t missed his self-inflicted attention-getting gesture. He grinned at her to show her that all was well in his universe. “Mosquito,” he lied glibly. Hell, this whole Exposition was built on what used to be a swamp. Mosquitoes were possible. Besides, her alarm at his unexpected self-punishment had at least jolted more than one word out of her.

  She gave him a small frown that made her appear like a very prudish, very delicate schoolmarm. “It looked as if you might have hurt yourself. Perhaps you ought not to be so violent with the mosquitoes.”

  Then she smiled puritanically, and desire swept through H.L. like a tidal wave. This was really stupid, especially when he knew she’d been trying to be sarcastic. As if she could ever out-sarcastic him, of all word-loving people.

  He was distracted—thank God—when the wheel moved and Rose expelled a tiny squeal. Then she looked embarrassed. He wanted to hug her.

  “Wheel’s moving,” mumbled Little Elk. His dark eyes glittered like onyx. He’d eaten three hamburgers altogether, as H.L. and Rose had sat in silence, Rose staring off into the distance and H.L. wondering what to say. Neither the Indian nor Rose seemed to be troubled by silence. H.L. was used to being in conversation when he was with people so he didn’t enjoy the lack of chatter, but he endured.

  He didn’t begrudge Little Elk a single one of those hamburgers. Or even the silence, if it came to that, because it was a new experience for him. It was interesting to get to know people from other walks of life and to observe both how they lived and how they tackled new experiences. H.L. loved people of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, colors, and creeds. That’s why he’d gone into the newspaper business in the first place.

  On that happy understanding, he told himself this was why Rose excited him so much: Because she was so different from the other women in his life. And the other men, too, for that matter.

  Here she was, a perfectly ordinary-looking female—well, perhaps prettier than most, especially when those gigantic blue eyes of hers sparkled like gemstones as they did now—but she’d lived such an incredible life. They hadn’t started the interviewing process yet, but if Cody’s advertising circular was to be believed, she’d been born and grown up on the wild, western frontier near Deadwood, Kansas, one of the most notoriously dangerous towns in the United States and its territories. Hell, she’d already told him she’d been taught to ride by this Sioux Indian. A Sioux Indian, for the love of God! For all H.L. knew, Little Elk was one of the band of Sioux who’d wiped out Custer and the 7th Cavalry at the Little Big Horn.

  Squinting at Little Elk once more, H.L. decided he was allowing his romantic side to get the better of him. Little Elk would have been a small child in 1876. He most likely hadn’t done any killing or butchering of soldiers—although everyone in the United States had read stories about what women and children did to the soldiers after the massacre. H.L. shuddered briefly, unable to reconcile Little Elk, who seemed like a very nice fellow, with such savagery.

  “Oh, look at that!”

  H.L. frowned when he saw Rose grip Little Elk’s arm and point at the scenery. Why was she hanging onto Little Elk? It was H.L. who’d given her this exciting opportunity to see the world’s fair from on high. If she was going to hang onto anybody, it ought to be him, H.L. May, damn it.

  “Lights,” Little Elk said, with what H.L. considered remarkable brevity under the circumstances.

  In reality, the Ferris Wheel had begun its ascent, and the three of them were now hanging, along with dozens of other fair-goers, in a carriage swinging from a steel frame, and observing a panoramic vista of the entire Columbian Exposition.

  H.L. knew that in another couple of minutes, when their carriage rose even higher, they’d be able to see the city of Chicago spread out before them. And then they’d see Lake Michigan and all the boats floating out there, many of which were decorated for the fair.

  A person got a dramatic and fascinating view of the world from up here. H.L. liked it. He wanted to put an arm around Rose’s shoulder and hug her small body close to his big one and point out all the sites of interest in Chicago that he could make out from up here in the air. Of course, you could see more of those sites in the daytime, but there was something about the night that made cuddling up with a pretty girl an alluring prospect.

  And if he so much as tried to do such a thing, she’d scratch his eyes out. Probably shove him out of the gondola. H.L. entertained a mental vision of himself flying through the air to land with a splat on one of the concession stands below. He sighed. There was something the matter with him tonight, and he didn’t know what it was.

  “I should say there are lights.” Rose’s voice was nearly all breath, she was so excited. “Oh, my goodness, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Spectacular, isn’t it?” H.L. didn’t mean to sound smug.

  Nevertheless, he was responsible for Rose’s seeing these astonishing sights, and he wanted her to remove her hand from Little
Elk’s wrist and pay attention to him.

  “Oh, my, yes! It’s truly incredible, Mr. May.”

  She finally let go of her friend and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed out at the lights. She only glanced briefly at H.L., and he decided something had to be done. After clearing his throat, he said,

  “I’ll bring you here during the daylight hours one of these days, Miss Gilhooley. We can conduct an interview on the Ferris Wheel as well as anywhere else, I suppose.”

  “It must be wonderful during the daytime, too.”

  “It is.” He was delighted to note that she seemed to have forgotten she was angry at him. He was also pleased to note that her blue eyes were as bright as stars.

  Rose insisted H.L. walk them back to the Wild West encampment after they alighted from the Ferris Wheel, maintaining that it was late, and she and her companion needed their rest. She was polite about it, but H.L. sensed he’d better not press his luck with her tonight if he wanted to continue interviewing her for his articles. He was so exhilarated about writing those articles, he fairly tingled with it, and he hated the notion of parting with Rose so soon.

  He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his seersucker suit when he delivered Little Elk to the Indian compound.

  “Good night,” Little Elk said in a way that conveyed to H.L. that he was expressing gratitude for the evening’s entertainment.

  “Thanks for coming,” H.L. said back, and the two men parted company.

  H.L. got the feeling he’d passed whatever test Little Elk required of a white man before he deigned to approve of him. “See you later,” he added to the Indian’s back as Little Elk strolled off.

  Little Elk didn’t turn around, but only lifted a hand in a gesture of dismissal. H.L. would have liked to interview him, too, but decided he’d best not press his luck right now. If all went well, he could conduct interviews later with Little Elk and perhaps some of the other Sioux traveling with the wild West. He and Rose walked on to the tent village occupied by the white members of the Wild West’s cast and crew. Rose led the way to her tent, where she turned and stuck out her hand.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. May. The fair is a wondrous place, and I loved riding on the Ferris Wheel.”

  H.L. looked for a couple of seconds at her hand before he sighed and took it in his much larger one. It had, of course, not escaped his attention that Rose had donned a little hat and prim gloves before she’d set out with him to see the fair. From this he deduced that, while she might earn a living as an entertainer, at heart she was pure middle-class American morality. He guessed that was interesting, although it pretty much put the kibosh on any sexual fantasies he might think about harboring in her direction.

  As if thought had anything to do with it. He sighed again.

  “Say, Miss Gilhooley, I know you have to practice a lot and need to get plenty of rest and all that, but I’d really love to show you Chicago from the Ferris Wheel in the daylight. It will be a good use of time, too, because, as I already said, I’ll be able to interview you as you see the city.” He gave her one of his most winning smiles; the smile he most often reserved for ministers and politicians from whom he was trying to pry information without their awareness.

  Rose gave him an uncertain look. “Yes, you said that before, Mr. May.

  And I have already agreed to be interviewed. Did you forget?”

  She was so damned cute, H.L. couldn’t contain his grin. “Nope.” He tapped his forehead. “I’ve got a great memory. Just wanted to make sure you did, too.”

  “I see,” Rose said repressively.

  Undaunted, H.L. only grinned more widely and said, “So, how about tomorrow?”

  Her mouth pursed into a moue of uncertainty that made H.L. want to kiss it soft again. Good God.

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s publicity, Miss Gilhooley. Free publicity,” he reminded her, aiming for a funning, friendly tone of voice. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to drag Buffalo Bill into the conversation, he added, “Colonel Cody will be pleased.”

  This time it was she who sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She hesitated another moment, fiddling with those prim white gloves of hers. Then, as if she didn’t want to say it but couldn’t help herself, she added, “And I really would like to go up on the Ferris Wheel again.”

  “You bet!” H.L. never let an interesting opportunity pass by without leaping at it. “And then we can visit some of the other exhibits. I want to get your impressions of all the modern inventions being shown here at the fair. In the Machinery Hall, there’s a printing press that’s a hundred and fifty years old, and there are all sorts of brand-new inventions being shown here, too. You can see everything from moving pictures to horseless carriages to new foods—well, you had some of the new food tonight. It’s great stuff, all of it.”

  “I did enjoy the hamburger,” she admitted.

  She gave him a shy smile, and he had to fight the urge to pounce on her like a wolf on its prey. Hell’s bells, he wasn’t normally a predatory sort of fellow; he guessed her innocence brought out the worst in him or something. To guard against further sudden impulses, he jammed his hands into his pockets once more. “So, what time would you like to do these things tomorrow, Miss Gilhooley?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She sounded doubtful, which irked H.L. a bit. “Sure. Tomorrow. Newspapers in Chicago are printed every day, Miss Gilhooley. I’ve got to write a whole series of articles, don’t forget.”

  “Oh.” She appeared slightly perplexed. “I guess I didn’t think about that part.”

  H.L. didn’t roll his eyes because he was certain she’d not appreciate it. “Yes, well, that’s the way newspapers around here work. Now, for example, while you get your rest, I’ve got to go back to the office and write up my first impressions of the Exposition. I’d like to get started on the articles about you and the Wild West tomorrow.”

  “I see.” She licked her lips. It was a simple gesture, borne most likely from rattled nerves, but it made H.L.’s insides clench and a wave of lust spike through him. “All right, then. I have to take care of my horses in the morning. I’m usually finished by noon or one o’clock. Will that be all right?”

  He smiled at her, having managed to subdue all improper impulses, although he had a feeling they might pop up again later. “That would be super. I’ll come by here at noon and take you to lunch. Say, I’ll bet you haven’t sampled half the food they’re selling here. You’ve got to try a baklava at the Middle Eastern place. It’s great stuff.”

  “A what?”

  He gently flicked a finger against her cheek. “I’ll teach you the word tomorrow, sweetie.” He knew instantly that he’d made a grave mistake and hurried to correct it. “I mean, Miss Gilhooley. Sorry. Didn’t mean to take liberties.”

  She’d stiffened up like a frozen fish, lifted her chin, and glared at him with eyes as icy as Lake Michigan in January. “I should say not!”

  “Right.” H.L. removed his hat, thinking a bit of formal politeness would be in order at the moment. “See you at noon tomorrow, then, Miss Gilhooley.”

  She remained mute for a couple of moments, then said icily, “Good night, Mr. May.”

  H.L. strolled away thinking, Miss Gilhooley. Mr. May. I haven’t been this formal since I took first communion.

  That was all right, though. He’d break down her defenses one of these days. And then it would be every man for himself. Or, in this case, woman.

  H.L. took a street car back to the Globe’s office and wrote his first article about the Columbian Exposition feeling better about things in general than he had for months.

  # # #

  The next day dawned clear as a bell, warm as toast, and only slightly breezy, and Rose got up feeling fine, which surprised her a bit. When she’d turned in the night before, she sort of expected she’d arise feeling as if she’d made a fool of herself. Evidently, either the gods were smiling down on her, or she hadn’t come across as stupid as she felt as she enjo
yed the evening with Little Elk and H.L. May.

  H.L. May. Fiddlesticks. Rose wished she could stop thinking about him. She knew he was exactly the wrong sort of fellow to take up with, even if he’d ever want to take up with her, which was so unlikely as to be off the scale of improbabilities.

  Nevertheless, she felt good as she ate her breakfast with Annie and

  Frank, greeted those of her fellow Wild West companions who were up and about before noon, and walked to the stables. She liked the smell of the fair; it was dusty and rather windy, and a slight taint of swamp and stockyard lingered in the air, but the overall aroma of the Wild West was one Rose imagined she’d remember until the day she died. Horses, buffaloes, leather, dust, the unique smell of the food cooked by the Sioux in the neighboring tent city; it was meat and drink to her, and she loved it.

  She didn’t expect H.L. May to arrive at her tent at twelve noon. She expected him to keep her waiting. After all, he was a sophisticated, big-city newspaper reporter, and she was a hick.

  Instantly, Annie rose up in her mind and started to chide her.

  Exactly what do you mean by that, Rose Gilhooley? You’re no hick! You’re a star with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.

  Rose decided that, while Annie might be right about her, technically, Rose didn’t feel like a star. She felt like a hick.

  H.L. May doesn’t have to know what you think of yourself, for heaven’s sake!

  Rose, who had been practicing bows with Fairy’s stable mate, Betsy, another small white mare, gasped when understanding smote her, hard, in the brain. By heavens, Annie was right! Rather, Rose’s mental image of Annie was right, which amounted to the same thing.

  H.L. May didn’t have to know that Rose considered herself a hick if Rose didn’t choose to let him in on her inner insecurities. Even if she didn’t feel confident and secure on the inside, she could act as if she did outwardly while in his company, and he wouldn’t ever know the difference. Why would he?

  She felt pretty good after she’d come to this conclusion. The prospect of seeing H.L. again dimmed her pleasure slightly, but not enough to interfere with her lesson. Anyhow, another part of her could hardly wait to be in his company today. Rose considered that part of her slightly traitorous.