Coming Up Roses

by Duncan, Alice

  “You look beautiful, Miss Gilhooley!” a cheery voice called from the grandstand.

  Surprised, Rose glanced up from the bare back of the horse she was training—and saw none other than H.L. May. Jehosephat! She’d been correct about him, all right: He wasn’t on time. Only instead of being late as she’d expected him to be, he was early.

  Totally discomposed at this further illustration of the many ways in which H.L. May was not what she needed in her life, Rose glowered at him. “I thought you were coming at noon!” She didn’t dare speak loudly or unpleasantly, because that would have upset Betsy. Rose knew horses. She knew horses a whole lot better than she knew men, for sure.

  H.L. hauled his watch out of the pocket in his vest and held it up so that its gold chain glinted in the sunlight. “It’s almost noon. I’m glad I came early so I can watch you work!”

  Rose wasn’t glad about it. She’d like to conk him on the head, actually. And now that she knew he was watching her, she was too flustered to work because she’d transmit her anxiety to Betsy, sure as anything. Upsetting a horse was a certain way to undo any bowing lessons she’d been able to impart. She called out in a sweet voice,

  “Wait there for a minute. I’ll just stable Betsy and tidy up.”

  “Sure thing!”

  If it was such a sure thing, why didn’t he sit down again, blast him?

  Rose watched in mounting trepidation as H.L. bounded down from his seat in the grandstand and came to tarry in the ring, waiting, she was sure, to see which way she went so he could tag along.

  Piffle. Rose was beginning to feel haunted, harassed, and beleaguered by this nosy parker of a reporter. If she didn’t find him so impossibly attractive, she might just up and tell him to take a hike.

  Good Lord! She hadn’t meant that—the attractive part, not the taking-a-hike part. Surely, she hadn’t.

  She feared she had. Bother.

  Fortunately for her, she saw Little Elk walking around the perimeter of the arena, scanning the ground. He sometimes went hunting for coins lost by careless audience members. Rose thought that seizing such an unusual business opportunity was quite enterprising of him. She called out, “Little Elk.”

  He glanced up and raised his hand in greeting. Rose squinted at him hard. What was he holding? It was small. It was wrapped in what looked like brown butcher paper. As he began to walk in Rose’s direction, he lifted it to his mouth, took a bite, and Rose understood. He’d gone out and bought himself a hamburger.

  With a deep sigh, wishing her good friend hadn’t demonstrated so quite palpably his approval of something H.L. May had done in front of H.L. May, Rose asked, “Can you please take care of Betsy for me? I have an appointment with Mr. May.”

  Little Elk nodded, glanced at H.L., and grinned. He held up his hamburger for H.L. to see. The reporter waved and grinned back. Now Rose wished she could conk both of them.

  Nevertheless, recalling her new-found realization regarding her feelings of inferiority and hick-hood, she opted not to throw a tantrum. It was just as well, since she didn’t think she could throw one if she tried, having had no practice. In an effort to appear unperturbed by H.L. May’s early arrival, she smiled at him with what she hoped looked like serenity when he walked up to her as she was handing Betsy over to Little Elk.

  “How do you do, Mr. May?”

  He looked slightly taken aback by her formal manner. “I’m all right, thanks, Miss Gilhooley. You?”

  She fought a grimace. How could she appear prim and proper if he wasn’t going to help her out? This wasn’t fair. With a sigh, she said,

  “That’s nice. I’m fine, too, thank you. Um, will you excuse me for a moment? I didn’t expect you quite so early, and I still have to tidy up.”

  “You already look mighty tidy to me,” he told her with a wider grin, and he winked at her.

  She couldn’t help herself; she frowned. Was he trying to flirt with her again? Did he think she was that sort of woman merely because she worked as an entertainer? If he did, he had another think coming.

  “Thank you.” She spoke in freezing, measured accents. “However, I prefer that you either go with Little Elk or remain here while I prepare for our scheduled appointment.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” H.L. barked.

  And then—Rose could hardly believe her eyes—he had the effrontery to salute her! Rose gaped for a second before she caught herself and stopped. She snapped, “Fine,” turned on her heel—her bare heel—she was at such a disadvantage here—and stamped off to her tent, forgetting to put on her moccasins.

  Once in her tent, she fairly ripped the clothes from her body. She always dressed in an old, worn-out costume when she was working with her horses, which made her recent encounter with H.L. May that much worse.

  More than anyone else in the world, she didn’t want him to see her looking dowdy or think she was too poor to buy nice clothes. Or worse, thinking she had no taste and dressed like that all the time because she was too stupid or too rustic to know how to dress herself in a big city. Granted, she didn’t keep much of her sizable salary for herself, but she could still afford decent clothes.

  No matter what she did, he undermined her—and she’d only met him yesterday! Grumbling to herself, she plowed through her traveling trunk to find the nicest, prettiest, newest, and most comfortable outfit she owned. Even to teach H.L. May a lesson, Rose didn’t fancy strolling for miles at the Columbian Exposition in uncomfortable clothes.

  Because the late spring day was warm, Rose selected a pretty walking skirt in lightweight yellow-checked gingham. The skirt looked lovely on her, especially when she wore it with a pretty lawn shirtwaist and the yellow jacket she’d bought especially to go with the skirt. She topped everything off with a charming confection of a tiny straw hat with a yellow satin ribbon circling its crown. One yellow rose attached to the ribbon brought everything together.

  This was the prettiest outfit she’d ever owned, and she’d felt wonderful when she’d worn it for the first time. She and Annie had bought it their first week in Chicago when they’d gone shopping expressly for summer clothing. They’d both heard how hot and humid Chicago could be during the summer months, and the Exposition was scheduled to run through the summer months until sometime in October.

  In spite of how good she knew she looked, Rose was in a foul mood when she left her tent to meet H.L. May. Then she realized she didn’t know where he was. She’d been so miffed by his comment and wink, she hadn’t stuck around long enough for him to tell her where she could find him.

  Bother. On the off chance that he’d done something cooperative for once and gone with Little Elk to the stables, Rose headed there first.

  Wonder of wonders, there he was! She was surprised, as she’d been certain he’d lead her on some kind of chase.

  On the other hand, if he’d tried to do that, Rose wouldn’t have played his game. She’d have just gone back to her tent and . . . And what?

  Eaten lunch alone, she guessed. Aw, mud puddles. She might as well give it up and admit she couldn’t win with H.L. May.

  On that depressing thought, she took a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and was about to enter the stable when a commotion behind her stopped her in her tracks.

  “It’s her!” came a child’s shrill, excited voice.

  Thinking something unusual had happened, Rose turned to see what it was. All she saw was a man standing about fifteen feet away, peering her way. He had two little boys in tow, both clad in darling sailor suits. One of the boys was pointing at the stable. When Rose turned to determine what could be the matter with the stable, she saw nothing amiss.

  “It is her,” the other little boy exclaimed. He was every bit as excited as the first one.

  “Now boys,” said the man—Rose presumed he was their father, “Let’s calm down.”

  “But it’s her!” the first little boy shouted joyfully, and he broke away from the man and charged straight at Rose.

  Merciful heavens! These lit
tle children must be fans! Rose had never been attacked by fans before, although she’d seen them swarm all over Annie more than once. She guessed it was a good thing these were relatively small representatives of the species.

  Before she’d had time to brace herself, a large figure loomed at her side, stooped, and scooped the little boy up in his strong arms. “Whoa there, Buster. Watch it. This is a lady, not a circus clown.”

  “Mr. May!” Rose, whose first reaction to rescue had been relief, became angry when she realized who her rescuer was.

  “Say, Mister, put down my boy!” the child’s father hollered. He hurried toward Rose and H.L., his other son running to keep up with him.

  Rose didn’t like that much, either.

  “Does this little hooligan belong to you?” H.L. sounded as if he aimed to pitch the child over his father’s head, the way he might throw a baseball or heave a lance.

  “Don’t you call my boy a hooligan!”

  Bother. Why couldn’t her association with H.L. May be normal?

  Whatever normal was.

  Chapter Six

  H.L. was flabbergasted. How dare this man yell at him for protecting Rose from his marauding monster of a child? Thrusting the wriggling boy at his father, who caught him even though the gesture surprised him, H.L. barked, “Take your kid, then, and teach him some manners. Miss Gilhooley isn’t accustomed to being mauled by uncouth brats.”

  “Oh, now, Mr. May, please . . .”

  Disregarding Rose’s protest, H.L. scowled at the now furious father.

  “What do you mean, manhandling my boy like that?”

  H.L. leaned toward the man. “What do you mean, allowing the kid to attack Miss Gilhooley?”

  Rose tried again. “But . . .”

  Disregarding Rose in his turn, the father hollered, “He didn’t attack her!”

  The two boys drew back. The one who’d made the dash for Rose looked as if he was feeling guilty about his misdeed and ashamed he’d made his father angry. Rose judged him to be around seven years old, but he was upset enough that he stuck a thumb in his mouth. From the expression in his big, scared eyes, Rose guessed this was a behavior he only resorted to when he was under extreme duress. Her heart softened. Poor little tyke.

  Since the idiotic men were busy shouting insults at each other, Rose decided to deal with the children herself. Stepping away from the combatants, she smiled sweetly at the boys and knelt, giving scant thought to her new yellow-checked gingham skirt. Holding out a hand, she said, “Hello, there. My name is Miss Gilhooley. I think you might have seen me ride in the Wild West. Is that so?”

  The dasher, his brown eyes huge, nodded. The other boy, younger by perhaps a year, whispered, “Yes’m.”

  “Would you like to have a souvenir of the Wild West?”

  Both children nodded.

  “You interfering scoundrel, you had no right to touch my child!”

  “Your child had no right to attack a woman on the street!”

  “He didn’t attack her, and this isn’t a street!”

  Rose shook her head, marveling at the relative insanity of adult human males, and dipped into the small handbag she had decided to carry with her on her outing with H.L. She withdrew two small rosettes with blue ribbons dangling from them. They were advertising pieces with her Wild West name, Wind Dancer, printed in gold lettering on the ribbons.

  Buffalo Bill had created them for this exact purpose. He claimed that you never could predict when you’d have an opportunity to advertise the Wild West, and children loved to wear blue ribbons. He maintained they made them feel important, and Rose had never found a reason to disbelieve him. She supposed the idea had originated with Annie Oakley and the championship shooting medals she always wore during her performances.

  Although Rose normally handed out the ribbons after a show, she always carried some with her, just in case. She was glad for her decision to do so as she held two of them out to these children now. She’d never used them to calm little boys whose fathers had become embroiled in shouting matches with a newspaper reporters before. Rather sourly she told herself she might have expected H.L. May to get her involved in a dispute. It was just like him.

  The ribbons worked wonders on the boys, however. The colonel would have been proud. The children, their eyes growing bright and losing their fearful cast, walked up to Rose. The dasher’s thumb popped out of his mouth, and he reached for a ribbon with a damp hand. The other boy grinned hugely as he took his.

  “Let me help you pin them on,” she offered.

  When the larger of the boys moved up a step, she asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Jesse Lee Wojinski, ma’am.” He fairly glowed as Rose pinned the rosette on the lapel of his sailor suit.

  “There you go, Jesse Lee.” Rose turned to the smaller boy. “And what’s your name, sweetheart?”

  The little boy blushed scarlet. “Ernie James Wojinski.”

  She thought they were both adorable. “Here’s your blue ribbon, Ernie James.” Rose pinned a rosette on his lapel, too.

  The two children had stood to attention as Rose attached their ribbons. When she was finished, she stood back and beamed down at them. “There, now. You look just like—like Colonel Cody himself!”

  She’d been going to say they looked like Annie Oakley, but decided it would be more diplomatic to use the colonel’s name with boys.

  The children were ecstatic.

  “Thank you, Miss Gilhooley,” said the dasher.

  “Thanks, Miss ‘Hooley,” said his brother.

  “I don’t care what you say, you blasted interloper! Don’t you dare call my children brats! It’s not their fault they loved watching Wind Dancer ride!”

  “It’s not their fault they didn’t knock her over backwards, you mean!”

  Rose cleared her throat, hoping either the boys’ father or H.L. May would hear her and desist in his yelling. She should have known better. Neither man paid her the least heed. In fact, the fight seemed to be heading perilously close to becoming a physical confrontation.

  As she did not want to be associated with an embarrassing brawl, Rose came to the conclusion that, while being ladylike and polite was a good way to behave most of the time, at other times, harsher measures were required. Therefore, although she’d never have done this under normal circumstances, she put two fingers in her mouth as her brother Freddie had taught her to do in Deadwood many years before, and whistled.

  The sound pierced the air like a volley of Sioux arrows. H.L. May and his adversary both clapped hands over their ears and spun around. They looked to Rose as if they were trying to determine from whence the attack was being launched.

  The two little boys laughed and clapped as if Rose had done something marvelous.

  Rose said, “Thank you.” She glared at H.L. “Are you quite ready to resume our interview, Mr. May?”

  H.L.’s mouth had opened in what looked like fury before he caught sight of Rose. Then his eyes widened, his rage seemed to evaporate, and he stared at her. Rose had no idea what his problem was now, but she appreciated his silence.

  Turning to Jesse Lee and Ernie James’s father, Rose said sweetly, “Your sons are delightful, Mr. Wojinski. I’m glad they enjoyed the Wild West. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to be going.”

  Mr. Wojinski, too, seemed stunned. Deciding to take advantage of the two men’s silence, Rose grabbed H.L.’s arm and yanked. Hard. He stumbled forward before he caught himself and straightened. Then he cast one last glare at Mr. Wojinski before he took in the sight of the two little boys, who stared at Rose as if she were a goddess and they were worshiping her.

  The boys’ father gave H.L. a final vicious scowl and took his sons’ hand. “Let’s go, boys. I’m glad to see Wind Dancer is nice, even if she runs with some rough company.” He turned them around and stamped away.

  The two small voices rose in a duet. “Oh, she’s real nice, Pa!”

  After a few more tense moments, H.L. said, “Hunh.
” With a curt nod, he turned away from the Wojinskis and went with Rose.

  She waved daintily at the little boys, who were staring at her from over their shoulders, and minced off. H.L. wondered if her feet hurt, confined in shoes as they were now. Did she wear shoes all the time except when she was performing? He was about to ask, when she spoke first.

  “What do you mean, getting into a fight with that nice man?”

  Astonished, H.L. blinked as he peered down at her.

  She looked absolutely gorgeous in that yellow thing. Yellow did wonders for her dark chestnut hair and blue eyes, especially when they were glinting as they were now, and her cheeks were rosy. With anger.

  Good God, she was furious.

  “I can’t take a step in your company without you doing something outrageous or saying something horrid. I don’t know why I consented to this interview with you, anyway!”

  H.L. gulped twice before he could speak. Two things interfered with his thought processes, which were normally quicker than lightning. The first thing was how good she looked. The second was anger. She was mad at him! She was mad at him, the man who’d just saved her from being mauled by a couple of dirty little brats!

  “What do you mean, saying something horrid?” His voice was very loud. He gentled it with difficulty. “Dammit, Miss Gilhooley, that monster was going to get his sticky fingers all over you!”

  “Pooh. He’s a charming little boy. And sticky fingers can’t do permanent damage.”

  “Charming! No permanent damage? Why . . . Why . . .” But H.L. didn’t know what to say. He gazed at Rose and realized his very essence would have been wounded if she’d been damaged in any way whatsoever, even with impermanent sticky fingerprints, by that child’s attack. Or they would have been if he’d had any sensibilities to crush which, of course, he didn’t.

  It couldn’t be denied, however, that at the moment, she was a vision. She was a perfect, tiny, tidy, wonder of a woman. Since he couldn’t say those things or he’d ruin his image, not to mention his sense of personal dignity, he summed up his tumultuous feelings with a savage,