Although his intention had been to write most of today’s story without Rose even knowing he was there, H.L. couldn’t stop himself from leaping to his feet, cheering loudly, and applauding.
Rose gave a visible start, began to slide sideways, and made a grab for her horse’s mane. H.L. watched, horrified. Never in a million years would he have guessed that being startled might cause her trouble on horseback. She was so competent. So secure. So damnably cool when she rode.
His heart, which had flown to his throat—again—when he saw her slip, settled down again when she regained her balance. “I’m sorry, Miss Gilhooley!” he called, meaning it sincerely. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. May, please don’t burst out clapping like that when I’m practicing. I didn’t know you were there, and poor Betsy almost had an attack of apoplexy.” She guided the horse toward H.L., looking cranky. “And so did I.”
H.L. got the impression she’d like to scold him for an hour or two. In truth, he felt bad for having scared her and her horse. Although he wasn’t accustomed to offering apologies, he did this time. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize how fully you concentrate when you’re working.” He shook his head. “I should have, I guess. You wouldn’t be able to do what you do if you didn’t have an amazing capacity for concentration.”
Her scowl evaporated and was replaced by an expression of bemusement. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
He eyed her uncertainly. Hadn’t she already figured that one out on her own? “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Um, well, if you’re through practicing, how about we visit some more of the Exposition?” He gave her one of his patented charming grins, the ones virtually guaranteed to level rooms full of women, not to mention actors and politicians.
It didn’t work on Rose, who continued to frown down at him from her perch on the horse. “I don’t know. I mean, I know I agreed to be interviewed by you for your articles, but I didn’t realize the interviewing process would take up so much of my time.” She appeared more than a little skeptical. “And yours. Besides, you haven’t really even interviewed me. All you’ve done is take me to lunch and on the Ferris Wheel.”
“Are you complaining, Miss Gilhooley?” H.L. tried for a twinkle, although inside he was peeved. Dammit! It wasn’t often he spent this much time and energy on a project. The least this project could do was appreciate him for it.
She heaved an exasperated sigh. “No, I’m not complaining. In fact, I suppose I should thank you.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” he advised grouchily.
Another sigh, this one larger and sounding more exasperated, exited
Rose’s budlike mouth. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to sound so ill-natured, Mr. May.”
He bowed, aiming for irony. From the sour look on her face, he achieved it.
“There’s no cause for you to be upset with me,” she said tightly. “I need to take care of Betsy, and change my clothes, and I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Do you mind if I mosey along with you? I’d like to document the care you give your horses.”
She slid from Betsy’s back. H.L. caught his breath, not having anticipated this action, and fearing for the health of her limbs. But she alighted on the ground rather like a feather coming to rest after coming loose from a bird’s tail. Great God Almighty, but she was good on a horse! Without his telling it to, his brain composed a sentence describing Rose’s descent from her horse’s back.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, squinting up at him as if she suspected him of dire motives. Apparently, she’d heard his gasp of alarm.
This time his grin was spontaneous and wasn’t meant to convey anything but pleasure in her company. “Nothing. It just startled me when you dismounted. You sure are an abrupt young lady, Miss Gilhooley. Has anyone ever told you that before?”
She still looked skeptical. “No, they haven’t.”
“Well, you are. So, may I accompany you to the stables?” Believing he might look less menacing to this innocent girl-woman if he hunched a little, he did so, and stuck his hands in his trouser’s pockets. There. If he didn’t look innocent now, he didn’t know what else he could do.
Rose didn’t appear significantly less wary. Nor did she sound it when she said sharply, “You’ve seen me take care of a horse. It was a different horse, but the principle’s the same.”
“But I wasn’t taking notes then,” he said meekly.
She huffed. “Oh, all right. Follow me.”
Before she left the arena, she grabbed a pair of moccasins from a nearby bench. H.L. hadn’t noticed them there, probably because they were so tiny. Rose slipped them on before she clicked to her horse and moved off in the direction of the stable.
H.L.’s gaze went to her feet. The moccasins, small or not, seemed to fit her perfectly. And, as her bloomer-type skirt ended shortly below her knees, he also got a good gander at her calves and ankles. He couldn’t recall ever seeing better looking calves and ankles. With an effort, he dragged his gaze from her lower-body assets and concentrated on her face, which was pleasant to look at, too.
Because he was supposedly here in order to do his job, he decided to ask a question or two as they walked along. “So, Miss Gilhooley, where’d you get these horses? Are they Kansas natives, too?”
She shot him a suspicious glance. H.L. resented it. What the devil was she suspicious of? Surely she didn’t suspect him of improper motives, did she? Before he could dwell on it, she answered his question.
“No. The first horse I trained, Gingerbread, is a bay gelding I bought from Little Elk’s brother in Kansas. I used him for the first year or so I was with the Wild West, but the colonel thought it would look better if I were to ride a white horse during performances, so he gave me Fairy and I taught her what to do.”
“Interesting. So, while you rode your own horse, you were training this one on the side?”
“Not this one. This is Betsy. She’s a stand-by the colonel bought in case Fairy’s ever laid up. These two are mares. Gingerbread was much bigger than either Fairy or Betsy.”
“I see.” H.L. tried to envision the diminutive Rose on a much larger horse, but his mind boggled at the image. “Do you still ride Gingerbread?” He didn’t understand why his heart had suddenly started pounding, as if with dread.
“Sometimes, but poor Ginger’s kind of old now, and I only ride him for exercise.”
“Exercise? Good God, Miss Gilhooley, what do you need to exercise for?”
She looked exasperated again. “Not me, Mr. May, Gingerbread. If a horse just stands around eating all the time, it’ll get fat and out of shape. That’s not fair to the horse.”
“Ah. I see.”
There was a lot to this horse business. H.L. decided he was glad he lived in the great city of Chicago and didn’t have to worry about taking care of cattle.
Chapter Nine
Annie’s words swirled in Rose’s head as she changed clothes in her tent after tending to Betsy. She’d left H.L. cooling his heels in the stables. I’d hate to see you get hurt by a sophisticated big-city reporter, Annie had told her.
Was H.L. May only after a bit of sport, as Annie suspected? The notion made Rose’s chest ache. Thus far in their short association, H.L. May had been rude, brash, arrogant, and inquisitive, and he’d flirted with her once, but was he dishonorable? She couldn’t tell.
Her brain told her to watch her step; that H.L. May had the ability to hurt her more deeply than anything had ever hurt her before, barring the death of her father. Her heart told her to open up, enjoy herself in his company, and let fate take care of itself. The two organs were, in other words, in direct opposition to each other.
Rose told herself she’d be better off ignoring her heart and listening to her brain. If H.L. May’s motives were pure, she’d surely suffer less if she followed her brain and told her heart to take a hike. And if his motives were impure, she’d only get herself into trouble if she paid attention to her
heart. Plus, if his intentions were wicked, she’d feel like a blithering idiot if she fell for his wiles.
If, that is, he was in fact using wiles on her to achieve untoward goals, which she couldn’t tell since she’d had no experience with wiles, per se. The men she’d met so far in her life whose intentions had been bad, had been obvious about them. H.L. May, if he were a villain, was keeping his evil intentions a very dark secret.
Her heart said, “Relax.”
Her brain said, “Be on guard.”
“You’re being a fool, Rose Gilhooley,” she finally barked at both of them. “He only wants a story.”
So much for that. Rose felt calmer once she’d settled the issue, at least for the moment.
She’d worn her pretty yellow outfit yesterday. Today, since the weather promised to be warm and spring-like again, she opted for another new ensemble she’d bought during her shopping spree with Annie. The color was a dark navy blue, but the material was a lightweight cotton calico, and the entire ensemble was trimmed in white, like a sailor suit. Annie claimed Rose looked absolutely adorable in it. Rose hoped her best friend was right and not merely being polite. She trusted Annie, who wasn’t accustomed to fibbing.
Therefore, as she pinned the accompanying tiny confection of a sailor’s hat to her chestnut curls, she felt as confident as a girl in her circumstances could. She was only slightly nervous when she left her tent and walked to the stables to meet with H.L.
A glow of satisfaction suffused her when H.L., who had been speaking gently to Betsy and Fairy, much to the appreciation of the two mares, who were affectionate creatures, turned and saw her. She heard his sudden intake of breath from the door of the stable, and hoped the shadows in the stable were deep enough that he wouldn’t detect the sudden rush of color to her cheeks. She felt them get hot and was disgusted with herself.
“My God, you look glorious, Miss Gilhooley!”
Her heart hammered against her ribs like the gunfire in the Wild West during Custer’s Last Stand, but Rose managed a creditable, “Thank you,” and a slight nod of her chin, which she’d lifted for strength.
H.L. strode toward her like a king taking a castle. Oh, dear, there went her imagination again, spurred on by her insubordinate heart. Rose told her heart to shut up and sit still. She didn’t need it to get fanciful on her now. She needed to maintain her poise.
He stopped right in front of her, which meant she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His eyes held the most alarming expression. They reminded Rose of burning coals.
Stop it, she shrieked at her heart and her imagination. Then she scolded her brain for running away and hiding just when she needed it the most. Pretend, she commanded herself. Pretend you’re not a bumpkin.
“I must say, Miss Gilhooley, that it’s a pleasure to be in your company. You make me the envy of other men.”
“Pshaw,” Rose muttered. It was the best she could come up with at the moment, having once more mislaid her brain somewhere in the mush of her emotions.
H.L. crooked his arm, and Rose laid her gloved hand on it. She heard him suck in a gallon or two of fair-scented air and dared a peek up at his face. He was a truly striking man. She wasn’t sure if his features could be called classically handsome, but he certainly caught one’s eye and held it. If she was an ornament to him, he was an ornament to her, too, and she was glad of it. Rose rather liked the notion of other women envying her because of her escort, although she knew the sentiment did her no credit.
Nevertheless, she felt awfully good as they set out to conquer another day at the fair.
“Fine Arts and Liberal Arts today, Miss Gilhooley,” H.L. told her after they’d strolled a few yards, taking in the sights and sounds abounding everywhere around them. “And we’re going to visit the Grand Basin, too. Have you seen the statue of the Republic yet?”
“Yes. Annie and I walked through the White City. It’s quite a sight, especially at night when it’s all lit up.”
“It is, indeed. We’ll have to visit it together one of these days. I’d like to hear your reaction to it.” He frowned down at her. “Say, do you ever have any time off? I mean, at night? I know you can come out after you finish your act in the Wild West, but you don’t have much time then.”
“We don’t perform on Sundays,” Rose said, wondering what it would be like to walk out of an evening with H.L. May all by herself, with no Little Elk along as chaperone. The notion made her insides tingle. Her brain, which finally surfaced with a pop, admonished her for being forward, and she hastened to add, “Although Annie and I usually attend an evening church service.”
H.L. sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
A quick glance at him didn’t serve Rose in figuring out what that was supposed to have meant, so she didn’t respond. She did, however, sniff as her brain, again in charge, asked her why this man should sound sarcastic about two ladies attending church together. Rose feared this attitude regarding church on H.L. May’s part boded ill for her hopes about his intentions.
“I’d like to show you Chicago, too.”
Evidently, he’d opted to drop the church and evening issues for the moment. Rose figured it was just as well. “Annie and I went to some of the museums when we first arrived,” she muttered.
“Oh, there’s lot more to Chicago than museums.” He laughed.
Eyeing him critically, Rose decided his laughter wasn’t meant to be snide. “Oh?”
“Absolutely. Chicago’s a great place. We have a terrific baseball team, we’re famous for our stockyards, and we have some grand buildings.”
He smiled down at her, and Rose’s heart trampled her brain into the mud again. Blast! It was so difficult, constraining her stupid heart.
“I’ll bet you’d find the courthouse fascinating. And the train station. They’re built upon truly magnificent lines. Not what you’re used to in Kansas, I imagine.”
Because she really wanted to lay to rest this image she had of herself—and that he might have of her—as a hick, Rose said majestically, “I haven’t spent my entire life in Kansas, if you’ll recall, Mr. May. I saw innumerable grand buildings in London, Rome, and Paris.” She added a sniff for good measure.
He laughed. Disgruntled, Rose decided it’s what she should have expected of him. How could she flaunt her status as a world-traveler if he refused to be impressed?
“That’s right. I forgot. You can probably give me lessons on grand buildings, huh?”
“I don’t know about the lessons part,” she muttered, feeling small and ill-informed. Why was it she could feel dumb and insignificant without half trying, but it took an act of God to make her feel good about herself? Didn’t seem at all equitable.
He laughed again. Rose sighed and guessed she was doomed to feel like an imbecile in his company.
They’d entered the Exposition through the main gate, which led directly to the Court of Honor and on to the White City. H.L. flung his arms wide in one of the exuberant gestures Rose so envied. “I love this place!” he declared. “Burnham and Root conceived the initial plans, and they hauled in architects from all over. Most of them followed the Beaux Arts style Burnham and Root favored.”
Rose heaved a large internal sigh. Here they were again, back to normal: H.L. talking about things that were incomprehensible to her, and Rose wishing she weren’t such a booby. Annoyed with him and with herself, she asked, “Who are Burnham and Root?”
“Architects,” he replied promptly.
Well . . . That had been pretty easy. Rose ventured another tentative question. “And what’s the Beaux Arts style?” She flinched inside, waiting for his sneer of condescension.
She was amazed when he didn’t give her one. “It’s a style of architecture developed in France. You know how everybody likes to think the French are better at everything than anybody else is.” He gave another jolly laugh. “At least, the French like to think so.”
Rose, who breathed more easily when she realized he wasn’t lookin
g down on her for not knowing more about architecture, had actually heard that before, when the Wild West had visited England. The British and the French seemed to have very few good feelings for, and almost nothing good to say about, about each other. Rose, feeling more akin to English people than French ones, probably because she understood their language better, figured the English were on the right side of the argument. “I see.”
“Poor Root died before the Exposition opened.”
That shocked her. “Oh! How awful. I’m so sorry he didn’t get to see the fair!”
“Yeah, it was tough. He caught pneumonia.”
She shook her head, genuinely sorry for poor Root, whoever he’d been.
“But Burnham and the rest of the architects did a great job, didn’t they?”
He’d stopped walking beside the Great Basin. With another large gesture, he invited Rose to take in the glory of the Court of Honor, the first feature one observed when one entered through the main entrance.
Taking him up on his offer, Rose feasted her eyes on the spectacular array of buildings, electrical lighting, fountains, bandstands, and people before her. It was a sight, all right, and one that inspired awe in her bosom. “It’s beautiful,” she said simply.
“It sure it.”
He shook his head, and Rose was happy to detect a bit of awe in his expression. It was comforting to know that even a sophisticated man of the world could feel genuine emotion every now and then.
“The only building not constructed in the Beaux Art style is the Transportation Building. See it over there? You’ll enjoy that one, too. Have you ever seen a horseless carriage?”
Rose gaped at him. Was he teasing her?
As if reading her mind, H.L. grinned again. “Honest Injun, Miss Gilhooley, they’re developing motorized vehicles that don’t require horses to pull them. Pretty soon the horse will be obsolete.”
If she knew what obsolete meant, she might be worried. Since she didn’t, and there were so many other things with which to occupy her mind, Rose decided to panic later. Because she felt she ought to say something, she murmured, “Oh, my,” and hoped it would suffice.
Coming Up Roses Page 12