Coming Up Roses

by Duncan, Alice

  Children? Why was he thinking about children again? H.L. May didn’t want children, not even the brilliant variety he and Rose would surely produce. He didn’t need that kind of responsibility, for the love of God. He had a great life. A perfect life, even. Children.

  He waited for a shudder to seize him, but didn’t think much about it when it didn’t come. But children? Good God. While H.L. might, in moments of weakness, consider marriage, he couldn’t even imagine rearing children.

  As his fingers pecked away at the typewriter keys, his mind wandered, and he imagined them now. Although the mere notion of children was appalling to him, he had to admit that, if he had any with Rose, they’d be really smart, good-looking kids. Hell, they couldn’t help but be. Both he and Rose were smart, good-looking people.

  He considered this last insight and decided that, in truth, Rose was gorgeous. Funny he hadn’t noticed her true beauty at first; he’d only seen her as a fantastic subject for a series of career-making articles. But he contemplated her beauty now. In fact, H.L. couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman who more perfectly matched his ideal of womanhood.

  He only realized he’d sighed when Wiggins’s head snapped up, and the young man stared at him. H.L. quickly turned his sigh into a yawn and hoped Wiggins wouldn’t catch on.

  So . . . If Rose matched his ideal of womanhood and H.L. couldn’t bear to think about what his life would be life when she and the Wild West packed up and left Chicago, why did the idea of marriage to her bother him so much? Naturally, the notion of marriage to anyone else in the world was anathema to him, but marriage to Rose? Hmmm . . .

  He thought about it as his fingers tapped out sentences on his Underwood. He thought about it after he’d filled the first sheet of paper and as he rolled in another one. He thought about it as he figuratively tore the Chicago Police Department’s attitude toward kidnapped Indian children to shreds. He thought about it as he recounted his and Rose’s rescue of Bear in Winter as a prelude to Rose’s own kidnapping. And he thought about it as he finished up with a flourishing account of Rose’s attempted kidnapping and her resourcefulness in rescuing herself after he, her erstwhile protector, had been sandbagged into unconsciousness.

  “Thus it is,” his article ended, “that Rose Ellen Gilhooley, otherwise known as Wind Dancer: Bareback Rider Extraordinaire, proves herself to be not merely beautiful, intelligent, and talented, but the possessor of a heart as big as the Kansas plains from which she hails.” H.L.’s fingers stilled on the typewriter’s keys as he reread the final sentence of his article. He frowned.

  “What’s the matter, H.L.? At a loss for words?”

  H.L. glanced up to find Wiggins grinning at him as if he’d just uttered a brilliant witticism. H.L. grunted and went back to glaring at his article.

  Perhaps those shouldn’t be his last words on the subject of Rose. Perhaps, if H.L. truly didn’t want to lose Rose forever, he ought to tack on another paragraph. He hit the return bar, spaced in far enough for a new paragraph, and typed the letter A.

  All the teachers of literature and journalism who’d ever tried to teach him the basics of his craft had pounded it into the heads of their students that one should never start a sentence, much less a paragraph, with the word And. However, H.L. had ever been one to twist the rules to suit himself.

  Besides, language was a dynamic applied art. Language changed constantly. Therefore, he tossed his teachers’ strictures aside didn’t give them another thought as he started the last paragraph of his article with the word And.

  “And,” he typed quickly, before he could lose his nerve, “if she will have him, Miss Rose Gilhooley will make this reporter the happiest man in the world and agree to marry him. This, before God and the citizens of the great city of Chicago, Illinois, is my formal proposal of marriage to the woman I love.”

  It would have to be, since Rose wouldn’t speak to him. With a sigh, H.L. realized that, one way or the other, he’d just sealed his own fate. If Rose agreed to marry him, his days of carefree bachelorhood would be over. He might eventually even be responsible for rearing a dozen or so children of his and Rose’s production. He waited for the shudder engendered by the notion of having children to hit him, but again it didn’t come. He considered that a good omen and went on to the alternative to her acceptance of his proposal.

  If Rose refused to marry him, his carefree bachelor days would go on forever. H.L. knew in his soul that, while his days might be free of responsibilities in that case, they’d no longer be carefree.

  All things considered, he preferred the first alternative.

  # # #

  In spite of the pain her bruised bottom caused her, Rose was kind of glad she couldn’t perform for a few days. She didn’t believe H.L. May would honor her demand that he never speak to her again, any more than she believed Colonel Cody would eschew strong drink for tea.

  The one was as likely as the other, and Rose figured she could dodge H.L. better if she were not adhering to her regular performing schedule. If she were trapped by duty into her usual hours, he’d catch her for sure one of these days. This way, she could keep her eyes open and make sure she spotted him before he spotted her, and in that way avoid any confrontations with him. She was absolutely certain she wouldn’t be able to withstand any of his sweet words. The bounder. The cad. The horrid, awful . . . man she loved.

  “Oh, Annie, how could I have been so stupid?” she asked, anguish vivid in her voice. She sat on a poultice, made according to Little Elk’s mother’s recipe, in Annie’s tent. She’d confessed all to her best friend, who’d taken up the cudgels of righteousness on her behalf.

  “He’s a man,” Annie said, drawing the doggie brush through George’s curly hair. “Most men are curs.” She paused to give her poodle a hug. “I’m sorry, George.”

  Rose heaved a huge sigh. “I didn’t want to believe you were right about him, although I did all along. I don’t know how I could have allowed myself to weaken so thoroughly.”

  Annie tutted. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Rose. It’s difficult to resist a man when you long so much to believe him.”

  “Yes. You’re right about that.” As Rose knew to her everlasting sorrow.

  “It will be all right, dear,” Annie said soothingly. “You’re not the first woman, and you assuredly won’t be the last, to be fooled by a sweet-talking charmer.”

  Another sigh constituted Rose’s reply to her friend. She felt really stupid; even more stupid than usual, mainly because H.L. hadn’t really sweet-talked her. He hadn’t had to. He’d just been himself, and she’d fallen for him like an avalanche. It was a lowering reflection and one she feared didn’t speak well for her overall moral character.

  Both women swiveled to face the flap of Annie’s tent when raised voices reached them from outdoors.

  “Damn it, Little Elk, I thought we were friends.”

  Rose and Annie exchanged a glance, and Rose’s heart gave a quick, painful spasm. That was H.L.’s voice, and it sounded both aggrieved and angry.

  “I need to talk to her,” H.L.’s voice added in pleading accents.

  “Wind Dancer my friend,” Little Elk said. He, on the other hand, sounded both stoical and impenetrable. “She says she don’t want to see you, so I won’t let you see her.”

  “Bless him,” Rose whispered, grateful beyond anything that Little Elk was her friend. He’d agreed to stand guard, eating popcorn and hamburgers, and drinking carbonated soda, all provided by Rose and Annie, and to ward off H.L. May should he attempt to see Rose.

  Before she decided to hide out in Annie’s tent, Rose had contemplated H.L.’s probable plan of attack. She figured he’d go to her tent first and then, finding her tent empty, try to find her. She expected he’d try the Butlers’ tent next, since that was logical. Therefore, she’d posted Little Elk outside Annie’s tent during the day. During the evening performances, Rose made sure she was as invisible as possible by hanging out with the cowboys on the sidelines. They were all a
good deal taller than she and hid her well.

  “But I’m her friend, too, damn it.”

  Little Elk grunted. Rose heard a rustle of paper, and featured him reaching into his popcorn bag to get a handful of the crunchy morsels.

  “Damn it, Little Elk, this isn’t fair!”

  Rose had never heard H.L. whine before. She hadn’t known he had a whine in him until this minute. She muttered, “Maybe I should—”

  Annie whirled on her. “No! You just stay put, Rose Gilhooley. You know very well you won’t stand a chance if you go out there and try to reason with him.”

  Rose heaved another large sigh. “You’re right.” She was no match for H.L. May should they engage in a war of words. He knew too blasted many of them, and he also knew how to use them. Since she’d met him, Rose’s own vocabulary had grown, but she’d never be able to use words with the facility with which he used them.

  Her heart ached to see him. Her body ached to touch him. She was so stupid! She hated herself for harboring these longings even after he’d proved himself to be a worthless seducer of innocent females.

  Not that he’d had to work very hard to seduce her, Rose acknowledged bitterly. She’d fallen into his clutches like a ripe peach from a spring branch.

  “Little Elk, please. I only want to see her for a minute or two. I promise.”

  Rose imagined Little Elk shrugging, because H.L. then shouted, “This isn’t fair, damn it!”

  Little Elk probably thought it was amusing that a white man should be talking to a Sioux about fairness. Under other circumstances, Rose might have been amused, too. Not today. Today, she wanted to cry.

  But she wouldn’t. Rose Ellen Gilhooley vowed to herself that she would shed no more tears over H.L. May. She’d read that article in the Globe, including the last paragraph in which he’d penned a proposal of marriage to her. She didn’t believe a word of it. He’d probably only written that absurd last paragraph as a means of placating her and getting her back to his bed until he tired of her. That’s the scenario Annie had proposed, anyway, and Rose had no reason to doubt Annie, whose predictions had proved catastrophically accurate so far.

  Therefore, Rose sat still on her poultice, her heart throbbing out a dismal rhythm, and wished she were dead. Or at least sicker than she was, so she could sleep or something. Being awake and hurting was no darned fun.

  “Little Elk . . .”

  “No.”

  Rose imagined her friend, sitting like an immovable red rock on the stump beside Annie’s tent flap. He looked harmless enough, but Rose knew he’d do whatever it took to keep H.L. away from her. After all, he and Rose had been friends for years. While Little Elk claimed to like

  H.L. all right, Rose knew where his loyalty lay, and it was with her.

  She couldn’t quite suppress a sniffle or a tear, but she blew her nose on her hankie and brushed the tear away angrily and decided she’d be very happy when ten years or so had passed, and she no longer ached for H.L. May.

  Hearing the telltale sniffle, Annie put down the doggie brush and moved to Rose. She gave her an encouraging hug. “It will be all right, dear. The man’s a devil, and that’s the worst kind to get over, but you’ll do it. One of these days, you’ll look back on this and thank God you escaped so lightly.” As if to turn Rose’s mind onto a cheerier path, she added with a bounce to her voice, “Did you get the cablegram off to your mother, Rose?”

  Thank God for friends, Rose thought with a lift to her heart. And thank Annie for bringing up my family. “Yes. I’m hoping she and Lizzy and Charlotte will be able to come to Chicago in a couple of weeks.” Seeing her family for the first time in several years would bolster her morale; Rose was sure of it. “They’ll love seeing the fair.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Annie said, a patently encouraging throb to her voice.

  “And I’ll love seeing them again. Lizzy and Charlotte are almost grown up now. In her last letter, Charlotte told me she was stepping out with the youngest Palmer boy.” Rose sighed, happy for her siblings.

  Thanks to her, they were enjoying a much less rigorous life than the elder Gilhooley siblings, Rose and Freddie, had. Rose didn’t begrudge her family a single penny, either. “My goodness, Annie, the last time I saw Harold Palmer, he was only thirteen years old.”

  “Children grow up fast,” Annie said, picking up the doggie brush again. George cast a glare at the brush, but he was a beautifully trained animal and didn’t try to avoid his mistress’s grooming efforts.

  Thinking about children, Rose allowed her mind to wander. If she and H.L. married and produced children, would they grow up fast, too? She’d love to have children one day, although she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to have them with any man other than H.L. May.

  Oh, for the love of heaven, Rose Gilhooley, stop mooning over that man!

  Her command to herself did no good. She heard H.L. give up arguing at last. He said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” and stomped away from Little Elk. Rose’s heart gave another painful spasm, and she feared she’d never, ever get over loving him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Damn it all, she’d even posted guards to keep him away! H.L.’s indignation knew no bounds as he stormed away from Annie Oakley’s tent.

  Imagine Little Elk, of all people, preventing him entry into Rose’s presence. Little Elk! For God’s sake, H.L. was the one who’d given him his first bag of popcorn! H.L. was the one who’d paid his way onto the Ferris Wheel. H.L. had assisted Little Elk and Rose in the rescue of Bear in Winter when the Chicago Police Department couldn’t be bothered!

  Little Elk was Rose’s friend. Little Elk had taught Rose how to do all those tricks on a horse.

  What had H.L. ever done for her? As he steamed away from Rose in the warm spring day, H.L. told himself he’d done a lot for her, damn it. He’d made her a household name in Chicago. Granted, Chicago wasn’t exactly New York City, but it was about as close as you could get to New York City without actually being there.

  He crammed his hands into his pockets as he walked and wallowed in his resentment. He’d praised her to the skies in his articles. He’d treated her only to the best. He’d helped her learn more about the world. He’d shown her Chicago and the Columbian Exposition. He’d fed her exotic foods. He’d treated her to her first hamburger. He’d taken her to see Little Egypt. He’d helped her with her damned horse.

  He’d—he’d—

  He’d deflowered her.

  But, damn it all, he loved her! Just because he’d had a momentary lapse in judgment after they’d made love and panicked when she’d mentioned marriage didn’t mean anything. Just because he’d shied away from that one little word didn’t mean he didn’t want to keep seeing her.

  Pausing in his headlong dash to exit the World’s Fair for the day, H.L. realized he’d just committed another error in word choice. Damn his prejudices, anyhow. Absolute honesty compelled him to admit that he wanted more than merely to keep seeing her. He wanted to see her for the rest of his life. He wanted to be sure he had her by his side forever and ever. Even if that meant marriage.

  Marriage. He braced himself for the sensations of panic and entrapment that usually accompanied the word to overwhelm him. They remained absent, so he tested the word again, even speaking it aloud.

  “Marriage,” he muttered into the air, scented with the fragrances of the Columbian Exposition. “Marriage to Rose Gilhooley.”

  When he added the to Rose Gilhooley part, the word didn’t seem to create such blind fear in his brain. Interesting. “Rose Gilhooley May,” he murmured, testing both the name and his reaction to it. Still no sense of impending doom swooped down to extinguish his nerves. “Mrs. H.L. May.”

  He noticed people staring at him as he stood in the middle of the Midway Plaisance talking to himself. He didn’t give a hang about them, and scowled back, adding a black grimace for good measure. A little boy, who’d been gazing with interest at him, uttered a soft cry and hurried after his papa.

  �
�Damned snoopy busybodies.”

  Nevertheless, he decided any conversations he aimed to hold with himself would be better carried out away from the public’s prying eyes, so he shuffled over to a beautifully sculpted marble bench and sat. He contemplated buying a bag of popcorn to help him think, but the notion of food made his stomach rebel. He’d heard that the inability to contemplate food was a classic symptom of lovesickness, but he’d never expected to be a victim of such an absurd illness himself.

  The more he contemplated losing Rose, however, the more he realized that he’d already become one. He, H.L. May, was pining away for the love of a woman.

  “God, what a come-down.” He buried his face in his hands, dislodging his sporty, reporterly summer straw hat. When he saw his headgear from between his fingers, residing on the Midway between his feet, he had to suppress an urge to leap up and stomp it to death. Hell, it wasn’t his hat’s fault H.L. was in this pickle. He was a mess because he’d allowed himself to fall in love with Rose Ellen Gilhooley. What a predicament. He heaved a stockyard-and-popcorn scented sigh.

  Then again, he supposed he couldn’t be held to be a total fool for having fallen in love with Rose. After all, Rose wasn’t just any woman. She was special.

  Still and all . . . Marriage? H.L. scooped up his hat and set it on the bench beside him. He had to worry his hair a bit more before he put his hat back on. Marriage would completely scuttle his image. He’d worked so hard to perfect it, too. All the young cub reporters at the Globe tried to emulate his style, his insouciance, his damn-it-all, go-to-hell attitude. If he got married, his image would be blown to smithereens.

  Lifting his head and propping his chin in his cupped hands, H.L. thought about that. What good was a reputation if it could so easily be shattered? Surely, he’d been more adept at image-creation than that.