Prairie Rose

by Catherine Palmer

  “Excuse me,” she muttered. Turning away quickly, she hurried to the spot where she had laid the blue fabric. “I’ll just measure this now.”

  “You do that,” Seth said.

  He rubbed a hand across his bare chest and gave Rustemeyer a victorious smirk. See if you can make her blush, he wanted to crow. Go ahead and kneel at her feet. Kiss her on the hand. Tell her she’s pretty. Trail her around the house. I don’t notice her turning pink when you look at her, you ol’ shaggy dog.

  “The bridge is going to float, Rustemeyer,” he shouted. He had the feeling if he could just talk loud and slow enough, the German would understand. “A … pontoon … bridge. Like … like boats.”

  “Boat? Das Boot! Ah, die Schiffbrücke! Ja, ja!” Rustemeyer splashed out into the creek, spread his long arms wide, and indicated with his hands how the pontoons would float.

  “Ja,” Seth said. “That’s right. You got the idea.”

  Excited now, Rustemeyer began a long discourse in German. He pointed at his farm, gestured toward the creek, and formed his hands into circles and parallel lines. As he talked, he strode back and forth in the water. He drew marks on the bank and set stones in little piles. After a while, Seth gave up trying to make sense of it and wandered over to where Rosie was working on the new shirt.

  “I think Rustemeyer understands about the bridge,” he said, hunkering down beside her. “It could be tricky getting the cables across the stream. It would be nice to have O’Toole’s help. Even so, I don’t reckon it’ll take us long to build it, once we gather enough lumber.”

  “I haven’t seen many trees around here.” Rosie was laying out his shirt as a pattern on the blue cloth. She kept her attention squarely on the fabric. “You may have quite a time getting boards.”

  “I bought a big load of lumber off that fellow who went bust. It’s stacked out behind the barn. There’s enough for the bridge and a good start on the house I plan to build after I’ve proved up my claim. I built my barn from that wood. Most folks around here don’t have frame barns, you know.”

  “It’s a very nice barn.”

  “You been sleeping okay out there?” He wished he could entice her to look at him. He liked the way it flustered her to see him without his shirt. “That blacksnake hasn’t bothered you, has he?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “You reckon I ought to invite the O’Tooles over after we get the bridge built?”

  “That would be nice. Chipper’s been lonely.”

  “Maybe we could have a dance in the barn.” He paused and leaned toward her. “Like this morning.”

  Rosie bit her lip but kept her attention on her work. “I’ve never been to a real dance,” she said softly as she began to cut the fabric. “I wouldn’t know how to fix things up right.”

  Seth sat, stretched out his legs, and plucked a stem of grass. He hadn’t enjoyed talking with a woman this much since … well, he didn’t know when. Mary had always been the one causing him to stumble over his words. The way she had batted her eyes and flounced around him had left him all but dumbfounded. Truth to tell, he had felt like a puppet around her—always ready at her beck and call, always subject to her whims. And Mary Cornwall had had a lot of whims.

  But with skinny little Rosie—this brown-eyed twister—he was the boss. He could make her laugh. Make her blush. Make her mad. Look at her now, furiously cutting away on that shirt. All day long he had been thinking about the way Rosie had flung her arms around him. He had liked that. Liked it a lot.

  “I reckon a barn dance might be fun, Miss Mills,” he said, chewing on the grass stem. “Come late spring everybody’s working so hard that a break would be good. Maybe you and Sheena could plan the party. What do you think about that?”

  Rosie nodded and kept cutting. “Who would come? Everybody’s so spread out.”

  “The O’Tooles, of course. Casimir Laski’s a nice fellow. His family could visit. They’d have to stay the night. And then there’s LeBlanc. He’s the French fellow who owns the mill. He’s got a passel of pretty daughters. I’m sure they’d love to dance.”

  Rosie stopped her cutting. She was silent for a moment. Then she flipped Seth’s shirt into his arms and stood. “I certainly hope you won’t forget to invite Mr. Rustemeyer,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “I’m sure he would be more than welcome by the women at the dance. And by the way, he appears to be miles ahead of you in building the bridge.”

  Before Seth could stand, Rosie was striding away with the scraps of fabric fluttering in her hands.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein Mills!” Rustemeyer called to her from the heap of stones he was gathering to build a piling.

  She swung around and waved. “Auf Wiedersehen!” Before she turned again, she gave Seth a curt nod. “Good day, Mr. Hunter.”

  Rosie knelt by the window at the back of the barn loft and laid her forehead on her folded hands. Though several days had passed since her encounter with Seth by the creek, she still felt terrible inside. Her sewing had been far from perfect. Yesterday she had spilled a pot of peeled potatoes across the floor and had to haul water from the well to wash them all. And this morning she had scorched her skirt on the coals of the outside fire. It was her only skirt, and she had been vainly musing about whether Seth had noticed how it showed off her small waist. Now all he would see was the ruffle of charred holes peppered across the hem.

  Consequences. Oh my, but she deserved consequences. She had been so silly with Seth. Dancing in the barn. Ordering him to strip off his shirt. Flaunting Mr. Rustemeyer at him as though the German were a serious beau.

  “Father,” she prayed softly, squeezing her eyes tight to keep from crying. “I’ve been willful again. You’ve allowed me to come out to this wilderness for a much higher purpose than grain sacks and barn dancing, and I think I’m beginning to see what it is. It’s Chipper, isn’t it?”

  She stopped, opened her eyes, and looked up at the sky as if she could read the answer in it. Clouds like scraps of white lace floated across the blue. From the window, Rosie could see the two men working below. The bridge would cross the stream some distance beyond the barn, and they were gathering stones from the fields nearby. Seth was hammering, while Rolf Rustemeyer set stones in place, his huge arms bulging with the effort.

  “I think you’ve put me here for Chipper,” Rosie said, squeezing her eyes shut again so she could concentrate. “Father, what do you want me to do for that precious child? He doesn’t love Seth. His mother is gone, but I’m not allowed to take her place. I wouldn’t even know how to be a mother, and Seth won’t act as a father should. He won’t so much as touch Chipper. I don’t see how they’re ever going to become a family, Father. By rights, there should be a mama and a papa and their little boy, all together and all happy. But things don’t always go right, do they?”

  Rosie thought about her own birth as she clasped the little stocking-toe pouch she still wore around her neck. No, things didn’t always go right. Why had God sent her to help Chipper and his father learn to love each other? She didn’t know anything about families—as Seth had rightly reminded her. If she angered him too much, he might tell Rolf Rustemeyer about her past. Then the German would probably never agree to marry her.

  “Oh, Father!” she whispered. “I don’t want to go back to the Home. I want to build a family out here on the prairie. I want a husband. I want a house of my own. I want children—”

  She cut off her words. Willful. She was so willful!

  “I surrender,” she said out loud. “Whatever you want, Father, I’ll do. Wherever you send me, I’ll go. Even if it’s back to the Home. Please show me how to help Chipper. And please … please … keep my thoughts from Seth Hunter’s blue eyes … his black hair … broad chest—”

  “Rosie! Rosie, where are you? Where’s Chipper?”

  At Seth’s shout, Rosie jerked upright and leaned out of the window. She could see the tall man racing up the slope toward the soddy, his shirttail hanging out and
his hat tumbling from his head. Rustemeyer pounded paces behind, long blond hair flying.

  “Fräulein!” he bellowed. “Achtung!”

  “Rosie! Rosie!” Jimmy O’Toole, pant legs sopping wet, came huffing after the German.

  “I’m here!” Rosie shouted down from the barn window. “Has something happened to Chipper?”

  She tore across the loft and skidded down the rickety ladder. Just as she landed on the floor, Seth burst into the barn. “Rosie, where’s Chipper? Have you seen him? He’s not in the house!”

  “I sent him for buffalo chips.”

  “When?”

  “Hours ago. After lunch. What’s wrong, Seth? Is Chipper hurt? Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

  “We’ve had a message from Casimir Laski,” Jimmy said. “He wrote us that he’s had a letter from his brother in Topeka. The brother said a man’s been asking in all the businesses around Topeka if anyone knows of a Jimmy O’Toole or a Seth Hunter. It must be that sherral who tried to shoot our Seth in Kansas City. He’s still after the boy.”

  “Jack Cornwall,” Seth spat.

  “Are you sure?” Rosie asked, her spine prickling at the sound of the name.

  “Who else could it be?” Seth took Rosie’s shoulders. “Can you remember which direction Chipper went? Did he follow the creek? Or did he head out onto the prairie?”

  “He went upstream toward Mr. Rustemeyer’s farm.”

  “Come on, Jimmy. Rustemeyer, you stay here and look after Rosie. If Cornwall comes around, shoot him.”

  “I can’t go, Seth!” Jimmy broke in as Seth began trying to explain the situation to the German. “What about Sheena and the brablins? I must wade back over the creek and see that they’re all right.”

  “I’m going with you,” Rosie said to Seth. “I won’t sit about waiting for word of Chipper when I have two strong legs to search for him myself.”

  She tied her bonnet ribbons as she ran from the barn. Seth quickly caught up with her. They hurried down to the creek and began to follow it north toward Rolf Rustemeyer’s farm. The German had vanished, Rosie realized.

  “Did the message say Jack Cornwall has already come out to the prairie?” Rosie asked. “Does he know where you live?”

  “I’m not sure. But he’ll find out soon enough.” Seth paused and looked at her. “If he’s taken Chipper, I’ll kill him.”

  Rosie shook her head. No, her heart cried out. No!

  “Footprints!” he said, grabbing her arm. “He went this way. Chipper! Chipper!”

  Doing her best to match Seth’s long-legged stride, Rosie crossed a fallen log and skirted a cottonwood tree that had sent long roots into the water. She felt sick inside. Seth would shoot Jack Cornwall. Or Jack Cornwall would shoot Seth. Either way Chipper would be the loser. The child would suffer the most.

  And which of the two selfish men cared about the boy himself? Neither. He was the trophy. The prize.

  “Chipper!” Rosie cried out. “Chipper, where are you, sweetheart?”

  “Confound it, I’ve lost the prints.”

  “There they are. Just ahead.” Rosie brushed a tear from her cheek. “Jack Cornwall won’t hurt him. You must remember that. Chipper may be frightened, but at least with his uncle he’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?” Seth barked. “What are you talking about? Chipper belongs to me!”

  “Belongs to you?”

  “He’s mine. Cornwall has no right to him.”

  “Why do you want him? Why do you even care?”

  “He’s my son!” Seth stopped running and swung around to face Rosie, his blue eyes crackling. “He’s all I have.”

  “You can’t have people, Mr. Hunter. Chipper doesn’t belong to you. He’s God’s child. If you truly love your son, you’ll care first about his safety.”

  “Stop preaching at me, woman! You don’t know anything about true love. You don’t know anything about families.”

  “And you do?”

  “Better than you!”

  “And how is that? You treat the child like a hired hand. Fetch the water. Pick up buffalo chips. Eat your supper. Go to bed. A father should be … he should—”

  “What? What should a father do, Miss Know-it-all?”

  Rosie drew back at the venom in his voice. “You had a father. What was he like?”

  “It’s not your business what my father was like. And it’s not your business how I see fit to bring up my son. You don’t know anything about me or my son. You don’t have a father, so don’t—”

  “God is our father, and what better example could there be? He’s loving and kind, tenderhearted and patient. You must learn to know your son, Mr. Hunter. He needs your love so desperately!”

  Rosie realized she had grabbed Seth’s shirtsleeves in her fists. She unclenched them and stepped back. Then she stumbled up the creek bank and climbed onto the flat prairie. Pushing through the tall grass, she searched for the trail.

  Dear God, she must never shout at Seth again! The look on his face! How dare she be so brash? He would turn her out of his household and send her back to the Home in Kansas City. And she would deserve his rejection. She had no right to tell him how to raise his son. She must learn to stop caring so deeply about people. God had given Chipper to Seth—not to her! She must let go. Let go.

  “Hi, Rosie. What are you doin’ out here?”

  At the familiar voice, she whirled around. Not twenty feet behind her, Chipper trundled along dragging the burlap sack filled with dried buffalo droppings. He stopped and gave her a grin.

  “Are you huntin’ wild strawberries, Rosie?” he called.

  “Chipper!” Rosie raced toward him. “Oh, Chipper, honey. There you are! We’ve been searching all over for you.”

  He laughed as she swept him up in her arms. “Rosie, you’re so funny! You’re not a thing like my mama was. You’re silly!”

  “I am silly, Chipper. You’re right about that. But I do know that your papa—”

  “Miss Mills, listen, I—” Seth emerged over the rise and stopped. “Chipper!”

  “Rosie’s dancin’ again,” the boy said. “See, she’s swingin’ me around an’ around.”

  Seth’s face darkened. “Miss Mills, I want you to take my son back to the house immediately. I’m going to scout around my land for any signs of Cornwall. Chipper, from now on, don’t go anywhere without me or Miss Mills around. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” The child’s blue eyes lost their joy. “I was just pickin’ chips. Rosie told me to.”

  “That’s fine. You’re … you’re a good boy to do as you’re told. Now go on home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chipper stepped into the shelter of Rosie’s skirts. She glanced down at the child; then she looked at his father. In the child she recognized the fear and distrust of a hunted animal—a baby rabbit or a kitten when confronted by a ferocious dog.

  In the father she saw something entirely different. Seth was a man bound by ropes. Constrained by iron bands. Held by a leash too strong to snap. If he could break free, what would he do? Rush to the child and beat him? Hurl Rosie to the ground to break her impudent spirit? Chastise them both for their failure to conform to his will?

  No, that wasn’t what Rosie saw in Seth at all. To her amazement, what she sensed was the man’s intense desire to run to his son and gather him in his arms. A need to laugh with relief. A need to weep away the fear of losing something priceless.

  Stunned, Rosie stood for a moment, staring at Seth and trying to pray away the chains that shackled him. But he didn’t escape. Instead, he turned stiffly and began walking down the trail toward Rustemeyer’s farm. Going to check his land. Going to find Jack Cornwall. Going to do all the things he thought a father ought to do and none of the things his soul cried out for.

  “Come, Chipper,” Rosie whispered, taking up the burlap sack. “Let’s go back to the house. And along the way, I will think of a plan.”

  “What sort of a plan, Rosie?”

  “A
plan to unlock your papa’s heart.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MINUTE Rosie and Chipper disappeared around a bend in the trail, Seth sank onto a rock and buried his face in his hands. Chipper was safe! When that little dark head had come into view, it had been all Seth could do to keep from shouting hallelujah. Like a child at Christmas, he had longed to grab the little boy—his precious gift—and squeeze him tight.

  Like a child—that’s how he had felt. He had wanted to act like a little boy himself, and he knew he could never display such behavior. Not in front of his son. Not in front of Rosie.

  Despite what she said about him, Seth did know how to be a father. Or at least how not to be a father. He would never whip his son with a leather belt or a stripped tree limb until the child’s tender flesh tore. He would never hurl abuses: “Stupid boy,” “ Idiot,” “Can’t you do anything right?”

  No, Seth would treat his own son with respect. Decency. He would expect hard work, and in return he would provide shelter, food, clothing. He would see that his son learned how to read and write. Most important, he would never abandon the boy. Never.

  Seth raked a hand through his hair and looked up at the setting sun. From the time he was ten years old, he had grown up without a father. The man who had given him life simply walked away one day and left his wife and children to fend for themselves. A penniless woman. Four little boys. Fatherless.

  “No,” Seth said, standing. He had lost his own wife. Chipper had lost a mother. But as long as Seth lived, the boy would have a father. A good father.

  What did Miss Rosenbloom Cotton Mills know about it anyway? Named after a stocking label. Abandoned in a livery stable. Raised in an orphanage. What right did she have telling him how a father ought to act?

  Seth stuffed his hat down on his head. Now that he’d calmed down a little, he needed to get back to his house. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Chipper. If Jack Cornwall got his hands on the boy, he’d whisk him back to Missouri before Seth could stop him.