At that, she burst past him and ran right out the front door. She ran by Sheena and Rolf and Chipper and all the gaping little O’Tooles. She ran all the way down to the creek, halfway to Rustemeyer’s homestead, and straight to the biggest, tallest tree she could find.
Then she yanked off her apron, kicked off her shoes, and began to climb. Straight up. Up to the very highest branches of the cottonwood tree. And there she sat—thinking, praying, even crying a little—until the sun sank below the prairie. She didn’t go down for lunch. Not even for supper. Seth had cooked meals before she came, she reasoned. He could do it again. She needed time to put her world back in order.
When everything seemed quiet at the homestead, she finally returned to the barn. She climbed the ladder into the loft to get ready for bed.
And Seth walked in to check on her. “Are you there?” he asked, holding up the lantern.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you talk to God up in the tree?”
“Yes.” She could see him through the chinks in the floorboards, though she knew he couldn’t see her. It hardly mattered. Just the sight of him brought everything back in a rush. And she knew that all her hours in the cottonwood tree had been for nothing.
“Did you and God get everything worked out?” Seth asked.
“No.”
“Do you want to talk to me about anything?”
“No.”
He fell silent for several minutes, and she used the time to study him. It was all as true as she had feared. He was handsome and wonderful and kind. Her heart beat helter-skelter every time she looked into his blue eyes. Her thoughts, dreams, hopes were filled with him. She loved Seth. Loved him in the strongest possible way she could ever imagine. And she could do nothing about it. Nothing.
“Good night, then, Miss Mills,” he called up.
“Good night, Mr. Hunter.”
Rosie was acting mighty strange, Seth mused as he loaded a stack of blankets into his wagon on a bright Independence Day morning. She wouldn’t look at him. Would hardly talk to him. He had asked her if there was a problem. But she always got a look on her face like a big grizzly bear was after her. She sort of shrank inside herself and told him she just couldn’t talk about it.
After a while, Seth had decided it must be one of two things. Either she was upset that Rolf had taken his part of the bridge money, or she had gotten worried about going back to the orphanage.
He had spotted the letter lying on the ground that day after she burned the bread and ran off to climb the tree. He had read the letter, even though it wasn’t his business, so he knew that the Jameson woman wanted Rosie back. Or maybe she just wanted a new washtub.
On the other hand, Rosie’s consternation could have something to do with Sheena’s little sister coming out to the prairie to teach school. Maybe Rosie was worried about having to give up the loft. Seth knew she was pretty attached to her little room. She’d decorated it with flowers and bows and little things she found out on the prairie. He wasn’t about to make her give up her bedroom, but every time he tried to reassure her, she told him she had something to do. He was beginning to think lassoing a dust devil would be easier than talking to Rosie Cotton Mills.
“Are they going to have races at the picnic, Papa?” Chipper asked, tugging on his father’s pant leg. “Three-legged races and sack races?”
“I’m not sure, Son. We’ll find out when we get to the mill.”
“Can we bring Stubby with us? He wants to come. Please, Papa?”
Seth glanced down at the dog. Long-legged, lanky, and growing about an inch a day, the mutt certainly belied his name. His feet were the size of saucers, and his wagging tail had become a downright hazard. Seth had the feeling Stubby might end up the approximate height and weight of a small bear.
“Sure, we’ll take Stubby,” he replied, lifting the boy into the wagon. “Where’s Rosie?”
“In the barn. She’s fixing up her box lunch.”
“She already packed the lunch.” Seth glanced down at the large basket with its cheerful red and white checkered cloth. Rosie must be confused. Lately, she had been doing absentminded things like that a lot. Put salt in the rhubarb pie instead of sugar. Dropped a sack of beans all over the floor. Pulled up a whole row of radish sprouts and left the weeds to grow in their place.
“Naw, this ain’t Rosie’s box lunch,” Chipper said, peeking into the basket. “This lunch is for us. You an’ me. Rosie gots her own.”
“What for?”
“Don’tcha know? Whoever pays the most for Rosie’s lunch gets to eat with her.”
“Well now, what kind of a crazy idea is that? She doesn’t need to make money that way. She’s already got all those bridge tolls. And the barn is beginning to look like a bona fide mercantile. Why would she need to sell her picnic lunch?”
“It’s for the church, Papa. The money goes to the new church. Ain’t you heard about it? Sheena’s been telling everybody.” His blue eyes brightened suddenly. “There’s Rosie! Tell Papa about the auction, Rosie. He don’t know a thing about it.”
Seth turned, and for the second time that summer, his breath dammed up and his heart flopped over in his chest. Pink. Rosie was pink! She came strolling out of the barn, her dress a billowing, bouncing butterfly of pink calico. Tucks and ruffles and bits of lace and ribbons dangled everywhere. A frill of white eyelet petticoat peeked out from the hem. A fringed cotton shawl draped over her shoulders. She had piled her hair up on her head and pinned white ox-eye daisies into the loops and curls. And in her arms she carried a small woven basket covered with a matching pink calico cloth.
“It’s a box-lunch auction,” she said, setting the basket into the wagon. “Mr. LeBlanc is hoping to raise enough money to build a church.”
Tongue-tied as a gigged frog, Seth helped Rosie onto the wagon bench, then climbed up beside her. Where had she gotten the dress? Had she done her hair up by herself? And how come she smelled so good? Half-stupefied, he flicked the reins and set his mules on the trail for the five-mile drive to the mill. His hands felt clammy. He wasn’t even sure he could remember the way.
“I bet all the men are gonna put down money for Rosie’s lunch,” Chipper said. “She’s the best cook around.”
“Why, thank you, Chipper,” Rosie said. “I just hope we can bring in something to help with the new church.”
“You’re gonna put down money, aren’t you, Papa? You’re gonna try to eat lunch with Rosie, aren’t you?”
“Your papa eats lunch with me every day,” she reminded him. “Breakfast and supper, too. I’m afraid he wouldn’t find it very exciting.”
Exciting? Seth was feeling something closer to panic as he glanced at the beautiful woman beside him. He had looked forward to this day ever since he’d heard about the picnic. Maybe he would finally have the chance to talk to Rosie a little. Possibly even collect that dance she owed him.
And now? Now he would have to be the highest bidder just to eat lunch with her. A cold sweat broke out down his back as he thought of the leather wallet he kept in his pocket. He had brought a little money in the expectation there might be lemonade for sale, or ice cream. What did he have on him—twenty-five cents? Fifty?
“You want to eat lunch with Rosie, don’t you, Papa?” Chipper asked. “Look how pretty she is. All in pink. You won’t let somebody else get her, will you? Somebody like Mr. Rustemeyer?”
“Chipper!” Rosie said with a laugh. “Leave your papa alone. I’ve packed you both a big lunch of fried chicken and hard-boiled eggs. It doesn’t matter to your papa who eats with me today.”
Seth clenched his jaw. It did matter. It mattered a lot. How much was Rustemeyer likely to bid? Seth stiffened. The big German had emptied his third of the savings. And now Seth understood why.
CHAPTER 13
FOR the first time in her life, Rosie felt pretty. Her hair looked just right for an Independence Day picnic. She had spent hours raveling and knotting threads on a white flour-sack sh
awl to make a fringe. And the dress Sheena had let her borrow could not have been more perfect. Oh, she’d had to take in the side seams a few inches, and the hem was so short that her petticoat kept peeking out, but truly she felt just like Cinderella at the ball.
In fact, it appeared many of the young homesteaders at the picnic had decided to vie for the role of Prince Charming. If Rosie chanced to sit on the swing that Mr. LeBlanc had hung from an oak branch, five men appeared in a cluster to ask for the privilege of pushing her. If Rosie walked toward the front steps of the LeBlanc house, three men were at her side to escort her up to the porch. If she commented on the sunny day, four umbrellas shot up to shade her. If she mentioned a slight thirst, six glasses of lemonade were thrust in her direction. She felt silly and flattered and, most of all, amazed. Could a pink dress do all that? Were these men desperate to find eligible single women? Or did she actually look as pretty as she felt?
“Sure, you’re the belle of the ball,” Sheena whispered as Rosie placed her box lunch on the long table set up for the auction. “I wager you’ll earn the most money for the new church, so you will.”
“I hope I can help. But as for earning the most money—haven’t you noticed Yvonne LeBlanc? She’s lovely. And don’t forget Maria Rippeto.”
“Aye, they’ll win a few bids, I’m sure. All for the good of the church. But who have you cast your eye on, Rosie? Is there a man you’d especially favor to win the privilege of your company? I hear Gabriel Chavez has been speaking favorably about you. He’s a good-looking man, though I understand his farm is very rocky.”
Rosie studied the dark-haired immigrant from Mexico. Mr. Chavez was indeed a dashing fellow. So were several of the other young homesteaders. But all morning Rosie had been conscious of one man in particular. Seth Hunter.
Seth remained oblivious to Rosie’s attentions. Concerned that Jack Cornwall might use this public gathering for another kidnapping attempt, he kept his concentration on Chipper. He had borrowed a pistol from Jimmy O’Toole. He had mentioned to a few other men to keep an eye out for trouble. And he had spent every moment of the morning with his son.
Father and son ran together in the sack race and the three-legged race. They even tried the wheelbarrow race—though Chipper collapsed so many times that Seth finally scooped up his son and dashed the rest of the way to the finish line. They were disqualified, of course, but everyone cheered as Chipper gave his papa a noisy kiss on the cheek. Only once or twice did Rosie catch Seth looking at her. And then he averted his eyes so quickly she wondered if she’d been mistaken.
“It’s auction time, messieurs, mesdemoiselles!” Mr. LeBlanc called out when it was nearly noon. “Everybody gather around.”
Instantly the whole crowd moved toward the long table where seven pretty baskets sat in a row. The four eligible LeBlanc daughters and Rosie stood in a line to wait their turns. Mrs. Violet Hudson made the sixth contestant. A widow with three children and a baby on the way, she was struggling to hold on to her homestead after her husband’s death. The seventh basket belonged to Maria Rippeto, a black-haired beauty with flashing eyes who was reputed to be a terrible cook.
The bidding began with the LeBlanc girls, and as Rosie waited her turn, she searched the crowd for Seth. Please. Oh, please. Where are you, Seth? She considered praying over the matter and decided such a small thing wasn’t worth God’s attention. Then she remembered her Father was interested in every part of her life, and she began to lift up such fervent prayers that Sheena had to caution her to stop muttering out loud or everyone would think she had gone around the bend.
Before long, the proposed community church could boast twelve dollars and sixty-five cents in its building fund, and all the eligible LeBlanc daughters had earned themselves company for lunch. Rosie was next in line. She stepped up behind her basket and looked out over the crowd. Seth and Chipper were sitting at the back of the gathering, their matching blue eyes pinned on her. She took a deep breath. Please, dear God. Please give him courage. Please let him make an offer for me. Just the smallest offer. That’s all I need.
“What am I bid for the pleasure of taking lunch with Miss Rosie Mills?” Mr. LeBlanc called out. “I understand she is a fine cook. And very pretty, too. Who will start with ten cents? There. Mr. Williams bids ten cents. Do I hear fifteen? All right then. Mr. Hill has fifteen cents. How about twenty? Twenty?”
“Twenty-five cents,” Seth called out.
Rosie’s heart leapt into her throat. A whole quarter! Thank you, Father!
“I hear twenty-five cents from Mr. Hunter. Do I hear thirty?”
“Thirty,” Mr. Hill called.
“Forty,” Seth answered back.
“Fifty,” two other men said simultaneously.
“Seventy-five cents,” Seth called out.
For a moment, all was silent. “Eighty cents!” Mr. Hill shouted.
“One dollar!” Mr. Chavez hollered back.
Rosie stood numbly as the price of her lunch box went up and up. One fifty. Two dollars. Two seventy-five. Seth and Chipper picked up their basket and walked away with Stubby. In the deep shade of a pine tree, they spread out the red checkered cloth and began to sort through the pieces of fried chicken Rosie had cooked early that morning. Her eyes filled with tears. Three dollars. Three twenty-five. Four dollars. Five dollars.
“Five seventy-five!” Mr. LeBlanc called out. “Mr. Hill has offered five dollars and seventy-five cents for Miss Mills’s lunch box. Do I hear six dollars?”
“Ten dollars,” Rolf Rustemeyer boomed, coming to his feet. “I gif ten dollars for lunsch of Fräulein Mills. Fery goot lunsch. Tank you.”
The crowd sat in stunned silence as Rolf walked up to the table, hooked one beefy arm through the handle of Rosie’s picnic basket and gave her a curt bow. “Ja, Fräulein Mills? You eaten lunsch vit me?”
Rosie cast a last look at Seth and Chipper and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Rustemeyer. The church will be very grateful for your donation.”
Her heart aching, Rosie shook out a blanket and spread the lunch under a shady tree. Rolf tucked a napkin into the collar of his blue work shirt and beamed at her. She did her best to smile in return. Is this what you want from me, Father? Do you want me to learn to love Rolf? Is this your plan?
“Was you maken?” Rolf asked, peering into the basket. “Chicken? Fery goot. Ist goot, ja? You eaten togedder vit me?”
“It’s very nice.”
After she murmured a brief prayer of thanks, Rosie filled the two plates with fried chicken, boiled eggs, and fresh strawberries. Rolf took off his boots and crossed his legs. One big toe poked through his worn sock, and Rosie felt her heart soften toward him. Poor Rolf. He needed looking after. And who better for it than a woman who longed for a home and a husband?
“Fery goot chicken,” he said around a mouthful. “I zo hoppy to eaten vit you.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Rosie realized she didn’t have much else to say to Rolf. After all, how many times could he tell her that he liked her cooking? She glanced at Seth. He and Chipper were getting up from their blanket, their attention trained on the auction table.
“Mrs. Hudson has made a fine lunch of ham sandwiches and potato salad,” Mr. LeBlanc was saying. “Now who’ll start the bidding? Can we start with ten cents? … Do I hear ten? … Well, how about five?”
“Ten!” Seth called out.
“I hear ten cents from Seth Hunter. Do I hear fifteen? … Come on boys, this is for the church.”
Violet Hudson, a small woman with light brown hair and big olive eyes, stared bravely out at the crowd. The swell of her stomach lifted the front hem of her dress so that her worn-out boots and darned stockings showed. Seth and Chipper paused at the back of the gathering. “Fifteen cents,” Seth said.
“You can’t bid against yourself, Mr. Hunter,” LeBlanc said. “All right, we’ve got fifteen. Do I hear twenty?”
“Twenty,” Seth said.
“Twenty cents. Do I hear twenty-five?”
/> “I bid fifty cents,” Seth said.
Everyone laughed, even Violet Hudson, whose pale cheeks had flushed to a bright scarlet. LeBlanc declared the bid a winner, and Seth marched forward to take his prize. Rosie watched as the delighted woman picked up her basket and handed it to Chipper. The little boy grinned.
“I vill ein Haus builden,” Rolf said, tapping Rosie on the arm. “Vit britsch money.”
“A house? You’re going to build a house?” Her heart sank as Violet, her three children, Chipper, and Seth gathered in a circle to eat lunch. “You already have a house, Rolf. Don’t you?”
“Ja, ja, ja. But I vill ein voot Haus builden.”
“Voot?” Rosie shook her head. “What do you mean? What’s a voot house?”
“Voot. From trees.”
“Wood!”
“Ja, ja, ja.” He laughed. “You liken voot Haus, fräulein?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t mind our soddy, though.” She looked over her shoulder. Seth and Violet were chuckling about something. Violet rubbed Stubby’s ears. “We’ve been very happy.”
“Ja? You vill be hoppy togedder vit me?”
“You and me?” Rosie focused on Rolf again. “I’m having a lovely time now. Thank you for buying my lunch.”
“You vill lif in meinem voot Haus? Cooken, vaschen clothes, maken Garten grow?”
“Live in your house?” At the sudden change of tone in Rolf’s questioning, Rosie felt nervousness prickle up her spine. She fanned herself. “Well … I-I don’t know exactly what you mean.”
“Ja? Ist goot?”
“I don’t know, Rolf. I mean, when would your wood house be built?”
“Vinter.”
“There’s the problem then. I have to go back to Kansas City by wintertime. I’m very sorry.”
“Nein, nein. You kommst vit me. You helpen me.”
Rosie felt so hot she was sure the daisies in her hair would start dropping petals any moment. Was this a marriage proposal? Did Rolf actually want her to become his wife and move into his house? No, dear Lord. Please not this. Not now.
Prairie Rose Page 18
