Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  She clapped her hands over her ears when he drew his gun and began to blow the bottles to smithereens. The cans bounced and sailed in all directions. He paused long enough to reload when necessary, but kept on firing until he had broken all the bottles and the cans had flown out of range.

  She did not think he had missed a shot. Rosa was so impressed by the display that she nearly called out a compliment. He continued to ignore her as he reloaded and holstered his gun and then picked up the bag again. It appeared the show had not ended.

  Rosa waited as Kase reopened the bag and drew out another bottle. He held it by the neck, tossed it high in the air, drew his gun, and fired, all in a matter of seconds. The glass shattered and fell like amber hail a few yards away.

  He repeated the movement four times, each time holstering his gun and drawing after he had thrown the bottle. Each time he hit the target. Finally, just when she thought he was finished and had begun to walk toward her, Kase tossed one last bottle high in the air, spun, crouched, and blew it apart. He reloaded again.

  With an attitude of practiced nonchalance he entered the graveyard and stood before her. He glanced toward town again, then back to Rosa. “Are you ever going to get it into your head what kind of danger you’re in here?”

  “I am not afraid of you, Marshal, even if you are a big man who shoots at little cans and bottles.”

  “I’m not talking about me. Did you ever stop to think that you could scream your head off out here and no one would hear you?”

  “Do you only think of the bad things, Marshal? Do you not think of the good?” With a wide sweep of her arm she made him look out past the graveyard. “The day is beautiful, The air is clean. It is good to walk in the sun. Do you not think of these things, too?”

  He looked around. How long had it been since he had really taken the time to appreciate the simple things Rose spoke of? It was a glorious day. Summer was ending, but the days were still sunny and warm. The land was barren, but its very emptiness gave him a sense of freedom. He certainly did not feel hemmed in, as he had back east. Maybe he had forgotten how to think of the good, as Rose suggested.

  She stood there smiling up at him with her hands on her hips, her cheeks pinkened by the sun, her eyes aglow. She looked fresh and clean, innocent and inviting. Expectant.

  He had to get her back to town before he did something he would regret. “Come on. I’m taking you back.” Without waiting for a reply, he took her by the arm and headed toward Sinbad. She hurried to keep up with him and nearly tripped over a grave. She crossed herself. He tugged her forward. When they reached the massive black horse, she refused to let him help her up into the saddle,

  “I will walk.”

  “I need to get back to town,” he said.

  “I walk here. I will walk back.”

  “Not on my time. Come on.”

  She turned her back on him, and Kase watched her rich ebony braid as it swayed with every step. He mounted up.

  Sinbad sidestepped and shook his head, eager to break stride and race across the open ground, but Kase kept him reined in as he rode up behind Rose. She quickened her pace, but refused to stop walking. Kase rode behind her in silence.

  “You might as well save your shoes.”

  “My shoes are old. You go.”

  He pushed Sinbad as close to her heels as was safe. Rose glanced over her shoulder when the big horse nudged her with his nose. She scowled and walked faster. The strange procession lasted for nearly a half-mile before Kase was certain that Rose would not change her mind and accept a ride. Nor did it seem he would be able to goad her into it. Finally, granting her a minor victory, he dismounted. Leading Sinbad, Kase walked beside Rose.

  “You are a fine shooter,” she said finally, trying to think of something to ease the tension between them.

  “Shot. You would say I am a good shot. Not shooter.”

  “Ah. Grazier.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They continued on, Rosa swinging her arms, taking deep breaths of the fresh air, enjoying the scenery. Happy to be out of the confines of the kitchen, she refused to let Kase’s dour attitude ruin her excursion. When she thought he was not paying attention, she glanced up at him. His expression was unreadable, impassive. Rosa wondered how he managed to maintain such a cool exterior.

  Neither of them spoke until Rosa tried again. “I have been thinking of my family. I miss them very much. It is hard because I have no one to tell these things to.”

  He did not really want to hear about her loneliness. It reminded him too much of his own. He had, after all, tried to tell her to go home, so she had no one but herself to thank for her situation. Still, the eager way she waited for him to comment made him respond. “Do you have a big family?”

  “Not so big as some. I have three brothers and a sister who has a child. I have an aunt and many cousins.”

  “What about your parents?”

  She shrugged. “Both dead, many years now. One day the wagon turned over and fell down the mountain.” Hardly able to believe they were truly conversing civilly, Rosa decided to ask him about his own family. “Your parents are alive?”

  He wiped his brow, shoved his hat to the crown of his head, and realized he was clenching his teeth. Kase let his gaze follow the horizon line. “My mother and stepfather live in Boston. So does my sister.” He found talking about his family more painful than he had anticipated.

  “Your sister is older than you?”

  “Younger. Seven years younger. She’s fourteen.”

  “Ah. My sister is older. My brothers are older, too.”

  Kase realized with relief that they were nearly back to town. As if she sensed he was hesitant to talk about his home, Rosa chatted on about Italy, the village, and the mountains that she had left behind. Half listening, Kase let her talk until they reached the back door of her café. He took in the squalor spilling out around the Davises’ shanty and caught sight of G.W. jumping up and down inside the open doorway of the shack. It was a painful reminder of his life in the sod house until he noticed the smile on the boy’s face and realized that young children were often blissfully unaware of their circumstances. The shanty was, after all, G.W.’s home.

  Rosa hesitated to go inside now that a truce of sorts existed between them. She reached out and placed a hand on his shirtsleeve to draw his attention back to her.

  “I must say grazie, Marshal, for you did not tell me again how I was stupid to go out to the grave alone. I will not do it again.”

  “I hope not.” He would have added that he was sorry for the pompous way he had acted and that his attitude only stemmed from concern. But there was still something disturbing about the way she was smiling up at him, and he thought it best to say as little as possible.

  “I thank you for the smile,” she said cheerfully. “Maybe one day I will see it again.” With that she released his arm and started to leave.

  “Rose?” Her name was on his lips before he realized he had spoken.

  “Sì?”

  Kase searched for something to say. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at three-thirty for the barbecue.”

  He did not think it possible, but her smile brightened.

  “Grazie, Marshal. Buon giorno.”

  After she stepped inside and closed the door, Kase was surprised to find that he, too, was smiling.

  “Is this proper dress for Signor Quentin’s party?” Rosa waited for Flossie’s verdict. It came immediately and left no room for doubt.

  “Honey, you look as good as one of them dumplin’s you make—and that’s mighty good!” Flossie walked around Rosa once more, surveying her from head to toe.

  More nervous man she had been the day the restaurant opened, Rosa had come to show Flossie the black floral-patterned skirt and matching jacket she had donned for the party at Quentin Rawlins’s ranch. Rosa smiled, relieved that the woman found the outfit suitable; it was her only choice besides the black velvet dress the contessa had given her.

&n
bsp; “Those pink roses against that black background fabric make a pretty picture. They match the roses on your cheeks,” Flossie added.

  “Grazie.” Rosa’s blush deepened as she fingered the material lovingly. It was a matching two-piece outfit; the jacket sported long sleeves and a fitted bodice. A narrow band of lace adorned the high-banded collar and cuffs; a row of jet-black buttons ran from her throat to the hem of the blouse. The skirt was simply cut and styled without bustle or train. “My sister, Angelina, made it for me before I come to America. When she bought the cloth, she said, roses for Rosa.”

  “I’d say she has a good eye for choosing material. You look wonderful, honey, so just calm down an’ try to have a good time. What time is Kase s’posed to be pickin’ you up?”

  “Three-thirty.”

  Flossie glanced down at the brooch watch pinned to her ample bosom. “He’ll be comin’ back pretty quick, then.”

  “Then I must go.” Rosa did not want him to find her here waiting for him; it was bad enough that she was so excited at the prospect of riding to Mountain Shadows alone with him. She thanked Flossie once again for the encouragement, then stopped before she opened the front door. “Signora, may I ask you something that is—I don’t know how to say the words— about my feelings?”

  “Something personal?” Flossie glanced at the door to the back room as well as the stairway to be sure none of the girls were nearby. “Ask away. It won’t get any farther than this room.”

  Rosa took a deep breath. She had to talk to someone about her feelings for Kase Storm. In the weeks since she’d been in Busted Heel, Flossie had become not only one of Rosa’s best customers, but a friend. Now she would become her confidante. “I try to be a good widow and think of Giovanni”—she was uncertain of the correct words to express the turmoil building inside her—“but sometimes I am very mixed up when I see Kase Storm.” She felt herself redden, but continued to meet Flossie’s understanding gaze. “Sometimes, when I think about the marshal I have feelings that a woman should only have for her husband.

  “I know so little of this man, and I think he does not even like me so much, but I cannot seem to stop thinking about him. Then I think I am bad because I am a widow and Giovanni wanted so much that I be here with him. I am confused.” She shrugged, unsure of how to proceed.

  Flossie took her hand and led her to one of the settees in the parlor. “Look, honey, what you’re feelin’ is perfectly normal. How long were you married to this Giovanni?”

  “A little bit more than three years. I am married at seventeen.”

  “How long since you seen him?”

  “Three years. He left Italy one month after we are married.”

  Flossie sniffed, obviously thinking little of Rosa’s husband’s actions. “So you been without him nearly the whole time you been married?”

  “Sì.”

  “I don’t mean to get personal, but have you slept with a man in all that time?”

  Rosa’s face flamed. She looked at her hands instead of at Flossie. Rosa shook her head. “No,” she whispered. She could not bring herself to tell Flossie about the night Kase Storm had kissed her.

  Floss slapped her hands against her thighs. “Then my professional opinion tells me you’re long overdue. If you’ve got feelin’s for Kase Storm, you make ‘em known. Any fool can see he’s got a hankerin’ for you.”

  Hopeful, Rosa glanced up again. “But he does not come to the restaurant. When I see him, he does not talk to me. He is always angry, and I do not know why this is.”

  “He’s backed hisself into a corner, that’s why, and he doesn’t know how to get out. He doesn’t think a nice gal like you has any business out here alone, and when he told you to leave town, you didn’t take his advice. He ‘spected you to give up and high-tail it back home.”

  “I like it here. I am happy.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing; Kase hasn’t been with any of my girls since you showed up. For a red-blooded man livin’ under the same roof with four fine young fillies ready to run, I’d say he had a major change of mind, and I think you are responsible for it. If you feel the same about him, I say you should tell him.”

  “In Italy we let the man speak of love. A woman should not have to tell a man how she feels. He should know.”

  “You’re not in Italy, Rosie honey, that’s the first thing you have to remember. Some men are too proud to bend. You just might have to prod that stubborn cuss along.”

  “But I know so little of men. Giovanni was so different. Kase Storm is like his name—a storm that is cold and fierce. What if I say the wrong words? What if you make a mistake and he does not think of me in this way?”

  Flossie studied her intently before she answered. “There is a part of Kase he keeps locked away, I’ve seen that from the first—but out here you’d be hard-pressed to find a man without some sort of past. Knowin’ what I do of Kase, I imagine it’s something he’ll work out in time. As for you worryin’ about lettin’ him know how you feel—what if you never said anything? What if that’s all it takes to get you two together? You owe it to yourself to try.” She reached out and straightened the shoulder of Rosa’s blouse. “You’ve been knockin’ yourself out day and night in that restaurant of yours. You go out tonight and have yourself some fun. Do what comes natural and don’t worry about what might or might not happen.”

  Rosa reached out and hugged Flossie. It was a quick, sure gesture intended to seal their friendship and express her gratitude. “I will see you at the party?” she asked.

  “All gussied up. Whole town’s invited. Quentin doesn’t let propriety stand in his way. ‘Sides, folks aren’t gonna tell one of the richest cattlemen in the country they want to rearrange his guest list.” Flossie thought for a moment before she added, “Listen, Rosie, you’ll be meetin’ the upstandin’ folk at the party, decent, respectable women like yourself. Take my advice and don’t let on that we know one another. Me ‘n’ the girls will be leavin’ early on anyway—probably takin’ some of the men with us. There’s one thing to be said for livin’ in the West; there’s more ‘n enough men to go around.’’

  Rosa drew herself up, affronted by her friend’s suggestion. “I would never pretend that you are not my friend, signora. Never. A true friend is not just a friend sometimes and not others.”

  “Now, don’t go gettin’ that Italian temper up.” Flossie’s grateful smile belied her teasing tone. She glanced at her watch again. “You better go on home now, girl, ‘cause I expect Kase will be stompin’ through here any time now.” Flossie stood and Rosa followed suit. “You take care and think about what I said, you hear?”

  “Grazie, signora. I will.”

  Rosa stepped into the afternoon sunlight and closed the door behind her. How could she not think of all Flossie had said? She waved at Paddie as she passed by the Ruffled Garter, took a deep breath, and quickened her stride. It was nearly time to go.

  Kase glared at his reflection in the mirror and then reached for the button at his collar. His fingers fumbled their way down the front of the striped long-sleeved shirt before he shrugged it off and cast it aside. He glanced around his room and shook his head before he reached inside the tall armoire for another shirt.

  Mira leaned against the door frame, scantily dressed in a silk camisole top and pantaloons, a paisley shawl carelessly draped across one shoulder. Chicago Sue lay sprawled on her stomach across his bed, knees bent, ankles crossed behind her, as she watched him toss aside another shirt and reach for a third.

  “There’s no damned privacy around this place,” he mum-bled to himself as he rebuttoned and then shoved his shirttail into his open trousers. He turned back to the mirror to survey the results of this final choice. Better. The sky-blue shirt complemented his eyes—even he could see that—while the color softened the deep cinnamon hue of his complexion. He looked at his nose; it was too wide, too long, too straight. There was nothing, he decided, he could do about that. Nor could he change his lips; as far as he
was concerned, they were too full. Smiling might help, but he’d be damned if he would practice with Chicago and Mira hanging on his every move.

  “Show’s over, girls. Everyone out.”

  “Can’t expect much privacy livin’ in a whorehouse,” Mira drawled.

  “I pay rent here, ladies. Out.” He thumbed toward the door and crooked a brow at Chicago Sue. The girl groaned and rolled over. She pulled the edges of her robe together in a weak gesture of modesty before she stood.

  “See ya later, Kase,” she said with a smile as she shook her wild blond mane.

  Because she reminded him of his half sister, Annika, Kase had befriended Chicago and often allowed her in his room when she wanted to talk—a privilege he did not extend to the others. Lately he’d been careful to keep the door open during her innocent visits.

  “Later, Sue. Out, Mira.” He stepped closer, then gave the long, lean, green-eyed beauty a nod and a look that told her he meant the dismissal. Whenever Mira saw him, she made it all too clear she would not mind having him in her bed again. He didn’t want her to think he was willing to oblige.

  He closed the door and then picked up his gun belt and holster. He had debated wearing it, then reckoned it would not be out of place for the local lawman to wear his weapon to a party. He strapped on the holster and fingered the ivory grip of his forty-four. Caleb had given him the gun the year he entered law school along with advice on when and how to use it. He allowed himself a moment to think about his stepfather. He wondered how Caleb was and when he would be able to face his stepfather again to apologize for the things he had said and done. He knew he should write, but decided mere words on paper could never explain the sorrow he’d felt from the moment he had goaded Caleb into revealing the truth about his real father. The emptiness he felt inside was overwhelming. He needed time, that was all. Time to let the truth become reality.

  Time! Kase reached for the pocket watch on his dresser and glanced at the time. He was late. He still had to go down to the livery and pick up the buggy he had hired from Decatur. He crossed back to the armoire and took out the suit coat that matched his fine tailored wool trousers. As he pulled it on and smoothed the lapels he thought that there was something to be said for having money after all. His mother had picked out the suit; the rich brown fabric and cut were the finest Boston had to offer. He pocketed the watch, ran his hand over his hair and brushed it away from his forehead. It fell back naturally, dipping nearly over one eye, but there was no time to worry about it.