Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  Sleep finally came and then, uncertain of how much time had elapsed, a slight sound brought him upright and alert. Suddenly wary, he was startled by the sight of an old man he had never seen before sitting near the pit.

  Silver moonlight highlighted the man’s wrinkled features. He wore his hair long, parted in the middle, and plaited into two braids that hung over his shoulders. The braids swayed slightly with his every breath. He was large and, unlike Running Elk, still well built and obviously well fed. He was Sioux, of that Kase was certain, for his coloring was as dark a bronze as any of the men he had met at Pine Ridge, and like many of them, he appeared to be tall. The man sat cross-legged, unafraid, waiting for Kase to speak.

  There was something vaguely and oddly familiar about the man. Startled by the direction his thoughts had suddenly taken, Kase became wary and asked his strange visitor outright, “Are you Red Dog?”

  The old man shook his head, and a crooked smile teased his full lips.

  “No,” he said softly. “I am not Red Dog. I am not your father.”

  “Who, then, are you?” Kase said, continuing in the language of the Sioux.

  “Someone you should know well.”

  “I’ve never seen you before.” Kase shook his head and stared into the man’s clear eyes. In the darkness, he could not make out their color, but he could feel a sense of overwhelming tranquillity and love that emanated from them. “How did you get here?”

  “I have come the same way as you.”

  “Why are you here?” He knew he should be uneasy, knew he should look for any companions the man might have, but for some inexplicable reason, Kase knew the old man meant him no harm.

  “I have come to help you find the answers you seek.”

  “How? Did you know Red Dog?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a friend of Caleb Storm?”

  “No.”

  “Then how—”

  “I know you. That is all you need to know. It is enough. Close your eyes, Kase Storm, and see what I already know.”

  Kase did as the old man bade and closed his eyes. Imagesbegan to take shape in his mind’s eye, scenes of times long past. He saw the old soddie where he had lived with his mother, watched himself as a small boy with raven-black hair and shining eyes as he climbed up on her lap and let her rock him to sleep. He could feel her love as she kissed the crown of his head and snuggled him close to her. The familiar loving sound of his mother singing an old Dutch lullaby seemed to float on the very air about him.

  “I see myself as a child,” he whispered to the old man.

  “Now see what you have forgotten.”

  Kase studied the tranquil scene in the vision and watched his mother look up. At that very instant he could feel the love she felt for him reflected in her eyes. She had loved him above all else. Unconditionally. How he had been conceived mattered not one whit to her.

  Scenes from the past began to flood upon him faster and faster. He saw himself—still a child—leading his grandfather by the hand around the yard outside their soddie. Opa laughed gaily at his antics and stooped to ruffle his hair. Caleb entered the dream scene and laughed, lifting Kase high in the air, tossing him about as he always had when he was a boy. Then Kase had suddenly grown a few years older and was seated in the kitchen of the Boston mansion with his Aunt Ruth, Caleb’s stepmother. The scene was reminiscent of the quiet times and talks the two of them often shared. His sister, Annika, danced into his thoughts and began to follow a slightly older version of himself. He saw her clearly, as he never had before, with hero worship and love reflected in her eyes.

  It went on and on. He saw himself in many stages of growth throughout his life, saw those around him, both at home and in Busted Heel, people who had been his teachers and his friends—and always he saw their innermost feelings reflected in their eyes. He saw none of the prejudice or injustice he had suffered as he returned through time to his school years. Instead he was shown memories of the teachers who had not let his mixed blood matter to them. One such man, Professor Daniel Exeter, he had long ago forgotten. The man had seen the potential in him and had worked with him long hours after class. He saw that his former employer, Franklin Rigby, had valued him for his own expertise and had not hired him because of Caleb’s influence. Kase realized for the first time that if he had not let his defensive anger cloud his thinking he might have seen many things clearly.

  He was shown scenes of his early years with Zach Elliot; the man had tutored him the way he would have taught his own son. And last he had a glimpse of Rose as she had appeared the night of Quentin’s party, waiting for him to come to her, asking him to unburden his heart.

  When the visions faded, he found himself alone with the old man, overwhelmed by the sense of peace and well-being brought on by all he had seen.

  “What have you learned, now that you have seen your world through eyes of love and not anger?” The old man spoke softly, leading him like a child through his thoughts.

  Frowning, Kase tried to put his feelings into words. “More important than seeing myself, I have seen the way others see me.” He shrugged. “I have seen that it does not matter who or what my father was. My mother loved me without regret, as did all of my family.”

  “And the fear you have of your father’s blood? The anger and hatred you have for those who mistreated you?”

  “I am still uncertain. How do I know I will not become like him? How do I know I am not capable of the same crimes?”

  “You are your own man, Kase Storm. Your life is your own. Go from mis place and begin to look at the world through eyes of love, as you have just done. Let go of your hate. Be your own shaman and walk without fear.”

  The old man stared at Kase across the fire. Dizziness assailed Kase along with an eerie sinking sensation. The stranger’s image began to waver in the moonlight, to expand and contract until it began to fade. As Kase watched in amazement, the old one’s eyes became clearer. Kase held them in his gaze until they were all that was left of the image. Finally even the eerie sight of the man’s glowing eyes disappeared.

  Kase pulled the robe closer and tried to stop the shudders that rocked through him. He tried to understand the strange dream, if indeed it was a dream, that had seemed all too real. He could not stop thinking about the eyes of the mysterious old man. They were large, clear, and blue, as blue as the prairie skies on a summer day, the blue of the seas around Holland— as blue as his own.

  Kase knew then, just as surely as he knew his own name, that he had just peered into his own soul.

  The buffalo hide wrapped about his shoulder stank, but it did not matter; the end of his ordeal had come. Kase Storm broke the tallow seal on the sacred pipe and handed it to the shaman, who lit the pipe and drew deeply on it. He passed the pipe to Kase who was finally warm and feeling languid after time spent in the sweat lodge. His purification was the last step in the hanbleceya.

  A low fire glowed directly beneath the smoke hole of Running Elk’s tipi. The old man had insisted Kase relate his experience before they shared the pipe. Running Elk sat in silence until the tobacco was gone, then set the pipe on the blanket before him. Then the shaman spoke.

  “What meaning does the vision hold for you?” he asked.

  Kase shook his head and stared into the fire. “It might have been a vision,” he said, still wondering what had happened out on the plain. “It was a dream unlike any other dream I’ve ever had.”

  “A dream. A vision. There is no difference.”

  Kase remembered how disturbed he had felt when the dream ended, for the color of the images he had seen had been so vibrant—the dream more real than life.

  Running Elk leaned forward, his gaze intense, his eyes reflecting the shining embers of the fire as he interpreted the vision. “Red Dog was not in the dream. It was a dream about you and the ones who love you. He was not important enough for you to dream of. He gave you life. His blood is your blood, but what you are, what you have become, has not
hing to do with him.

  “He spilled his seed, nothing more. It was your mother, who, like the mother earth that nurtures every seed that falls onto her soil, nurtured you. It was she who gave you life. Just as your true father was not in your dreams, so he has never had a claim on your life. He only has the power over you that you give him. Your mother accepts you because you were a gift to her in a time of great need. Without you, her life would not have been complete. Your stepfather gave you the knowledge and the power you needto live in the white world. It was his purpose in life to find and raise you. But do notforget yourSioux heritage. See your world as a place of love. Focus not on the hate that will always surround you. Accept it as part of your world, just as love is part of your world, for love and hate, like good and bad, are in balance. Do not cling to the shadows of the past.”

  The old man reached into a leather pouch at his waist. Sprinkling a handful of pungent herbs on the fire, he closed his eyes and began to chant softly as the fragrant scent of sage rose heavenward.

  Kase closed his eyes and began to rock slowly back and forth, lulled by the rhythm of the ancient shaman’s chant. He concentrated on the words repeated in lilting Sioux:

  We are safe from harm.

  We are safe from harm.

  Dreamers who have dreamed.

  We are safe from harm.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  The golden glow from the hanging chandelier in the Ruffled Garter could not match the radiant gleam in Flossie Gibbs’s eyes as she gazed at the crowd that had assembled at Paddie’s to celebrate her birthday. Laughter and applause followed shouts of surprise as hoots and hollers fairly shook the walls of the saloon. Rosa joined in the celebration, clapping as wildly as the others, while Flossie beamed and preened, a riotous vision of flaming hennaed hair, chartreuse satin, and black lace.

  “Thank you, one and all!” Floss yelled above the ruckus. With a flourish, Paddie handed her a tumbler full of his finest whiskey, and she held the glass aloft in a toast to the crowd. “I don’t know how you all found out about my birthday”—her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief—“but damned if I’m not glad you did! Here’s to me, here’s to you, and here’s to more birthdays!”

  Despite Flossie’s feigned surprise, Rosa knew that everyone in the room—aside from a few cowboys new to the surrounding ranches—had known for weeks about the birthday. The madam herself had let the “secret” slip at least once a day for the last three months.

  The morning of the big event, as she had done in previous years, Flossie purposely kept herself occupied in her room while Chicago Sue, Mira, Felicity, and Satin oversaw preparations for the gala at Paddie’s. Rosa volunteered to bake Flossie’s favorite birthday cake—chocolate with berry filling— when she learned about the annual celebration undertaken every October twenty-third. What amazed her the most was the expression of absolute astonishment Flossie enacted when she entered the saloon on Slick Knox’s arm and found them all gathered and shouting “Surprise!”

  The melodic notes Slick now milked out of the little-used piano standing against the far wall added a festive touch to the atmosphere, and moved by the contagious revelry, Rosa found herself enjoying everyone’s antics. Flossie insisted there be games, and so, like obedient children, even the roughest cowhands lined up to bob for apples. Between the bobbing and the drinking, the cowhands became pleasantly tipsy, and Rosa, dressed once again in the rose-patterned skirt and jacket she had worn to the barbecue at Mountain Shadows, soon found herself the object of their more amorous attention. Firm but patient, Rosa brushed aside a squeeze here, a pinch there, and found herself grateful for Zach, who always seemed to be hovering somewhere nearby. His quelling one-eyed stare served her well that evening whenever any of the men became too forward.

  Paddie put Rosa to work behind the bar after a brief discussion between him and Zach in which they determined it was the safest place for her. Sheltered by the stout barricade of the long bar, Rosa observed the goings on in relative safety. She could not help but admire the ease with which Flossie’s girls handled the advances of the men. Where she had blushed and skirted shy of wandering hands, she noticed that even young Chicago Sue was adept at swatting the men playfully aside.

  An hour or two into the party, Rosa studied Felicity as she openly flirted with a rugged, bowlegged cowboy. When the man leaned close and whispered in her ear, Felicity’s black eyes flashed up at him in approval. Within minutes the couple stood and left the saloon. Rosa watched them walk in the direction of Flossie’s and was torn between feelings of righteousness and envy. When she caught Zach Elliot watching her closely she busied herself with the task of arranging glasses on a shelf behind the bar and tried to dismiss the feeling that he knew good and well what she had been thinking.

  It did not matter to her in the least that, aside from Flossie and the girls from the Hospitality Parlor, she was the only woman in the place. In the last few months Rosa had come to realize the particular place she held among the citizens of Busted Heel. As a widow, she was afforded far more freedom than an unmarried young woman would have had. As a single woman who had established a legitimate business, she was an oddity. But although she had befriended whore and housewife alike, Rosa had never given the upstanding citizens of the town—folks like the Wilkies, John Tuttle and his wife, and the Shaws who farmed nearby—reason to gossip.

  Everyone knew Rosa slept alone on the cot in the kitchen of her restaurant; they had it straight from Zetta Davis, who made daily deliveries of eggs and vegetables to Alice and Ray Wilkie’s store. Everyone knew, too, that if Alice ever heard any different, she would not hesitate to tell it. Above all, Rosa knew what having a good name in a small town meant. In that respect, Busted Heel was no different from Corio.

  That was why she was appalled at what she caught herself thinking when Felicity walked out of the saloon on the arm of the smiling blond cowboy. She found herself wondering what they would do in Felicity’s room, wondered if their exchange would compare at all to the brief but searing passion she had known the night Kase Storm caressed her in the moonlight. Would the cowboy’s hands be as gentle or as sure? Would he elicit the same response from Felicity as Kase had from her when his lips touched her breasts? Or would the exchange be as tepid as those she had experienced with Giovanni?

  She jumped when Paddie interrupted her wayward thoughts. “Like a glass of wine, Rosa?” Without waiting for her reply, he reached down behind the bar and drew forth a bottle of ruby red cabernet he saved for special occasions.

  “Grazie, signore.” She raised her glass with a smile. It was a night to celebrate. Time to put her curious thoughts aside.

  “It’s time to cut the cake, Rosa!” Flossie called out from across the room. Her cheeks were stained a bright red that clashed with her chartreuse gown, but her excitement did not deter her from orchestrating her own party. “Everybody start singin’!”

  The wind was howling off the Laramies and beating its way across the open range by the time Kase rode back into Busted Heel. He made straight for Rose’s, ready for a hot meal, a glass of wine, and a good look at the woman whose image had dogged his trail for the last hundred miles.

  Happier than he had felt in months, ready to face one day at a time, he rode head down, collar up against the increasing onslaught of the wind. He passed the depot and, out of habit, drew close enough to see that the station house was locked up tight for the night. The train would not come through again until eight-ten in the morning. With some surprise, he noticed how good it felt to look down the wide, empty expanse of Main Street. An inordinate number of horses were tied to the hitching rails along the Ruffled Garter side of the street. The animals crowded together as they sought shelter from the wind. Light from the saloon spilled out into the night. The sound of singing filled the air, and beneath the caterwauling he could detect the tinny notes of the piano that was generally ignored by Paddie’s patrons. He wondered what was going on, but decided he could wait to find out. Let Zac
h have one more night on duty. Tonight was his.

  It was not until he neared the end of the street that Kase noticed that the restaurant was dark. By his reckoning—his heirloom watch had long since stopped, and he had yet to reset it—it was barely after eight o’clock. Even if her trade for the evening had been light, she would certainly still be cleaning up. He knew her routine by heart, for even though he had failed to eat at the restaurant more than once, he had spent plenty of nights walking by, watching, checking to be sure she was safe.

  Kase began to wonder if Zach had taken the time to do the same. He had asked the old man specifically to see to Rose’s safety while he was away, but suppose Zach had been lax in his duty? As he nudged Sinbad to a faster pace, he hesitated to think of what could have happened to Rose in his absence.

  What if she had taken his advice and left town?

  By the time he reached the front of her place and dismounted, by the time he knotted his reins about the hitching post, the uncertainty that gnawed at his gut was all too real. He tried to ignore the foot-stomping and whistling next door as he leaned forward, cupped his hands around his eyes, and pressed his nose against the wide glass window of the restaurant. The darkened interior revealed the ghostly shapes of cloth-draped tables and empty chairs. There was no light shining in the kitchen, not even the soft glow of a single oil lamp.

  His heart pounded as anger and a feeling he refused to recognize as fear welled up inside him. He tried to remind himself of his vision and remain calm, tried to stem the tide of frustration he was feeling. In seconds he was off the walk and moving around to the back of the café.

  A shoat squealed in fright and Kase cursed aloud as he tripped over it in the pitch darkness. One of Decatur Davis’s hounds howled out a brief warning, but there was no sign of movement inside the ramshackle cabin behind the restaurant.