“Slept with one of the girls?” Flossie finished for her. “No, honey, you don’t need to concern yourself with that. He’s havin’ himself a good sulk. He don’t know any of ‘em exist.” Her penciled brows arched as if she’d just had a revelation. “Not yet, at least. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be puttin’ him off too long. A man’s dry spells usually don’t last too long.”
So many of her neighbors wandered by to see the roses that Rosa put them in the center of the window table where everyone could enjoy them. The bouquet had become such a topic of conversation that G. W. insisted he had to have a rose for his mother. Rosa gave away two when Martha came running in on his heels demanding one for herself.
The rosebuds opened to full bloom and soon filled the air with their heady fragrance. Rosa found herself looking at them a thousand times a day. With each glance, she thought of Kase. Still, she could not convince herself that it would help to go and talk with him. If anything, as vulnerable as she felt, she knew she would probably fall into his arms again. And then his bed. He had to come to her. To profess his love. To propose in a proper manner.
One afternoon, just after the sun had burst through the clouds, Quentin Rawlins walked into Rosa’s, dressed for cold weather in a fleece-lined wool jacket. His smile further lit up the day, and she found herself crossing the room to greet him.
“Signor Quentin! It has been a long time since you came to Rosa’s!”
He gave her a warm hug. “It was roundup. The boys took off right after Flossie’s party and just got back. I thought you might like to come out to the ranch for Sunday dinner.”
She started to refuse, then thought the change of scenery might just lift her spirits. “I will come and cook a special dinner for you,” she offered.
“Hell, no. The idea is for you to have the day off. My cook can do the honors.” He took her hands in his. “I’ll send one of the boys to get you, Rosa. You be ready by two, and dress warm, you hear?”
“Thank you, Quentin. I will be ready.”
As he started out the door he caught sight of the roses, but left the café without saying a word about them. At first Rosa thought it odd that the flowers, which were such a topic of conversation with the townsfolk, had failed to earn even a comment from Quentin, but then, she thought, why would a man of wealth and prominence think to ask about a bouquet of roses?
Chapter
Fifteen
On Wednesday morning Rosa dressed with care. Her black skirt with its simple lines fit her well; her crisp white blouse complemented her dark hair. As she surveyed her effort in the small square of mirror hanging near her cot, she decided she made a presentable guest for dinner at Quentin’s. If only she felt as good as she looked. Not even the idea of dining with one of the richest, most eligible widowers in Wyoming cheered her.
Promptly at two o’clock she heard a knock on the door and went to answer it, fully expecting one of Quentin’s ranch hands to be there waiting for her.
Instead, she opened the door to Zach Elliot.
He tipped his hat to her. “Miz Rosa. I come to carry you out to the Rawlins ranch.”
For a moment she was taken aback. “You? The signore said he is sending one of his own men.” For a fleeting moment she wondered if Kase Storm might be behind Zach’s appearance.
“It seems he don’t trust any of his own boys to drive you, ma’am. He asked me to do it.”
“I—” She hesitated.
“You comin’ or not?”
“Signor Rawlins sent you?”
“I said he did. I ain’t been called a liar for some time.”
She could see his patience was ebbing. A buckboard stood behind him in the street, the horses shaking their heads impatiently. She recognized the brand on them as the same symbol she had seen hanging over the gate at Mountain Shadows.
“Va bene. I go.” Rosa went inside and donned her coat, then locked the door behind her and let Zach help her up onto the wagon seat.
The ride was as chilly with silence as it was with cold. The clouds that had gathered low threatened rain, and the temperature seemed to plummet as they neared the base of the mountains. Zach Elliot slouched forward, his arms resting on his knees, and drove the team in silence. As he peered out from beneath the brim of his hat, he kept his eyes on the heavily grooved wagon wheel ruts in the road.
Rosa could think of no comfortable way to start a conversation with the old man. She wanted to ask Zach about Kase, how he was, if he ever mentioned her. Instead, she rode in huddled silence, her arms wrapped about her against the cold. Hatless, she bemoaned the fact that she had forgotten to bring along her Stetson.
Relieved when they finally turned up the drive to the ranch house, anxious to be inside and out of the cold, Rosa stared at the two-story ranch house. Smoke spiraled out of the chimneys and hugged the roofline. As they passed the barn she recognized Zach’s horse tied at the hitching rail in front of it. He drew the buckboard alongside the wide veranda before he jumped down to help her to the ground.
Wondering if he would drive her back to town, she asked, “You will be eating here?”
“Naw, I’ll be headin’ on back to town. You have a good dinner, Miz Rosa.”
She frowned. “How am I to go back?”
He paused for a fraction of a second before he answered. “Quentin said he’s got a ride all arranged for you.”
“Then, grazie, Signor Zach.”
“Have yourself a good dinner, Miz Rosa.”
The inside of Quentin Rawlins’s house was far different from Flossie’s place, but it was equally awe-inspiring. She had seen it only once before, the night of the barbecue, when guests had moved about freely. She was looking forward to seeing every detail of the exquisite rooms downstairs. With his usual exuberance, Quentin ushered her into the entrance hall, a room nearly as large as Flossie’s entire parlor. Rosa stared at a piano covered with a fringed paisley shawl. The instrument shared one wall with a gigantic spread of antlers. Chairs of assorted styles were grouped at random about the room while an imposing clock stood near an arched doorway that led to the rooms beyond. Impressively large paintings hung near the ceilings; lamps and candelabra graced cloth-draped tables. There were more furnishings in the room than she had ever seen assembled in one place in her life. Quentin took her arm and led her into a side parlor that was even larger than the entry. Its plump-cushioned chairs and deep couch were arranged around an imposing fireplace. A crackling fire that drove the November chill from the room beckoned Rosa nearer.
“Your home is wonderful, signore, full of many fine things.” She crossed the room and stood before the mantel above the massive stone fireplace. A collection of cloisonné vases and covered dishes lined the black walnut mantel. The delicate objects bespoke a woman’s touch.
“I really haven’t done much to it since my wife died.”
Quentin mentioned his wife infrequently. All Rosa really knew of the woman was that she had borne Quentin a son who was currently traveling in Europe. Fearing his silence came from pain, Rosa decided not to question him further.
Drawn to a wicker rocking chair padded with crazy-quilt cushions, Rosa touched its high back and set it rocking.
“Have a seat,” Quentin invited. “I thought you might like a little sherry before dinner. My housekeeper, Mrs. Benton, said the meal won’t be ready for a while yet.”
“Grazie.” Rosa sat down to wait while he crossed the room to pour the drinks.
Quentin sat across from her and began to regale her with tales of the years he had spent as a cowhand driving cattle along the Chisholm Trail. For some inexplicable reason, Rosa thought she sensed a new nervousness about the usually confident man. As she watched him talk, seated as he was on the edge of the sofa, she prayed silently that he was not about to propose marriage to her again. Not now. Not with her heart still in turmoil over Kase Storm.
“Damn,” he mumbled as he stood and walked to the window, “it’s starting to sleet.”
“Sleet?�
�� She was unfamiliar with the word.
“Frozen rain. Like ice.” Quentin pantomimed falling rain, then shrugged.
“I am thankful it is not the falling ice balls,” Rosa said, relieved.
Quentin tried to look serious, but Rosa could see his lips twitching. “Ice balls?” He arched a brow.
“Sì,” she nodded. “When they fall, you must cross the keys against bad luck.”
“Ahh,” he said seriously. Then, despite his efforts, he laughed aloud and shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rosa.”
Rosa began to explain, then thought better of it. “It is just a custom of my country, to keep away the male, the evil.”
The tall clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour and Quentin’s smile changed to a frown. He exhaled deeply and excused himself. “I need to talk to Mrs. Benton.”
Quentin returned in a few moments and offered her another glass of sherry. “It will be a while before dinner is ready,” he explained offhandedly.
He reached for a large wooden box that contained a stereopticon and carefully removed it with a stack of double-sided pictures that he said had recently arrived from Paris where his son, Quentin Junior, was staying. They viewed each of the pictures twice. Imagining some disaster in the kitchen, Rosa began to wonder whether she should ask if the cook needed her help.
Before she could decide, booted feet sounded on the veranda followed by the sound of a determined knock at the door. Quentin was on his feet at the first footfall. From the rocking chair before the fire, Rosa could not see the newcomer, nor could she hear what Quentin said in low muffled tones. Curious, she stood and shook out her skirt. Just then Quentin walked back into the room followed by a tall man covered by an oilcloth slicker. His dark hat was pulled low enough to shield his face from both the weather and her perusal. Water slowly dripped from his slicker onto Quentin’s Oriental carpet.
“Get out of that coat and I’ll hang it by the fire,” Quentin advised.
Rosa watched as the visitor removed his gloves. At the sight of deep brown skin and well-shaped hands, the strong fingers with their evenly trimmed nails, she blanched. Kase Storm removed his hat and brushed water from its crown. When his eyes met hers across the room, he arched a finely tapered brow and nodded a silent greeting.
“Let me have your coat.” Quentin studiously avoided Rosa’s eyes as he hung the wet slicker over the back of a chair near the fireplace.
At first she was too stunned to speak as she stared at the imposing figure in a starched white shirt, black dress pants, and matching coat. Then Rosa’s simmering anger began to boil. She had been tricked, duped by a man she had considered her good friend. “I must go,” she announced.
“Rosa, please, we haven’t even had dinner yet,” Quentin said.
“No. I must go.” She looked straight at Kase. “Now.”
Quentin looked at Kase, who merely shrugged. “I told you she’d be mad,” Quentin said. “Listen, Rosa, this whole thing was his idea. When Kase told me—”
Rosa’s gaze swung back to Kase. “You told him?” she asked, disbelieving.
“I told him we had an argument,” Kase explained.
Quentin cut in again. “He told me you were mad at him for shooting out your window, and he asked for my help.” He no longer sounded as sure as he had at the beginning of his statement.
Knowing his feelings about Kase’s desirability as a husband, Rosa was surprised that Quentin had agreed to become part of this scheme to get them together. Rosa took a deep breath, determined to make Quentin understand. “There is more wrong here than a broken window, signore, and the marshal, he knows this. I am surprised to find that you are a part of this ... this deception. Now I want my coat. I want to go.”
Mrs. Benton, the ranch foreman’s wife who worked as Quentin’s housekeeper and cook, chose just that moment to step into the parlor. “Dinner’s been sittin’ so long the roast elk’s gonna taste like jerky if somebody don’t come on and eat right quick.”
Quentin had the decency to look embarrassed as he shrugged. “For Mrs. Benton’s sake, do you think you could consider staying long enough to eat? I’m downright starving and I promise to take you home just as soon as we’re through.”
Ignoring Kase, who was occupied with pouring himself some sherry, Rosa watched the drizzling sleet and hesitated to answer. She did have to eat. It might as well be here. “Va bene,” she said. “I will eat. Then, you will take me back.”
Quentin bowed his acquiescence, and Rosa led the way to the dining room.
Kase had not looked directly at her since they left the parlor. It was good, Rosa decided, that he had not. She did not need his startlingly blue eyes boring into hers. Nor did she need to speak to him to know that he was as fully aware of her as she was of him.
Even though she was still furious at being duped, Rosa admitted to herself that she was enjoying both the meal and the conversation. During her self-imposed silence, she listened to the men talk about the future of Wyoming. Many nights after closing the restaurant, she had struggled to read the Cheyenne Leader to learn what was going on in this new country she had adopted as her own, but listening to them talk of the changes that would come with impending statehood made the news all that much clearer. She also became aware of how well educated Kase was.
“Why wouldn’t a rash of families move into Wyoming when we become a state?” Quentin asked, following a statement he’d made previously. “It will be the only state where women have the vote. The territorial government won’t agree to go into the union without the women’s vote. I can foresee trainloads of new folks moving in after that. Not that I’m happy about it. Most of them’ll be farmers, and you know what they’re doing to the open rangeland.”
Kase nodded, intent on cutting a slice of roast elk.
Rosa watched him from beneath half-lowered lashes.
Quentin finished and set his cutlery down. He pushed back his chair and stared at the two silent figures consciously ignoring each other. He shook his head. “So, Kase,” he said abruptly, “what have you heard of the rest of the Dawson gang?”
Rosa put down her fork as the image of Bert Dawson, sprawled dead on her sidewalk, came to mind.
Kase glanced hesitantly at Rosa. “Not much.”
Quentin persisted. “I hope to God we’ve seen the last of them. What happened after the shooting?”
“The usual, I guess. A reporter came out from the Leader and took the story. Brought along a photographer.”
“I always thought that was a particularly disgusting habit,” Quentin commented. “I don’t know why anyone would want to buy souvenir pictures of a dead bandit shot full of holes, but I’ve sure seen my share. First ones I ever saw were taken of some of the James gang after the shoot-out in Northfield, Minnesota, back in ‘seventy-six.”
Rosa put her napkin down alongside her plate.
Kase shifted in his seat. “Quentin,” he said softly.
Rawlins cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his lack of sensitivity. “So, everything else in town’s been quiet?”
“Real quiet,” Kase said. Finally he looked directly at Rose. “Too quiet.” His attention drifted to Quentin again. “Have you found someone to take my place yet?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t had time to look. I was hoping you would consent to stay on until spring.”
Kase studied Rose, who kept her eyes on her empty plate. “I don’t know what my plans are for certain, but I want out.”
“Killing doesn’t sit well with you?”
“Not at all.”
Quentin changed the subject by asking for Kase’s advice on a land contract he was about to enter into, and Rosa saw a facet of Kase Storm’s life she had not known existed. It seemed he was well versed in the law and able to give Quentin advice on many matters.
When they finished their meal, Quentin asked the cook to serve dessert and coffee immediately. He ate in silence, his mood mirroring the one shared by his two sil
ent companions. He frowned down at his apple cobbler. The weak sunlight had faded into darkness, and now the room was aglow with lamplight. His expression thoughtful, Quentin glanced at the tall side window. He took a deep breath and sighed, then looked at Rosa.
“Rosa, it’s started to snow. There’s no way I’m letting any of the men take you back with the chance of a big storm hitting.”
“I will not go back with him,” she said, indicating Kase with a nod.
“I’m not letting him go, either,” Quentin said emphatically. “Nobody’s going out in this.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Have to be a fool to try it.”
“But—” Faced with the temptation of spending the night under the same roof with Kase, she could only protest. “But, signore —”
“No buts. I’ll have Mrs. Benton make up the guest room. Kase, you can have Quent’s room for tonight. I won’t hear anything else about it from either of you.”
Rosa stared at Quentin. Kase stared at Rosa. Quentin suddenly became intent on staring at the bottom of his cobbler bowl.
Rosa’s tone was soft, yet laced with accusation. “I thought you were my friend, signore.”
Abruptly the rancher pushed his chair back and rounded the table to stand behind her. “Come with me,” he said.
Quentin walked her to the entry hall and opened the front door. A cold blast of air swept into the cheery warmth of the room. Rosa saw little beyond the lamplight that spilled out into the night, but she could see a thick curtain of snow falling just beyond the veranda, the flakes both thick and silent as they quickly piled up on the ground.
She stepped back and Quentin closed the door. “Satisfied?” he asked, before he added softly, “Rosa, I am your friend. If I wasn’t, I might think about letting you go out in that, but as it is, I want to see you safe. I’m sorry.”
“I am sorry, too. I am sorry you trick me.” Rosa sighed, resigned to her fate, and glanced toward Kase, who was still seated at the dining table. “I stay,” she said, “until tomorrow.”
Mrs. Benton, a kindly woman with weathered skin and a harried expression, ushered Rosa to a room that was warm and welcoming. A huge bed framed with rough-hewn logs, striped rugs, and simple furnishings presented a soothing contrast to the crowded parlor. The graying cook gave Rosa one of her own nightgowns and explained reassuringly that she had agreed to stay in a room near the kitchen on the first floor for the night. The woman lit the lamps and banked the fire before she left Rosa alone.
Rose Page 24
