“I imagine so, sir.” Rosie was fairly scrubbing the varnish off the counter as he made his farewell and stepped outside.
Oh, but she felt ill! Bart was an outlaw and a killer. He had admitted as much himself. Now she realized that he was the cause of every trouble in her life.
If Bart hadn’t asked her to get married, she never would have disobeyed her father. She might have learned to like Dr. Lowell and been a good wife to him. And if she had cared for her husband, he might not have been as cruel as rumors insisted. After all, her pappy had liked the man and admired his medical skill. Maybe if Rosie had been a quiet and gentle wife, Dr. Lowell might never have felt the need to hurt or shame her, as her friends so often predicted he would.
If she had been more sure of Dr. Lowell’s temperament, she might not have run away from him a mere two weeks before their wedding. And she wouldn’t be fighting for her future with such slender hopes. Bart was the reason she was shaking like a leaf. Now he had followed her to Raton, he was up in her room and the sheriff intended to kill him!
Rosie wrung out her washrag and scrubbed the same patch of counter for the third time. Bart had told her she was the only light in his life. But she felt more like a snuffed-out oil lamp—black, empty and cold. Bart himself had turned down the bright wick of her dreams, doused her flame and blown away the final sparks.
She picked up her tray of empty plates and started for the kitchen, determination growing with every step. She hadn’t come all this way and worked this hard to let some gunslinging outlaw ruin her hopes—no matter how his green eyes beckoned.
In a mere three years, Raton had grown from four ragged tents to a row of inhabited boxcars to a full-fledged bustling town. As Rosie marched down First Street, she felt a surge of hope. Her black-and-white uniform set her in crisp contrast to the ragged coal miners and rough-hewn cowboys on the street, and she held her head high. Maybe she did have an outlaw in her bedroom, Rosie thought. And maybe she had taken some unhappy paths in life. But none of that doomed her to failure.
Ever since she could remember, Rosie had loved children and had wanted to teach them. Pappy, of course, wouldn’t hear of such an absurd notion. Schoolteachers were working women and therefore far beneath her in social status. She could almost see his face, his dark eyes snapping as he lectured her from behind his huge desk.
“Working women are socially suspicious,” he had informed his stubborn daughter more than once. “They’re just one step away from the very cellar of society—prostitution. My dream for you, Laura Rose, is marriage to a prominent man, a bevy of healthy children and success as a full-time homemaker.”
Rosie had to smile as she crossed Rio Grande Avenue onto Second Street. Pappy would be downright apoplectic if he knew she had taken a job as a waitress. Women who worked in eating houses were at the bottom rung of the job ladder. Considered coarse, hard and “easy,” they were usually believed to be doubling as women of ill repute.
One look at Fred Harvey’s establishments, however, had convinced Rosie otherwise. Here in Raton she was held in as high esteem as any other reputable female. Men tipped their hats, women greeted her with genuine smiles. Rosie and the other Harvey Girls were invited to every community picnic, baseball game, dance and opera show in town. The fact of the matter was, in the two short months she had lived here, she had had more wholesome, refreshing fun than she could ever remember in her twenty-one years of life.
Never mind about Bart Kingsley, Rosie thought as she climbed the wooden steps to a small one-room structure at the corner of Clark Avenue and North Second Street. Rosie had come to Raton to build a new identity. Fred Harvey had laid her foundation, and Mr. Thomas A. Kilgore would build the platform on which she would at last find freedom.
She knocked on the door of the local schoolhouse. A middle-aged man with a walrus mustache and round spectacles greeted her. “May I help you?”
“Mr. Kilgore?” Rosie asked. At his nod, she continued. “I’m Laura Kingsley, sir. Recently of Kansas City. I work at the Harvey House, but I’ve come to speak to you about a teaching position.”
His eyebrows lifted. “We’re in class, Miss Kingsley. But come inside.”
She entered a dimly lit room filled with children, each one standing at attention beside a chair.
“Students, I’m pleased to introduce Miss Kingsley,” Kilgore said.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kingsley,” the children chimed.
“I’m pleased to meet you. All of you.” Rosie caught her breath at the realization that she was standing in the place she had dreamed of for so many years. A schoolroom, desks and flags, slates and readers, inkwells and chalk dust. How she had longed to teach—guiding small hands to form letters, listening to recitation, drying eyes and bandaging knees. The children looked exactly as she had pictured them—some clean and neat, others ragged and dirty; some bright with intelligence, others more dimly visaged; some giggly and mischievous, others solemn.
What would it be like to stand before them and open doors in their young lives? Rosie could hardly wait to find out.
“Students, you may be seated,” Mr. Kilgore stated as he gave the children a quick scan through his spectacles.
“Grade three, continue your history recitation without me for the moment. Lucy, you may lead the group. The rest of you carry on as you were.”
As young heads bent to work, he led Rosie to his desk at the front of the room. “Now, Miss Kingsley, may I ask your teaching qualifications?”
“My father is a physician in Kansas City. I attended Park College, in Platte County, to study Latin, art, music and science. My marks were excellent, and I’m confident I can pass the examination of any school board.”
“Miss Kingsley, I founded this school with the intent of forming a much larger institution. My wife and I have high hopes of establishing an independent school district in Raton according to territorial law. As you can see, we suffer from overcrowding here, and I fear my students are lagging behind other pupils of like age who have enjoyed better school privileges. At my request the school commission recently voted to extend our school term in order to give the students better preparation as they continue in their education. A good many of these boys and girls will one day attend high school, and some will even want to go on to college. We intend for them to be able to compete with their peers.”
“Wonderful,” Rosie said, impressed with the man’s dedication.
“The voters of Precinct Six have petitioned an election for this purpose, and it will take place the last Saturday of the month. If it passes, the school term will continue through July.”
“July! That should allow plenty of time for the students to make up what they’ve missed.”
“Should the election turn out favorably, however, I’m afraid I will be without a teacher. My regular instructor has…” Here he paused to survey the room, then he leaned closer toward Rosie. “The primary school teacher has elected to return to Chicago as the bride of a young lawyer of her acquaintance.”
Rosie’s heart swelled with hope. “I would be honored to fill the teaching position your difficult situation has made available.”
He pulled at his mustache for a moment before responding. “Return tomorrow morning, Miss Kingsley, after I’ve had time to ponder this.”
“Yes, Mr. Kilgore. Thank you for considering me.”
Light-headed with optimism, she shook his hand firmly before making her way to the door.
As she raced back to the restaurant, Rosie laid out a plan. If she were to get Bart Kingsley safely out of her room and on his way, he would need something decent to wear. Her Harvey Girl salary of seventeen dollars and fifty cents a month plus tips, room, board, laundry and travel expenses left plenty of spending money. She had saved nearly all her income toward her goal to buy a small house. But she was more than willing to spend a dollar or two on a new shirt if it meant she could send Bart away. Far, far away.
After the evening trains had pulled away and the dining r
oom had been set in order, the Harvey Girls climbed the long stairway to their dormitory hall. Even though it was well after ten, Rosie was wide-awake as she clutched the shirt she had purchased and opened her bedroom door.
“Bart?” she called softly.
“Over here, Rosie.” His deep voice came from the corner by the window. “I waited for you. I wanted to say goodbye.”
She lifted the glass globe of her lamp and lit the wick. Bart was dressed in his buckskin jacket and denim trousers. But the warrior with shining black hair and bright green eyes was not the wounded wreck who had crawled out from under her bed.
She looked away. “The sooner you leave, the more of a head start you’ll have on the sheriff. He’s still after you. He was in the restaurant talking about how wicked you are.”
“I reckon I am, Rosie.”
She shrugged. “As the Bible says, sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. If Sheriff Bowman gets his hands on you, he’s going to shoot you dead. He wants the fifty-dollar reward.”
“Then I reckon I’d better not let him find me.” With a gentle smile on his face, he walked toward her.
Rosie winced at the thud of his boots on the hollow wood floor, but it was the nearness of the man that made her face go hot. “W-what are you going to do?” she stammered.
“Right now I’m planning to say goodbye to the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
“I…I mean after you leave. Where are you going?”
“I’m glad you care about me, Rosie.”
“I don’t care. Not a bit. But I think I should know where you’ll be, just in case.”
He stopped a mere two feet in front of her. “In case what?”
“In case…” She moistened her lips. “In case I should ever need to know what became of you. Last time you went off without leaving a clue. Now I know you were running with an outlaw gang. Is that what you’re planning to do again?”
His eyes searched her face. “I reckon a man who truly loves a woman ought to think of something better to do than robbing banks.”
He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, but she caught her breath and pushed it away.
“You made that same sound the first time I kissed you,” he said in a low voice. “Remember, Rosie-girl? We were at our special place by the stream. I grabbed your hand and kissed it. You gasped…but you didn’t pull away from me.”
Her eyes trained on the lamp, she shook her head. “I’m a different woman now, Bart, and you’d better leave my room right this minute.”
“You’re no different, Rosie. Not really. You’re the same girl I married six years ago.”
“No, I’m not.” She whirled on him. “I’ve been engaged to Dr. William Lowell for three years and—”
“And you’ve never forgotten me. We loved each other back then, Rosie.”
“We were children! We didn’t even know what love was.”
“And you’re telling me that you do now? If you love your rich fiancé so much, how come you ran off and left him? Why are you hiding out in New Mexico?”
“Stop it, Bart! You don’t know one thing!” Her eyes stung with unshed tears.
“I know one thing. I know I aim to make a new life for myself. And finding you is the beginning of it.”
She crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling in hope that he could read nothing on her face. Oh, why couldn’t this confusing man just leave her as he had before—with no farewells, no speeches, no tenderness?
Why was he standing so close, smelling so good and looking like the man in her dreams? Why did her heart have to hammer and her throat swell up in a lump? And why, oh, why did she long to feel his arms around her just one more time?
“We’re both trying to start over, Bart,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “If finding me is the beginning of your new life, it could be the end of mine. I don’t want any reminders of the past. I want to be a new person. I want to be alone, Bart. Alone!”
“Rosie,” he murmured, unlocking her arms and letting his big hands slide down to take hers. “Rosie, don’t push me away. Give me a chance.”
“I’ve always done what people told me to—my pappy, Dr. Lowell, you. I don’t have to live that way anymore.”
“But I’m not telling you to do anything, Rosie-girl. I’m asking. Please…give me a chance.”
She studied the design on her pressed-tin ceiling. “A chance to what?”
“To touch your face, Rosie.” He ran the tip of one finger down her cheek. “Remember how I used to pull the ribbons from your braids? I’d untwist your hair until it hung loose around your shoulders. You used to laugh and scold me because I could never put your braids back the right way, and you worried that your pappy would find out we’d been together. But I knew you didn’t really care, because you always leaned against my shoulder and let me slide my fingers through your hair.”
As he spoke, he slipped his fingers through the bun she had so carefully knotted that morning. Oh, how she tingled at his touch! The desert in her heart came to life for the first time in six years, and Rosie closed her eyes as a powerful yearning washed through her.
When he drew her closer, she sighed and moved against him. But she remembered too well the pain a broken heart could bring. At the sudden realization of her peril, her eyes flew open.
“Bart, you’d better leave,” she breathed out. “Just go!”
“Rosie?” Confusion darkened his eyes.
“I—I have to work the early shift tomorrow.”
“I’ve scared you, haven’t I?”
“I’ll be tired if I don’t get a good night’s sleep. You ought to head out while the moon’s up.”
She looked into his face. She longed for this man and she loathed him. She feared the feelings he evoked in her, and she craved them. She hungered for his touch, yet the thought of it terrified her.
“Goodbye, Bart.” She forced the words out. “It was good to see you again, and I sure hope your wound heals up.”
Before he could see the quiver in her lower lip, she turned away from him and hurried to the hook where her aprons hung.
Chapter Five
Bart studied Rosie in the lamp’s glow. With shaking fingers, she fumbled to release the buttons on her bib. Unable to watch her in such distress, he stepped behind her and set his hands on her shoulders.
“Rosie,” he murmured against her ear. “Rosie, I don’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know that a day hasn’t gone by without my thoughts going over and over those times we spent together. I want you to understand how I felt while we were apart. Rosie?”
His hands circled her waist and he turned her to face him. Her fingers kept working at the bib buttons as she trained her focus on her uniform.
“You’re all atremble,” Bart whispered as he covered her hands with his own and began sliding each tiny button out of its hole. “Did I ever tell you how crazy I am about your ankles, Rosie?” he asked.
As he let the bib fall, she shook her head. “My ankles?”
“When you were fifteen, you used to take off your stockings and wade in the swimming hole. You were so prim, but seeing you that way just about killed me.” His focus lifted to her face. “Once you slipped on a mossy rock and fell in the water, remember?”
She shook her head and shrugged. “Anyhow, I bought you a shirt today. I decided against a collar. They cost twenty cents each.”
“I remember everything about us. You’ve changed a lot in six years. You’re more beautiful than ever. I’ve been half loco missing you, girl.”
He wouldn’t hurt or frighten his Rosie for anything in the world. But he couldn’t abide the thought of leaving without saying the things he’d needed to say for six long years.
Even though she had told him to go away, she was having trouble meeting his eyes. In spite of what she said, maybe she had missed him just a little, and maybe she’d thought about him now and then. But she was still trembling and her hands were locked behind her back as though they’d been handcuff
ed. Was he scaring her?
“Rosie,” he whispered. Her eyes, dark brown and liquid, focused on him at last. “Rosie-girl, will you put your arms around me the way you used to? Will you hold me just once before I go?”
“Oh, Bart, I can’t.”
“Because your pappy made you promise to marry another man? Or do you love your rich Dr. Lowell? Is that what holds you back?”
“Bart, it’s not like you think. I don’t love him and I don’t want to be attached to a man again. Not ever.”
“How come?”
She squared her shoulders. “You might as well know I can’t have children, Bart. After you left me, I was sick a long time. Months and months. I couldn’t eat, I didn’t sleep much at all. My normal functions…well, everything stopped working right. My father took me to several doctors, friends he trusted, and they said I was barren. All of them agreed I’ll be childless. Since having children is the only reason I can think of for…for going through all that rigmarole, I’ve decided to be a spinster for the rest of my life.”
He couldn’t hide a grin. “Rigmarole?”
“You know very well what I mean.” Pulling out of his arms, she walked across her room, sat on the edge of her bed and began unlacing her boots. “As far as I’m concerned, God made beds for sleeping in, and I don’t intend to put my arms around you or anyone else.”
Bart hunkered down on one knee beside her. Taking her blistered foot, he set it on his thigh and began rubbing her reddened heel and each sore toe. It bothered him that Rosie had spent time with another man. But it bothered him a lot more to realize that maybe he himself had killed the spark he had once loved so much.
Maybe not quite killed it. Squelched it.
“Rosie, you reckon I could get a job here in Raton?”
“Not a chance. The sheriff would recognize you. He said he saw you before he shot you.”
“How well could he see me in the dark?”
“Well enough to shoot you again.”
“What if I wore that new shirt you gave me? Would you cut my hair, Rosie?”
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