“Do they smell right to you?” He pulled his knife from the leather sheath on his belt and stabbed at an oyster. It shot off the plate and landed on the floor.
He looked up at Rosie. “Wilful little critters, aren’t they?”
“I’ll get spoons.” She stepped to the mantel where three dusty, bent spoons lay among knives, chains and fishing lures. With two fingers, she lifted a spoon and wiped it on her skirt. She sat down in time to see Bart grab an oyster with his bare hand and pop it into his mouth.
An expression of vague discomfort spread over his face. He began to chew. He chewed a while longer. Then he chewed some more. Rosie watched, wondering why on earth she felt like laughing at a time like this.
“Is it good?” she asked him.
“Mighty fine,” he answered around the mouthful of oyster.
While Bart continued to chew, Rosie slipped an oyster onto her spoon and swallowed it. Even though it was lukewarm and just out of a can rather than chilled on a bed of ice, the taste transported her to a time of gentility and refinement.
If a woman could dine on oysters in such a house, couldn’t she make life here better?
“I don’t know about your varmint,” Bart spoke up, “but mine was as tough as an old shoe.”
Rosie couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Bart, you don’t chew oysters! You swallow them whole.”
As a grin lifted one corner of his mouth, he regarded his plate. “You sure about that? My mama taught us kids to chew our food before we downed it.”
Rosie took her plate and sat down beside Bart. “Slide the oyster onto the spoon,” she told him as she demonstrated. “Then put the oyster in your mouth and swallow.”
“I’ll give it a whirl.” Taking her spoon, he chased an oyster around his plate before finally nabbing it. Then he followed Rosie’s instructions and gulped the morsel whole.
“There!” she said with a laugh. “You did it!”
“Sure enough, Rosie-girl.”
As he watched, she lifted another oyster and slipped it between her lips. Eyes closed, she savored the taste for a moment before swallowing.
“Mmm…” she purred. “Now it’s your turn.”
“How about if you snag me one?”
Rosie scooped up an oyster and slid it into Bart’s mouth. “Now swallow.”
He obeyed. By his expression, she suspected he was not acquiring a taste for them.
“In Kansas City, oyster restaurants are on every street,” she told him. “After the theater, everyone goes out for oysters and champagne. They’re said to be the food and drink of passion.”
Bart took the spoon and served Rosie another oyster. After she swallowed, he bent and kissed the dampness from her lips. “Rosie-girl, you look so good to me right now. And I don’t think those oysters have a thing to do with the way you make me feel.”
“Oh, Bart, it was good between us this afternoon, wasn’t it?”
She let out her breath as his mouth slipped down the side of her neck. “But that awful man scared me so much…and then I lashed out at you…and then Mr. Kilgore—”
“Hush now, darlin’. That mean-mouthed snake who tried to rob us is long gone. A good life is waiting for you—even without the teaching job. I’m not much of a gentleman, and this place is no Kansas City mansion, but if you’ll have me, I’m yours.”
She gazed at the intense light in Bart’s green eyes. If only she could rely on him, if only she could be certain he wouldn’t abandon her, if only she could be sure his past wouldn’t catch up with him…
“It’s going to take time,” she said.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed her as if to silence her protest. “Tomorrow morning I’ll build steps for the storeroom, just wait and see. Now come here, girl, and stop looking so sad.”
He set the plates on the floor and took her into his arms. She shut her eyes, relaxing as his fingers stroked her cheek. Bart wanted to be the man to nurture and succor her, and it was time to accept that she had set her own course. His kisses were sweet and his touch stirred a flame to life inside her.
“Are you a betting woman, Rosie?” he whispered as he eased her onto the blankets that covered the bed.
“I did bet once on a game of whist,” she recalled. “Then my father found out.”
“Well, I’m willing to make you a bet I know I can’t lose.” He ran one finger down the side of her neck. “I’ll bet that if you just relax and think about those oysters for a few minutes, things are going to look a whole lot better to you in the morning. What do you say, Rosie-girl? Do we have us a bet?”
“I just have to think about oysters?”
“That’s all.” He eased up on one elbow and began slipping her dress off her shoulders.
Rosie slept with sweet dreams…beautiful memories of Bart’s love. It might be possible, she thought, to make a good life with Bart on his homestead. Yet even as she drifted in the contentment of a future as Bart’s wife, she remembered that she would never be a mother. The doctors in Kansas City had declared her barren.
Nor would there be children singing songs and learning to count. No anthems. No recitations. She had lost the teaching job to another woman.
Even Bart was gone from their bed. Rosie slipped from beneath the blankets and went to one of the two windows. Although it was daytime, she could see almost nothing through the waxed paper that covered the openings. He had told her he would build steps into the pantry. But she could hear no hammer or saw.
Ashes in the fireplace, a dusty floor, chipped crockery were her lot. Life could not be filled with dreamy passion forever. Heavyhearted, Rosie dressed in a simple blue calico she had never liked—preferring her swishy silks instead. She had never enjoyed a silent room either. Rosie liked people, laughter, chatter.
Even as she mourned the past, she realized this tiny sod house now belonged to her to do with as she pleased. The land outside belonged to her, too. Was this what she had been after all along?
Every night on her knees, she had begged God for her freedom. Was this the way He had answered her prayers?
Bart’s voice drifted into the house as he sang a hymn out in the yard. Rosie went to the door and peeked outside. Just beyond the house, he was chopping wood. She had to smile. Bart might be a terror at robbing banks and holding up trains. He might be the handsomest man this side of the Mississippi, and he made Rosie feel wonderful when he loved her. But Bart Kingsley couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
Rosie shut the door and leaned against it. Bart hadn’t gone away, as she’d feared. For this moment, at least, he was acting the reliable husband. In the weeks Rosie had known him again, he hadn’t robbed a train or a bank, he hadn’t murdered anyone, he’d worked at a decent job and started his own homestead.
If Bart could accomplish so much, couldn’t she?
“Mornin’, Rosie-girl,” Bart called when he saw Rosie walking toward him. “You look good enough to eat.”
She laughed as he caught her around the waist and swung her off her feet. “Morning, Bart.”
“I’ve about got enough wood to start the fire.” He set her back on the ground but didn’t move his arms. “I should have done this before you came, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t really believe I’d get you this far.”
“Here I am.” She shrugged one shoulder. “So what do you want me to do?”
“You could give me a kiss.”
Emboldened, Rosie rose up on tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. “How’s that?”
“Mercy, girl,” Bart managed. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
She laughed. “But I don’t think this is how people are supposed to act during the daytime.”
“I don’t think anyone cares how we act day or night. Do you?”
Resting her head on his shoulder, she gazed up at the brilliant blue sky. “We’re all alone out here…just us and God.”
“I imagine God allows a husband and wife a good amount
of leeway, don’t you reckon? Especially when they’ve found each other after six years apart.”
“Yes, I expect so.”
“Rosie, last night between you and me…” Bart held her head as he spoke. “Last night I knew things were going to be all right. Last night was like a promise.”
“Oh, Bart.” She ached for his words to be true.
“Don’t you believe, Rosie-girl? Don’t you think our loving was a seal? We’re where we ought to be, with each other.”
“For today we are,” she said softly. “I guess for today we’re right where we should be.”
“And nothing—not one thing—is going to change that.”
As Bart looked into her deep brown eyes, he vowed he would make Rosie love this place he’d built. He would teach her to see his vision of their future. He would woo her into trusting him. And one day, one fine day, he would find what he’d been seeking all these years.
One day he would win Rosie’s love.
Chapter Twelve
Tossing a few logs onto the woodpile, Bart mused over what he had gotten himself into by bringing Rosie out to his homestead. It was a Sunday afternoon, only a week after they had settled into the soddy, and she was inside peeling potatoes. But enough time had passed to show him she was a city gal through and through, and she didn’t have a lick of sense about frontier life.
Although Rosie had spent time on her pappy’s farm outside Kansas City, it was nothing like this. She would peel those potatoes until they were nothing but nubs. He had offered to teach her, but she had insisted on doing the job her own way.
Bart’s stepfather had beaten his wife for standing up to him. But as Bart buried the ax in the chopping block, he also buried any such instinct his stepfather might have instilled in him. Laura Rose Vermillion had always been Bart’s light. And he would never snuff out that glow with the back of his hand.
Sitting near the window, Rosie tossed another potato into the pail. Etta and the others at the Harvey House would be coming back from church, she realized. Rosie herself would have attended church if she’d been in Raton. Every other Sunday she was given the morning off to attend worship services. Although her schedule didn’t permit her to teach Sunday school, she always sang in the sanctuary choir.
Now she tried to make herself sing a favorite hymn. After all, she should be grateful, shouldn’t she? She was alive, safe and looked after by a man who cared for her.
But Rosie had neglected her nightly prayers of late. She hadn’t read her Bible in days. With a sigh, Rosie picked up another potato. The truth was, she could hardly wait for Bart to come in from the fields each night. Everything about him filled her with joy—everything except his past.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark, Rosie?” Bart asked as he tossed his buckskin jacket onto the table. “Sun’s going down.”
“So much to do, I guess I hadn’t noticed.”
He lit a lamp. “When did you set these plates on the mantel?”
“Three days ago. They were coated with grime. Bart, your domestic habits are downright slothful.”
“What did you expect from an outlaw?”
She shrugged. “Did it ever occur to you to sweep this place?”
“Sweep a dugout?” Bart took off his hat and ran his hand through his damp hair. “Rosie-girl, don’t you know that tomorrow this place will be just as dirty as it was today?”
“Then I’ll sweep it again, won’t I?” She glanced at him. “And I’ll have to wash those dusty britches. If you’re going to be a civilized husband, Bart Kingsley, you’ll have to take regular baths and wear clean clothes.”
“I don’t know much about being civilized. But if you want me for a husband, darlin’ you’ve got me.”
Rosie picked up the potato pail. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about being a wife. After my mother died, my father never remarried. You grew up without a father, and I grew up without a mother. We’re in a fine pickle.”
Bart studied the white foam gathering at the top of the pot. “You’re a good wife, Rosie. The best. If all you want to do is sit around and eat Huffman’s cream candies and pecan pie, it’s all right by me.”
Tears sprang into Rosie’s eyes. “I don’t want to eat cream candies, Bart. I want to clean your house and sew your shirts and…and…and be your wife.”
In an instant he had caught her in his arms and was holding her close. “You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted to hear you say that, darlin’.”
“But I’m scared. I’m just so scared it won’t work.” She nestled her damp cheek against his shoulder.
“What’s to stop us from making a wonderful life out here on our homestead?”
“That Pinkerton man could come after you. He could set a bomb for you like they did for Jesse James’s mother. And what if my pappy tracks me to Raton? You did, so what’s to stop him? You don’t know Pappy like I do. If he ever decides to come for me, he’ll use his money and his influence. Nothing will stop him. People are after us, Bart, both of us. We won’t be able to hide here forever.”
He set her back and looked into her troubled eyes. “What else has you all worked up, Rosie-girl?”
“I’m afraid to care about you, Bart…to care about you more than I do right now. What if you get yourself killed?” She touched the ridge of scarred flesh on his side. Then she kissed his neck. “What if you get hauled off to prison and they tie a rope around this neck?”
Bart nodded. “Keep talking, sweetheart. I know that’s not all of it.”
Rosie shut her eyes tight, trying to stem the flow of tears. “I wanted to teach school so I could be with children. But now I know I never will. And I’ll never…never have any children of my own…. We’ll never have babies, Bart. Even if all the rest of it works out by some miracle, we’ll never have children of our own.”
He stroked her shoulder, pondering the significance of her words and wondering how deeply they would affect his life. “Listen here, now. I might like to have children with you, but I’ve gotten this far without them. So have you. If we don’t have babies, we’ve got each other, Rosie-girl.”
“Hold me tighter, Bart.”
“I’ll hold you for the rest of my life. I’ll never let you go.”
“Never, Bart?”
“Never, Rosie-girl. Not ever.”
Rosie lived in an Eden of her own making. Once she finally accepted that Bart had indeed offered her freedom, she set about to create the little paradise of her dreams.
The fabric she had purchased for the schoolroom windows soon brightened the walls of the little dugout. Rosie fashioned the yards of chintz into billowing curtains and a tablecloth. Bart built her the framework of a changing screen, and she ruffled the cloth to fill in the panels. She used the remaining yardage to begin cutting triangles and squares to piece together a quilt for their bed.
The bed itself soon sported a new mattress filled with soft grass Bart brought in from his fields. Of course, the grass soon dried and grew brittle, but Rosie hardly cared. Their bed always felt soft and comfortable when she was nestled in her husband’s arms.
Rosie caught herself reminiscing secretly about him at various times throughout each day, and always a smile crept over her lips. When Bart was in Raton working at his livery stable job, Rosie would think about him as she baked bread or weeded her kitchen garden or did the laundry.
Every afternoon while he was in the sugar-beet fields, she would fall into bed for a nap. Achingly tired, she would doze away the hottest hours. But by evening, when he came in for dinner, Rosie felt fresh and eager to be with him.
No matter how worn out he was from his labors, Bart’s face always brightened at the sight of their table laden with freshly baked bread and thick beef stew, chicken and dumplings or shepherd’s pie. Rosie discovered that observing Stefan and the other chefs at the Harvey House had given her a head start in cooking skills. With the help of a recipe book he bought for her at one of the mercantiles, she produced one hearty meal after ano
ther.
Soon after she began her life on the homestead, Rosie decided she would like to have fresh eggs on hand. Not only would this improve her baking, she reasoned, but she could send any extra eggs along to town with Bart when he went to work at the livery stable. With the money from fresh eggs and newly churned butter, Rosie planned to buy herself a real stove. Bart built a raised coop and fetched in a bunch of fluffy yellow chicks one day, and Rosie was off and running with her hen business.
After each day of tending to her chickens, milking the two cows, hoeing her garden, scrubbing laundry on the washboard, sweeping and mopping the ever-dusty dugout and cooking hearty meals, Rosie expected to feel drained and empty. Instead, the busy life sparked her desire to do more. She used some of her savings to buy fabric, and she fashioned several work shirts and two pairs of sturdy britches for Bart. She made herself two sensible dresses and a week’s worth of white aprons.
Rosie decided to paint the inner walls of the dugout, and she sent Bart off to Raton with orders for a gallon of white milk-paint. He offered his opinion that white seemed like a pretty loco color for an underground house, but he obeyed. Within days, the house was sparkling clean. Bart declared the soddy looked bright as a new pin and bigger than it had before.
In fact, the beauty Rosie had brought to the little dugout led Bart to declare that he would not only finish building the pantry room, but he would also make plans for an upstairs—two fine rooms with big windows and a shingled roof. Bart figured that once the sugar-beet harvest came in, he’d have enough money to buy all the lumber needed to build the upstairs during the slow fall and winter months.
But now, the needs of his land consumed Bart. He hired young Manford Wade to help hoe sugar beets after school each day.
“She’s as mean as a witch,” Mannie confided to Rosie one afternoon when she was hanging laundry on the clothesline. “She’s got red eyes.”
“Red eyes!” Rosie laughed at Mannie’s description of the new schoolmarm. “People don’t have red eyes, Manford.”
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