Cherokee Rose

by Judy Alter

  They made a stark contrast to the clothes, walk, and appearance of the rodeo contestants, and they made me feel awkward and uncomfortable, even slightly tomboyish, as though I lacked ladylike graces next to these ethereal creatures.

  "I'd like to get one of them to walk through my rope," I muttered to Walt Denison. Truly I was thinking of the trick I used to do with Buck, and I explained as much to Walt.

  His eyes were laughing as he shook his head in the negative. "No, Cherokee, not these girls. It just wouldn't work." He turned to leave and then whirled toward me, "And don't try it as a surprise." His voice was light, but this time his eyes were deadly serious.

  "Me?" I pretended innocence.

  "You," he said. "I already know you well enough to be pretty sure the thought crossed your mind. Don't try it. And," he added wryly, "don't rope me either." Then he was gone.

  I was nervous, more nervous than I'd been before a performance in a long time. I told myself it was because I'd been out of the ring for so long, but deep down I knew it was because of those high-society girls looking imperiously down on me—or at least that was how I interpreted their rather absentminded gazes in my direction. What I didn't admit to myself was that I was nervous because Walt Denison was watching.

  The announcer's voice had the same deep and dramatic tones of every show announcer I'd ever heard. "Ladies and gentlemen," he'd broadcast, the words rolling off his tongue, "Cherokee Rose, lately from a triumphant East Coast tour with none other than the late great Buffalo Bill." I bit my lip at the word triumphant, but when the lights turned on me, I managed to smile and wave to the audience. I was mounted on Governor at the edge of the arena, waiting to go on.

  I began with simple tricks—first, still mounted, I built small loops in either hand and kept them going on both sides of Governor. Then I raised two large loops over my head that seemed to have a life of their own, finally settling around Governor before dropping limply to the ground. Dismounted, I built a loop around myself and walked in and out of it, then built a large loop and called for Governor to walk through it. Gradually I worked up to the high point of my act, where I built a huge loop on the ground behind me and swung it just in time to catch three horsemen who rode abreast the length of the arena toward me. The crowd loved it, and I breathed a great sigh of relief—I could still perform.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer roared, "the little lady can ride as well as she can rope. As an encore, she'll show us some of her trick riding."

  Startled, I turned to look at Walt. This wasn't part of the program, and I didn't have Guthrie saddled or ready. Walt just grinned and gave me a thumbs-up sign with one hand. The other hand held Guthrie's reins.

  The audience probably thought I was milking the moment for every ounce of drama as I walked slowly toward Guthrie and stopped to pat his nose and talk to him. In truth, I was thinking of what I would do and then telling the horse about it. After I led him to the center of the arena, Guthrie knelt down before me without my ever giving a command. Instead of mounting, I ordered him to roll over and play dead, which he obediently did, just as though he'd been doing it every day for the last six months.

  After a few more ground tricks, I mounted and had Guthrie prance around the ring demonstrating different gaits. Grateful that an encore could be relatively short, we ended with Guthrie rearing on his hind legs, then bowing low to the audience.

  They loved it. I took a quick look at the queen and her court and found them on their feet cheering, the slightly bored looks gone from their eyes. Behind them the young men clapped vigorously. Then I looked at Walt Denison and saw he was regarding me with a serious stare, his eyes thoughtful, his hands in his pockets as all about him clapped and cheered. My heart jumped just a little as I wondered what was on his mind.

  I had no time to ask, because there was a major mishap when the rodeo came to an end that night. The queen and her attendants were escorted back down their special set of stairs and into the wagons for a departure that was to be almost as grand as their entrance. Once again, the wagons circled the arena two or three times, so that the crowd could again applaud the young ladies. This time I was asked—ordered?—to ride behind the first wagons, so that I too could see and be seen.

  On the second loop I found I had to touch my heels to Guthrie to make him keep up with the two wagons of young people. It seemed to me they were going pretty fast for where they were—and what they carried. Just as I was considering breaking out of line to spur ahead, all hell broke loose: The first wagon, carrying the queen and the other girls, took a corner almost on two wheels and turned over, dumping the girls onto the dirt floor of the arena.

  The air filled with the horrified screams of the audience, cries from the girls, neighing of horses, and the sound of wood splintering as the wagon broke apart. Vaguely I could hear the driver of the second wagon hollering to his horses, and I knew he was sawing on the reins. Without thinking, I rode Guthrie away from the confusion, then ground-reined him and ran for the thrown girls.

  Helen Breedlove was on her feet—weaving as though dazed, but on her feet—and I passed her to go to a girl who still lay face-down on the dirt, unconscious. Hands reached from behind me to grab her, and I shouted "No, don't move her!"

  "Got to get her out of there," said a desperate voice behind me, and I turned to look at the wide eyes of a very frightened young man. He was a member of the court and had ridden in the second wagon. "She's my sister!" he screamed.

  I stood up and grabbed his hands. "If you move her, you could hurt her badly—permanently. Trust me, I know these things from having ridden in shows. Wait, there's bound to be a doctor in the audience."

  As a matter of fact, there were three doctors in the audience, and they came bounding down the stairs. None carried the reassuring little black bag one looks for—why would they take their bags to the rodeo?—but each had an air of competence.

  One, a man in his forties and dressed as properly as the young attendants—why did these people dress formally for a rodeo?—knelt by the boy's sister. After a long minute in which his fingers listened to her pulse and probed her extremities, he looked up and said, "She's just unconscious. May be nothing more than fright. I think she'll come around in a minute."

  The young man slumped so that I was afraid of having to hold him up.

  Sure enough, the girl began to stir within seconds and after a few minutes was sitting groggily on the ground. The doctor examined the pupils of her eyes and announced that she was in no danger but needed rest and comfort. As I watched, her brother swung her into his arms and headed out of the arena with her. At the door, where rodeo officials had blocked the crowd, they were greeted by a pair of obviously frantic parents.

  None of the other girls was hurt seriously, the worst being a painful broken collarbone, which was put into a temporary sling on the spot before the girl was sent to the hospital. The others suffered cuts, bruises, and severe cases of fright.

  Finally, the excitement and confusion dissipated, and my own heart rate returned to normal. I led Guthrie out of the arena and back to his stall in the barns. Grateful for the solitude, I brushed him down and talked soothingly, telling him—and by extension myself—how calm he'd been, how proud I was.

  "I fired the man who was driving the wagon," a voice said behind me. "On the spot. Threatened to send him to jail."

  Walt Denison leaned against the door of the stall, still dressed in the suit he'd worn at the rodeo—a compromise between cowboy clothes and formal attire?—but now he looked tired and disheveled, a look I didn't usually associate with him.

  "Good," I said, uncertain what else I could say or do. "I... I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry for something you had nothing to do with," he said shortly. "You did a good job. Lotta women would have panicked, but you kept your head. Let's go have supper."

  Go have supper? Put the whole thing behind us that quickly and go to a restaurant as though nothing had happened? I couldn't believe my ears.


  "My place," he said. "There's always a meal waiting for me, and it's usually enough for two giants." Then he relaxed just a little. "I'm tired, and I don't want to be around people." The laughing, always charming Walt Denison had been replaced by a man who was upset, tired—and human.

  I must have hesitated for just a minute, because for the first time he smiled ever so slightly and said, "It'll be perfectly proper. I have a vigilant housekeeper."

  He watched with fair patience while I finished with Guthrie and moved on to curry Governor. "Can't you find someone else to do that horse?" he asked, his patience finally exhausted. "I'm hungry... and tired."

  "I take care of my own horses," I said firmly.

  He threw his hands in the air in exasperation but then settled down on a bale of hay and seemed to take a catnap. I ignored him until, at last, I said, "All right, I'm ready." Of course, I hadn't changed clothes or cleaned up, but I decided that wouldn't bother me if it wouldn't bother him. It apparently didn't.

  Dinner was roast chicken and boiled potatoes with a congealed salad, all kept appropriately warm or cool by the housekeeper who now, instead of vigilant, appeared to be absent, probably sleeping in her room somewhere in the vast house to which Walt had brought me.

  We ate in a spotless white kitchen—the cabinets and even the pie safe were freshly painted white, the gas range was white porcelain enamel, the countertops white tile, the curtains white organdy. Only a brown and green diamond-patterned linoleum floor brought any color into the room. It was as neat as it was clean, with rows of glasses and plates, carefully aligned, visible behind glass-fronted cupboard doors. For a fleeting moment a vision of Louise's kitchen flashed across my mind, with its black iron stove and bright chintz curtains, wooden countertops, and that scarred wooden table around which I'd spent so many hours.

  Even exhausted, Walt Denison was ever the gentleman, holding my chair for me, pouring champagne, waiting until I lifted my fork before he took his first bite. The housekeeper must have been forewarned about me, for the kitchen table—white with an enamel surface, of course—was carefully set with two places. We ate off fine china and sipped champagne from crystal flutes.

  While we ate, Walt talked about his childhood. His mother, dead now five years, had been socially prominent in Fort Worth, and her lavish entertaining left her little time for Walt and his younger brother, Joey, who was now away studying law at the University of Texas. His father had spent most of Walt's youth at his ranch in North Texas, and he'd taken Walt with him as much as he could, determined to toughen the boy and turn him into a rancher.

  "He taught me to ride when I was five," he said, "and to take care of myself alone in the outdoors by the time I was twelve. He wanted me to be just like him."

  "Are you?"

  "No, I like the city better. He's disappointed, but I figure producing this rodeo keeps me close to ranching, enough to take the edge off his disappointment."

  "What will you do when the rodeo's over?" I asked.

  He shrugged, then smiled slightly. "Take you to New York to celebrate?" He made it a question, and I evaded the answer.

  "I meant, what will you do for work?" I felt prim and prudish even as I rephrased my question.

  He shrugged again. "I have an office in the livestock exchange, trade cattle for the old man and a few of his cronies. Keeps me busy, keeps my hand in."

  I thought of Papa, who still worked hard from dawn to dark and would never have the luxuries and comforts that Walt took for granted, and the colonel, who could work a lot less than he did but was driven, not by money, but by a need to work. Walt was a different kind of man, one that I didn't understand, one that perhaps frightened me a little. I didn't realize how a touch of fear could heighten attraction.

  We moved into the library, a room lined by shoulder-high bookshelves with leaded-glass doors. Above the bookshelves a tapestry of browns and greens covered the walls, and the same fabric had been used on a rocker and a straight armchair. The ceiling was patterned plaster, and the windows were hung with heavy brown drapes, with sheer panels under them. It was rich—but dark and depressing.

  The embers of a fire glowed softly in the fireplace grate, and Walt pulled the rocker close to it for me, then settled himself lazily on the floor at my feet.

  "Is that your mother?" The portrait, rather small, hung not in the place of honor over the fireplace but to one side, near the double doors, which led, apparently, into the living room. The woman was fair, with perfectly groomed hair brushed away from her face, and eyes that even by the artist's hand looked hard as ice.

  "That's her," he said noncommittally. He seemed content now simply to stare at the embers, with their occasional small bursts of flame, and to be quiet. I took his lead and leaned back, closing my eyes and very nearly drifting off into a nap.

  At length he roused. "You can sleep in the guest room. Mrs. Andrews made it up."

  Mrs. Andrews—the absent vigilant housekeeper! He had planned this all along! I opened my mouth to protest, but he interrupted.

  "She keeps it made up, changes the linen once a week whether anyone's been here or not. And no, I won't bother you. You'll be perfectly safe."

  "I wasn't very worried," I said, "but I have nothing with me."

  "You'll find what you need," he said. "First room to the left at the top of the stairs." And then he was gone, without so much as a goodnight or by-your-leave. Puzzled, I sat for a long time, rocking slowly, staring at the dying embers, and wondering where he'd gone. I could have sworn I heard an outside door close and an automobile engine start. Finally I reasoned I had no other choice but to go upstairs and go to bed. Walt was not going to reappear.

  The bedroom in which I found myself was much brighter than the rest of the house, with canvas-covered walls of pale blue, a border in a rose motif, and floral chintz curtains and bedspread that picked up the rose pattern. A soft rosy-pink carpet covered the floor and welcomed my tired feet as I pulled off my boots. Carefully laid out on the bed were a fresh lawn gown and a warm flannel robe, both white and both obviously new. In the adjoining bathroom were all the toiletries a woman could ask for, and I wondered how often Walt brought women home, then sent them to this room. I knew I would never ask, but I also knew there was something increasingly strange about this man who'd thrust himself into my life.

  It was daylight when I wakened, though apparently a dull day, so that I could not tell from the light whether it was seven or ten in the morning, or even noon, though I doubted the latter. I stretched and contemplated, with dread, the thought of pulling on last night's dirty clothes. But when I crawled out of bed and pulled the robe around me, I saw that while I slept, someone had put a perfectly new outfit—underclothes, divided skirt, starched white shirt—on the trunk at the foot of the bed. It made me wonder who'd put it there—the mysterious Mrs. Andrews?—and how soundly I'd slept.

  I found Mrs. Andrews in the kitchen. She was what you'd expect for a housekeeper—middle-aged, plump, and not particularly cheerful, though she served me eggs, bacon, and toast with good grace and would have added potatoes if I'd not protested they would be too much.

  "Mr. Walt ate them," she said rather righteously.

  "Where is he?" I asked.

  She lifted her shoulders as if to say it was none of her business. But then she admitted, "He'll be back soon. He said for you to wait."

  Walt arrived before I finished my breakfast, and his usual good humor, missing the night before, had been restored. "Miss me?" he said, and I swear I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me on the forehead in a sort of paternalistic gesture.

  Then, oblivious of Mrs. Andrews, he sat down at the kitchen table and handed me a small box. "I've been out shopping for this," he said. When I hesitated, he urged, "Go ahead, open it."

  I untied the strings slowly, pulled the paper away, and lifted the lid of a ring box. It could be nothing but a ring, and yet I hoped it would be a silver and turquoise, or a birthstone—he wouldn't know that mine was ruby
—or something without significance. It wasn't, of course. It was a single gleaming diamond, larger than I could imagine, set in a white gold band. I looked at it, fingered it, trying to get myself together. At last, I raised my eyes to find that he was staring intently at me.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Well," I said slowly, "I don't know what to say."

  He laughed aloud. "I'm not surprised. But I figured we were going to get married sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner."

  I noticed that Mrs. Andrews was once again absent rather than vigilant. And it struck me as strange that I was sitting across the table from a man who had courted but never kissed me, a man I barely knew. My instinctive response was to say yes, though every reasonable fiber in me shouted no.

  "I—I still don't know what to say."

  "Try yes or no," he said, leaning back in his chair and looking at me with almost bored impatience. "Of course, I'm betting on yes."

  Stalling for time, I was. "How can you think that? We barely know each other...." My voice drifted away. I wasn't going to say anything about the platonic nature of our attraction to date, partly because I wasn't sure that was true. I flat didn't know how I felt about Walt Denison.

  "Because we're a good pair," he said confidently. "You know the horse and ranching and rodeo side of my life, and I'll be purely delighted to show you the society side, with you on my arm as my bride."

  I had a sudden vision of all those society girls making their debut, while I watched in my split skirt and Stetson. "I wouldn't know how to behave or dress properly for such people," I said honestly.