Annie gave her a sharp glance. “You’re the one who provided the meals. I did the same thing, so I know how hard it was for you. The colonel rode a horse a long way, and probably had a wonderful time doing it. He wasn’t feeding his family. There’s a lot to be said for being willing and able to keep one’s family in food and shelter, Rose Gilhooley. Personally, I think it’s a lot more important than riding a horse for a long way. It’s called shouldering one’s responsibilities”
Rose giggled at Annie’s ferocity and the thought of Buffalo Bill Cody as a young lad, riding for the Pony Express. Rose would bet her last dollar that he’d had a good time, indeed. “I suppose so, but it’s sure not as romantic.”
“Romantic,” Annie repeated, as if the word were possibly the most ridiculous one in the English language.
“Yes. Romantic. And don’t forget about his army exploits, either. I don’t think it’s ridiculous to reenact Custer’s massacre.”
Annie lifted one arm in the air, her hand curled into a fist, as though she were holding a sacred object, slapped the other hand over her heart and intoned dramatically, “The first scalp for Custer!” Letting her arm drop and picking up another deck of cards, she added, “Ugh.”
“Oh, Annie, I know you’re wrong. I think the colonel is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.”
“That’s only because you haven’t met very many men, darling Rose.”
They both laughed. Rose knew Annie was only trying to spare her the disappointment of one day discovering William F. Cody to be a mere man, but Rose didn’t really need any lessons about that sort of thing. Rose had grown up rough. She also knew that, in spite of her lack of enthusiasm in this instance, Annie adored the colonel.
Besides, Rose had met plenty of men in her life, no matter what Annie thought. She’d met drunkards and gunfighters and gamblers and cowboys, all by the time she was old enough to talk. Deadwood was a dangerous place, and Rose had learned to duck almost as soon as she could walk, because the lead flew like birds around the town.
By this time in her life, she could tell a good man from a bad one, and a faker from an honest man. Whatever Annie said, Rose Gilhooley knew very well that William F. Cody wasn’t a plain common, garden-variety man. And if Rose chose to find a little romance in life where she could, she didn’t think it was Annie’s place to knock her fantasies around. The good Lord knew, Rose had seen little enough of romance in her twenty-two years. Since she loved and admired Annie Oakley almost as fiercely as she did Buffalo Bill Cody, she’d never say so.
She did, however, sniff. “Well, I think the Wild West is much more than a show. I think it’s an educational experience, and ought to have been allowed to be set up on the Exposition grounds.”
“Hmmm. Maybe, but it’s still mostly for the amusement of the people who come to see it, what with the Indians attacking the Deadwood Stage, and the buffalo hunt and all. I think those things can truthfully be considered as mere entertainment. You have to admit that the colonel does alter historical facts from time to time.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think there’s anything mere about it,” Rose said huffily. “If anyone thinks you woke up one morning being able to shoot the way you shoot, or that I woke up one morning being able to ride the way I ride, or that they’re ever going to see how the Sioux lived before they went to the reservations anywhere else, they’re just plain nutty.”
“People don’t think about things like that unless they have to,” Annie told her dryly. “You and I might have had to shoot our families’ meals before we were old enough to think, but not too many other folks in today’s world have that problem.”
“I guess not.”
“Did you do those reading and writing exercises I gave you yesterday?”
Rose heaved a sigh. She hated not being better at reading, writing, and ciphering, but that was one of the many prices she’d paid to help her family survive. First she’d brought home their food when she still lived on the farm outside Deadwood. Now she was “Wind Dancer: Bareback Rider Extraordinaire” for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. She didn’t regret one single aspect of her life—unless it was the poverty that had driven her to work so hard to begin with—but she still wished she’d been able to go to school.
“I did. It’s getting easier.”
Annie, with a sympathetic smile that embarrassed Rose, reached over and patted her on the knee. “Of course, it’s getting easier, dear. You’re doing very well. It’s quite difficult to learn your letters and numbers when you’re an adult and have to hold an exacting job at the same time.”
“You did it.”
“Yes, but I had a little more background to begin with.” She shook an admonishing finger at Rose. “It wasn’t easy for me, either, and I know it’s not easy for you. And that’s not your fault.”
“I guess.” Rose still felt like a stupid lump every time she had to Ask Annie to help her decipher words in the letters she received from fans who’d seen her perform in the Wild West. She figured any self-respecting adult human American, especially one whom others admired, ought to be able to read the letters she got. No matter how many times Annie assured her that ignorance and stupidity were too different things, Rose still felt stupid.
Chapter Two
“I believe they’re in here, Mr. May.”
The two women looked at each other as Frank Butler’s slightly accented voice reached them. Annie sighed. “Who’s he got in tow now?” she asked, although she smiled as she did so. Frank Butler, her Irish husband and a champion sharpshooter in his own right, was also her business manager. As such, he tried to garner as much publicity for her as he could.
Grinning, Rose said, “Whoever it is, I’m sure he’ll love you, Annie. You’re so—perfect.” Rose was honestly only a little bit jealous of Annie’s fame, mainly because Rose knew Annie had earned it. Annie was also small and pretty and elegant, and every inch a lady.
Rose herself was small and guessed she was sort of pretty, but she felt thoroughly deficient in the ladyship and elegance departments. Annie was trying to help her there, too. So far, she’d managed to correct Rose’s grammar for the most part—Rose slipped up occasionally when she was nervous—had taught her how to eat with a knife, fork, and spoon, not to drink her tea out of her saucer, and gone with her on a shopping expedition when they’d first arrived in Chicago, but Rose knew she needed lots more work in order to become a real lady, if she ever could.
Annie sniffed. “Rose Gilhooley, you’re being silly. You’re ever so much younger and prettier than I am. Who’s to say whoever this person Frank’s bringing hasn’t come here to see you?”
Rose felt her eyes pop open. “Oh, no, Annie! That never happens!”
Annie only sighed, patted a stack of cards together, and stood, looking as if she didn’t relish whatever this interruption was going to mean. Rose stood, too, feeling nervous. She never felt nervous when she was performing because she’d practically grown up on a horse and was confident there. Horseback, however, was the only place she felt confident.
The tent flap opened, and Frank Butler came in first. “Howdy-do, ladies. I see you’re hard at work, as usual.” Frank, a real sweetheart in Rose’s opinion—he even wrote beautiful poems that Annie read to her sometimes—winked at them.
“Hello, Frank, what are you surprising me with today?” Annie went over to give her husband a buss on the cheek.
Rose had never seen Annie or Frank show any but the mildest displays of affection for each other in public, even though she knew their love ran deep. Annie had told her so. So had Frank, for that matter. And there were the poems he wrote, which were so beautiful they made Rose cry.
“I have here a photographer, Mr. Winslow Asher, and a newspaperman, Mr. H.L. May. Mr. Asher has been hired by the Fair Directory as the official photographer for the Exposition, and Mr. May is writing a series of articles for the Chicago Globe. They want to interview you, darlin’, and take some pictures.”
Rose turned impulsively, and
gave Annie a hug. “Oh, Annie, that’s wonderful!”
“Aye, ‘tis,” said Frank complacently.
“Frank.” Annie shook her head. “You are amazing.” She didn’t sound as if she considered his being amazing a particularly endearing quality at the moment.
Frank only chuckled. “Say your howdies to the gentlemen, ladies. Annie Oakley and Rose Gilhooley, please meet Mr. Win Asher and Mr. H.L. May.”
Always slightly abashed in fancy company—and any company she met outside the Wild West or Deadwood, Kansas, qualified—Rose still managed a dainty curtsy. Annie had taught her that, too.
Mr. Asher bowed and shook Annie’s hand, then Rose’s. “So good of you to allow us to disturb you, Mrs. Butler. Miss Gilhooley.”
“Certainly,” said Annie.
She sounded as much like a queen as Victoria had, Rose thought. She mumbled, “Sure.”
“Ah. Good to meet you, Miss Annie Oakley,” said H.L. May. Then he surprised Rose by turning abruptly in her direction. “Say, I’ve heard you’re the best rider anybody’s ever seen, Miss Gilhooley. I’m looking forward to watching your act tonight.”
H.L. May’s smile was a wonder to behold. Rose wished he hadn’t shot it at her so suddenly, because it made her heart flop around like a hooked trout and then begin racing. She muttered, “Thank you,” and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him. She wanted to bow her head and stare at her own toes.
“I hear you ride bareback and with no shoes on,” H.L. went on, to Rose’s chagrin.
He seemed to expect some kind of answer, so she said, “Can’t balance standing up on a horse’s back with shoes on. Hurts the horse, too.”
His grin widened, as if her comment had tickled him. “A barefoot bareback rider. I can see the headlines now.”
Was he making fun of her? Rose wasn’t sure. She peeked quickly at Annie, but read no hint in her expression. Glancing back at H.L., she noticed his eyes this time. Darn it. His eyes were a dancing green that complemented his dark brown hair, jaunty checked suit, and dashing straw hat. He was big, too, and had muscles. He looked more like he dug ditches for a living than wrote articles. Rose had always thought newspaper people were thin, pale, drunkards who lived in smoke-filled saloons and only staggered home occasionally to write a few newspaper articles. This fellow looked as if he went out every day, tackled life with his own bare hands, and thrashed it to a standstill. “Um,” she said. “Really?”
He laughed. He didn’t just laugh; rather, he threw his head back and roared. Rose was pretty sure he was making fun of her this time. She frowned. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
Shaking his head and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he said, “There’s not a thing funny, Miss Gilhooley, but I’d sure like to be allowed to interview you. I have a feeling you’re a true original.”
What did that mean? Rose looked at Annie again. This time, Annie evidently read the beseeching quality in Rose’s glance, because she smiled encouragement. “That’s wonderful, Rose. I think you ought to take Mr. May up on his offer.” As if she imagined Rose needed further impetus to accept the request for an interview—and she was right—Annie added, “Think of the publicity for the Wild West.”
There probably wasn’t another thing Annie could have said that would have made Rose accept H.L.’s proposition. Rose didn’t want to be interviewed by him. He alarmed her. But any time she became aware of an opportunity to benefit Colonel Cody, Rose pounced on it. She felt her shoulders sag.
“Say, Miss Gilhooley, I don’t bite. Honest.”
When she peered up into the face of H.L. May, who looked as handsome, devil-may-care, and dangerous as made no matter, Rose wasn’t sure about that. Nevertheless, she knew where her duty lay. She’d been doing her duty all her life.
“Very well. When would you like to conduct this interview?” Her voice sounded stifled. Rose felt stifled. She heard Annie release a breath of relief and vaguely resented it.
“How about tomorrow?” H.L. suggested. “That way I can watch you perform tonight and get a better idea for the direction my article will take.”
Rose nodded. “All right.” She didn’t feel good about this interview.
Frank Butler patted her on the shoulder, as if he understood her embarrassment and reluctance. “You’ll do fine, Rosie.” Frank and the colonel were the only people Rose knew who called her Rosie. She chalked it up to Frank’s being Irish. She hadn’t come up with an excuse for the colonel yet.
“Right,” she said.
H.L. May only laughed again.
# # #
An air of almost palpable excitement surrounded this whole fair experience; H.L. had made note of it, and promised himself that he’d do his best to make his readers feel it. The Columbian Exposition’s purpose, according to its directors, was to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of the New World in 1492. Nobody seemed to care much that the Exposition had opened a year late, in 1893.
On a more fundamental level, the fair was a celebration of American ingenuity and invention. Other nations featured exhibits at the fair, too, but it was the United States and its accomplishments that most people were here to honor.
From a band of settlers rebelling against a repressive British government, the U.S. had grown into a great nation—and all in a matter of a little more than a hundred years. By God, those bull-headed American pioneers had wrested independence from a tightfisted British lion with an organized and well-trained army at its beck and call.
In H.L.’s not-so-humble opinion, the citizens of the United States of America had a right to celebrate. The entire nation exuded a cockiness and confidence that rubbed some folks the wrong way, but H.L. reveled in it. He harbored the same cockiness and confidence about himself.
And he was going to make sure the citizens of the United States recognized the treasure they had in little Rose Gilhooley. H.L. May was going to make Wind Dancer a household name. He vowed it as he headed back to the Midway to meet Sam.
He found his colleague waiting for him near the brand-new, never-before-seen wheel invented by Mr. W.G. Ferris. The Ferris Wheel was rapidly becoming the most popular exhibit at the fair. H.L. and Sam had already ridden on it twice, and not merely because H.L. approved of any man who used only his initials, but because the experience of the wheel was so exhilarating. H.L. found himself wondering suddenly if little Rose Gilhooley, who looked and sounded about as innocent as the new dawn, had ridden on it yet. He thought it would be fun to introduce her to the sights of the big city.
“Want to ride it one more time before we take in the Wild West?” Sam asked.
Noting his friend’s wistful voice and the expression of pleading in his eyes, and understanding Sam’s longing, H.L. grinned. “Sure. Why not?”
After the two men took their seats on one of the Ferris wheel’s passenger coaches, each one of which accommodated sixty people, H.L. said, “Say, Sam, I met Annie Oakley and Rose Gilhooley this afternoon.”
Sam offered H.L. some of his buttered popcorn, a delicacy sold in cone-shaped paper sacks at the Exposition. “Yeah? Is Gilhooley an Indian?”
Considering pretty little Rose Gilhooley, H.L. shook his head. “Nope. I don’t think there’s a drop of Indian blood in her.”
Sam shrugged. “I hear Annie Oakley’s the best shot the world’s ever seen. And that Gilhooley girl is supposed to be a great rider. I’m looking forward to seeing both of them tonight.”
H.L. barely noticed Sam’s mention of the famous Annie Oakley. “Haven’t seen her ride yet.” He popped some puffed corn into his mouth. “She’s cute as a button, though.”
“Who?” Sam looked at him, obviously puzzled.
“Gilhooley.” At once, Sam knew cute wasn’t the correct word to describe Rose Gilhooley. He wasn’t sure what was, but he aimed to find out.
“Really? Is she small, too? I hear Annie Oakley’s really tiny. I can’t imagine anyone doing the things Gilhooley’s supposed to do on a horse being big. The
horse wouldn’t survive.” Sam laughed heartily.
“She’s small.” H.L. chewed another mouthful of popcorn thoughtfully. There was something about Rose Gilhooley that excited him. As a reporter. He had a strange, instinctive feeling about her. He’d never quite had it before, but it reminded him of the times in his life when he’d known, without any evidence other than his gut, that he’d found a story. And not just any story, but a story.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her ride tonight.” Sam said around a mouthful of popcorn.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
H.L. didn’t know what these feelings of his meant exactly, but he had a dead-certain instinct that Rose Gilhooley and her story were going to be the making of his career. He couldn’t recall ever being this exhilarated about a story in his entire life. He was going to write the best damned article the city of Chicago had seen since the Fire. And it was going to be about Rose Gilhooley.
# # #
“By God, she’s amazing.” Sam’s eyes were bulging, and he spoke in a hushed voice as they watched Rose Gilhooley perform in the center of the field where the Wild West had been set up. He and H.L. got to view the Wild West from front-row seats, thanks to their newspaper jobs. Cody, a showman to the core, always treated the press like royalty.
H.L. was too engrossed to respond to Sam’s awe-inspired comment. He’d never seen anyone do the things on horseback that Rose Gilhooley, the so-called “Wind Dancer” of the Wild West, was doing right now.
For her act, Rose wore a modified Indian outfit, although H.L.’s cynical side made him wonder what self-respecting tribe would have the gall—or the funds—to wear such a thing. It looked as if it had been fashioned out of buckskin and glitter, with long, dangly fringes and elaborate beadwork. It was not, properly speaking, a dress, or even a robe.
Coming Up Roses Page 2
