Coming Up Roses (39 page)

“
Rose, this isn’t fair.”

“
What isn’t fair?” she demanded,
incredulous. “It isn’t fair that I want you gone? It isn’t fair
that I asked you about marriage?”

“
Dammit—”

“
Stop swearing this instant, H.L. May.”
Rose sucked in about a gallon of air and made her eyes go squinty.
“You’re right. Silly me, to think you might be an honorable
man.”

“
Now that’s not true, Rose—”

“
Oh, be quiet. I can’t believe I let
you into my bed.” Or her heart.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of
hearing her say again how much she’d been fooled. She felt like
such a dimwit. How could she have allowed herself to fall in love
with a man so obviously above her in every way. Except morals. He
had no morals at all.

“
Rose . . .” He might have sounded
pathetic if Rose weren’t filtering everything through the haze of
her own present misery. “Won’t you please give me a
chance?”

A chance at what? No matter. If Rose didn’t
get quit of him soon, she’d break down and cry in front of him, and
she couldn’t do that and maintain even a shred of her dignity. Not
that she had very much dignity left. “No.”

He stood there, hat in hand, looking awful
and broken and miserable, for another ten seconds. Rose put her
fists on her hips, glared, and tapped her foot in a show of
impatience that was only halfway feigned. She really did want him
to go away, so she could have hysterics in peace.

H.L. opened his mouth, closed it, turned, and
untied the flap of her tent. He muttered, “I’m leaving now, but
I’ll be back.”

His threat alarmed Rose, who hastened to say,
“If you come back, I still won’t speak to you.”

He shot a glance over his shoulder, sighed,
and left. Rose raced to the door and tied the flap back in place.
She didn’t want anyone entering into her presence before she’d
composed herself. She already felt completely humiliated. She’d die
before she allowed any of her friends to see her thus. Especially
Annie.

She felt so stupid. And so,
so
bad.

“
Oh, Lord, what have I done?” Her voice
was a thready whisper and ragged with tears when she threw herself
down onto the bed in which she’d only lately experienced such
pleasure.

As she cried, she thumped her pillow—the
pillow H.L. had said smelled like her. He’d said it as if he
considered it special because her fragrance lingered there,
too.

“
What a fool I am!”

Rose wished she could talk to her mother. Of
all the people in the world, Mrs. Gilhooley understood human
frailty. Mrs. Gilhooley, who’d been through so much in her own
life, understood how a girl could allow a longing to be loved to
bring her to this pass. Rose’s mother never made her feel
stupid.

Not like H.L. May. H.L. May didn’t have
to do anything at all but exist in the same world she did, and Rose
felt stupid. Now that he
had
done something—more than something—Rose felt lower than low,
and as dumb as dirt.

She wanted Annie. Annie would sympathize with
her, too. Even though Annie had advised Rose from the first not to
get involved with H.L., she’d understand. Annie’s life had been
much like Rose’s, only Annie, unlike Rose, had chosen wisely in the
man department. Rose had been stupid.

In short, she wanted to die.

# # #

What the hell had happened back there? H.L.
shuffled along, his hands jammed into his pockets, his brain
aching. He felt lost and alone. His soul hurt. He almost wished his
head still hurt, too, since it didn’t seem right that so much
psychic pain shouldn’t be accompanied by physical pain.

But except for some bumps and bruises and a
pretty big lump on his head, Rose’s Indian medicaments seemed to
have cured him.

Rose
. “Aw,
hell.” The words didn’t half match the anguish in his heart.
Pulling his right hand out of his pocket, he splayed it over his
chest, wondering why love should feel so bad.

How could he have been so stupid as not
to have realized that a girl like Rose would assume the man who
deflowered her would then marry her? Of
course
that’s what she’d assume! He’d been so
blinded by love and lust, the notion of marriage hadn’t occurred to
him—at least it hadn’t occurred to him seriously enough that he’d
concocted an answer to the question she’d surely ask
him.

“
Idiot. Fool. Ass.” He wished there
were more disparaging words in the English language, because those
weren’t quite vile enough to describe him.

But jeez, it’s not as if he didn’t love her.
The fact that he hadn’t considered marriage, and the fact that the
thought of marriage sent cold shivers up his spine, didn’t mean he
didn’t love her.

As he walked, H.L. considered the
married state now. His automatic reaction to the word
marriage
was one of panic, although
he didn’t know why, exactly, it should be. His folks had been happy
enough, he supposed. Still were, for that matter.

Sam, his cohort at the
Globe
, seemed content with his
Daisy, and Sam was always talking about his kids. Sam seemed to
think his children were something special, although as far as H.L.
could tell, there were ordinary enough.

It went without saying that any children he
and Rose might have had would be special. They couldn’t help but
be, given their parents. He and Rose were both outstanding people,
after all. They would naturally produce superior offspring.

Why the devil was he thinking about children,
when the very thought of marriage made his blood run cold? He
couldn’t think of an answer.

Squinting at the sky, H.L. tried to determine
the time of day. It must be going on towards five in the morning.
The sky was turning gray, and the stars were fading. H.L. wasn’t
accustomed to seeing in the dawn. He knew quite a few reporters who
were. That’s because they reveled in their bachelor status and
celebrated it by carousing all night. The newsroom was full of
hung-over gents most mornings. They all joked about their lives of
sin and excess.

Frowning at the sky, H.L. wondered if that’s
what he wanted out of life. Did he really want to drink and smoke
and stay up all night and tell tales about the women he’d bedded,
the stories he’d covered, and the articles he’d written? That’s
what he used to want. It used to sound romantic to him. At the
moment, it didn’t sound like any sort of aspiration at all. In
fact, it sounded pathetic, although that might be only because he
was bone tired.

Bone tired or not, he had work to do,
so instead of heading to his flat, he flagged down a cab, told the
cabbie to take him to the
Globe
building. He needed to write up the events of last night.
Given his present state of mind, he didn’t intend to spare the
minions of the law who should have prevented Rose’s kidnapping, but
to state clearly and as acerbically as possible, all of their
shortcomings and stupidities. He hoped the Chicago police
department would choke on them.

He paid off the cabbie and entered the
building, hoping nobody else would be there. His luck was out, as
he might have expected it would be, given the way his luck was
running this morning.

“
Jesus H. Christ, H.L., you look like
hell and then some.”

Glancing up, H.L. saw George Wiggins, a young
pup of a reporter who also relished his status as newshound and
devil-may-care rakehell.

“
Yeah. I ran in to a sandbag last
night.”

“
Shoot, really?” George, who had been
sagging in his chair, sat up straight. “How’d it
happen?”

H.L. didn’t want to chat. Forcing a grin, he
told George, “You’ll be able to read all about it in the early
edition. I’ve got to write it down now, or it won’t get
printed.”

“
I heard Haley’s drooling over your
fair pieces, H.L. Good going.”

“
Thanks.” Any other day in the year,
H.L. would be secretly preening over Wiggins’s words. H.L. knew the
young cub reporter envied him and did his best to emulate his
style. Right now, H.L. would have gladly consigned Wiggins’ envy
and imitation to the devil, if only he could be back in Rose’s
tent. In Rose’s arms.

How could he have bungled so miserably in
what, by rights, should have been the blissful beginning to a
heavenly affair?

The word gave H.L. pause. As he sat at
his desk and pulled out some sheets of paper, he pondered the word
affair. Is that what he wanted with Rose? An affair? A brief
liaison that would end when the Wild West pulled up stakes and went
touring elsewhere? Back to Europe, maybe? Or to New York City,
where Rose might meet any number of reporters? Hell, she might even
meet reporters who worked at the
New York
Times
. Wouldn’t that be a kicker, if Rose took up with
somebody from the
Times
?

Hell, men who might be interested in Rose
didn’t necessarily have to be reporters. There were hundreds of
millionaires back East who’d be thrilled to court and even marry
the bareback riding sensation of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Ancient
rich men were forever making asses of themselves over chorus girls
and actresses. Why not bareback riders?

H.L.’s heart, which had been throbbing much
as his head had done last night, gave a sharp spasm. He slapped a
hand over it.

“
What’s the matter, H.L.?” Wiggins
asked with a laugh. “Too much excitement? You older fellows have to
watch it, you know.”

H.L. squinted malignantly at the younger
reporter. “That so?”

His expression evidently took George Wiggins
aback because he started slightly and stopped grinning. “No
offense, H.L.” He held up a hand in a placating gesture. Then he
grinned again. “Big night?”

H.L. subdued the sudden urge to pick up his
Underwood Invisible Writing Machine and heave it at George Wiggins.
He growled, “Yeah,” and jabbed a sheet of foolscap into the
machine. Even though he hadn’t even begun to think about what he
aimed to write, he started typing because he wanted to forestall
any more ill-timed comments from his fellow reporter.

Damn George Wiggins to hell. How dare he talk
about Rose as a “big night” in that crafty, winking, sly way?

Not, of course, that George knew H.L. had
spent the night with Rose. Nobody knew that yet.

Suddenly, H.L.’s fingers stilled on the
typewriter’s keys. Crap, would anybody in the Wild West find out
Rose and he had made love last night?

Would Rose have to face snide comments and
knowing looks this morning? And, if she did, how the devil could he
protect her from that sort of thing if she wouldn’t allow him near
her? He experienced a sudden, painful, aching need to be with her;
to shield her from the slings and arrows of outrageous people. He
wanted to slam his head against his desk ten or twenty times as
some sort of punishment for his sins.

How could it be a sin to love a woman?
Indignation swelled in his bosom. He caught Wiggins staring at him
out of the corner of his eye, and forced himself to type some more.
He didn’t know what he was typing. Nothing, probably, but he needed
to keep his fingers moving so Wiggins wouldn’t suspect him of going
through an episode of emotional turmoil. H.L.’s reputation would be
ruined if anyone suspected him of having been bitten by the love
bug.

And what good, his inner voice asked him, was
a reputation, anyhow? If H.L. lost Rose forever, would his
reputation be a comfort to him in a lonely old age, as Rose might
be if he gave her a chance? Would his reputation love him, as Rose
did? Would his reputation soothe his wounds, physical and
emotional, as Rose did? Could he and his reputation produce
brilliant children?

Children
? Why
was he thinking about children again? H.L. May didn’t want
children, not even the brilliant variety he and Rose would surely
produce. He didn’t need that kind of responsibility, for the love
of God. He had a great life. A perfect life, even.
Children.

He waited for a shudder to seize him, but
didn’t think much about it when it didn’t come. But children? Good
God. While H.L. might, in moments of weakness, consider marriage,
he couldn’t even imagine rearing children.

As his fingers pecked away at the typewriter
keys, his mind wandered, and he imagined them now. Although the
mere notion of children was appalling to him, he had to admit that,
if he had any with Rose, they’d be really smart, good-looking kids.
Hell, they couldn’t help but be. Both he and Rose were smart,
good-looking people.

He considered this last insight and decided
that, in truth, Rose was gorgeous. Funny he hadn’t noticed her true
beauty at first; he’d only seen her as a fantastic subject for a
series of career-making articles. But he contemplated her beauty
now. In fact, H.L. couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman who more
perfectly matched his ideal of womanhood.

He only realized he’d sighed when Wiggins’s
head snapped up, and the young man stared at him. H.L. quickly
turned his sigh into a yawn and hoped Wiggins wouldn’t catch
on.

So . . . If Rose matched his ideal of
womanhood and H.L. couldn’t bear to think about what his life would
be life when she and the Wild West packed up and left Chicago, why
did the idea of marriage to her bother him so much? Naturally, the
notion of marriage to anyone else in the world was anathema to him,
but marriage to Rose? Hmmm . . .