Coming Up Roses (4 page)

The Indian-style costume she wore was very
effective. Even though she had darkish hair, Rose Gilhooley
couldn’t pass for an Indian in a million years. For one reason, her
hair was curly, although it was drawn back tightly tonight. But
H.L. remembered very well that her eyes were blue. Robin’s-egg
blue. Sky-blue. Sapphire blue. Gorgeous blue. And they were as big
as saucers.

He grimaced, wondering what was wrong with
him that he’d recalled her big blue eyes in such poetic terms. Then
he comforted himself with the reasoning that he was only thinking
of descriptive words to use in his articles. That made him feel
better, and he went back to contemplating the rest of her.

On to her hair, then. He knew, because he’d
seen it unbound, that it was a very shiny, very dark brown.
Chestnut brown. In order to more thoroughly convey the Wild-West
image Cody required, she also wore some type of headband that
seemed to drip feathers behind her as the horse rampaged through
the arena. The feathers were colorful and reflected the light to
perfection.

Cody had made sure there was abundant light
flooding the arena, even though his show went on after dark. H.L.
thought there must be sparkly things glued or sewn onto Rose’s
feathers to make them glitter and shine in the floodlights. The
same was true of the beadwork on the bodice of her Indian-style
costume.

Her bloomers were heavily embroidered and
sported no beadwork, probably because she didn’t want to scratch
the horse during her acrobatic routines. They only reached her
knees, too, so the audience was treated to quite a display of her
shapely calves. The rest of her wasn’t bad in the curve department,
either, H.L. noticed with interest when the horse finally slowed to
a trot and Rose slid down to ride astride. She didn’t stay there
for long, but jumped up onto the horse’s back again and stood in
her bare feet as she balanced with seeming ease, her arms
outstretched.

He squinted narrowly and decided she wasn’t
wearing a corset. Well, how could she, and survive the rigors of
that act? The poor creature would faint dead away during her first
trick if she had to strap all that whale boning around her midriff.
H.L. approved. He liked the natural female shape. A lot. He
explored it whenever he got the chance, in fact. He wouldn’t mind
exploring Rose’s curves by hand, actually.

Shaking himself hard, he wondered where
that thought had come from. He might take a certain pride in a
local repute among his peers at the
Globe
as something of a ladies’ man, but he was
certainly no defiler of virgins. H.L. would stake his virile
reputation on the certainty that Rose Gilhooley was a
virgin.

Innocent. That was a better word for her than
cute, but it still didn’t capture the essence of Rose.

Beside him, Sam squeaked. “Jesus H. Christ,
H.L.! Did you see that?”

H.L. had seen it. He was, however, unable to
speak since his heart had lodged in his throat again. He wished it
would stop doing that.

“
How does she
do
those things?” Sam gasped. Then he joined in
the roar of cheers.

So did H.L. He and Sam jumped to their feet,
applauding wildly and whooping until H.L.’s throat felt raw.

From standing on the horse’s back with her
arms lifted in a pose that brought to H.L.’s mind an image of
perfect freedom, Rose had suddenly done a spring that shocked the
audience into a gasp of alarm and landed on her hands. On the
horse’s back. And then she’d done the splits. In mid-air. On the
horse’s back. While standing on her hands. That’s when the audience
had roared and risen, astounded by Rose’s phenomenal skill.

“
By God,” H.L. whispered to himself.
“She’s rock-solid. Rock-solid, by God.” He’d never seen anyone ride
a horse with as much assurance as Rose Gilhooley.

He found it difficult to reconcile the small,
insecure-seeming child-woman he’d met that afternoon with this
fabulous performer. “By God, I’m going to do it,” he vowed, again
to himself.

Sam, who’d been caught up in the thrill of
the moment, heard H.L. that time. Still standing and clapping, he
leaned toward H.L. “What? You’re going to do what? I didn’t hear
you.”

“
Nothing.” H.L. sent an ear-splitting
whistle through his teeth, as he’d done when he was a boy trying
demonstrate a level of approval for which words weren’t enough. He
couldn’t recall the last time he’d been moved to express himself
thus. But Rose Gilhooley was a goddamned inspiration.

By God, he was going to do more than write
one puny article about her. He was going to make her the
centerpiece of a whole series of articles. He was going to write
about her the way nobody had ever written about anyone before in
the history of the world.

He was going to get to the bottom of her
talent and tell the world about it. He was going to make her more
famous than Buffalo Bill Cody himself.

Rose’s gift was more than mere talent.
H.L. knew it. Her entire personality, spirit, and essence went into
her act. Nobody—
nobody
—could
perform the way she did unless she threw her whole heart and soul
into it.

H.L. had never understood that kind of
dedication. His own love of the English language and of the written
word had driven him to become the best writer he could be, but he
was damned certain he didn’t possess the depth of talent and
single-minded dedication being demonstrated right this minute by
little Rose Gilhooley. Hell, he was a natural writer, and he earned
a living at it. Rose might be a natural rider, but she was more
than that, and he wanted to dig around until he found a definition
for whatever it was she possessed.

How old was she? Twenty-two? And she’d
been with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West for six years? She’d been riding
like that since she was
sixteen
? Jesus. By the time he got through with
Rose Gilhooley, he’d understand the phenomenal female inside and
out, upside and down, absolutely, positively, and with no room for
doubt.

H.L. didn’t know how long her act
lasted. It couldn’t have been long, because the horse wasn’t even
sweaty when Rose signaled it somehow—to the audience, her commands
were invisible, although the horse obeyed them instantly—to a halt
in a shower of dust, made it twirl around like a ballerina—a horse,
for God’s sake!—then took one last prancing dance to the center of
the arena, leaned over, patted the horse’s neck, and threw her arms
in the air as the horse—the
horse
—by God, H.L. had never seen the
like—bowed!

Rose herself swept a dainty bow from the
horse’s back and threw kisses to the audience. She reminded H.L. of
pictures of angels he’d seen in church. Not that he’d seen the
inside of a church for years, but it’s still what Rose reminded him
of.

She sat on her horse in the center of the
arena for a minute or two, looking unbelievably serene and delicate
considering everything she’d just done, acknowledging the
audience’s whoops and cheers. She made her horse turn a slow circle
as she waved back at her fans. H.L. was sure the whole thing was
planned and rehearsed, but it looked natural when Buffalo Bill
himself rode out on a comparably white mount and gave Rose a big
hug from horseback. The audience went wild.

Then Rose Gilhooley took one last bow,
saluted cheerfully at the crowd, and rode out of the arena.

And the show went on. But H.L. didn’t care
about the rest of the show. With a clap on Sam’s back that made his
fellow journalist jump, H.L. got up. “I’ve gotta go, Sam. See you
tomorrow. Give my best to Daisy and the kids.”

Startled, Sam half-rose. “Wh-what? Where are
you going, H.L.? I thought you were going to—”

H.L. was already running up the aisle. He
called back over his shoulder, “Gotta go. See you later, Sam. Gotta
start researching these articles I’m going to write.”

Glancing back once, H.L. saw Sam staring
after him, dumbfounded, but he didn’t care. He wanted— No. He
needed—to talk to Rose Gilhooley. Now. Not later. Now. Right this
minute. While he was still under her influence.

Chapter Three

To the accompaniment of cheers from the
crowd, Rose directed Fairy, the pretty white horse Colonel Cody had
given her and which she’d trained because Gingerbread was getting
old, out of the arena. Even though she sometimes thought living in
a traveling theatrical exhibition was an odd way to live, she was
happy. It was fun to entertain people.

She was greeted by smiles and friendly waves
from other members of the cast as she rode Fairy through the group
of people gathered to head out into the arena for another
educational depiction of old-west activities. The show was a
self-contained community, and Rose felt secure within its limits.
The rest of the world scared her, but the Wild West was home.

Next on Cody’s agenda was a reenactment of
the Battle of the Little Big Horn, so there were hundreds of cast
members, both soldiers and Indians, as well as horses, ready to
ride out into the arena. Therefore, Rose got to greet lots of
friends as she maneuvered Fairy through the mob. Little Elk, the
same Sioux who’d helped her refine and expand her riding skills,
gave her a brief salute with his highly decorated tomahawk—reality,
to Colonel Cody, sometimes required augmentation. “Good riding,
Wind Dancer.” His guttural voice always held a smile when he spoke
to Rose.

“
Thanks, Little Elk. It’s all your
fault, you know.” She sent him a grin, which he acknowledged with a
nod.

“
You were wonderful, Rose. I’ve never
seen you ride better or with more grace and assurance.” Annie
Oakley walked up to pat Fairy’s neck and hold out a pair of
moccasins to Rose.

Rose always put on the moccasins after her
performance, and she did so now, slipping them on before she
dismounted. While she had to do her act barefoot, she knew it was
both unsafe and improper to tromp around the fairgrounds without
shoes on. The colonel was very careful to maintain a sanitary
workplace, but no one wanted to take a chance of contracting
lockjaw, which was always a risk when one worked around horses.
Rose knew, too, that no real lady would ever walk barefooted and,
while she knew she was no real lady, she always pretended to be one
if only for Annie’s sake.

“
Thanks, Annie.” Rose gratefully took
the hand Annie held up to her and slid from Fairy’s back. “It’s a
good crowd. They’re going to love you.”

Rose was in great shape physically, and made
sure she stayed that way, never eating too much or too little and
doing stretching exercises with her wrists, hands, arms, and legs
every day. But the act was hard on her body. Her hands and wrists,
which had to bear the brunt of her weight during her act, got an
especially rigorous workout. She vigorously shook them after she
landed.

After giving them a thorough shake, she
wiggled her fingers and turned her wrists as she’d seen dancers in
the Egyptian Exhibition do. Little Egypt herself had shocked Rose
slightly, because she wore a rather scandalous costume. She
appreciated having witnessed her dance, though, because she’d
learned movements that helped limber up her fingers and wrists
after a hard show. Anyhow, as far as costumes went, some folks were
shocked by Rose’s. Rose sniffed with dented dignity.

The feathers on her elaborate headdress were
quite effective during her act, but they bothered her once she
dismounted. The long ribbon to which they were attached trailed
behind her, and the feathers tickled her calves.

She left Annie and the rest of the Wild West
cast and led Fairy beyond the arena to the stable area, carefully
unpinning the headdress as she walked. Once, during a performance
in Italy, she’d almost lost the headdress due to inadequate
pinning. These days Rose made extra-specially sure the silly thing
was secure. Fortunately, her dense, curly hair helped hold the pins
in.

“
Miss Gilhooley! Miss
Gilhooley!”

Rose jumped and whirled around when she heard
her name being called in such excitement. Usually during Cody’s
reenactment of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, nobody paid
attention to anything else, unless a crisis of major proportion had
occurred. Whatever could be wrong?

She frowned when she saw that newspaper
reporter—what was his name? H.L. Something?—burst through the crowd
of performers and stage hands rimming the arena tunnel and hurry
toward her. Whatever his name was, she remembered clearly that he’d
found her amusing earlier in the day. In point of fact, he’d
laughed at her.

Rose, who felt naive and unsophisticated
around big-city folks, resented being laughed at. She didn’t smile
as H.L. Whoever-he-was hurried up to her. Nor did she speak.

Evidently this person, who seemed to have a
rather high opinion of himself, didn’t need anyone else when it
came to carrying on a conversation, because he spoke without
waiting for a response from Rose. Rose decided she didn’t like
him.

“
Miss Gilhooley, I just wanted to tell
you that yours was the most spectacular performance I’ve ever seen
in my life.”

Hmmm
. Rose
forgave him a trifle for making her feel small and insignificant
earlier in the day. “Thank you.”

She’d learned long ago not to trust
strangers. She’d had men try all sorts of unkind, not to mention
occasionally downright improper, maneuvers on her in the six years
she’d been with the Wild West. Colonel Cody, bless him, tried in
all ways to protect the female members of his cast and generally
sent pushy fellows off with fleas in their ears. Unfortunately,
Cody wasn’t here now. He was in the arena, fighting off Indians and
could not, therefore, fight off H.L. Whoever.