Coming Up Roses (6 page)

Trying her best to ignore her inquisitor, she
started combing, making sure she whispered soothing noises to
Fairy, in case the horse was as upset as Rose by H.L. May’s
continued presence.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t
so—so—obtrusive. But he was. Rose had a suspicion that even if he
were to be polite and keep his mouth shut, she’d still know he was
there. He had a commanding presence. Sort of like the colonel’s,
only nowhere near as restful.

“
You did a really good job training
her,” H.L. observed.

As if
he
knew anything. He couldn’t even tell a mare
from a gelding “Thank you.”

Although Rose had told herself she wanted
H.L. May to shut up and go away, when he did remain silent, he made
her even more nervous than when he talked. She discovered this
unnerving fact when a space of quiet ensued after her last frigid
thank you.

Blast the man, what was the matter with him?
For that matter, what was the matter with her. It wasn’t like Rose
Gilhooley to be this anxious around newspaper people. Not any
longer. During the first year or so of her tenure with the Wild
West, she’d been as nervous as a cat on a hot rock every time
anyone connected with the press came around. But that was only
because she’d been so conscious of her shortcomings regarding
language usage and proper grammar. She’d studied hard in the
ensuing years, however, and now she could hold her own around most
of the press buzzards, as she’d come to think of them.

At least the reporters in Europe had been
polite. This H.L. May person was rude and intrusive, and Rose
wished he’d either get on with it or leave. Her nerves crackled
uncharacteristically. Perhaps she was only tense because she’d not
had her quiet time alone with Fairy.

Twaddle. She’d been pursued by newspaper
people plenty of times after a show. Everyone who saw her
considered her act spectacular, and most folks wondered how such a
tiny, delicate-looking girl could do the amazing things she
did.

Ha! If they only knew. Rose was about as
delicate as bear jerky. She never admitted it to members of the
press. When H.L. finally spoke again, Rose was so involved in her
own tumultuous thoughts that she jumped in alarm.

“
Say, Miss Gilhooley, I get the feeling
you don’t like me much, but I’m really not such a bad
fellow.”

Involuntarily Rose slapped a hand over her
thumping heart. She turned to stare at H.L. through slitted lids.
Blast him, anyway! How dare he lull her into thinking he wasn’t
going to talk any more, and then say something like that?

Well . . . Rose realized instantly that she’d
just been irrational. She chalked up this aberration in her normal
clear thought patterns to H.L. May’s influence, too.

After she’d caught her breath and her heart
stopped thundering, which took approximately five seconds, she
said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. May. I don’t dislike you. I don’t
even know you.”

His grin made her heart stop for a second.
She felt the heat creep into her cheeks, and this time she wanted
to heave the mane-and-tail comb at him. Instead, she put the comb
in its place with the precision that had been drummed into her by
Annie Oakley and Colonel Cody, both of whom liked to keep things
neat, and walked over to Fairy’s own personal stall, where the
mare’s special blanket hung over the railing. Rose had embroidered
Fairy’s name on the blanket with her own fingers, under Annie’s
tutelage. Rose picked it up and carried it back to the mare.

“
Hey, why don’t you let me help you
with that stuff?” H.L. said, jerking away from the wall he’d been
holding up. “That’s a pretty heavy blanket for a little girl like
you.”

If there was one thing Rose resented more
than H.L. considering her a weakling, it was him thinking of her as
a little girl. She glowered at him from under Fairy’s neck as she
flung the blanket over the mare’s glossy white back. “I am not a
little girl, Mr. May. And I’m quite strong. If I weren’t, I
wouldn’t be able to perform my act, would I?”

Thank goodness he didn’t laugh. He grinned,
but Rose thought she might be able to stand that—although she
wasn’t sure. His grin flashed two whole rows of gloriously white
teeth that made a remarkable contrast against his tanned face. He
looked too healthy to be a reporter. Rose had always been told
reporters stayed indoors and drank all the time, and were mostly
consumptive and dying. This specimen looked awfully darned robust
to her.

“
I suppose not,” he said through his
grin.

She sniffed.

“
All right, Miss Gilhooley, I promise I
won’t offer to help again. And I also promise I won’t get in your
way.” He held his hands up, palms out, as a peace
offering.

“
No?” She made sure she appeared as
skeptical as she sounded, because she didn’t want him getting any
ideas.

“
No.”

Fiddle Rose wished his eyes wouldn’t twinkle
like that. He was too good-looking for her peace of mind, and that
was a very bad thing. Rose knew all about newspaper men. She
understood they were men of loose morals and looser tongues. Annie,
Rose’s model for all things proper, had often told her so.

Annie’s opinion of men in general wasn’t very
high. Her husband, Frank Butler, was a model of masculine
perfection, but there wasn’t another man in the world who measured
up to Frank, not even Rose’s personal hero, William F. Cody.

Rose trusted Annie’s opinions absolutely.
Since Rose had joined the Wild West, except for that one awful year
when Annie had absented herself—she’d not condoned the inclusion of
another lady sharpshooter in the Wild West—Annie had substituted
for Rose’s family. Mother, father, teacher, moral arbiter: Annie
had been just about everything to Rose.

“
Heck, no,” H.L. said. He walked over
to stand on the other side of Fairy and helped Rose straighten out
the blanket. Rose wished he hadn’t done that. “I’m really a great
guy. And I’m going to write a series of articles about you that
will bring you to the attention of the world.”

Rose squinted at him, this time from over
Fairy’s graceful neck. She had to stand on tiptoes to do it, but
that was all right. She wanted to make sure he knew she wasn’t any
old backwoods hick. “I’ve performed in front of the crowned heads
of Europe, Mr. May, not to mention most of the celebrities in the
United States and its territories over here. What can you do for my
reputation that Colonel Cody hasn’t already done? I’m sure I don’t
need any publicity from you.”

She placed special emphasis on the you in
order to make him understand that she considered him a mere
scribbler and worth little in the overall scheme of things. She
didn’t, of course, but she’d die sooner than let him know it.

“
Nonsense. All performers can use
publicity. And you’re really something.”

She was? Since she didn’t know what to say,
Rose remained silent, only leading Fairy to her stall. Fairy was
glad to be home. She let Rose know as much by nuzzling her cheek
before retiring for the night. Rose’s eyes filled with tears. At
least Fairy appreciated her. Because she didn’t want H.L. May to
know how much he was affecting her, she kept her back to him as she
retrieved a bucket, got some grain, filled Fairy’s feed bin, and
checked her water supply.

“
There you go, girl.” Rose patted the
mare’s white rump and, unable to delay any longer, left the stall.
With a sigh, she closed and locked the stall door, then sucked in a
breath redolent of sweet hay and horses, and turned to confront her
tormenter.

“
What exactly do you expect to
accomplish with these articles, Mr. May? And why do you want to
write about me? Wouldn’t you prefer to concentrate on a more famous
performer?”

Annie Oakley was forever being written about.
Annie was used to it. Rose wasn’t. She feared she might get
big-headed if reporters suddenly started paying attention to her.
Worse, she feared that once they got to know her, they’d despise
her for her many deficiencies of education and refinement. In
Rose’s opinion, that would be much worse than anonymity.

“
Everybody writes about folks who are
already famous, Miss Gilhooley. I’m interested in you.”

“
Hmmm.” His statement might be taken in
more ways than one, if Rose weren’t so certain of her position in
life, which was quite low. If she hadn’t been so superior a natural
rider, she’d still be living on a miserable farm outside Deadwood,
Kansas, illiterate, ignorant, and shooting game for a living. It
was pure dumb luck—and her brother Freddie—that had brought Rose to
Colonel Cody’s attention.

H.L. lifted his arms as if he were presenting
Rose to the world. “You’re a true phenomenon, Miss Gilhooley! I’ve
never seen anyone ride like you do. You’ve got to be the most
sensational performer I’ve ever seen, and you put on an absolutely
amazing bareback riding act. Why, you put every single one of the
circus performers I’ve seen to shame.”

“
Thank you.”

“
And I’m sure your story is
fascinating. According to the publicity dodger Cody sent to the
newspaper, you’ve been with the Wild West for six years. You must
have started when you were a baby!”

“
I was sixteen,” Rose muttered, peeved.
Why did this man persist in thinking of her as a child? She didn’t
want him to. Or maybe she did.

Fiddlesticks. H.L. May made her brain
hurt.

“
That means you’re only twenty-two
years old right now. Do you realize what most twenty-two-year-old
women are doing with their lives these days?”

Getting married to nice men
and having babies
, Rose thought unhappily.

She said, “No.”

“
Well, neither do I, really.” H.L.
laughed.

This time his self-mocking laughter charmed
Rose. She considered her reaction an unhappy indication of her
underlying moral depravity. Annie had told her over and over again
that poverty did not equate to moral depravity, and Rose tried to
believe her, but she had her suspicions.

“
I do know, though,” H.L. went on,
“that most of them aren’t riding horses as star performers in the
premier Wild West show in the world, as you are.”

“
I’m sure of it,” Rose said dryly. For
one thing, they didn’t have to, as she did.

Because she wasn’t feeling too good about
herself at the moment and, more, she didn’t want H.L. May to agree
with her self-assessment, she added, “What I do takes a lot of
skill and even more practice. Most people, male or female, aren’t
willing to put so much time and effort into perfecting a skill.”
That was quite good. Rose tried to think of some of the other
things Annie and the colonel had said of and to her in their
on-going efforts to boost her self-esteem. She couldn’t think of
any.

“
That’s right,” H.L. said
energetically. “And I’m going to show the world exactly what you’ve
made of yourself.”

Instantly, all of Rose’s insecurities leaped
to attention. “What do you mean by that?” She slammed the bucket
back into place and was sorry at once when Fairy whinnied and
fidgeted in her stall.

H.L. blinked at her. “Nothing bad, honest.
Why won’t you trust me, Miss Gilhooley? I don’t intend anything of
an improper nature, believe me.”

The way he said it made Rose understand that
being improper with her was about the last thing in the universe he
desired. Oddly enough, knowing that his intentions were honorable
didn’t make her feel significantly better. Nevertheless, she said,
“Of course not,” because she felt she should. This was so
embarrassing.

She stood as tall as she could, which, at
five feet, one inch, wasn’t very, although she was a whole inch
taller than Annie Oakley, and tried to sound dignified when she
next spoke. “I need to go to my tent and change out of my costume,
Mr. May. Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

He looked exasperated. “Of
course
, there’s more I wish to say
to you! Dammit, I want to write about you!”

Rose drew her shoulders up even more rigidly.
“Please don’t swear at me, Mr. May.”

The roar of the crowd and the rat-a-tat of
gunfire let Rose know that the Little Big Horn reenactment was
about over. Pretty soon, General Custer would be the last man
standing and would die a brave and honorable death—although how
anyone could know how he died was beyond her, unless Colonel Cody
had managed to get one of the Indian participants to yak, and they
generally wouldn’t—and Rose didn’t want anyone to catch her alone
in the stables with H.L. May. They might get the wrong idea.

“
Sorry, Miss Gilhooley.” Again, H.L.
May sounded unrepentant about his use of impolite language. “But I
need to spend more time with you. A lot of time. Don’t you
understand? I want to write a whole series of articles about the
Columbian Exposition, and I want more than one of them to be about
you!”

“
What you want and what I want are two
different things, Mr. May,” she said stiffly. “I shall be more than
happy to sit for one interview with you so that you can write your
article.”

She knew good and well that the colonel had
been made rich and famous through dime novels, theatrical
exhibitions, and newspaper articles documenting his exploits, but
the notion of someone writing such things about her, little Rose
Ellen Gilhooley, dismayed her. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want
the whole world to know she was an uneducated boob! She’d never say
so to this man.

“
Nuts. I’ll bet you anything that if I
approached Buffalo Bill about doing a series of articles about you,
he’d give me his blessing.”