Prairie Rose (29 page)

But there was more to Rosie. The woman thought about things. Deep thoughts. She was interesting to talk to. She’d read some books, and she liked to discuss ideas she had. Seth had never met a woman like that, and Rosie’s intelligence was something he treasured.

“She thinks,” he said, tapping his head to illustrate his point to Rolf. “She’s smart.”

Rolf frowned. “Schmart? I can not … not unterstanden.” Then he shrugged. “Rosie
ist
goot fräulein. Vill be
meine
vife.”

“Your
wife
?” Seth and Chipper said at the same time.

“Vife,
ja
. In vintertime Rosie vill
komm
to
mein Haus und
marry vit me.
Ist
goot
, ja?
” He gave them a broad smile. “I build voot
Haus
,
und
Rosie vill babies haf. Rosie
und
Rolf:
die
family Rustemeyer.”

Seth stared out at the long flat trail ahead. Had Rosie actually agreed to marry the German in the winter? Had she accepted a proposal of marriage from Rolf and never bothered to tell Seth?

Maybe she hadn’t thought it important to tell him. After all, more than once that summer Seth had made it clear he was going to take her back to the orphanage in Kansas City in the fall. Sure he had kissed her once, but the grasshopper infestation had kept him from courting her properly. Maybe that kiss hadn’t meant to Rosie what it had meant to Seth. Maybe the whole time she was kissing Seth, she had already agreed to marry Rolf Rustemeyer.

“Rosie’s gonna marry
you?
” Chipper asked the brawny German. “Are you sure about that?”

“Ja, ja, ja
. She marry vit me. I build
Haus für
Rosie. Haf childrens togedder. Big family.
Ja?
”

Chipper looked up at his father. Seth could feel the blue eyes boring into him. “I thought
you
liked Rosie, Papa.”

“I do like her.”

“I thought you loved her.”

Seth clenched his jaw. “I do love her.”
And she loves me
, he wanted to add. But what had Rosie told him in those hurried moments before he left her to go to Topeka?
I love you as my Father loves you
.

What kind of love was that? Surely not the marrying kind. Maybe she was saving that kind of love for Rolf Rustemeyer.

“Why don’t you marry Rosie, Papa?” Chipper asked, tugging on his sleeve. “We need a mama.”

“Rosie’s not
my
mama, Chipper—”

“She’s not mine either, but it don’t matter. We need her. We like her. We want her.”

“Stop your team, Seth Hunter!” The unexpected voice behind the wagon startled Seth. He swung around. Jack Cornwall had ridden his horse to within ten yards of the wagon, and his shotgun was leveled straight at Seth’s head.

“I said stop your team, Hunter,” Cornwall repeated. “Stop or I’ll blow you straight to kingdom come.”

“Don’t do that, Uncle Jack!” Chipper shouted, standing as Seth pulled on the reins. “Don’t shoot him!”

“Get down, Chipper,” Seth barked. White heat poured through his veins. He grabbed his son’s arm and pushed the boy to the floor of the wagon. “Put down your weapon, Cornwall. You can see we’re unarmed. You’re scaring my son.”

“
Your
son? Chipper no more belongs to you than my sister did. Turn him over to me, and maybe I’ll think about letting you live.”

“Not a chance.” Seth stood slowly, his heart hammering. He knew Cornwall had been lurking. Now the predator had cornered his prey. In moments, Seth could be lying in a pool of blood. Unless …
dear God, help me
… unless he could calm the man, reason with him, persuade him to let them go.

“Give up this craziness, Jack,” Seth said, squaring his shoulders. “You know I don’t want any trouble with you. I’m a peaceable man, and I’m taking good care of the boy. Why don’t you go on back to Missouri? Your daddy and mama need you a whole lot more than Chipper does.”

“A lot you know! They raised that boy from the time he was born. I won’t leave this trail tonight without him. Now turn him over.”

“I won’t do it.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t kill him!” Chipper cried, jumping to his feet again. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Uncle Jack, don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot!”

“Get down, Chipper. Rustemeyer, hold him!” Seth glanced at the German. In Rolf’s lap lay a gleaming coat pistol. Seth’s focus flicked to Rolf’s gray eyes. Understanding passed between them.

“I want you to keep Chipper covered,” Seth said, leaning over and pressing the boy under the seat. As he did, he palmed the pistol. “Stay down now, Chipper, you hear me?”

“Don’t make me kill you, Hunter!” Cornwall shouted. “Though I reckon your Yankee hide wouldn’t be too sorely missed.”

“You’re not going to kill me, Cornwall. You’re going to turn your horse around and head back east. You’re going to tell your daddy you tried your best to get Chipper, but I wouldn’t turn him loose. And then you’re going to make a life for yourself in Missouri where you belong.”

“I don’t belong in Missouri,” Cornwall said, cocking the shotgun. “My home was lost, Hunter. The likes of you stole my land. The likes of you burned our family house and ruined our crop fields and robbed us blind.”

“Is that what this is all about? Are you still fighting the war, Jack? Well, I got news for you. It’s over. You killing me and taking Chipper to Missouri isn’t going to change that one bit. The war is over. Now it’s time to get on with life.”

“I’m aiming to get on with life. My life includes that little boy you kidnapped. He’s my sister’s son, in case you forgot. Mary’s son. He’s all we’ve got of her. And we mean to have him.”

“You won’t get him,” Seth said. He cocked the pistol he had kept hidden behind his thigh. “Now turn around and head east. Chipper stays with me.”

“You good-for-nothing Yankee!” Cornwall lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. “I’ll take him if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Don’t do it, Jack!” Seth raised the pistol.

The shotgun roared in a flash of fire and black smoke. Seth squeezed the pistol trigger as he flung himself over the seat into the wagon bed. A cry rang out. The animals bolted. Chipper screamed. Rustemeyer jerked at the reins and struggled to keep the wildly racing team on the road.

Among the seed barrels, Seth elbowed himself to his knees. He’d been hit. He could feel the pain in his left thigh and calf. But he was alive. Chipper was alive. Rolf was alive.

In the dim light, Seth could see Jack Cornwall’s horse cantering behind the wagon in crazy circles as its rider fought to stay in the saddle. A bright red stain blossomed on Cornwall’s right shoulder.

“Go home, Jack!” Seth shouted at his assailant. “Don’t make me kill you! Get on home where you belong.”

As the wagon swayed down the trail into the twilight, Seth clambered back over the seat. “You okay, Chipper?” he asked, hauling the little boy up into his lap. “You all right, little feller?”

“I thought he was gonna kill you, Papa,” Chipper sobbed.

Seth’s heart warmed. “I won’t let him do that. I’ve got to stick around to take care of you, remember?”

“But I don’t want you to kill Uncle Jack either, Papa. Please don’t hurt him. Promise?”

Seth let out a breath. His leg was beginning to throb, and he had noted a red stain on Rolf’s sleeve. The German had taken some buckshot, too. They would need to find a farmhouse and get some warm water and bandages. He rested his cheek on Chipper’s head. “I’ll do my best not to hurt him, Son,” he said gently. “I reckon you care about your uncle Jack. And your Gram and Gramps, too. Maybe there’ll come a day when all of us can make our peace. But until then, I aim to keep you with me. See … I love you, Chipper. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Papa.” The soft lips touched Seth’s cheek.

“
Mein
arm
ist
bad,” Rustemeyer said. “Bloot
kommt
. You haf blood
kommt
, too, Hunter.”

“We’ll head for the stagecoach station on the Red Vermillion. They’ll doctor us.” Seth studied the German. The big hound dog. His rival. “Hey, Rustemeyer,” he said. “You saved my life by pulling out that coat pistol. Thank you.”

“Tank
you
.” Rustemeyer smiled.
“Ist
goot haf
einen Freund, ja?”

“Ja,”
Seth said. “It’s good to have a friend.”

While Seth was away, Rosie poured herself into her work. When she wasn’t milking the cows, gathering eggs, cooking, washing, or mending, she plowed. Seth had taken Pete to Topeka, but old Nellie seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.

The mule patiently bore Rosie’s attempts at putting on the harness and hitching the plow. She even accepted Rosie’s first counterclockwise rows—and she didn’t grumble too much when Jimmy pointed out that all the ground would have to be plowed again in a clockwise direction. In fact, old Nellie seemed to appreciate Rosie’s gentle touch. She only sat down once or twice a day. And when she ate up the last scrap of Rosie’s scarf, she acted as if she had done her new mistress a favor.

So Jimmy loaned Rosie a straw hat and taught her how to turn under the grasshopper-eaten corn stubble. Every afternoon, when the rest of the chores had been done, she and Stubby trudged out into the field. With each row Rosie plowed, she said a prayer. She felt as though she were knitting her prayers into the very soil of Seth’s homestead.

Bring him peace, Father
.

Open his heart, Father
.

Strengthen his faith, Father
.

As the fields were transformed from desiccated ruin into fertile black soil again, Rosie felt her own heart grow ripe. It wasn’t just hope that strengthened her. It was love.

She missed Seth. Missed him desperately. Even though he was gone, she realized he had become a part of her every waking hour. She could hear his voice in the rush of Bluestem Creek. In the shimmering haze of the summer heat, she could almost see him working—his shirt cast aside and his muscles straining as he hammered the planks that would link his homestead to the world or guided the plow that would ensure his future. She could smell his essence in the strong, fresh breeze that drifted over the prairie grasses. And every time she thought of his sweet kisses, the ache inside her heart grew stronger.

When Stubby began barking at two men driving a wagon into the yard one afternoon, Rosie’s heart leapt. Abandoning the plow and old Nellie, she picked up her skirts and hop-skipped over the loamy rows, the dog scampering behind her. But as she ran toward the wagon, she realized the two men weren’t Seth and Rolf at all.

A gentleman with a thick brown beard and no mustache lifted a hand in greeting. “Miss Rose Mills?” he called.

Rosie slowed to a walk, a lump the size of a sourdough biscuit forming in her throat. It wasn’t Seth. Almost two weeks had gone by, and July was drawing to a close. Where was Seth? How could she keep on going when the hunger in her heart was so great?

“Mills—is that your name, ma’am?” the man asked.

Rosie approached the wagon. “I’m Rose Mills. What can I do for you, sir?”

“We hear you got a mercantile out here. Is that right?”

She studied the two men from a safe distance. Though they looked peaceable enough, she began to wish she had brought Jimmy O’Toole’s pistol with her. What if they were friends of Jack Cornwall?

“I take bridge tolls,” she said. “Sometimes travelers want to trade goods with me instead of paying cash. It might seem like a mercantile to some. But it’s not.”

The man climbed down from his wagon, took off his hat, and extended a hand. “My name’s Bridger, and I’m from Topeka.”

“Topeka!” Rosie’s heart contracted in fear. “What’s happened to Seth?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about anybody but you, ma’am. Word is, you got a mercantile out here on the Bluestem. Folks tell me you trade fair, and you do honest business.”

“Are you from the government? Have I done something wrong?”

“Matter of fact, I
am
from the government. I’m with the United States Post Office, and I got a proposal to make you. Since late spring, about ten, fifteen folks come into my building in Topeka— seems like three or four of ’em a week here lately—and they been askin’ me to give you a post office commission. And now that half my people under contract went bust after the grasshoppers came through, I’m aiming to do just that. How’s it sound to you?”

“A post office? Here? But I don’t know if … Seth might not … what about Mr. Holloway’s station?”

“Gone belly-up. Your place put him out of business, and the grasshoppers finished him.”

“Oh my.” Rosie couldn’t help but pity the man, even though he had been unpleasant to her. “Mr. LeBlanc might want a post office.”

“Already asked him. Says he’s got enough to keep him busy runnin’ the mill.”

“But I don’t really have a mercantile.”

“I don’t much care if all you got is a cowshed. If you’ll let me send the mail out here so folks around can come and get their letters, I’ll give you a commission.”