Coming Up Roses (3 page)

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 400
^th
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.

Rather, Rose’s costume sported a split skirt
with elastic around the two leg openings that reminded H.L. of the
bloomers ladies wore these days for bicycling—and when they wanted
to prove to the world that women could wear trousers as well as
men. H.L. didn’t begrudge anyone, even women, a dash of defiance.
The good Lord knew, he had more than his share of that particular
character trait.

Whatever the bottom part of Rose’s costume
was called, it sure looked good on her. H.L. didn’t think he’d ever
seen bloomers or any other types of trousers set off to better
advantage.

Her act was enough to make strong men faint,
too. She’d entered the arena at a dead run, on a horse as white as
milk. The horse had torn out through a canvas tunnel as if it had
been shot from a cannon, it moved so fast. Rose had been bent over,
practically hugging the horse’s neck, as if she were trying to
create as little wind resistance as possible. The audience had
barely caught its breath after her spectacular entrance when it
lost it again with an audible whoosh as she performed her first
trick.

H.L.’s heart, a generally reliable,
rock-solid organ and one not easily stirred, had shot into his
throat when she’d suddenly sat up straight and then dived
head-first off the horse’s back. A cry of terror and dismay had
gone up from the bleachers as the audience feared Rose had taken a
probably-disastrous tumble.

But it was all part of the act, as they
realized an instant later when Rose’s body slid beneath the horse’s
belly, and she emerged on the other side. In one fluid movement,
she then climbed up on the horse’s back again. It looked as if she
had suction cups on her fingers, since she used neither saddle nor
bridle. She guided the horse with nudges and pats of her knees,
feet, and hands.

Even H.L., who prided himself on his
unflappability, as well as the knowledge that he’d seen and done
pretty much everything dangerous there was to do in the world, had
gasped in astonishment. The cheer that went up when Rose safely sat
once more on her dashing steed rocked the bleachers.

And then, as if she hadn’t frightened
everyone to near apoplexy already, she scarcely gave them time
enough to swallow their hearts when she was off again. She leaped
onto the horse’s back as if her legs were on springs, and stood
straight up as the horse raced around the arena.