Prairie Rose (4 page)
“How they ever flood my soul;
In the stillness of the midnight,
Precious, sacred scenes unfold.”
T
HE TRAIL that followed the Kansas River toward the open prairie bustled with traffic as Seth Hunter’s wagon rolled west. That first day of the journey, Rosie counted three stagecoaches filled with excited travelers heading for the frontier. Two more coaches returning east passed the wagon, their passengers worn and weary from the long journey. A pair of bearded prospectors led a plodding mule bearing their pickaxes and shovels, and dreamed of quick, easy riches. A group of dusty cowboys drove a large herd of cattle east toward the Kansas City stockyards. They had traveled all the way from Texas, the men called out as they passed. The ever-changing pageantry was enough to keep the five O’Toole children chattering, arguing, and speculating for hours.
Just before they stopped in Osawkie for the night, a swaying black buggy raced toward the travelers. “Mrs. Dudenhoffer near Muddy Creek is indisposed,” the driver, a physician, called out as his horse rounded Seth’s wagon. “We’re afraid it may be twins this time.”
“God save you, kindly doctor!” Sheena O’Toole shouted back. Then she shook her head at Rosie. “Twins. May the good Lord have mercy on the poor woman’s soul.”
Rosie knew the birth of twins could kill, and there was little anyone could do about it. A widower with small children would have a hard lot on the prairie. Any man in such a dire situation would be desperate to find himself a hardy new wife. And he couldn’t be choosy.
Rosie mulled this thought as they crossed Rock Creek the following morning. At Muddy Creek a circuit preacher approached on his horse. He gave the travelers a friendly wave. “On your way home?” he called. “God bless!”
“Good morrow to you,” Sheena replied. “Shall we have the privilege of a visit, sir? We homestead on Bluestem Creek. There are two families of us, and we’ve been without preaching all winter.”
“Bluestem Creek? I’m afraid I always circle around you folks. Your creek runs too high to cross most of the year.”
“Humph,” Jimmy O’Toole grunted. “I understood you crawthumpers could walk on water.”
Seth chuckled as Sheena gave her husband’s shoulder a swat. “As you can see, Reverend, we’re in grave need of prayer and preaching. Do keep us in mind.”
“I will,” the preacher said. “And I’ll see if I can manage a visit.” Lifting his hat, he gave the group a broad smile and spurred his horse past the wagon. Rosie took note that with his bright yellow hair and well-cut suit, the preacher could almost be called handsome. Not in the same way Seth Hunter was handsome, of course, but the preacher was tolerable looking all the same.
As the wagon neared Indianola, Rosie pondered the unfolding panorama of the prairie and the hope it inspired. Toward evening, she came to a momentous conclusion regarding the six months she would spend on the Hunter homestead. She might actually find someone who would be amenable to the notion of marriage with a woman lacking pedigree, money, or a fancy education! In fact, she already had taken note of several prospects. A lonely widower. A traveling preacher. Even a Texas cowboy. The land was filling quickly with men in need of good, strong wives. The possibilities were endless.
Rosie glanced at Seth Hunter on the wagon seat beside Jimmy. Her new employer was in want of a wife, though he wouldn’t admit it. He had made it clear that he would never allow another woman into his life. She suspected his first marriage had been one of true love—at least on Seth’s part. He had devoted himself to a young woman whose family despised his northern heritage and abolitionist sympathies. In defiance of her parents and brother, he had married Mary Cornwall, written countless letters to her while he was away in the war, and laid claim to their young son so he could keep a part of her with him always.
Though she was dead to the world, it appeared that his wife was very much alive in Seth Hunter’s mind. Rosie sensed it would take a special woman to win his heart—a woman who had much more to offer than the ability to bake apple pies and black a stove from top to bottom.
Though the travelers were just across the river from Topeka, Rosie spent her second night of independence sleeping under the open sky, an ebony umbrella sprinkled with stars. Seth had expressed concern that Jack Cornwall—assuming he had been released from custody and was recovered from the knock on his head—might be able to track the party down if they stopped in Topeka. Besides, Sheena wouldn’t hear of allowing her
brablins
to spend a night in such a wild city.
The next day they began the long journey toward Manhattan. As the wagon rolled west, the land began to flatten, the trees gave way to tall golden grass, the streams slowed down and straightened into long silver ribbons. The sun beat on the travelers like a merciless golden hammer.
Throughout the day, the mules plodded wearily down the baked, dusty trail. Every twelve miles, they passed a station on the Butterfield stagecoach route—a refreshing, timely stopping place to trade and water the mule teams. Seth, in a hurry to elude his possible pursuer, paused as briefly as possible.
The sunburned O’Toole children grew restless during the long journey, the young ones whimpering and the older ones fussing at each other. Not even passing through the Potawatomi Indian reservation could perk them up. Seated between his father and Jimmy O’Toole, Chipper slumped over on the front bench, shoulders hunched. Sheena fanned herself as she mourned the lack of a canvas wagon cover, and Jimmy mopped his forehead.
“Why then, Seth, do you think that
sherral
Jack Cornwall is coming after us even now?” Sheena asked as the sun rose to its apex. Like a mother hen, she had settled her five children around her. The two youngest drowsed on her lap. “Sure, I won’t have harm done to any of my wee ones.”
“I doubt he’ll be able to track me down right away,” Seth said over his shoulder. “The sheriff had him in custody, and a couple of townspeople gave the story of what happened between us in the street. I hope Cornwall will stay locked up for a while, anyway.”
“Aye, but then what? Does he know where you homestead?”
“All he’d have to do is ask around.”
“Will he come for you?”
“It’s the boy he wants.”
“Chipper, you’re a good lad, aren’t you?” Sheena asked softly. “You don’t want your papa to come to harm. Why then, let’s have the preacher in Manhattan write a letter to your grandparents and tell them how happy you are.”
The little boy turned and scowled at her. “I don’t wanna live with no Yankee papa,” he said, speaking aloud for the first time that day. “I want to go home to Gram an’ Gramps. I want my mama.”
“Enough about her,” Seth snapped. “You have a papa, and I don’t want to hear any more talk about your mama.”
Rosie bristled at the man’s harsh tone. Surely he could understand the boy missing his mother. Seth Hunter wanted a son, but he clearly had no idea how to be a father. If he intended to weld the two of them into a family, he would have to do better than chastise the little boy and forbid him to mention the mother he was so obviously mourning.
Rosie couldn’t deny she knew little about the business of being a family. But after nineteen years at the Christian Home for Orphans and Foundlings, she did know a great deal about children. Above their basic needs of food, clothes, and shelter, they wanted kindness. Discipline. A good Christian example to follow. And fun. All children deserved fun.
“Let’s play Cupid’s Coming,” she said, elbowing Erinn, the oldest of the O’Toole children. At eight, Erinn was well versed in the responsibilities of child care. “You and I will start, and we’ll go around the wagon, ending with your mother. How’s that?”
“Cupid’s Coming?” Erinn asked, her green eyes bright. “But we don’t know that game.”
“It’s easy. I’ll start. We’ll use the letter
T
for the first round.” Rosie frowned for a moment, pretending to study the situation. “Cupid’s coming,” she told Erinn. “Now you ask, how?”
“How?”
“Tiptoeing.”
“Cupid’s coming,” Erinn told her brother, six-year-old Will.
“How?”
“Talking,” Erinn said.
Will turned to Colleen. “Cupid’s coming.”
“How?” she asked.
“Terrifying!” Will shouted, forming his hands into claws. Everyone laughed. Even Chipper managed a half grin.
Colleen nudged her father on the wagon seat. “Cupid’s coming.”
“How?” he asked.
“Ticktocking.”
“Cupid’s coming,” Jimmy told Chipper.
“How?”
“Tapping.”
Chipper looked at his father. Then he glanced back at Rosie. She gave him an encouraging wink.
“Cupid’s coming,” the boy said.
Seth gave the reins a bored flick. “How?”
“Tripping.”
“Cupid’s tripping?” Seth exclaimed. “Well, I guess that’s the end of the game then.”
“No!” the children shouted. “Come on, Seth! Play with us.”
“Excuse me,” Rosie cut in. “I’m afraid Mr. Hunter didn’t take his turn quickly enough. He’ll have to pay a forfeit.”
Seth turned slowly, his blue eyes locking on Rosie’s face. “A forfeit?”
She lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “That’s right. Pay up, sir.”
Seth frowned and patted his empty shirt pocket. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of—” He stopped, leaned out of the wagon, reached into the tall grass growing by the trail, and snapped the prickly head off a dry stem. He tossed Rosie the small black ball. “Purple coneflower.”
She held the gift in the palm of her hands. “This is a flower?”
“Seeds. You’ll have to plant them if you want flowers.” Seth turned to Sheena. “I choose the letter
A
. Cupid’s coming.”
“
A
? Why, Seth, that’s impossible!” Sheena squawked.
“Cupid’s coming,” he repeated.
“How?”
“Annoying,” Seth said, giving Rosie a look.
The game faltered after that. The letter
A
only managed to make its way to Will, who came up with “apples” and was disqualified. He paid his forfeit with a peppermint-sticky kiss on Rosie’s cheek.
She was tucking her purple coneflower seedpod into the pouch she wore around her neck when Seth pulled the wagon up to a small frame building, unpainted and sagging. “Holloway’s Stagecoach Station,” he called. “I’ve had enough of Miss Mills’s songs and games for one morning. We’ll stop here for lunch.”
“Hurrah! Come on, Chipper!” Will grabbed the younger boy by the hand. “This station has a creek out back—with tadpoles!”
“Don’t get muddy!” Sheena called. She woke the littlest ones and began handing them down to Seth and Jimmy one by one. “I pray Mrs. Holloway has some of those delicious pickles. I want to buy a few. I’d love the recipe, but Mrs. Holloway won’t give it out. Selfish, if you ask me.”
“Come on then, my treasure,” Jimmy said. “You know you’ll copy the taste of Mrs. Holloway’s pickles in your own kitchen, as fine a cook as you are.”
“Blather, blather, blather,” Sheena said with a chuckle.
She and Jimmy walked toward the station as Seth lifted a hand to help Rosie down. She slipped her fingers onto his palm, aware of the hard calluses that bore testament to his labors. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she stepped onto the wagon wheel. Before she could jump down, Seth wrapped both hands around her waist and swung her to the ground.
“Cupid’s coming,” he said in a low voice. “Afflicting.”
“Appalling,” she shot back, meeting his steady blue gaze.
“Agitating.”
“Alarming.”
She pulled away from him and hurried toward the station door, aware that her cheeks must be as hot and red as a pair of sun-ripened tomatoes. Why was he tormenting her this way? Did he despise her?
“Agonizing,” he said, following her with long strides.
She sucked in a breath and stopped. “Abusing.”
He smiled. “Amusing.”
“A … a … admitting.”
“Admiring.”
She stepped through the door into the cool shadows. “I can’t … can’t think … oh, alligator.”
“Ha! Too slow. You lose.” He stood over her, seeming twice as tall as he had in the Kansas City mercantile. “I’m afraid Miss Mills wasn’t able to give an answer quickly enough. She’ll have to pay a forfeit.”
Rosie swallowed. “What do you want? You know I don’t have anything.”
“Agreeing.”
“To what?”
“No more games. No more songs. No more silliness. Leave my son to me. Take care of him—feed him, see that his clothes are patched, make him go to bed at night—but that’s all. Come fall, Miss Mills, I’m taking you back to Kansas City. I don’t want Chipper sad to see you leave. He’s
my
son. Got that?” He turned into the station.
“Cupid’s coming,” Rosie said softly behind him.
Seth swung around, a frown drawing down the corners of his mouth.
