The Gunman's Bride (11 page)

If Bart could accomplish so much, couldn’t she?

“Mornin’, Rosie-girl,” Bart called when he saw Rosie walking toward him. “You look good enough to eat.”

She laughed as he caught her around the waist and swung her off her feet. “Morning, Bart.”

“I’ve about got enough wood to start the fire.” He set her back on the ground but didn’t move his arms. “I should have done this before you came, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t really believe I’d get you this far.”

“Here I am.” She shrugged one shoulder. “So what do you want me to do?”

“You could give me a kiss.”

Emboldened, Rosie rose up on tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. “How’s that?”

“Mercy, girl,” Bart managed. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She laughed. “But I don’t think this is how people are supposed to act during the daytime.”

“I don’t think anyone cares how we act day or night. Do you?”

Resting her head on his shoulder, she gazed up at the brilliant blue sky. “We’re all alone out here…just us and God.”

“I imagine God allows a husband and wife a good amount of leeway, don’t you reckon? Especially when they’ve found each other after six years apart.”

“Yes, I expect so.”

“Rosie, last night between you and me…” Bart held her head as he spoke. “Last night I knew things were going to be all right. Last night was like a promise.”

“Oh, Bart.” She ached for his words to be true.

“Don’t you believe, Rosie-girl? Don’t you think our loving was a seal? We’re where we ought to be, with each other.”

“For today we are,” she said softly. “I guess for today we’re right where we should be.”

“And nothing—not one thing—is going to change that.”

As Bart looked into her deep brown eyes, he vowed he would make Rosie love this place he’d built. He would teach her to see his vision of their future. He would woo her into trusting him. And one day, one fine day, he would find what he’d been seeking all these years.

One day he would win Rosie’s love.

T
ossing a few logs onto the woodpile, Bart mused over what he had gotten himself into by bringing Rosie out to his homestead. It was a Sunday afternoon, only a week after they had settled into the soddy, and she was inside peeling potatoes. But enough time had passed to show him she was a city gal through and through, and she didn’t have a lick of sense about frontier life.

Although Rosie had spent time on her pappy’s farm outside Kansas City, it was nothing like this. She would peel those potatoes until they were nothing but nubs. He had offered to teach her, but she had insisted on doing the job her own way.

Bart’s stepfather had beaten his wife for standing up to him. But as Bart buried the ax in the chopping block, he also buried any such instinct his stepfather might have instilled in him. Laura Rose Vermillion had always been Bart’s light. And he would never snuff out that glow with the back of his hand.

Sitting near the window, Rosie tossed another potato into the pail. Etta and the others at the Harvey House
would be coming back from church, she realized. Rosie herself would have attended church if she’d been in Raton. Every other Sunday she was given the morning off to attend worship services. Although her schedule didn’t permit her to teach Sunday school, she always sang in the sanctuary choir.

Now she tried to make herself sing a favorite hymn. After all, she should be grateful, shouldn’t she? She was alive, safe and looked after by a man who cared for her.

But Rosie had neglected her nightly prayers of late. She hadn’t read her Bible in days. With a sigh, Rosie picked up another potato. The truth was, she could hardly wait for Bart to come in from the fields each night. Everything about him filled her with joy—everything except his past.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark, Rosie?” Bart asked as he tossed his buckskin jacket onto the table. “Sun’s going down.”

“So much to do, I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

He lit a lamp. “When did you set these plates on the mantel?”

“Three days ago. They were coated with grime. Bart, your domestic habits are downright slothful.”

“What did you expect from an outlaw?”

She shrugged. “Did it ever occur to you to sweep this place?”

“Sweep a dugout?” Bart took off his hat and ran his hand through his damp hair. “Rosie-girl, don’t you know that tomorrow this place will be just as dirty as it was today?”

“Then I’ll sweep it again, won’t I?” She glanced
at him. “And I’ll have to wash those dusty britches. If you’re going to be a civilized husband, Bart Kingsley, you’ll have to take regular baths and wear clean clothes.”

“I don’t know much about being civilized. But if you want me for a husband, darlin’ you’ve got me.”

Rosie picked up the potato pail. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about being a wife. After my mother died, my father never remarried. You grew up without a father, and I grew up without a mother. We’re in a fine pickle.”

Bart studied the white foam gathering at the top of the pot. “You’re a good wife, Rosie. The best. If all you want to do is sit around and eat Huffman’s cream candies and pecan pie, it’s all right by me.”

Tears sprang into Rosie’s eyes. “I don’t want to eat cream candies, Bart. I want to clean your house and sew your shirts and…and…and be your wife.”

In an instant he had caught her in his arms and was holding her close. “You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted to hear you say that, darlin’.”

“But I’m scared. I’m just so scared it won’t work.” She nestled her damp cheek against his shoulder.

“What’s to stop us from making a wonderful life out here on our homestead?”

“That Pinkerton man could come after you. He could set a bomb for you like they did for Jesse James’s mother. And what if my pappy tracks me to Raton? You did, so what’s to stop him? You don’t know Pappy like I do. If he ever decides to come for me, he’ll use his money and his influence. Nothing will stop him. People are
after us, Bart, both of us. We won’t be able to hide here forever.”

He set her back and looked into her troubled eyes. “What else has you all worked up, Rosie-girl?”

“I’m afraid to care about you, Bart…to care about you more than I do right now. What if you get yourself killed?” She touched the ridge of scarred flesh on his side. Then she kissed his neck. “What if you get hauled off to prison and they tie a rope around this neck?”

Bart nodded. “Keep talking, sweetheart. I know that’s not all of it.”

Rosie shut her eyes tight, trying to stem the flow of tears. “I wanted to teach school so I could be with children. But now I know I never will. And I’ll never…never have any children of my own…. We’ll never have babies, Bart. Even if all the rest of it works out by some miracle, we’ll never have children of our own.”

He stroked her shoulder, pondering the significance of her words and wondering how deeply they would affect his life. “Listen here, now. I might like to have children with you, but I’ve gotten this far without them. So have you. If we don’t have babies, we’ve got each other, Rosie-girl.”

“Hold me tighter, Bart.”

“I’ll hold you for the rest of my life. I’ll never let you go.”

“Never, Bart?”

“Never, Rosie-girl. Not ever.”

Rosie lived in an Eden of her own making. Once she finally accepted that Bart had indeed offered her
freedom, she set about to create the little paradise of her dreams.

The fabric she had purchased for the schoolroom windows soon brightened the walls of the little dugout. Rosie fashioned the yards of chintz into billowing curtains and a tablecloth. Bart built her the framework of a changing screen, and she ruffled the cloth to fill in the panels. She used the remaining yardage to begin cutting triangles and squares to piece together a quilt for their bed.

The bed itself soon sported a new mattress filled with soft grass Bart brought in from his fields. Of course, the grass soon dried and grew brittle, but Rosie hardly cared. Their bed always felt soft and comfortable when she was nestled in her husband’s arms.

Rosie caught herself reminiscing secretly about him at various times throughout each day, and always a smile crept over her lips. When Bart was in Raton working at his livery stable job, Rosie would think about him as she baked bread or weeded her kitchen garden or did the laundry.

Every afternoon while he was in the sugar-beet fields, she would fall into bed for a nap. Achingly tired, she would doze away the hottest hours. But by evening, when he came in for dinner, Rosie felt fresh and eager to be with him.

No matter how worn out he was from his labors, Bart’s face always brightened at the sight of their table laden with freshly baked bread and thick beef stew, chicken and dumplings or shepherd’s pie. Rosie discovered that observing Stefan and the other chefs at the Harvey House had given her a head start in cooking
skills. With the help of a recipe book he bought for her at one of the mercantiles, she produced one hearty meal after another.

Soon after she began her life on the homestead, Rosie decided she would like to have fresh eggs on hand. Not only would this improve her baking, she reasoned, but she could send any extra eggs along to town with Bart when he went to work at the livery stable. With the money from fresh eggs and newly churned butter, Rosie planned to buy herself a real stove. Bart built a raised coop and fetched in a bunch of fluffy yellow chicks one day, and Rosie was off and running with her hen business.

After each day of tending to her chickens, milking the two cows, hoeing her garden, scrubbing laundry on the washboard, sweeping and mopping the ever-dusty dugout and cooking hearty meals, Rosie expected to feel drained and empty. Instead, the busy life sparked her desire to do more. She used some of her savings to buy fabric, and she fashioned several work shirts and two pairs of sturdy britches for Bart. She made herself two sensible dresses and a week’s worth of white aprons.

Rosie decided to paint the inner walls of the dugout, and she sent Bart off to Raton with orders for a gallon of white milk-paint. He offered his opinion that white seemed like a pretty loco color for an underground house, but he obeyed. Within days, the house was sparkling clean. Bart declared the soddy looked bright as a new pin and bigger than it had before.

In fact, the beauty Rosie had brought to the little dugout led Bart to declare that he would not only finish building the pantry room, but he would also make plans
for an upstairs—two fine rooms with big windows and a shingled roof. Bart figured that once the sugar-beet harvest came in, he’d have enough money to buy all the lumber needed to build the upstairs during the slow fall and winter months.

But now, the needs of his land consumed Bart. He hired young Manford Wade to help hoe sugar beets after school each day.

“She’s as mean as a witch,” Mannie confided to Rosie one afternoon when she was hanging laundry on the clothesline. “She’s got red eyes.”

“Red eyes!” Rosie laughed at Mannie’s description of the new schoolmarm. “People don’t have red eyes, Manford.”

“No, they don’t. But she does. Which goes to prove she’s a witch, don’t it?”

Chuckling, Rosie pushed a clothespin over the shoulder seam of a wet shirt that kept trying to slap her. “Mrs. Sneed is strict, and that’s an essential attribute for a teacher, in my opinion.”

“She whupped Lucy yesterday.”

“Lucy? Oh, no!” Rosie clutched a dripping tablecloth as she pictured the responsible girl who had been left in charge of the recitation. “What on earth did Lucy do to deserve a whipping?”

“Didn’t get her composition wrote. Lucy’s grandpa up and died last week, and she loved him something fierce. Ever since, she ain’t been the same. Ol’ man Pete was a good feller. Cheyenne Bill gave a speech at the funeral. Tom and Griff came to the buryin’, and you know if a dog’ll come to a funeral, Pete must have been a fine man.”

“I’m sorry to hear he passed away.” Rosie fretted as she hung the last of the clothes. Whipping a child in mourning didn’t sound like the act of a loving teacher. There must be more to the story.

“Did you hear about the charity ball last Monday night?” Manford asked. “Folks had them a fine dinner. Leg of mutton, capers, mincemeat, roast beef, chicken, cake, oranges…”

He stopped speaking and glanced toward the trail. “Say, look who’s coming up the road. It’s Sheriff Bowman. Hey, sheriff!”

Manford waved and began trotting down toward him, but Rosie grabbed his sleeve and held him back. “Mannie, run tell my husband the sheriff is here. And make sure he understands it’s Sheriff Bowman.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

Heart hammering, Rosie gave the boy a gentle push. Scanning the fields, she could just make out Bart’s back as he bent to the plow. The sheriff was climbing down from his horse, rifle in hand and six-shooter slung on his hip. He took the reins with his free hand and started toward Rosie.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Springfield,” he called.

“Sheriff Bowman. This is a surprise.” Rosie wiped her hands on her apron as she greeted him. “What brings you out here?”

“I’ll be plain with you, Mrs. Springfield,” the sheriff said. “I’ve come out here with some news.”

“Oh?” Rosie tried to remember her Harvey Girl smile. “I hope it’s something happy.”

“’Fraid not. There’s trouble. Trouble with the law. And your husband is involved.”

“My husband?” Rosie asked, lifting up a fervent prayer that God would allow Bart time to escape into the woods. “What can you mean by that? My husband is an honest man, Sheriff Bowman. I know for a fact that he registered our one-hundred-sixty acres in Springer. He showed me the homestead papers. The claim is legal.”

“The homestead ain’t the problem, Mrs. Springfield.” He reached out and took Rosie’s hands between his large callused palms. “It’s a different sort of thing. Your husband’s been accused of…well, of attempted murder.”

“H
owdy, sheriff,” Bart called out as he approached the house. “Young Manford tells me you’ve come on business.”

Bart observed Rosie’s startled expression as he leaned an elbow on the dugout roof and adjusted his hat against the sun.

“’Fraid we’ve got a problem, Mr. Springfield,” the sheriff said, straightening his cartridge belt.

“Call me Buck,” Bart offered.

The moment Manford told him the sheriff had come, Bart knew he was through living life on the run. He also knew he would protect himself and Rosie. He didn’t want to take up his outlaw ways again, but he didn’t intend to have his neck stretched either.

“Well, Buck,” the sheriff was saying, “I hate to cut short your plowing, but I’ve got trouble in town.”

“What kind of trouble, sheriff?” Bart put an arm around Rosie’s shoulders and drew her close.

“A feller came to see me at the courthouse yesterday. He claims you tried to kill him.”

“Kill him?” Bart searched for memories of any
number of men who might have tracked him down. Men from his past bent on vengeance. “How did he come up with that piece of hokum?”

“Says he was out for a ride a few weeks back, and he came upon you and the missus having a picnic. Says you took offense at something he said, busted up his face and knocked out five front teeth. Then you tied him on his horse and sent him out in the desert to die.”

Relief pouring through him, Bart let out a low whistle. “All that, huh?”

“It’s a fact he’s missing most of his front teeth.”

“Did this fellow say what got me riled?”

“He’s a little vague on that. Says he thinks you’d been drinking and were cozying up to the lady. Says when he interrupted to ask directions, you jumped him.”

“Directions, huh?” Bart laughed. “Sure, I remember that fellow. Short and raggedy with a mop of greasy hair?”

“That’s him.”

“He was trying to rob us!” Rosie exploded. “We had gone to Springer on the train to get married. Just ask Mr. Gable at the Harvey House.”

“Already did, ma’am.”

“We took a wagon out to have a picnic,” she went on. “Then that awful man appeared. He put a shotgun to my head and threatened to shoot us both! He said he intended to tie up my husband and…and…”

“Mannie, run check on the horses for me,” Bart cut in. As the wide-eyed boy hurried to obey, he lowered his voice. “My wife is telling the truth, sheriff. That low-down snake declared his intention of robbing us and having his way with my wife. When he was tying
me up, I got the jump on him. I rearranged his face a little and tied him onto his horse. Any man worth his oats would protect the woman he loved.”

The sheriff nodded. “I reckon so. All the same, the fellow’s mighty hot under the collar. He checked the train records and found out who you were. He declares he’s come to town to find you and make you pay.”

“Pay?” Rosie retorted. “Look around, sheriff. My husband works at the livery six mornings a week, and every afternoon till dusk he’s in his sugar beets. We’re not rich!”

“Now, calm down, Mrs. Springfield.” At that, the sheriff began coughing and couldn’t speak for a moment.

Bart knew the man had been sick, but he was worried more about Rosie. The constant fear she lived with would do her in one of these days. She must be doubting her decision to trust that Bart could be a good husband. He had to do something to put an end to her worries.

“Buck, I want you to come back to town with me,” the sheriff said after gaining his composure. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll send a wire to the law in Springer. I’ll send another to your hometown. Get a few facts on your character. Where do you come from, by the way?”

“Mighty hard to say. I lived here and there until this pretty gal helped me make up my mind to settle down.”

“Like a lot of men. Well, with you and the missus claiming the same thing, and with that rascal smelling so thick the lamps won’t burn, I reckon any jury would let you off the hook. I hate to haul you in with your homestead up and going and the good work I hear you’ve
been doing over at the livery.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Besides that, you’re Cheyenne Bill’s cousin. That’ll hold weight in a court of law.”

Rosie shut her eyes and sagged against Bart. She looked like she was going to be sick. He knew the web of lies he had spun was just about to kill her.

“Mrs. Springfield,” the sheriff said, “you’d better come with us. A woman’s word won’t hold much water, but you’ll be safer in town. Bring the boy, too.” He gave a quick laugh. “I almost forgot I came out here for another reason. There’s somebody in town wants to see you, ma’am.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Mr. Kilgore. Says he needs to talk to you about a teaching job. Seems Mrs. Sneed didn’t work out so good after all.”

Five times on the rutted track to Raton, Bart had to stop the wagon so Rosie could get off and throw up. He’d never seen anyone so sick. From the moment Sheriff Bowman had announced that Bart was accused of attempted murder, Rosie’s skin had turned from its usual soft pink to a pale shade of green.

Not that the others in the party felt dandy either. Although Manford was asleep in the wagon, Sheriff Bowman rode just ahead and was about to cough up his lungs. It occurred to Bart that he could do the man in and leave his body on the trail. Folks would probably think he’d passed out and died from consumption.

But the minute the thought entered Bart’s mind, he concluded it must have come from the devil and snuffed it out. He wasn’t about to add another killing to his
name, even if no one guessed he was the culprit. Rosie would know. The Almighty would know, too. He didn’t want to have to reckon with either of them.

Bart acknowledged he had sent more than one man to an early grave. But the killings had always been in self-defense. Not one time had he shot a man just for spite. In fact, he hadn’t even witnessed the killings the James brothers committed during their infamous train robberies. A deadeye shot, Bart served as lookout—a role that kept him a fair distance from the doings.

After a goodly amount of time reckoning with God and his own conscience, Bart decided to keep the wagon headed for Raton. He would take his medicine and trust God to keep watch over Rosie.

As the wagon rolled into town that evening, she groaned. “Oh, Bart, I’ve never felt so awful.”

He slipped his arm around her. “I’ve got you, darlin’. You just relax now.”

She shut her eyes and rested her cheek against his arm. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Kilgore,” she murmured. “I’m going to tell him I don’t want that teaching position.”

“Rosie…” Bart could hardly make the word come out of his throat. “Are you sure, Rosie? You’ve wanted that job for so long. You even married me so you could—”

“I’m married to you, and that’s why I won’t take the job.” Her brown eyes searched his. “I may be sick, but I’m happy, Bart. Our homestead is good for me. You’re good for me.”

“I’m doing my best, Rosie-girl. I’m doing the best I can to be the kind of husband you want.”

“I just…I just…oh, no!” Pushing him away, she held her stomach and moaned.

Bart pulled the wagon up to the Central Hotel and sent Mannie along home. After arranging for a room, he helped Rosie up the stairs, put her to bed and covered her with blankets. On his pillow he laid the small pistol he had hidden in the waistband of his britches. As he stood by the window and studied the shadowed street below, he decided he’d better do some more praying.

“Lord,” he murmured, looking up at the moon so as to fix his focus on something visible, “I’m sorry about telling Sheriff Bowman my name was Buck. I should have ‘fessed up, but You know what a passel of trouble that would have brought. Rosie didn’t take it too good, and seeing as how You and I care so much about her, I need to ask You to work this thing out for us.”

He fingered the twisted blue fringe on the curtain a moment before continuing. “Lord, I’m doing my dead level best to go straight, You know I am. And You know I wouldn’t hurt Rosie for the world. I reckon I’d better turn all this mess over to You to fix up. Chances are, I’ll tangle things up worse than they already are with that no-good snake who meant to hurt Rosie.”

Bart watched a cloud drift across the blue face of the moon. “Anyhow…amen.”

As he crossed to the bed, Bart wondered if God really listened to the prayers of sinful, wicked men like him. Seemed doubtful. But even as he pondered, an idea flickered to life in his mind. He would write a letter to his closest pal. The man who had taken him in. The man who had given him the best advice he’d ever gotten. Frank James, the older brother of Jesse James.

At ten o’clock the next morning, Rosie knocked on the front door of Mr. Kilgore’s one-room schoolhouse. She had managed to eat a dry biscuit and sip down a cup of hot tea. Feeling a little better, she had washed her face, knotted up her hair and dressed in a simple green gingham.

“Mrs. Springfield,” Mr. Kilgore exclaimed when he saw his visitor on the stoop. “I’m so pleased to see you. Do come in.”

Even though she had planned to take care of matters on the porch, Rosie couldn’t resist stepping into the classroom.

“Good morning, Mrs. Springfield,” the children chanted.

“Good morning, students.” Rosie surveyed the garden of bright faces. “Lucy, I see you’re leading the geography recitations today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the little girl replied shyly. “Mr. Kilgore put me in charge.”

“A very wise decision.”

When Lucy’s face broke into a brilliant smile, Mr. Kilgore took Rosie by the arm and escorted her to the front of the room.

“Students,” he said, “Mrs. Springfield has spoken with me on several occasions about her desire to become your teacher. Not only has she passed her school board examination with distinction, but she’s qualified to teach every subject we offer, and more besides. Although we have only a few weeks of school remaining, I’m pleased to inform you that until the summer break, Mrs. Spring
field will fill our vacancy. This autumn, if she’s willing, she’ll become our full-time schoolteacher.”

At that, the students clapped and stomped their feet on the wooden floor. Mr. Kilgore beamed at Rosie.

As the children got back to work, he addressed her in a low voice. “Mrs. Springfield, I am prepared to offer you four dollars and fifty cents per week until the summer. For the 1883-84 school year, I will pay you the grand total of two hundred and fifty-six dollars—a good deal more than you were earning at the Harvey House, I should think.”

“Yes, but Mr. Kilgore—”

“I know,” he said, holding up a hand to halt her protest. “I realize you received tips at the house along with room and board. I’m aware that you were entitled to free train rides. Of course I don’t have those things to offer. My budget is determined by the school board, but I’m certain that, as a married woman, you will be housed and fed by Mr. Springfield.”

“Mr. Kilgore, two hundred and fifty-six dollars—”

“And summers off, don’t forget. Should you start your own family, my wife has agreed to take your baby into our home as part of her little flock during the day while you teach.”

“Truly, that won’t be necessary—”

“And as added incentive, I will allow you to manage the classroom exactly as you please, Mrs. Springfield. I’ll rent McAuliffe and Ferguson’s Hall for any performances you would like for the children to give. I’ll even sponsor an end-of-the-year picnic as part of Raton’s July Fourth festivities.”

As weak as she was, Rosie felt a surge of excitement
at the generous offer. Here was her dream, placed in the very palms of her hands! Yet she had told Bart she intended to spend her days at their homestead.

“I’m honored,” she said when she could find the words. “Honored by your confidence in me.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Springfield. Unless you’d like to start right now?”

Rosie inhaled the scent of chalk and old textbooks. “I’ll have to speak with my husband.”

“Of course, Mrs. Springfield. Loyalty to a spouse is highly commendable.”

After the requisite farewells, Rosie shook his hand and stepped out onto the street. Leaning against the white picket fence that surrounded the school, she shut her eyes and tried to quell her excitement. The classroom could be hers after all! The slates and inkwells and chalk. And so many children! Even the fine salary. Would Bart want to deny her this dream?

But would she really be willing to change the life she had come to love? It wouldn’t be long before Bart would need her in the fields. She thought of the soddy, her chickens, her pots and pans, the garden full of vegetables. If she taught all day, those would have to take second place in her life.

But how would she surrender the classroom? She could be a teacher! A real teacher!

As she made her way down the street, Rosie felt as if she were floating. The New Mexico morning sky was as blue as the pattern on a willowware plate, not a cloud to be seen, the mountains aglow in shades of olive, gray and violet. Wearing fresh coats of paint, the clapboard houses, hotels and saloons fairly strutted down the street.
The adobe homes sported new layers of white
caliche
in preparation for the long, dry summer. The railroad had brought the bulbs and seeds of eastern flowers to town, and every yard was bursting with roses, peonies and hollyhocks.

“Good morning, Mrs. Springfield,” Mr. Pace called from the post office as Rosie walked past.

“Morning, Mr. Pace.” She gave him a little wave.

“Howdy, Mrs. Springfield.” Raton’s photographer tipped his hat as he hurried by with his dog, Tom, close at his heels.

“Hello, Laurie!” Mrs. Bayne tapped on the window of her dress shop, where she was setting up a display of calico fabrics.

Although she had been queasy that morning, Rosie felt positively perky as she stepped onto the depot platform outside the Harvey House. “Morning, Mr. Gable!” she called when she spotted the manager at the far end of the platform.

“Welcome back, Laurie! Go on into the lunchroom, and tell those girls to fix you a bowl of ice cream. On the house!”

“Thanks, Mr. Gable.” Rosie hurried toward the front door, excited to see Etta and the other girls again. Her heart brimming with joy, Rosie almost breezed past a white poster tacked to the wall just inside the door.