Coming Up Roses Read online

  COMING UP ROSES

  By Alice Duncan

  Book #1 in the series “Meet Me at the Fair”

  Coming Up Roses

  Copyright © 2002 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  Published 2002 by Kensington Corp.

  A Zebra “Ballads” Books

  Smashwords edition March 15, 2010

  Visit aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Prologue

  Deadwood, Kansas, March, 1887

  William F., “Buffalo Bill”, Cody stared at Rose Ellen Gilhooley as if he’d never seen anything even remotely as wonderful as she in his life. Rose hoped she wasn’t misinterpreting his interest because she really needed him to like her.

  “Whoo-eee!” the former-scout-become-entertainer hollered when Rose performed one of the more lethal tricks her Sioux pal, Little Elk, had taught her several years earlier. Cody even waved his hat in his excitement. “Little gal, you are really something!”

  After she’d successfully maneuvered her body underneath her horse’s belly and had emerged safely on the other side—without benefit of a saddle or reins—Rose steadied herself, sucked in a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and leaped, landing with her bare feet on Gingerbread’s back. She balanced perfectly without, she hoped, looking as if she’d had to struggle to do so, and threw her arms up in the air in a gesture of triumph. Her brother Freddie had told her she looked like an angel ascending when she did that. Freddie used a lot of high-flown language, since he read a lot. Rose’s education wasn’t as grand as Freddie’s, and all she really hoped for today was that she looked like somebody Buffalo Bill Cody could use in the Wild West.

  She knew her mother was nervous. Rose could see her from the corner of her eye: gaunt, thin, weathered, looking much older than her forty-three years, thanks to poverty and grinding hardship. But Rose’s mother, for all the discomforts of her life, loved her children beyond anything. Rose’s one wish, the reason she was performing her heart out for Cody today, was that she could earn some money by doing so, thereby helping her family and easing the burdens of her mother’s life.

  Sliding down until she rode the big bay gelding astride, Rose kneed him, giving the signal to end the show with a flourish. Obeying her command, Gingerbread raced twice around the meadow and then stopped abruptly in front of Cody, rearing and pawing the air, as Rose had seen wild stallions do on the plains.

  Buffalo Bill applauded extravagantly when Gingerbread took a classy bow, as Rose had also taught him to do. She executed a grand bow from horseback herself, sweeping her battered hat from her head. Of course, if she got the job, she’d no longer have to use battered hats.

  “By golly, gal, you are really something! I thought your brother was exaggerating when he begged me to come out here and see you, but he wasn’t. By God, he wasn’t!”

  He probably was, actually. Freddie was always praising her to the skies. This time, his zealotry might have paid off. Rose slid from Gingerbread’s back and clicked for the horse to follow her up to Cody, who stood at the door of the three-room sod hut in which the Gilhooley family had lived since they moved to the territory. The move had taken place years before Rose’s birth.

  Because she’d learned early that a poor person had to use the gifts God gave her and not to be behindhand in expressing her needs, Rose didn’t shy away from asking the famous man the question that was uppermost in her mind. “Do you think you can use me in the Wild West, Mr. Cody?”

  She’d given him a dazzling exhibition of her shooting skills, too, but she knew he already had a couple of female sharpshooters. The most famous of them, Annie Oakley, was, according to Freddie, better even than Rose at shooting. Therefore, Rose had spent most of today’s presentation on riding, at which even she acknowledged her superiority.

  Nobody could beat Rose when it came to trick riding. Not even Little Elk any longer. Little Elk had told her so himself.

  “By golly, I’ve never thought about hiring us a bareback rider, little gal, but I surely do think it’s about time.”

  Her heart thrilled at his words. She’d all but worshiped this man for years. “Thank you so much, Mr. Cody.”

  Cody stuck out a big hand for Rose to take. She wasn’t used to shaking hands with men, but she didn’t shrink from that, either. She took Cody’s hand, which was so large it swallowed hers, and shook it heartily.

  “Call me Colonel, little gal. Everybody does.”

  “Colonel Cody.” Rose would call him anything he asked, as long as he’d hire her.

  “Sergeant Gilhooley told me that you—”

  “Who?”

  Buffalo Bill laughed. Rose wished she hadn’t interrupted him, but she wanted to know who Sergeant Gilhooley was. Nobody in her family had joined the army that she knew about.

  “Your brother Frederick, little gal. I like to assign ranks to my friends, don’t you know.”

  “Oh.” No, she hadn’t known, but that was all right with her, too. “I see.”

  “So, Sergeant Gilhooley told me that you’re mighty eager to get started in your new career as a bareback rider with the Wild West. Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He winked at her. “In that case, when can you pack? I’ve got to be in New York City next week, and we have to get the show together. We’re on our way to Europe.”

  Europe! Good Lord. Rose shot a startled glance at her mother, whose face held a poignant combination of elation and sadness. Rose knew her ma would hate to see her go, no matter how much she’d be able to use the money Rose would be sending home. She stammered, “N-next week? New York? Europe?”

  The world-famous buffalo hunter and scout nodded, still grinning up a storm. “You and I’ll have to catch the train from Deadwood tomorrow.” Cody gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know it’s quick, and it’ll be a big change for you.” He turned to Mrs. Gilhooley. “And for you, ma’am. I know you’ll miss your daughter something awful, but she’s the best little rider I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty, believe me. We can use her.” He allowed his glance to slide over the pathetic Gilhooley family farm. “And I suspect you can, too.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Gilhooley said softly. It was the first word she’d spoken since before Rose had started demonstrating her riding skills.

  “Tomorrow.” Rose swallowed hard. Then she straightened and grinned at the man who looked as if he was going to be the salvation of her family. “Tomorrow it is, Colonel.” She snapped a smart salute, and Cody chuckled again.

  She left with him on the train from Deadwood at noon the next day. There was no parting fanfare except from her family and the few of their friends and neighbors who’d heard the news in time to witness the departure of her train. Cody had made arrangements for Gingerbread to travel with them. Rose tried hard not to cry as she waved good-bye to her mother, brother, and sisters. Her mother didn’t even make an effort not to cry.

  Thus it was that Rose Ellen Gilhooley began her career with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. She was sixteen years old.

  Chapter One

  H.L.—which stood for Horatio Lambert, although no one who knew him ever called him anything but H.L.—May strolled through the entrance of the Columbian Exposition and on to the White City. He and his friend Sam Trimble ambled along, eyeing it all with pu
re fascination. As they did so, H.L. mentally started composing the first of the several articles he aimed to write about the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair.

  This place was great! Although he seldom allowed himself to feel enthusiasm for anything because he had an image of the world-weary, jaded journalist to uphold, he was, in secret, totally, unconditionally, and absolutely fascinated by this Exposition.

  “We’ve got to take in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, too, don’t forget,” his buddy said. Sam, too, was a reporter for the Chicago Globe, although

  Sam didn’t cherish his journalistic image as much as H.L., probably because he hadn’t had as much to overcome as had H.L. Starting with his atrocious name.

  Why any loving mother and father could saddle an innocent baby with a name like Horatio Lambert was beyond him. Hell, it wasn’t as if they’d had any rich uncles or grandfathers to appease. The Mays had always been as poor as church mice. H.L. had grown up on the banks of the Mississippi River in a small town in Missouri. “Like Tom Sawyer,” H.L. often told folks with a wink.

  It had been a good boyhood, he often thought. And if H.L. had engaged in fisticuffs a good deal more than Tom Sawyer ever had, it was only because his folks had erred when they’d named him. He’d learned to defend himself early from bigger boys who teased him for having such a prissy name. By the time H.L. was twelve, he’d grown tall and brawny, and was able to flatten anyone who made the mistake of calling him Horatio Alger—the last kid who advised him to “go west, young man,” had lost two teeth—or Horatio at the Bridge, or any one of a number of other titles they considered funny.

  H.L. didn’t even want to think about the joy his middle name had brought him. Lambert. Good God. If H.L. ever, heaven forbid, got married and sired a son, he was going to name him something decent. Something manly. Something the poor boy wouldn’t have to defend with his fists.

  Breathing deeply of the stockyard-scented air, H.L. smiled at his shorter, lighter-weight associate. “Damned right, we’ll see the Wild West. You know, I hear some people come to Chicago, take in Buffalo Bill’s show, think they’ve seen the whole Exposition, and go home again.”

  “People can be asses sometimes,” Sam commented with a laugh. “I want to see Annie Oakley. I understand she’s some kind of phenomenon.”

  H.L. nodded. “Me, too. And that other woman, too. The horseback rider. What’s her name? Rose Gilhooley? I hear she can ride like an Indian.”

  “I hear she is an Indian,” said Sam.

  “With a name like Gilhooley?” H.L. guffawed. “I doubt it.”

  “Might be a half-breed.”

  H.L. shrugged. “Might be.”

  “Anyhow, I read somewhere that it was a Sioux Indian who gave her the name she uses in her act, ‘Wind Dancer.’“

  H.L. nodded. “I read the same thing, although it was on one of Cody’s publicity dodgers. Who knows if those things tell the truth or not?”

  “It might be, H.L. You’re too cynical, you know that?”

  H.L. only laughed. He cherished his reputation as a cynical big-city reporter. God knows, he’d worked hard to get it. He flexed his hand in memory of his bruised knuckles.

  The two men, who’d not only received dispensation from their editor to visit the Exposition any time they felt like it during the fair’s first month but, thanks to H.L.’s silver tongue, had even talked the newspaper into paying their fifty-cent entry fee as well, felt as free as birds. H.L. was used to feeling free, but he knew Sam wasn’t. Sam was married and had two children. H.L. shuddered at the notion of being tied to so enormous a responsibility as a wife and family.

  H.L.’s entire life had been spent getting free from things, starting with his lousy name. After he’d wrestled his name into submission, he’d plowed through poverty and ignorance until he’d earned a scholarship to Missouri University, graduated with honors, moved to Chicago, and proceeded to bully and write his way into a job as an ace reporter. He’d worked like a demon, fought like John L. Sullivan, and had made it. All on his own. It would take somebody mighty special to get H.L. May to put on shackles voluntarily. H.L. didn’t think there was a woman alive who could do it.

  “And we’ve got to see the Midway Plaisance, too,” Sam said, looking too innocent for H.L.’s credulity to swallow. “We’ve been here three days in a row and haven’t set foot there yet.”

  Lots of folks arrived at the Exposition via its street entrance at the

  Midway, but H.L. and Sam had decided to take the scenic route from downtown Chicago. They’d come on a steamboat, and landed at the pier. H.L. figured he might alter his route one of these days, but the steamer was such a peaceful way to ride.

  “You just want to see Little Egypt,” he said with a knowing grin

  “I do not! Anyhow, she’s part of the Middle-Eastern exhibition, so when we go there, we’ll have to see her. That dance of hers is a cultural experience, H.L.”

  It amused H.L. when Sam, in spite of the sober and dignified expression on his face, blushed. “Sure, Sam. I’ll buy that one if you’ll buy a bridge from me.”

  “Dash it, H.L., that’s not fair.”

  “Right.” H.L. shook his head. Lordy, when a fellow tied the knot, his life truly ended. H.L. would rather shoot himself and get it over with all at once than die a slow death via the tortures of matrimony.

  “Crumbs, H.L.,” Sam muttered after a pregnant pause, “I’m taking Daisy and the kids to the fair next week. I can’t very well see Little Egypt with Daisy and the kids, can I?”

  “Guess not.” H.L. stuck his hands in his pockets and started to whistle. God, he loved his life!

  “Whoo, will you look at that! I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing it.” Sam’s voice held awe.

  As well it might. The backers of this World’s Fair had done a magnificent job of turning a swamp into a fairgrounds. H.L. was impressed as all get-out as he gazed at the Grand Basin, the huge reflecting pool in the center of the Court of Honor. A elaborate fountain and a gilded statue of the Republic, complete with scepter and orb, resided in the Basin. It was truly an extraordinary sight.

  “You know, Sam, all of this is so fascinating, I’m not sure I even care about seeing the Wild West,” H.L. said as he entered the Machinery Hall and stared at the 435,500-square-foot room. It was crammed to the ceiling with exhibits ranging from book-folding machines to knitting machines, to gigantic hydraulic engines. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Sam, also stunned by the enormity and magnificence of the Machinery Hall, whispered reverently, “That’s the whole point, H.L. Nobody has.”

  # # #

  Mrs. Frank Butler, better known to her many admirers as Annie Oakley—although she’d started out in life as Phoebe Ann Moses—shuffled through a deck of cards, sorting out the various aces, sevens, tens, and other cards with appropriate suit-marks in their centers. During her sharpshooting performance, she’d shoot out the center pips. The cards, thus decorated by “Little Sure Shot,” Sitting Bull’s honorary name for her, would be sold later to Wild West attendees.

  Annie’s white poodle, George, snored on an embroidered pillow at Annie’s feet. Annie used George in her act with the Wild West sometimes. George had a remarkably phlegmatic personality for a poodle and never shied away from the sound of gunfire.

  Rose Gilhooley, who considered Mrs. Butler her very best friend in the whole Wild West show, if not the entire world, was helping Annie sort cards. “I don’t know why they didn’t let Colonel Cody set up inside the Exposition. Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

  The late spring day was fine, and the two ladies were working in Annie’s big tent, which had been set up for her for her use during the run of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. The Sioux attached to the show had constructed a small village for themselves, and dozens of other tents

  housed the rest of the 600 members of the cast and crew that traveled with the Wild West. A herd of buffalo and a herd of horses also traveled with the show, and were pastured near the tent villa
ges. Cody’s entourage included a stagecoach, a veritable arsenal of firearms, pounds of blank ammunition, dozens of mules, and wagonloads of costumes, set pieces, props, and backdrops, as well. It took acres of land to house the large operation.

  Annie chuckled. “You just think the colonel’s perfect, is all. According to the Fair Directory, the Wild West is just entertainment. The Exposition is supposed to be an educational experience.”

  “Colonel Cody says the Wild West is an educational exposition. And it really is, Annie.” Rose eyed the other woman, whom she admired immensely. “Don’t you think so?”

  A tiny stab of disappointment struck her. She hated it that Annie, who liked and admired the colonel, didn’t appreciate him in the same worshipful way Rose did. As far as Rose was concerned, William F. Cody had been her family’s deliverer and would forever be her personal hero.

  Annie sighed. “As to that, we do reenactments of historical events.”

  Rose nodded vigorously. “Yes, and that’s the whole point. Think about it. The colonel’s life is so colorful—and it’s all true. Why, he rode the longest Pony Express route ever when he was only sixteen years old! And that was way before he started scouting for the army.”

  Annie leveled a look at Rose over the ace of spades. “You were feeding your whole family when you were sixteen years old, Rose.”

  Rose shrugged. “Well, yes, but that’s only because I had to, after Papa died. Freddie couldn’t ride or shoot for anything, and I was a dead-eye shot. Anything the family didn’t eat, we sold at market. You know all about that, because you did the same thing.”

  “Hmph.” Annie’s lips pursed, as they always did when Rose spoke of her older brother.

  Feeling defensive about Freddie, whom Rose loved with all her heart, and who was a sweetheart even if he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a buffalo rifle, Rose said, “Freddie does his part, all right. He took care of the farm and did all the hard labor around the place before he married Suzanne. Plus he worked in Mr. Lovelady’s hardware store in town. Still does, for that matter, and he still helps Ma with our farm, although with the money I send home, Ma’s been able to hire a farm hand, too.” She frowned. “I’m trying to talk her in to moving to town. She doesn’t need to work the farm any longer.”