Prairie Rose (15 page)

He was feeling pretty good about his situation until he stepped into the soddy. Rosie was bent over the big bed tucking Chipper beneath the covers. Behind her, Rustemeyer stood gaping at the mass of shiny hair that fell from the top of Rosie’s head to below her waist.

“Shut your trap, Rustemeyer,” Seth growled as he brushed past the German on the way to the stove. “If you hadn’t lost her bonnet, she wouldn’t be in such a fix.”

For some reason, Seth didn’t like the idea that Rustemeyer knew about Rosie’s hair. It had been a secret vision, something that Seth realized he had thought about more than once while lying alone in his bed at night. Rosie’s long brown hair mesmerized him, ribbons and streamers of it draping around her shoulders and down her back. He had touched her hair—just that once—and he’d be switched if he would let Rustemeyer get his big paws into it.

“Better put up your hair,” he said to her, and the words came out more harsh than he intended. “It’s dripping on the floor.”

She cast him a wounded look as she moved toward a chair at the table. “I’m sorry it bothers you. I don’t have a bonnet now. I lost most of my pins.”

Seth looked at Chipper. He hadn’t intended his comment to sound as though he disapproved of her hair. Rosie’s hair fascinated him, lured him. The little boy was staring out over the hem of the sheet, his blue eyes fastened on his father.

“I like Rosie’s hair down,” Chipper whispered. “It’s pretty. Don’t you think so?”

Seth turned to the stove and cleared his throat. “A woman ought to have a bonnet. It’s not right to go bareheaded in front of strangers.”

“We’re not strangers. Rosie’s our friend.”

Seth nodded. “Yes, but a bonnet keeps the sun off.”

“It’s nighttime now.” Chipper edged up on his elbows. “Rosie, I think your hair looks like maple syrup.”

Across the room, the young woman laughed. “Wet and sticky?”

“Long and brown and flowing everywhere. I never saw such long hair. How many years did it take you to grow it?”

“All my life. I’ve never had reason to cut my hair before. But now that I’ve lost my bonnet and my pins—and since it bothers your father so much—”

“No,” Seth cut in. He felt hot around the collar at the very idea that she might shear off those long, billowing tresses. Her hair was her glory, the essence of her beauty, the expression of her very soul. How could he tell her so without sounding like a sentimental fool?

“Leave your hair,” he said, absently fiddling with the stove’s warming oven, as though he might discover a bedtime snack or something hidden inside. “You can tie it up under one of those grain sacks.”

“If it troubles you—”

“No, it’s … it’s fine.” He faced her. She was holding the pile of her hair in her hands, looking down at it as though it was somehow separate from her. In the lamplight it shimmered— strands of gold, threads of copper, tendrils of bronze—as her fingers slipped into it. “The boy’s right. You shouldn’t cut it. It suits you.”

At the admission of approval, Seth glanced at Rustemeyer. Though he couldn’t comprehend the conversation, the German was studying the scene with great interest. Seth didn’t like the way those puppy-dog eyes had fastened onto Rosie. Not at all.

Rustemeyer didn’t deserve the gift of a look at Rosie’s beautiful hair. He didn’t know her the way Seth did. There were things about Rosie that made her different from other women. Special. The way she had danced with the grain sacks in the barn. The way she tilted her chin when she laughed. The way her arms felt when they slipped around Seth’s chest. No, Rustemeyer didn’t know Rosie, and Seth felt an unbidden urge to set his stamp on her. To somehow set her apart … to make her his.

But how? And why? Just to keep her away from Rustemeyer? A flash of possessiveness was no reason to toss his whole life into chaos. And admitting he wanted to keep Rosie Mills to himself would certainly create havoc. After all, he didn’t really need her. Or want her. Did he?

“Are you warming up, Chipper?” Rosie was asking as she ruffled the boy’s damp hair. “I don’t want you to catch cold.”

“I’m warm … and I’m so sleepy,” Chipper whispered.

“That’s good. I’m going out to the barn now, sweetie.”

“Good night, Rosie.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t sleep in the barn,” Seth said as she started for the door. “Rain’s pouring through the roof. You’ll get wet.”

“I’m already wet.”

“You won’t sleep.”

“I’ll make my bed under the wagon where it’s dry.”

“But the snake—”

“I will not sleep in your house,” she said firmly. “It’s bad enough you find my hair shameful to look at. I won’t have people saying evil things about me for staying in a house with two unmarried men.”

Lifting the latch, she slipped out the door. Seth glanced at Chipper. The boy was staring at him, blue eyes accusing. Rolf Rustemeyer wore a grin of pity mixed with triumph. Seeing that, Seth made up his mind to follow Rosie. He threw open the door and stepped into the rain. She was hurrying ahead of him through the sheets of water, her feet splashing from puddle to puddle as she raced toward the barn. A bolt of lightning cracked like a whip across the prairie, and she paused, startled.

His heart hammering against his ribs, Seth used the moment to catch up with her. “Miss Mills.”

She swung around. “Mr. Hunter? You should go back inside. You need to watch over Chipper. What if Jack Cornwall shows up?”

“Rustemeyer’s with the boy.” Breathing hard, Seth studied her damp face. Her features were lit by pale moonlight shining through the rain clouds. “We made a plan tonight, Jimmy and I. We’re going to send word to all the coach stations along the trail. If anyone spots Cornwall, we’ll have advance warning.”

She nodded and looked at the barn. “Then I’d better go on. It’s late.”

“Wait. About … about your hair.” He shifted from one foot to the other. It was bad enough to stand outside in such a downpour. Bad enough to force his presence on a woman who was clearly anxious to get away from him. And now that he had Rosie alone—all to himself—he didn’t even know what to say.

“My hair?” she repeated.

“I … I just don’t think a man like Rustemeyer ought to take on airs like he does.”

“Airs?”

“The way he looks at you. As though he thinks he has a right to see your hair.”

Seth rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. This wasn’t coming off well at all. Rosie stared up at him, water running down her cheeks and dripping off the end of her nose.

“What I’m trying to say is that it’s Rustemeyer that bothers me,” Seth tried again. “Not your hair. Not that it’s hanging down. Loose.”

“I lost my bonnet.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“He picked me up.”

“He shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t his place.”

“Well, he didn’t want me to get … wet.” As she said the word, the humor of the situation lit up her brown eyes. Her mouth twitched. “I guess I’m wet anyway.”

“Are you sure you won’t sleep in the house?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” She gave him a smile. “Good night, Mr. Hunter.”

“Good night, Miss Mills.” As she turned to walk away, he caught her hand. “About your hair—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t cut it. You could make a bonnet out of grain sacks. For the sun, I mean. Just to keep the heat off your face. Not because I don’t like to see your hair down. I don’t think it’s shameful. That wasn’t what I meant.”

Rosie tilted her head to one side. “Mr. Hunter, are you trying to tell me that you like my hair?”

“I reckon it’s not too bad.” He cleared his throat. Though he was wet and shivering, he felt exactly like a chicken roasting on a skewer. With Mary Cornwall, conversation had been so different. She had giggled and teased and flirted around him until he could hardly think. Truth to tell, Mary hadn’t thought much either. She was all air and light. A serious thought never crossed her brain. But Rosie demanded honesty. Those brown eyes confronted him with an expectation of truth. He squared his shoulders.

“Miss Mills, the fact is you have the prettiest hair I ever laid eyes on,” he burst out. “The shame would be if you cut it off just because Rolf Rustemeyer was careless enough to lose your bonnet. If you like, you can sew yourself a new bonnet to keep off the sun and wind. But as far as I’m concerned, you can leave your hair loose from now until kingdom come. If the truth be known, you’ve prettied up my homestead a lot since you came. And I’m not just talking about the new curtains.”

As he finished speaking, Seth realized he was still holding Rosie’s hand. She was staring up at him, her eyes shining beneath the droplets beaded on the ends of her lashes. Before he could further embarrass himself, Seth loosed her hand and turned back toward the house. He knew his boots were slogging through mud, but for some reason he had the strangest sense that he was walking on air.

CHAPTER 8

R
OSIE woke under the wagon to find three chickens, a rooster, seven baby chicks, and a very wet puppy cuddled up beside her. A puppy? Where had it come from? She reached out to touch the ball of yellow fur, and the rooster let out a squawk. Feathers flew. The puppy yipped. The barn snake slithered from a clump of hay near Rosie’s shoulder. At the unexpected sight of the black, shiny undulation, she sat up and banged her head against the axle—in the exact spot she had hit it the day she fell from the tree into Seth Hunter’s arms.

“Ouch!” Clutching the bump and ruefully recalling the tumult of her life since that first moment with Seth, she straggled out from under the wagon. The puppy regarded her with sleepy eyes. Then it began to wag a short, stumpy tail. “Well, good morning to you, too. Where’s your mama, little fella?”

The puppy waddled forward and pushed its wet black nose against Rosie’s palm. She rubbed the soft fur, aware that the movement of sharp ribs beneath meant the creature hadn’t been eating regularly. A bowl of fresh milk would help that.

“Come on, then,” she said, hoisting the wiggly bundle into the crook of her arm. “You might as well join the rest of us misfits here on this forlorn prairie. You and I have no parents. Chipper has lost his mama. Seth doesn’t have the first notion how to be a good father. And who knows what became of his folks? Not one of us understands how to make a family, so you might as well join in the muddle.”

Rosie stepped out of the barn into a bright, hot morning. Steam rose from the plowed fields around the dugout. My, but the neat furrows were a beautiful sight! The promise of a bountiful harvest and a future of hope filled her heart with an unspeakable joy. She started for the soddy, but at the sound of regular pounding coming from the direction of the creek, she stopped. The bridge. Seth and Rolf were building the bridge. On a Sunday!

Picking up her skirts, Rosie marched down the bank toward the water’s edge. “Mr. Hunter! Mr. Rustemeyer! Have you forgotten what day this is? It’s Sunday!”

The two men stopped their hammering and gaped at her. For the first time that morning, Rosie realized how she must look. Her dress was damp, hemmed in mud, and stuck with bits of straw. Her hair hung in a long tangle past her waist. In between licking her cheek with a soft pink tongue, the little yellow puppy nipped at her chin with his tiny milk teeth.

“It’s Sunday,” she repeated, attempting to hold the puppy back.

“I told you there’s no church around here.” Seth set down his hammer. “Until we get this bridge built and cut a trail to the main road, the circuit preacher won’t even come by.”

“All the same—I think it’s only right to honor the Sabbath. Sing. Read the Scriptures. Pray. Don’t you agree?”

As Seth gazed at her, Rosie felt the heat rise in her cheeks. What was he staring at? Did she look so appalling in her muddy dress? Or was her long hair distracting him again? Maybe it was the puppy.

“He was sleeping with me this morning,” she said, holding up the little ball of fluff. “Under the wagon.”

Seth gave the dog a quick glance; then he focused on Rosie again. “Did you sleep all right? You look cold.”

“I’m all right. But it’s Sunday, Mr. Hunter. You really shouldn’t be hammering, should you?”

“I can’t see how it matters.”

“Of course it matters. You’re working. We are to honor the Sabbath and keep it holy.”

“I’m building a bridge.”

Rosie stroked her hand over the puppy’s head as she studied the pile of lumber near the water’s edge. Bridges linked people together. Bridges brought circuit preachers. Missionaries. Church builders. Building a bridge on the Sabbath might not be too great a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Still, it couldn’t please him to ignore a holy day.

“I think we should turn our hearts to God,” she insisted. “I think we should read the Bible.”

In Seth’s blue eyes, she recognized the flicker of anger. She knew what he was thinking. His skinny, mule-headed farmhand was contradicting him again. Being stubborn. Willful. He clenched his jaw, and she steeled herself against his wrath.

“All right,” he said, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I reckon our angel of mercy has spoken. Rustemeyer, it’s time for church.”

“Was ist los?”

“Church.” Seth pronounced the word loudly to the German as they followed Rosie toward the soddy. He didn’t much like the idea of stopping their work on the bridge just to sit around reading and singing hymns all morning. The creek was running full after the rain the night before; the high water had prevented Jimmy O’Toole from crossing to help with construction. If they hoped to have the bridge built before the crushing heat of summer set in, they would need to work on it every day.