Prairie Rose (31 page)

Jimmy—as skinny as a fence rail—flushed bright red when his sister-in-law swirled over and gave him a warm embrace. “Caitrin Murphy, welcome to Kansas,” he said. “We’re happy to have you with us, so we are.”

“Hi, Rosie!” It was Chipper. Rosie looked down to find Seth’s son gazing at her. “How you been, Rosie?”

“I’ve been fine,” she said, kneeling to wrap her arms around him. “But I’ve missed you, sweetie.”

“We missed you, too. Look!” He opened his mouth and pointed to the gap where a lower front tooth had been. “Notice anything different about me?”

“You lost another tooth!”

“Yep. It was hangin’ by a thread, and I couldn’t eat nothin’. Papa pulled it out. I didn’t even cry.”

“Good for you. You’re a brave boy.” Rosie allowed herself a glance at the adults. Everyone had clustered around Caitrin Murphy—even Rolf and Seth. “What do you think of Sheena’s sister?”

“Purty. She gots the same green eyes as Sheena an’ all her kids, huh?”

“Yes, she does.”

“You been plowin’, Rosie? You gots dirt on your face.”

“I do?” Rosie grabbed her apron and swiped the hem across her cheek. “Did I get it?”

“Naw. It’s sorta all over.”

“All over.” Rosie shut her eyes. It was useless to feel envious of Caitrin Murphy. There was not a way on God’s green earth that Rosie could compete with the Irish beauty. What little affection she had earned from Seth she was bound to lose now. After all, he had made it clear that true love sprang from passion. And what man in his right mind wouldn’t feel passionate about Caitrin Murphy?

“Sure, I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in town,” the young woman said in her singsong Irish accent. Rosie’s heart nearly stopped.

“Town?” Seth looked around. “Nearest town is a fair distance from here.”

“Nonsense! Sheena tells me I’m standing on the main street of a fine Kansas town.” Caitrin gave Rosie a warm smile. “A town with a mercantile
and
a post office. And it has all been built by one very clever young lady by the name of Miss Rose Mills.”

Everyone turned to stare at Rosie. She wished she could sink right into the hard prairie sod. She shrank into herself, her eyes pleading with Sheena for a rescue. But Sheena was suddenly preoccupied with her children.

“A mercantile?” Jimmy said.

“A post office?” Seth said.

“A
town
?” Rolf said.

“Right here!” Caitrin lifted her arms and turned around and around. “Surely Rosie, Sheena, and I are not the only ones who see it. It’s Hope, of course. A town called Hope!”

Rosie had never known that things could go so very well—and so very badly—all at the same time. On the good side of things, August and September brought the planting and healthy growth of a whole new range of crops. Chipper and Stubby at his side, Seth worked the fields from sunrise to sunset, stopping only to wolf down the meal Rosie had packed for him in an oak splint basket.

Rosie had more to do than she could possibly accomplish. The post office and mercantile brought a stream of visitors day and night across the pontoon bridge. The stash of bright silver dollars rose to the top of the buried crock again—and Rosie was obliged to bury a second crock. And then a third.

Jimmy had flat-out forbidden Sheena to have anything to do with the enterprise. She was a mother, he reminded her, with five children who needed corralling. But every morning Caitrin Murphy strolled across the bridge bearing goods to sell to the travelers—baskets of hot bread Sheena had baked and bowls of fresh eggs the children had gathered.

Invariably, the young Irishwoman stayed most of the day at the barn. Not once did she mention a desire to set up a school or begin soliciting students. She loved the work of selling, bartering, and trading, and in the process, her greatest talent blossomed. Caitrin Murphy, as it turned out, was a genius in the art of transformation.

“We need windows,” she announced one afternoon in early October. “Do you know what I mean, Rosie? Grand big windows right in the front of the mercantile. With glass panes to show off all our merchandise.”

“Don’t forget this building is really a barn, Caitie,” Rosie said. She was folding bolts of fabric to stack on the row of shelves Caitrin had nailed up and down the barn walls. “I don’t think Seth would like the idea of glass windows in the same place he’ll be housing his livestock this winter.”

“Livestock. Oh, the very thought of it! Sure we can’t have the nasty beasts in here. They’ll ruin all our work.”

“It’s a
barn
, Caitrin.”

“Not anymore it isn’t. Look at this place! We’ve put the chickens to roost in the new coop. The cows are out in the pasture. The mules work in the fields every day. We’ve carpets on the floor and even these glass-topped counters. It’s not a barn anymore. Truly it’s not.”

“You’re right,” Rosie acknowledged. “You’ve changed it.”

She still could hardly believe the way Caitrin Murphy had managed it. In the two months since arriving from Ireland, Cait had talked Rolf Rustemeyer into building a large wire chicken coop. She had talked Jimmy O’Toole into hauling three enormous counters across the trail from Holloway’s station—after she had persuaded Rosie to buy them from the family who had taken over the Holloway homestead. She had talked Carlotta Rippeto into lettering a big wooden sign that read
Hope Mercantile and Post Office
, and she had talked Sheena into painting the sign in bold black strokes.

In fact, Rosie sensed the whole enterprise had gotten completely out of hand. And that was the bad part of the way things were going. Ever since Seth had returned from Topeka, he had retreated farther and farther from Rosie. He worked all day in the fields. In the evenings, he went out to the barn to cut shingles, sharpen tools, or build furniture.

When he did chance to cast a glance Rosie’s way, his blue eyes were inscrutable. What was he thinking? What did he want? Why wouldn’t he say it in words?

She could only assume he resented the mercantile and post office. She knew he didn’t like people traipsing across his land any more than Jimmy did. And she had the feeling he was still concerned about Jack Cornwall. No rumors of the man’s whereabouts had filtered out to the homestead, but Rosie couldn’t imagine that any person so determined would give up.

Rosie sighed. “Mr. Hunter will be the one to decide about putting plate-glass windows in his barn,” she told Caitrin.

“Mr. Hunter this. Mr. Hunter that!” Caitrin set her hands on her hips. “Why do you care so much what that man thinks?”

“I work for him.”

“You love him!”

Rosie drew in a deep breath. “Caitrin, the harvest is starting to come in now. In a week or two, I’ll probably be on my way back to Kansas City to work at the Christian Home for Orphans and Foundlings. My feelings for Mr. Hunter don’t matter in the least. Winter is coming, and I won’t be needed anymore.”

“Not needed! That man needs you more than he needs his own life’s blood.”

“You sound just like Sheena.”

“Of course I do. And I’ll tell you the truth. If I were you and I had found a man as good as Seth Hunter, I’d marry him double-quick, so I would. But you go about your work, and he goes about his, and the two of you are just like a pair of courting chickens— dancing this way and that and never getting down to the business of it.”

“Caitrin!”

“The business of
marriage
I mean. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Anyone with two eyes in her head can see that the two of you belong together. You should marry him, Rosie, and the sooner the better.”

“I notice you didn’t marry the man intended for you in Ireland, Caitie.”

“That oaf? Not likely. Besides, I love a man I’ll never marry.” A wounded glaze came over Caitrin’s green eyes. “Sean O’Casey is his name, and he’s the finest man that ever lived. I love him. I’ll love him always. My heart belongs to no other, nor shall it ever.”

Rosie smoothed her hands across the flat folds of fabric. Caitrin’s words mirrored her own feelings for Seth exactly. “Why didn’t you marry Sean O’Casey?”

“Because he’s already married, that’s why. Don’t look so shocked. Nothing wicked ever passed between us. Sean’s father is a rich man. Four months ago, Mr. O’Casey forced his choice of a bride on his son. It wasn’t me. My own father had picked out my bridegroom, you see. But how could I live the rest of my life in that little village? Watching Sean and Fiona together day after day? Loving Sean as I do—and him loving me? No, I told my father I wouldn’t do it. I would go to America to live with Sheena instead. And here I am. Bound to live alone the rest of my life and happy with my choice.”

“Oh, Caitrin.” Rosie didn’t know when she’d ever heard such a woeful tale. It made her think of poor Rapunzel locked up in the tower by the wicked witch.

“But
you
,” Caitrin said, “you have nothing to keep you from the man you love.”

How little the Irishwoman understood, Rosie thought. “In many ways my problem is just like yours,” she said. “You see … I believe that in his heart, Seth is still married to his late wife. Even though their marriage was difficult from the beginning, he must have adored her. When she died, I think something must have died inside Seth. He’s afraid to let himself truly love again. He holds back. He throws himself into his work—night and day— anything to keep away from me and the feelings. …”

“That settles it,” Caitrin announced. “The two of you belong together—never mind the man’s long lost wife, God rest her soul. What we need is a grand occasion.” She pondered a moment; then she snapped her fingers in delight. “I have it! We’ll hold a harvest feast, so we will. We’ll have it right here in the mercantile, and we’ll invite all the farmers from miles around.”

“Caitrin, if you want to have a party, why not hold it in Jimmy’s barn? I’m afraid I’ve already pushed Seth too far with all these changes.”

“But this is the perfect place for a feast. Two weeks should give us enough time.”

“Enough time for what?”

“Enough time to get ready. Enough time to convince Seth Hunter he can’t go on living without you.”

“Oh, Caitrin, you don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re trying to change everything, but you can’t! It isn’t right. You can’t just go around changing everything that doesn’t fit with your dreams. You can’t change barns into mercantiles. You can’t turn a bit of prairie sod into a town. And you can’t make Seth Hunter want to marry me. Besides, in two weeks, I’ll be gone.”

“Nonsense, Rosie. You’ll be right here.” Caitrin pressed a slender finger into the button at Rosie’s collar. “I’m going to see that you wear the prettiest dress on the Kansas prairie. I’m going to arrange for music, dancing, and the perfect evening for a proposal of marriage. We’ll have lanterns strung around the mercantile, hot cider, fried doughnuts, bobbing for apples, pies—lots of pies—and sticky buns with raisins on top, and …”

For a few moments, Rosie drifted in the scene that this genius of transformation painted with her words. It would be lovely indeed. The fragrance of cider and cinnamon drifting in the air, the aroma of freshly baked pies and cobblers, the scent of candles, the laughter of children. The feel of Seth’s arms as they slipped around her and drew her onto the dance floor. So perfect.

Yes
. She would wear one of Caitie’s beautiful Irish gowns. Something in a pale silvery blue or deep russet … or plum, velvet plum. Caitie would pin up Rosie’s hair and set jewels in the curls. Maybe she could even dust a little of Caitie’s cologne across her skin. Seth would be entranced. He would fall under her spell. And then—

“Mail, Miss Mills!” Mr. Bridger from the Topeka post office marched into the mercantile and flopped a heavy sack of letters across the counter. “Got a letter for you this time. Seems like there might even be two.”

Rosie sank out of her daydream like a hot cake in a drafty window.
Silly
. How silly to live in fairy tales. Seth hardly looked at her these days. Their conversations were short, matter-of-fact, and all about the business of daily life. If she had been right and working amicably side by side was all it took to make a marriage, it would be an empty lot in life. Now she understood how much more was needed to make a marriage truly fulfilling. Gentle touch. Quiet conversation. Longing looks. Passion.

No, Seth was not a man in love. And a harvest celebration was unlikely to change that.
Lord, help me to let him go. Please help me to do your will. …

“Let’s see now,” Bridger said. “This letter here is for Rippeto. It come all the way from Italy. You ever seen such crazy writin’ as this?”

Rosie studied the letter. She must concentrate on the here and now. And she must prepare herself for whatever God would lay in her future. “I can’t read a word of it,” she said. “Only the address.” “Hope,” Bridger said. “Hope, Kansas.”

Rosie rolled her eyes at the name and began to help him sort through the mail. “Here are two for Mr. LeBlanc,” she said. “They look like business letters. Probably payment for milling. This one’s for the young widow Hudson. Violet loves to hear from her sister in Ohio. This ought to cheer her up as the time for the baby draws near. And here’s one for Jimmy, and two for Rolf Rustemeyer. Look at that writing. It’s German, you know.”