Coming Up Roses (30 page)

How did a woman tell if a man’s intentions
were honorable or not? Pondering this, Rose brushed out her tangled
hair and plaited it into one thick braid for bed. She imagined
Annie would tell her that if a man was honorable, he wouldn’t kiss
a lady without asking her permission first.

H.L. hadn’t asked. In fact, he’d surprised
her nearly into a swoon when he’d kissed her.

She frowned as she pulled down her
bedclothes. Asking would take all the spontaneity and fun out of a
kiss, though, wouldn’t it? Rose didn’t think she’d have been half
so excited if H.L. had asked first.

Of course, that was probably because she’d
have refused if he’d asked—and not because she didn’t want him to
kiss her, but because she knew that his kissing her was wrong.

Fiddlesticks. She was too tired to be
thinking about any of this confusing nonsense. After a sound sleep,
perhaps she’d be able to understand better what had happened this
evening—morning—whatever it was—and how to proceed from now on, as
concerned H.L. May.

She didn’t believe herself, but went to sleep
before her conflicting sides could engage in an all-out battle.

Chapter Fifteen

Afternoon, hell. It was almost seven
o’clock before H.L. jumped out of the cab in front of the Wild West
encampment and, clutching a copy of Monday’s early edition, raced
to Rose’s tent. He hadn’t meant to come this late, but he’d stayed
at the
Globe
office until
nearly 8:00 a.m., writing two complete articles. By the time he’d
finally fallen into his bed, he’d been dead on his feet, and he’d
slept for nine hours.

He told himself he was hurrying to see Rose
not because he wanted to see her, exactly, but because he wanted to
interview her some more. He’d almost talked himself into believing
it by the time he got to her tent and discovered she wasn’t
there.

“
Rose!” he cried in real distress. The
fact that his unhappiness was real, and that he felt as if someone
had gouged a hole in his heart, made him reassess his motives.
Hell, not even H.L. May, who considered himself at the top of the
line when it came to ace reporting, could conscientiously allow
himself to preserve the fiction that he only wanted Rose for a
story.

“
Damn.” So much for that pleasant
theory. As he stomped off, wondering where the hell she’d gotten
herself off to, he berated himself as an ass.

He never should have kissed her. He wouldn’t
feel this intense longing to see her again if he’d kept better
control over himself. But had he?

No. He’d had to succumb to temptation, draw
her into his arms, and kiss her. The kiss had kindled all of his
wolfish instincts, and now he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d
known her completely, in the Biblical sense.

Not that there was anything the least bit
Biblical about his carnal urges as regarded Rose Gilhooley. The
problem was that, when he entertained the delicious fantasy about
Rose in his bed, he didn’t feel quite right about it, and that had
never happened to him before. He’d never experienced any qualms
about bedding a delectable female. Why the hell were qualms
attacking him now?

But Rose was such an innocent. She was not of
this world, in fact—or not of H.L.’s world, anyhow. She had
provincial morals and standards and wasn’t sophisticated like he
was. She didn’t have any big-city gloss to her. To Rose, an affair
would be a serious undertaking. She wouldn’t consider a sexual
liaison with him in the light of recreation. The only context in
which Rose would condone a sexual encounter would be within the
bounds of matrimony.

H.L. shuddered at the thought of marriage.
That he had to force himself to do so because the shudder didn’t
come naturally as it had always done before he’d met Rose, he
chalked up to residual weariness from a long day, a bout of
energetic fisticuffs, and insufficient sleep. He wasn’t sure he
believed himself.

He’d managed to make his way to the Sioux
encampment as he pondered all of this. Spying Little Elk, he waved
and set up a holler. “Little Elk!”

He’d learned as soon as he’d awakened that
evening what Rose had meant about the Sioux thanking him in
unexpected ways for his help in rescuing Bear in Winter. When he’d
opened the door to his apartment, he’d found, tacked up with a
knife, a rawhide pouch filled with a variety of things H.L.
couldn’t precisely identify.

There was a beadwork pouch inside the leather
pouch, which he assumed was for anything he wanted to use it for,
some leather moccasins also decorated with beads, some kind of
dried meat—pemmican or jerky, he’d heard that sort of thing was
called—and a quillwork belt. He thought it was a belt, anyway.
Whatever it was, H.L. appreciated all of it, including the knife,
which had some great carvings on it and looked as if it had been
fashioned of bone. He wondered if a slaughtered buffalo’s bones had
been the source of the haft.

Whatever the items had been made of, the gift
provoked lots of images in H.L.’s mind, that’s for sure. Visions of
great buffalo hunts and of Indians riding across the vast plains
wielding bows and arrows flickered in his head, along with pictures
of Indians in feathered headbands and fringed moccasins dancing
around a campfire.

He took a moment to wonder if his images bore
any resemblance whatever to reality, or if he’d adopted the dime
novelists’ renditions of Indian traditions as fact. There was a
great idea for another series of articles, if he could get any of
the Sioux to talk to him. According to Rose, and he’d noticed the
same thing, the Sioux weren’t apt to chat with white men about
their culture.

H.L. understood, although he hoped he’d be
able to jostle some information out of Little Elk, even if no one
else in the Sioux camp trusted him. At the moment, however, his
interest in Little Elk extended only as far as to ask him if he
knew where Rose was.

Little Elk frowned. “With Little Sureshot, I
think.”

H.L. felt confounded for a moment. “Little
Sureshot? Oh, Annie Oakley. Right. I should have thought of that
myself.”

The Indian nodded as if he agreed.

H.L. didn’t mind. He understood that the
Sioux’s take on things might relegate white intelligence to a
fairly low rung on the ladder. He said, “Say, Little Elk, I
appreciate the gift someone left on my door today. I like it very
much.”

Little Elk nodded. “You save Bear in
Winter.”

“
Right. Well, thanks.” H.L. had read
that Indians didn’t receive thanks in the same way whites did, and
he wasn’t sure how much gushing he should do.

Dammit, if he could find Rose, she
could tell him. He was slightly peeved with her for running off
before he’d arrived. After all, he’d
told
he he’d come by this afternoon.

“
Bear said you almost kill the man who
took him. That’s good.” Little Elk nodded again, as if to indicate
H.L. had performed a good deed, and was appreciated for
it.

Glancing at his swollen knuckles—he’d removed
the bandages, figuring fresh air might do the cuts and scratches
some good—H.L. muttered, “I’m glad to have helped.”

Little Elk nodded again and didn’t look as if
he intended to keep the conversation going, so H.L. said, “So long.
I’m going to look for Rose,” and took off.

He wished Little Elk hadn’t mentioned that
fight. H.L. had managed to forget about it in his panic over
missing Rose, but as soon as Little Elk reminded him, his hands and
jawbone resumed aching. His arms ached, too, not to mention his
ribs. They weren’t accustomed to that kind and severity of
exercise. It was probably a good thing H.L. had decided to become a
reporter and not a river boat captain or something, since he didn’t
think he’d really enjoy that much physical exertion on a regular
basis.

The balmy May day smelled of blooming flowers
combined with the leftover scent of popcorn mingled with horses and
a faint whiff of the stockyards. If H.L. had been in Rose’s
company, he’d have considered the day just about perfect. As it
was, no matter how much he appreciated the elaborate gardens the
fair directors had planted, and the hundreds of energetically
blooming rosebushes therein, the day had a hole in. A Rose-sized
hole. He’d started out in a good mood, but it was sinking with each
step he took without Rose on his arm.

“
Dammit,” he muttered as he paused to
try to remember where Annie Oakley’s tent was.

He spotted Rose before he got to Annie’s
tent. She was dressed to the nines in a lavender spring suit and a
tiny flowered hat. His heart soared into the atmosphere, executed
several front flips and a back somersault, then careened about in
his body for a second or two before coming to rest in his chest.
Damned heart. It was terribly unpredictable these days.

Rose hadn’t seen him yet, so he set up a
shout. “Rose! Rose! Here I am!”

It only occurred to him after he’d hollered
that she might not have been as eager to see him as he was to see
her. Although H.L. had a very good understanding of his own
self-worth, the notion that she might have a different one daunted
him. He was even more daunted when he saw Rose glance up, spot him,
and frown.

Blast it, what was she frowning at him for?
Hell, he was going to make her famous. Not that she wasn’t already
famous, but—aw, hell, he knew what he meant.

Because he didn’t want her to know how
insecure he felt, and because the feeling was as uncomfortable as
it was new to him, he waved and trotted over to her. She was with
Annie, and they looked as though they might be going off somewhere
together. Maybe he could go with them. The notion of heading back
to his lonely apartment without getting a full dose of Rose only
served to depress his spirits, so he aimed to push his way in on
their excursion if he could. He had faith in his brass.

Sweeping his jaunty spring straw hat from his
head, he gave the two

ladies a small but perfect bow. “Good
afternoon, Mrs. Butler. Rose.”

Annie gave him a frosty, “Good evening, Mr.
May.”

Rose’s cheeks were pink. H.L. didn’t know if
she was embarrassed or had only got some sun the day before. She
muttered, “H.L.”

Perceiving that she was edgy in his
company, and in an effort to diffuse any misunderstanding on her
part, he said, “Sorry I’m a little late. I spent a couple of hours
at the
Globe
office after I
left you this morning, and I’m afraid I slept a little longer than
I’d planned.”

Her stiffness eased a little, and H.L. was
glad he’d made his uncharacteristic apology. He generally felt
little need to apologize for anything.

“
I wondered if you’d forgotten you’d
asked to interview me again today,” Rose said. Her voice was soft,
as if she wasn’t sure of him or herself.

Probably an aftermath of the kiss, H.L. told
himself. The kiss loomed large in his own mind today, but since
Rose hadn’t nearly the experience he had when it came to kisses,
she was undoubtedly feeling more than ordinarily shy. “Not a bit of
it. I wouldn’t be likely to forget that, would I?” He gave her one
of his more dazzling smiles. This was the one he reserved for women
he was trying to wear down so they’d go to bed with him.

She lowered her head and stared at the
ground, as if she were inspecting something fascinating that had
crawled onto her shoe. “I wouldn’t know.”

His immediate reaction to that was to bark
something sarcastic at her because her words had irked him, but he
bit back the impulse. Annie spoke next—mercifully in H.L.’s
opinion, since he didn’t have any idea what to say next and he
didn’t have any more smiles in his repertoire.

“
We’re on our way to the evening church
service at Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Mr. May. If you’d care to
join us, I’m sure it would do you a world of good.”

Annie’s voice was as caustic as her words,
and H.L. glanced at her keenly. What was her problem? Was she mad
at him for some reason?

Oh, crap. Rose hadn’t told her about that
kiss, had she? A glance at

Rose told him nothing since, although she’d
stopped staring at her feet, she’d started fiddling with the small
handbag she carried and was now staring off into space. It was
clear to H.L. that she didn’t want to look at him. She probably
didn’t want him to accompany them to church, either. To hell with
them both.

Donning his cockiest demeanor, he swung
around to Rose’s side. “Don’t mind if I do. I haven’t been to
church for a long time.”

“
I’m not surprised,” Annie said with
something of a snarl.

Rose allowed her shoulders to slump for only
a moment. H.L. resented that slump.

Dammit, he didn’t mean her any harm. Couldn’t
she tell that much about him, even if she was as innocent as a
newborn lamb? He’d never encountered such an intriguing combination
of world-wisdom and absolute innocence. He hoped he’d captured it
in his article. The good Lord knew, he’d tried hard and long
enough. He’d tried so hard and so long, he’d missed an entire
night’s sleep. That he’d managed to catch up on his sleep during
the day, he chose not to remember, since he was reveling in his
indignation at present.

They caught a cab and rode to church. None of
them said a word the whole way. H.L. maintained his nonchalant
exterior, although he wasn’t feeling nonchalant inside. He was
feeling abused. The feeling didn’t abate as they left the cab—Annie
paid before H.L. could reach into his pocket for money—and climbed
the steps to the church.

St. Mark’s was a pretty place, designed along
Renaissance lines, with a tall bell tower. Inside, the Victorians
had had a field day. There were carvings everywhere, and the
stained-glass windows made an explosion of color on the pews as the
sun shone through them. H.L. watched Rose as she took it all in.
He’d have liked to talk to her about it, since he found a certain
interest—not to say joy, which was an awfully strong word and made
him nervous—in listening to her discover new things.