Chapter Two

 

“I believe they’re in here, Mr. May.”

The two women looked at each other as Frank Butler’s slightly accented voice reached them. Annie sighed. “Who’s he got in tow now?” she asked, although she smiled as she did so. Frank Butler, her Irish husband and a champion sharpshooter in his own right, was also her business manager. As such, he tried to garner as much publicity for her as he could.

Grinning, Rose said, “Whoever it is, I’m sure he’ll love you, Annie. You’re so—perfect.” Rose was honestly only a little bit jealous of Annie’s fame, mainly because Rose knew Annie had earned it. Annie was also small and pretty and elegant, and every inch a lady.

Rose herself was small and guessed she was sort of pretty, but she felt thoroughly deficient in the ladyship and elegance departments. Annie was trying to help her there, too. So far, she’d managed to correct Rose’s grammar for the most part—Rose slipped up occasionally when she was nervous—had taught her how to eat with a knife, fork, and spoon, not to drink her tea out of her saucer, and gone with her on a shopping expedition when they’d first arrived in Chicago, but Rose knew she needed lots more work in order to become a real lady, if she ever could.

Annie sniffed. “Rose Gilhooley, you’re being silly. You’re ever so much younger and prettier than I am. Who’s to say whoever this person Frank’s bringing hasn’t come here to see you?”

Rose felt her eyes pop open. “Oh, no, Annie! That never happens!”

Annie only sighed, patted a stack of cards together, and stood, looking as if she didn’t relish whatever this interruption was going to mean. Rose stood, too, feeling nervous. She never felt nervous when she was performing because she’d practically grown up on a horse and was confident there. Horseback, however, was the only place she felt confident.

The tent flap opened, and Frank Butler came in first. “Howdy-do, ladies. I see you’re hard at work, as usual.” Frank, a real sweetheart in Rose’s opinion—he even wrote beautiful poems that Annie read to her sometimes—winked at them.

“Hello, Frank, what are you surprising me with today?” Annie went over to give her husband a buss on the cheek.

Rose had never seen Annie or Frank show any but the mildest displays of affection for each other in public, even though she knew their love ran deep. Annie had told her so. So had Frank, for that matter. And there were the poems he wrote, which were so beautiful they made Rose cry.

“I have here a photographer, Mr. Winslow Asher, and a newspaperman, Mr. H.L. May. Mr. Asher has been hired by the Fair Directory as the official photographer for the Exposition, and Mr. May is writing a series of articles for the Chicago Globe. They want to interview you, darlin’, and take some pictures.”

Rose turned impulsively, and gave Annie a hug. “Oh, Annie, that’s wonderful!”

“Aye, ‘tis,” said Frank complacently.

“Frank.” Annie shook her head. “You are amazing.” She didn’t sound as if she considered his being amazing a particularly endearing quality at the moment.

Frank only chuckled. “Say your howdies to the gentlemen, ladies. Annie Oakley and Rose Gilhooley, please meet Mr. Win Asher and Mr. H.L. May.”

Always slightly abashed in fancy company—and any company she met outside the Wild West or Deadwood, Kansas, qualified—Rose still managed a dainty curtsy. Annie had taught her that, too.

Mr. Asher bowed and shook Annie’s hand, then Rose’s. “So good of you to allow us to disturb you, Mrs. Butler. Miss Gilhooley.”

“Certainly,” said Annie.

She sounded as much like a queen as Victoria had, Rose thought. She mumbled, “Sure.”

“Ah. Good to meet you, Miss Annie Oakley,” said H.L. May. Then he surprised Rose by turning abruptly in her direction. “Say, I’ve heard you’re the best rider anybody’s ever seen, Miss Gilhooley. I’m looking forward to watching your act tonight.”

H.L. May’s smile was a wonder to behold. Rose wished he hadn’t shot it at her so suddenly, because it made her heart flop around like a hooked trout and then begin racing. She muttered, “Thank you,” and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him. She wanted to bow her head and stare at her own toes.

“I hear you ride bareback and with no shoes on,” H.L. went on, to Rose’s chagrin.

He seemed to expect some kind of answer, so she said, “Can’t balance standing up on a horse’s back with shoes on. Hurts the horse, too.”

His grin widened, as if her comment had tickled him. “A barefoot bareback rider. I can see the headlines now.”

Was he making fun of her? Rose wasn’t sure. She peeked quickly at Annie, but read no hint in her expression. Glancing back at H.L., she noticed his eyes this time. Darn it. His eyes were a dancing green that complemented his dark brown hair, jaunty checked suit, and dashing straw hat. He was big, too, and had muscles. He looked more like he dug ditches for a living than wrote articles. Rose had always thought newspaper people were thin, pale, drunkards who lived in smoke-filled saloons and only staggered home occasionally to write a few newspaper articles. This fellow looked as if he went out every day, tackled life with his own bare hands, and thrashed it to a standstill. “Um,” she said. “Really?”

He laughed. He didn’t just laugh; rather, he threw his head back and roared. Rose was pretty sure he was making fun of her this time. She frowned. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

Shaking his head and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he said, “There’s not a thing funny, Miss Gilhooley, but I’d sure like to be allowed to interview you. I have a feeling you’re a true original.”

What did that mean? Rose looked at Annie again. This time, Annie evidently read the beseeching quality in Rose’s glance, because she smiled encouragement. “That’s wonderful, Rose. I think you ought to take Mr. May up on his offer.” As if she imagined Rose needed further impetus to accept the request for an interview—and she was right—Annie added, “Think of the publicity for the Wild West.”

There probably wasn’t another thing Annie could have said that would have made Rose accept H.L.’s proposition. Rose didn’t want to be interviewed by him. He alarmed her. But any time she became aware of an opportunity to benefit Colonel Cody, Rose pounced on it. She felt her shoulders sag.

“Say, Miss Gilhooley, I don’t bite. Honest.”

When she peered up into the face of H.L. May, who looked as handsome, devil-may-care, and dangerous as made no matter, Rose wasn’t sure about that. Nevertheless, she knew where her duty lay. She’d been doing her duty all her life.

“Very well. When would you like to conduct this interview?” Her voice sounded stifled. Rose felt stifled. She heard Annie release a breath of relief and vaguely resented it.

“How about tomorrow?” H.L. suggested. “That way I can watch you perform tonight and get a better idea for the direction my article will take.”

Rose nodded. “All right.” She didn’t feel good about this interview.

Frank Butler patted her on the shoulder, as if he understood her embarrassment and reluctance. “You’ll do fine, Rosie.” Frank and the colonel were the only people Rose knew who called her Rosie. She chalked it up to Frank’s being Irish. She hadn’t come up with an excuse for the colonel yet.

“Right,” she said.

H.L. May only laughed again.

# # #

An air of almost palpable excitement surrounded this whole fair experience; H.L. had made note of it, and promised himself that he’d do his best to make his readers feel it. The Columbian Exposition’s purpose, according to its directors, was to celebrate the 400^th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of the New World in 1492. Nobody seemed to care much that the Exposition had opened a year late, in 1893.

On a more fundamental level, the fair was a celebration of American ingenuity and invention. Other nations featured exhibits at the fair, too, but it was the United States and its accomplishments that most people were here to honor.

From a band of settlers rebelling against a repressive British government, the U.S. had grown into a great nation—and all in a matter of a little more than a hundred years. By God, those bull-headed American pioneers had wrested independence from a tightfisted British lion with an organized and well-trained army at its beck and call.

In H.L.’s not-so-humble opinion, the citizens of the United States of America had a right to celebrate. The entire nation exuded a cockiness and confidence that rubbed some folks the wrong way, but H.L. reveled in it. He harbored the same cockiness and confidence about himself.

And he was going to make sure the citizens of the United States recognized the treasure they had in little Rose Gilhooley. H.L. May was going to make Wind Dancer a household name. He vowed it as he headed back to the Midway to meet Sam.

He found his colleague waiting for him near the brand-new, never-before-seen wheel invented by Mr. W.G. Ferris. The Ferris Wheel was rapidly becoming the most popular exhibit at the fair. H.L. and Sam had already ridden on it twice, and not merely because H.L. approved of any man who used only his initials, but because the experience of the wheel was so exhilarating. H.L. found himself wondering suddenly if little Rose Gilhooley, who looked and sounded about as innocent as the new dawn, had ridden on it yet. He thought it would be fun to introduce her to the sights of the big city.

“Want to ride it one more time before we take in the Wild West?” Sam asked.

Noting his friend’s wistful voice and the expression of pleading in his eyes, and understanding Sam’s longing, H.L. grinned. “Sure. Why not?”

After the two men took their seats on one of the Ferris wheel’s passenger coaches, each one of which accommodated sixty people, H.L. said, “Say, Sam, I met Annie Oakley and Rose Gilhooley this afternoon.”

Sam offered H.L. some of his buttered popcorn, a delicacy sold in cone-shaped paper sacks at the Exposition. “Yeah? Is Gilhooley an Indian?”

Considering pretty little Rose Gilhooley, H.L. shook his head. “Nope. I don’t think there’s a drop of Indian blood in her.”

Sam shrugged. “I hear Annie Oakley’s the best shot the world’s ever seen. And that Gilhooley girl is supposed to be a great rider. I’m looking forward to seeing both of them tonight.”

H.L. barely noticed Sam’s mention of the famous Annie Oakley. “Haven’t seen her ride yet.” He popped some puffed corn into his mouth. “She’s cute as a button, though.”

“Who?” Sam looked at him, obviously puzzled.

“Gilhooley.” At once, Sam knew cute wasn’t the correct word to describe Rose Gilhooley. He wasn’t sure what was, but he aimed to find out.

“Really? Is she small, too? I hear Annie Oakley’s really tiny. I can’t imagine anyone doing the things Gilhooley’s supposed to do on a horse being big. The horse wouldn’t survive.” Sam laughed heartily.

“She’s small.” H.L. chewed another mouthful of popcorn thoughtfully. There was something about Rose Gilhooley that excited him. As a reporter. He had a strange, instinctive feeling about her. He’d never quite had it before, but it reminded him of the times in his life when he’d known, without any evidence other than his gut, that he’d found a story. And not just any story, but a story.

“I’m looking forward to seeing her ride tonight.” Sam said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

H.L. didn’t know what these feelings of his meant exactly, but he had a dead-certain instinct that Rose Gilhooley and her story were going to be the making of his career. He couldn’t recall ever being this exhilarated about a story in his entire life. He was going to write the best damned article the city of Chicago had seen since the Fire. And it was going to be about Rose Gilhooley.

# # #

“By God, she’s amazing.” Sam’s eyes were bulging, and he spoke in a hushed voice as they watched Rose Gilhooley perform in the center of the field where the Wild West had been set up. He and H.L. got to view the Wild West from front-row seats, thanks to their newspaper jobs. Cody, a showman to the core, always treated the press like royalty.

H.L. was too engrossed to respond to Sam’s awe-inspired comment. He’d never seen anyone do the things on horseback that Rose Gilhooley, the so-called “Wind Dancer” of the Wild West, was doing right now.

For her act, Rose wore a modified Indian outfit, although H.L.’s cynical side made him wonder what self-respecting tribe would have the gall—or the funds—to wear such a thing. It looked as if it had been fashioned out of buckskin and glitter, with long, dangly fringes and elaborate beadwork. It was not, properly speaking, a dress, or even a robe.

Rather, Rose’s costume sported a split skirt with elastic around the two leg openings that reminded H.L. of the bloomers ladies wore these days for bicycling—and when they wanted to prove to the world that women could wear trousers as well as men. H.L. didn’t begrudge anyone, even women, a dash of defiance. The good Lord knew, he had more than his share of that particular character trait.

Whatever the bottom part of Rose’s costume was called, it sure looked good on her. H.L. didn’t think he’d ever seen bloomers or any other types of trousers set off to better advantage.

Her act was enough to make strong men faint, too. She’d entered the arena at a dead run, on a horse as white as milk. The horse had torn out through a canvas tunnel as if it had been shot from a cannon, it moved so fast. Rose had been bent over, practically hugging the horse’s neck, as if she were trying to create as little wind resistance as possible. The audience had barely caught its breath after her spectacular entrance when it lost it again with an audible whoosh as she performed her first trick.

H.L.’s heart, a generally reliable, rock-solid organ and one not easily stirred, had shot into his throat when she’d suddenly sat up straight and then dived head-first off the horse’s back. A cry of terror and dismay had gone up from the bleachers as the audience feared Rose had taken a probably-disastrous tumble.

But it was all part of the act, as they realized an instant later when Rose’s body slid beneath the horse’s belly, and she emerged on the other side. In one fluid movement, she then climbed up on the horse’s back again. It looked as if she had suction cups on her fingers, since she used neither saddle nor bridle. She guided the horse with nudges and pats of her knees, feet, and hands.

Even H.L., who prided himself on his unflappability, as well as the knowledge that he’d seen and done pretty much everything dangerous there was to do in the world, had gasped in astonishment. The cheer that went up when Rose safely sat once more on her dashing steed rocked the bleachers.

And then, as if she hadn’t frightened everyone to near apoplexy already, she scarcely gave them time enough to swallow their hearts when she was off again. She leaped onto the horse’s back as if her legs were on springs, and stood straight up as the horse raced around the arena.

The Indian-style costume she wore was very effective. Even though she had darkish hair, Rose Gilhooley couldn’t pass for an Indian in a million years. For one reason, her hair was curly, although it was drawn back tightly tonight. But H.L. remembered very well that her eyes were blue. Robin’s-egg blue. Sky-blue. Sapphire blue. Gorgeous blue. And they were as big as saucers.

He grimaced, wondering what was wrong with him that he’d recalled her big blue eyes in such poetic terms. Then he comforted himself with the reasoning that he was only thinking of descriptive words to use in his articles. That made him feel better, and he went back to contemplating the rest of her.

On to her hair, then. He knew, because he’d seen it unbound, that it was a very shiny, very dark brown. Chestnut brown. In order to more thoroughly convey the Wild-West image Cody required, she also wore some type of headband that seemed to drip feathers behind her as the horse rampaged through the arena. The feathers were colorful and reflected the light to perfection.

Cody had made sure there was abundant light flooding the arena, even though his show went on after dark. H.L. thought there must be sparkly things glued or sewn onto Rose’s feathers to make them glitter and shine in the floodlights. The same was true of the beadwork on the bodice of her Indian-style costume.

Her bloomers were heavily embroidered and sported no beadwork, probably because she didn’t want to scratch the horse during her acrobatic routines. They only reached her knees, too, so the audience was treated to quite a display of her shapely calves. The rest of her wasn’t bad in the curve department, either, H.L. noticed with interest when the horse finally slowed to a trot and Rose slid down to ride astride. She didn’t stay there for long, but jumped up onto the horse’s back again and stood in her bare feet as she balanced with seeming ease, her arms outstretched.

He squinted narrowly and decided she wasn’t wearing a corset. Well, how could she, and survive the rigors of that act? The poor creature would faint dead away during her first trick if she had to strap all that whale boning around her midriff. H.L. approved. He liked the natural female shape. A lot. He explored it whenever he got the chance, in fact. He wouldn’t mind exploring Rose’s curves by hand, actually.

Shaking himself hard, he wondered where that thought had come from. He might take a certain pride in a local repute among his peers at the Globe as something of a ladies’ man, but he was certainly no defiler of virgins. H.L. would stake his virile reputation on the certainty that Rose Gilhooley was a virgin.

Innocent. That was a better word for her than cute, but it still didn’t capture the essence of Rose.

Beside him, Sam squeaked. “Jesus H. Christ, H.L.! Did you see that?”

H.L. had seen it. He was, however, unable to speak since his heart had lodged in his throat again. He wished it would stop doing that.

“How does she do those things?” Sam gasped. Then he joined in the roar of cheers.

So did H.L. He and Sam jumped to their feet, applauding wildly and whooping until H.L.’s throat felt raw.

From standing on the horse’s back with her arms lifted in a pose that brought to H.L.’s mind an image of perfect freedom, Rose had suddenly done a spring that shocked the audience into a gasp of alarm and landed on her hands. On the horse’s back. And then she’d done the splits. In mid-air. On the horse’s back. While standing on her hands. That’s when the audience had roared and risen, astounded by Rose’s phenomenal skill.

“By God,” H.L. whispered to himself. “She’s rock-solid. Rock-solid, by God.” He’d never seen anyone ride a horse with as much assurance as Rose Gilhooley.

He found it difficult to reconcile the small, insecure-seeming child-woman he’d met that afternoon with this fabulous performer. “By God, I’m going to do it,” he vowed, again to himself.

Sam, who’d been caught up in the thrill of the moment, heard H.L. that time. Still standing and clapping, he leaned toward H.L. “What? You’re going to do what? I didn’t hear you.”

“Nothing.” H.L. sent an ear-splitting whistle through his teeth, as he’d done when he was a boy trying demonstrate a level of approval for which words weren’t enough. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been moved to express himself thus. But Rose Gilhooley was a goddamned inspiration.

By God, he was going to do more than write one puny article about her. He was going to make her the centerpiece of a whole series of articles. He was going to write about her the way nobody had ever written about anyone before in the history of the world.

He was going to get to the bottom of her talent and tell the world about it. He was going to make her more famous than Buffalo Bill Cody himself.

Rose’s gift was more than mere talent. H.L. knew it. Her entire personality, spirit, and essence went into her act. Nobody—nobody—could perform the way she did unless she threw her whole heart and soul into it.

H.L. had never understood that kind of dedication. His own love of the English language and of the written word had driven him to become the best writer he could be, but he was damned certain he didn’t possess the depth of talent and single-minded dedication being demonstrated right this minute by little Rose Gilhooley. Hell, he was a natural writer, and he earned a living at it. Rose might be a natural rider, but she was more than that, and he wanted to dig around until he found a definition for whatever it was she possessed.

How old was she? Twenty-two? And she’d been with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West for six years? She’d been riding like that since she was sixteen? Jesus. By the time he got through with Rose Gilhooley, he’d understand the phenomenal female inside and out, upside and down, absolutely, positively, and with no room for doubt.

H.L. didn’t know how long her act lasted. It couldn’t have been long, because the horse wasn’t even sweaty when Rose signaled it somehow—to the audience, her commands were invisible, although the horse obeyed them instantly—to a halt in a shower of dust, made it twirl around like a ballerina—a horse, for God’s sake!—then took one last prancing dance to the center of the arena, leaned over, patted the horse’s neck, and threw her arms in the air as the horse—the horse—by God, H.L. had never seen the like—bowed!

Rose herself swept a dainty bow from the horse’s back and threw kisses to the audience. She reminded H.L. of pictures of angels he’d seen in church. Not that he’d seen the inside of a church for years, but it’s still what Rose reminded him of.

She sat on her horse in the center of the arena for a minute or two, looking unbelievably serene and delicate considering everything she’d just done, acknowledging the audience’s whoops and cheers. She made her horse turn a slow circle as she waved back at her fans. H.L. was sure the whole thing was planned and rehearsed, but it looked natural when Buffalo Bill himself rode out on a comparably white mount and gave Rose a big hug from horseback. The audience went wild.

Then Rose Gilhooley took one last bow, saluted cheerfully at the crowd, and rode out of the arena.

And the show went on. But H.L. didn’t care about the rest of the show. With a clap on Sam’s back that made his fellow journalist jump, H.L. got up. “I’ve gotta go, Sam. See you tomorrow. Give my best to Daisy and the kids.”

Startled, Sam half-rose. “Wh-what? Where are you going, H.L.? I thought you were going to—”

H.L. was already running up the aisle. He called back over his shoulder, “Gotta go. See you later, Sam. Gotta start researching these articles I’m going to write.”

Glancing back once, H.L. saw Sam staring after him, dumbfounded, but he didn’t care. He wanted— No. He needed—to talk to Rose Gilhooley. Now. Not later. Now. Right this minute. While he was still under her influence.