way to live in a hole in the dirt of the barren, windswept prairie.
“It makes me think of ironing,” Rosie said to Sheena.
Seth frowned. What was she on about now? Ever since they’d left Holloway’s Station on Walnut Creek, Rosie had been uncharacteristically quiet. No songs. No whistling competitions. No riddles. No long, drawn-out fairy tales about princesses and ogres. At first, it had been a blessed relief. Seth thought he’d had enough silliness to last a lifetime.
But then the O’Toole children began to whine and fidget. Sheena complained about the heat. Jimmy complained about Sheena. The whole cacophony was regularly punctuated by Chipper announcing he wanted his Gram and Gramps, and he didn’t want to go live with “no Yankee.”
Seth had almost rejoiced when he heard Rosie’s voice from the back of the wagon. “I don’t know what I expected,” she said, and everyone grew quiet. “But this certainly isn’t like anything I ever imagined.”
“What are you talking about, lass?” Sheena had asked.
“The prairie,” Rosie had said. And then she made her comment about ironing. No doubt this was going to turn into a riddle game or something, Seth mused. At least the sound of her voice had calmed the children. Even Chipper seemed to be listening to what Rosie would say.
“Ironing,” she repeated. “You know how it is when you do the laundry? You start with a shirt fresh off the clothesline, and it’s as rumpled and wrinkled as Missouri is full of hollows, hills, creekbeds, and bluffs. Then you begin to iron. The wrinkles smooth out, and the rumples flatten down. The hills vanish. The streambeds stretch out straight and smooth. And it’s the prairie.” Sheena laughed. “What do you think of it then? Do you like this pressed down, flat land, Rosie?”
The young woman sat silently for a moment. “I think the prairie is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Seth swung around. “Ugly?”
She turned her big chocolate eyes on him. “Ugly. Boring, too. It’s flat and dry and all but bare of trees. There’s nothing to stop the wind. The water is so sleepy it makes hardly a sound. And the grass—it seems to go on forever like an endless pale green and yellow sea. I know God created the prairie, but I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything so ugly in all my life.”
Seth stiffened. “You call soil as thick and rich as chocolate cake ugly? You call a sky that stretches from one horizon to the other like a big blue bowl ugly? Miss Mills, you don’t know a thing about ugly.”
He glared at her. The prairie was his home, his certainty, his hope. The prairie was the source of his faith. In his lifetime, Seth had known enough pain to turn him away from God—a father who walked out on him, a war that tore his country apart, a best friend blown to bits by a cannonball, a wife whose parents despised him, a love who died in the bloom of her life. But the prairie refused to let Seth’s bitterness and doubt claim his soul. The prairie was proof of a future, proof of heaven, proof of God himself.
“You call this ugly?” he asked, bending over the side of the wagon and snapping off a bunch of long-stemmed red blossoms. “This is Indian paintbrush. See these pink and yellow flowers? Goat’s rue. Those little white flowers? Pussy’s-toes. The purple ones? Bird’s-foot violets.” He reached down and plucked another handful of tiny blue flowers. “Blue-eyed grass. And here’s yellow-star grass.”
He tossed the wildflower bouquet into Rosie’s arms. She caught it and clutched it with both hands. Her brown eyes were wide, as though she feared he might put her out of the wagon any moment and abandon her on the ugly, boring prairie.
Seth had half a mind to do just that. On the other hand, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted Rose Mills to see what this land meant to him. He wanted her to understand that it was his life.
“It’s not just an endless sea of yellow and green.
“It makes me think of ironing,” Rosie said to Sheena.
Seth frowned. What was she on about now? Ever since they’d left Holloway’s Station on Walnut Creek, Rosie had been uncharacteristically quiet. No songs. No whistling competitions. No riddles. No long, drawn-out fairy tales about princesses and ogres. At first, it had been a blessed relief. Seth thought he’d had enough silliness to last a lifetime.
But then the O’Toole children began to whine and fidget. Sheena complained about the heat. Jimmy complained about Sheena. The whole cacophony was regularly punctuated by Chipper announcing he wanted his Gram and Gramps, and he didn’t want to go live with “no Yankee.”
Seth had almost rejoiced when he heard Rosie’s voice from the back of the wagon. “I don’t know what I expected,” she said, and everyone grew quiet. “But this certainly isn’t like anything I ever imagined.”
“What are you talking about, lass?” Sheena had asked.
“The prairie,” Rosie had said. And then she made her comment about ironing. No doubt this was going to turn into a riddle game or something, Seth mused. At least the sound of her voice had calmed the children. Even Chipper seemed to be listening to what Rosie would say.
“Ironing,” she repeated. “You know how it is when you do the laundry? You start with a shirt fresh off the clothesline, and it’s as rumpled and wrinkled as Missouri is full of hollows, hills, creekbeds, and bluffs. Then you begin to iron. The wrinkles smooth out, and the rumples flatten down. The hills vanish. The streambeds stretch out straight and smooth. And it’s the prairie.” Sheena laughed. “What do you think of it then? Do you like this pressed down, flat land, Rosie?”
The young woman sat silently for a moment. “I think the prairie is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Seth swung around. “Ugly?”
She turned her big chocolate eyes on him. “Ugly. Boring, too. It’s flat and dry and all but bare of trees. There’s nothing to stop the wind. The water is so sleepy it makes hardly a sound. And the grass—it seems to go on forever like an endless pale green and yellow sea. I know God created the prairie, but I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything so ugly in all my life.”
Seth stiffened. “You call soil as thick and rich as chocolate cake ugly? You call a sky that stretches from one horizon to the other like a big blue bowl ugly? Miss Mills, you don’t know a thing about ugly.”
He glared at her. The prairie was his home, his certainty, his hope. The prairie was the source of his faith. In his lifetime, Seth had known enough pain to turn him away from God—a father who walked out on him, a war that tore his country apart, a best friend blown to bits by a cannonball, a wife whose parents despised him, a love who died in the bloom of her life. But the prairie refused to let Seth’s bitterness and doubt claim his soul. The prairie was proof of a future, proof of heaven, proof of God himself.
“You call this ugly?” he asked, bending over the side of the wagon and snapping off a bunch of long-stemmed red blossoms. “This is Indian paintbrush. See these pink and yellow flowers? Goat’s rue. Those little white flowers? Pussy’s-toes. The purple ones? Bird’s-foot violets.” He reached down and plucked another handful of tiny blue flowers. “Blue-eyed grass. And here’s yellow-star grass.”
He tossed the wildflower bouquet into Rosie’s arms. She caught it and clutched it with both hands. Her brown eyes were wide, as though she feared he might put her out of the wagon any moment and abandon her on the ugly, boring prairie.
Seth had half a mind to do just that. On the other hand, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted Rose Mills to see what this land meant to him. He wanted her to understand that it was his life.
“It’s not just an endless sea of yellow and green.
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