Prairie Rose by Catherine Palmer Page B

stored their wagon in Salvatore Rippeto’s barn. Now loaded down with the seeds and farming equipment they had purchased, the wagon rattled across Bluestem Creek. Sheena and her children waved good-bye, and Rosie was never so sorry to see anyone go. As Seth turned his own wagon south, she felt more alone than she had in all her life. Not only was she lonely, she was concerned at what the day might bring. And she was tired.
    The night at the Rippetos’ had seemed as endless as Jimmy had predicted. Carlotta regularly shouted at one or the other of her ten children—evidently the only means she knew to control them. Salvatore hammered in his loft until well after dark. Four stagecoach passengers stretched out on the floor and snored loudly enough to raise the roof. Two military men talked for hours on the porch. And in the darkness, little Chipper sobbed.
    It had been all Rosie could do to keep from creeping over to the grieving child and taking him in her arms. But she remembered his father’s stern command to keep away. She was to provide for the boy’s needs and nothing more. But wasn’t compassion a need? Didn’t a child have a right to comfort and love?
    “We’ll be at my place a little after noon,” Seth said as he guided his mules downstream. It was clear to Rosie that the man kept his focus on himself and his own interests—and not on those around him. “Most of this land’s unclaimed, though it was surveyed before the war. We’ll pass Rolf Rustemeyer’s place in a few hours. He’s the fellow just north of me. German. Can’t understand a word he says.”
    Rosie studied the man on the bench beside her. The nearer they drew to his homestead, the more civil Seth became. His blue eyes shone in the early morning sunlight. His dark hair lifted and feathered beneath his hatband. Rosie thought she even detected the hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth.
    But the change in Seth’s demeanor hardly made a difference to her. All she could see was how coldly he behaved toward his son. He gave no heed to the little boy’s tears. He never laid a hand on the child or whispered even the slightest word of comfort. His indifference toward his son infuriated Rosie, and she began to wish she had whacked Seth on the head instead of Jack Cornwall.
    “Rustemeyer’s been working on his claim a lot longer than I have,” Seth said, oblivious to the fact that she was attempting to bore holes through him with her glare. “He’s been looking after my place while I’ve been away. I think I’ll see if he has a notion to help me build the bridge.”
    “You just told me you couldn’t understand him,” Rosie said.
    Seth glanced at her, one eyebrow arching a little at her retort. “Not much. It’s all ja and ach and nein . But we manage.”
    “Does he have any children Chipper could play with?”
    “Rolf’s not married.”
    “Well then, Chipper, you’ll just have to help your father build that bridge so you can walk over to the O’Tooles’ house to play.” Rosie bent down and kissed the little boy’s hot, damp forehead. “Who do you like best of all the O’Tooles? I thought Erinn was very pretty with her long red braids. Do you like her?”
    “Will,” Chipper said softly. “I like Will best.”
    “I like him, too. Did you hear him going on about the snakes? I’ll bet you and Will could have a fine time out by the creek. He can teach you all about the prairie, and you can teach him some games. What’s your favorite game? Hopscotch?”
    “Tag.”
    As the hours passed, Rosie did her best to draw out the little boy—and to ignore his father. She had come to the conclusion that Seth Hunter had kidnapped his son in the vain hope of recapturing a part of his dead wife. But he had no inclination to love Chipper for the special person he was. To Seth, the boy was a prize. A trophy. He would kill Jack Cornwall for the right to keep that trophy. But he had no idea how to truly cherish such a treasure.
    Chipper had