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one more
sour than before. What did he mean, the real work? If he thought
doing all those tricks in front of thousands and thousands of
strangers was easy, he didn’t know real work from his own hind end.
She chose not to say so, Knowing he could use words better than she
and fearing she’d lose any verbal battles he cared to wage.
    Shoot, she was already thinking of their
relationship, if you could call it a relationship, in terms of
warfare. This boded ill for any articles he aimed to write about
her.
    At least Fairy was happy. The small mare
pranced gaily into the stable, knowing she was going to be groomed,
covered with a snug blanket, led to her comfy stall, and given food
and water. Colonel Cody only gave his animals the best, too, so
Fairy would get a share of oats this evening, as she always did
after a show.
    “ There you go, girl.” Ignoring H.L. and
determined to carry on with her job as if he weren’t there, Rose
clicked to Fairy, who obligingly walked over to stand near the
equipment Rose used to brush her and rub her down. She was a good
horse. Given tonight’s company, Rose blessed her for it. Fairy
represented normality under abnormal circumstances.
    “ That horse is sure well trained,” H.L.
observed, watching with interest.
    Rose dared to glance at him. She wasn’t
pleased to find him relaxed, leaning against the stable wall, his
arms crossed over his chest, and watching her acutely, as if his
eyes functioned as tiny motion-picture cameras. Rose had seen an
exhibition of motion-pictures at the Fair. She got the impression
his brain was recording and cataloging everything his sharp green
eyes saw.
    “ Yes, she is.” She went to where her
tools were laid out, picked up the curry brush, slipped her hand
under the leather strap, and began working on Fairy’s beautiful
white coat. Rose had contemplated naming the lovely mare
Buttermilk, but decided she was far too dainty for such a
countrified name. The name Fairy suited her much better.
    If Rose were a horse, she had a feeling
nobody’d think twice about naming her Buttermilk.
    Fiddle. She had to stop thinking things like
that. H.L. May brought out the insecurities in her, and that was
not a good thing if she wanted to impress him. Which she did. For
the colonel’s sake. For her own sake, of course, Rose didn’t
care.
    Who do you think you’re
fooling, Rose Gilhooley ?
    She managed to suppress a snort laced with
self-disgust in time to prevent it from hitting the air. Blast H.L.
May, anyhow. He rattled her. Rose didn’t allow herself to be
rattled very often these days. She’d learned in six years of hard
work with the Wild West how to keep herself to herself and to
appear quiet and dignified under the most trying circumstances. She
definitely didn’t want to have her humble origins splashed all over
the newspapers.
    Well . . . She thought about it as she
brushed the mare’s coat with a soothing rhythm . . . She guessed
she didn’t honestly care if people knew about her hard beginnings.
What Rose didn’t want folks to know was how dumb she was.
    Annie would figuratively smack Rose for
calling herself dumb, even to herself. Annie, whose upbringing had
been almost exactly like Rose’s, had lectured her often about how a
body couldn’t choose the life into which she was born, and that it
was what one did with one’s life after one was dumped out onto this
earth that counted. Annie invariably went on to say that Rose
had made something of
herself, and she ought to be proud of it.
    As for her education, or lack of it, that
wasn’t Rose’s fault, either, Annie always said. What’s more, Rose
was constantly striving to improve that aspect of her life.
Therefore, according to Annie, Rose ought to hold her head high and
take a back seat to no one.
    The good Lord knew, Rose thought as she
brushed, Annie herself never took a back seat. She’d made sure
she’d learned how to read and write, even though she hadn’t had any
schooling, and she was