Read Online Prairie Rose by Catherine Palmer - Free Book Online Page B

pride of ownership he felt. He had dug every inch of soil out of the ground with his own two hands. He had cut the blocks of prairie sod and laid them one atop the other to build the half wall that fronted his dugout. He had chopped two of the scarce trees on his land and split them into boards. He had laid out his slanted wooden roof and covered it with more sod. And there it was. Perfect.
    As he sat gazing on his dream, his future, Rosie stared in silence. Finally, she turned to him. Her brown eyes were luminous.
    “Oh my,” she whispered. “You live in a cave.”
    “I don’t wanna live in no hole in the ground with no stinkin’ Yankee,” Chipper announced. “I wanna go back and live with Gram and Gramps.”
    Seth stared at the two of them, his face rigid. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His farm—the labor of his hands, the legacy he would leave behind him—
    “This is it, like it or not,” he snapped. “This is where we stay.” Rosie stared at the dugout, her face as pale as winter prairie grass. “Home,” she whispered.

    Never in her life had Rosie seen anything quite so forlorn, so unwelcoming, so dispiriting as the cave in the ground Seth Hunter called home. Truth to tell, it was more like a three-sided cutaway into a low hillock than a house. As she walked up to the door, she noted that he had sided the front of the soddy with long planks. He had installed four long windows—though they had only oiled paper for panes—and a semblance of a front porch with an overhanging roof. The house itself was tucked into the hill, its roofline even with the ground. In fact, should anyone want to, he could drive a wagon right up the hill and over the sodded roof of the house without a pause.
    Rosie let out a breath. This was no Kansas City cottage. There was nothing even to lend an air of beauty. No white paint. No pink-flowered curtains. No brick walkways. No picket fences. No roses or daffodils or tulips. It was … a burrow.
    “I bought a stove from a fellow upstream who couldn’t prove up his claim,” Seth said, lifting the wooden bar across the front door. “He sold it cheap. You’d better light it if we’re to have any supper tonight.”
    Rosie swallowed and stepped around a chicken on her way toward the door. Chipper sidled up against her, one thumb stuck securely in his mouth. Taking his free hand, she gave the little boy the bravest smile she could muster. “Your father built this,” she whispered. “This is a prairie house.”
    “Looks more like a mole’s house to me.”
    “You—!” Seth swung on the child, his finger outstretched. “I’ll have you know my place is twice as big as Rustemeyer’s, and I’ve got a better stove and a bigger bed than O’Toole—” He caught himself. “Just get your hide in here and start peeling spuds.”
    Rosie stood just outside the doorway. She easily read the hurt that ran beneath Seth’s anger. And she understood it. He had built this house. It was his pride. His only possession.
    Dear Father , she prayed silently, bowing her head under the open sky. Please help me to see the beauty in this place. I know you can make good of all my willful mistakes. I’m almost sure you wanted me to stay back at the Home, but here I am with Seth Hunter—and I don’t know why, nor what I’m to do for you. Oh, Father, please make a godly plan of my terrible mistake. Please bring joy and peace—
    “Are you coming inside?” Seth called, leaning one shoulder against the frame of his door.
    Rosie breathed a quick “Amen” and hurried toward the house. As she brushed past Seth, she looked up into his eyes. They were as hard and blue as ice, and she suddenly knew she must do all in her power to soften them.
    Not just his eyes , a voice spoke inside her. Soften his heart .
    “I’m going to check on my cows,” he said. “I’ll bring in some meat from the smokehouse.”
    He started out, but she caught his arm. “Wait, Mr. Hunter. Please … will you