A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Sixty-One
February, 1920
The sky was overcast and a chill wind cut
across the surface of Lake Wissota, rattling the sides of Rose's ice shanty.
She'd never adjust to the winters here, no matter what anyone said. The little
makeshift wooden shelter, six square feet with a bench just wide enough to seat
her, was the idea of one of the fishermen who ran the bait and tackle shop in
town.
"Some folk leave 'em on the lake most of
the season," he'd informed her. As if she'd risk having the flimsy
structure blow away or get buried in the next snowstorm. But one attempt to lug
it off the ice on a toboggan along with a healthy catch changed her mind.
A sudden tug at her line snapped Rose out of
her reverie and made her forget the cold. Before she could react, she was
yanked to her knees at the edge of the hole she'd chiseled in the ice that
morning. The rod nearly slipped from her hands, but she held on.
At the opposite end, something huge gave the
line another pull. Rose was dragged forward on her belly, her face dangling
above the water. Beneath the crystalline surface, she spotted a shadow that
looked about the length of one of her legs.
It can't be, she thought. My hooks don't hold—
The monster tugged again. Now her neck and
shoulders were above the hole.
"Help!" she gasped. She didn't
think anyone heard her, or if they did, that they would be quick to come
running. The competition in this event was fierce, and the competitors too
focused on their own catch. The wind probably drowned her out anyway.
She used her elbows to shove herself
backward, her gloved hands still grasping the rod with determination, and lying
flat on her stomach, began to reel. The fish-thing in the water struggled
mightily but couldn't detach itself from the hook.
"Here she comes, here she—argh!"
Rose was dragged forward and this time half
her body draped over the edge of the hole. She had a horrible vision of herself
splashing frantically in frigid waters, and screamed.
Strong hands gripped her about the calves
just above her pack boots. "Hang on there, Rosie!" a gruff voice
cried, and she was roughly dragged back to safety. She didn't even look over
her shoulder to see the identity of her rescuer; she knew Karl Burroughs well
enough by now. Her focus was on her deformed prize. She'd be damned if she'd
let this lovely go.
"Whoooeee, watcha got there?" Karl
leaned over her and whistled. "That fella's putting up quite a fight, eh?
Go on, reel it in. I gotcha."
She reeled—and with a violent splash the
monstrosity came sailing over her head and thudded onto the ice behind her,
where it thrashed around in agony. Rose felt a stab of sympathy as Karl skated
over and used a net to scoop up the fish and dump it into a bucket beside the
bench. She scrambled to her feet and peered inside. Her catch, dark with
light-colored horizontal bars along its side and tiny fangs lining its bleeding
mouth, still flopped about, crushing the tiny panfish at the bottom of the
bucket.
Karl whistled through his teeth again.
"That thar is a northern pike. Don't see too many of 'em this late in the
season. Never seen one that size, either." He looked askance at Rose and
grinned. "I think we got ourselves a winner."
*****
"Smile, Miss Dawson!"
She obliged, and the Chippewa Herald's
photographer snapped the picture that would grace the front page of the next
edition: Rose displaying, upside-down, her four-and-a-half-foot prize. The
locals were astonished, not because she was a woman—there was the occasional
female runner-up in the Rotary Club's annual ice fishing contest—but because
she was a city girl who only just learned the sport this winter. Now she'd set
a record, at least for these parts, and they graciously gathered around to give
their congratulations.
After the reporters had gone, Karl ambled
over and invited Rose to sit with him and his buddies during the fish fry. She
was reluctant, knowing he was sweet on her, but followed anyway, because she
knew so few people there. More than a year in Chippewa Falls, and she was still
considered an outsider.
Just before entering the big tent, Rose felt
eyes burning a hole in her back and turned to see a tall man watching her from
the edge of the crowd. His threads were a bit more expensive than the rugged
outdoor wear of the other men, but that wasn't what drew Rose's attention. It
was the straw-like hair, the blue eyes...
Someone grasped her hand and gave it a hearty
shake. Rose accepted the compliments and quickly turned back to look for the
stranger, but he was gone.
I was wondering when Jack's ghost would
find me, she thought, and smiled
wryly.
The celebration went on until dusk, and when
it seemed the burly fishermen would never stop guzzling whiskey—which was now
illegal, thanks to Prohibition, but out here no one cared—and swapping tall
tales, Rose excused herself. Karl insisted upon escorting her to her car, but
didn't put up much of an argument when she sent him back to his friends. Rose
was only too relieved to be rid of him, despite his rescue earlier.
Karl was her most persistent suitor, but that
wasn't so remarkable considering that no less than eight of Chippewa County's
most eligible bachelors had come to call since she'd rented an apartment above
a hardware store in town some fourteen months earlier. With each of them,
things never progressed beyond a few innocent outings: lunch at a cafe,
perhaps, or a picture show...or fishing. When Rose learned that Karl was a
county fish and game warden, she decided she must have lessons, and he was all
too happy to teach her.
But they all knew she was pining away for her
fiancé, lost in Europe during the war. As proof she still wore her engagement
ring. There was nothing seriously wrong with any of these men, but she could
never allow them to get too dependent on her; their over eagerness for female
companionship reminded her of poor Teddy Quinn.
She wasn't certain she'd be staying in
Wisconsin much longer, anyhow. Sure it was quaint and peaceful, but the people,
though friendly, were afraid of anything associated with New York and were
naturally suspicious of this citified woman who arrived in grand style, driving
a fancy automobile when many folk in the area didn't even own cars. She'd
naively hoped that someone would recognize the name Dawson and would gladly
share information about Jack, but that didn't happen. At least, not at first.
She made a home of sorts in a hotel run by a
Norwegian family, themselves recent immigrants, for two weeks, then decided if
she was going to live like she belonged in this town, a hotel wouldn't do. She
struck gold on her apartment search, not only landing the modest space above
the hardware store just before Christmas, but meeting the store owner's wife,
an artist, in the bargain.
Not just an artist, but an artist who knew
the name Dawson.
A plump and pleasant-faced woman in her
fifties, Laura Cabot promptly invited Rose to tea at her craft store, which
doubled as an art gallery. The merchandise and sales desk were in the rear,
while the front of the shop was left as a carefully constructed showcase for
works by local talents. Rose was drawn to a breathtaking watercolor landscape
of Lake Wissota in winter. Etched in one corner were the initials ED.
"How sweet that you should like that
one. Your Aunt Eleanor did it. It's her best work and I'll never sell it."
Mrs. Cabot didn't register the confusion that crossed Rose's face. "Oh,
I'm so happy that one of ya came home, dontcha know. Ain't been no Dawsons
around here since...since the fire, and that was oh, ten, twelve years ago. But
I still miss Ellie something awful." Her eyes misted a little, then she
plunged forward before Rose could stop her. "Oh, well, life does go on,
and now it's brought you here, and what a fine young lady you are. Joe must be
proud, though your mama surely had more to do with how you turned out than he
did, she had plenty of time to mold you with them New York manners before he
got to ya.
"Oh, dear, you're looking mighty peaked.
How rude of me. Come set over here and I'll put the kettle on."
Rose intended to tell the woman the truth,
but between fiddling with the cook stove in the rear of the store and running
her mouth, Mrs. Cabot never allowed her a word in edgewise. Rose took it there
were so few customers she usually had to make do talking to herself.
Somehow in the next hour or so, Rose was able
to glean from the gallery owner's babbling that "Joe" was the
prodigal son of the late Jacob Dawson, the owner of a large and profitable
cattle farm a few miles outside of town. Jacob's wife died giving birth to
Joseph, the younger of two sons. The elder, John, married, had a son of his
own—Jack—and inherited the farm. Joe, on the other hand, was a lazy
ne'er-do-well who tried his hand at farming, then briefly worked at the old
sawmill before coming to the conclusion that an honest day's work didn't suit
him. After more than a few scrapes with the law he escaped to New York and
rarely returned. When he did visit he came alone, but his sister-in-law,
Eleanor, told Mrs. Cabot that he'd married a widow with a young daughter, whom
he adopted. This stepdaughter was who Rose was supposed to be.
Despite feelings of self-disgust at leading
this woman to believe she was kin to a long-lost friend, Rose never
contradicted her, in hopes of receiving any tidbits of information about Jack
she could. But she also sensed her hostess was holding something back, that
there was a lot more to the saga of the brothers Dawson.
"So how is your pa these days,
dear?"
Caught off guard, Rose blurted,
"Dead." And then, at the shock that dawned in Mrs. Cabot's face, she
realized that the woman had been in love with Joe Dawson, and she apologized.
"He had a stroke, almost eight years ago." That, at least, was partly
the truth.
Mrs. Cabot offered her sympathy. "I
suppose you're here to see the old homestead, then. I hate to break it to ya,
sweetie, but the farmhouse burned down to its foundation. The barn's still
standing, or at least it was the last time I was out to the property, and that
was years ago. The animals got sold off and it's all overgrown. I wouldn't
venture out there if I was you."
But after convincing the woman that she'd
take the utmost of care, Rose got directions to the Dawson farm. And after
seeing a few of her sketches, Mrs. Cabot not only offered to help her sell
them, but hired her on as a part-time assistant. Her children made her promise
to do so after years of trying to divide their time between her store and the
hardware store.
"Ya got talent, I can see that,"
she told Rose. "But I have to say, Eleanor Dawson could paint circles
around anyone I ever met. And her boy Jack was all set to follow in her
footsteps, yes he was. Now he was a sketch artist, more into drawing people
than places, but he was headed for greatness. Can you imagine the success the
two of 'em woulda had if they'd been the ones to run off to New York? Maybe that's
where your poor cousin's gone to, ain't no one around here seen or heard from
him since his parents' funeral."
Rose vowed then and there that no one in this
town would ever find out what really happened to her "cousin".
That Christmas, Rose ate dinner with the
Cabots and had a delightful time. Her new life was like a vacation, a time for
self-discovery and even a little adventure.
But it wasn't long before she was lonely, and
homesick for the stage.