Cherokee Rose Read online

  Next morning, when I was mounted and ready to go, the president walked over to stand by Sam. "Little Lady, we're going to have a bang-up parade in Washington for the Fourth of July, and I sure want to show those folks in the East what westerners are like. Suppose you could come ride with us?"

  My heart did a flip-flop! All the way to Washington, D.C., to ride in a parade? As soon as my excitement rose, it died. It was too far, too expensive, impossible!

  "'Course she'll be there," Papa said heartily. "I'll bring her myself."

  "I'll count on it," Roosevelt said. "We'll be in touch about the arrangements."

  I don't remember a thing about the long ride back to Luckett's ranch, for my mind was far from the prairies and hills we crossed. Mentally I was riding down a broad street lined with cheering people.

  * * *

  "Ride in a parade!" Mama said. "Of course she won't, James."

  "Oh yes she will, Jess. I gave my word to the President of the United States."

  "Please, Mama," I begged, "it's a chance—"

  "A chance for what?" she demanded, turning to busy herself at the stove so that we couldn't see the tears of anger in her eyes.

  How could I tell her that it was a chance for me to someday ride in a Wild West show? I had figured it out that if I rode in that parade, someone might see me. In my wildest dreams Buffalo Bill stood next to the president and kept asking, "Who is that girl?"

  "Name's Tommy Jo," the president would reply expansively. "I found her in Oklahoma. Rides like the wind, but you ought to see her rope."

  "I must have her in my show," Buffalo Bill would say loudly. "I must!"

  And the fantasy would end with me walking off toward a big circus tent, Buffalo Bill's arm around my shoulder as he offered me a starring position with the show. Of course, Papa was there, too.

  But I couldn't tell any of that fantasy to Mama.

  "A chance to see the capitol, Mama. Won't you come too?"

  "I will not!" she said. "I will not see my dreams and hopes for you turned into a joke, while you act like a boy and ride like a wild Indian." She stormed from the room, leaving me behind, stunned.

  I stared at Papa a minute, but he was too shocked to say anything. Then, heartbroken because my mother was ashamed of me—for that was how I interpreted it—I ran outside, running blindly until I found myself on a rise where I could look out over the prairie. Only now my eyes were so filled with tears that I couldn't see the land I loved. I sobbed until I had no tears left.

  Hours later I found Mama sitting on the veranda, staring at the sunset, the rocker barely moving. Papa was nowhere in sight.

  "You've been crying," she said. When she stood up and held out her arms, the tears began again.

  "What are your hopes and dreams for me, Mama?" My head was buried in her shoulder, so I couldn't see the look on her face.

  "That you not live on a ranch," she said slowly, "and that you have a husband you love and children, and perhaps a maid...."

  "Mama, you're describing your hopes and dreams for yourself," I said, pulling back to look at her, though the sadness in her eyes was awful.

  She thought about that a minute. "Maybe," she agreed. "I'm lonely, but I'm happy here. I have you, and I love your father, even if it doesn't seem like it some of the time. But there are things I miss, things I don't want you to miss."

  "But Mama, I tasted them, or some of them, at the convent, and I missed you and Papa and the ranch and Sam something fierce. If I lived in a city, I'd miss riding—as much as you miss those other things. I'm not you."

  She drew me tight to her again. "No, you're not, Thomasina. You're a very special person."

  We sat next to each other on that veranda until dark, neither of us saying anything more. But when Papa came out of the barn—slowly, as though feeling things out before he came all the way up on the porch—I greeted him with, "Mama's going to Washington with us."

  She didn't contradict me.

  * * *

  The three of us—Papa, Mama, and me—rode the train from Oklahoma City to the capitol two days before the parade, with Sam and Papa's horse behind us in the boxcars. Mama was nervous at first, farther from home than she'd ever been—after all, Mama's knowledge of the world was limited to the ranch and St. Louis. Of course, it was farther from home than either Papa or I had ever been, too, but it didn't bother us. Mama was worried every minute—about the food at the stations, about the man who carried our bags, about the locks on the hotel room door.

  "Jess," Papa said affectionately, "that's why we wanted you to come with us—so you'd do the worrying, and Tommy Jo and I could have a good time."

  "I'm having a good time, too," she protested. "I just think it's right to be cautious. Now in the parade—who will ride with Tommy Jo? And where will I be?"

  We worked out all those details to her satisfaction, and after the first day, Mama seemed to relax and enjoy the city. It was busier than St. Louis—or so it seemed to me—and different, with more green areas and broader streets, all laid out like spokes in a wheel so that everything brought you to the center of our country's government. We toured the official buildings and monuments, marveling at the walls of marble and feeling a little intimidated to be in the halls of Congress, where they made our laws.

  Mama had never ever seen an automobile—after all, it had been over ten years since she'd been to St. Louis, and they had only begun to appear on the streets of big cities within the last two or three years. I'd seen one or two, from a distance, when I was at the convent.

  When one whizzed by us as we walked down a Washington street, Mama stared at it as though she'd seen a monster.

  "Someday, they're gonna replace the horse," Papa told her. "Lots of people will have them."

  "Not me," she declared emphatically. "Too dangerous! I'll stick to buggies." But she was grinning as she said it.

  Papa laughed. "I don't think Luckett will buy an automobile for the ranch soon, so you don't have to worry."

  "Why won't he, Papa?" I asked. I had absolutely fallen in love with automobiles and was crushed when I learned they cost upward of two thousand dollars—a fortune far beyond Papa's reach, I knew. I thought if Mr. Luckett bought one, I'd at least have a chance to try it.

  "They wouldn't be practical on those old rutted roads around the ranch. Before automobiles can be used much, someone's gonna have to improve the roads."

  Riding in that parade was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me—at least up to that point.

  The parade was a mile long. At the front was Buffalo Bill's Cowboy Band. Men in cowboy outfits, tan pants, tan hats, and dark shirts with black kerchiefs at their necks—matching like nothing ever worn by a real cowboy—played all the brass instruments while one man beat a huge drum that read "Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Congress of Rough Riders of the World." When they were in front of the president, they blasted out a rendition of "Home on the Range." Roosevelt's own Rough Riders marched in formation and paused in front of the grandstand to salute their leader, who stood there with his wife beside him and four of their children on either side; units of cavalry rode in intricate patterns, always letting their horses prance enough to show off the skill of the riders, and there were two military bands who played John Philip Sousa marches. To my everlasting disappointment, Buffalo Bill was nowhere to be seen.

  Papa and I rode together, just in front of the Rough Riders, and I built a lot of loops with my rope, because that was what Roosevelt wanted me to do. When we passed the reviewing stand, a man with a megaphone called out, "Miss Tommy Jo Burns, the Oklahoma Cowgirl!" and people cheered. The president waved at me, and I waved back, feeling important for having been singled out.

  Sitting on Sam—who'd ridden all the way from Oklahoma in a boxcar—I felt like queen of the world. The streets were lined with people—men held small children on their shoulders, and youngsters of six or seven clutched parents' legs and arms with one hand while waving tiny American flags with the other. Men call
ed and women clapped. When someone in the crowd called my name, I smiled and waved, and if Sam pranced a little and they clapped harder, I made sort of a mock-bow from my saddle. I was, in fact, somewhat of a ham. Papa rode beside me, stiff and straight but a big grin on his face. He left it to me to charm the crowd.

  I decided I wanted to be in a parade at least once a week.

  Mama said later, with a kind of exasperated weariness, that she'd never expected to hear her daughter's name called aloud on the streets of the capitol city. The trip to Washington saw a change in Mama, though later I'd find that it was only temporary. Still, having agreed to come with us, she never said another thing about her hopes and dreams, never let the word ladylike pass her lips, and finally she even enjoyed herself. Even Mama was proud and pleased.

  A visit to the White House, at the president's invitation, was the highlight of our trip. The handwritten note asking us to come to tea was delivered to our hotel room by a messenger.

  Mama was thrilled. "Now, Thomasina, you remember all the things you learned in the convent. You know about serving tea and—" She stopped and looked at Papa, who'd probably never had a cup of tea in his life. "James?"

  "I'll drink tea, Jess, with one finger in the air." He crooked his little finger in imitation of what he supposed was the proper tea-drinking manner.

  Mama was back to worrying—about our clothes, our manners, our conversation—but Papa quieted her. "Jess, you forget that Tommy Jo and I know this man. We rode with him. He's just folks. It'll be fine."

  The president and Mrs. Roosevelt greeted us in their private parlor. "It's the cowgirl!" Roosevelt boomed, rushing to take my hand. "Come, my dear, you must meet Mrs. Roosevelt."

  "Theodore," said a dignified lady standing behind him, "don't embarrass the child. She's a young lady, not a cowgirl." She held her hand out to take mine and said, "It was so good of you to ride in our parade."

  "She rides like a cowgirl," her husband insisted, turning to greet Mama and Papa.

  "Do you ride any differently than anyone else?" Mrs. Roosevelt asked, her eyes twinkling. "How does a cowgirl ride?"

  "With a western saddle, ma'am," was all I could think of.

  "Ah, I see. Well, I ride with an English saddle—but we could ride together while you're here, couldn't we? I do ride often."

  "Of course," I murmured. "I'd like that." Actually I thought it would probably be a pretty tame ride—a walk around the White House grounds—and I wasn't too excited. But if the president's wife asked you to ride....The arrangements were made for us to ride early the next morning, before it got too hot.

  "I'll take Jess on a walking tour while you have your ride," Papa said, while Mama gave him a sharp look for calling her Jess in front of the Roosevelts. She'd have preferred Mrs. Burns, just like the president addressed his wife, so distantly and properly.

  "Tommy Jo plays the piano real good," Papa boasted, eyeing the grand piano in the corner of the room, while I cringed.

  Mrs. Roosevelt looked a question at me, while Mama murmured, "Yes, she does. I taught her."

  Out of politeness then, Mrs. Roosevelt asked me to play—what choice did she have? And because I wasn't smart enough yet in the way of adults, I knew nothing to do but move to the piano and struggle through our national anthem. It was the best choice at the last minute, I thought, instinct telling me that "Nearer My God to Thee" wasn't appropriate.

  The Roosevelts clapped politely, and I hurried back to my chair. The rest of teatime was given over to reminiscences about the wolf hunt. Mrs. Roosevelt, her eyes always sparkling with laughter, asked many questions about Jack Abernathy and the time I'd roped the wolf, though I'm sure she must have heard these stories all before. Mama sat quietly without saying a word—I think she was surprised that so dignified a lady would take an interest in such barbaric activities.

  When Mrs. Roosevelt sighed, "I wish I'd been there," I thought Mama would faint.

  But for days after—years, really—Mama talked in hushed tones about the time we had tea in the White House. It was surely one of the highlights of her life—-just as the parade had been of mine. But whenever she mentioned it, Papa would say, "If Tommy Jo didn't rope and ride like she does, we'd have never gotten there, Jess."

  * * *

  My ride with Mrs. Roosevelt started out smoothly enough for a jaunt that nearly turned to disaster. We rode not on the White House lawn, as I'd anticipated, but on trails through a city park, and she turned out to be a much better horsewoman than I'd expected, riding at a trot. Of course, she rode a superbly trained horse with fancy gaits while Sam and I just loped along—if Sam had thoughts, I know he'd have been feeling a little awkward and clumsy at that point.

  I patted his neck and whispered low in his ear, "Bet her horse can't rope, Sam!"

  "You ride well, my dear," my hostess said. "Tell me about yourself."

  So I told her about the Luckett Ranch, my year in school in St. Louis, and how glad I was to be back at the ranch.

  "And now what?" she asked. "What will you do on the ranch?"

  "Ride and help Mama," I said, my heart sinking at the words. I didn't know then the old saying about you can't keep them on the farm once they've seen the city, but that was pretty much how I was feeling.

  "Do you have a special beau?" she asked.

  Surprised, I said, "No, ma'am. I'm only fifteen."

  "And I suppose there aren't many boys around your ranch?"

  She sure could hit things on the nose. "No, ma'am, just cowboys, and they're a lot older than me. And Mama wouldn't like me to look at them wrong." Or them to look at me, I thought.

  "I can imagine," she said. We'd come to a point where the path crossed a major street, and she held up a hand as though to signal me to stop.

  Sam obediently halted, and I waited for her to decide we could go ahead. Two buggies went by, and then, still some distance away, I saw an automobile, the sun glistening off its black paint.

  "We can cross before it gets here," Mrs. Roosevelt said, and off we went at a walk.

  But the automobile's driver had other ideas—though he was still several hundred yards away, it seemed to anger him that we had not waited, and he gave a great oompah on his horn. Mrs. Roosevelt's horse, perhaps a little more used to city ways, skittered but was soon brought under control by a firm hand.

  Sam went wild with fright, rearing backward while I held tight to the reins and tried to calm him with my voice. Once his four feet were firmly back on the ground, Sam snorted and took off at a gallop. My hat—a Stetson bought for the trip and very dear to me—flew off as we tore past Mrs. Roosevelt and the offending automobile, headed for I don't know where. It took me forever to get Sam stopped and calmed down. He was so unnerved that I walked him back to where Mrs. Roosevelt waited. We'd probably gone at least half a mile beyond her.

  "Oh, my dear, are you all right? Such a ride!" She handed me the hat, which she'd retrieved.

  I assured her that I was fine, but she insisted that we walk our horses back to the White House.

  "Now I know why the president calls you a cowgirl," she said as we slowly retraced the way we'd come. Then, more practically, she announced, "I gave that driver a piece of my mind. He'll not do that again."

  Later, when Mrs. Roosevelt explained to Papa how frightened she'd been for me, he just smiled and said, "Tommy Jo can handle that horse. She's a cowgirl."

  "Yes, she is," Mrs. Roosevelt agreed.

  * * *

  After a week in Washington, we left for home. I was both relieved and disappointed. I'd loved the excitement, but I still didn't really like cities, though I wasn't nearly as opposed to them as I'd been in St. Louis when I was at the convent. That was a whole different way of viewing cities. Still, I wanted to ride when I wanted, not have to wait to have my horse brought from the stables, and I wanted to ride on open land, not paths or city streets. But when I thought about going back to the ranch, I realized that the freedom was the only thing I liked. Aside from Mama and Papa, I seld
om saw anyone at the ranch, and there surely were no crowds cheering and clapping for me. Even with riding Sam every day and practicing my roping, the days loomed long ahead of me. The worst of it was that I knew, even then, that staying on the ranch limited my chances of ever leaving it. No one, I thought, was going to come to Guthrie, Oklahoma, to look for me. If opportunity—as in a Wild West show—was ever going to knock for me, I'd have to go out and look for it.

  Mama was glad to be going home. "I'll remember this trip all my life," she told me, "and it's because you made me come with you. Thank you, Thomasina. But now I'm ready to go home."

  "No stop in St. Louis?" Papa asked.

  "No," she said firmly. "No more cities."

  Papa had not left Mama alone in Washington at all—none of his disappearing for days, like he sometimes did at the ranch or when he took me to St. Louis and later picked me up. And yet I suppose Mama didn't want to test his devotion or expose him to temptation, which must have been how she saw cities and Papa.

  * * *

  Back in Oklahoma, the days dragged one after the other. I rode with Papa, I practiced my roping, I helped Mama put up plum preserves and pickles, I even played the piano and practiced my French for Mama. The Roosevelts had shown me something I'd never known—that families played and picnicked together. But Mama and Papa and I never did that. I was either with Mama or with Papa, but we were never together as a family. I was bored and saw before me an endless future, torn between loving my parents and being lonely because there were no other people at the ranch.

  Often I went back to the hillside near the house to look out at the prairie and daydream. Some days my dreams were of Walt Denison, and when I recalled his hands on my shoulders and his lips on mine, queer tinglings would start in the pit of my stomach. I wished—oh, how I wished!—that I had done something differently in that brief time, maybe kissed him back—though I wasn't sure how to do that. If, I told myself, you'd encouraged him, he might not want to wait until you're seventeen to see you again. Seventeen seemed a lifetime away, not just two years.

  But more often my fantasies were of the Buffalo Bill Wild West. Sometimes it would tour to Kansas City and Papa would take me there.