Beyond This Moment (24 page)

So why was she so nervous?

After breakfast, she straightened the cabin, made her lunch, checked her lesson notes for the fourth time, and then began the brief walk to the schoolhouse. The sun had barely risen, and still an hour remained before she would ring the bell for the first time, officially signaling the start to the Timber Ridge school year.

Evergreens partially shielded the schoolhouse from view from the front of the cabin. So it wasn't until she was well on the path that she made out the structure, sitting quiet and still in the field. The tranquility of its walls would be laid waste in no time.

A light fog hovered over the lake and extended across the field. She cut a path through it, feeling the cool moisture on her face. Thirty-four students had enrolled. Not every child in Timber Ridge, but nearly. James relayed to her that the town council was pleased, which was enough to please her.

She pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, wondering if she should have asked Josiah to build a fire in the stove. If she could figure out how to work the contraption, she'd build it herself.

As she drew nearer the schoolhouse, she detected the faint murmur of voices, but saw no one. The clomping of horses' hooves and distinctive rumble of wagon wheels drew her attention. A wagon rounded the bend, still some distance away, its passengers masked by the silver veil of first light. Who would be arriving so early?

Molly turned the corner of the schoolhouse and came to a standstill.

"Mornin; teacher;" little Ansley Tucker said, bunched together with her brothers and sisters. "Pa got us here early."

"We ain't wantin' to be late, ma'am." A little towheaded boy tucked beside Ansley wore thin trousers with a holey jacket and wagged his head when he spoke. "We's supposed to help and be good, Mama says:"

Their father, Mathias Tucker, who had accompanied his children, stepped forward, removing his hat. "Morning, Mrs. Whitcomb. My wife and our children had the pleasure of your company at home last week, but I missed out on account of being out in the field."

"Yes, Mr. Tucker." Molly smiled at his children. "Pleasure to see you again, sir"

"The children have been up and dressed since before dawn. They're nigh on to busting to start their learning with you, ma'am. It's a good thing you've done, coming all the way out here to teach our young ones."

"It's an honor and a privilege for me to do this, Mr. Tucker. I assure you.

"Dr. Whitcomb!"

She turned to see Mitchell and Kurt Boyd waving from the back of the wagon as Rachel guided the team into the school yard. Rachel smiled in greeting, with a woman Molly didn't recognize seated beside her.

Another wagon appeared at the end of the road, followed by two older children covering the distance afoot. Molly smiled to herself. Seems she wasn't too early after all.

She made her way toward Rachel's wagon.

"Dr. Whitcomb;' Rachel said with a formality Molly knew was for the benefit of little ears. "I'd like to introduce Mrs. Elizabeth Ranslett. Mrs. Ranslett, this is our new schoolteacher, Dr. Molly Whitcomb:"

Molly couldn't help herself. She'd been waiting for this moment. "Mrs. Ranslett, it's such an honor to make your acquaintance. Your article, the one in a recent issue of Harper's Weekly, was such an inspiration to me. I read it, and reread it, on my journey to Timber Ridge. Reading the story of how you came here, your adventures, your love for this land-I found it all very ... compelling."

"Compelling;' Elizabeth Ranslett repeated, smiling. "Now there's a word I like. And thank you for your compliments, Dr. Whitcomb. They mean a great deal. As does your coming to Timber Ridge. I've been excited to meet you as well:'

Rachel set the brake on the wagon and climbed down. "Elizabeth's father is the generous party responsible for coordinating the donation of all the supplies and furniture for the school. And Elizabeth has a special surprise...." She gave Mrs. Ranslett a knowing look.

"If you don't mind, Dr. Whitcomb, I'd like to take a photograph of you and your students sometime today. I'll make copies for you and each family represented in the school:" A sheepish smile lit her face. "As well as for my father, who's been eagerly awaiting this day."

"The students and I would be honored, Mrs. Ranslett. Thank you:" Molly gestured for them to follow. "Please, won't you join us inside for a minute? I'd love for you to see the schoolroom...." She grinned, lowering her voice. "Before it gets `lived in. "

Molly was reaching for the bell to ring the first day of the Timber Ridge School to order when the gentle thunder of horses' hooves stayed her hand.

A group of men on horseback made their way up the road, and she recognized the man at the forefront. James rode with authority and presence worthy of his office. Mayor Davenport and Hank Bolden rode behind him, along with other men she recognized from the town council. They hadn't said anything about coming, but she should've known Mayor Davenport would insist on being present.

The mayor reined in and dismounted. "Good morning, Dr. Whitcomb. I hope we're not too late:"

"No, sir. You're not late at all. We were just about to begin the school day." Molly felt James's attention and gave him a subtle look.

Sidestepping students, Davenport worked his way up the stairs and moved to stand by the bell. "Shall I do the honors on behalf of the town council, which brought you here to Timber Ridge, Dr. Whitcomb? Or would you like to?"

It was silly, she knew, but she'd been looking forward to ringing that bell all week. But doing so would come at a cost. "By all means, sir, you do the honors:"

Mayor Davenport pulled the rope, and the bell pealed a clear, clarion tone that carried across the field and that no doubt could be heard in town. A chorus of cheers broke out, and Molly felt a rush of readiness. She still wasn't at peace with why God had brought her to Timber Ridge, but she knew she was ready to teach its children.

Mayor Davenport stepped forward to open the door, but James blocked his path. "Dr. Whitcomb;' James said softly. "After you, ma'am."

Not missing Davenport's glower, Molly took James's lead and reached for the door latch, knowing she would remember everything about this moment. The chilly morning air, the sunshine on her back, the eager looks on each child's face, and the sense of anticipation and fresh beginnings. If only the latter could be true for her. But in a way it was.

That day on the cliff, when the ravine opened wide beneath her, she'd been certain that she would die. But she hadn't. God had spared her life. But for what purpose?

She thought of the baby inside her, and of James standing beside her. Certain opportunities were closed to her now; that much was clear. But a voice inside whispered that other opportunities might be waiting. Perhaps ones she hadn't yet thought of. She opened the door, praying that would be true.

A warm wave of air greeted her, and she spotted Josiah Birch kneeling by the stove. As the crowd of students and parents filed in behind her, she went to greet him.

"Mr. Birch, you must have read my mind. I was thinking on my walk here that a fire would serve us well this morning."

His grin was at the ready. "I's thinkin' the very same thing when I got up this mornin' and felt the shiver in the air, Dr. Whitcomb, ma'am." He reached for his slouch hat on the floor where he'd been crouched. "I'll be back this afternoon to make sure she's out for the night:"

"Oh, I'm sure I can-"

"Don't want you to worry none 'bout havin' to see to it. It be my pleasure, ma'am."

This man's kindness seemed without limit. Especially considering his own son wasn't counted among the students. "Would you be willing to do a favor for me, Mr. Birch?"

"I reckon. If it don't get me in trouble with our sheriff over there."

Molly turned to see James watching them and smiled. "No problems with the sheriff, I promise." She crossed to a bookshelf where she'd added her personal volumes and withdrew one. "Here .. " She held it out to Josiah. "I'd appreciate it if you'd share this with Elijah. It's an intriguing read, and one I think he'll enjoy. Then"-she tried for a casual tone-"if he'd like to discuss it when he's done, I'd welcome that opportunity."

Josiah looked at the book, then at her, and slowly shook his head. "I's thinkin' it'd be best, ma'am, if you'd just-"

"But, Mr. Birch, I truly believe that Elijah would enjoy-"

"Dr. Whitcomb:"

Molly felt a hand on her arm and heard the gentle warning in James's voice. She nodded. "Very well, Mr. Birch. It is your decision, after all. I'm sorry to have pushed you on the subject:"

Josiah stepped closer and ran his thick, scarred fingers over the top of the book. "What I's gonna say a minute ago, ma'am, was that it'd be best if you was to take this book to Elijah yourself. He'd like it a heap more comin' from your own hand."

Later that morning, after parents and town council members had taken their leave, and after Elizabeth Ranslett captured a photograph of Molly and the students, Molly stood in front of the classroom, her lesson notes neatly arranged in front of her on her desk. She picked up her roll book. "Each morning, students, I'll begin by taking roll. When I call on you, I'd like for you to respond by saying-" Where was her pencil? She'd just had it.

Unable to find it, she opened her desk drawer to get another-and let out a squeal! She jumped back, heart thudding.

Laughter erupted in the classroom, and children rose from their seats to come forward.

"Please, stay in your seats, students" She made a conscious effort to lower her voice. "Don't be alarmed. There's simply a-" she swallowed, fighting a shudder-"a mouse ... in my desk drawer:' That wasn't moving.

"A mouse?" Zachary Tucker strained to see from his first-row seat. "All that screamin' over a mouse, teacher?"

A fresh wave of giggles swept the class.

Molly squared her shoulders. "I was simply taken by surprise, that's all:' She looked closer at the vermin, unable to decide whether it was deaf or deceased. With all the commotion and still no reaction, she guessed the latter. But how to get it out of her drawer? And even more worrisome, how did it get in there!

"Want me to fetch it out for you, teacher?"

She looked up to see sweet Mason Tucker raising his hand. "Yes, Mason, I would-" Right behind Mason sat Kurt Boyd, whose smile seemed to hold a trace more exuberance than the other children's. Or did it? She couldn't be sure. But since Kurt was Rachel's son, and the sheriff's nephew, and for a host of other reasons, she decided not to pursue it. "Yes, Mason. I would appreciate if you'd dispose of it for me. And please take time to wash your hands at the stream:"

By the time Mason returned, Molly had regained her composure. She took roll and stood in front of her desk to address the class. "Before we begin our lessons this morning, students, I'd like to know a little bit about each of you:" She usually asked her college students to take out a sheet of paper and write down their favorite book, era in world history, and what U.S. president-alive or deceased-they would most like to spend one hour with. She found it told her a great deal about them as a person, and also about where they were in their studies.

Her question for these students would be somewhat different.

"I'd like for each of you to tell the class what your best day this summer has been, and what made that day so special. I'd appreciate your standing by your desk when you address the class, and please remember to give your name." Some of the collegiate practices would translate well, even in Timber Ridge.

Wide-eyed with lips in firm lines, the children stared.

Mitchell's hand crept up. "Is this a test, Dr. Whitcomb?"

Molly curbed a grin. "No, Mitchell, it's not a test. This is an exercise to help me get to know each of you better:" She approached his desk. "Why don't you start for us? Can you tell me what your best day this summer has been? And what made that day so special?"

Clarity lit Mitchell's face, yet he said nothing.

"And let me remind you, students;' Molly added, sensing his apprehension to share, "that there is no wrong answer to this question. Each answer will be right and for each student who answers, I'll draw a star by their name in my grade book:" She retrieved the book from her desk, along with a freshly sharpened pencil, and turning back, noticed the students sitting up a little straighter.

Mitch raised his hand and stood by his desk. "My name is Mitchell Boyd, and my favorite day this summer was when my uncle James took me hunting with him. Just me and him alone ... over on Crawley's Ridge."

Kurt's hand shot up one row over.

Mitch looked at his brother. "He took my brother with him too, later. They went on their own trip:"

Apparently satisfied, Kurt lowered his hand, and Molly could already guess what his favorite day was going to be.

"And why was this day so special to you, Mitchell?"

The boy started to answer, then stopped. He fingered the side seam of his pants, and his chest rose and fell with exaggeration. "It was special because ... we went back to the spot where ... where they found my pa-" The boy's voice broke. "At the place where the bear got him:'

Molly's throat tightened. She looked around the room. Not a single child's expression revealed surprise. And then it slowly made sense. Timber Ridge was a small community. She'd already witnessed how quickly news traveled. Each child already knew what had happened to Mitchell and Kurt Boyd's father.

"My uncle James, he's the sheriff;" Mitch continued, pride in his voice. "He and I camped up there for a night. We caught us a rabbit and roasted it like he and my uncle Daniel did when they were boys. Then Uncle James told me all the stories he could remember about my pa. He met my pa when he wasn't much older than me, so he knows lots of them. My pa was funny, especially when he was my age." Mitch managed a smile as he took his seat. "That was my best day, ma'am."

Molly looked down to draw a star by Mitch's name, and the names of the children blurred on the page. "Well done, Mitchell Boyd;' she said softly, taking her time before speaking again. In the margin, she simply wrote James, where pa died, so she would remember what Mitchell shared-as though she could forget. She tried to push aside the image of what finding Thomas Boyd on that ridge must have been like. And of how it must have been for Rachel discovering how her husband had died. She cleared her throat. "Now, who would like to go next?"