Lady of Light (28 page)

“Aye, but in Ian’s case it’s because he needs a few days for his hands to heal. And, since today’s Friday, what with the weekend he’s only missing a day of school.”

Claire walked to the bench by the back door, taking up her bonnet beside her handbag and big straw basket. She placed the hat on her head and tied its ribbons snugly beneath her chin. Then, basket and bag in hand, she turned back to Beth.

“Make sure, will you, that Ian soaks his hands in cool water for about fifteen minutes at least once while I’m gone, and that he then puts some of that soothing salve on them. And would you also tell Evan that I’ve taken the buggy to Grand View? He came to bed so late last night I was already asleep, and left so fast this morning with his breakfast half eaten that I never had a chance to inform him of my plans.”

“Sure, I’ll tell him.” Beth scraped back her chair, stood, and, with the now full cookie sheet in her hands, walked to Old Bess. She paused there to glance back at Claire. “Was there anything else? If not, shouldn’t you be on your way? You’ll have to hurry if you hope to see Miss Westerman, then get your supplies at Gates’ Mercantile, and still be home by two.”

“Och, I suppose so,” Claire said with a laugh, as she walked across the kitchen into the hallway leading to the parlor. “See you soon, then.”

Beth’s parting farewell followed her across the parlor and out the front door. One of the hands had brought up the carriage, and a gray mare named Jenny was harnessed in, ready to go. Claire placed her handbag inside the basket, set the basket behind the buggy seat, and, after unfastening the reins tied to the brake arm, climbed in.

Though she really wanted to learn to ride astride one of these days, at this point she was grateful to have finally mastered a horse and buggy. But mayhap, just mayhap, Claire mused as she gently slapped the reins over Jenny’s back and the mare set out, after she gained the necessary kitchen expertise she still needed, riding lessons could be her next undertaking. After all, she couldn’t call herself a proper western woman, could she, until she learned to ride?

“This isn’t quite as simple a matter as you might think, Mrs. MacKay,” Alice Westerman explained forty-five minutes later. She paused to gaze out the window near her desk at her pupils playing on the makeshift playground, then turned back to Claire. “This isn’t the first fight Ian has been in since school started. In fact, he gets in one nearly twice a week, and school’s only been in session a month.”

Claire’s high pitch of indignant anger dropped a notch. “I didn’t know … this is the first time he’s come home all bruised and bloody …”

“Ian’s a pretty tough fighter. Until yesterday, he also only took on one boy at a time.” The pretty brunette schoolteacher sighed, momentarily averted her gaze, then looked back at Claire. “Yesterday, however, he must have decided it was time to move up to a full-fledged brawl.”

“Ian said he was defending Beth’s honor, that those boys were calling her names.”

“He may well have been. It’s obvious he’s devoted to her. But that doesn’t excuse the fighting, and he knows it. I’ve warned him about it several times already.”

Claire felt sick to her stomach. Not again, she thought. Not here, too, in America. “You were right to cane him, then. I just wish you’d have used his backside, rather than his hands.”

“I would’ve, if I’d thought it would’ve made an impression.” Miss Westerman’s brown eyes darkened with regret. “I don’t like physical discipline, Mrs. MacKay, but there are rules, and other parents have begun to complain … “ She paused to rearrange a stack of papers on her desk. “What’s going on with Ian, if you don’t mind me asking? I know the adjustment to life here must be hard, but he doesn’t seem to be settling down at all. His attitude is so wary and brittle … well, it’s almost as if he expects trouble and is trying to get the jump on it. And his class work isn’t up to the level I sense he’s capable of either.”

Fighting … an attitude … poor school performance … With a sinking heart, Claire realized she had been totally unaware of what had been going on with her brother of late. Since Abby and Conor had left, there hardly seemed a spare minute in the day for Ian, or Evan, or even for herself.

It probably hadn’t helped any that things seemed increasingly strained between her and her husband, either. Ian had always been a bellwether, mirroring the direction of her own moods before she even recognized them herself. In some ways they had always been too close, too sensitive to each other.

“I’ve also had to have some words with Beth and Ian about their unseemly affection for each other.” At Claire’s shocked expression, Alice Westerman hurried to explain. “Now, before you jump to the wrong conclusions, I want to assure you that they are strictly supervised at all times, so nothing inappropriate has occurred. But the two of them only seem to spend recess time in each other’s company, and there’s been more than a few occasions when I’ve seen them holding hands.”

“There’s naught wrong with a bit of hand-holding,” Claire protested, her ire rising again.

“No, there isn’t,” the young teacher was quick to reply. “But Beth’s just thirteen, and back in school for the first time in a long while. She needs to make friends with her classmates, especially other girls her age.” She gave a troubled sigh. “The same could be said for Ian, too, if he’d just stop taking offense at every turn and getting into fights. But it’s Beth I’m most concerned about, considering her past history. This time, I want school to be a successful experience for her.”

Alice Westerman was a kind, concerned teacher. Claire could see that now. She cared about her students—even Ian. It would be wise to enlist her aid in dealing with her brother. The way things were heading, Claire thought glumly, Ian would soon need all the allies he could muster.

“I’ll have to have a talk with Ian,” she said. “I can’t know what is really bothering him until I do. When I find out, though, I’ll tell you. I appreciate your concern for him—and for Beth, too—and will do all I can to aid you with them.”

“Is Mr. MacKay aware of these problems? Beth is his sister, isn’t she?”

“Aye.” Claire nodded. “He doesn’t know yet, though. We had an emergency at the ranch yesterday, and I haven’t had a chance yet to tell him. I’d like to see if you and I couldn’t solve this problem between the two of us first. Evan’s so burdened just now with worries and extra responsibilities, what with his father and stepmother gone, and now his cousin breaking his leg … I’d like to spare him this if it’s at all possible.”

Miss Westerman eyed her quietly, then nodded. “Well, we’ll see if that can be done. It can’t hurt to try.” She glanced over her shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s time I call the children in from recess. Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mrs. MacKay?”

“Nay.” Claire climbed to her feet. “You’ve given me a lot to think on. It’ll take me a time to sort through it all.” She held out her hand, and the teacher, who had by this time walked around her desk to meet her, accepted it. “I thank you for your time, and for your concern.”

“That’s my job, Mrs. MacKay.”

“Aye,” Claire agreed, releasing her hand, “but I don’t think every teacher holds to your high standards.”

Alice Westerman smiled. “You’re very kind to say that.”

“I only speak the truth, Miss Westerman.” Claire hesitated, then nodded. “I bid you good day, then.”

Ten minutes later, Claire entered Gates’ Mercantile, where Russell Gates, the general store’s proprietor, hurried over to greet her.

“Welcome, Mrs. MacKay,” the gray-haired man in his mid-sixties said. “What can I do for you today?”

He was a pleasant sort, Claire decided, of medium height and build, with a pair of spectacles that seemed perpetually smudged and perched on the end of his nose. “I’ve a few items I need,” she replied, as she tugged her bonnet free of her head to hang from her neck by its ribbons. “Those ranch hands eat more food than an army on the march.”

“Well, then, we’d better see what we can do for you.” He took the list she offered him. “Flour, sugar, lard, beans, coffee, tea, salt, and baking soda. Hmmm, I’ve got most of what you want here on the shelves, but the sugar, coffee, and tea just arrived this morning, and I’ve yet to unpack the crates. Give me about ten minutes and I’ll have those items out for you.”

“Take your time, Mr. Gates.” Claire set her basket and handbag on the long table holding the bolts of fabric, and began to mosey up and down its length. “I’m sure I can entertain myself looking around.”

The older man disappeared through the door at the back of the store, and, for a time, Claire busied herself fingering the colorful calicos, ginghams, and heavier wools and serges stacked up in neat piles on the long cutting table. Her thoughts, however, soon drifted to her earlier discussion with Ian’s teacher. How was she ever, she wondered, going to set things aright with her brother? Behind her, the sound of the door opening tugged vaguely at her awareness, but Claire was so engrossed in her troubled musings she didn’t bother to look up.

“So, where did you come from?” an unfamiliar male voice rose suddenly from close behind her. “I haven’t been back in town long, but I’m certain I wouldn’t have missed a pretty little lady like you.”

Claire whirled around. Before her stood a tall, swarthy-complexioned man with coal black hair and cold, fath-omless eyes. Clad in black boots and trousers, a dark green shirt, and a black leather vest, he was dressed with immaculate care, not a hair out of place, not even a smudge of dust on his spit-shined boots. In his hands he held a black, plantation-style hat.

Still, in spite of his impressive appearance and admiring words, there was something about him that didn’t sit right with Claire. She glanced around, belatedly realizing they were the only two people in the store. Would Mr. Gates hear her if she needed help? Indeed, what would the old man be able to do against the far younger, powerfully built stranger?

Then, as swiftly as the apprehension assailed her, it was gone. Silly fool, she chided herself. Your imagination’s running away with you. You’re in no danger here.

She lifted her chin and held out her hand. “My name’s Claire MacKay. Evan MacKay’s my husband.”

At the mention of the MacKay name, something dark and malevolent scudded across his features. “Well, well,” he growled. “Seems in the time I’ve been unavoidably detained elsewhere, young Evan has gone and found himself a sweet young bride.” He cocked his head. “And where are you from, missy? England? Ireland?”

“Scotland. I’m from Scotland. And who might you be?”

“Me?” The man’s handsome mouth twisted wryly. “Why, I’m Brody Gerard.” He reached out and touched her hair. “That’s the most beautiful shade of red I’ve ever seen. A man could near to lose his mind, running his fingers through it, or watching it tumble down your back.”

As he spoke, his hand slid to the bun at the nape of her neck. He pulled a pin free. Shocked at his audacity at even touching her, it took that tug on her hair as he removed the pin to jerk Claire back to action. She gasped, and slapped his hand before leaping back.

“How dare you?” she cried. “I haven’t given you leave—”

Brody’s hand shot out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to him. “Now, now, little missy,” he drawled, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “don’t go and get riled up. I only want to see what your hair looks like, all pretty and wild around your shoulders. Hold still, let me finish, and everything will be just fine.”

“It most certainly will
not,
you big lummox!” To punctuate her words, Claire kicked him smartly in the shin.

With a foul string of curses, Brody Gerard released her and jumped back. He bent for an instant, rubbing his injured shin. Then he glanced back up, his gaze incensed, his mouth gone thin and hard.

“That wasn’t a very smart thing to do, missy. Especially you being one of the MacKays now, and all.”

Claire backed away. There was something in his look that sent a tremor of fear through her. One way or another, she decided, she needed to find Mr. Gates, and fast!

At that moment the front door opened. The sound of footsteps, masculine by the tread, carried to Claire. Relief swamped her. She wrenched her gaze from Brody Gerard’s. The newest visitor, however, was none other than the Reverend Noah Starr.