Maureen McKade (4 page)

Dylan scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I talk. The sheriff talks the same way and it don’t bother him none.”

Libby’s lips drew together. “Maybe I should have a talk with him. I would like it if you’d come to school, Dylan.”

His brilliant eyes revealed none of his thoughts. “My ma says it don’t matter if I learn or not. She says I ain’t going to amount to anything anyhow.”

Libby’s mouth gaped. What kind of mother would tell her child something so hurtful? “Maybe I could speak to her.”

Panic appeared in Dylan’s eyes, though his voice
didn’t reflect it. “Naw. It don’t matter. I’d best get going.”

Before Libby could stop him, the boy was gone.

Though she’d had little contact with children, Libby recognized Dylan’s loneliness. Certain he wanted to attend school; Libby suspected fear prevented him from doing so. Once she was organized, she would find Dylan’s parents and seek their aid in getting him to attend.

Libby walked back into the classroom and settled into the chair behind the desk. She’d never taught before, but it couldn’t be any more difficult than suturing a cut. The pile of lesson books occupied her attention the remainder of the morning.

Matt paused on the boardwalk and squinted across the dirty street. He scowled, sorry that the early snowfall hadn’t remained untouched. The morning traffic of buckboards and horses’ hooves had ruined its perfection. He wished winter would stop playing hide-and-seek with autumn and gain a foothold in the valley. Though he had come from Texas, Matt preferred the wintry Montana weather to the dusty grit of summer and the muddy quagmires of spring. The arctic cold also tended to weed out the troublemakers, sending them to a warmer climate and into another lawman’s jurisdiction.

A movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. Carrying a wicker basket, George Johnson shuffled across the main road. The clerk passed the bank, piquing Matt’s curiosity. He followed the thin man’s progress until he surmised where Johnson was headed.

Matt stepped off the dry planks and moved across his path. “Afternoon, George. Kind of cold for a picnic, ain’t it?”

“I’m taking Miss O’Hanlon a lunch. Lenore didn’t
want her to go hungry and I volunteered my services,” he explained.

“Aren’t you supposed to be back to work by one? It’s already a few minutes after. I tell you what; I’m going to do you a favor. I’ll take this on over to Miss O’Hanlon. That way you won’t get in trouble with Mr. Pinkney.”

“Mr. Pinkney will understand.”

Matt rubbed his jaw with a gloved hand. “I recall Ira Wesley said the same thing, and he ended up getting fired.”

Johnson swallowed. “Well, if it’s no bother, Sheriff.”

“Not at all.” Matt grasped the basket’s handle. “You head back to the bank and maybe Mr. Pinkney won’t notice that you’re late.”

“Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate it.” After one last wistful glance toward the schoolhouse, Johnson hurried off.

Matt frowned. It appeared George had set his sights on Miss O’Hanlon. It shouldn’t matter to him if he wanted to try his luck. However, the thought of her bright bloom fading beneath George’s pallid shadow didn’t set well. He told himself it was only because George wasn’t the right man for her. It wasn’t because he had any designs on her himself.

The north wind gusted through the breaks in the birch trees, and Matt raised the collar of his long drover coat. Pale gray smoke wafted out of the chimney, confirming Miss O’Hanlon’s presence.

He shifted the basket from one gloved hand to the other. The tantalizing smell of fried chicken drifted to his nose, and despite having eaten lunch less than an hour ago, his mouth watered. Lenore’s fried chicken would tempt Satan himself. Of course, the same could be said for Miss Libby O’Hanlon.

As Matt approached the building, his apprehension
grew. He questioned his impetuous ambush of Johnson and wondered why he’d appointed himself Miss O’Hanlon’s protector. He’d rather face the James gang single-handedly than tangle with her again. She had the uncanny ability to arouse his anger as well as his passion, with frustration the ultimate winner.

Matt squared his shoulders, then climbed the steps and opened the door. The scene at the front of the room froze him in the doorway. Libby’s head tilted to the side, her verdant green eyes drawing him like a cool lake on a blazing day. Tendrils of burnished hair escaped the bun at the back of her neck and framed a fine-boned face brushed with thoughtfulness. Long tapered fingers held a pencil that lightly tapped an uneven rhythm on the desktop. A coat engulfed her figure, but his memory filled in the blanks.

Hot desire sprang unbidden, startling Matt with its potency. He scowled and reminded himself of the ugly scar that repulsed all women, including Libby. Besides, they were from two different worlds.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

Libby’s warm greeting nearly undid Matt’s resolve. “Actually, it’s afternoon, Miss O’Hanlon,” he drawled.

Libby opened the brooch watch pinned to her blouse and jumped to her feet. “It’s after one o’clock! Lenore must be furious with me.”

Matt sauntered to the desk and set the wicker box on it. “Nope. She sent over this basket.”

Libby inhaled the aroma of chicken and biscuits and smiled. “I think you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty, Sheriff. Have you eaten yet?”

“Yep.”

Libby peeked in the basket. “Lenore sent more than I could possibly eat. If you have some room left, you’re more than welcome to share.”

Matt smiled crookedly. He hadn’t expected such a
friendly welcome, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I always got room for Lenore’s fried chicken.”

Libby cleared away the books and set out the food Lenore had sent. As Matt lowered himself to the bench in front of the desk, Libby sank back into her chair.

She lifted a chicken leg from the pile of meat and began to eat heartily. “You’re right. Lenore could give me a few pointers on frying chicken.”

Matt picked out a thigh piece. “I’ll bet you can fry chicken pretty good yourself.”

She chuckled. “If you’d ever tasted my chicken, you wouldn’t say that. My father always insisted that I should’ve been a boy, and my brother should’ve been a girl. Corey could fry up a chicken nearly as good as Lenore.”

“Corey was your brother?”

Libby nodded. “He was a couple years older than me.”

“Was?”

Her bright expression faded. “He was killed in the war.”

Matt glimpsed the pain in her eyes and placed a comforting hand on her forearm. Her muscles jerked beneath his touch and she flinched, drawing away from his grasp. Matt cursed silently. How could he have forgotten?

“I’m sorry. A lot of good men died on both sides of the war,” Matt murmured.

Libby remained silent, as if gathering her composure. “Corey was a doctor like my father. He had just graduated from college when he joined the Union army,” she finally said. “Did you fight in the war, too?”

Matt nodded but couldn’t bring himself to tell her he was on the opposing side.

“You were with the Confederacy, weren’t you?”

Her perceptiveness disturbed him. “That’s right.”

She uncannily guessed his unspoken question. “Your Texas accent. I’ve heard a few of them in my time.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

A sad smile touched Libby’s lips and she shook her head. “No. I’ve always thought it best to forget the past and move ahead. If more folks would do that, there wouldn’t be so much animosity in this country.”

Matt tipped his head slightly. “Ani-what?”

“Animosity. Bad feelings.”

He nodded in agreement. “Half the saloon fights I break up are started by men arguing about the war. You’d think they’d have better things to do than fight about something that’s been over for five years.”

“It’s going to take a lot longer than five years to erase the hatred brought on.”

“I ain’t never heard anyone say it in so many words before, but you’re right.” He glanced at the books and papers set to one side of the desk. “You got everything you need to be teaching?”

“I think so. I’ve been getting some lesson plans organized. Perhaps I can begin classes in a couple days. I already had a visitor this morning. A boy named Dylan.”

Matt’s gaze flickered to Libby, wondering what Dylan had told her about himself. “I hope he wasn’t a bother.”

“Not at all. I felt sorry for him. He wore a jacket two sizes too small, and his shoes—”

The door swung open, interrupting her.

Libby gaped at the new arrival. A deep purple cape covered the woman’s buxom figure, and a matching hat with an outrageous display of green, yellow, and orange feathers topped her head. Libby snapped her mouth shut and stood. “May I help you?”

“You can if you’re Miss O’Hanlon.”

“I’m Libby O’Hanlon.”

The woman’s assessing gaze roamed across Libby. “You’re not exactly as I imagined.”

Libby’s temper rose a notch. “And you’re exactly as I’d pictured.” She stepped around her desk. “Mrs. Beidler, I presume.”

Mrs. Beidler’s righteous expression faltered, but she regained it quickly. “You presume correctly, Miss O’Hanlon.” She glanced at Matt’s face and a visible shudder passed through her considerable figure. “I see you’ve met our sheriff.”

Libby flared at the derision in her voice, and anger burned brighter when Matt tugged the brim of his hat lower. “He was kind enough to bring me a lunch since I missed my own. I’ve been busy getting organized for classes.”

“I’d best head back to town,” Matt announced.

“I’ll take the basket back when I go.” Although Libby had enjoyed his visit, she didn’t want him to hear the lies she’d have to tell Mrs. Beidler. She smiled warmly at Matt. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

He nodded and strode out of the schoolhouse.

Without him, the room loomed larger and the visitor’s presence more threatening.

Mrs. Beidler settled a stern gaze on Libby. “A word of warning. This is a small town and there are few secrets. It would be best if you would remember you are a teacher and comport yourself appropriately. It would not be advisable to be found with the sheriff again without a chaperone. Especially since he is a man who is little more than a ruffian himself.”

Libby bristled. “I have found Sheriff Brandon to be kind and helpful, and he has not once acted in an improper manner. And I see no reason why he should be referred to as a ‘ruffian’ when anyone can see he takes his job seriously.”

Mrs. Beidler sniffed, her chest puffing out like a robin’s. “I see you have much to learn about life on this despicable frontier. But the reason I braved this
miserable weather is to see that all your credentials are in order.”

Libby squared her shoulders. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you cannot see my credentials. During the trip from Nebraska, I lost the bag containing my papers. I’m sorry, but all I can tell you is that I am qualified to teach, and I believe you will not be disappointed in my abilities.” Libby trembled inwardly but kept her expression firm.

Mrs. Beidler’s feathers quivered. “That is entirely unacceptable.”

Libby clasped her hands and raised her chin. “As you realize, there are many frontier towns looking for teachers. I chose Deer Creek because I believed it would be a community I could call home. However, if you cannot take me at my word, I shall have to leave. I will have no trouble securing another position.”

Carefully, Libby closed the open book on her desk.

Mrs. Beidler’s mouth gaped. “You cannot be serious, Miss O’Hanlon.”

“I’m perfectly serious, Mrs. Beidler.” Libby buttoned her coat.

“B-but, you have a contract.”

“I haven’t signed it.”

Mrs. Beidler opened and closed her mouth like a young bird begging for a worm. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I am not an unreasonable person, and I would be willing to compromise.”

Libby crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “And what is this compromise?”

“If you will write the school you graduated from and get a letter of recommendation, you may teach while we are waiting for their reply.”

Libby tapped her chin with an index finger and pretended to ponder the concession. Sweat rolled down Mrs. Beidler’s plum-colored face, and smug
satisfaction tempted Libby to smile. “Yes, that would be acceptable,” she finally replied. “Now, was there anything else?”

“That will be sufficient for now,” Mrs. Beidler said in a clipped voice. She turned in a kaleidoscope of colors and strutted out the door.

Libby sank onto a desk, her trembling knees no longer able to keep her upright. She finally understood the attraction of a high-stakes poker game. She had laid everything on the table and had won with a single bluff.

But the game wasn’t over.

She’d used her mother’s maiden name to hide her identity, and the certificate would expose her deception. She’d have to continue the charade and tell Mrs. Peacock Beidler she’d mailed a letter. With any luck, Libby could bluster through the remainder of the school term. When spring arrived and classes were dismissed for the summer, she would move on. It would be too dangerous to remain in Deer Creek any longer.

The remainder of the week flew by as Libby prepared for school and tried to forget the chain of events that brought her to Deer Creek. During the day, primers and lesson plans kept the memories at bay, but the interminable nights tested her sanity. The abuses she’d suffered at Harrison’s hands, and the image of his still figure on the white floor, haunted her in the darkest hours. She found solace at the schoolhouse and met many of her students and their parents, who ventured there to learn when school would begin. Without guidance, and unable to tell anyone she’d never taught before, Libby gave herself a few extra days to prepare.

Saturday brought angry gray clouds and a blustery north wind. By midmorning, large snowflakes churned
down from the overcast sky, signaling the onslaught of winter.

Despite the nasty weather, Lenore and Libby traipsed over to the mercantile. Libby closed the door behind her, the chilly air swirling around her ankles. She paused to lower her hood and brushed at the snowflakes gathered on her shoulders.