Sycamore Hill (32 page)

Leaning against the door, I pressed my ear to the wood. “Who is
it, please?” I asked, cautious not to unlock the door until I knew who was
there. I had begun locking my door since finding Jordan Bennett in the
schoolroom.

“Ross.”

“Ross?” I repeated, then unlatched the door and swung it back in
alarm. “Is something wrong with Katrina... or Marba?” I asked, immediately
thinking that must be the reason for this unprecedented visit. I checked my pin
watch. It was well after ten o’clock.

Ross stood, leaning his hand against the doorjamb, smiling down at
me apologetically. “No.” He shook his head. “I was out and saw your lamp was
still burning. I thought if you weren’t busy, we might talk for a while.” He
looked past me at the paper-strewn table. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something
important.”

“I was correcting homework papers,” I answered automatically, but
frowning slightly. “What are you doing walking around at this late hour?”

“It isn’t late by my standards. In fact, this is just about the
busiest time of my day. But I felt restless tonight, and I didn’t want to face
the crowd at the casino. Look, Abigail, if this will get you into trouble, I’d
better be on my way. I only figured I could stop at all because of the lights
being out all the way up McPherson.”

Ross Persall knew very well that if anyone were to pass by and see
him on my doorstep, my teaching career would be finished. He seemed very sure
that no one was about. I smiled and gave a faint laugh. “It will probably land
me right in the fire pit, but I don’t really care anymore. Come on in. It’s
cold out there.”

Ross stepped into the light and looked around my small room with
unveiled interest. He was wearing a heavy jacket, rather than his usual dark
suit coat.

“Not much, is it?” he commented wryly.

“What a thing to say about my home,” I teased in mock indignation.
“It’s quite adequate really. I don’t need a lot of space for my work.”

“They might have at least got you some new curtains and something
besides that same old moth-eaten rag rug.”

“Let me take your coat, unless this visit is going to be so short
you needn’t take it off.”

He looked contrite. “I’m sorry.” He removed his coat, but simply
tossed it over onto my bed. “I’ll get the other chair from the schoolroom,” he
said. When he returned, he set it up against the opposite side of the table. He
crossed his arms and straddled the chair.

“Can you finish your work while we talk?” he asked, watching me
make a quick check mark next to a wrong arithmetic sum.

I nodded. “I’ve only got a few more papers, Ross. And then I can
give, you my undivided attention,” I teased.

“That’s all I came for.” He grinned and then watched me work over
the sheets. “What you said to Marba today...” he said and then stopped.

“What about it?” I asked, not raising my head. I shoved the
completed paper aside and picked up another.

“That was nice of you.”

I glanced up with a frown. “I didn’t say it to be nice. I said it
because I meant it.”

His mouth tilted up at one corner. “I’ve no doubt you did,
Abigail.”

“She doesn’t have much of an opinion of herself, does she?” I said
quietly.

“Marba has been through the mill more than once in her
twenty-eight years,” he said in a bland tone. “She’s hardly going to think
she’s a grand lady.”

“I’ve found her very warm-hearted,” I said. He seemed amused.

“Yes. She’s that," he said wryly, reaching into his pocket to
pull out a long, slender cheroot. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

I shook my head, still watching his face with curiosity. Just what
was this man’s relationship with Marba Lane? And why did he speak of her so
disparagingly. As he lit the cigar, he watched my face. His own expression was
veiled by the curling smoke.

“What are you wondering about?” he asked after inhaling deeply and
letting it out slowly. I shook my head, reverting my attention to the last
papers needing correction.

“You know, there isn’t anything you can’t ask me, Abigail,” Ross
assured me softly. “If you’re curious about my relationship with Marba, don’t
be. There was something between us for a while, but it’s long since over.”

I looked up and directly into his dark, compelling gaze. “I don’t
like the way you talk about her.”

His brows moved up slightly. “How do you mean?”

“Critically.”

“I like Marba. She’s a fine woman.” He drew another deep breath
from the cheroot and let the smoke out with a slight tilt back of his head. The
smell was not unpleasant. “I just don’t happen to have any interest in her
anymore.”

I didn’t say anything, and he smiled at me.

“On the other hand, I find you very interesting. You’re educated,
very attractive... and innocent.”

I laughed. “I’ve been warned about you, Mr. Persall. So don’t
think you can woo me with words,” I teased him. His gaze narrowed, but he still
smiled.

“Who’s been warning you? And what have they been saying?” he asked
in a taunting voice.

“I won’t give you my source, but I was told you were an expert
when it came to lonely, frustrated women,” I blurted out with my usual unthinking
candor. Something flickered across his face. It was there and gone so fast that
I couldn’t define it. Then he grinned devilishly.

“Are you frustrated, Abigail?”

“The good Reverend Hayes and James Olmstead are enough to
frustrate anyone,” I said with a smile. Ross laughed deep in his throat, a
pleasant, wholly amused sound. I wondered what I had said to give him such
enjoyment.

“What a priceless piece of innocence you are.” He chuckled. Then
he noticed that the ash on his cigar was getting dangerously long. He glanced
around. “Where’s the little enamel ashtray?”

“What enamel ashtray?” I raised my brows, looking around. “I’ve
never seen one.”

He looked momentarily disconcerted, and then gave a laugh.
“Doesn’t everyone have an ashtray around?”

“Here, use this,” I said, shoving a saucer across the table to
him. He frowned, and then tapped the ash loose to fall into the dish. He didn’t
say anything as I finished correcting the last three papers. Ross Persall
seemed very deep in his own thoughts.

When I finished my work, we talked about Sycamore Hill. He asked
me questions about myself, and strangely, I didn’t hesitate in answering. I
told him a great deal about my life with the Haversalls, more than I had
admitted to Ellen Greer, my closest friend. I only wondered briefly why it was
so easy to talk to Ross Persall. Perhaps it was his eager interest or his
quietly receptive manner. Perhaps it was simply the right time for me to talk.
Whatever it was, I confided many of my feelings.

We did not spend the entire time talking about me however. I asked
many questions, and Ross told me much of his own poverty-stricken childhood in
Louisiana. His family had once held a great deal of land and a beautiful
plantation house. Much of the property had been confiscated after the Civil War
and divided into small 40-acre plots for the slaves. Only a few years after
that the land had fallen into the hands of Northern carpetbaggers. Ross’s
father had drunk and gambled away whatever money the family had left following
the war.

“He had a taste for expensive French brandy,” Ross said in a dry,
bitter tone. Cleveland Persall had died drunk, leaving an ailing wife and one
young son. Ross’s mother died when he was 14. He hustled small jobs for nickels
and dimes, doing anything he could find. He learned that he had his father’s
interest in gaming, but possessed a talent the deceased man had lacked. He
developed his skill, made some connections in New Orleans and started as a
dealer in a casino near the docks. From there, he became a manager with a small
percentage of the profits. By the time he was 23, he had amassed enough to
strike out on his own. A fight with a jealous husband had made it wise for him
to head west.

“It’s not difficult to make money gambling if you use your head.
It’s a matter of strategy, knowing the cards and the odds,” he told me, his
face animated. I smiled at his enthusiasm. “I’ll bring a deck and teach you to
play poker,” he promised.

It was well after one a.m. when Ross Persall got up to leave. My
eyelids had begun to feel very heavy, and I had unsuccessfully tried to stifle
several yawns.

“I’d like to come back,” he said, standing near the door, pulling
on his heavy jacket.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Ross,” I told him,
knowing that I had broken the rules tonight, and I did not want to make a habit
of it.

He did not respond for a second. Then he smiled. “We’ve been very
naughty tonight, haven’t we?” he mocked my guilty conscience. “Breaking all
Hayes and Olmstead’s rigid rules. Tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself,” he dared.

“I did. Very much,” I admitted.

“How scandalous,” he teased. “If the good Reverend Hayes knew you
had spent five minutes with me, he would be sure that something very wicked had
taken place.” He chuckled.

“No doubt he would,” I said thoughtfully.

“His poor little wife is pregnant again,” Ross told me,
unabashedly grinning. Then leaned down and looked into my startled face.
“That’s why Hayes is so suspicious of everyone ... because he’s so deliciously
wicked himself.”

“Ross, you’re terrible,” I said, embarrassed. Then I laughed. Ross
straightened, still grinning like a mischievous boy. “Now what do you say? Can
I sneak back in the night to visit with you every now and then?” He raised his
right hand and looked suddenly solemn, though his eyes sparkled. “Just to talk,
I swear.”

“Stop it.” I was still laughing.

“You’ve a right to some relaxation, you know," he drawled.
“It’s not as though we’re doing what Hayes is. We’ve just been talking.” He
grinned devilishly again. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.”

“Besides,” he dropped his voice conspiratorially, “I can be very,
very discreet when the situation warrants it. Trust me.”

“Go home,” I ordered in mock sternness, refusing to answer one way
or the other. He studied my face for an instant, and then his eyes glinted. He
left without another word.

Arguing with a man like Ross Persall would have been like arguing
with Daniel Webster himself. I was not even going to attempt it. I suspected
that anything I might say, any arguments I might raise against his return,
would be gainsaid.

I knew Ross Persall would return. And because I was lonely and
enjoyed his company, I would welcome him, despite the rules. I had totally
forgotten what Reva Gutierrez had said about Ross. He was an expert when it
came to lonely, frustrated women.

My stomach was knotted into a queasy mass of nerves, and a
nauseating headache was beginning to develop. I had not been feeling well for
the past week, but I knew it was due to this evening. The children were presenting
their Christmas play to the parents. I had no worries about them; they knew
their parts well, their costumes were finished and waiting, and the
refreshments were prepared and ready to be set out by the children and myself
following the show. The schoolhouse had never looked so festive, with pine
cuttings, painted cones, a small decorated tree, and bright crayon drawings of
Christmas scenes and even soap snow in the windowpanes.

What had my stomach churning was the fear of seeing Jordan Bennett
again, and having to speak to him. It had been six weeks since he had made love
to me on the grass above the river pool. It had been two weeks since I had even
glimpsed him in town. He had been coming out of Olmstead’s store as I had
rounded McPherson. I had halted, conquering the urge to dart behind a tree and
hide. Jordan had mounted his big stallion and started down Main Street. I
forced myself to walk on, keeping my head high and face blank of emotion,
though every sense I possessed seemed overly aware of him. He rode right by me,
casting me one glance that made me remember with renewed and intensified shame
every detail of what had taken place between us on that grassy slope.

If such a brief glimpse of him could do that to me, what would
happen this evening when I had to face him and talk with him? I prayed he would
not come. I prayed something would take him far, far away. Perhaps ranch
business. Perhaps he would simply not wish to come.

The children were arriving. Margaret Hudson walked in with her
parents and then went into my room to change into her costume. The Hayes boys
came with their father and mother. The Reverend Hayes seemed very subdued, but
watchful. I suspected he was hoping for some great blunder on my part so that
he could dismiss me. Elizabeth Hayes looked wan and tired. Beside her
domineering husband, she seemed almost a nonentity. I pitied her being married
to such a man.

Toby Carmichael, Chester and Harold Studebaker and Sherman and
Grant Poole arrived next. Their parents wandered in soon afterward. Charles
Studebaker greeted me warmly and returned several books he had borrowed.
Berthamae seemed impressed with the children’s decorations and moved from
arrangement to arrangement, admiring the handiworks. Katrina Lane arrived with
her mother and Ross in tow. Marba looked very uncomfortable, but Ross grinned
at me with a conspiratorial wink. I couldn’t help but flush slightly, thinking
of our conversations after most of the townspeople were long asleep. He had
come by twice since the first visit, and each had been as entertaining as the
one before.