West Winds of Wyoming (28 page)

They both glanced up.

Miss Fairington hustled away, while Mrs. Logan seemed to be struggling to contain her anger.

He smiled, holding his hat. “Mrs. Logan. Nice to see you again.” Her daughter was playing near the window. She resembled Maddie so much his heart thwacked painfully against his ribs.

Memories of Maddie came flooding back. A sweet babe in his arms the day she was born. At six months, colicky and cranky as he walked her around and around the room. The rough feel of her gums as her first tooth poked through. Dressed in pink, a perfect bow tied at her back. Her crying in his arms when she learned her mommy wasn’t coming back. Her frightened face the day her eyesight stared to fail. Swallowing, he pushed back his sentiments. Then, like a cub to a honeycomb, he couldn’t stop his feet from taking him closer to the child. “Hello there, little one.”

The child searched out her mother to see if speaking with him, a stranger, was all right. “That’s Sarah, my daughter,” Mrs. Logan said from across the room. She seemed to have regained her composure. “You didn’t get a chance to meet her at the picnic on Saturday.” She cut her gaze to Beth, who had gone behind the counter. The clerk’s bright-red ears almost made him laugh.

“I’m sorry I didn’t.” He glanced back at Sarah. “What’ve you got there?” Charlie asked her.

The child held up two three-inch-long oak twigs someone had put into an old shoebox along with some buttons, a few scraps of fabric, and an old shoehorn. “Stick people,” she said. “This is Skinny Ma and this is Skinny Pa.” She held them out for his inspection, then marched one along the top edge of the box.

“Is that so? Good to meet you, Skinny Ma and Skinny Pa. Are you finding what you need in the store today?”

Sarah’s eyes lit up with delight at having found an adult to play along with her make-believe. “No, I am not,” she responded crossly. “I need some flour to bake a birthday cake for my little girl. You must be out ’cause I can’t find any.”

Sarah stood and went toward the aisle. “See.” She pointed the stick to a container of lamp oil. “No flour there.” She continued down the aisle and then stopped and waited for him to follow her. When he didn’t move fast enough, Sarah hurried back and took his hand to pull him along.

“Don’t let her wear you out, Mr. Rose,” Mrs. Logan cautioned, holding back a laugh. “Now that she has you, she’ll not give you up easily.”

“I’m sure he has better things to do than play with Sarah,” Beth Fairington said in a sour tone, her gaze trained down on the store ledger.

“I don’t mind at all, Mrs. Logan.” Charlie glanced at the little hand wrapped around his. He’d better change the subject before he embarrassed himself in front of the two women. “How is that boisterous lad of yours?” he asked as he was dragged down the aisle by Sarah.

“Growing like a weed—and all too quickly for my liking.” She gave the child a hug, adoration shining from her face. “I love the feel of him in my arms but can see the day coming when he’ll think himself too grown for such silly indulgences from his mother. I’m not looking forward to that. Before I know it he’ll be in school, just like Sarah.”

He nodded, remembering Maddie at that age snuggled in his arms. “They do grow faster than we’d like.”

Beth harrumphed but kept silent.

Sarah pulled on his hand. “School is fun. Even Maddie gets to come and she’s blind.”

Maddie in school?
A swell of pride threatened to block his throat.

“Here’s the flour.” Sarah enthusiastically opened the lid to a large, wooden barrel and reached inside for the scoop.

Before she could touch anything Beth swooped down and snapped the top closed just as Charlie pulled Sarah back, her eyes wide. “Stay out,” Beth screeched.

“No need for that,” Charlie said, giving the shopkeeper a reproving look. He picked up Sarah, who was still startled by the clerk’s action.

Mrs. Logan hurried over. Charlie set the whimpering girl down and Mrs. Logan took her by the hand. “As much as I hate to admit it, Miss Fairington is correct, Sarah. You know you’re not allowed to play in the flour. Now put the stick people back so we can go. Good day to you, Mr. Rose.”

“Goodbye,” Charlie replied as she went out the door. Sarah ran to catch up. A pinch of loneliness threatened his mood.

He went to the counter and looked at the candies behind on the shelf, thinking he’d like to buy a dozen of each for his little girl. Instead he said, “I’ll take two scoops of peppermints, please.”

Miss Fairington filled his request and set the small white bag on the counter.

“Can I open an account? I’m new to town but I plan on staying.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have the authority to approve that.”

He fished a dime out of his pocket. “Is this enough?”

She traced her finger down a list of items, stopping near the bottom. “Yes. One moment, you have two pennies coming back.” She punched a couple of keys on the cash register and the drawer at the bottom popped open. She gathered the coins and handed them to him. “I’ll tell Maude that you’re interested in an account. She’ll take care of the rest.”

“Thank you.”

Beth Fairington smiled, reminding him of a viper. “Hope to see you again, Mr. Rose.”

Charlie settled his hat on his head and went out the door. He took one of the peppermints from the bag and popped it into his mouth, thinking about Maddie being in school. Her first day and he’d missed it. Oh well. As long as she was happy, so was he. He’d make their lives right, somehow. If it was the last thing he did.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

W
orn to a frazzle, Brenna took the stairs at Mr. Hutton’s house quietly, carrying a get-well card the children had made and a jar of her strawberry jam, her none-too-secret good deed of the day, to further sweeten him up. She was exhausted. Felt like a twelve-team wagon had used her as a road. A room filled with excited children was a dangerous place, she now knew all too well.

Heat warmed her face remembering all the times they had stumped her—her response was that she’d have the answer by the next day. Writing them all down was a job in itself. She hoped Mr. Hutton felt well enough to read the questions over and give her the answers. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.

She stopped at the front door. She gave a gentle knock, just in case Mr. Hutton might be asleep.

“Come in.” Mr. Hutton’s voice sounded stronger.

She pulled up short when she entered and found him settled in the chair instead of in his bed. An oil lamp burned on the table beside him. A book was open in his lap and a cup of tea on the table. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been anticipating this meeting until a surge of happiness jostled her heart. “You feel better. I didn’t expect to find you up.”

He nodded. “Don’t know how much better I feel, but I needed to get out of that bed for a little while.”

He’d donned a shirt and pants. Pinky-white calamine lotion covered his face and his hair needed a good scrubbing. The two days’ growth of whiskers hid his strong, attractive chin.

He smiled. “How did your day go, Mrs. Lane?”

Was he eager to see her?

She glanced about, taking in the tidied up living room. Through the doorway to the kitchen, she spied the drain board stacked with dishes that had already been washed. In his bedroom the bed looked neat and things put away. She lifted an eyebrow.

“Mrs. Hollyhock,” he said in explanation to her silent question. “I
finally
got her to go home. Please, if she inquires about me, tell her I’m better.”

Brenna laughed, sinking into the chair opposite him. The horsehair cushion welcomed her aching back, tired after standing for the whole day.

“She forced me to gargle with warm water laced with cayenne pepper to draw out the infection. I tried to tell her I had the measles, not strep throat, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Once Violet gets an idea into her head, there’s no way to stop her. I don’t think anything I say will persuade her away—but I’ll try.”

“Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

Mr. Hutton’s eager face lifted Brenna’s mood. She wasn’t quite sure how the day had passed, except that it had in a blink of an eye. She handed him the get-well card.

His mouth crooked up when he unfolded the paper. Dry calamine flakes floated down into his lap. He brushed them away as he read the card. “This is nice. Thank you.”

Even in his infirmity, he was a handsome man. Broad of shoulder and thick of arm. On top of all that, he was educated, intellectual, and mannered. She glanced away to gather her nerves.

“Please, don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” he said.

“The day went well—I think. We read from the readers in the morning, practiced writing words and simple sentences after that, and played a game of Duck Duck Goose.”

“Duck Duck Goose?” His smile faded and his eyes went dark.

“Yes. We had a good twenty minutes until lunchtime with nothing to do. When Penny suggested the game, all the students agreed that’s what they wanted to do.”
And I was wholeheartedly relieved.

Mr. Hutton glanced away, his mouth firm. Her idea of the perfect solution to the problem did not please him at all. “Games should be saved for recess on rainy days.”

Brenna’s emotions welled up. She’d done her best for hours to be cheerful and use the time well. She’d struggled to answer every question tossed her way. Twenty minutes of a game wasn’t worth a dressing down. “I didn’t think one game would hurt.”

He waited so long to respond she knew he thought otherwise. “It won’t. But if you add that time to other wasted moments, a child’s education could be squandered away. We don’t want that to happen. Now . . . tell me more.”

She didn’t want to. Surely he’d find more things to criticize. Even the watercolor portrait hanging on the wall, of the staunch-looking woman with the narrow face and close-set eyes, looked more disapproving than ever. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it? You look a little peaked. Maybe you better get back into bed.”

“That’s the calamine lotion. What did you do after the lunch break?”

All Brenna wanted to do was go home and relax, where no one would ask her questions she couldn’t answer. She still had an hour’s worth of mending and some baking before she could go to bed. And since she hadn’t had an opportunity to do a secret good deed today—she decided that the strawberry jam didn’t count, not when she now begrudged it—she vowed to do two tomorrow. “We read aloud some more, this time from the history book.”

“Did you work in the math books like my schedule instructed?”

Brenna swallowed and her heart beat double time.
What can I say that won’t be a lie?

“Mrs. Lane?” He sat forward. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes. And actually, no. I mean, I’m fine, but we didn’t use the books. I thought some review on the blackboard would be good. The children worked in pairs to solve addition problems. As long as they got the correct answers, they were allowed to do another problem. The older students helped the younger and the session ending up being quite fun.”

Mr. Hutton’s mouth pulled down at the dreaded word. “School is not supposed to be
fun
.”

The frown on his face reminded her of Mr. Pender, the teacher from her childhood who had been so frightening. Grouchy ol’ Mr. Pender re-embodied as a young man—who would have thought.

“Mrs. Lane,” he said slowly, as if struggling for the right words to make her understand. “For this to work, you need to follow my instructions. It’s important. School isn’t just a time for play. No need to entertain. The students don’t even have to like you.”

“But I like them.”

He held up a hand to shush her. “The children need to be challenged. If not, their minds grow stagnant. They may as well stay home on the farm and clean a stall.”

What?
Brenna’s ire lifted its head. She was tired, cranky, and hungry. Penny was seeing to supper and she needed to get back to her own home to help. What did he expect of her? She was doing her best. She’d told him she didn’t want the responsibility and that she didn’t have any experience. Heck, she’d struggled to get through school herself. The interesting eyes that had intrigued her from the very first day they’d met now sent a ripple of anger shooting through her heart.

“Please don’t get upset.” His eyes searched her face. “I can see you’re taking this personally. I’m not criticizing you.”

The heck you’re not!

“If the students think every day is a play day, they’re never going to want to be serious when you ask them to buckle down.”

“It’s the first day, Mr. Hutton.”

He held his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Still, Mrs. Lane.”

Compassion cooled her anger. He was still a very sick man. She needed to remember that. He’d waited up for her, to hear how her day went. That should count for something. She should not be angry. “You’re feeling weak. Let me help you back to your room.”

He smiled, loosening more flakes of dried lotion from his face. “No, no. I’m fine. Just a little shooting pain. Now, where were we?”

You were holding my feet to the fire and watching me squirm.