“We don’t know what to expect,” said Dodie. “My brother thinks girls are being taken and sold into bondage in Mexico or maybe the Far East.”
»»•««
Jo returned from her orchard outing with a lot to think about. The evening meal proved as vile as the girls had described. It was a shepherd’s pie of mashed rutabagas and some kind of game meat suspended in a brown pudding of grease and peas.
During the night, she periodically woke up to the sound of the privy door slamming shut and squeaking open, but she slept better than she had the night before.
Rising before dawn, she dressed with care, polished her shoes, and made certain her navy skirt was free of dust and wrinkles. She plaited her hair in a tight coronet about her head, determined to make a good impression with Mrs. Jones, on this, her first day as a bonafide teacher. Ready and prepared, it was a complete surprise then when her initiation into the prestigious career as teacher in an all girl’s school proved hazardous, a bit like walking a tightrope across a swamp of snapping alligators. The alligators being Mrs. Jones, Mr. Jones, and their horrid little spy, Gerald.
After her briefing, Mr. Jones ordered her to report to the kitchen. She would serve her first week there clearing the tables and doing dishes after breakfast. Her first class was at half-past eight. Ten to fifteen students, it would vary she was told, would remain with her until dismissal at half-past three. Except on Wednesdays, when all of the students, Miss Ott, Miss Ames, and herself would participate in a full day of housewifery, dressmaking, and common sense child care instruction. At the end of each school day, she would then report to the kitchen to set tables and prepare the food for the evening meal. These would be her duties for the first month. Next month her duties would change. She would find her duties for the next month posted in the hall on the corkboard.
As for curriculum, it was dry as toast, and mundane to boot. Jo left Mrs. Jones’s office disheartened. Dodie greeted her in the kitchen. The girl’s cheery “good morning” helped, but did not fully remove Jo’s gloomy outlook for her tenure.
Entering her classroom at precisely half-past eight, greeted by twelve eager and expectant faces, Jo resolved to inject some enthusiasm for learning in her pupils. She decided beginning the day with a few stretching exercises at their desks would help to get the blood flowing. She skimmed over calligraphy and Bible study. After lunch, instead of mastering the art of enunciating with a mouth full of marbles, she took the girls outside for a half hour of kickball. After the kickball exercise, the girls, ranging in age from ten to eighteen, settled in for two straight hours of literature, geography, and mathematics. They ended the day with a cheery hour of parlor etiquette. Jo incorporated music and chorus in the class as the girls balanced a book on their heads while playing musical chairs.
Gerald, the spy, reported these innovations and deviations to Mrs. Jones. Jo dismissed her pupils at three thirty on the dot and received her summons to report to Mrs. Jones at three forty.
“Your disregard for my lesson plans cost your students their elocution lessons, Miss Buxton. A young lady has no need to study mathematics and geography for hours. A little will go a long way. Class schedules are not to be taken as a loose guide. I expect my teachers to adhere faithfully to my instructions. You’ve been here three and a half days Miss Buxton, and each day you have caused disruption of our routine. Under the circumstances, I believe I’m being very lenient. Do not test me further. The girls have regular exercise scheduled twice a week. Overstimulation in any form is unhealthy for the female body, and will ruin one’s figure. I have listed the exercises. You may choose any one of them. The time and day of the exercise are not to be changed. Do I make myself clear, Miss Buxton?”
Jo pressed her lips together and nodded, exited the office, and ran into Gerald lurking outside the door. His satisfied smirk spoke volumes.
Exhausted and discouraged, Jo retreated to her tent immediately after supper where she paced the five steps forward and back for fifteen or so minutes. Unable to tolerate her own company, she took off on a hike along the canal in the opposite direction of the orchard and the school to avoid the possibility of having to talk to anyone.
Chapter Eleven
In the soft twilight of the late afternoon, Ryder hugged the shadowy side of the administration office. The boy he’d hired to deliver Miss Buxton’s trunk emerged from the office. The lad looked both ways and shrugged, hopped down off the porch, and took off at a run back to town.
Gerald emerged from the office, his pimple face flushed. He kicked the traveling trunk away from the door. “Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am. Pretty soon you can go to hell, you old wart,” he muttered to himself as he dragged the trunk to the top step.
Ryder stayed still.
Gerald maneuvered the trunk onto his back, and taking long strides, he headed across the green toward the cottages.
Staying clear of any windows and keeping to the shadows of the buildings, Ryder made his way to the woods to meet Dodie at their usual spot in the orchard. He found her well hidden, deep in the orchard behind the great hall. She lay on her side, humming to herself and running her fingers through the grass.“I heard you coming,” she said without looking up.
He emerged from the trees into the opening left behind by the rotting carcasses of two apple trees.
“I heard your humming way back there,” he said, arms folded over his chest. “You sure nobody knows about this place?”
She sat up, flipped her long black hair over her shoulder, and folded her legs. “Pretty sure. Grace and Twyla-Rose think the orchard’s haunted. They’ve heard humming. I might’ve told them a few stories about evil spirits preferring old orchards.” She pressed her lips together, but she couldn’t hide her smirk from her brother.
“You are evil, little sister. Be careful. I don’t like Gerald. He’s as rotten as they come. He isn’t to be trusted or underestimated.”
“Oh, I can handle Gerald. I gave him one of my head butts once. Being short does have its advantages. Of course, I had to hurry up and wash my hair after, but it was worth it to see him double up in agony.”
“See you don’t get a concussion one of these days. You and your head butts,” he said and squatted down, crossing his legs to sit across from her. “Tell me, how’s Miss Buxton getting on here?”
“The old biddy put her in the Sherman.”
“The tent? Why? Weren’t there any cottages available?”
“Miss Pollard didn’t come back, so number three is empty.”
The light of the day had started to fade. A chilly breeze and the clear skies held the promise of a frost before morning. Dodie shivered and pulled her sweater tighter about her. “We asked if Twyla-Rose, Grace, and I could have it. Maybe share it with six or seven of the other girls. We’re stacked up on one another like cordwood right now. Old Festering Ester refused, of course. She explained the cottages were for teachers and students, not custodial personnel. Custodial personnel is fancy talk for servant. Teachers, but not Miss Buxton. The woman makes up stuff. She’s not even logical. But you and I, we know better than to put up an argument. And Miss Buxton too, she knows how the world works. So we all keep our mouths shut and our heads down.
“I want to go home, Ryder. I want to ride my horse, and let my hair fly in the wind. Grace and Twyla-Rose want to go home too. The Joneses are closed-minded tyrants. They’re punishing Miss Buxton because she took part in the capture of those robbers. They’ve decided against her. She’s a disruption according to the Joneses. What she really is, is a threat. She’s smart, smarter than Festering Ester. She’s also liked and admired by the girls. Festering Ester doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like it one bit.”
Ryder sat drawing symbols of arrows, eagles, elk, and fish in the dirt with a twig. He stayed silent for a long while. Dodie put her hands in her lap, waiting.
Head down, he broke the twig. “Sorry, Dodie. Daddy Royce, Telt and Buttrum have gone home. They’re escorting the payroll and the Wells Fargo gold.
You could have gone home with them. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how bad the situation had gotten here. I need you here for now. Buttrum and Longtree need you here because Twyla-Rose and Grace are here. And we need Miss Buxton here. I’m sorry they’re giving her a hard time. And I’m really sorry you have to stay for a while longer. I’d like to get you out of here too.”
“She’s getting more than a hard time, Ryder. Miss Buxton can’t do anything right in their eyes. They didn’t like Miss Pollard either, and she honestly loved teaching. She made learning interesting and challenging. I miss her. She was very nice to me. She gave me special books and encouraged me to learn. They didn’t like her taking an interest in me. Miss Pollard was popular with the girls too. Miss Pollard didn’t come back. I don’t want anything to happen to Miss Buxton.”
“I know, I know. Jo’s different, Dodie. She knows how to take care of herself, and you’ve filled her in on what’s going on. I’ve taken leave from my duties to work on this. I’ll be here. When’s the next time you’re allowed to go into town?”
“Not this coming Saturday, but the next week.”
“You should be getting back for bed check.”
“I have to scrub the great room and kitchen floor first. Miss Ott doesn’t count me. I could die, and she’d never notice.”
He got to his feet and pulled Dodie to her feet with him. “I’d notice if you were dead. Grace and Twyla-Rose would notice too. Buck up, we’ll get these people. The next time they try it, we’ll get’em.”
»»•««
Sniffling like a blubbering five-year-old, Jo stumbled along the path beside the irrigation ditch in the dark. Melancholy had her firmly in its grip. She was angry, frustrated, tired, and lonely, both metaphorically and literally. She could see no light at the end of the trail upon which she’d set herself. She’d accepted the teaching position without hesitation, assuming a school for girls would be a safe place where she could spread her wings and encourage young women to do the same. Foolish, foolish and reckless.
The Joneses frowned upon, indeed discouraged, any form or expression of joy. They were of the mindset that edifying young ladies, broadening their knowledge of the world, was a waste of time and effort. After all, according to Mrs. Jones, a woman’s purpose and ambition in life was to become an obedient and genteel wife, chattel to her husband.
Then Jo thought of Ryder McAdam, her next big mistake. He’d manipulated her, kissed her not once but twice, and his eyes promised her an elusive something that called to her. How dare he steal her traveling trunk? How dare he forget her? How dare he forget he promised to return it to her?
She cursed herself for not taking better care of her pretty painted traveling trunk. She should’ve marched down to the cargo car and personally seen to its being loaded. Instead, because she counted on others, her traveling trunk was abducted, purloined, and pitched into service. Ryder McAdam had compounded his bit of villainy by pulling her in, making her his accomplice to aid him in the capture of a gang of robbers. Brazen and reckless summed up Ryder McAdam in a nutshell.
She hated him, really hated him. Hated that his abandonment of her hurt. Hated she couldn’t get him out of her head. Well, to heck with him.
She needed her trunk. She could use it for storage. She didn’t think any of the girls would steal, but she wouldn’t put anything past Gerald to rummage through her things, finger her drawers. The vision of Gerald’s ugly mouth open, drooling over her things flitted through her mind’s eye and she nearly gagged.
Her thoughts strayed to Miss Ames and Miss Ott. She put them in her category of odd ducks. They hardly spoke to her at supper. She hoped to make friends here. The girls were sweet, but a fellow teacher as a friend would’ve been nice. Her dream had evaporated, and the reality of her situation did not look very bright.
She turned her ankle on a tree root, and let out a little squeak. She sighed, sniffed back her tears, and stopped on the path to take her bearings. Surely, the school and her Spartan tent were close at hand. Darkness had overtaken her. She hadn’t meant to walk so far afield. By the time she realized she’d gone too far, she’d also lost the light of day. Somewhere beyond the walnut trees to her east lay the school and her tent. Meager it might be, but right now it offered solitude and comfort, comfort she badly needed.
Quietly weeping, ankle aching, she pushed on in what she hoped was the right direction for her tent. Her thoughts kept returning to the handsome, magnetic Ryder McAdam, his dancing black eyes, his mesmerizing, deep voice, and his lips, warm and tender against her own. Never had a man invoked so many conflicting emotions in her as did Ryder McAdam. If she ever came face to face with him again, she vowed to kick him in the shins. But not tonight, her feet hurt.
»»•««
Ryder, out of sight of the girls who’d come out to draw water from the well and make use of the privy, waited in the stand of old walnut trees. The tent, the Sherman, Ryder knew well. He’d made use of it on occasion, making certain, of course, it wasn’t occupied by some poor martyred student. Tonight, he waited for the faint glow of a lantern or the rustle of the tent tarp, but the modest dwelling remained dark and still. The night absorbed the shadows of the tree branches. To the east, a faint glow in the inky night sky heralded the coming of the tardy moon. Around him, the sounds of the night, the crickets’ halting chirps, and the chill autumn breeze tickling the bellies of the brittle leaves overhead, all heightened his senses to any anomaly.
Behind him, the swish of waving fabric and the soft crunch of footsteps brought him to attention. He straightened and peered into the night. Her white blouse caught his eye and then her hair, it had escaped its ribbon and waved over her shoulder and about her face. She came toward him, head down, limping slightly, weeping. Her sigh of despair stabbed his heart, and he winced.
Jo, his brave Jo brought to tears. All his doing.
∙•∙
“Jo.”
A tall, dark figure stepped out from beneath the trees in front of her. The voice? She knew that voice. It haunted her dreams.
“My Jo.”
Slowly the man took a step and then another, his hand extended toward her.
“You,” she said, her lips moving but making very little sound.
His hand lightly touched her arm. In a trance, she folded into him.
His hands, warm, stroked her back. She pressed her body to his, seeking warmth, safety, assurance.
“Shhh, I’m here.”
Remembering she wanted to be mad at him, Jo wriggled out of his embrace and slapped his chest. “Well, you can go away,” she said. “You’re good at disappearing.”
His quiet rumbling laughter added fuel to her disgust. Disgust because she had a weakness for this man. Disgust because his presence made her feel a hell of a lot less lonely and helpless. Her strong, independent, sensible side accused her of being a big fool. She knew full well he couldn’t help her fit in here. Far from it, Ryder’s presence complicated matters considerably. If she were caught talking to him, it would be the end of her brief, abysmal career.
With his hand holding her wrist, he said, “We have to talk.”
“No, too dangerous. If you’ve returned my traveling trunk, I thank you. I have no more to say to you.”
Again he chuckled. Drawing her back to his side, he put his lips to her cheek. “You’re right. Perhaps we don’t need words.” His lips found her earlobe. She shuddered with desire and sighed in surrender to his touch. His hand went to her throat, and warm fingers caressed her cheek. His lips found hers, and for a few brief seconds of ecstasy she forgot herself, but only for a few brief seconds.
“I have to go. Good night.” And without giving herself time to think or hesitate, she took off at a brisk pace, sore ankle be damned, into the wood, praying she’d find her foolish mind in the sanctity of her tent.
∙•∙
Ryder let her go, but followed close behind, stopping at the back of the tent. Having done this many, many times before, he loosened the te
nt from the half wall of planed boards, stepped over, and entered the tent, his feet landing on the side of the stove. He waited quietly for Jo to drag her empty travel trunk through the opening at the front. When she reached for the lantern, he put out his hand to stop her, and she squeaked.
“Shhh, we don’t need a light, do we? It casts shadows. Best if no one knows I’m here.” Reaching to his right, he tugged a quilt off the cot and draped it around her shoulders. “There now. You sit, and I’ll stoke the fire in the stove. It’s going to get cold tonight.”
“How did you do that?” she asked, falling back on the cot.
“What?” Finding the kindling bucket, he poked the coals to life in the little cast-iron stove.
“Get in here, how did you get in here?”
“Oh. I came in the back, climbed over the half-wall. Not magic. I’ve used this tent before. There are lots of places to take shelter no one is making any use of or would think to enter. I check in on Dodie and stay here. She told me she’s filled you in on how and where the abductions took place.”
The interior of the tent was dark, but he could see the yellow quilt Jo had wrapped around her, and he knew the layout, so finding the kettle to heat some water didn’t pose a problem.
Tugging the quilt tighter about her, Jo tucked her legs to the side and slipped off her shoes. The shoes thudded to the dirt floor. He smiled to himself. With the lid off the cast-iron top of the stove, he glanced her way. She sat rubbing her feet and caught him staring at her feet and pulled the quilt over them. In a huff, she said, “Yes, the girls filled me in, but I don’t see how the Joneses fit into it. They’re prigs, zealots, and tyrants, but abductors of fair-haired young girls? I doubt it.”
He poked at the stubborn coals and added more kindling. It took off, the light of the flames illuminating Jo’s elegantly featured face and setting her lovely locks to life in a blaze of amber. Such beauty and elegance caused his mouth to go dry.
Not waiting for an invitation, he sat down beside her, gathered her into his arms, and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. I can’t get anything concrete on them. Their name isn’t Jones. I know that for sure. Ann Pollard, the teacher you replaced, I’ve spoken to her family. She didn’t come home for the holidays. They haven’t seen or heard from her. She was twenty-two, and a faithful correspondent, writing letters home every week. The last letter they received, Anne spoke of the outing to town. She wanted to purchase a new pair of shoes, said she’d been saving up. Nothing in her letter mentioned traveling anywhere or leaving the school. No one remembered her getting on the train or the stage. She simply vanished. Even her belongings disappeared.
Jo and the Pinkerton Man Page 8
