by Lynn Donovan
“Who?”
“Miss Annette Baldwin… the Lovelorn?”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose she was the matchmaker in this arrangement, now that I think about it. Still, this is a big trust you have placed in a complete stranger and it isn’t lost on me.”
“Well, thank you. Now, let me show you our home.”
She followed him through the Big House. Turtle Dove, a Blackfoot native, was baking pies in the kitchen when they walked through and made introductions. “Hmm, something smells so good.” Dorothy inhaled deeply.
Turtle Dove seemed cordial, but cautious. Dorothy was quite used to professors being stand-offish. Being a child roaming among the academic halls of Harvard, she found little acceptance. Her father had colleagues whom he considered friends, but she did not. Meeting Ginger Houndsman on the train had given Dorothy hope that friendships would form automatically in the small town and an even smaller community. Could she expect the same from Turtle Dove?
The Lovelorn had suggested a household arts textbook to help Dorothy learn how to be a suitable wife, was there a textbook about making friends? Perhaps she could write Mr. Green in the Harvard Library where she spent so much of her leisure time to see if he knew of such a publication. The thought of establishing a library exchange here in Montana appealed to her in many ways.
Out at the barn, Drake Two-Rivers, Turtle Dove’s husband, was brushing down the mule when they walked through. He too was cordial but quiet when introduced to Dorothy. She wouldn’t exactly describe their meeting as a brisk cold shoulder, but it wasn’t terribly warm and inviting either. No one bubbled over with excitement like Ginger Houndsman. Perhaps, Dorothy thought, Ginger was the exception to the rule and everyone else needed time to get to know her and her to get to know them, then a friendship would develop between them.
Perhaps she could make a big batch of her signature muffins to help build a friendship with everyone. She would be patient. But in the meantime, she wanted to settle into her classroom. In that, she felt comfortable. She had brought old friends with her, books, pens and paper. These she could rely on for total acceptance and familiarity.
“Thank you for the tour, Mr. Orchid.” Dorothy stepped toward the schoolhouse. “I believe I’d like to assess the classroom and settle in. You say there’s an apartment for me at the back of the schoolhouse?”
“Yes. You have your choice. The room in the back or a spare room in the Big House. It’s your choice, really. Obviously, since this is a marriage of convenience you are not expected to bunk with me.” He chuckled, a hint of nerves showing for the first time.
“So, the children? Do they manage on their own, to go to bed and get up in the mornings, without supervision?”
“Without super— well, let’s just say we have a system. Turtle Dove and Anna Beth supervise, as you say, it will probably be you who establishes when the school day will begin. I should hope you will take into consideration the camp’s needs and the children’s morning chores when you establish your timetable for classroom activities.”
“I see. So, I suppose I should spend a day observing the established routines and develop my curriculum according to what works best.”
“That sounds reasonable to me.” Mr. Orchid smiled. She liked his smile, it added a twinkle to his kind eyes.
He tilted his head. “One other thing—”
“Yes?” Dorothy met his gaze. They were as blue as the Montana sky. She hadn’t noticed how crystal clear his eyes were before. Her heart sped up to a ridiculous pace.
“Call me Aidan, Miss Bladdenwart, please.”
She snorted. “All right, Aidan. And you should call me Dorothy…” she considered her familiar nickname. Maybe it was too soon to reveal that just yet. “And the cook? Should I call her Missus Two-Rivers or Turtle Dove?”
“That’s between you and her.” He offered and walked away, then turned back. “There’ll be a community dinner tonight, so you can meet all the families and the children, er your students. I suppose there are a dozen or so children.” His eye darted up toward the trees as if the exact number were hiding among the branches. He nodded as if to say that’s all I have and walked away.
She watched his retreating form. He was a well-built man. Tall and slender, but muscular in all the right places. He had a saunter to his walk that was attractive. She blinked, breaking the spell she was under, and turned to enter the schoolhouse. “Let’s see what we have to work with.”

Theodore Binks cradled his rifle over the crook of his elbow as he paced the fifty foot length where his workers were laying rails for the Northern Pacific Railroad. The men chanted a folk song to set the rhythm of their swinging hammers as they drove spikes to anchor the rails into the wooden ties. The railroad line grew section by section across the Montana Territory.
Binks proudly toted his rifle to guard the men, his men, from the Indians. After years of working the back-breaking job of laborer, he had finally convinced an infamous financier, Mr. Jay Cooke, to let him supervise a team of workers through this difficult terrain known as Indian country.
Treaties had been signed years before, and the government had agreed with the plans for which this Northern Pacific Railroad would be laid, but work had been delayed due in part with the exorbitant costs of the Transcontinental Railway construction, leaving little funding for the competitive northern railways. The treaties gave the United States government possession of the land, but little change took effect, allowing the Indians to continue their traditional hunt for the buffalo.
But Binks had a gift and he had used that gift to convince Mr. Cooke that investing in the development of the northwest would be his next big opportunity for wealth. Binks went so far as to lure Cooke to Duluth, Minnesota where he convinced Cooke that this town could easily be the new Chicago as long as this NP railway ran through Duluth into the Great Lakes shipping system and on to the Pacific where goods could be sent to Europe. Cooke used his influence with the President of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company to place Binks in a supervisory position with the Northern Pacific to oversee construction through the difficult Montana Territory.
A thundering sound drew Binks’s attention from his men. He lifted his eyes to the plains where dust billowed in the distance. A warrior’s cry resonated behind the dirt filled clouds.
“Indians.” Binks lifted his rifle and waited.
A herd of buffalo ran to the west where the railway construction had not yet reached. Rifle blasts exploded and the large beasts fell to the ground. Binks shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand to watch the hunt as half-naked men leapt from their bareback horses and butchered the buffalo on the spot where they had died. They stood tall from their kill and held something dark red in their hands, then brought the glob down to their mouths and bit into the organ. Binks’s stomach knotted. He had heard about the Indians eating the buffalo heart right after it was killed.
The railway workers had stopped to stare at the spectacle. Binks could not blame them. He, too, gaped at the grotesque sight. But this was why he and several of his men carried rifles. The Indians were not honoring the treaties. The U.S. Army was not enforcing the treaties either. It was up to Binks to see to it that these railways were laid and the Indians were made aware that the land was no longer theirs.
Binks lifted his rifle and shot into the air. The rail workers jerked and turned to look at him. “Not on my watch!” He yelled and vaulted into his saddle. “Come on, men!”
He rode toward the Indians. His men were soon with him. He leapt from his horse and aimed his rifle at the Indians who continued to work on butchering the bloody buffalo bodies. “You are trespassing on Northern Pacific Railroad land!”
A grey haired Indian stood from his work. Blood dripped from his fingertips and stained his arm all the way up to his elbows. His mouth was covered in blood too. “This is our sacred hunting grounds. My ancestors hunted these plains for generations.”
Binks held his rifle steady, aimed at the olde
r man’s chest. “Your great chief signed a treaty with my government. My government gave us this land to build a railroad. You cannot hunt here anymore.”
The elder Indian stood statue still, staring at Binks. The other Indians slowly stood next to their buffalo carcass, rifles clutched in their bloody hands. Binks’s eyes darted from man to man, anticipating a shootout to begin at any moment.
Binks lowered his rifle, slowly. “I tell you what. I’ll let you finish what you have started here. You take these animals back to your village, or camp, or whatever you call your domiciles. And I’ll let you have this hunt. But it’s the last time you chase these buffalo through this area. It belongs to my government and the Northern Pacific Railroad Company. If I see you or any of your men out here again, I’ll be forced to shoot you on the spot.”
The elder man stared at Binks. His mouth pressed into a thin straight line. He hollered something in his language to his men then turned back to Binks. “You have no right to tell us Blackfoot where we can hunt. Our ancestors hunted many generations ago and they bless our hunt from the great hunting ground beyond the sky. As long as brother buffalo roam these plains, we Blackfoot will survive.”
Binks smiled. “I see. Well then, I’ll just have to do something about your brother buffalo roaming here, won’t I?”
The elder Indian knitted his brow, but remained silent. Binks backed away and mounted his horse, but did not take his eyes off the older man.
“Watch your step, but come with me.” He told his men. They, too, were careful to retreat and mount their horses. Binks lead the way and trotted his horses back to where the rail was being laid.
“What are you gonna do, Mr. Binks?” one of the men asked.
“You’ll see.” Binks dismounted. “Get back to work, all of you.” He told the workers. “You men gather your ammunition and come with me.”
Chapter Five

With some dusting and sweeping, the classroom was functional. Someone had been in here rummaging through the books and had left them lying out on the desks. Some were piled on the floor. The library, as it were, took up four shelves. Aidan’s late wife obviously loved books, too. Dorothy smiled at the thought that Sheila and she could have been friends with the love of reading in common.
Dorothy put them in order and added the ones she had brought to the collection, making the library six shelves which took up an entire cabinet of shelving. She found index cards in the desk drawer and made a card for each book, so that the children could check them out, like a real library, and learn responsibility for caring for the books while it was in the children’s possession.
She was in her element now, and felt very comfortable organizing the classroom. A smile creased her lips. She hoped all the children loved to read. She wondered who her book hounds would be among the children.
Hounds. Ginger Houndsman crossed her mind. She missed her chatterbox friend. Perhaps in a week or so she could make a trip into Billings to have tea with the Houndsmans and tell Ginger all about her life in the mountain with the mining families. And how she had misunderstood Mr. Orchid’s intent when he sent her the letter inviting her to come to Billings.
She took more index cards and wrote each child’s name on the card. Gavin, Anna Beth, Cole, and Jackson. These she placed on four of the desks toward the back of the room, indicating where she wanted them to sit. This would serve two purposes. It would help her put their names to their faces, and it would cluster them by age group for now. Once she assessed their education skill levels, she might make changes. But for now, this would work. Tonight, at dinner, when she met the other students, she would bring her journal so she had a place to write the children’s names down and their ages. She’d make cards and lay their names on the desks after supper, before she retired for the night.
She took out a Massachusetts’s grammar school assessment test she had found at Harvard and laid it on her desk. Her plan was to use it with all the children and see who could get the furthest through the test to know where they were academically. Rising from the chair… she chalked the first ten questions on the slate wall behind her desk. Each day, she planned to add ten more questions until the children could no longer answer them properly.
Clapping the chalk dust from her hands, she entered the back room. It was a neat little apartment, with a bed, dresser, and chifforobe. A pot belly stove and a stack of firewood just outside the back door. She could fix her own coffee or tea and warm a plate of food. Apparently, she would be taking her meals with the family in the Big House. Did all the families come together for meals? What an interestingly tight community it would be if they did.
Did Turtle Dove need help preparing meals? Or did the other women work together in the Big House? No one had said what the expectations were for Dorothy other than teaching the children. She would just have to figure it all out as she went along. Hopefully, in the meantime, she didn’t offend Turtle Dove by stepping on her duties or neglecting her expectations. It was a slippery slope.
Dorothy moved her things into the dresser and closet and headed to the house to ask just such questions. Her father had often said, “You don’t know what you don’t ask.” Children moved about the grounds, going about their chores, Dorothy assumed.
Anna Beth was in the kitchen with Turtle Dove, peeling vegetables. Some younger girls played on the floor. A game with little metal stars and a bouncy ball. Jacks. Dorothy knew the game from her solitude in her father’s classroom as a child.
“Hello. What can I do to help?”
All eyes lifted to her. Turtle Dove smiled. “You are our guest tonight. Tomorrow we will determine what you can do to help.”
“Well. I don’t mind helping. If you can give me something to do.”
“Peel roots.” Anna Beth held out a carrot that she had been working on.
“Sure. I can peel roots.” Dorothy lifted a parsnip. She found a knife in a drawer nearby and began shaving the skin from the vegetable. “I read in a textbook recently that food scraps, such as peelings, are a good source of food for chickens or pigs. I didn’t notice any pigs when Aidan took me for a tour of the camp, but I saw chickens. Do you feed them the peels?”
“Yes.” Turtle Dove answered. She smirked then went about her work cutting the root vegetables and putting them in a pot of boiling water. “Is your apartment to your satisfaction?”
“Oh, dear me, yes. It’s very nice. Thank you.”
Turtle Dove nodded but remained focused on her task.
Once all the vegetables were peeled, Dorothy looked around but couldn’t determine anything else to do. There didn’t seem to be enough food, but she had to assume Turtle Dove had it all under control. “I see the table is set. I read about properly placing silverware and plates and glasses and it looks to me as though you read the same textbook. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No.” Turtle Dove replied with an odd crinkle in her brow. “Go relax, I will call when dinner is ready.”
“Well, all right. But tomorrow, I expect to be given my own chores. Please. I don’t want to feel like a burden.”
“You’re no burden.” Turtle Dove paused. “You’re the new missus.”
Dorothy knew Turtle Dove did not mean her words to be harsh, but they felt that way nonetheless. In time, Dorothy hoped Turtle Dove would accept her into the community and not give her those odd looks. Aidan mentioned that Turtle Dove would be willing to teach Dorothy to cook. She hoped that included those great smelling pies. Perhaps Dorothy could show Turtle Dove her momma’s muffin recipe and they would become friends.
In Boston, her father and she survived on hardy seafood stews, fresh caught at the Harbor each day. The ingredients completely depended on the catch of the day. When she looked up the geography of Montana, she read there were freshwater fish in the rivers, and cattle, sheep and pigs. She had seen buffalo on the plains from the train, did Aidan have buffalo meat also? And there was a smokehouse over by the barn. It smelled as if something was bein
g preserved in it when she arrived. These were more questions she intended to ask, when the time was right.
Dorothy went back to the schoolhouse. She sat at the desk and envisioned what tomorrow would be like. A scratching noise caught her attention along with an unpleasant, pungent odor. It resonated from a corner, next to the book shelves… what was that? She rose from her chair and slowly approached the corner.
A black and white creature about the size of a cat waddled out of the darkness! Dorothy slammed to a halt with a gasp, “Oh, dear me!” she whispered the minute she spied the animal. She didn’t want to move too quickly or scare it. It sniffed and nosed around, was it looking for food? She had to admit it was rather cute, but that smell! It was horrible!
Slowly, she backed up, trying to be as quiet as a mouse. Her eyes darted about, was anybody near enough to hear her call for help?
“Help.” She barely spoke the word. Moving toward the back door, she slipped outside and looked around. “Mr. Two-Rivers!” she called.
“Aidan!” She moved toward the barn. Surely someone was in there. “Gavin!”
“What is it?” Aidan came out of the tack room, concern written all over his face.
Dorothy swallowed. “There’s ah -animal… in the schoolhouse, it smells terrible!”
“Again?” Aidan shook his head. “I told them boys to fix that skirting. She’s getting in from underneath. There’s a loose floorboard, too.”
Dorothy nodded. “Well, what is it?”
Aidan gawked at Dorothy. “You never seen a skunk?”
She shook her head. “We don’t have… skunks in Harvard.”
“Yeah, I guess not. I’ll get some crab apples and lure her out.”
“Crab apples?”
“She’s partial to the little crab apples. I’ll lay some on the porch, and leave the door open. She’ll find her way out and in the meantime… Gavin!”
“Yessir!” The boy yelled from the hay loft.
“Come down here and fix that skirting around the schoolhouse, like I asked ya. Ebony is in there again.”
