by Patty Devlin
“Yes, he was up before the rooster this morning. I’m afraid he may have wet the bed.” She clucked disparagingly and shook her head. Gales of laughter went up around the table.
“No, you’ll find the sheets clean and dry. If you want to know the truth of it—” Mr. Ormsby cupped a hand over his mouth as if to shield the man next to him from hearing. “The walls are so thin, I woke up in the dark and for a moment thought I was in a bear cave. Mr. Edward’s snoring frightened me so.” He put his hand down and lifted his fresh cup of coffee, giving the little boy, Frankie, a wink. “Mrs. Owens, you might think of charging him an extra nickel each night he disrupts the guests.”
“But then I’d have to charge Frankie and Jackson the same thing, and they’d be living on the streets in no time,” Mrs. Owens replied as she filled Celia’s plate high with eggs. Celia raised her hands to stop the woman from piling so much food on it, but Mrs. Owens couldn’t be moved from her goal, which she’d already declared previously to fatten the little bird up.
“I don’t snore, Nana, it’s just Uncle Jack!” the dark-haired boy called out.
“What? Why, don’t you know it’s good to snore, Frankie?” the marshal asked. Celia couldn’t stop watching him. She’d been trying not to, but her eyes kept going back to him all morning. That was the way it had been the night before, too. She’d thought about him as she’d tossed and turned. His green eyes and that angular jawline, the cleft in his chin, the stubble all along his lower jaw. She couldn’t get the man out of her head. She almost missed his response to the little boy even though she was staring right at the man. “You see, when you are out on the trail, sleeping on the ground out in the open, if you have a good healthy set of lungs and a loud snore, you won’t have to worry about something coming up on you while you’re sleeping because it will be afraid of your snore.”
“So what day do you start teaching?” A little man with spectacles and a silk cravat sitting to the left of Celia caught her attention with his question. He had beady little eyes and no hair on the top of his head. Funny, but she couldn’t remember his name and she normally remembered names quite well.
“Not until Monday, which is good because there is so much to do before we can start.” She sighed, thinking of filth and grime in the closed-up school house. School should be a fun and happy environment, not dark, dirty, gloomy and depressing. There was no way she could go there every day and work with it in that condition. She had to do something about it.
“Well, I’m thrilled that you are not the expected Mr. Whitman. You are a delightful surprise indeed. I have to head off. I am with Wells Fargo if you have any banking needs, but aside from that I’d love to show you around town.” If it were possible for his scrawny chest to puff up, she thought for sure it did. He seemed like a very nice man, but she was not interested in men, or marriage. She had seen many terrible attempts at marriage. No, she was not interested—unless maybe it was that lawman who made her heart thud like a horse galloping across the prairie. Wait, what was she thinking?
“Are you all right?” he asked. Mr. Spectacles… Wells Fargo, what was his name?
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I apologize. Perhaps I can talk to you again about that over a meal sometime?” Her hand was shaking as she rested her fork against her plate. Had everyone else stopped talking, too? Why were they all staring at her?
Susanna saved her. “Sure you can, honey. Here, let me take that. You don’t have to eat it all. Mama always does that to people, gives them way too much. You just go on and get ready for your meeting now. Jack said he’s gonna take you down there in a bit.”
*****
“You didn’t have to escort me. I’m sure I could have found my way.” Celia glanced up at the profile of the quiet marshal as they headed toward the meeting.
“Not while you’re at my house. This is a rowdy city; I want to know you are safe. Besides, I’m on the school board, too.” His voice was monotone. He neither looked at her or away. They walked side by side. He’d offered to hitch a wagon, but also had said it was a decent walk. If there was one thing Celia loved, it was to be outdoors, so she delighted in a nice stroll, in different circumstances.
“You want me gone, don’t you?” She had a feeling he had come along to make sure the board knew she was a woman, just in case they couldn’t tell. Then he would expedite her departure from the city or maybe the state if he had his way. She had come prepared for this; she knew they wanted a man. It was silly, though. Did they know how few male teachers there really were? And that was why she’d filled out the paperwork as C. G. Whitman. But, really, what could they do now that she was here? Would they actually send her home?
“Not you personally. A young unchaperoned lady is not ready for this city. There is just too much that could happen.” He still didn’t look her way. Old-fashioned. Outdated. These people needed to get with the times.
“You’re an old stick in the mud, always thinking the worst,” she muttered. She should just leave him alone; he wasn’t worth the argument. The sky was huge and bright blue, not a cloud to be found. Celia took a deep breath. She wanted to stop right there, put her arms out to her sides and spin around and around. She would have to go for a walk later (on her own) and find a field with flowers and just soak up the feeling of the great wide open.
“And you are a beautiful little flower that’s about to get crushed—unless I stop it.” He stared right down at her now, his green eyes so clear, the intensity so sharp, it almost took her breath away. Whether or not his words were true, he believed them. He believed he had to protect her. She’d never met anyone like him.
Chapter Two
“Right here, we’re here.”
She didn’t have to formulate a reply, which was a good thing because she couldn’t have if she’d tried for days. He led her up the white-washed stairs and into a church building, which they also used as a town hall when necessary. Her thoughts flew this way and that and it took her a full minute or two to rope them in so she could focus on her surroundings.
People started greeting her, and all of them seemed to have the same vacant look, accompanied by confusion—and maybe even a stuttering problem or two. She also noticed small groups of two or three forming and whispering between each other.
“I’m sure you know why they are gathering and talking like that,” the marshal said in a low voice as he came to her side when she stood alone once more.
“It’s rude,” she mumbled.
“They are all trying to figure out if they made some mistake because in all of the advertisements and letters we sent out, we specifically requested a male. Even the superintendent’s man back East knew that was our preference.” He took her arm and slowly led her to a bench in the front row. The other members of the board sat down on the surrounding benches.
“We’re going to get started.” The superintendent went to the front and spoke from the riser there. “Miss, is it Miss?” he asked and, when she nodded, continued, “Miss Whitman, we’re curious how you came by our position. We thought we made it clear we needed a gentleman.”
One thing was clear, and that was that there were at least twelve sets (Celia was schooled in arithmetic and quite accurate in calculations so that made it at least twenty-four individual) of eyes drilling into her. She stood up and drew in a breath. She would not let them see how her stomach ached. Mrs. Owens’s biscuits were anything but fluffy now; a giant rock rested right in her middle.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know remember whether I noticed that prerequisite but if I had—I certainly would have thought it a mistake. No, you couldn’t mean to be so discriminatory. In this late year of 1872, surely we are past such chauvinisms. I have been schooled in advanced studies, attended the University of New York and have experience teaching in a school house and boarding school alike. I would think you might be thrilled to have the experience I bring to the West.” Her hands shook even though she clutched them together so tightly in front of her. Celia looked to the lawman somehow h
oping for support. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, she wanted approval from him more than any of the others.
His profile, almost rigid, seemed so stern, so unforgiving. He faced the front and didn’t give her a glance. The superintendent’s voice drew her attention to the front once more. “It’s not your experience that gives us concern. It’s the simple fact that an unattached, unprotected young lady as lovely as yourself is like a feast to the culture-deprived men of this rugged and merciless country. It wouldn’t be fair of us to let you, let alone ask you, to try to manage here on your own.” The man had a very soothing voice, and perhaps later the words would make sense to Celia. Then again, perhaps not. She was rather het up about his condescension and didn’t want to hear a thing the man had to say against her doing exactly what she’d come to do.
“I can take care of myself, Mr. Brewer. I might not look like much, but I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life. I’m ready for this task and you can’t just send me off. You advertised for a teacher and I’m a good one. Call me Mister Whitman if it makes you feel better.” She slapped her arms across her chest and hooked them tightly, then sat down stiffly with her best poker face in place.
“Well, spouting off like a brat won’t go in your favor. That’s for sure,” said a low, stern voice to her left.
She didn’t look at the marshal because if she did, she might have given in to the tears that burned her tender eyelids. “As if you care,” she spit out, blinking rapidly to stop the moisture already pooling in her lower lashes against her will.
“It’d be nice to not care,” he murmured, leaving her puzzled and sitting alone as he stalked over to the other men to discuss her fate.
She had plenty of time to temper her unwanted emotions. The men couldn’t seem to come to an agreement. In fact, there were quite a few raised voices, and it seemed to be more often than not that Jackson’s voice rose well over the others. She wanted to throw a book at each of them, but she had no books and knew that had she any books, they would neither find their mark nor serve her any purpose, so she finally got up and stomped out. What did it really matter if she stayed around for the show? She had no intention to pack up. They couldn’t really send her away, could they?
She hadn’t even made it across the road before someone, one of the men, called out to her. It disappointed her that the voice did not belong to one really large lawman with broad shoulders and green eyes. “Miss Whitman, please come back inside. We’re almost done.” It was the other deputy, who had introduced himself to her earlier. “It’s not you, honest. It’s just that we had problems with the last teacher… and then there is a scarcity of gently bred ladies.” Byron. That was his name. Byron Morrison—he was Susanna’s husband.
“I’m pretty sure they don’t need me in there. I can head back to the boarding house and ask around about another job in town until I secure a different teaching position.” She turned away from him as she was again reminded of her breakfast by the weight in her tummy.
“I don’t think it will come to that. Come on back inside, and we’ll see what we can work out.” The man was kind; his voice and eyes gave it away. She looked back to the old clapboard building just as another older man came to the door calling for them to come in.
“Miss Whitman, can you come back in, please. We may have a somewhat more suitable solution.” Still not Jackson though, silver-haired—perhaps the preacher? It was just her luck there wasn’t a single woman on the school board.
“Yes, I’m coming. Let’s get this settled.” She needed to get her nose out of the daisies. She’d never been one to moon after men and carry on, so why the fascination with the surly marshal? She strode back into the building and sat down once again without so much as glancing toward Jackson. Although, she couldn’t help but notice as she faced him momentarily to sit down, the way he sat now, poker-stiff and silent, staring straight ahead.
The superintendent started again without any preliminary discussion. “We have decided to allow you to stay on as we have nothing against you personally or against women in general. Our problem lies in you being vulnerable as an unattached lady without chaperone or protector. So, with that being said, if you’d like the position as teacher you need to be married. A husband would solve most of our concerns.”
“That is absurd! How would that help me? Oh, never mind, I don’t think I want to hear your outdated and ridiculous notions. What if I refuse?”
“We’ll supply you with a ticket home.” It was a firm, determined response coming from a patient, kind man. Checkmate.
A strange urge to laugh overwhelmed Celia. Laugh or cry? She’d brought this on herself, hadn’t she? Maybe she could buy some time at least… “How long do I have to find one? Picking a husband takes time, you know? A year might be sufficient.”
“We’ve decided—” His voice, containing a mixture of sadness and kindness, almost sympathetic, stopped Celia before she told him exactly what she thought of their decisions. “We know all of the people in this town, or county. We’d hate for you to rush to find one and have you pick some man who’d be all wrong, and time is of the essence. You need a husband, a protector. So, we’ve narrowed it down to two—”
“I said she is not marrying Hugh,” Jackson growled, coming to his feet again.
“She has to be given a choice—” the superintendent tried to explain, but a flurry of arguments came from Jackson, the superintendent and finally Celia.
“That’s it? I have to choose a husband from one of them, and then I can have the position? How long do we have to stay married?” When she’d started to speak the men became quiet, almost eerily quiet as her question hung in the room.
Then the superintendent’s stuttering problem came back. “F-f-for as long as you are teaching.”
“Do I have to live with him? Or can we live at the boarding house in separate rooms? I mean, it is to be a marriage in name only, correct?” She didn’t look, but she thought she heard a growling sound coming from Jackson, still standing to her left.
Mr. Brewer cleared his throat, struggled to find his handkerchief and then dabbed at his forehead with it before going on. “The idea is that you will grow intimate with your husband and he will feel protective of you. He will know where you are and such and watch over you. For that reason, you should live together, and not at the boarding house where you won’t really get to know each other. Whether it is a marriage in name only will remain up to the two of you.” He looked at the floor as he finished and cleared his throat again before calling Byron and asking for his help.
The man walked to the front and the two spoke in hushed voices for a moment before Byron turned around and spoke. “Miss Whitman, we know it is a tough situation and we don’t want you to feel forced to make a bad choice as Mr. Brewer said. With that I’d like to tell you about the two men—”
“Dammit, Byron,” Jackson bellowed. “You know it’s not like I want to marry her, but she can’t marry him. I told you guys that.”
“Jackson, you are not thinking it through.” Byron sighed and tried again, “Let her decide.”
“I choose the other guy! Let’s go, let’s do it,” Celia stood up and yelled so she could be heard over the men. She didn’t know or care who—but she would not force a man to marry her who proclaimed before all that he didn’t want her. No, she would not put her heart in a situation like that.
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Hear it out.”
“The hell you will!”
The chorus of negative replies buzzed in her head, none as loud or as final as the marshal’s. Before she could make out anything else, Jackson’s fingers gripped her arm and marched her to the door with a backward rejoinder to the rest of the men, “We’ll come back at four for the wedding.”
On the street she tried to pull her arm from his grip to no avail. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the schoolhouse, it’s the only place I can think of where we can talk by ourselves.”
“What if I don’t want to talk to you?” She pulled her arm again in vain.
“Then I’ll do the talking.”
“Oh, you are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”
“Well, get used to it, I guess. It looks like we’re stuck with each other.” His grip lessened, but not enough for her to break free.
An all-consuming rage flooded her veins. “I’d rather work in a brothel than marry you just so I can teach here.” If her words had any effect on him she couldn’t tell since they were at the school house and he led her up the stairs and inside before he spoke again.
“Well, then, we feel the same way.” He finally released her arm once they were inside, then closed and locked the door behind them.
Perhaps it was the stress heaped upon her, or perhaps it was the way he stood there, all calm, just staring at her. All she could think of was him agreeing that he felt the same way—and she could picture him working in a brothel, dressed up as a painted lady. She began to laugh and laugh uncontrollably. It started as a giggle and continued to build until she held her arms across herself and cried out in mirth.
“I’m thrilled you can laugh at this, but this isn’t fun and games, little girl. This town needs a school teacher, one who can act like an adult. We expected a man and I have a feeling you know darn well that’s what we wanted. Now we’re going to have to make the best—”
“Oh, you—you pig-headed louse!” She looked around for something to throw at him, but the only thing near her was the broom. He moved much quicker than she did, so it barely cleared her shoulders when she lifted it to swing toward him and he’d already snatched it from her hands. “I hate you! I’ll never marry you.”
As quickly as the broom was relieved from her grip, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight. Jackson’s lips crushed down over hers, melting her resistance and demanding her submission. His hands came up to cup both of her cheeks together, embracing her for his plunder (as if she would have protested). Her thoughts turned to liquid heat and puddled somewhere down in her middle. When he finally drew back, and she slowly opened her eyes to look up into his, her legs no longer existed. She wanted to stay in his arms forever.
