The widow pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks and neck, and Rose squinted her eyes to see what the odd-looking brooch on her shoulder represented. A dove? A panther?
“What are you staring at, young lady?” The widow pounded her parasol onto the dirt as she glared at Rose.
Rose looked at her feet as her heart clenched. She hadn’t meant to cause a problem, although it was a fairly simple thing to do with Widow Samson. “I was just admiring your brooch, ma’am.” Rose looked up to see the widow stroking the brooch.
“Ah, thank you, my dear. It is my mourning brooch and contains a lock of Mr. Samson’s hair.” She smiled down at it and dabbed at her eyes.
Rose glanced at the others and relief washed over her as she noticed the looks between them. Although such items were common, it was not common to continue wearing them four years on, and she was pleased to know that her friends and family felt the same.
The Widow Samson shook her head and turned to Mr. Tate. “I wanted to let you know, young man, that the committee had an impromptu meeting and decided that with all of the supplies and books required for this school year—and your very high salary—we will be unable to approve your request for an assistant. I would hope, with your very lofty credentials, however, that you would be able to manage perfectly well on your own.” She turned on her heel and headed toward her seat at the ice cream table, tucking a strand of wiry, gray hair under her hat and patting her broach.
The cool autumn breeze rustled through the pecan tree and Mr. Tate looked up as the leaves fell, holding his hands out to catch some while the others either shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot or looked at their feet in the awkward silence.
Rose opened her hand, feeling the cool leaves falling onto her palm. “Maybe we could get some volunteers.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Rose.” Suzanne clapped her hands together in delight. “I would love to volunteer, but could only do it part time as I need to be at the mercantile for at least the late mornings.”
Rose’s head snapped up. She hadn’t realized that thought had escaped and turned into words. She dropped the leaves and smoothed her skirt.
Mr. Tate smiled, his eyes bright. “Well, thank you, Miss...Miss...I don’t believe I caught your name earlier.” He took off his hat and held in to his chest.
“Rose. Rose Archer.”
“I believe you may have found a good solution, Miss Archer. At least for one of my difficulties. Thank you.” He bowed slightly in her direction and turned back to Suzanne. “I’d be delighted, Mrs. Davis, if you could volunteer, even if not every day.” He frowned and looked over at the Widow Samson. “If I meet with approval for the idea, I will see if I can find any other volunteers.”
Heat crept up Rose’s neck as he turned his deep brown eyes toward her again, his eyes twinkling. “I believe you may have saved me.”
As they watched him stride over to the serving table, Rose sat down on the bench, seeing in her mind’s eye what she’d written on the chalkboard—Teacher: Miss Archer. Volunteering wouldn’t exactly be the same as teaching, but it might be a good place to start. She missed school, everything about it from the smell of the books, the feel of the chairs and the sound of the chalk on the board.
Maybe she could do that as well as gather eggs and milk cows. Or maybe she could share those duties with her sisters. Her heart sank, though, as she remembered the biggest obstacle of all: her father, Beau Archer.
Chapter 4
Michael Tate hung his bowler hat on the peg by the front door of the schoolhouse and closed it behind him, leaning against it as he gazed at his new workplace. The floorboards had been recently polished, but beyond that, it looked like it could use some care and attention. He’d arrived just a week before, hoping for enough time before school started to fully prepare. This was his first job as a headmaster—granted, headmaster and teacher all in one—and his first job as a teacher out of his native Boston.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an advertisement torn from a newspaper, one that had guided him almost completely across the country.
Town of Tombstone seeking new headmaster for one-room schoolhouse. Salary discussed in correspondence. School begins in mid-September. Must have impeccable credentials and be of good moral character. School supplies provided.
It wasn’t a very complete advertisement, he admitted to himself, but after having read about the boomtown of Tombstone in the Boston newspaper, he’d been intrigued and written away immediately for more information. Mrs. Samson, the head of the school committee, had responded immediately, describing Tombstone much differently than the rough-and-tumble, lawless town he’d read about.
Even though it didn’t seem quite as exciting as he’d read, it was far away, in a completely different environment than where he’d grown up, the North End of Boston. He’d tried to describe the appeal of the surrounding cactus, the silver mine, the many people flocking to Tombstone to his parents, but had sighed at the blank stares he’d received. Blank stares in the beginning, that is—until his mother began to cry and beg him to reconsider, his father consoling her as she wailed. In the end, he’d agreed to a two-year contract and promised to return each summer, when school was out, to visit.
He walked toward his desk, running his hands along the student desks lined up in between the door and the chalkboard in front. The number of desks was a bit intimidating, even for him, as the age groups were so varied—which meant their abilities would be, too. He let out a sigh of relief that Mrs. Samson earlier approved his request to seek volunteers, as well as approve the participation of Suzanne.
He hadn’t yet cleaned the board and some chalk remained, he assumed from the previous teacher. He stood aside a bit, trying to make out the faintly written words, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses, but he couldn’t make out anything more than an “A”.
He turned back toward the desks, smiling at the thought that they would be full of students shortly, young people he could help open the world up to through books. That was where he found out everything he had learned—and he’d spent many an evening lost in one book or another. He glanced down at a familiar one, bound in red leather set on top of the first student desk. He hadn’t noticed it out of place before, but he knew exactly what book it was.
He picked it up, holding it to his nose as he breathed deeply, inhaling his favorite scent. He’d spent hours upon hours in the Boston library, and if they’d bottled the scent of stacks of books, he’d have bought it. It was his favorite.
He’d just set the book on his desk when the door opened behind him, the Widow Samson bustling in. The ice cream social had ended over an hour ago, and he had hoped that she had returned to wherever she’d come from. He was already sure that he and she did not share his opinions about education. Unfortunately.
“Mr. Tate, I stopped by to see how you were faring. Is your room at the boarding house suiting you well? You know, we do want you to be happy here.” She closed her parasol and tapped it on the wooden floor.
He couldn’t help his eyebrows from traveling upward, but said, “Thank you. It’s kind of you to be concerned for my welfare.” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk.
Mrs. Samson looked down at the floor and cleared her throat. “I do imagine that the additional requirement of you not being a single man has taken you a bit by surprise, but I am sure you understand our reasoning,” she said after a few moments when Michael said nothing further, only waited for her to continue. She looked away at the window. “I’m sure you have some sort of plan so as to not jeopardize your contract.”
Michael took off his spectacles and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, ma’am, I do have a plan.”
Mrs. Samson pulled at her black gloves, securing them more tightly over her hands before she looked up at him. “I can’t imagine what that could be. There certainly isn’t enough time to court anyone here in Tombstone, I don’t think. I do wish you
good luck, and I know you’re aware that I take my responsibility very seriously. The children’s welfare rests in my hands, you see.”
Michael did see, but from his encounters with her since he’d arrived he wondered exactly whose best interests she had in mind. It didn’t seem to him it was the children.
She tapped her parasol once more before turning toward the door, standing still in front of it and clearing her throat again as she turned to look at Michael.
He stifled a smile and pushed himself away from the desk, crossing to the door and opening it for her. “Good day, Mrs. Samson. Thank you for stopping by.”
She nodded in his direction, her eyes closed. “You’re welcome, and I do hope that the school year opens well. Last year was a disaster, and we’ve paid a higher salary to you based on your fine training. Do know, however, that we are a simple lot, and teaching these students reading and writing will do just fine.”
Michael resisted the urge to push the door shut harder than he should as she passed through it, knowing that wouldn’t help his cause. Just reading and writing? Was that their only expectations for the students of their town?
He walked back to his desk, watching the waning light shine through the windows, casting shadows over the student desks all lined up, waiting for their charges.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we,” he said to the empty room, certain that he would know exactly what to do when the students arrived.
Chapter 5
Rose splashed water on her face and looked in the mirror on her vanity. The dark circles under her eyes were something she hadn’t seen for quite a long time—since her mother died, she noted with surprise. She lifted up one eyelid and then the other. How could tossing and turning just for one night cause bloodshot eyes?
Sleep had eluded her as she thought of the warmth of the schoolhouse, her love of learning and the feel and smell of the books that contained so much exciting information about the world outside of Tombstone. As the first bright rays peeked through the window, ending her long night of contemplation, she’d finally arrived at a decision. At his earliest convenience, she’d ask Mr. Tate if he had received permission for volunteers and, if he had, offer her own services.
She rubbed her hands together to warm them against the early morning chill, hoping the sun would be fully risen by the time she got to the barn to collect the eggs and milk the cows. She reached for a scarf and tied her brown, curly hair back so as not to be in her way while she did her chores.
“Hurry up, Rose. I need to get on with things,” her sister Saffron whispered loudly against the door. She shrugged on her brown corduroy coat, hoping it would stave off the chill. She smiled as she reached for her dusty black boots that she saved just for ranch chores, polishing them only once a week as they didn’t stay clean long enough to warrant a more frequent effort.
“I’m coming.” She pulled the laces tight and tied the last bow on her boots. She opened the door and looked down the ranch hallway. All the other doors were closed. “Did you get the baskets yet?”
“No. Maria said they were down in the barn already. The pails, too.”
Rose put her arm around her sister. “I really appreciate this, Saffron. I know you were happy in the herb garden.”
“Mama’s herb garden is back in good shape, and Sage and I were just going to start some winter vegetables. See if we could actually grow some this year. So we’re in between and I’d like to learn how all over again. Papa didn’t seem to mind last night at supper when you asked, but any particular reason you want me to learn now?”
Rose squeezed her sister’s hand, and thought how different she was from her twin, Sage. Maybe that’s how all twins were, because Sage and Saffron were as different as Lucy and Lily, even though it was difficult to tell them apart just with a quick look.
“I know you don’t like to talk much, Rose. I was just curious.”
Rose’s eyes widened and she looked over at her sister. “I don’t talk much?”
Saffron laughed. “Does that surprise you? Surely you must know you’re on the quiet side, mostly with your nose in a book.”
Her face flushed as she realized how her sisters must see her. Quiet. Always reading, watching what was going on around her, mostly. Her older sister, Meg, had been her best friend as well as her sister, and since she’d married Sam Allen and moved away, Rose imagined she’d likely been more quiet than usual—even for her.
She wondered what they would think when she asked Papa if she could volunteer at the school. That is if Mr. Tate had been given permission for volunteers and if he agreed to allow her to participate.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought, and she was relieved that Saffron caught on quickly to her instruction, with minimal instruction. Saffron had done all this before—their parents made sure they all received instruction on each responsibility at the ranch—but it had been a while. As the girls each grew older and left school, they had each taken their place at the ranch, each with their own individual assigned areas.
She fell into a comfortable silence with Saffron and the cold numbed Rose’s hands as she reached for the final egg of the morning. Setting the basket down, she clapped her hands together and blew into them, hoping that would help turn them from white back to pink as her blood warmed.
“So, that’s it? That wasn’t too bad.” Saffron wiped her hands on her apron and rested her hands on her hips, looking back over toward the henhouse and cow stalls.
Rose’s lips turned up into a smile. “No, definitely not as bad with two of us. If I were alone, I certainly wouldn’t be done yet.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Saffron reached for the buckets of milk. “So we take these into town now?”
“We usually take them to the mercantile. I’ll take you there another day to teach you that part. I have some errands to run afterward today and I’m sure you’d like to get to the garden.”
Saffron smiled. “That would be lovely. Least I can do, though, is carry this over to the wagon for you.”
“Thank you, Saffron.” Rose reached for the basket of eggs and headed toward the wagon, placing them in the back and running into the ranch house to grab her gloves before leaving for the mercantile.
The horses’ hooves lulled her as they made their way to the mercantile. Her heart warmed as she thought of the books she’d held at the schoolhouse the day before, remembered her mother teaching her to read when she was very young, not in school yet. And she’d been reading ever since, working her way through all the books at school and almost all the way through her father’s extensive library at home. Over the years, she’d even made it all the way through the encyclopedia. Yes, being surrounded by books and people who loved learning was something that greatly appealed to her. Certainly more than eggs and milk.
Tombstone hadn’t had any rain for a spell and dust rose from the buckboard’s wheels as she pulled up in front of the mercantile. The sun had yet to rise much higher in the sky than daybreak, but Suzanne and James were there, ready to greet her and help with her merchandise.
“Thank you so much for doing this, Rose,” James, Suzanne’s husband, said as he reached around back for the heavy pails of milk. “Customers sure want what you have to offer from Archer Ranch. We’re looking forward to any vegetables Saffron and Sage actually come up with.”
Rose smiled, having almost laughed when she’d driven by her twin sisters making little headway in the vegetable garden, and they’d waved as she did. “I admire their tenacity, don’t you?”
James reached a hand up to help Rose down. “Oh, certainly. I know how challenging this hard ground can be, and I am always interested to see what they do coax to grow. The tomatoes this summer were delicious, even though small.”
Rose stamped her feet on the mat, hoping there were few traces of mud before she entered the store. Suzanne peeked through the door of the small office in the back and grinned when she saw Rose.
“Hello, my dear,” she said as she took the basket of e
ggs from Rose, set it on the counter and began to count them. “Cold outside, and you’re up early.”
“I’m glad you two are here early as well. Wasn’t able to sleep much last night.”
“Oh? Good book keep you up?” Suzanne winked at Rose and continued counting eggs.
“No, not exactly.” Rose twisted her fingers, weighing the wisdom of telling Suzanne of her dream to volunteer with her in the school. Her palms began to sweat and she thought better of it. She did decide, though, that a simple question would be harmless. “Did you hear if Mr. Tate was given permission to have volunteers this school year?”
Suzanne’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, he was given permission. Probationary permission, though, to see how it went for the first part of the school year. Good news, and I don’t think anyone believed that the Widow Samson would say yes right away. If she had, the earth may have stopped spinning.”
“Now, Suzanne,” James chimed in with a sideways glance at his wife, along with a slight smile.
“Oh, I’m not gossiping. Just stating facts.”
He set the pails of milk by the icebox and milk bottles. “Fine line, my dear. Fine line.”
Suzanne waved her hand at him and put the last egg into its box. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” Rose thought her voice hitched, but Suzanne didn’t seem to notice. She was inching closer to her dream and didn’t want to jinx it quite yet.
Chapter 6
The bells on the handle jingled as Rose shut the door of the mercantile behind her. She’d settled her business transaction, something she was still getting a bit used to since Meg left it to her when she got married. It was still early, and she peered each way down the dirt road, her nerves warring with her heart. Should she go see the headmaster and offer her services as a volunteer? What could be the worst that could happen? He could say no, but that wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?
The Teacher's Mail Order Bride Page 2
