A Gift of Love

by Judith O'Brien

  A bark of a laugh escaped his throat. It was the first time she had heard him laugh. She'd seen him smile, now she had heard him laugh.

  "Point taken." He took a long pull on the pipe, his eyes fixed just beyond Emma in thought.

  There was something terribly impressive about him, the concentration on his face. A fact came into her mind, a bit of information that she must have already known on some level.

  He's a brilliant lawyer, she said to herself. The moment the idea formed, she knew it was true. He possessed a remarkable legal mind mingled with something else, a native intuitive intelligence that would make him a formidable opponent in a court of law. And a spectacular champion.

  "Very well, Em," he said at last. "The school is closed because the schoolmaster ran off."

  Emma understood. As much as she loved her job there were many days that she, too felt like running away. Such as the annual lice outbreak, where she was forced to examine every child's head each morning, or when the stomach flu made its round-robin appearance, always right after lunch, and always near her desk

  "So why don't they just hire another schoolmaster?"

  Michael shook his head. "That's exactly what I suggested. I was defeated." His eyes met hers, and there was a sense of understanding between them. Their minds somehow worked in the same way, followed a similar thought process.

  He continued. "Too many of the townspeople felt that to bring in another schoolmaster would be to bring in another corrupting influence."

  "Now you have me completely confused."

  "Ah. Well here's the main point of their argument. You see, the schoolmaster did not just run off. He ran off with one of his pupils."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Nope."

  "How old was the student?"

  Michael took another pull on the pipe. "I suppose the pupil was about seventeen."

  "Well, I guess that's old enough. I mean, she probably knew what she was doing and all. How old was the school master?"

  "Henry? I reckon Henry was twenty-five or twenty-six."

  "Well that's not so bad, Michael. It's a shame they couldn't just live here in Overton Falls. Did her parents object to the match?"

  He nodded.

  "I think it's sort of romantic, don't you?" She sighed. Michael stood up and grasped her hand, and she immediately folded her fingers over his. Again she was struck by how very right it felt.

  "Em, there was more than just a problem with her age." She looked at him, her eyes questioning. "The real problem was that she was engaged to be married to the Zollers' oldest boy. The wedding was planned, everyone in town had already purchased gifts—from the Zollers' store, of course. So when the bride ran off with the schoolmaster, all of Overton Falls was in an uproar."

  Dawning understanding lit her face. "Oh," she said quietly, then, more emphatically, "So the Zollers not only lost a daughter-in-law. They were stuck with gifts no one needed or paid for."

  "Exactly."

  "But that's no reason to keep the school closed, Michael. The children need an education, no matter who gets married to whom."

  "Ah, but the Zollers don't see it that way. They are powerful in this small town, and their views are taken seriously. Not only did the schoolmaster take their future daughter-in-law, but it made their son, Ebenezer a laughingstock."

  "With a name like Ebenezer, he was probably already a laughingstock," she muttered.

  Again Michael laughed. This time, it was an easy, natural sound, and Emma smiled back. Their hands were still clasped together.

  "That is the truth. Still the Zollers control the store. Until we can establish a bank, their store is also the center o finance here. If they decide to deny credit to someone, it could make life very difficult. No one will go against the Zollers." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "So that's why the school is likely to remain closed."

  Another idea came into her head. Her expression changed to a knowing smile. Michael lowered his pope.

  "Tell me now, Em. Tell me now so I can talk you out of it."

  "I just had a brilliant idea."

  "Oh, no."

  "Why don't I become the new schoolmaster… or mistress?" Her voice became an excited rush. "I'm qualified, Michael. And since I live here, I wouldn't be a corrupting influence."

  "Emma…"

  "No, listen! I wouldn't ask to be paid. I'm a good school teacher. Please, Michael. Whom do I ask? Who's in charge of the school?"

  He did not say anything for a while, his face betraying reluctance at shattering her enthusiasm. "You would be wonderful, Em. You were quite a teacher in Philadelphia." Small lines formed at the corner of his eye as he smiled in remembrance. "Miss Hamilton wept at our wedding not because of any romantic sentiments, but because she was losing the best teacher her school had ever had."

  Emma paused, not surprised that she had been a teacher in Philadelphia. "Whom do I speak to about the position?"

  "This isn't a good idea, Em?"

  "Why not?"

  He began to open his mouth to speak, then stopped. "All right, I'll be blunt. You are a woman, and for that I am most earnestly delighted, but as far as I know there has never been a female schoolmaster in this state."

  "I could be the first!"

  "Emma, you taught at a small girls school where the students were prim little ladies. This is the frontier. The children are rough, and you'd have boys as well as girls."

  "I think I could handle it."

  "Another problem is that many of the citizens of Overton Falls are beginning to despise me. Unfortunately that feeling may touch you as well, through no fault of your own."

  "How could anyone despise you?" her voice was full of such sincere confusion that he paused.

  "The same reason as in Philadelphia. It's me, Em. And the choices I've made. You know that I tend to represent the most unpopular defendants."

  "So?"

  "The wealthy ones, the ones with connections and well-placed friends, don't need a lawyer like me. The others do. They have already been condemned by circumstance, birth and usually poverty. I try to even things out for them, which makes me less than socially favored. The notable lack if invitations in Philadelphia made that clear."

  "I'm glad you choose the clients you do. I truly am. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be a schoolteacher."

  "Em"—he rested his hands on her shoulders—"Overton Falls is also like Philadelphia in other ways. It matters here about my background."

  When she gave him a perplexed frown, he continued. "My grandmother. It doesn't matter where I was raised, where I was educated. What matters here is that my grandmother was a Delaware."

  "Why should that matter?"

  "Amusing, Emma. Quite funny." He at last let go of her hand and tapped the contents of the pipe into the fire. "The truth remains that I have Indian blood in my veins. We're only a half step away from joining the Larsons in being driven out of this town. If Judge Hawkins hadn't accepted us, and the Zollers, as well…"

  Now it made sense. His compassion for others, the grace of his movements, the strange light in his eyes. All were from growing up under what must have been appalling circumstances.

  Yet she knew she was meant to run that school, to teach the children. Somehow, she'd find a way.

  Emma put on the nightgown as quickly as possible. It was freezing in the cabin.

  She waited for Michael to come into the bedroom, but he didn't. Shifting under the quilt she tried to get warm and watched the calico curtain for any movement. Still he did not enter the bedroom.

  She combed and braided her hair; still he remained in the other room. Finally, she peeked through the curtain covering the doorway.

  "Michael? Are you coming in?"

  He had been reading by the fireplace, forehead resting on his palm. He jumped when she called his name.

  "But…well. Are you sure?"

  Of course. They hadn't been sleeping together. He had been banished to the bench.

  "Please, Michael
."

  Slowly he closed the book and checked the fire to make sure it wouldn't flare during the night. He seemed nervous.

  Once he entered the bedroom, he methodically removed his trousers. The shirt was oversized, and wearing that alone, he silently climbed into bed.

  "So," she whispered, her voice husky. "The doctor says we can try again."

  He nodded. In the dim light she could see his profile, so beautifully sculpted. "That is what he said."

  "When the time is right?" She moved closer, her hand on his chest.

  He frowned. "Yes, Em. When the time is right."

  "Well, how about no?" She couldn’t believe what she was saying, but she needed him. Badly.

  "Now?" His voice was uncertain. "It's snowing out."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "Well, because the ground is frozen." He yawned. "How can we plant rosebushes when the ground is frozen?"

  "Rosebushes?"

  "Mmmm." Then he reached for her, pulling her close.

  After the initial shock wore off, she smiled in the darkness. She was about tot ell him what she meant, when she looked at his face.

  He was asleep.

  She pulled the quilt over his arm, and he held her close to his body. His leg shifted over hers, and she bit her lip.

  In slumber his face was sublime, his chiseled features those of a story book hero. His muscles relaxed, huge muscles hinted at enormous physical strength. Unlike the selectively buffed physique of someone who worked out in a gym, Michael's limbs were large all over, his chest and back knotted and hard.

  As she drifted to sleep, she thought how odd, how very strange that she couldn't tell where his body left off and hers began. They had such different bodies, yet as they held each together, there was no distinction between the two. It was almost as if she could feel his physical exhaustion, as if she, too, had been lost all day in the intricacies of law.

  She took a breath and realized that in his sleep, he did the same. His heart drummed next to hears and the beats were indistinguishable, in perfect unison.

  How very odd.

  Five

  A PATTERN WAS BEGINNING TO establish itself for Emma, strange in all its smells and sounds and movements. In a place her world had left behind, where long-ago people struggled for survival, she slipped out of the warmth of bed to get breakfast. Everything was different. The drawing light was fresh when shining through the thick glass. Corners remained dark without electric lights to switch on. No radio announced the weather on time; there was only the rustling of chickens and horses and pigs somewhere nearby.

  It was utterly unfamiliar to Emma. At the same time it was comfortable, a morning routine that had nothing to do with her life before.

  Unlike the previous morning, then Michael had left her still dazed in bed, she awoke before he did. Cloaked in a haze of sleep, she was halfway through preparing breakfast before she realized what she had been doing.

  "How did I know this?" Emma wondered aloud as she put the coffee pot on a hook over the fire. There was leftover corn bread—edible, made by the judge's wife. But how had Emma figured to make coffee? Even in Brooklyn she used instant, intimidated by the European names of most coffee machines.

  She sat on the bench for a moment, her chin resting on her palm, trying to figure out why this did not feel as strange as it should. Instead of being paralyzed by fear and confusion, she was adjusting. And it was stunningly easy. Why wasn't she completely freaked-out?

  At that moment, the reason walked in. Even wearing only a shirt, scratching his sleep-tousled head in confusion, he was breathtakingly handsome.

  "You've made coffee," he said behind a yawn.

  "I sure have. Don't ask me how, but I did."

  For a moment he stood still, just looking at her.

  "Don't worry"—she straightened on the bench, raising her chin off her hand—"I didn't attempt anything more ambitious than coffee. The corn bread is left over from Mrs. Hawkins."

  His smile was startling, more potent than the sun's rays, more welcoming than a summer breeze.

  As he turned around to get dressed, he paused. "I sure could use some of that possum stew this morning."

  "No problem. Just fetch me a critter and let me cook it nice and slow, so the gristle doesn't stick in our teeth."

  He halted and faced her, his eyes shining, the smile now lighting his entire face. "Em," he breathed. "How I've missed you."

  Then he was gone, behind the calico curtain. He dressed in the bedroom, and as he pulled on trousers and suspenders and boots, he whistled a tuneless song. Emma hugged herself staring out the window at the cold morning in Overton Falls, wondering what new miracles this day would bring.

  Emma dressed with extra care, pinning her hair in a style similar to one she had seen the mother wear in the television series Little House on the Prairie. Of course, the actress on the show had hairdressers and makeup artists to give her that authentic look. Emma was forced to rely on her own inexpert hands and a spotted mirror.

  At the bottom of the bedroom trunk she found a woman's coat, which wouldn't be nearly as warm as the horse blanket, but would probably be more appropriate in the prying eyes of Overton Falls. Again the read leather diary had been on top of the clothes. Before she closed the lid she reached for it.

  She had to make an entry. The last words were so sad, so hopeless, that Emma felt she needed to change the tone. She retrieved the pen and ink bottle by Michael's books. The ink was no longer frozen, having been warmed by the heat of the morning fire.

  "My new life here is a challenge," she wrote, dipping the quill back in the bottle. "I feel with Michael by my side, anything is possible. Today I will do my best to get the school open—the children need it. Christmas is coming. Anything is possible."

  She read over her words with satisfaction, blowing on the page to hasten the ink's drying. Then she slipped on the coat, a dark green, closely fitted, ankle-length garment with a velvet collar, and stepped outside.

  The first place she want was Mrs. Larson's cottage, to return the wooden bucket and thank her for the stew. She knocked once, and just as she was about to knock again, the door opened.

  A small boy, perhaps five or six, answered the door.

  "Hello." She smiled.

  He immediately stuck his middle two fingers in his mouth. Emma handed him a bucket. "I saw you yesterday while you were taking a nap. I believe this belongs to your mother."

  Rebecca Larson then appeared at his side, wearing the same loose-fitting dress as the day before. The boy grabbed his mother's leg, still sucking his fingers and staring at Emma.

  "Oh, good morning, Mrs. Graham!" Rebecca stroked her son's head with comfortable affection.

  "Good morning to you, Mrs. Larson. Is this handsome young man your son?"

  The mother laughed. "He sure is ma'am. This is George Washington Larson. George, this pretty lady is Mrs. Graham."

  At the mention of her name the boy pulled his finger from his mouth. "Are you Mr. Graham's mother?"

  Emma laughed. "No, George. I'm his wife," she answered. It still felt odd to be someone's wife, strange yet wonderful.

  "Oh, where are my manners," Mrs. Larson stammered, backing into the cottage. "Would you like to come in?"

  Emma shook her head. "I just wanted to return the bucket and thank you again for the stew. Also"—Emma leaned closer—"I wanted to ask you a question."

  Rebecca Larson's eyes widened as she accepted the bucket. "What is the question?" Her voice was low.

  "You and your husband do business with the Zollers. How on earth can I get on her good side? I wanted to reopen the school, and without their support, it will be all but impossible."

  Rebecca stared at Emma for a moment. Only the slow dropping of her jaw gave any indication that she had heard the words.

  "Mrs. Graham, you'd best come in here," she said at last. "This may take a while."

  Emma cringed. "That bad?"

  "Let's put it this way"—Re
becca held the door wide—"little George here might be sprouting whiskers by the time I'm finished telling you all."

  Only little George smiled at the thought.

  Michael's workday passed in a haze of activity. He seemed to work nonstop, paging through the judge's battered law texts, speaking with an elderly couple from Germany who wanted to purchase more land, trying to calm a farmer who was certain his neighbor had been poisoning his well water.

  Mrs. Hawkins, her incongruously girlish gray curls bobbing with every step, brought him the usual delightful midday meal. He ate without much thought, simultaneously going over the papers filed for an upcoming suit.

  Emma. Warmth spread through his body as he thought of her, his wife. For so long now she had retreated into her own world, inhabited by her alone. He had feared she would never return to him, that she would live only in her mind, a sanctuary where death and pain could not enter.

  Would they ever be able to speak of their little son? To remember him together, the shared memories of his short life. He was just beginning to walk when he died. This would have been but his second Christmas.

  Michael shook his head. "Think of something else." He said to himself, clenching his fist, watching as his knuckles turned white.

  At least Em was better. Perhaps by this time next year, they would have another baby. Perhaps.

  The moment he stepped into the cabin, he knew something was very wrong.

  Everything was just as it had been when he left that morning. There was no indication that anyone had been there all day. The fireplace was cold. He checked the larder, and last night's chicken was still there. She said she would have it for lunch, yet it remained untouched.

  Without taking off his hat and coat, he charged into the bedroom.

  "Em?" He swallowed hard. Had she retreated again? If she left him now, she would never return.

  But the room was empty, the bed neatly made.

  It had been hours since he had last seen her. Where could she be?

  He ran out the front door, leaving it open and winging in the winter wind. "Emma?" he called.