“It’s all right. These are slates…” She lifted hers, tapped the cold, dark stone enclosed in the wood frame. “Repeat the word after me…slate.” They chorused the word. “Very good.” She lifted the white stick. “And this is chalk. Say chalk.” Again they chorused the word. “Yes, very good. Now, I will write on the slate with the chalk. Like this…” She drew a circle.
The girls gasped, covered their mouths with their hands and stared at the slate, making small sounds of amazement, like the ones the Indians who had poked her bread dough had uttered.
A smile tugged at her lips. She ignored it. “Now you do it.” She placed their sticks of chalk in their hands, tapped their slates, then pointed to her own. “This is a circle. You make a circle on your slate with your chalk.”
They stared up her, their eyes as round as the circle she had drawn. She nodded and pointed to their slates.
Kitturah looked at her sister.
Iva set her mouth in a determined line, put her chalk to her slate and made her hand go around. “Whaah!” She dropped the chalk, stared at her slate.
Kitturah stared at Iva, gripped her chalk tight and bent over her slate. When she lifted her head, her eyes were sparkling with delight. “Circle.”
Anne couldn’t stop her smile. It came from deep within, a smile of true pleasure, a sensation she had not felt in a long time. She added a stem and two leaves at the top of her circle, held her slate forward. “Can you tell me what this is?”
“A apple!” The answer was spoken in unison.
“Yes, it’s an apple.” She placed her chalk on the bench desk and looked at her young students. “Before I go further, I must tell you one of the rules of the schoolroom. Only one person is to speak at a time. When I ask a question to which you know the answer, please raise your hand…like this.” She lifted her hand into the air palm forward. “That tells me you wish to answer the question, and I will then choose which one of you may do so. Do you understand?”
Their blue eyes stared at her raised hand, their braids bobbed up and down against their beaded tunics as they nodded. She lowered her hand, waited until they looked at her. “Let’s try it. What is your father’s name?”
Kitturah caught her lower lip with her small top teeth and shot her hand into the air, palm out. Iva’s response was more restrained, but her eyes betrayed her desire to be called upon to answer. She looked back at the youngest child. “Kitturah, what is the answer?”
“Papa’s name is Joe Means!”
The little girl blurted the answer and stared up at her. “Thank you. You may lower your hands once I choose someone to answer.” They immediately lowered their hands to the desktop. She nodded, shifted her gaze to oldest girl. “Is Kitturah’s answer correct, Iva?”
The girl stared at her, frowned. “I do not know…correct.”
“Correct means is her answer true.”
Iva’s frown disappeared. She nodded.
“Answer aloud, please.”
“Kitturah speaks the truth. Her answer is correct.”
“Very good. Now, don’t forget to raise your hands when you wish to answer a question. Or when you wish to ask me about something you do not understand.” She placed her slate on the desk table so they could copy it and gestured toward their slates. “Please make your circles into apples.”
She watched them pick up their chalk and bend over their slates, less tentative this time. She waited a moment to be certain they didn’t need her, then stepped to the woodbox, picked up a piece of firewood and carried it to the hearth. She placed it on the fire and turned back to check their work. “Those are very good apples. Now listen carefully. Words are made of letters. And each letter has a name—as you each have names. Letters also have a sound.”
She glanced at the girls, felt a thrill at their rapt expressions. No wonder William loved teaching! “Now watch carefully. I am going to show you how to make the first letter in the alphabet.” She looked back at her slate. “The name of this letter is a. Capital A—” She drew one at the top of her slate. “And little a.” She pointed to the lowercase a. “This letter says ‘aaaa’—” she drew out the sound “—as in aaapple.” She glanced at the girls. “Iva—”
The door opened. Mitchel. He must have seen the smoke of her fire and come to check on her safety. A sense of well-being flowed over her. She looked toward the door, saw moccasins and fringed leggings. Her heart stopped, lurched into a racing beat. She raised her gaze from the sheathed knife and dangling tomahawk, slid it over the bare chest visible beneath a buckskin vest and up into the cold, black eyes of the warrior with the puckered scar on his cheek. His straight, stern lips parted. He spoke. Harsh, guttural, frightening sounds. She strained to hear him over the roar of her pulse in her ears, to make some sense of his words.
Movement caught her eye. She glanced down at Iva and Kitturah, drew a breath. Would they be in danger? She couldn’t let anything happen to them, they were her responsibility. She darted a glance toward the poker leaning against the stone of the fireplace, then looked back at the warrior. “I do not understand your words. Do you speak English?” She took a step toward the hearth, stopped when the warrior grunted out more words.
“He said he does not speak your tongue.”
She jerked her gaze to Iva. Relief whooshed through her, foolish when the girl was only seven—but at least she could now understand the warrior. “Thank you, Iva. Please ask him what he wants.”
The young girl nodded, rose and faced the Indian. She listened to the two converse, watched the warrior’s face for a clue as to his purpose in coming, looked down when Iva turned back to her.
“He says he is Barking Fox, a war chief of the Cayuse. He has brought his son Running Wolf to the white man’s mission school to learn the marks white men put on paper. He would have him know the white man’s ways of trade.”
War chief! Her knees went wobbly. A desire for one of her Uncle Justin’s pistols in her hand made her fingers curl inward to touch her palm. “Thank you, Iva.” Fear earns their contempt…bravery their respect. She stiffened her spine, raised her head and looked at the warrior. “Please tell Barking Fox I welcome Running Wolf to the mission school. I will teach him to know the white man’s marks.”
Iva spoke. The war chief nodded, stepped outside, grunted out some words and walked away. A young Indian boy, of perhaps eight or nine, took his place in the doorway, swept the room with an imperious, intelligent gaze. He looked at her, spoke. She looked at Iva.
“He asks where is the man who will teach him the white man’s marks?”
You will have to be firm with the Indian children. Especially the boys… Mitchel’s words again rang in her head, though she’d not given them much heed at the time. She looked at the young boy’s arrogant bearing, the challenge in his piercing black eyes, and knew that Mitchel was right. She drew back her shoulders and put a firm note in her voice. “Tell Running Wolf I am the one who will teach him. And tell him to close the door and come forward and sit down. It is time to begin.”
Mitchel looked down at Anne, watched her take a sip of coffee. She was so delicate and refined. So out of place here among the rough crudeness of the log building and branch and hide furniture. Yet she made the mission feel like a home. And today, she had made the mission school he had dreamed of a reality. He scowled, shifted his gaze to the dark brew in his cup. He should feel grateful, not…irritated.
“Do you think I handled the situation correctly, Mitchel? I remembered what you said about being firm with the Indian children…especially the boys.”
“I think you handled it very well.” He twisted his wrist, watched the dark liquid swirl around in the cup, then took a swallow of the strong coffee. It was getting cold. He set the cup on the mantel, looked down and met her gaze. His gut tightened. He hadn’t known God made eyes that deep violet-blue color until he’d looked into hers. “What happened after you had Iva tell Running Wolf to come in and sit down?”
The shadows that haunted her e
yes gave way to a glow of satisfaction. “She looked up at me and said, ‘Do you want me, also, to tell Running Wolf to raise his hand before he speaks? Indians do not know about rules.’”
He stared into her eyes, sharing that moment of success with her, then turned and booted a log on the fire into place with his toe. “Precocious child, isn’t she?”
“Yes. I’m so thankful for Iva. I don’t know what I would have done when Barking Fox came into the room if she hadn’t been there.”
Barking Fox, a Cayuse war chief. Mitchel grabbed his cup, swallowed the rest of the cold coffee to relieve the tightness in his chest. “The door would have been locked if you’d been alone.”
She stared at him a moment, then looked away. “Yes.”
There was a tautness, a withdrawal in her soft voice. His own fault. He had sounded churlish. But the thought of that warrior—
“I noticed you were wearing a knife and a hatchet when you came in from the fields today, Mitchel. And I realized it was because of me.” She rose, came to stand beside him, looked straight into his eyes. “I told you what happened with Iva and Kitturah and Running Wolf today because I wanted you to know what I have taught them…so you can continue.” Her voice broke. She looked down, reached for his cup. “I have brought you trouble, Mitchel. And, in spite of the school opening, I now believe it would be best if I left the mission.”
It was what he had wanted ever since she arrived. So why did it feel as if a buffalo bull had run over him? He sucked in air, shook his head. “You’re wrong, Anne. The trouble has always been present. It’s only that my eyes have been opened more fully in the past few days.” He looked down at her, realized his heart had changed, that he wanted her to stay…for purely personal reasons. Selfish! “But for your sake, your safety, it would be best if you leave.”
He took another breath, handed her his cup. “When Halstrum returns, I will put your things back in your wagon and you will go with me when I take Hope to the emigrant town to see your sister.”
Chapter Ten
The rain the sky had been promising for two days drummed on the roof, splatted against the small window.
Anne shivered, pulled her black, wool gown over her head, shoved her arms into the long sleeves and settled the fabric over her shoulders. She rubbed her cold hands together, fumbled over the small buttons that paraded down the front of the bodice.
The drumming increased. Lightning flickered white light through the murky darkness outside. Thunder rumbled. She sat on the small wood stool she’d placed against the chimney and buttoned her shoes. Would Iva and Kitturah come to school during a storm? Would Running Wolf come even if it were a nice day? It was obvious the Indian boy did not like being taught by a woman. Still, he would probably come in obedience to his father’s wishes.
Another shiver shook her. She wrapped her arms about herself, pressed back against the warm stones and watched the rivulets of water chase each other down the small windowpanes.
She didn’t want to leave.
Despair gripped her throat. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes. She had found purpose in planning and preparing meals, in overseeing the housekeeping chores of the mission. And it had nothing to do with Mitchel or his daughter. She had been careful to maintain her distance, to stay aloof from them—other than giving her ointment to help the child’s pain and fixing special meals to encourage the child to eat.
The grip on her throat tightened. She rubbed at its base, drew a breath. Doing those things didn’t mean she cared. Anyone would do what they could to help a sick child. And she could not live with the dirt, or eat meals prepared in a filthy kitchen. If Mitchel benefitted, she was pleased. He worked hard all day. And the faint glow of the oil lamp bathing the stairs, the sounds of him moving about below while he worked on the mission records, continued long after she had retired. And always, he tended his daughter.
She lowered her hand to her lap, swallowed. He’d told her the ointment and the meals were a blessing. That his daughter said she liked the potatoes with “brown stuff”—her name for gravy. And especially the bread…
She blinked her eyes, stared up at the rough beams and boards overhead. The ointment had helped. The child’s cries were less frequent, quieter, her sobs softer. She no longer heard her at night, if she covered her ears with the blankets. And now she would be in the schoolroom all day. It was what she wanted.
She rose, shook her long skirt into place and stepped to the dresser. There was no time to brood about leaving. She had to speak to Sighing Wind about her tasks for the day, then prepare breakfast and make bread dough for supper. She would take it with her to the schoolroom. She refused to allow Sighing Wind to touch the dough or prepare their meals. The Indian woman did not grasp the meaning of cleanliness.
She shuddered, pushed away thoughts of the meals Mitchel and his daughter would eat after she was gone. It was not her concern. She peered into the hand mirror she’d propped against the wall and settled her black turban bonnet over the bun formed by her mass of russet curls. She tugged the front edge of the bonnet farther forward, tucked in every errant wisp of hair, then adjusted the bonnet’s sewn-in crown.
It had seemed, on her arrival, that she had blundered into the worst possible situation. But it was all working out. And now she had to leave. How long would she have until Mitchel’s helper returned? How many days until she would have to go back to Emma and face all the memories?
Her fingers twitched. She turned and looked around the roughly constructed, sparsely furnished room so different from the luxurious home she was raised in. Or the home she had shared with Phil—
She whirled back to the dresser, poured her wash water from the washbowl to the pail and rinsed the bowl. How could she go back to the emigrant village? She would have to live with Emma. Mitchel would have her wagon to protect his daughter from the weather.
Her face tightened. Why had this happened? She wanted to stay and be a teacher. She wanted to forget. And in the schoolroom, she did. But she could not stay at the mission at the cost of Mitchel’s safety. Or of the child’s.
She pressed her lips together, turned down the wick and snuffed the lamp. She had no choice in the matter. For the sake of Mitchel and his daughter, she had to go back.
Lightning glinted at the window, cast wavering light into the room, receded. Thunder growled, rumbled away into the distance. The storm was coming closer.
She stared out the rain-rinsed window, lifted her gaze toward the brooding, overcast sky. Once again, God was using a man and a child to rip her life apart. But this time her heart was safe.
She inched her shoulders back, lifted her chin and grabbed her cloak off the peg on the wall. While she was here, she would hang it downstairs on the pegs by the back door where it would be handy for her trips to the schoolroom.
A bolt of lightning streaked through the darkness, thunder crashed. The child screamed. She whirled and ran for the stairs—and remembered. It was not her child. She would never hold or comfort her baby again. The wave of grief drove her to her knees. She hunched forward to ease the pain rending her heart and buried her body-shaking sobs in the cloak clutched in her hands.
The heifer lifted her head, bawled, then trotted toward the small herd of cows on the hill, her calf gamboling at her heels.
Mitchel reined his horse around to face the way they had come, and touched his heels to her sides. The bay mare broke into a lope. He glanced over his shoulder for a last look at the calf, faced front again, the muscles in his face taut. You’d never know, from the way the calf was kicking up his heels at his new-found freedom, that he’d almost died at birth. Please, God, grant that Hope will one day run and play again.
The wind chilled his face, plucked at his hat. Lightning flashed, brightened the dark sky above the mission buildings. Thunder muttered in the distance. The storm was returning, any field work was out of the question. He tugged his hat down tighter, corrected course, and urged his mount to a faster pace as they headed for the
barn. He’d work on the wagon now instead of waiting until tonight as he’d planned.
He dismounted, led the mare inside, stripped his gear off her and forked fresh hay into the rack on the wall at the head of her stall. Light flickered through the dim interior. He frowned, tossed his jacket over the rail of an empty stall and ran for the river.
The water whispered along the grassy bank, rushed off into the distance. Mitchel rolled up his shirtsleeves, knelt down, reached into the cold water and dragging the wagon wheel out onto the ground, gave a grunt of satisfaction. The overnight soaking had worked. The dried out wood had swollen until the iron rim was tight again.
Lightning winked. He shot a look at the black clouds tumbling his way, clamped his hands around the wet wood and cold iron, tugged the wheel to waist height, then gritted his teeth, transferred his grip to the underside and shoved the wheel upright.
Raindrops hit his upturned face, others spattered against his hands, tapped his shoulders. Lightning flashed again, closer this time. Thunder growled a warning. He took a firm hold on the wheel, braced his feet and pushed. The wheel rolled forward. He grabbed another spoke, dug in his heel and pushed with his other foot. With one firm grasp after another he rolled the large, heavy wheel across the uneven ground toward the crippled wagon sitting under the long, slanted roof overhang of the smithy.
The rain came in earnest. He propped the wheel against the building, crooked his elbow and blotted the moisture from his face with his rolled-up sleeve. Wind gusted through the sheltered area beneath the roof, chilled his wet forearms and damp shirt, sent a shiver through him.
He stepped inside the smithy, grabbed a rag and dried his arms. The heat from the smoldering coals of the fire he always kept going chased away the chill. He added a few small chunks of hardwood to the dying fire, then carried the rag and the pail of grease he’d set inside to soften overnight out to Anne’s wagon.
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