Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  “What are you doing?” I gasped, just managing to back step yet again before my foot was squashed beneath a large hoof.

  “How long have you been walking?” he countered.

  “Since eight this morning,” I stammered, taking several more backward steps to avoid colliding with the horses. “Will you stop those animals before they walk all over me!”

  “Happy to.” The man grinned, setting the brake and tying the reins securely before jumping down to tower over me. My eyes widened, and I backed a few more paces while staring warily up at him. Then I began to ease around the buckboard.

  “I’ve no intention of molesting you,” he commented derisively. “But I thought you might need a drink of water.”

  Escape, for the moment, was forgotten. He reached under the seat and pulled out a canteen. I didn’t move and he extended his arm offering me the canteen. I smiled.

  “Is that all you have? I was praying for a river.”

  He laughed. “Take it slow,” he said when I gulped thirstily from the canteen.

  “Oh, that tastes so good,” I breathed. “I think I’ve swallowed half the dust between Oakland and Sycamore Hill.” I started to hand back the canteen and then realized I should wipe off the top. With what? I wondered, looking down at my dusty skirt and the soiled handkerchief stuffed into my pocket.

  Lean, hard fingers closed over mine. I released the canteen as though his touch burned. A smile bent his mouth as he raised the canteen and drank from it. There was something very intimate about that action, and I felt my embarrassment revived. When he finished, he held out the canteen to me again.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked, a faintly taunting glitter in his eyes.

  “No... no, thank you,” I declined, unable to keep from looking at the finely shaped mouth that had just drunk from the container I had so recently used. He seemed to know what I was thinking and grinned again. Nervous, I fingered the loose tendrils of hair about my face, pushing them back into the serviceable coil. The man watched, and I stopped my tense actions, trying to appear relaxed.

  “You’re from Boston?”

  “How did you know that?” I asked, raising my brows in surprise.

  “Your accent. And other things....”

  “Other things?”

  “No one that I know of would walk dressed like that, carrying a carpetbag, without a canteen in the middle of August. Not if they were from around here. And not if they had any brains.”

  My mouth tightened, though I saw the teasing light in his eyes. “I was eager to reach Sycamore Hill,” I said coolly. “The stagecoach had already broken down twice before, and when it lost a wheel, I thought I’d have a better chance of reaching my destination if I walked. Besides, it was mild enough this morning.”

  “It starts out cool,” he agreed. “But it can end up hotter than hell in the afternoon.” I flushed at his easy swearing, and he chuckled.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, though I suspected he knew very well.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Boston through and through, aren’t you?” he needled.

  “What do you mean by that?” I demanded, piqued by his laughter.

  “All prim and proper. A little earth language brings sundown into your cheeks.”

  “I’m not as prim as I look,” I flared, his tone indicating some slight at which I took immediate offense.

  “Aren’t you now?” he asked, raising his brows speculatively. His gaze moved down again, and I tried unsuccessfully to ignore it. My experience with men was almost non-existent, and I was finding this conversation increasingly baffling and disturbing.

  “Thank you for the water,” I muttered, clutching my bag and turning away.

  “Just a minute,” he said quickly. “All right,” he relented. “I’ll try not to tease you anymore. But I think you ought to sit down for a few minutes before you faint dead away. Your face is a little too red.”

  “I do wish you would keep your observations to yourself, Mr.... Mr.... ” I searched frantically for a name, then remembered he had not offered one.

  “Jordan Bennett,” he supplied with a slight smile.

  “Mr. Bennett,” I finished rather lamely, pulling my eyes determinedly away from his.

  “Visiting or staying?”

  “Pardon me?” I asked blankly.

  “Sycamore Hill. That is your destination, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And?” He obviously expected an answer whether it was his business or not.

  “I’m not sure,” I hedged. Jordan Bennett didn’t say anything for a minute, but his blue eyes narrowed fractionally on my flushed face.

  “You wouldn’t be one of Ross Persall’s new girls, would you?” he asked almost hopefully.

  “No. I’ve never heard of him,” I answered truthfully. There was an oak several yards away, and I walked over to sit in the shade. I dreaded the thought of walking another step and looked up at Jordan Bennett leaning against the tree trunk. Surely he would offer me a ride. No one would be so unkind as to leave a woman walking out here in the heat of the day, I hoped. I did not possess the nerve to ask.

  “I’m... glad to hear that,” he said, not really sounding it. I wondered who Ross Persall was.

  “Who’s Ross Persall?” I admitted my curiosity.

  “A local resident,” Jordan Bennett answered as evasively as I previously had. I sighed and decided not to press further. Besides, I was too tired to be curious about much of anything. Except for him.

  “Are you a local resident?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I waited, hoping for more information. None was forthcoming, but those blue eyes were dancing and obviously seeing right inside my head. My mouth tightened, and I gave a faint shrug to indicate it didn’t matter one way or another whether he was or was not from Sycamore Hill. The silence was growing uncomfortable for me.

  “Is it always this hot in the summer?” I asked inanely, desperate for anything to say.

  “No.”

  The man was determined to make me angry!

  “How far is it to Sycamore Hill?”

  ‘Two miles. Uphill all the way.” He was grinning now, and I closed my eyes, saying a silent prayer. It remained unanswered, and I sighed heavily.

  “Well?” he drawled.

  “Well what?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?” He was laughing at me again, the dreadful man!

  “Ask you what?” I pretended obtuseness. There was a long silence, and I looked away, unable to sustain his look. My eyes encountered the road, parched, dusty and pockmarked, but worse, stretching out ahead of me for another two long, painful miles. It wasn’t getting any cooler either. I looked back at Jordan Bennett, but couldn’t bring myself to voice the question.

  “Are you always this stubborn?” he asked with slight impatience. I couldn’t explain that it was a matter of reticence, not stubbornness, about asking favors of strangers.

  “I give in.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I must be the more curious of the two of us. What’s your name first off?” He sounded as though he had made up a list of questions, and I stiffened again.

  “Abigail McFarland,” I offered hesitantly, and then felt foolish. After all, he had already introduced himself, hadn’t he?

  “Abigail.” He tested the name on his tongue. “A nice, old-fashioned name, if a bit stiff,” he commented dryly, and then his eyes widened as some thought, obviously far from pleasant, entered his head. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I think I know who you are!”

  “You do?” I asked blankly. “Why are you looking so thunderous?” I added, alarmed at the sudden change in his expression.

  “You’re the new schoolmarm, aren’t you?” he accused, a wealth of disgust in his tone.

  “Well... yes,” I admitted, bewildered by his reaction to my occupation. I might have been some bug under a rock!

  He swore beneath his breath, renewing the color that had recently
managed to recede to normal. “I should have known,” he muttered and then glared at me as though I had done something criminal. His eyes, when they coursed down over me this time, were derisive and not the least bit friendly. Without another word, Jordan Bennett walked purposely toward his buckboard.

  He was going to leave me here! I thought with sudden astonishment. Without thinking, I jumped up and ran after him.

  “Mr. Bennett, wait, please,” I pleaded. “May I... may I...” The words wouldn’t come. The only other time I had ever asked for anything, I had requested freedom from my guardians. That had been denied to me. I had never asked for anything again.

  “No!” he snapped. “If you’re about to ask for a ride to town, forget it!” he continued curtly. “A schoolmarm ought to have enough good sense not to be walking on a day like this in the first place,” he added tauntingly. “The walk will teach you a lesson.”

  I tried for levity. “Well, I’ve learned my lesson.” I smiled shakily, hoping he would relent, and still not understanding his contempt for my occupation.

  “You’ll learn a damn sight more when you reach town,” he grumbled, releasing the brake with one fluid motion. His gaze was blistering.

  “What do you mean?" I floundered.

  “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, Miss McFarland,” he stated with heavy sarcasm. “And another thing. I’ll take odds that you’ll be running out of town by the end of the month.”

  “I’m not as soft as you seem to think I am,” I said coolly. Jordan Bennett was unreasonable, unpleasant and definitely not a gentleman.

  “No?” His eyes dropped provocatively, further solidifying my impression of him. “You’re soft all right. Everywhere...” he looked directly into my eyes, “including the head.”

  I looked at him with hostility matching his own. “Don’t let me detain you any longer, Mr. Bennett,” I smiled stiffly. A muscle jerked in his jaw.

  “Have a nice walk,” he retorted in the same testy tone. Then he snapped the reins, not even wasting a backward glance at me. I stood staring after him, unable to believe he really was leaving me out here. Dust billowed out from beneath the wheels and floated back to cover me from head to toe. Frustrated and furious, I pounded the dirt off my blouse and dress, wishing I could scream at him. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  Picking up my carpetbag, I forced myself to start walking again. Only two miles, I told myself. Not far. My self-assurance lacked conviction.

  “What a horrid man!” I said out loud, glaring down the road where the buckboard went. It disappeared over the rise.

  So Jordan Bennett thought I would be running out of town by the end of the month, did he? Well, he would see he was wrong! And what had he meant by that remark? Surely the children of Sycamore Hill were not quite that bad. And what was wrong with being a schoolteacher? It surely did not deserve such unveiled contempt as he had displayed.

  My entire body quivered with anger, but after ten minutes’ walking, it dissipated. I was exhausted and felt almost as thirsty as I had before the drink from Jordan Bennett’s canteen. Only two more miles. Don’t think about what he said. It can’t be all uphill!

  During the rest of my odyssey I could not stop thinking about Jordan Bennett’s reaction to my occupation, and his prophecy of my imminent departure. It made my determination to succeed all the more firm, but it also afforded me no comforting thoughts as to what might lie ahead in Sycamore Hill.

  Chapter Three

  Standing on the rough plank bridge, I gazed tiredly down at the creek below. Young cottonwoods grew along the banks, showing the level of winter and spring flooding by the dead, hugging grasses twisted around their trunks. Now the creek moved slowly, revealing its rocky bottom. I longed to climb down the steep incline and get a refreshing drink. I wished I could take off my shoes and sink my aching, blistered feet into the cold, clear water. Even better would be to submerge my entire body and rid myself of some road dust!

  However, all that was impossible, for just beyond the bridge lay a town nestled in the small valley surrounded by oak-covered hills. I knew I was in Sycamore Hill, for at the end of the community’s main street arose another hill, this one with a grove of giant sycamores.

  Below the sycamores, white crosses and marble markers studded the brown shadows like buttons on dark velvet. At the base of the hill stood a New England-style church with high steeple and brick front steps. Off to the right I saw another church built contrastingly of adobe brick, much in the tradition of a Jesuit mission.

  Closer by me and only several hundred yards beyond the bridge lay a two-story building made interesting by gingerbread eaves and red decorative shutters at each of the ten front windows. The raised wooden sidewalk was shaded by an overhang supported by six solid-looking pillars. Just below the walkway were three horse troughs and tying rails. Several saddle horses stood in the sun, chewing distractedly at their bits while their owners lingered somewhere within the establishment.

  As I passed the building, I heard noise. Bursts of laughter blended with the sound of a woman singing while someone with a heavy touch accompanied her on an ill-tuned piano.

  As I walked into Sycamore Hill, I admired the modest homes that snuggled tightly against businesses along the main street. Each boasted a neat rose garden and white picket fence. Several had vegetable gardens to one side, with squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, bush beans, berries, carrots, peppers, and com interspersed with brilliant-gold, pungent, bug-repellent marigolds. At one house, there stood an absurd scarecrow on which sat an arrogant magpie almost smirking with disdain.

  Black- and English-walnut, maple and pine trees gave shade to the streets that were unpaved and shot out to the left and right. Each bore a name that seemed Catholic or hinted of some founding immigrant—St. Joseph, St. Mary, McPherson, Janssen, St. Paul, Silverton.

  On the comer of Silverton stood a fine, sturdy two-story boardinghouse with a small, neatly printed vacancy sign in the front lacy-curtained window. I hesitated and noted with interest the brilliantly overflowing window boxes in front, the porch swing and front wooden steps, the neat garden with sweet peas ranging from deep purple to bright red and pale pink lining the front gate. Two climbing rose bushes alive with honeybees grew lavishly over a latticed arch at the front gate. A large English-walnut tree and two smaller fig trees shaded the yard. To the back I saw another characteristic vegetable garden, and I heard the clucking of hens followed closely by one cocky rooster.

  A weary sigh escaped me. Perhaps this pleasant house would be my new home. There was a vast difference between it and the spacious brownstone mansion in Boston. This one bespoke of warmth and hospitality. Here, perhaps, I could develop friendships and make a place for myself. The opportunity had never before been available under the jealous, self-centered guardianship of the Haversalls.

  However, there was no time to linger and dream. I noted the sun was well into its descent toward dusk, and I had yet to find the Olmsteads’ general store. Arrangements would have been made for my arrival, I was sure. Excitement overrode the pain of my ten-mile walk, and I moved more quickly down the quiet street.

  Sycamore Hill had other conveniences. I spotted a tidy tack room with several saddles and bridles displayed in the window, a butcher’s shop, another white house indicating a doctor in residence, a tall dark-green building with white trim named Apperson’s Feed and Hardware. I wondered briefly if this Apperson was any relation to one after which a street I had seen had been named. Probably. This was the kind of town one would not wish to leave.

  I passed a millinery with a window full of charming hats and two stylish dresses on mannequins. Stopping to admire the items on sale, I noted the prices with dismay: I walked on briskly. There was a shoe-repair shop smelling pleasantly of leather and polish on the right, and on the left, a big white-stone bank building. Just beyond that was another less inviting boardinghouse, two saloons and a quaint Italian restaurant with red-and-white-checkered curtains.

  I final
ly spotted a sign announcing Olmstead’s General Store. It was only two blocks from the church and the end of town. Parked neatly in front of the store was a loaded buckboard, and I hesitated. Surely that odious man was not there waiting to laugh at me again, I thought furiously. Glancing around, I saw other buckboards. One sat in front of the feed store; another was heavily loaded and standing in front of one of the saloons. That one, I thought with a twist of my lips, was probably Jordan Bennett’s.

  Feeling more sure of myself, I started forward again. Mounting the steps, I looked curiously at an awesome wooden Indian that stood in front of Olmstead’s. Standing beside it, I looked up and down at the headdress, buckskins and hawknose. Then I passed it and stepped into the store.

  The first person I saw was Jordan Bennett! He was lounging against the counter, laughing with a woman with pleasant features and long braided hair pinned in a crown on her head. To my humiliation, I felt the color mounting into my face as Bennett flicked a glance in my direction and then ignored me. Never in my life had I despised anyone quite so much as I did him at that moment. Even the Haversalls had not aroused such resentment.

  The woman Jordan Bennett was with gave him a playful slap on the hand and then raised her head to see me standing just inside the door. Her eyes took in my bedraggled appearance as she came around the counter. She smiled, if a bit curiously, and I forced a smile in return. I wondered only briefly if the laughter between Jordan Bennett and this woman had been at my expense.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked, stopping only two paces in front of me and eyeing me curiously.

  “Yes, I think so,” I answered huskily, my throat parched and sore from thirst and swallowed dust. Some of the dust had come from the wheels of Jordan Bennett’s buckboard, I thought resentfully, refusing to even look at him. If he intended to ignore me, then that was fine.

  “May I speak with James Olmstead? I’m Abigail McFarland from Boston. He’s expecting me, I believe,” I informed the woman.

  Her eyes lighted with excitement and pleasure. “You’re our new schoolteacher,” she exclaimed brightly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve arrived safe and sound. Did you have a nice trip?” Her exuberance caught me a little off guard. She almost implied that I might have arrived other than well. And then I thought of the picture I must make, and smiled in spite of my discomfort.