Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  “Yes. Everything went well until the last few miles,” I told her, casting a brief glance in Bennett’s direction and meeting decidedly warning eyes. He straightened from the counter.

  “Why don’t you get Miss McFarland a cup of your good coffee, Emmy,” he suggested. Then he added yet another of his characteristically unkind observations. “Our new schoolteacher looks badly in need of a drink of something.”

  I glared at him and then smiled at Emmy again. “A glass of water would be very welcome,” I admitted, expecting Bennett to laugh. He didn’t.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Just listen to me rattling on like some magpie. I’m Emily Olmstead, Jim’s wife,” she said, extending her hand and shaking mine firmly. “This is Jordan Bennett, one of our most illustrious ranchers,” she teased him. “You’ll have his daughter, Linda, in your class. She’s a dear, and as pretty as her mother.”

  With that announcement I felt a hard lump drop into the pit of my stomach. I avoided looking at Jordan Bennett again, feeling with dismay that it was no wonder he had so decidedly disapproved of me when meeting me on the road. I would be instructing his daughter. And there I had been, looking like some scruffy derelict. I tried to remember every word I had said to the man and hoped I had not been too unforgivably rude.

  “The coffee, Emmy,” Jordan Bennett prodded with an amused smile.

  “Oh, yes, the coffee. I’m sorry. I’ll get it now and collect my husband on the way back.” She laughed. As she passed Jordan, she tapped him. “Have a pleasant day,” she said.

  “You too, Em.” He smiled slightly, apparently understanding some message she had passed to him. “Give my regards to Jim.” Mrs. Olmstead nodded and disappeared behind the curtain to the back storeroom.

  I felt a sudden trepidation being alone with Jordan Bennett. Deliberately turning away, I pretended interest in the rows of canned goods, the flour and rice bins and the bolts of cloth stacked neatly on a long table. I heard him move behind me and stiffened with nervous tension.

  “Did you enjoy your walk, Miss McFarland?”

  I controlled the irritation his amused tone aroused, and forced myself to answer evenly. “Even the last two miles, Mr. Bennett.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he murmured, and I could tell he was laughing at me again. I could feel him watching me. “You were about to tell Emmy of our meeting on the road. Take my advice. Don’t.”

  I did turn around then. “Why not, Mr. Bennett? Might it be embarrassing for you?” My tone implied challenge, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I don’t embarrass easily.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would at that. One does need a conscience first,” I went on incautiously.

  “Something you obviously think I lack,” he commented dryly, his eyes dancing again. I decided not to answer and hoped my silence would be enough.

  The corner of Bennett’s mouth curved up. “Listen to me, my dear little Boston grande dame. The first thing you had better learn about being a schoolmarm is not to lounge under shade trees, sharing drinks and conversation with strange men.”

  His description of our brief encounter sounded scandalous. In embarrassment and rising indignation, I flushed red to the roots of my auburn hair.

  “I was not lounging under a shade tree, and you know it, Mr. Bennett,” I hissed furiously.

  “From my vantage point you were. And the conversation begged a flirtation,” he taunted, unmoved by my frustration.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t flirt!” I denied hotly. He chuckled, obviously finding my discomfiture greatly amusing.

  “I find that encouraging,” he drawled, leaning closer so that I had to arch back away from him. He smiled, his eyes glimmering some message that my mind did not fully understand, but my senses did. They quickened until my heart was thudding rapidly. Bennett straightened again as though well aware of his effect on me. His voice became brisk.

  “After all, Miss McFarland, there are certain things a town expects of its teacher, one being an untarnished reputation.” The unfriendliness was back in his voice and expression.

  I blanched at his implication. “There’s nothing wrong with my reputation,” I was stung to reply in my own defense.

  “Not yet, maybe. But a few indiscreet admissions on your part might change that, and you’d find yourself out of a job before you even got started.” He made himself perfectly clear.

  “Nothing happened that I’m embarrassed about,” I said, and then remembered the loosened buttons on my blouse as his eyes trailed down to remind me.

  “People always prefer to see the worst. It makes their vicarious living more exciting,” he said cynically. “They hear the facts ... a lone girl on the road, lingering with a man,” he went on, insinuating much. He raised his brows provocatively, his eyes moving to my mouth.

  “You’re vile!” I gasped. “And I don’t believe you are the least concerned about my reputation,” I went on, thinking of his pretty, young wife and daughter. His mouth tightened in impatience.

  “There’s nothing that can damage my reputation at this point,” he said coldly. “I’ve lived in these parts most of my life, minus a few years. People have already drawn their own conclusions about my questionable character.”

  In other words, they would believe anything he said above whatever defense I might present, I thought with sudden anxiety.

  “Meaning you intend to put a different connotation on our meeting if I should choose to say anything about it,” I managed defiantly. “You’re even worse than I first thought,” I murmured, turning away, Bennett’s hand forcibly swung me back. There was a ruthless determination in his hardened expression that warned me against pressing him at all. Seeing my startled and frightened expression, he released me.

  “Your intelligence isn’t as high as I thought,” he commented dauntingly.

  “You needn’t be so insulting, Mr. Bennett,” I snapped back, my fright momentarily forgotten in the face of his remark.

  “Everything’s been running just fine. I don’t need a damn little schoolmarm around to complicate matters,” he said, his eyes glittering in odd accusation. “Why the damn hell did you come to Sycamore Hill?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do I have to do with anything you’re involved in? But as for my reason for being here, this town evidently needs a teacher. And you, yourself, could do with some English lessons, Mr. Bennett. Or can you only promote your own idiocy by using foul language?”

  Jordan Bennett stilled to a pulsating silence at my rushed and breathless speech. Then he grinned, his good humor apparently restored. “At least you’re true to form. That, perhaps, will be small comfort.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, becoming more and more exasperated.

  “Never mind.” He dismissed it. “Why don’t you take a little friendly advice, Miss McFarland?” he went on in the same friendly manner. “Go on back to Boston and your comfortable parlors and fine-feathered friends.”

  My chin jerked up as I was reminded of the Haversalls. “You don’t know anything about me. So don’t presume to tell me where I belong!”

  “Oh, I could tell you exactly where you belong, Miss McFarland,” he offered, his blue eyes gazing at me in such a way as to bring confused color rushing again into my cheeks. “A man doesn’t need a lot of time to know all there is to know about a woman.”

  “What a prime example of conceit you are,” I managed, but I did not sound very convincing.

  “I know more about your nature than you think,” he continued, gloating over my unease.

  “I doubt if you know anything at all, Mr. Bennett.”

  “I know you’ll make a lousy schoolteacher,” he prophesied harshly, giving a low blow to my already shaking ego. All the doubts I had voiced to Bradford Dobson when he had learned of this position came flooding back to haunt me. Perhaps Jordan Bennett was right.

  “Are you losing your nerve already, Miss McFarland?” Bennett asked. I ti
lted my chin at a determined angle.

  “I will do my very best,” I said, hoping he had not seen the sad state my confidence was in. He watched my face as though searching for some indication of weakness.

  “I’ve no doubt you will,” he admitted, dismally making it clear that my best would not be good enough. “You’ll dig your own premature grave in that godforsaken schoolhouse. I don’t doubt it for one minute.” He started to say more, but shook his head as Emily Olmstead’s voice was heard from the back room. He gave me an unpleasant little smile.

  “I should stay and make things really difficult for you,” he threatened.

  “I don’t see how your staying or going will make one bit of difference to me,” I retorted truthfully.

  “Don’t challenge me to show you,” he warned, the glitter back in his eyes. “Things are going to be harrowing enough for you without my adding my two-bits’ worth.”

  With that disquieting comment he turned and strode out of the store. I watched him as he jumped onto his loaded buckboard with ease. He untied the reins and released the brake with an impatience born of anger.

  “Jim, this is Miss Abigail McFarland,” Emily Olmstead said from behind me, drawing my attention away from Jordan Bennett, who was already moving off down the street. I turned with a tense smile, extending my hand to the bullish-looking man with balding head and sharp brown eyes.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he greeted respectfully while looking me over with questioning intensity.

  “I’m afraid I had to walk the last ten miles.” I tried to explain my state. “The stagecoach lost a wheel, you see—”

  “We expected you to come by train,” Olmstead interrupted.

  “The train wasn’t due to leave again for another three days. I was too excited to wait that long.” My words were met with a stony look.

  “It might have been wiser if you had, Miss McFarland.”

  “Oh, Jim,” Emily cut in. He darted her an impatient look.

  “Is her room cleaned yet?” he asked abruptly, and Emily flushed.

  “I... I hadn’t gotten around to going over there yet,” she said, and I felt there was more than acute embarrassment in her admission of the oversight.

  “I’m sure my room is just fine.” I tried to reassure Emily Olmstead. She gave me a very odd little look and then darted another at her husband.

  “The school has been closed for over a year,” he informed me. “Nobody has been in the place during that time.”

  That statement aroused a whole series of questions in my mind, but Olmstead’s forbidding expression prevented me from asking any.

  “You see, we weren’t able to find another teacher after—” his wife started to explain.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t collapse on the road in this August heat, Miss McFarland. It’s over a hundred degrees, by my guess,” her husband interrupted her smoothly, casting her a warning glance that she obviously understood.

  “Yes,” she agreed at once to his change of subject. “It’s too bad someone didn’t happen along and give you a ride into town.”

  What was going on here? First Jordan Bennett with his dire predictions and unreasonable animosity, and now this silent conversation going on over my head. I thought of Jordan Bennett’s warning not to speak of our brief roadside encounter. Looking at James Olmstead’s slightly disapproving perusal of me, I decided that perhaps silence was indeed the best policy. Especially when I did not know what was going on at all!

  “Yes, I would have welcomed a ride,” I agreed with a wry smile.

  “I think the coffee should be ready now.” Emily excused herself. She was back almost immediately with a tray on which sat a cup and saucer, a sugar bowl, a small cream pitcher, a plate of cookies and the welcome glass of water.

  “Oh, that’s very refreshing,” I thanked her, having finished the water first. The tingling of a bell drew my attention as well as that of the Olmsteads.

  A heavyset woman walked into the store. As she progressed down the aisle, I noted the small flannel hat perched on her head, with its ridiculous feather protruding and bobbing as she walked. Dark, ferretlike eyes moved over me with avid curiosity.

  “Berthamae,” Emily greeted. Berthamae only treated Emily to a cursory glance, and then continued to stare pointedly at me.

  “You’re new in town,” she stated the obvious and waited for an introduction.

  “Miss McFarland, this is Berthamae Poole,” Olmstead supplied. “Miss McFarland is our new schoolteacher, Berthamae.” The woman’s thick eyebrows shot up.

  “Well, it’s high time,” she emitted sharply before I could even extend my hand in polite greeting. “The town has done without a teacher long enough. That last one was a poor excuse for one,” she went on critically.

  “I’m sure Miss McFarland isn’t interested in the previous teacher’s shortcomings,” Olmstead cut in, and again there was a quick exchange of glances, this time between Berthamae Poole and James Olmstead.

  “Of course, she is,” the woman insisted. “She’s got to live in that place. She should know about it.”

  “Did you want something, or not, Bertie?” Emily cut in.

  Berthamae Poole relented. “I came for dried lentils, onions, basil, yeast and ten pounds of wheat flour,” she answered, quelling her previous course of conversation.

  “Then come right this way, if you please,” James Olmstead instructed, indicating another section of the store. The woman followed, chin up. James Olmstead was talking fast, his voice very low.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Emily Olmstead whispered close to my ear. “She prattles on just to hear herself talk. Here.” She thrust the plate of cookies toward me. “Have a macaroon.”

  I accepted in silence, casting Berthamae Poole and James Olmstead a curious glance. What had she been going to say about the schoolhouse and the previous teacher? Olmstead had practically taken her by the ear and dragged her away. Another look at Emily was enough to tell me that I would gain no further information from her. She was watching with relief her husband’s low-growling conversation with Mistress Poole.

  “You will of course stay with us for dinner,” Emily informed me. “Then we’ll take you up to the schoolhouse.” That prospect did not seem one to which Emily Olmstead looked forward.

  “School opens the first week of September. That should give you time enough to get the schoolhouse in order again,” Olmstead was saying later, between mouthfuls of delicious beef stew and sips of freshly brewed coffee.

  “I’m afraid it’s a mess,” Emily said apologetically.

  “After the last teacher resigned, some of the children got it in their heads to vandalize the place,” Olmstead said with obvious annoyance.

  “You might as well tell her who it was, Jim,” Emily told her husband. Then she supplied the answer before he had a chance to swallow another bite of stew. “It was those Poole boys. You met their mother this afternoon. Well, Sherman and Grant, her two sons, are little hellions. I don’t suppose I have to tell you who they’re named after.”

  “They’ll be in your class,” Olmstead said.

  “How old are they?” I asked.

  “Sherman is fourteen, and Grant is almost thirteen,” Emily supplied immediately. “They’re two years senior to our Andrew. He’ll be eleven in April.” I was informed that Andrew was at a friend’s for dinner.

  “She’ll have plenty of time to meet the children, Em. Bridle that tongue of yours so I can get on with our talk,” Olmstead said.

  “Yes, dear,” she demurred.

  “As I was saying, Miss McFarland, the schoolhouse and yard could use some cleaning up. The heavy repairs will be taken care of for you by some of the townsmen when they can spare the time.”

  “Are there many heavy repairs?” I asked dubiously.

  “Two broken windows in front, a couple of smashed desks, a few leaks in the roof, and the back steps from your room need some work. Your quarters are in good condition.”


  The place sounded like a wreck to me.

  “More coffee, Miss McFarland,” Emily offered as she began clearing away the dishes.

  “No, thank you. May I help you with the dishes?”

  “No, but thanks,” Emily deferred, stacking the dishes with a clatter and almost scurrying from the room.

  “There are other things we should go over,” James Olmstead began again, and I reluctantly turned back.

  “There are certain rules of conduct that must be maintained.”

  “For the children?” I asked. I had expected to be able to decide on rules for the children without much interference from the townspeople.

  “No, ma’am. For you.”

  “For me?” I could not keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “Of course,” he said, giving me a look that indicated he thought I should have known as much. “Your position in this community is a very important one. You are an example for our children, and as such, there are certain strict standards that you must keep.”

  I braced myself as he continued.

  “You will be expected to attend church each Sunday and teach a class there under the authority of our excellent reverend, Jonah Hayes. From your letter and from the reference we received from Bradford Dobson, you have attended church regularly. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, it is,” So far I had no qualms.

  “Classes for the children will be from Monday through Friday, beginning at nine in the morning and ending at three in the afternoon. We would have you start school earlier, but there are some children who must ride in from outlying ranches.”

  “Yes, of course,” I murmured in assent.

  “The children have not had a teacher for over a year, so you will have to see that they make up the lost time.” That was a handicap I had not foreseen.

  “How many children are there?” I asked, silently praying there would be few enough that such expectations would not be utterly impossible.