Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  It was not as easy as it looked. I mimicked his movements, and the knowledge that he and five of my students were watching me gave me added strength. After about ten feet I knew it would be impossible for me to plow the play yard myself. My back and arms were already aching.

  Pausing to wipe my forehead, I glanced back to see Jordan Bennett standing there with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was enjoying this. He was just hoping I would quit so he could make another one of his cutting remarks about my ineptitude. I turned back around, determined to go on.

  Something scurried through the grass and startled the horse. It bolted to the side, jerking the plow out of my hands and making me fall heavily to the ground. My thigh hit something hard, and I gasped in pain. I barely had enough time to get my breath when Jordan Bennett was leaning down, intending to haul me up like a sack of potatoes.

  “I can get up by myself, thank you, Mr. Bennett.” I pulled my arm away from his far-from-gentle touch. I kept my face averted so he could not see how much my leg hurt. I knew I had bruised it badly. He disregarded my assertion and grasped me around the waist to lift me to my feet.

  “Are you always so damned stubborn?” he demanded harshly, his face so close to mine that his breath fanned my cheeks. “You didn’t seriously think I meant for you to plow this damn yard, did you? Now, what did you do to your leg?”

  “It’s nothing,” I stammered, unable to pull my eyes away from his. My heart was thudding frantically, and my breathing was shallow. His eyes narrowed and dropped to my mouth.

  “Are you all right, Miss McFarland?” Sherman Poole asked, running over, his brother in his wake.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, my voice overly bright. I pressed Jordan Bennett’s hand away from my arm.

  “If you want to help, take over the plow,” Bennett told the boys. “That’s if you know how!” Sherman, who was gazing moon-eyed at me, did so, while Grant argued that he wanted a turn.

  “Look, Miss McFarland, it’s easy. I’ll have this done in an hour!” Sherman boasted.

  “Come on, Sherman. Give me a chance,” Grant grumbled.

  "Two conquests already. And the Poole boys, no less,” Bennett observed sardonically.

  “I think I’ve had about enough of you, Mr. Bennett,” I said in a low voice.

  “Do you now, Abby?”

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my Christian name, let alone cutting it short,” I said, growing more irritated by the minute.

  “You’re more an Abby than an Abigail,” he said, his eyes moving with a strange intimacy over my face. “Wide eyes the color of turquoise with gold nuggets, and red hair.”

  “My hair is not red,” I denied, all the while squirming uneasily under his gaze. If he could look at me like that, how did he look at his wife.

  “Auburn then, if it makes a difference,” he conceded. “I’ll bet it would be wild and soft if you ever let it out of that Godawful bun you wear.” He reached out to touch it almost as though he meant to remove the pins, and I jolted back, flushing with embarrassment and fright. Flustered, I did not know what to say; so I stepped quickly by him. He was smiling, silently laughing at my reaction to him.

  Looking away from his taunting face, I saw James Olmstead striding up the street. He looked anything but approving. Berthamae Poole was coming up the opposite side of McPherson, and her expression reminded me of Marcella Haversall in one of her moods.

  “Oh, no,” I breathed.

  “What’s the matter, Miss McFarland? Are your teaching methods about to bring the town citizens upon your head?” Bennett chuckled.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I evaded, refusing to look at him.

  “You know exactly what I mean, Abby," he said softly. "I've been getting rather interesting reports from Linda and Diego.”

  “What sort of reports?” I asked, darting him a questioning look.

  “Pilfered paints, picture-painting on the schoolroom walls, children digging latrines. Working the children like little slaves when they’re not vandalizing community property.”

  “That’s not the truth—” I started defensively, but he cut me off.

  “Fine moral example you’re presenting, huh?” He raised his brows expressively. “You should be ashamed.” He tut-tutted his tongue. “And you have a right to look like a scared rabbit.” He glanced at James Olmstead and Berthamae Poole coming to the gate. “If I’m right, you’re about to be nailed to the cross.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy staying around to watch,” I retorted, walking away from him and forcing a greeting smile at Olmstead.

  “Grant Poole!” Berthamae Poole hollered, her face an unbecoming mottled red. “What on earth are you doing behind that plow?” The boy started guiltily and blushed to the roots of his hair as he glanced at me. Sherman was red-faced as well.

  “You two boys get over here this minute. If you two are so eager to work, you can just get on home and do the chores!” she shouted at them. Then she glared at me accusingly. “And I’ll thank you not to have my sons digging outhouse holes, Miss McFarland!” she huffed furiously.

  “Ma—” Grant tried to interrupt.

  “Shut your mouth and move!” his mother ordered, and the two boys hot-stepped on down the street, their mother following along with more verbal encouragements. The Hayes boys scattered.

  “I thought you understood the rules, Miss McFarland.” Olmstead was beginning on me next. “You’re not off to a very good start on a number of counts.”

  I heard Jordan Bennett’s approach and silently groaned. What wonderful contribution would he make to this scene? James Olmstead looked from Bennett to me, and his expression was insinuating. “What are you doing here, Jordan?” he finally asked.

  Jordan Bennett laughed easily. “Now, hold on just a minute, Jim! You’re not implying there’s anything between Miss McFarland and myself, are you?” His tone made such an idea ludicrous in the extreme. I came near to hating him.

  “No, I’m not,” Olmstead said. “But rules are made with good reason. We’ve got to think of the children. Which brings me to another point, Miss McFarland.” He swung back to me. “I’ve been hearing some things from Andrew that I hope aren’t true.”

  “Since I don’t know what you are referring to, perhaps you should enlighten me, Mr. Olmstead,” I said with cool dignity.

  “I’ll just look for myself and save the questions,” he said, marching through the gate and up the path to the schoolhouse. I followed slowly, raising fingertips to the throbbing veins in my temple. The painful bump on my thigh hurt as I walked, but I forced myself not to limp, well aware that Jordan Bennett was watching me.

  James Olmstead appeared at the top of the steps. “Come in here and explain this appalling mess to me!”

  “Yes, Mr. Olmstead,” I replied, resigned. When I entered the schoolroom, Olmstead was staring around him as though he could not believe his eyes.

  “I couldn’t believe what Andy told me this morning until I saw with my own two eyes,” he said, still staring at the walls. Then he turned a furious glare on me. “How could you do this?” he demanded. “How could you allow the children to desecrate this schoolhouse in such an unthinkable way?”

  I stiffened. “I think it’s an improvement over what I found ten days ago,” I said in a clear, controlled voice. I heard Jordan Bennett enter the classroom and laugh slightly under his breath. He was really helping matters, wasn’t he?

  “An improvement?” Olmstead ejaculated, aghast.

  “I will admit there isn’t a Rembrandt in Sycamore Hill, but they worked hard and did their best to make this schoolhouse a little more pleasant than it was,” I told him. I met Olmstead’s cold eyes. “Four days of scrubbing and scouring cannot remove dirt allowed to accumulate over a year, Mr. Olmstead. If this schoolhouse was such hallowed ground, why was it allowed to fall into such sad disrepair?”

  “She’s got you there, Jim.” Jordan chuckled. Olmstead’s face turned an angry red
.

  “And what about children digging the latrine out back?” he demanded, ignoring my defenses.

  “I had hoped that was one of those heavy chores you referred to when we talked.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Miss McFarland.”

  I sighed. “I did not have time to dig a four-foot hole, so the choice goes to those children who refuse to listen or who cause mischief in class.”

  “Oh.” Some of the steam seeped out of his arguments but he was struggling to work up more. He enjoyed asserting his authority.

  “Might I ask when you can replace the windows?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. I resented Jordan Bennett’s presence intensely.

  “There’s no hurry to do that,” Olmstead said. “It’s still summer.” He was glowering again. “It seems to me that you’re putting off onto the children what you should be doing yourself.”

  That hurt, for I had tried very hard to be fair. There were few enough hours in a day for me to manage the cleaning, lesson plans and paper-correcting required without being expected to dig latrines and plow play yards.

  “It’s a matter of choices, Mr. Olmstead,” I said with conviction, though inside I was beginning to tremble under the strain of this scene. What would I do if he dismissed me? Where would I go?

  “What choices?” he demanded imperiously. “It seems to me you were well aware of your duties the night we discussed them. You agreed to carry them out. You’re being paid to uphold them.”

  “I’ve only been in town ten days—”

  “And you’re already off to a bad start,” Olmstead interrupted critically.

  “Teaching the children has to come first,” I said in my own defense, about to reason that my time had not permitted making all the repairs as yet.

  “Well, then teach them, Miss McFarland! Painting walls and digging holes isn’t in any of the textbooks that I remember!” He glanced around again. “I’ll get some whitewash so you can cover these... paintings.” With that, he marched out of the schoolhouse with a look of satisfaction. My shoulders drooped, and I unconsciously rubbed my bruised thigh.

  “You hurt yourself when you fell, didn’t you?” Bennett asked from close behind me.

  “Nothing that won’t mend, Mr. Bennett,” I said harshly, looking away from him. My mouth was trembling, and I knew there was little color in my face. Bennett moved closer and put his hands on my shoulders. I jerked away.

  “I think you had better leave, Mr. Bennett, before Mr. Olmstead decides to add other misdemeanors to the list he’s making against me.”

  “Such as what, Abby? Indiscreet behavior for being alone with me... or are you bent on murder?” He released me, and I spun around.

  “You think this is all very funny, don’t you?” I flared, blinking rapidly to stop the tears. “Well, laugh your fill and then leave me alone! I haven’t got a ranch or a family. If I lose this position....” I stopped. What did this man care whether I lost my position or not? He had made it very clear he did not want me in Sycamore Hill. I managed to regain some measure of control.

  “I don’t feel like laughing, Abby,” Bennett said quietly.

  “I’ll thank you not to call me that. You have no right!”

  Jordan Bennett’s expression hardened. “I’ll call you any damn thing I please,” he retaliated. “And if you think what you’ve just been through is anything, you’re sadly mistaken. Things aren’t even warmed up a bit.”

  I stared at him questioningly, but he was not going to enlighten me.

  “I’ll say it again. You’ll make a very poor schoolmarm.”

  I did not feel like arguing with him anymore, and I gave a slight shrug of indifference. “Well, we aren’t all born with choices, Mr. Bennett.”

  He turned without another word and strode out of the schoolhouse. I closed my eyes and let out my breath, wondering why I felt like crying.

  That night I thought I heard someone moving about in the schoolroom. When I got up and entered the darkened place to investigate, there was no one there. My only company were the shadows from the oaks, and the wind that fluttered through the patchwork curtains.

  Chapter Five

  The Reverend Jonah Hayes had missed his calling, I thought regretfully as I left the church among the other chastened members of the congregation. The hellfire-and-damnation sermon was still ringing in my ears. I heartily wished that Hayes had offered his rather remarkable dramatic talents to some traveling-show company. The last thing these hard-working people needed was the harangue they received each Sunday like a dose of castor oil. The terrifying pictures of what awaited them if they dared “let the devil in” were enough to keep even the most stout-hearted awake at night. And the weak—woe be to them— were hell bound.

  Weakness was defined as sin, and sin, according to the most assured and inspired Reverend Hayes, was anything and everything enjoyable. Even private, unconscious thoughts were subject to the monitoring of Reverend Hayes’s God.

  I sighed. Surely if a sincere penitent came forward, God would forgive a few indiscretions. However, if Hayes were indeed correct in his interpretation of church doctrine, I could not imagine heaven being populated by anyone but God himself and a sprinkling of three or four saints. What a place to spend an eternity.

  No, I thought with conviction. Reverend Hayes’s God was not the same as mine. I preferred the loving, understanding, all-forgiving Father of mankind to the frightening, jealous, possessive avenger who lurked in Hayes’s life.

  I almost groaned aloud at my own thoughts, for my conception of God was going to add yet another problem in my life. I was to teach Sunday school, and it would be impossible for me to present the tyrannical, unfeeling deity that reigned supreme in Hayes’s world. And the good Reverend Hayes was another powerful school-board member!

  “Miss McFarland.” Emily Olmstead broke into my dreary reverie. “I would like to introduce you to Miss Ellen Greer,” she said in formal, almost childish tones of respect. I looked at the small, ancient woman standing next to Emily, leaning heavily on a cane. One arthritically deformed hand lay over another, and her feet were planted slightly apart to hold herself as erect as possible.

  Short, frizzled white hair grew over the woman’s small head, the only relief from its profusion being an ugly little black hat perched at a precarious angle. Her chin was overlong and pointed with a jutting stubbornness. Soft but wrinkled skin was drawn into emphatic lines pointing to a tight-lipped mouth. She had large ears and a long neck adding to the overall homely picture she made standing there in her somber black dress.

  Yet the pair of gray-blue eyes dominated that old, rather awesome face. They were bright and astute, and they looked at me with unembarrassed interest. I smiled, feeling a bit intimidated by the old woman’s assessing gaze. I had noticed her once before in church, and I’d wondered who Miss Ellen Greer was.

  James Olmstead beckoned his wife, and Emily made a quick apology before darting off to her husband’s side. The old woman gave a faint movement of her mouth, which could have been either a smile or a grimace of pain.

  “How old are you, Miss McFarland?” she asked in a clear, contralto voice that was very attractive. I thought the question impertinent even for an old lady, and pretended not to hear it.

  Miss Greer gave a low laugh. “Apparently lack of respect for your elders is yet another fault of yours.”

  I stiffened under that assault and barely prevented an angry retort to the woman’s rudeness.

  “Don’t look so testy, my dear,” Ellen Greer chided. “I heartily approve,” she added conspiratorially. Then she tapped the oak cane. “Come and walk me home. You and I have many things to talk over.”

  What an imperious old lady, I thought with surprise. However, curiosity made me obey her command. Her pace was slow, and I waited for the old woman to reveal what “things” she had referred to.

  “Curse these old legs of mine,” Ellen Greer muttered angrily. “They’re just about as useless as the licorice sticks She
rman Poole lives on.”

  I laughed and then quickly apologized, about to explain that it was her statement about Sherman that had amused me so.

  “Don’t ever apologize, Miss McFarland,” Ellen Greer told me. “If you do, that will be the biggest fault on your record.” Before I could comment, she stopped and thrust her cane at a white picket fence. “Open the gate, Miss McFarland,” she snapped irritably, and I obeyed. I felt a twinge of resentment at her tone. She had to be the rudest person I had ever met— with the exception of Jordan Bennett!

  “You live here?” I asked inanely, looking up almost longingly at the hospitable exterior, for this was the home I had dreamed of as my own on first entering Sycamore Hill.

  “Don’t ask such stupid questions,” Ellen Greer snorted. “Well, come on, Miss McFarland,” she went on, impatiently pausing several paces inside the gate. “I haven’t got all day.”

  “I have better things to do with my day than spend it with a discourteous old woman,” I said coldly. Ellen Greer’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and she laughed delightedly, drawing an astonished look from me.

  “I wondered how much you would take from me.”

  I stared at her, completely baffled. Was the woman in her dotage?

  “You’ve got more spirit than I had at your age, my dear,” Ellen chortled. “That may be an advantage, but then again, it may not be. But whatever, I heartily approve of you. Now, please come in and make an old woman’s afternoon less of a bore.”

  Ellen Greer lived in a small room at the back of the boardinghouse. It was furnished with less than my own quarters, but boasted a few plaques on the wall. When I started to read them, Ellen Greer dismissed them.

  “Those were in place of a salary increase and a pension,” Ellen explained with a sniff for their importance. I read them and turned to look back at her.

  “You were the schoolteacher here?” I asked with surprise. No one had ever said anything about who the previous teacher was. This must be the teacher who had quit over a year ago.