“I’m not totally lacking in knowledge about the facts of life,” I said, thinking of the books I had read. My flush receded only slightly.
“You mustn’t admit that to the school board,” Reva teased. “They might think your great knowledge will corrupt the innocent children.” Her mocking tone was in no way unkind, and I smiled.
“It seems so absurd. What is correct and acceptable for other people to feel and know is denied to me because I am a teacher.”
“If you had other interests besides your teaching, you would not give your all to the children,” Reva disagreed. “That’s as it should be. If you had a family, you would not have time to ride to Eden Rock to teach my son. That is why it is best to have a spinster teach; no one else demands her loyalties or efforts. All is for the children’s education and betterment.”
Reva’s explanation was reasonable, but it only emphasized the lonely barrenness of my life stretching before me. It was fine to dedicate one’s life to children, but what about when I grew too old to teach? Would I then be like Ellen Greer? Nothing to show for my life but a couple of plaques on a wall, some fond memories and a lonely room at the back of some charitable person’s boardinghouse?
I was no different from any other woman. I dreamed of a family of my own, a man I could love, and children I would bear for him out of our love. Perhaps it was even more important to me, because I had no family at all, and the vague memories of security and love were so distant, they only tantalized me. Loneliness, I told myself often, is a state of mind that can be controlled. But at night, alone in my darkened room with no company but a cat, it was not so easy to rationalize.
The children were becoming more and more my life. Through them I had a purpose. Through them I was able to touch another life, if only for a brief time. My existence would not be completely wasted. Had the Haversalls lived, I knew without doubt that I would have gone on as I had, working for nothing and receiving less than that in return. Yet, now, that time seemed a lifetime away. I did not want to remember them, and pushed my memories away.
“Of course, that does not mean that a virtuous woman like you cannot burn with desire if the right man touches you,” Reva continued, giving me a sidelong glance. “Do you bum for anyone, señorita?” She was smiling as though she knew something I did not.
“I should say not,” I retorted, unable to prevent a picture of Jordan from forming in my mind.
Reva laughed. “How very red you can get, señorita. You embarrass too easily. I was only teasing you.” She considered me for a long moment then, and a speculative gleam changed her dark eyes. “Jordan said you have met Ross Persall. He is very handsome, no?”
“Yes, he is,” I admitted, wondering if she was about to give me another warning about that man.
“Ross knows how to treat a woman. He makes her feel desirable. Women like him very much. Do you like him?”
“I suppose I do,” I said, wondering why she should wish to know.
“Ross is very knowledgeable about women—especially those who are lonely and frustrated.” Her words were meant to be significant, and I could hardly pretend that I did not understand.
“I’ve already been warned against the man by half the township,” I told her dryly.
“Jordan as well?”
“Especially by him, though I can’t think why he felt it necessary to say anything. Mr. Persall merely made some repairs to the front steps of the schoolhouse after Mr. Olmstead informed me he had no time for such duties.”
Reva stared at me and then laughed as though at some great joke. Before I could ask her to explain her mirth, Diego entered the room, having finished his test. And for the next few hours we worked together over his lessons. I forgot about the last part of my conversation with Reva Gutierrez. Later, I would understand only too well what she meant about Ross Persall and lonely, frustrated women.
Chapter Twelve
Following Sunday School, cleaning chores in the schoolroom and lesson planning for the next day, I finally was able to relax and enjoy my stew and warm-bread dinner with Orphan as my companion. I shared my stores with her, and she expounded her gratitude with throaty purrs. She was getting fat, I thought with a smile, remembering the skinny stray kitten she had been when I found her perched on the windowsill. I reached down and scratched her ears affectionately before leaving my room to make my customary evening trips to the well for water.
I was too exhausted to make the ten trips necessary to fill the old metal tub, nor did I feel I could stay awake long enough to heat the water on the wood stove. So I contented myself with one bucket of warm water, just enough for a sponge bath and rinse. One of the luxuries I longed for was a pleasant soak to completely relax my tired muscles. I lathered my hair and then poured the bucket of water over me slowly to rinse away all the soap.
Wrapping myself in one towel, I used another to rub my hair dry. Then I sat brushing it until the thick auburn tresses glistened. My hair was naturally curly, and it floated about my shoulders and back in wild disarray. But it felt good to have it free of its usual confining bun.
Checking my timepiece, I saw that it was later than I had thought. I wanted to go to the cemetery and see the El Día de los Muertos procession. Reva had told me that tonight would be the finale of the celebration. Families would walk to the churchyard carrying candles and gifts of food and flowers for deceased loved ones. There would be traditional songs and games for the children.
Though I was not part of the group, I wanted to watch the festivities from the hillside beyond the graveyard. I could sit beneath the sycamores and keep myself warm with my shawl.
So I donned my clothes hurriedly, leaving my hair free for lack of time, as well as a certain defiance I did not want to admit to feeling. I could go around the back way, over the hills, so that no one would see me. I felt reckless and happy.
Skipping down the back steps and hopping over the last two that were still in bad repair, I started out. It was growing dark quickly, and already the air was chilly. I lifted the edge of my skirt and ran along, feeling free and deliciously wicked. My work was done for the moment, but it would start again at dawn tomorrow. For now, just for a few hours, I was not going to think of anything but the beautiful evening, the clear darkening sky and brilliant scattering of stars, the full moon and the festivities that I would at least be able to view from a distance.
As I ran on, I could see the light-filled windows of homes on the hem of town. Smoke curled up from chimneys as dinners were being prepared, and houses warmed against the cool autumn evening. There was the faintest whispering of wind about me, and now and then I could hear the throaty croak of a bullfrog among the cacophony of crickets.
Ahead of me was the hillside cemetery, with the sycamore grove beyond. The procession had already started and was moving into the churchyard. I ran faster, hitching my skirts up until they were about my calves. I had neglected to put on my shoes, and my slippers were thin, just barely enough to protect my soles. I cared nothing about the picture I made with my bare legs showing and my hair winging wildly behind me. There was no one around to care that the dignified, spinster teacher was racing like a hoyden across a field to peek secretly at a celebration.
When I reached the grove, I was winded and had to hold my ribs against the painful stitch in my side. Laughing faintly at my ridiculous behavior, I sank to the ground, which was littered with fallen leaves. More floated down about me as the twigs shuddered against the evening breeze. I drew a deep breath, smelling the damp earth and grass.
Drawing up my knees, I wrapped my shawl-covered arms around them. I craned my neck to see the participants of the procession, but I could not pick out Reva or Diego among the gaily dressed celebrants. The flickering candles added a mystic air to the scene below in the graveyard. People wove their way among the headstones toward the Catholic section. They were singing, but I did not understand the Spanish lyrics, though I thought the melody was beautiful. I closed my eyes and listened with pleasure t
o the harmonic blending of old and young voices.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you,” came a deep voice beside me, and I jumped with fright. Wide-eyed, I stared up the long length of Ross Persall standing above me. He was grinning broadly as I came hastily to my feet, brushing down my skirts as I did so. I felt foolish, caught in some childish display of mischief, and guilty of the worst sort of indiscretion.
“Don’t look so aghast. I won’t tell anyone,” he assured me, laughing slightly. I stopped my frantic tidying and looked up at him again. His hair was not as neat as usual; it lay forward boyishly. His dark eyes were sparkling with amusement, but there was none of the mockery I always expected from Jordan Bennett.
I relaxed slightly and smiled back at him. “Where were you, Mr. Persall? I didn’t see you when I came up here.”
“You were in too much of a hurry to be looking around.” He grinned. “I had some business at this end of town. I saw the procession and decided to watch for a few minutes. Then I saw a wood nymph racing up the hillside, disappearing in the darkness beneath the trees. I thought I recognized the rather shapely form of our usually dignified teacher, but I had to come investigate to be sure.” He was laughing at me, but not in a way as to be offensive.
“And now you know it was.” I pretended remorse.
“A not unpleasant surprise.”
“I wanted to see the celebration,” I explained, indicating the people below. “And when I saw they had already started, I hurried.”
“Don’t explain yourself. Why don’t we just sit down and enjoy the festivities together,” he suggested. I remembered James Olmstead’s iron rule of avoiding meetings just such as this. Ross Persall seemed to know my thoughts, and his fine shapely mouth curved into a knowing, mocking smile. “There was no one else around to see you or me. So you won’t get into trouble for sharing a couple of minutes with me,” he said, and his brows rose, giving me a slight challenge.
“I think I will,” I decided and sat down again, curling my legs beneath me in a more ladylike position. He stretched out beside me.
“Don’t you ever get tired of all the one-sided rules you’re expected to follow?” he asked, his eyes sliding down over me and then up again to meet mine.
“Sometimes,” I admitted, his perusal not unnerving me the way Jordan’s always did. “For example, I see no reason why I can’t sit here with you. I enjoy conversing with people.”
“The concern isn’t about conversing, Miss McFarland, but about what comes after it.” He grinned, and I could see what Reva had meant about his effect on women.
“What you’re implying need not follow,” I told him primly.
“But a man will always try when the woman is as attractive as you,” he said, undaunted.
“Shall I take that as a fair warning, Mr. Persall?”
“You can trust me completely, Miss McFarland. I’m not the rogue everyone says. I can be a gentleman if the woman warrants it and the stakes are high enough.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that you don’t seem the type of woman who would enjoy being trifled with.”
“I think that’s true of most women.”
He gave me a considering look and then smiled. “Not in my experience. Most of the women I’ve known enjoy trifling.”
“I think you’re deliberately trying to shock me. And just after you told me that you were trustworthy and not the rogue you’re reputed to be,” I scolded teasingly.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” He grinned again.
“Then I’ll take your first warning and run,” I suggested, pretending to rise. He reached out and closed his hand over mine. His fingers were strong and warm.
“No... at least not yet. I’ve given you no reason.”
“Yet.” I laughed. I looked down at him lying on his side in the grass, his hand moving to hold mine. There was a certain sensual quality about him that made me feel quite out of my depth.
“I do believe you are trifling with me, Mr. Persall,” I chastened him, drawing my hand away. “Perhaps I should believe all I’ve heard.”
“And what have you heard?”
“Nothing, I’m sure, that would surprise you.”
“Tell me,” he kindly ordered.
“That you’re charming. That you like women, and they like you.”
“Do you like me?”
“I’m a woman, aren’t I?” I laughed.
“Who’s trifling with whom, Miss McFarland,” he said with an upward tilt of his mouth.
“We’re missing the procession,” I reminded him.
“Forget the procession. I’d rather talk.”
“I came up here to watch the procession.”
“You wound my pride,” he sighed. "My company should be more interesting than watching a bunch of Mexicans putting leftovers on graves.”
I stared at him, disliking his tone and use of words. “What a dreadful way to put it! They prepare special gifts of food that were favored by their deceased relatives and friends. Their offerings are meant as an assertion of faith!”
“Where did you learn so much about it?” he asked, not the least bit put off by my annoyance, and effectively turning it away.
“Reva Gutierrez told me—”
“Reva? Reva never leaves Eden Rock, at least not since Gwendolyn Bennett told the town about Diego’s relationship to Jordan. Reva used to come in quite a lot before that.”
“Yes, I heard about that. Did you know Gwendolyn Bennett?”
Ross did not answer for a moment. “Slightly,” he said finally, and there was a look in his eyes I could not fathom. “You’ve learned a lot in your short time in town, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I hedged, realizing my error too late.
“You couldn’t have met Reva unless you’ve been to Eden Rock. And I wonder what you were doing out there.” I was glad of the darkness that concealed my guilty flush. When I did not answer, he gave a slight laugh. “Jordan works fast.”
“Mr. Bennett has nothing to do with my visits to Eden Rock.”
Ross chuckled. “Well, you needn’t worry. I’m not going to tell the school board anything. I’m hardly on speaking terms with the preacher, and James Olmstead is a pompous ass I would just as soon avoid.”
“I’ve been tutoring Diego,” I volunteered, not wanting him to think my reason for going to Eden Rock had anything to do with Jordan Bennett.
“Defiance.” He smiled.
“Well, I don’t agree with Diego’s expulsion, and until I can find a way of having him reinstated, I intend to see that he keeps up with his lessons.”
“I don’t see why you should concern yourself. The kid is Bennett’s bastard. Let him worry about it.”
I found Ross Persall’s statement offensive. “Ellen Greer says it’s all a vicious rumor.”
“Ellen Greer is just a bit biased,” Ross said. “She doesn’t believe he murdered Gwendolyn either.”
“But you do, I suppose.”
He sighed. “Let’s forget the sins of Jordan Bennett, shall we? I’m much more interested in learning about yours.”
I had not liked the subject, but his abrupt disregard of it bothered me. Did he really believe Jordan had killed his wife? Somehow I could not believe it. Perhaps because I did not want to believe it.
I relented. “I’ve no real sins with which to regale you. Dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Not even one little one?” Ross teased.
“Scores in my mind,” I admitted, “but none committed.”
Ross took a blade of grass and began nibbling thoughtfully at the end of it. “Those are the best sins of all. Tell me about yours.”
“I do believe you’re serious,” I emitted with a laugh.
“Of course. What’s more interesting than discussing one’s sins... committed or merely considered.”
“Well, then, let’s discuss yours. I’m sure they’re far more interesting than mine.”
He grinned devilishly. “Perhaps, but I’m afraid we haven’t near enough time to even start on mine.”
“What a shame.”
“Let’s just leave it at the fact that I enjoy bending rules now and then.”
“Social or legal?”
Ross Persall laughed. “On occasion, both.”
We went on to talk of other things, and I found him a fascinating companion. He knew much of the valley history and a great deal about the local people. Some of his stories were shockingly funny and usually at the expense of someone’s overly stiff propriety. Some of his stories were not so funny. It was from Ross that I learned about Tom Hallender, the aging local sheriff.
Two decades before, three gunmen had come into town intent on evil-doing. Tom Hallender had been only a deputy then. The local sheriff had left town, afraid for his own life. Hallender had been forced to face the three gunmen himself when they had broken into a local establishment and raped a woman. He had called a challenge to the three men, who had laughingly accepted. The gunfight had taken place on Main Street.
Tom Hallender was not a quick draw, but he was deadly accurate and had a strong will to survive. The three gunmen had outdrawn him and had succeeded in hitting him, but Tom Hallender had emerged the victor. He suffered three gunshot wounds, one bullet grazing his side and chipping a rib. He had dropped and rolled, but not soon enough to avoid the second bullet, which hit him in the knee. Firing off two shots, he killed two gunmen. But the last gunman managed to get off two more shots before he was felled by Hallender. One of the outlaw’s bullets missed its mark, but the other passed through the deputy’s shoulder.
The lawman had recovered quickly from the two flesh wounds, but he never fully recovered from the shattered knee cap. The doctor had used a metal disc made by the blacksmith to replace Hallender’s patella. Fortunately, the daring medical experiment had prevented him from being crippled, but it brought frequent pain and made him limp.
“He doesn’t look like a man with such courage,” I said, thinking of the lean man of middling height. His thinning gray hair was always carefully brushed from a center part, and placid gray eyes looked out above a thick nose. His solemn mouth was hardened slightly by the thin, well-trimmed mustache.
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