Fred cracked a smile then.
Chardy Stevens poked her head out the church door. “All ready, Maggie.”
“Thanks.” They could hear strains of music from the piano.
Fred crooked his elbow and held it out to her gravely.
Maggie took it and walked with him into the church.
It seemed like the whole town had turned out for the wedding. Reverend Smith just had his cast removed the day before, and Dr. Carter had declared him fit to stand and marry them. Maggie smiled at him from the length of the aisle. Caroline Kane’s English fellow had preached in Reverend Smith’s place one Sunday, but Maggie was glad her own minister was up to performing her wedding.
She turned her gaze on the men at the front of the little church.
Benjy looked very small, standing between Sam and Sheriff Ingram, but he squared his shoulders and stretched as tall as he could.
They started down the aisle, with Fred muttering, “Left, right, left, right.”
Sam’s gaze drew Maggie’s. She couldn’t tell at first what his expression meant. Was he going to keel over, burst out in song, or cloud up and rain tears? Then his smile broke out, and she knew it was all right. Sam had just been doing his usual thoughtful assessment, and he had reached an agreeable conclusion. She returned his smile and walked straight toward him.
Sam took her hand, and she sent a mental prayer of thanks skyward. She barely heard Fred’s rehearsed “My brother, Benjamin, and I do” when asked who gave her in marriage. But when Pastor Smith asked, “Do you, Margaret, take Samuel to be your lawful wedded husband?” she heard nothing else.
“I do,” she said with conviction, and the joy in Sam’s eyes echoed hers.
Susan Page Davis is the author of more than sixty Christian novels and novellas, which have sold more than 1.5 million copies. Her historical novels have won numerous awards, including the Carol Award, the Will Rogers Medallion for Western Fiction, and the Inspirational Readers’ Choice Contest. She has also been a finalist in the More than Magic Contest and Willa Literary Awards. She lives in western Kentucky with her husband. She’s the mother of six and grandmother of ten. Visit her website at: www.susanpagedavis.com.
A Clean Slate
By Susanne Dietze
Dedication
For all teachers who generously and sacrificially give of their time and talents for their students, especially my mom, Virginia Copeland.
Acknowledgments
Gina Welborn, in your quest to be a blessing, you responded to an e-mail from this stranger all those years ago, invited me to join Inkwell, and became my friend. Thank you for your help and support in writing and in life. Hugs and chocolate to you, sister.
Author’s Note
Drew’s decision to fight for the Union was inspired by my family history. Although I’m a native Californian, my roots in middle Tennessee run deep, and I descend from two families who were neighbors but supported opposite sides during the Civil War. My great-grandfather’s family fought for the Union, while my great-grandmother’s ancestors fought for the Confederacy.
Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
ISAIAH 43:19 ESV
Chapter 1
Turtle Springs, Kansas
Friday, May 25, 1866
In her four years as teacher for Turtle Springs School, Roberta Green had never once left the schoolroom at day’s end in such an untidy state—until today.
She hadn’t erased the long division from the blackboard, replaced the primers on the bookshelf, or swept the floor. The only thing she’d had time to sweep was her students from the congested doorway of the one-room schoolhouse.
“See you Monday, boys and girls.” She gently guided them out the door. “No shoving, Opie. Henry, don’t forget your lunch pail.”
A small hand waved by her face. “My ribbon ith th-tuck.”
Red-haired Minnie Lomax had developed a lisp when she lost both her top front teeth last week, but the seven-year-old’s habit of removing her bonnet each morning without untying the bow, and somehow tugging the ribbon into a tight knot in the process, was not new.
Take a deep breath, Birdy. It will be fine if you’re a few minutes late. Although, she was already several minutes tardy, and who knew what was going on at the Tumble Inn by now. Birdy puffed out an exasperated breath and dug at the knot.
Mary Ann, the middle of the three Lomax girls, fidgeted near the schoolhouse door. “Aunt Birdy, you don’t have time. It’s already started.”
And it—the extraordinary event at the Tumble Inn—would change the lives of the three Lomax girls forever. Birdy yanked, hurrying. “I know.”
“You forgot the rule-th, Mary Ann.” Minnie fisted her hands on her nonexistent hips. “We have to call her Mith Green until we get home. Then we can call her Aunt Birdy.”
“No one’s left in the schoolhouse to overhear, Minnie, and everyone knows she lives with us, anyway.” Polly, Minnie’s eldest sister, didn’t usually sound so sharp. The thirteen-year-old was sweet as shoofly pie most of the time.
But today was a strange day, and it was little wonder they were all tense. Birdy plopped the bonnet on Minnie’s head, the ribbon still in a knot. “Sorry, Minnie. I’ll fix it when I get home, but Mary Ann’s right. I’m late.”
Polly preceded her out the door and paused on the porch. “I’ll have supper waiting for you and Ma.”
“Minnie and I will set the table.” Mary Ann dashed out the door. Her boots thumped the three stairs down from the schoolhouse to the street.
“I won’t even complain,” Minnie promised.
Birdy grinned. She couldn’t love this red-headed trio more if she was related to them by blood. She was their aunt in her heart, though, privileged to live with them and their mother, her best friend, Frieda, and she loved them all fiercely. She would do right by them all today.
She brushed chalk dust from the green-plaid wool of her sleeve, shoved a pencil behind her ear—unladylike, perhaps, but she was rushing—and grabbed her leather-bound journal. Resolving to clean the schoolroom tomorrow morning, she hastened out to the schoolhouse’s tiny porch where she yanked the door shut, tugging and pulling the door handle upward to get it to latch, since it stuck so badly these days. “I know you’re worried, girls, but it’ll be over soon. Pray we’ll have discernment with all those men.”
She twisted around and startled. The girls, her intended audience, bobbed several yards’ distant, already headed for home, but someone had nevertheless heard what she’d said. A man in a dark gray coat stood on the bottom step of the schoolhouse.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am.” He removed his hat, revealing straight hair so dark a brown it was almost black. He was young and broad shouldered, if lean, with a hint of dark stubble on his jaw. A stranger to her.
No surprise, almost all the men in town were strangers these past few weeks.
What was surprising was his Southern drawl. Her shoulders stiffened. The South might have surrendered to the Union over a year ago, but the war wasn’t quite over in her bruised heart.
She’d been praying for the will to forgive the Confederacy for what it took from her. Perhaps meeting this fellow was a chance to take a step in that direction. At any rate, she should show him common courtesy. This fellow wasn’t personally responsible for the sad trajectory of her life.
He was, however, lost. “Come along.” She brushed past him, tipping her head in invitation to follow her.
He did, matching her hurried stride. “I beg your pardon?”
“That was the schoolhouse.”
“I figured, with the bell on the porch and the swings in the yard. And since you’re the one holding its keys, I reckon you’re the schoolmarm.”
“Correct, but the auditions are at the Tumble Inn restaurant, not the schoolhouse. See it there, ahead on the right?”
It was hard to miss, at three stories tall. The inn looked slightly worse for wear, like the schoolhouse,
Frieda’s house, and almost every other building in town. Everyone did repairs as they could, but the times were difficult and funds were strained.
Without men, their town was dying.
Little wonder signs were posted at regular intervals up and down the street: HUSBANDS WANTED. MEN AUDITIONING FOR PROSPECTIVE HUSBANDS SIGN UP AT THE MAYOR’S OFFICE.
A thrill of nerves skittered up Birdy’s spine. Those auditions were being held right this minute. The man beside her had come for this purpose, of course. All the men had.
Smiling, he looked down at her with eyes as blue as a jaybird’s wing. “Thanks for walking me here, ma’am. I confess it’s been a while since a schoolmarm escorted me anywhere.”
It was hard not to smile back. “If you were escorted, you must have been misbehaving.”
“I dunked Audra Colby’s braid in the inkwell. Miss Meredith dragged me out back by the ear.” His laugh was pleasant. Comforting, too, maybe because she hadn’t heard the laugh of a man her age in a long time.
Emory’s was the heartiest laugh she’d ever heard, though. Emory—
“Here, I’ll get the door.” He dashed ahead and pulled open the door to the restaurant on the inn’s ground floor. Voices spilled out, indicating the auditions for husbands were well underway. Would this venture produce any matches?
Before entering the restaurant, Birdy paused to nod at this man who, completely unawares, had given her the opportunity to interact normally with a Southerner, a small but significant step toward forgiving the Confederacy. “I wish you the best at finding the perfect wife, sir.”
“I don’t need perfect. Just perfect for me and chosen by the Lord.”
Her estimation of him raised a notch. One of her neighbors would be blessed to have a husband who sought God’s will in his life.
She hurried inside, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim. Mrs. Martinchek called time and the scrapes of chairs and benches against the wood floor echoed through the space as men of all sizes stood and moved to their next post. Birdy nodded at Abby Melton, the mayor, passed the serious-looking sheriff who provided security during the proceedings, and then hastened to one of the small tables where a strawberry-haired woman in blue stripes sat, her face expectant.
“Sorry I’m late.” Birdy perched on a stool beside Frieda’s chair.
Frieda patted Birdy’s hand. “It’s all right. You’re here now.”
“I wouldn’t let you audition husbands alone, unless you wanted to.”
“You haven’t let me go through anything alone, Birdy. Not losing Hank, not raising the girls, and I know you wouldn’t miss this. Not that I’ve needed much help yet. I met a man named Jug Swan.” Frieda shuddered. “We would not have suited—oh hello.”
A tall, fine-looking gentleman with a thick blond mustache and neat brown frock coat appeared at their table and bowed. He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe thirty, a few years shy of Frieda’s thirty-three. “How do you do, ladies?”
“Well, thank you.” Frieda indicated for him to take a seat. “I’m Mrs. Lomax. I’ve asked my friend, Miss Green, to listen in on our conversation.”
He grinned, revealing even teeth. “It helps to have the counsel of a friend in times like these. My name is Sherman Toovey.”
Birdy pulled the pencil from behind her ear and scribbled his name in her journal. She also jotted mustache, brown coat to help them remember him later.
“Where are you from, Mr. Toovey?” Frieda’s voice was sweet, much like her daughter Polly’s. Frieda’s husband, Hank, had always teased that her voice was sweetened by all the honey she put in her tea.
Birdy frowned. Thinking of Hank always made her think of Emory. And her brother, Lemuel, too. But this wasn’t the time to think of fallen heroes, lost in the war. She had an obligation to help Frieda forge a future.
“Maryland.” Mr. Toovey crossed his legs. “When I came home from the war, I thought a change seemed in order. I sold the farm and thought I’d try something new.”
“You farmed?” Frieda sat up taller. “I have a farm.”
Sherman Toovey sat up taller, too. “How many acres?”
“One hundred and twenty, right outside of town. My husband left me the land. He also left me with three daughters,” Frieda said, making him aware of her priorities.
“Are they as pretty as their mother?”
Frieda giggled, like she hadn’t done since Hank marched off to war.
Birdy wrote flatterer, but he’s right. Frieda is pretty.
Taking further notes proved a challenge, since Frieda abandoned her list of prepared questions and chatted with Mr. Toovey. They discovered their mutual love of fiddle music and ice cream—which would be served at tomorrow’s Founder’s Day celebration, to their mutual delight. Everything, in fact, seemed to be to their mutual delight. Birdy was starting to feel unnecessary as Frieda’s guide in this whole auditioning-husbands process. She doodled a stick-legged bird on the page and fantasized about supper. Would the girls remember to put out the butter?
“May I escort you to the Founder’s Day celebration tomorrow for some of that ice cream, Mrs. Lomax?” Mr. Toovey leaned forward.
“I’d be honored.” Frieda giggled again.
While they set up plans, Birdy allowed her gaze to wander to the others in the room. Maggie Piner, mother of two of Birdy’s students, interviewed a fellow in need of a shave. Black-haired Jane Ransome stared down the man across the table from her, while Chardy Stevens from the mercantile offered her auditioner a polite smile. Blond Debbie Barker nodded at Virginia Tumbleston, sister of the inn’s proprietor, Caroline Kane. Virginia set down a tray of cups near the punch bowl; they’d had their hands more than full at the inn since the men came to town.
Birdy’s gaze tugged to the right, meeting the unsmiling gaze of the man in the gray coat from the schoolhouse. He leaned against the wall, watching. Why wasn’t he auditioning? Perhaps he waited his turn, or perhaps by arriving late, he’d missed his opportunity.
He pushed off from the wall and strode toward them. He must want to meet Frieda, but just as in school, the men must take turns. He couldn’t jump in and—
“Toovey, isn’t it?” To Birdy’s surprise, his gaze was on Frieda’s new friend, not Frieda. “May I speak to you in private?”
Mr. Toovey’s eyes bugged out. “I’m busy, fella.”
“It’ll take a moment, no more.” The man from the schoolhouse did not look happy. And now, neither did Frieda.
Birdy rose. “I’m sure Mr. Toovey will be happy to speak with you after the auditions.”
“But—”
Birdy had no choice. She took the man’s arm and tugged him outside.
Drew followed along, his arm caught in the fair-haired schoolmarm’s firm grasp. For a dainty thing, she sure had a robust grip. He could have pulled away if he’d wanted to, but instead, he opened the door for her.
Her hand fell away the instant they were outside. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, Mister—”
“Drew Cooper.”
“But you’re ruining things for Frieda.”
He was ruining it? Now that was funny. “Is she your sister, miss?”
“Roberta Green.” Her surname was the hue of her dress, although the gown’s pastel color reminded Drew more of tender leaves and baby apples than jade or spruce. Her eyes were a shade grayer than her dress, but right now, those eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”
“I overheard her making plans with that Toovey character. Did I hear wrong?”
Her arms folded. “It’s none of your affair. If you’re upset you didn’t get a chance to audition with Frieda, there’s still time. Speak to the mayor.”
This was coming out all wrong. “It’s Toovey I need words with, before things go further.”
“Why?”
Even though he came to Turtle Springs for a fresh start, he had the same principles he’d always had, so he couldn’t stand by and watch someone get hurt.
But he didn’t need to cause a scene. “I don’t like telling tales out of school—no pun intended for the schoolmarm—so I’d prefer to handle this with Toovey.”
If she was affected by his unintended pun, she didn’t show it. Instead her pale brows rose high on her forehead. Then she positioned her body so he couldn’t get back in the restaurant—even though she must be a full eight inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than he was. She glared up at him. “I don’t want you upsetting Frieda. Say your piece and I’ll decide if it’s worth disturbing her audition with Mr. Toovey.”
She reminded him of Aunt Lou, a managing female, but also as upright and loving as they came. And he knew better than to argue with a woman like his aunt. “Fine. Warn your sister before she goes into a courtship with a man who’s less than truthful to her.”
“Frieda is my friend. But Mr. Toovey likes children, farming, and Frieda, three things she needs in a husband. How can I be certain he’s the liar and you’re not? No offense, Mr. Cooper, but I don’t know either of you.”
She had a point. The schoolmarm was as sharp as she was pretty. He’d have to tell her outright, then. “He’s misrepresenting himself.”
“As what?” She looked up at him with a Schoolmarm Face, disapproving and disappointed, like he’d been the liar, not Toovey.
“A single man, for one thing. I overheard him tell someone on the train to Manhattan that he had a wife back in Maryland, as well as a heap of debt—and he sold shoes.”
She flinched. “He’s married?”
“If he isn’t, he was lying to the man on the train. But if he is a married man, he has no business here.”
“Why would he do something so terrible?”
“If what he said about his debts was true, he might be hiding from them.” Or maybe he thought if he married a widow with property, he could cash it in and leave her, too. It wouldn’t be the first time an unscrupulous man married more than one woman for their money and then disappeared—
Seven Brides for Seven Mail-Order Husbands Romance Collection Page 16
