As the train began to slow into the Harmony depot, Truvy couldn’t quell the wild trip of anticipation in her heartbeat. As much as she hated to admit it, Miss Pond was right. She needed time away from St. Francis to see what it would be like to be out on her own.
Her upset over the benefactress incident had subsided, but she took full blame. She knew she shouldn’t have been reading that life science book. She had stretched the boundaries and now was being disciplined for her actions. But that still didn’t change her definition of teaching.
Even so, she would prove to Miss Pond she could live by the woman’s rules. The girls would have nothing to gain if Truvy were . . . terminated. Her position meant everything to her. She could teach admirably because she loved her task. And because she had a strong moral sense of obligation to her girls.
On that, she pledged to return. But for a short while, she’d be able to test her fanciful speculations about the outside world, a world that wasn’t changing very fast for all the hoopla 1901 had come with—and was nearly gone with as New Year’s Eve approached. There were times when Boise seemed isolated—local news, features, and editorials printed in the only paper, the Idaho Statesman. A long way from the buzz of the Chicago Tribune.
While she attended Gillette’s, she really had intended on being a clerk. But Chicago was so big and fascinating that her point of view couldn’t help but be affected by her surroundings. She threw herself into a variety of causes that required marching, poster pasting, and lecturing; she managed all this while keeping her academic grades flawless. Throughout college, Edwina had been the one who danced ragtime and smoked cigars and socialized. Not Truvy. She kept her nose stuck in her books, The Aunts’ words always in the back of her mind:
You’re the first lady Valentine to go to college, Truvy.
Yes, the wonderful first. Do make us proud.
So she had. But a month before graduation, she couldn’t see herself as an office typist. She wanted to be a teacher. With a business degree in basic economics, she knew she could make a difference by educating young ladies. Men thought they ruled the nation, but women governed its destiny.
And The Aunts had agreed. They’d praised her choice.
Teaching at the girls’ academy was far more rewarding than filing paper and folders in cabinet drawers. She was also a sports coach. Not exactly what The Aunts had had in mind when they’d paid her tuition. But for Truvy, she had found joy on the playing field. Quite by accident, she’d discovered she had a talent for tennis.
The train’s whistle sounded in a blast of steam. Its brakes screeched.
Truvy looked through the soot-covered window at the platform. She couldn’t see Edwina. Or her husband, Tom, whom she’d described in her letters. A dozen or so people milled about, their breath creating misty clouds in the cold air. She scanned the group—men in heavy collared winter coats and women in furlined capes, some with children tagging after them.
Although Truvy wished the circumstances surrounding her departure from St. Francis were different, the trip to Harmony had been on her agenda since August and she was going to enjoy her time with Edwina.
After Gillette’s, they’d written, but the opportunity to visit hadn’t presented itself. Truvy had always admired, perhaps envied, Edwina her full social life in college, her unabashed enjoyment of music and dancing and club gaiety. Truvy had made no time for the amusements of youth in a schedule filled with debates at libraries and lunches celebrating women scholars.
Truvy never liked to use the word regret, but looking back, she realized she’d missed a lot of fun.
Fun. She tried to think of something she’d done for the “fun” of it . . . but her mind drew a blank. She could come up with many things she’d done for the zeal, the passion, the emotion—but nothing unequivocally fun.
Just before she’d left Boise, she had gone to buy a new winter cape and ended up purchasing some things on impulse. For fun. Her firm resolve caved to an extravagant lure she had never thought would tempt her: high-heeled shoes.
She’d never been comfortable with her height but had eventually decided to accept the fact she stood five feet ten and a quarter inches tall, which meant no heels. But after succumbing to one pair of heels, she’d been so convinced that she’d made the right choice with the shoes that she’d bought five more pairs in various styles. Beaded tan slippers, black patent with French heels, lace-ups, and two that required button-hooks.
But the stiff leather of the ladies’ welt button high-tops had given her pinkie toes blisters. Which made walking without flinching difficult. The black Vici kid didn’t massage her soles as the shoe salesman had proclaimed. Instead, her insteps ached from being elevated by the two-inch-high heels. It was no wonder she lived in Spalding athletic shoes. The soft kid and flat soles were quite comfortable.
“Harmony!” the porter cried as the train came to a stop.
Truvy stood, then immediately winced. She suffered graciously, smiling at the other passengers as she gathered her handbag and adjusted the angle of her new hat, a hat that was frivolously delicious and totally out of character for her but one she adored just the same. It was stacked high with blue taffetine rosettes and two quills on either side of the knobby crown. She’d never worn such a concoction. But neither had she worn such scandalous underwear.
Blushing pink. Everything. All satin. Her corset, chemise, petticoats, and pantalets. Embroidered in the most risqué little places with white butterflies and ruby-red roses. As soon as she’d put each piece on, her entire body had shivered. Wicked.
Truvy moved into the narrow aisle to exit with the others. Each step she took, she could hear the faint rustle. Could feel the cool fabric gliding between her legs, skimming over her lisle stockings. Very wicked.
Once on the iron platform, she went to grasp the railing in the narrow space with its even narrower steps. Before she could, the station porter sprinted forward and lifted his hand to offer assistance. A moment passed before her surprise evaporated; then she laid her gloved fingers in his. She smiled as he aided her in disembarking.
A porter had never tripped over himself to help her.
She thought about the reflection that had greeted her in the Pullman mirror this morning. She had indeed looked quite unlike herself with her thick brown hair piled in glossy curls, a few dangling here and there, her smart hat and blue velvet cape to match with its black soutache braided and beaded trim. Her students wouldn’t recognize her stylish apparel. Oddly, it hadn’t been a premeditated effort to change her appearance. She had actually liked picking out the new clothes for her trip.
The chill of the afternoon swirled around her while she took several steps on the depot planks. In spite of the nip to the air, she felt beautiful for the first time in her life. But the lift in her mood sank when she realized there was nobody to greet her.
As the crowd thinned, worry built, then ebbed through her. She hoped nothing had happened to Edwina. Today was the day she’d notified her she’d be arriving at two o’clock. The train hadn’t been late.
Ten minutes later, she was the only passenger left at the depot. Steam wafted from the bellow of the train’s engine stack as it readied to depart for the next town. And still, nobody came to collect Truvy.
“Where would you like your trunks, ma’am?” the porter asked. Both of her suitcases were stacked on a handcart he pushed in her direction.
“Do you know a Mrs. Wolcott, sir?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Her husband was supposed to meet me. Is her health all right?”
“Fine as can be, last I saw her. Which was yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh . . . well . . . hmm . . .” She looked once more at the town across from the station. Dirty snow banked the boardwalk in places where the sun hadn’t melted the shoveled piles. The storefronts were decorated in holly garlands and colorful trimmings for Christmas. A town square was occupied by people who strolled in front of businesses, window gazing and conversing.
> A man striding toward the station caught her attention—for the simple fact that he was quite tall and broad-shouldered. Extremely so. He stood out heads above the gentlemen he passed. His legs were long and lean, propelling him forward with an effortless pace—but one that was clearly marked with hurry. Directly toward where she stood.
She swallowed.
This couldn’t be Tom Wolcott. Edwina said Tom had light brown hair. And was of sound character and respected in the town. A good businessman. An upstanding citizen. The Goliath descending on her didn’t look like any of those things.
Namely, because he was drinking a bottle of beer as he walked.
He crossed the street and she turned away, dread inching up her spine. She pictured Coach Thompson from Ward’s—the boys’ school adjacent to St. Francis. He had big hands with dark knuckle hair, and even bigger arms and legs. An athlete to the bone. She seemed to attract his type and according to The Science of Life, that type wasn’t suited to her at all.
The chapter on “Physical Forms” clearly stated that a large partner should seek a small partner. Large-boned people should seek those of small bones. Tall people should seek short people. Beauty should seek homeliness. Nervous people should seek their opposites. Those of strong facial contour should seek those with less decided physiognomies, and so on.
Coach Thompson had proved the theory when she’d let him escort her to one of the joint school functions—the Physics Exposition. His end of the conversation had revolved around pieces of athletic equipment, pulled groins, and the best liniment brands—not the experiments. He was tall; she was tall. He taught sports; she taught sports. He considered himself an intellect; she was an intellect. He had exasperated her. Infuriated her. She had never accepted a social invitation from him again. He’d obviously thought she had no more brains than a medicine ball.
He hadn’t been the only one at Ward’s who’d neglected to treat her as a smart woman. The academic professors knew that along with being an economics teacher, she was an athletic director—and that was all it had taken to taint their view of her intelligence quotient.
The hair on Truvy’s nape prickled. Slowly, she turned back around and there he was—still coming at her. And she knew. Knew this man had been sent to greet her.
Climbing the depot steps, he drew up to her. He swept his gaze over her in a way most men didn’t: with an openly approving appraisal of her height. It discombobulated her. A brief shiver caught her shoulders.
“You’ve got to be Miss Valentine.”
There was no surprise in his voice when he spoke her name. But he didn’t sound drunk. To her chagrin, she liked the deep richness of his voice. Warm and liquor smooth.
“Yes.” Tilting her chin upward, she met his eyes. They were the color of frosty green leaves. A silvery olive. She’d never seen such a shade before. He gave her a slow once-over with those eyes of his, brows rising.
“I was expecting a dowdy teacher,” he said at length.
The comment made her bristle. Before she thought better of a reply, she caught herself remarking, “I was expecting Mr. Wolcott, not a man carrying alcoholic refreshment. On a public street.”
He lifted the beer and stared at the amber bottle. The set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. “I just ordered this at the Blue Flame Saloon when I checked the time. I knew I was late.”
“You could have left it behind.”
“Could have.” And at that, he took a sip. A crescent of foam stayed on his upper lip; he licked it in such a way that she thought that beer had to taste as good as any soda pop—if not better.
She studied her escort. He might have the appearance of a very vigorous man, but to be fair, he could have a very high mental caliber. She didn’t want to do to him what others did to her—pass judgment too hastily.
His hair, a rich dark brown, was clipped short and neat. He didn’t wear sideburns, as was the rage with men. Nor had he shaved today, either. Dark stubble shadowed his chiseled jaw and somewhat square chin. His shoulders were far too wide; his defined biceps strained against the red plaid flannel sleeves of his shirt—a shirt that wasn’t tucked into the trousers that molded his hips.
As he lowered the bottle, she noticed his hand was wide, the fingernails perfectly trimmed.
“Hey, Bruiser,” the porter said with a jovial chuckle. “Bust anybody’s chops today?”
Bruiser. Naturally. So much for reserving objectivity.
“Naw.” Bruiser’s smile was disarming.
“I’ve been thinking about entering the Mr. Physique contest,” the porter remarked matter-of-factly. “You think you could help me beef up my muscles and show me how to knock a guy’s lights out?”
“The contest isn’t about knocking men out, Lou. It’s about the maximum artistic development of your entire physique. You need to be strong on body definition.”
“I’ve got strength.” The porter strained and made a fist.
Truvy was certain she had more strength in her left hand than the puny porter. But she wasn’t about to debate the fact.
“If you want to enter, Lou,” Bruiser said while taking another drink of beer, “come by the gymnasium and I’ll sign you up. I’ll put you on the rower and that’ll build all your major muscles. Then you can pump some ten-pound dumbbells—”
“Mr. Bruiser,” Truvy interjected. “Where is Mr. Wolcott?”
He gazed at her evenly. Her heart skipped. She didn’t want to think about how it felt to have a man stare down at her rather than up at her or on eye level.
“I’m doing Tom a favor. He had to stay with Edwina.”
Alarm caught in Truvy’s pulse. “The baby’s come?”
“Not yet. She wasn’t feeling that great today.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Are you taking Miss Valentine’s trunks, then, Bruiser?” the porter asked as he removed the first one from the handcart. It held her personal belongings: clothing, unmentionables, toiletries, Spalding shoes, and The Science of Life.
Lou went to pull the second suitcase by the handle and instantly expelled a whoosh of air. Really, the trophies inside weren’t that heavy. She probably shouldn’t have brought them all the way to Harmony. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. They were her pride and joy. Her fait accompli.
“I’ll take that,” she said to Lou.
But before she got within inches of the suitcase’s handle, Mr. Bruiser shoved his beer bottle into her grasp.
“Hold that for me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Not even Moose Thompson had been so brassy. Truvy made a stern face—the very one she used on her students when they didn’t complete their assignments on time. “I really don’t think—”
“Good,” Mr. Bruiser interjected. “I like a woman who doesn’t think too much.”
Her jaw fell open at his gall. He’d just proven she hadn’t misjudged him at all.
“Let’s go.” He grabbed the other suitcase in his lean hand and began to walk down the station’s steps.
She quickly followed, purse in one hand, Heinrich’s Lager beer in the other. “Mr. Bruiser,” she called, increasing her stride to keep up with him, “I’d rather not be responsible for your beer. People will get the wrong idea about me.”
“My name’s Jake. Jake Brewster.”
“Pardon?”
“Bruiser’s just a nickname. My old boxing name. I’m Jake. Just Jake. No mister.”
“I’d like for you to take this beer back.”
Turning his head toward her, he gave her a shrug and an easy smile, his broad shoulders lifting. “I don’t have any free hands. And . . . don’t think I won’t notice if you take a sip.”
Her mouth dropped open once more. Twice within five minutes. She wasn’t easily shocked. But he shocked her. She glared at him. The big oaf. Insinuating that she, a teacher and woman who carried herself with dignity and bearing, wanted to sample a drink . . . it was beyond appalling. Beyond gross offense.
> She shot his back a penetrating look as she walked. The iced boardwalk crunched beneath her new shoes. Even with gloves on, her fingers grew cold from the chilled beer bottle in her grasp. Across the street, a pair of ladies stood in the doorway of Kennison’s Hardware staring at her. They tsked and turned their noses up.
At first, she didn’t understand. Then clarity came at her full force. “Oh . . . no.” She gave them a dismayed shake of her head.
She should have put up a protest at the depot and taken action sooner, but she’d been caught completely off guard. At a curbside planter, she tipped the bottle upside down. The beer poured out. She left the upended Heinrich’s in the snowy dirt, dusting off her hands with a satisfied nod toward the ladies. They probably still thought the beer had been hers, but at least she’d gotten rid of it.
Hopefully, Mr. Bruiser wouldn’t notice the absence of his beer until they reached their destination. There was a good chance he wouldn’t. With the manners of a vagabond, he walked several feet in front of her.
They walked passed Plunkett’s Mercantile and the Brooks House hotel on the corner where Jake turned up the street. Edwina had arranged for her to stay with the Plunketts, the family of her former student. The Plunketts’ daughter, Hildegarde, had recently married and left a bedroom free in their home. Truvy would have stayed with the Wolcotts’, but their house was under renovation, an addition for the new baby that had gotten off to a late start and wouldn’t be completed in time. Truvy hadn’t wanted to impose. Two under a roof where things were out of place was inconvenient. Three would have been too much of an imposition. And with Edwina’s health being in question today . . .
“Does Edwina live far from here?” Truvy asked.
“No. Tom said as soon as you got settled to have Mrs. Plunkett walk you over.”
“Bruiser!” called a male voice. “Is the poker game on for tonight?”
Truvy turned her head. Across the street was Bruiser’s Gymnasium, in front of which a fellow in athletic togs was standing, jumping up and down in the cold.
Hearts Page 2
