Under Starry Skies

by Judy Ann Davis

  She said nothing when she returned several minutes later, and he helped her into the buggy. Instead, they rode in thoughtful silence until they reached the school. It was a little white rectangular building with a row of windows on each side, and a cast iron bell beside a cherry bright red door. A well with a pitcher pump was barely a few feet to the right of the door.

  “Now don’t get your hopes up,” he warned. “It’s only a little rural dwelling and hasn’t been touched since school let out for summer. I understand the school board has money for renovations, books, and supplies, but they were waiting to see what your priorities might be.” He secured the horse and buggy to a hitching rail to the front left side of the structure.

  Undaunted, she smiled. “I’m sure it’s charming. I’m used to far worse conditions than you might imagine. The school I taught in had a faulty chimney, and more often than not, was cold or filled with smoke.”

  “Well, ours has been known to do the same, though I doubt it was from a malfunctioning chimney.” He chuckled. “Some of our creative troublemakers have been known to crawl up on the roof and stuff the chimney with everything from clothes to dried grass, even books, in hopes of smoking up the classroom and buying themselves some time from their studies.”

  “I’ll remember.” She laughed. “I’ll try to keep a stern hand on their antics and keep them away from the roof.”

  Her soft rippling laugh was the first Tye had heard since she learned of her uncle’s death six days ago. Together, they entered the building, and he sensed her pleasure as soon as she stepped inside. The one-room interior held three rows of seven oak desks with benches marching up the room to end before a raised platform with a teacher’s desk. Behind it, a huge piece of slate hung on the back wall with bookshelves on both sides, and to the right, a shiny potbellied stove stood with a wood box and bin for coal. Trunks below the platform kept books and supplies safe from dampness and dust.

  “The windows, oh my,” she said, sweeping her hand to the left and right. “There’s so much light.”

  “Yes, you’ll have the warmth of the morning sun and a view of all the students who arrive, using the main path. The curtains have been taken down to be washed, and I understand there are heavier ones for the cold weather to help trap the heat inside. “

  “It’s…it’s…it’s delightful!” She twirled in the dusty sunlight like a young school girl herself. Then she stopped, blushed, and straightened her dress. “Forgive me, I’m so enchanted, I lost myself in the joyful moment. How many children will I have?”

  Elbows crossed, his back against the back wall, he watched her with an appreciative eye, pleased by her response, pleased just to be able to look at her. “I believe the school board said there would be about nineteen pupils ranging in ages from six to fourteen. Why don’t you check out the books?”

  She crossed the room to the trunks, knelt, and opened a lid on one of them, lifting out a primer. She nimbly leafed through the pages, no stranger to the book’s contents.

  He came to stand above her. “All of my family are avid readers. It was a habit passed down from my mother and father. We have an extensive library at the ranch if you need more books. I can take you out there sometime to look through them.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer.” She rose, swiping her palms together to dislodge any dust. She looked at him and smiled. “I understand my uncle was also fond of reading.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And do you have any favorite authors?”

  She was standing so close to him he could smell her rose perfume. “I’ve read most of Cooper’s and Irving’s works. Winters can be long here.” Her nearness kindled feelings of fire and desire. He met her gentle gaze with one almost as intimate as a kiss. They stared at each other from several seconds, mud brown eyes with cinnamon brown ones, before he broke the spell and silence. “However, before we start getting the school house in order, I think it’s best if we make the cottage as clean and comfortable as possible.”

  She must have felt the heat, too, because she took a step back. Her cheeks turned a darker shade of rose. She cleared her throat. “Tell me, Mr. Ashmore, how closely did my aunt follow the war?”

  “Call me Tye,” he said softly, then shrugged. “If you mean was she a professed Southern sympathizer, I can’t rightly say. She never openly admitted she was, although it’s no secret she originally came from Georgia. Now, your uncle, he made it pretty well known he supported the Union cause. Why do you ask?”

  Maria sighed. “Oh, nothing, it’s just my aunt seems to have a great admiration for Southern songs. Already, just after one night, I’ve had enough of the “Bonnie Blue Flag” to last a lifetime.”

  Chapter Five

  The next few days passed in a whir of activity for the O’Donnell sisters. The cottage was moving toward restoration with the help of a volunteer work party organized by Betsy and Tye Ashmore. Somehow, Tye had secured lumber, supplies, and shingles free of charge. Abigail and Maria were amazed at the esteem the Ashmore family held in the eyes of the entire community. In fact, it seemed the family name was known throughout the entire territory.

  Abigail and Amos immediately set to work on the barroom and rehired the old stable master, Will Singer, as a handy man and to help haul lumber from a nearby mill. Abigail was adamant they should avoid Brett Trumble’s establishment. The last thing she wanted to do was be further indebted to him. On the insistence of Aunt Emma, she hired a thin, pale-looking man to help with the stables who called himself Lanky Red, but whose given name was Lang Redford.

  Now, as she watched Amos, Lang, and Will tear up the old splintered floor in the barroom and replace it with cherry planks, she darted about, inspecting every inch as it progressed.

  “Miss Abby, do you know the meaning of skedaddle?” Amos spit out a nail he held between his lips. He knelt and snugly positioned another floor board. “Maybe Maria could use your help at the cottage?”

  “No, she sent me here,” Abigail confessed. “Anyhow, Tye has more parents and volunteers from the school board than tools.”

  “Maybe the group of church ladies I hired to start on the rooms upstairs could use your assistance?”

  “I tried, but after two minutes they shooed me away and were less than gentle when they suggested it might be better if we didn’t work together. They sent me down here.”

  Amos shook his head wearily and rose. He ambled to the kitchen and returned swinging a small, tin bucket in his hand. “We could use a few late berries for a cobbler or pie. Why don’t you take a walk and scour the berry patches along the woods near the stables?”

  “Amos, I do believe you’re trying to be rid of me, just like Maria and those church ladies.” Abigail faked a pout and crossed her arms at her chest.

  “Miss Abby, I do believe your constant motion and unbridled eagerness is beginning to set everyone’s teeth on edge.” He pushed the bucket into her hands and nudged her toward the door. “Stay out long enough to get a bucketful, and please stay out of trouble! Watch out for snakes. Tye tells me there are rattlesnakes underfoot in these parts.”

  Minutes later, Abigail found herself climbing the steep slope behind the stables where a small footpath, used by deer and wild game, wound its way upward among briars which held a few late black berries still undiscovered by hungry birds. At the crest of the slope, she looked down upon Cherry Creek flowing joyfully along, held fast to its course by its green, grassy banks. She easily picked out the Mule Shed Inn towering over the town like a German castle on the Rhine. Onward, she trudged until she wandered into a clearing at the edge of the dense woods where late blooming berry bushes bowed down with overripe fruit sending off a sweet delicious scent into the air. Careful of the thorns, she began to pick the berries, sampling as many as she put into her bucket. She moved quickly around the perimeter of the patch, careful to watch where she stepped, remembering Amos’s warning about snakes.

  But the threat came from above. A deep-throated snarl split the air bef
ore she had time to react. High on a pine limb above her head, a full-grown lynx peered at her from a crouched position. Abigail froze, dropping her bucket as her heart leaped to her throat. The mottled gray brown face with its hazel eyes stared menacingly at her. It was a magnificent beast, its body sleek, streaked with shades of chestnut and grays. Tufts of hair beside its ears and the ruff beside its face made it appear like an old unshaven man.

  “Back away slowly, gal,” a gravelly voice sang out from somewhere behind her. “Don’t scream. Don’t talk. Just stare the critter right in the eye, and give it some breathing room. Given a choice, he’d probably enjoy eating a rabbit instead of tangling with you.”

  Feeling helpless, Abigail stepped backward and heard a twig snap beneath her shoes. “Some more,” the voice coaxed. She backed up again, almost stumbling, but she caught herself. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. The lynx slowly raised itself from its crouched position and stood, snarling, revealing sharp long teeth.

  “Go on, be gone with you, you old varmint. Git!” the voice ordered, and before Abigail could react, a hatchet whizzed past her right ear and landed in a limb beneath the lynx, shaking the tree. Startled, the beast turned and leaped into the air, gliding into the soft needles beneath the pine and disappearing into the forest.

  “You can move now, gal. He ain’t gonna bother you none. Got to give you credit, you’re not one of those weeping, fainting kind of females.”

  Abigail turned on shaky legs and found herself looking into the face of a filthy, middle-aged man dressed in sweat-stained lumberman’s clothes. She heaved a sigh of relief. “I think, sir, you saved my life.”

  “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I reckon that old bugger might have wandered off by himself, given enough time. Heaven knows you weren’t about to.” The man laughed in his raspy voice.

  “My name’s Abigail. Abigail O’Donnell, and I’m certainly pleased to meet you.”

  “Folks call me River Roy,” he replied, “although they might not rightly be too fond of making my acquaintance. Over yonder is my son, Lenny.”

  A young boy, as unkempt as his father, ducked out from among the nearby bushes. Abigail guessed he was close to ten or eleven years old. He had suntanned skin and dark hair and eyes. His coveralls were a tad too small and as filthy as his father’s. His hair looked like it had been cut with an axe.

  “Hello, Lenny,” she said. “Your pa is mighty skilled with that hatchet.” When the boy hung his head bashfully, she turned to the man. “Do you live around here?”

  “In a cabin in the woods way up over the next rise.”

  “I’m new here. My sister is the new school teacher in town. You’ll probably meet her once school starts.” When the remark brought no reply except a quiet, blank stare, she asked instead, “Are you a lumberman?”

  “Yep, lumberman and sometimes miner. My eldest son and I used to work the woods for the local paper mill,” he said, “until the fool kid went off to war and got himself killed. Now it’s just me and Lenny.”

  “I’m sorry.” Abigail hesitated, unsure of what to say.

  “No use in being sorry, gal. He marched away with the best of them, rifles thrown over their shoulders—all of them like eager beavers, ready to beat them Rebs. Only Walt weren’t so lucky, not like that Trumble kid. Walt came home ridin’ in a box.”

  Abigail felt the bitterness radiate from the man. Beside him, the young boy merely hung his head and remained silent. “I wish I had something to offer you for your help.” She reached down and retrieved her bucket containing the few berries she hadn’t spilled. “You’re welcome to what I have.” She held out the bucket.

  The young boy moved beside her, knelt, picked up a few berries from the ground and popped them in his mouth.

  “Keep ’em.” River Roy walked to the tree and retrieved his hatchet. “There’s plenty more where they came from.” He chuckled. “And you left us plenty on the ground.”

  Abigail stepped toward the footpath. “If you ever need anything, stop by the Mule Shed Inn. I’d be pleased to offer you a drink on the house.”

  The scruffy man cackled. “I just may take you up on that. Not often anyone’s ever bought me a free drink or anything free for that matter.”

  “I’ll do one better.” Abigail smiled. “I’ll save the best bottle of Canadian whiskey and have it reserved just for you. The entire bottle is yours.”

  “The whole bottle?”

  She nodded and started down the path.

  “Hey, girl!” River Roy hurried after her. “You’re not the new gal the whole town’s talkin’ about, are you? You the one who’s planning to reopen the inn and barroom?”

  “Yes.” Abigail turned toward him. “Yes, I am.”

  “Where you come from? You ain’t from around here.”

  “Utah by way of New York. The state.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned! I thought you’d be much older—to run a barroom, I mean.” With a bemused gaze, he gave her a once over as he hitched up his pants to sit more securely around his waist.

  Abigail grimaced in good humor. “Well, thanks to you, I just might have that chance now—to grow older. And, I’m planning to manage the inn and hire someone to bar keep.”

  “You met Emma yet?” He squinted and rubbed his whiskered face with a dirty knuckle. “Be careful of that one. She’s more than a few shots short of a full bottle.” He turned to leave, but thought better of it and added, “And if I were you, gal, I’d shy away from trees along the path, unless I was carrying a gun. There are other varmints in the trees beside lynx, and there are snakes in the ferns along the path.”

  Nodding her appreciation, Abigail left, walking briskly down the mountain until she arrived at the cottage. Breathless, she found Maria, dust-covered and laughing, as she helped Tye who stood on the seat of a chair, trying to hang some curtains in the small parlor window. He looked like there were a thousand jobs he would rather be doing at the moment.

  Maria whirled abruptly when Abigail entered. “Oh, Abby, everyone thinks we might be able to move in tomorrow! The remaining repairs to the outside can be made after we move in. While they fix the front porch, we’ll use the back door. The bedrooms, kitchen, and living area have been cleaned and set up. People have been so generous. They’ve brought furniture and curtains, and they’ve offered to help paint—” She stopped abruptly, peering at her sister’s ashen face. “Why, Abby, what’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “I met the lynx that owns the mountain.”

  Tye jumped off the chair. “Are you hurt? I forgot to warn you about the four-legged wildlife around here.”

  “Aren’t you a little late with that piece of advice?” She offered him a wane smile.

  “You need to learn to shoot, and you both need a gun.”

  Through the doorway, Amos appeared with Brett close on his heels. It was obvious the old black man heard the conversation because he wore an expression of sheer terror. “Might be best to wear onions and garlic in your socks next time you go on a jaunt up the mountain,” he said. “The smell just might discourage them critters.”

  “We’ll do no such thing.” Maria frowned. “The smell would discourage any hopes of enticing business for the barroom as well as travelers who planned to spend a night. And what would my students think if I showed up smelling like that?”

  “Tye’s right. I think a pistol would offer far more protection than a smelly sock.” Abigail glanced at Maria. “And it would be best if we both learned how to handle one.”

  “Oh, no.” Maria’s eyes widened, and her face filled with fear. “I couldn’t pull the trigger even on a foul old skunk.”

  “Then you’d better become acquainted with a hatchet like old River Roy. If it wasn’t for the old man, I’d be sitting on the mountain still trying to stare down that lynx.”

  “You’ve met River Roy?” Tye’s eyebrows raised in amazement.

  “And his son, Lenny.” She looked at her sister. “You’ll probably have
him in school.”

  “I doubt it,” Brett spoke up, thumbing back his hat. “He doesn’t believe in sending the child to school. They keep to themselves up there and rarely come into town, except to buy supplies. I don’t even think either of them can write their names. Lenny is half-Indian, his mother was an Arapaho, I believe. River Roy lost his wife when Lenny was only a few years old, then lost his oldest son in the war.”

  Wide-eyed, Abigail pointed to Brett. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Hush, Miss Abby. Mind your manners.” Amos put a calming hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “Why, Brett, here has been generous enough to supply all the lumber and shingles for the cottage porch and roof.”

  “What?” A soft gasp escaped from Abigail’s lips as she whirled on Brett. “Is this some sort of a joke?”

  He rewarded her with a cocky grin. It sent her pulse racing and her temper rising.

  “Now, now, Abby,” Tye said. His voice was gentle, but firm. “The school board asked for his assistance. You can’t rightly turn away those eager to put a roof over your sister’s head so our young-uns might have an education. Brett’s father is on the school board along with my brother.”

  Brett pushed himself from the wall he was leaning against. “Ah, yes, my friend, my sentiments exactly. You couldn’t have put it more eloquently.” He touched a finger to his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get the wagon unloaded. I’ve a business to attend to.” He stared at Abigail a moment, daring her to challenge him. When she only glared at him, he merely winked and strolled insolently out the door.

  “That man is a cad.” She huffed.

  “He’s a very generous man,” Maria countered.

  “And my friend,” Tye added.

  Abigail’s mouth fell open. “You knew all along he was the mail thief? You were in cahoots with his devious little plan?”