Pearl

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Cal knew he was treading on dangerous ground. He had no right to the things he was thinking. Or wanting. It was time to step back. But still he lingered over her lips, seeking one more taste. One more touch of her.

  His rough hands moved up her sides until they encountered the swell of her breasts. For one brief moment, he allowed his thumbs to brush across the tips. At once they hardened, and he heard her quick intake of breath. He swallowed her protest with a hard, quick kiss before lifting his head.

  Pearl dragged air into her lungs. Her fingers were curled into Cal’s shirt, though she couldn’t recall how they got there. And her body was pressed to his in a most provocative way.

  As her head slowly cleared, she lowered her hands and moved away.

  Without a word, Cal climbed down from the wagon, then lifted her in his arms. The flare of heat was instantaneous. He set her down, then lowered his hands and took a step back, afraid to touch her again.

  She avoided meeting his eyes. “Good night, Cal.”

  He climbed into the wagon, grateful for the distance between them. “I hope your first day of teaching is all you dreamed of.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he flicked the reins, he was surprised to feel the tremors. By God, the very prim and proper Pearl Jewel had him shaking.

  In the barn, he worked quickly, efficiently, grateful for something to do. As he forked hay into a stall, he muttered, “So, Miss Pearl Jewel, you decided to atone for the mistakes of your parents by becoming the most perfect person in the world. You thought that if you were spotless in dress, in manner, in behavior, the good people of Boston would believe that you had risen above your less-than-perfect beginnings and would judge you acceptable in their society.”

  He closed the stall and walked outside, glancing up at the stars. A half smile touched his lips as he held a match to the tip of his cigar. She could protest all she wanted, but she couldn’t hide one obvious fact. When he kissed her, she’d responded. And not at all like a girl who was repressed by memories of her parents’ mistake. She’d kissed him back like a woman. A woman whose actions masked a deep, simmering sensuality.

  Chapter Seven

  Before dawn, Pearl lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. Her sleep had been troubled. Thoughts of Cal McCabe, holding her, kissing her, had intruded like shimmering ghosts, causing her to toss and turn. His kisses didn’t disturb her nearly as much as her reaction to his kisses. What had happened to her when he wrapped her in his warm embrace? She seemed to lose herself when he touched her. Certainly last night she had behaved in a most unacceptable way. Like...like a wanton.

  She struggled to put him out of her mind. But without Cal to fill her thoughts, there was but one thing left.

  The day that lay before her.

  The enormity of what she had done pressed like a boulder against her chest. She had defied Cal and the townspeople to open a school. Worse, she had rejected their legitimate concerns about timing and location. Her breathing became shallow. She sat up in the darkness. What if no one showed up? What if she had gone to all this time and trouble for nothing? She would be the object of scorn in town. Worse than that, she would be humiliated before Cal and her sisters. She could bear ridicule from the others. What she couldn’t bear was the thought of facing Cal in defeat.

  Cal. There it was again. That little jolt each time she thought of him.

  What if his predictions of danger came true? He knew this land so much better than she.

  Oh, sweet heaven, what had she done? She could hear her mother’s voice, admonishing her young daughter. In all things, you should strive for perfection, Pearl. If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well.

  Perfection.

  With a sigh of disgust, Pearl tossed back the covers and crossed the room to the pitcher of water atop her dressing table. She washed and dressed quickly in the predawn chill, making certain that her hair and clothes were as nearly perfect as she could make them. The gown was simple, as befitted a teacher. Pale pink dimity, with a high neck and long sleeves, and a row of buttons from throat to waist. The hem of the soft flounced skirt brushed the tips of her calf boots. She swept her hair up into a knot at the back of her head and secured it with pins. Almost at once, little tendrils slipped loose to curl around her forehead and cheeks. But try as she might, they wouldn’t be tamed. She picked up her shawl and parasol and made her way downstairs.

  It was pleasant to have the kitchen to herself for a change. Though she enjoyed having sisters, something she’d never had before coming to Texas, she found their constant chatter unsettling. And when Carmelita was here, the kitchen became her domain; everyone else was an intruder.

  Pearl tossed a log in the fireplace, sending hot sparks flying. With the addition of some kindling, she soon had a cozy fire burning.

  She added wood to the stove and placed a pot of coffee on it, then turned her attention to filling a basket with food for the long day ahead.

  “You’re up early.”

  At Cal’s familiar deep voice, she turned. As always, she felt a quickening of her heartbeat at the sight of him, lounging carelessly in the doorway.

  He was dressed all in black, with a gunbelt slung low on his hips. He was freshly shaved, and little droplets of water still clung to his dark hair.

  Her gaze centered on his lips. Remembering the kiss they’d shared, she felt a rush of heat that left her dazed. She quickly looked away.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she confessed.

  “Nerves?”

  She nodded, refusing to look at him.

  “Coffee smells good. Want some?”

  “I guess I could try a cup.”

  He crossed the room and filled two cups, then handed one to her. As their fingers brushed, she absorbed the little tremors.

  He continued to stand beside her as she wrapped cold chicken and biscuits in a linen towel and placed them in a basket.

  Without warning, he leaned closer, until his lips were almost brushing her temple. “You smell good.”

  She went very still, fighting the temptation to pull away. Or to turn into his arms. This man was causing her any number of conflicts. “It’s probably the lavender soap.”

  “Lavender? You didn’t get that in Hanging Tree.”

  She laughed. “No. I brought it with me from...”

  “I thought so. It smells like Boston. Like you.”

  Did he have any idea how uncomfortable he was making her? She thought about bolting. Instead, she busied herself covering the basket with a linen cloth. That done, she lifted the cup of coffee to her lips and drank deeply.

  “Want some breakfast?” Cal asked.

  “Who’s going to make it?”

  “Do you think Carmelita is the only one who knows how to cook?” He crossed the room and placed a blackened skillet on the stove. With the confidence of one who has always taken care of his own needs, he cracked eggs and sliced bread.

  “Carmelita told me that cowboys will eat whatever is set in front of them.”

  Cal nodded. “Deer, steer, bear or rabbit. We don’t care if it walks, flies, or crawls on its belly. We’ll even eat rattler.” He saw Pearl touch a hand to her queasy stomach, and his smile grew. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

  “No. Of course not.” She stood in the middle of the kitchen, feeling completely useless around this man.

  “I didn’t think so. Anyway, I’ve eaten roots, berries, spices. I’ve drank water from a mudhole that even the animals wouldn’t touch, coffee so strong you could stand on it, and whiskey that would curl your toes. So I guess I can take a chance at my own cooking.”

  Soon the air was sweet with the fragrance of eggs and spices. As Pearl watched Cal neatly turn the egg mixture onto a platter, she realized that he’d been teasing her. He cooked the way he did everything—with quiet but complete competence.

  Her own feelings of inadequacy grew.

  “You might want to get two plates,” he said as he refilled their cups.

&nb
sp; “Oh. Yes. Of course.” When that was done, she settled herself in the chair he held for her.

  She took a small portion of eggs and handed him the platter. She wasn’t surprised when he heaped his plate high, added a handful of chilis, then reached for the bread, which he liberally spread with wild-strawberry preserves.

  While she picked at her breakfast, he devoured his. She found her gaze drawn to his big hand, curled around the cup. It was a hand more suited to holding a gun or wrestling a steer. Yet that same big hand had held her as tenderly as if she were a delicate flower.

  “Carmelita told me that cowboys are a strange breed, always taking off for parts unknown, spending more time talking to their horses than to humans.” Pearl’s tone lowered, as she realized she was revealing far more than she’d intended. “She said only a fool would ever consider marrying a cowboy.”

  Cal chuckled. “I guess she’d know. Her husband, Rosario, is one of the finest vaqueros in this territory. And those two old fools have been in love for as long as I’ve known them.”

  Pearl laughed then, realizing that what he said was true. She had seen the way the housekeeper seemed to light up whenever her husband brought the carriage for her. Though few words were spoken between them, their love had a language all its own.

  “I can see you’re not very hungry,” Cal remarked.

  “I suppose it’s because of the nerves that woke me too early this morning.”

  He surprised her by placing a hand over hers. “It’s going to be fine,” he said softly.

  This time the rush of heat was much more intense.

  She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, suddenly needing air. “I think I’ll go now. There are a lot of last-minute details to see to.”

  He scraped back his own chair and stood, towering over her. “I’ll bring your horse and rig around before I head out to the north range.”

  “There’s no need, Cal. I can manage.”

  “I know you can.” He stared down at her a moment, then ambled across the room and let himself out.

  Minutes later, she heard the sound of his return and made her way to the porch. He helped her into the little rig, then handed up the basket she had prepared.

  He studied the stiff way she held herself. “They’ll come,” he said simply.

  “I wish I could be as certain as you are.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  She swallowed. “Even if they do come, will they come out of a love for learning?” she asked. “Or merely out of curiosity about the Jewel ranch?”

  His earlier comments had planted seeds of mistrust in her mind. Though he hadn’t mentioned it again, she couldn’t forget his disapproval.

  “What do you care?” He regarded her carefully. “No matter what brings the children to your school, it’s as you said—they’ll go away with more knowledge than they brought.”

  “I suppose so.” Pearl picked up the reins.

  “I wish you’d reconsider my offer of a rifle, though. I’d feel better if I knew you had some protection out there.”

  “Protection?” She gave a shake of her head. “All it would do is enrage an attacker. I could never bring myself to fire a weapon. I think it’s barbaric.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing as he stepped back.

  She flicked the reins. The horse and rig moved slowly away.

  The sky had still been in darkness when Pearl left the ranch house. By the time she stepped from the rig and opened the door to the schoolhouse, the sun was hovering on the horizon, casting the land in a golden glow.

  She crossed the room and knelt at the fireplace. With trembling fingers, she held a match to the kindling, shivering until heat and light flared. Soon fire licked along the bark, chasing away the last of the gloom and chill in the room.

  She hurried through her chores, eager to have everything in readiness for her pupils. Fetching a bucket of water from the creek, she set it in a corner of the room, along with a dipper. With neat, deliberate strokes, she printed her name on a slate and placed it on her desk. For good measure, she swept the floor and dusted the desks, though they were already spotless.

  She walked to the doorway and peered out. There was no sign of a horse or wagon in any direction.

  She sighed and struggled to clear her mind of all but good thoughts. It was one of those rare spring mornings, she reminded herself. Though the air hinted of rain and cold, the morning sun had wiped away the last of the shadows from the foothills below Widow’s Peak.

  Using a rock, she propped open the door to allow the fresh spring air to penetrate the musty cabin. Then she sat down on the step and lifted her face to the sun. She remained that way for several minutes before she gave in to the restlessness that drove her.

  She walked through a nearby field and picked a bouquet of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. She marveled at the range of colors that swept across the meadow, turning entire hillsides into a rich artist’s palette.

  She made her way back inside and placed the flowers in a crock of water on her desk.

  Desperate to fill the time, she climbed a rickety ladder that led to a small loft. The floor was spread with straw. In one corner was a dusty, faded buffalo robe. Kneeling, she lifted the robe, touching it lightly to her cheek.

  Her father had slept here. The realization swept through her with such force that she was rocked back on her heels. As a young man, determined to make his way in the world, he had built a cabin in the middle of a wilderness. Armed with nothing more than his two hands, he had overcome obstacles that would have destroyed lesser men. And had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

  Her fingers tightened on the robe. And so will I, Daddy, she thought fiercely, pressing her face to the faded robe. So will I.

  She folded the robe carefully and replaced it in the straw, then made her way down the ladder.

  Another check outdoors had her heart sinking. The sun was already high overhead. And still there was no sign of a horse or wagon. No children. No parents. No students for her school.

  Though she had barely tasted her breakfast, she had no interest in lunch. Ignoring the cold chicken, she took several bites of a biscuit. It stuck in her throat like a hard, cold lump. Even a dipper of water couldn’t dislodge it. With a sigh, she set the basket of food aside.

  She prowled the room, touching a hand to the desks, running her finger along the spines of her meager supply of books. How vain she had been. She had imagined herself reading to the children, introducing them to fascinating characters and taking them to strange, new places. Places they would never see in their lifetimes, except in the pages of a book.

  Oh, how could she have been so foolish? she asked herself. She had seen the reaction to her proposal. “Schoolin’s for rich kids,” Rollie Ingram had said. And heads had nodded in agreement.

  A tear squeezed from the corner of her eye. She wiped it away. She wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t. For, if she dared to let a single tear flow, she might never stop.

  She walked to the door again and stepped outside. The sun had begun its slow arc to the western horizon. And still there was no wagon in sight.

  A feeling of melancholy stole over her. What had she expected? She didn’t belong here. She would never fit in. This was her father’s home. And being his daughter wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough. She had let him down. Useless. That was what she was. Useless.

  She sank down on the step and lowered her face to her hands. Why had she set herself up for such heartache? This wasn’t Boston.

  Precisely, said an inner voice. She had come all this way to escape the restrictions of her childhood home. To see what it was that had sent her father into raptures whenever he spoke of his home. She had come here to see for herself this raw, primitive land that offered freedom to anyone willing to work hard and pursue lofty goals.

  She took a deep breath, fighting to calm the turmoil raging inside her, and lifted her head. She wouldn’t let this land defeat her. Nor would she give up o
n its people.

  That was when she saw the wagon rolling toward her. In the back sat half a dozen children. And on the hard wooden seat was Cal, guiding the reins. His horse trotted smartly behind.

  They rolled to a stop. At once, the children began leaping down, the bigger ones lending a hand to the smaller ones. Everyone began shouting at once.

  “The wagon lost a wheel,” five-year-old April Potter called.

  “And we started walking back to town,” said May Potter.

  “It looked like we were going to miss our first day at school,” put in June Potter.

  All three ducked behind the skirts of Birdie Bidwell, who was positively glowing.

  “My folks said they could spare me once in a while, so’s I can learn to read and write,” she said proudly.

  “Travis was in charge, and he said we all had to stay together,” said a little boy, who stuck out his hand and added, “My name’s Bartholomew Adams. But everybody calls me Bart”

  Too overcome for words, Pearl silently accepted his handshake. She had to struggle for composure. She had an overpowering desire to weep—this time, happy tears. Instead, she merely nodded as each child added to the narrative. And all the while her gaze kept flitting up to the wagon seat, where Cal held the reins, silently watching her.

  “My pa said I was old enough to be responsible for the others,” said the bigger boy, who introduced himself as Travis Worthing. “Besides the townies,” he said, indicating the Potter girls and Birdie, “we stopped at a couple of ranches, as well. But then our wheel broke. And I’ve never fixed a wheel by myself before, so I decided to leave the wagon and have everyone walk back home.”

  Very wise, Pearl thought, unable to form the words over the lump in her throat.

  “But Mr. McCabe came along and said he’d fix the wheel and see that we got to school,” added Bart Adams.

  “And we all sat in the grass and ate our lunches while Mr. McCabe rode back to his ranch and returned with the tools he needed to fix our wagon wheel.” Birdie Bidwell, her curtain of blond hair bobbing for emphasis, nearly ran out of breath as she concluded, “And here we all are, Miss Jewel.”