Years

by LaVyrle Spencer

  With the barest turn of the head he watched her study the landscape while she breathed deeply of the rarefied, fresh-washed air as if each breath were a blessing.

  And he thought of how differently she studied the wheat than Melinda had.

  Back at home he pulled up near the windmill. A soft breeze turned the vanes and a loose board rattled rhythmically above their heads. She craned to look up.

  “There’s something restful about a windmill, isn’t there?”

  “Restful?” His eyes made the same journey hers did.

  “Mmm-hmm. Don’t you think so?”

  He always had but would never have dreamed of saying so for fear of sounding silly.

  “I reckon,” he admitted, ill at ease with her so close.

  “I see John planted morning glories around his,” she recalled, while they both squinted up at the revolving blades behind which the sky was tinted the same vivid blue as John’s flowers.

  “I remember John and me helping Pa build this one.”

  Linnea’s gaze moved down the derrick to discover him still looking up. She found herself wondering what he’d looked like then, perhaps in the days just before full maturity set in, before he had whiskers and muscles and the brittle aloofness he preferred to display most times. Now, with his chin tilted, his jaw had the crisp angle of a boomerang. His lips were slightly parted as he squinted skyward, sending the fine white lines around his eyes into hiding. His eyelashes seemed long as the prairie grass, sooty, throwing spiky shadows across his cheek.

  “Mmm... beautiful... ”

  “Melinda always said — ” Suddenly his lips clamped, his head came down with a snap, and he shot her a cautious sideward glance. Enjoyment fled his face. “Got to fix that loose vane,” he mumbled, then tied the reins and vaulted over the side of the wagon.

  She clambered down right behind him and stood with her grade book against her breasts. “Who is Melinda?”

  Refusing to look at her, he busied himself loosening harness so the horses could drink. “Nobody.”

  She scratched on the red book cover with a thumbnail and rocked her shoulders slightly. “Oh... Melinda always said. Only Melinda is nobody?”

  He knelt, doing something under the belly of one of the horses. The top of his hair was flattened, messed, and dulled by coal dust, but still damp at temple and nape. She wanted to touch it, to encourage him to confide. He seemed to take a long time deciding. Finally he stretched to his feet. “Melinda was my wife,” he admitted, still refusing to meet Linnea’s eyes while fussing with a strap just behind the horse’s jaw.

  Her shoulders stopped rocking. “And Melinda always said... ”

  His hand fell still, spread wide upon Cub’s warm neck. Linnea’s eyes were drawn to that hand, almost as brown as the sorrel’s hide, wider than any she remembered, and certainly far stronger.

  “Melinda always said windmills were melancholy,” he told her quietly.

  Countless questions popped into Linnea’s mind while the sound of the loose board rattled above their heads. She stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with Theodore, watching his blunt fingers absently comb Cub’s mane. She wondered what he would do if she covered the back of his hand with hers, ran a finger along the inner curve of his thumb where the skin was coarse from years of diligent work. But, of course, she couldn’t. What would he think? And whatever was making her conjure up these fanciful thoughts about a man his age?

  “Thank you for telling me, Theodore,” she offered softly, then, discomposed, swung away toward the house.

  Watching her, he wondered if he knew another woman who could turn her back on such a topic without prodding further. And he knew she’d been as aware of him as a man as he’d been of her as a woman. Woman? Eighteen years old was hardly a woman.

  But then that was the trouble.

  At supper that night, Kristian was absent, but Linnea announced to the others, “I’ve decided to visit all the homes of my students. Superintendent Dahl told me I should try to get to know them all personally.”

  Theodore looked at her squarely for the first time since they’d been in the schoolroom together.

  “When?”

  “As soon as I get invited. I’ll send letters home with the children, telling them I wish to meet their families, then wait to see what happens.”

  “It’s harvest time. You won’t be meeting the men unless you go after dark.”

  She shrugged, glanced at Nissa and John, then back to Theodore. “So I’ll meet the women.” She spooned in a mouthful of broth, swallowed, then added, “Or I’ll go after dark.”

  Theodore dropped his attention to his soup bowl while Linnea did the same. All was silent for several minutes, then to Linnea’s surprise he spoke up again.

  “You expect to be staying at their houses for supper?”

  “Why, I don’t know. I guess if I were invited I would.”

  Still giving all his attention to his soup bowl, he declared, “Dark sets in earlier these days. You’ll need a horse.”

  Linnea stared at him in surprise. “A... a horse?”

  “For riding.” His eyes flicked to hers, then immediately away.

  “If the children can walk, so can I.”

  “Clippa should do,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Clippa?”

  John and Nissa were observing the exchange with illconcealed interest.

  “She’s the best horse we got for riding. Calm.”

  “Oh.” Linnea suddenly realized her folded hands were clasped between her knees and she didn’t recall setting her spoon down. Jerkily she picked it up and lit into her vegetable soup again, the words hothouse pansy cavorting through her mind.

  “You ever saddled a riding horse before?” Theodore asked presently.

  They braved a quick exchange of glances.

  “No.”

  Theodore reached across the table, stabbed a thick slab of bread with his fork, started buttering it, and didn’t look at Linnea again. “Come down to the tack room after supper and I’ll teach you how.”

  There was still some fading light left in the sky as she walked down to the barn. Across the prairie she made out the silhouette of John’s windmill, and from somewhere far off came the lowing of a cow. The chickens had gone to roost, and the chill of evening had begun settling in.

  The outer barn door was open and she stepped inside to the mingled scents, both pleasant and fecund, that were now a welcomed familiarity.

  “Hello, I’m here,” she called, peering around the doorway of the tack room before entering.

  Theodore stood at the wall, reaching up for a piece of equipage. He was dressed as he’d been earlier, in black britches, a red flannel shirt, suspenders, and no hat. He glanced over his shoulder, plucked down a halter, and handed it to her, backwards.

  “Here. You bring this.”

  He swung the smaller of the two saddles off the sawhorse, nodded toward the door, and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” She preceded him into the main part of the barn, casting questioning glances over her shoulder.

  He grinned — just barely. “Got to catch the horse first.”

  He placed the saddle down beside a box stall, looped a lead rope in his hand, and ordered, “Grab that pail.”

  Carrying a galvanized pail of oats, she followed him outside into the dusky twilight, across the muddy barnyard with its strong scent of manure and damp earth. He opened a long wooden gate, waited while she stepped through, then closed it behind them. They stood now on firmer ground bearded with short yellow grass. Near a barbed-wire fence some distance away, a dozen horses clustered, feeding. Theodore whistled shrilly between his teeth. Their heads lifted in unison. Not one took a step.

  “Clippa, come!” he called, standing just behind Linnea’s shoulder with the bridle behind his back. The horses disinterestedly stretched their necks and returned to cropping grass.

  “Guess you’ve lost your touch,” she teased.

  “You try
it then.”

  “All right. Clippa!” She leaned forward, clicking her fingers. “Come here, boy!”

  “Clippa’s a girl,” Theodore informed her wryly.

  She straightened and clutched the pail handle with both hands. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

  He grinned teasingly. “All you have to do is look.”

  “I was born and raised in town.”

  Behind her she heard the ghost of a chuckle, then over her shoulder came his long arm. “Cub,” he observed, pointing to the big sorrel workhorse that Linnea had never looked at closely. “Now he’s a boy.”

  This time she looked closely, and even before Theodore’s arm withdrew she felt her cheeks grow as pink as the streaks coloring the western sky behind them.

  “Clippa, come here, girl,” she tried again. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings. If you come over here I’m sure Theodore won’t hurt you with that rope he’s hiding behind his back. All he wants to do is take you to the barn.”

  Still the horse declined the invitation.

  Greenhorn, Theodore thought, amused, watching as she leaned forward and talked to the horse as if it were one of her students, and all the while probably afraid the mare might decide to saunter over after all.

  His eyes wandered down her slim back and hips. There’s probably plenty I could teach her, he mused, and not only about catching horses.

  Linnea straightened and declared petulantly, “She won’t come.”

  “Bang the handle of the pail,” Theodore whispered, almost in her ear.

  “Really?” Her head swung around, catching him off guard, so close her temple almost bumped his chin. Her heart lurched at his nearness. “Will that work?”

  “Try it.”

  “Here Clippa, come girl.” At the first clatter of metal on metal, the horse came trotting, nose to the air, head bobbing. When Clippa’s mouth hit the oat bucket, she caught the greenhorn unprepared and sent her thumping backward against Theodore. Instinctively his hands came up to steady her, and they laughed together, watching the horse bury her velvet nose in the grain. But when their laughter stilled and Linnea glanced over her shoulder, Theodore became aware of the warmth seeping through her sleeves. He dropped his hands with punctilious swiftness, then hastily moved around her to catch Clippa’s bridle and snap the lead line to it.

  Walking on either side of the mare, they led her back to the barn.

  Inside, the shadows had grown deeper. Theodore lit a lantern and hung it safely above their heads, concentrating on the lesson at hand instead of the girl who seemed able to distract him far too easily. She stood close, watching intently, frowning and nodding as he demonstrated.

  “Always tie the horse before you start ‘cause you never know about horses. Sometimes they take to disliking the girth or the bit and get fractious. But if they’re tied, they ain... they won’t go no place.”

  “Anyplace. Go on.”

  He glanced at her sharply. She seemed unaware of having corrected him. Her concentration was centered on the lesson at hand.

  “Anyplace,” he repeated obediently before proceeding. “Make sure you pull the blanket well up past the withers so it pads the whole saddle and doesn’t slip.” When it was smoothed into place, he knelt on one knee, folded a strap back over the seat of the saddle, then looked up. “When you throw the saddle on, make sure the cinch isn’t twisted underneath, or you’ll have to take it off and throw it again. I reckon since this’ll be the hardest part for you, you won’t be wantin’ to do it twice.” He nodded at Clippa. “She’s not as tall as some of the horses, so you oughta be able to handle it.” He straightened with the saddle in his hands and tossed it on the mare as if it weighed no more than the horse blanket.

  “Grab the cinch strap — ” He ducked, and with a cheek pressed against the horse’s side, reached beneath her belly. “— and bring it through this ring, then back up to the saddle ring as many times as you have to, till all you have left is enough to tie off. You tie it at the top... now watch.” She moved slightly closer. “First take it to the back, then around, then up through. And make sure the knot is always flat — see? — then you give it a tug.” With a few deft movements the knot was fashioned. One powerful tug made it secure, men his fingertips tucked the loose ends underneath.

  “There. You think you can do that?”

  He glanced down to find her studying the knot with a dismayed expression. “I’ll try.”

  He reversed the process, then stepped back to watch. It was the first time he’d ever seen her so nervous. Having been around horses his whole life, he’d forgotten how intimidating they could be. He smiled secretly, watching her sidle up to Clippa cautiously.

  “She knows you’re here. No sense sneaking.”

  “She’s really big, isn’t she?”

  “As horses go, no. Don’t be scared. She’s a gentle one.”

  But when Linnea reached under Clippa’s belly, the mare sensed someone strange and pranced sideways, rolling her eye to check who it was.

  Linnea leaped back.

  Immediately Theodore stepped forward, taking the bridle, rubbing the mare’s forehead. “Pr-r-r.” At the soft, rolling sound, the horse quieted. Linnea watched Clippa’s brown hide twitch and tried to submerge her fear, realizing how little it had taken for Theodore to calm the animal. Still holding the bridle in one hand, his expression softened. “You’re strange to her. She had to look you over a little bit first. Go ahead. She’ll be still now.”

  She was, though it was with great diffidence that Linnea reached a second time under the thick belly. But things proceeded without a hitch until it was time to tie the knot. She tried it once, twice, then raised her eyes guiltily.

  “I forgot.”

  He showed her again. Standing at his shoulder she watched his strong, brown fingers fold the leather into the shape he wanted, his broad thumbs flattening the knot before drawing the end of the strap behind and giving it its final tug.

  Their arms brushed as she reached toward the saddle. Neither of them spoke as she took the cinch and began undoing Theodore’s handiwork, studying it carefully in reverse. He noted how she held the tip of her tongue between her teeth while concentrating. She made a false start and mumbled under her breath.

  “Have you ever tied a man’s necktie?” he asked.

  Her fingers stilled and she looked up at him. “No.”

  Her face was lit from above by the golden lantern light. He noticed for the first time the dusting of freckles across the crests of her cheeks. Coupled with her dark, studious eyes, they gave her a guileless look of innocent youth. Had she been laughing or angry his heart might not have fluttered. But her expression was sober, as if she approached the lesson with utter seriousness. It reminded him again of how truly young and inexperienced she was — so young she had never saddled a horse before, and certainly too inexperienced to have tied a man’s necktie. He forced his attention back to the triangular knot.

  “You have watched your father, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So handle it like a necktie, keepin’ it flat with your thumbs. Now start again.”

  She bit the tip of her tongue and started again. Halfway through, his thumb reached up and pressed hers. “No... flat,” he ordered. His other hand clasped the back of hers and changed its angle. “The other direction.”

  Fire shot up her arm and she bit her tongue harder than she’d intended. But his hands fell away immediately and she was sure he had no idea how he’d affected her. “Now give it a good yank with both hands.” She grabbed, gave a jerk, and secured a perfect knot.

  “I did it!” she exclaimed jubilantly, smiling up at him.

  His smile, when he turned it on full force, was numbing. It turned her bones to butter and made her heart dance. Had this been one of her daydreams, she would have awarded the heroine at least a hug of approval. But it wasn’t, and Theodore only tapped the end of her nose with a fingertip and teased, “Yeah, you did, little missy. But don’t
get too smart yet. Not till you do it without help.”

  Little missy! Her cheeks grew pink with indignation at being treated like some adolescent in pigtails! She twirled toward the horse with a haughty lift of her chin and determination in each movement.

  “I can and I will do it without your help!”

  He stepped back and watched, grinning, while she not only untied the cinch, but reached up and whipped the saddle and pad off the horse’s back. When her arms took the weight, it almost tipped her on her nose. Amused, he crossed his arms and waited for the show to go on. She narrated it in a piqued voice and never shot him so much as a glance.

  “Blanket all the way up on the withers. Saddle ov-ver... ” She grunted and puffed, lifting it off the floor. “... and make sh-shure... ” She boosted it with one knee, but not high enough. He suppressed a smile and let her struggle. “Make sure the cinch is... is... ” She kneed the weighty load again and missed again, nearly pulling her arms from their sockets.

  Theodore forced a sober expression and stepped forward, reaching to help.

  “I’ll do it!” At her angry glare he stopped cold, studied her puckered mouth, and backed off with a silent nod. Her shoulders weren’t even as high as Clippa’s back, but if the ornery little cuss wanted to prove she could do it, he wasn’t about to stop her. There was a nice solid stool in the tack room for her to stand on, but he decided he’d let her suffer away until she grew tired and asked for his help. Meantime, he enjoyed the sight of her adorable mouth, pinched in irritation, and her dark eyes snapping like lightning bugs on a clear, blue night.

  To Theodore’s amazement, the saddle plopped over Clippa’s back on the next throw, and his eyes took on a gleam of respect. She hung onto the stirrup for a moment, resting and panting, then stooped to capture the cinch. She executed a perfect flat knot, gave it a two-armed jerk, and spun to face him with her hands defiantly on her hips.