Her words were unexpected, and he stiffened.
"I could tutor you,” she blurted.
He turned the idea over in his mind. He didn't need to know how to read to run his business. He’d invested the money left behind by his parents’ criminal pursuits, and he’d made excellent returns in his first year running the mill.
She’d saved him from making a mistake with that contract.
He could always hire someone to read his business correspondences. Or he could learn to do it himself.
“If Ruth saw that education was important to you…” Cecilia started.
“Maybe she’d think it was important for herself," he finished.
She nodded, almost looking relieved that he’d understood her meaning. He wasn't offended by her suggestion. It was kind of her to offer.
"Let me think about it," he said.
"Fine." She rushed up the stairs, almost as if she were glad to escape his presence.
He went into the kitchen, knowing he needed to eat something before he tracked down Ruth.
It would give him time to cool his temper.
He could hear the murmur of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s voice from upstairs and figured his sister was there with her.
When his parents died, he hadn't been prepared to raise Ruth. He’d been trying to figure out a way to escape the life he’d found himself in. Once he’d realized how his parents’ actions hurt others, he’d kept himself out of their schemes as much as possible.
Their unexpected deaths just before he’d come to Granbury had given him the escape that he needed.
He’d hoped and prayed that Ruth would come to appreciate this new life he’d forged for them. But it seemed she wanted to cause trouble.
He wanted to stay in Granbury. He liked the life he’d built here. The friendships he’d made. He liked feeling that he didn't always have to look over his shoulder everywhere he went.
He was honest now.
And he couldn't let Ruth mess that up.
Maybe this tutoring with the new school teacher was the answer he needed.
5
The next evening, Cecilia had her window open to let in the evening air when the first soothing strains of the guitar floated through.
She looked up at the sound of the music, blinking against the falling darkness. Yesterday, after she’d told John about Ruth’s theft, she had come upstairs and thrown herself into lesson plans for next week. Today, she’d attended worship with the trio from the boardinghouse but begged off of lunch to continue her work. Mrs. Fitzgerald had kindly served her a tray in her room.
She wasn’t avoiding John. Not really. Ruth was not the only one in her classroom who needed remedial help. Some of the plans she’d made for the previous week had been too ambitious. She wanted to encourage her students in their learning, not frustrate them. This week she must adjust some of her goals.
She hadn’t realized it had grown so late.
A headache bloomed from reading the small print in an arithmetic book, and her fingers were cramped from the copious notes she’d written. Even her back protested from being hunched over the small writing desk near the window for such a long period.
She stood and stretched, then paced across the room. It wasn't large enough. She felt restless, probably from her interaction with John last night.
Her brain was happy to latch onto thoughts of her handsome boss and what had transpired between them.
That was a bad idea.
So she immediately forced her body into action. She strode across the room and opened her door. The hallway was dark, but she had become familiar enough with the layout of the boardinghouse that she moved easily to the stairs.
The strains of music were softer now. The other windows must be closed. She carefully made her way through the house, not wanting to bump into anything with her skirt. The house seemed hushed. The music almost… magical. Whoever was playing was sitting on the back porch, and she crept to the kitchen door and opened it so she could hear better.
It was John.
He sat on the top step of the porch, looking out into the field behind the house, where the last sunlight of the day lit up the horizon. He didn't hear her or seem to register her presence. He was playing a song she didn't recognize, something lively and fun. And he was humming along with the music.
He was quite talented. She couldn't decipher any words, but she would listen to him sing and play anytime.
And then the humming stopped, and his song changed to something slower. It was softer, sadder somehow.
She should turn around and go upstairs before he realized she was here. But the music had drawn her down, and she was loathe to leave it.
She forced herself to be honest. Was it the music or the man that had drawn her? Without knowing, had she somehow suspected that he was the one playing the guitar? Out of the boardinghouse residents, would it have made more sense for the musician to be John or Mrs. Fitzgerald?
She’d turned herself upside down with the offer she made yesterday. Teach John to read.
What had she been thinking?
After he’d revealed his secret, she’d debated with herself. She’d known she should simply return to her room. Not make the offer.
She’d lived up to her promise to speak to him about Ruth’s theft. That was all that was required.
But something inside her responded to him. He wasn't ashamed that he didn’t know how to read. He’d stated it as a simple fact, confident in who he was. But it had bothered her, knowing that someone had tried to cheat him with that contract.
There was more to it. She wanted Ruth to embrace learning. And surely if her brother was applying himself to learning to read, she would too.
Now she stood in the doorway and watched John's silhouette as he played the guitar. And she was afraid that the reason she’d blurted out the crazy offer hadn't been entirely unselfish.
She was beginning to like the man. Drat it all.
She must've moved, maybe shifted her feet in preparation for escape back to her room, because he stopped playing. The quiet notes faded. He turned, shifting the guitar on his lap and tipping his head to catch sight of her.
There was nothing for it now but to brazen her way through.
"I didn't mean to interrupt." She stepped onto the wraparound porch as if that had been her intention all along. “I’ve been staring at textbooks for too long. I thought I might take a walk."
His movements were casual and unhurried as he lifted the guitar strap over his head and gently laid the instrument on the porch. "Mind if I join you?"
His voice was deep and resonant, and she thought of him humming only moments ago. Something pleasurable coiled inside her.
That wouldn't do at all.
“That’s not necessary. I won't go far. Surely any rogue mountain lion or a bear could find a better meal than me." She had committed herself to this course now and rushed down the steps past him.
He followed her at a leisurely pace. "The evening is too pretty to waste.”
Her heart leaped at the word pretty, almost as if he were giving the compliment to her and not to the night around them.
Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Assigning meaning to a simple statement that wasn’t there.
She must be careful.
She marched forward, each step sending the scent of sweet winter grass upward.
"Do you want me to stay behind?” The fact that he had registered her discomfort in the near darkness made flames lick into her cheeks. She could only pray he couldn't see the blush because of the shadows.
John watched Cecilia’s hands fist at her side. He counted to ten as she relaxed them.
"As much as I would enjoy the company, I must be careful of my reputation." She said the words with a grim inflection.
"I can assure you my intentions are completely innocent."
He could still remember the way his sudden attraction had beat inside him when he’d cradled her face after the disastrous game of
Red Rover. Was he being honest with himself? Were his intentions innocent?
She was silent for a long beat. "I have learned the hard way that good intentions are not good enough."
He could keep arguing with her. He could tell her that he and Collins and Tellers had spoken at length about her version of the story that she had told them during her interview. The Cecilia White he had come to know—the woman who had come to him about his sister stealing candy—was as upright and moral as they came. She should have no worries for her reputation in Granbury.
But he could see that she was uncomfortable.
He continued walking but allowed his steps to veer away until he was ten feet from her, though walking in the same direction across the grassy field.
"How is this? Anyone who might see us can easily determine that we are not, in fact, together."
She shook her head as if she found him ridiculous, but some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed. He took that as a good sign. He would leave her alone if she asked, of course. But he was feeling melancholy and wanted the company tonight.
"And might I add that the only people out and about at this time of night are those having their own romantic assignations. Or folks up to no good."
He couldn't see enough to make out her features, but he thought maybe she was smiling. "Why don't you go back and play some more?" she suggested.
"No, thank you. I can't play in front of an audience. Stage fright, you know?"
"Somehow I doubt that."
He let her assume what she would. He didn't play in public anymore. It was unlikely anyone from Granbury knew he could play. The guitar and his music was a reminder of the life he’d left behind.
His parents had loved music. His father had played the fiddle, and John had been a little tyke when he had taken up the guitar. Some evenings they would play fast and rowdy, stomping their feet as his mother and Ruth danced and swung each other around the room. And then there were the other times that he’d played, times he wasn't proud of. Playing to con someone out of their money. He’d been the distraction.
Playing the guitar now was bittersweet for him. Tonight, after his talk with Ruth and sending her to bed early, his fingers had ached for the solace of the guitar. The familiar melodies had both calmed and irritated him. Music was something else he had to hide from the folks of Granbury.
"What a shame," she said.
“Have you had a chance to write to your family? I feel certain the children have given you plenty to tell them about your time in the classroom." Or maybe she had complained about Ruth.
"I have."
She was stingy with information, as always. John was used to being liked. He made a practice of making friends. The fact that Cecilia wanted to keep him at arms’ length was a challenge. One that he couldn't seem to keep himself from accepting.
"You must miss them very much. I can't remember from our interview. How many siblings do you have?"
There was a pause, as if she were considering not answering him. Finally, she said. “Five. Three sisters and two brothers."
“They must miss you."
"Some of them."
This time he waited. And was rewarded when, after a few beats of silence, she said, “My sister Susie is likely rejoicing that I'm gone. She says I boss her around."
"Do you?"
He sensed her head turn to him in the near dark. Maybe the question was impertinent, but he wanted to know.
"I look out for her," Cecilia said finally. “She’s reckless."
"In what way?"
"With her heart."
Cecilia seemed determined to follow the right path—although he hadn't determined yet where she'd gotten her map—while her younger sister sounded more like a free spirit. It must drive Cecilia crazy.
Their steps slowly turned back toward the house. If it got any darker, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. And neither of them needed to step in a gopher hole and twist their ankle.
"I spoke to Ruth," he found himself saying. "About the stealing."
She was silent but listening.
"I didn't know it was going to be this hard. Raising a girl," he amended quickly. That was part of what he meant, but he was really talking about the difficulty of settling into a normal life.
His parents’ notion of right and wrong had been fluid. What was wrong to everyone else might be right to them if their family had hungry bellies or needed new winter coats. It hadn't been until he was fifteen or sixteen that he’d realized what they were doing was wrong. It was theft. At the very least, it was tricking people out of their cash. And even then, he’d respected his father enough to keep quiet about his own changing opinions.
He’d left that life behind, but sometimes it was difficult to find a moral compass when he had been brought up without one.
“Sometimes I think my sister Susie acts how she does to spite me," Cecilia admitted. Her voice was quiet in the night between them.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"When we were teenagers, I would tell her to stop flirting so much. And I think she flirted more because of it. Now she is so used to being the center of attention…" He sensed her shrug.
"So you're saying there's no hope for me and Ruth?"
They reached the porch steps, and John moved slightly closer.
Her quiet laugh was unexpected, and the sound arrowed straight into his heart. He wanted to hear it again.
"I don't know…” Was she teasing? The way her voice trailed off, it was possible.
Mrs. Fitzgerald had left a lamp on in the kitchen, and light fell through the window, giving him a slightly better view of her face.
"Maybe there's no hope for either of us." Her lips were curved in a gentle smile.
The attraction fluttered in his belly again. It made him feel as if he were fifteen again, noticing a pretty girl for the first time.
"I would like to learn how to read," he blurted suddenly. He’d been rolling the idea over in his mind all day. He hadn't spoken about it to Ruth yet. All it had taken was one smile, and he realized he wanted more time with the prickly schoolmarm. "I appreciate your offer to teach me."
Her smile faded, and he was sorry to see it go. She seemed to gather herself, her head turning slightly away. "It's late. Good night."
She slipped into the house, and he reached for his guitar. He sat back down on the porch and held the instrument, not strumming this time. He stared out into the darkness for a long time, remembering the curve of her smile.
6
John heard the shuffle of Ruth’s footsteps on the stairs early the next morning. He figured it was better to talk to her sooner rather than later about the tutoring.
He sat at the small table in the kitchen nook, a cup of coffee in front of him. She looked up as she crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Her eyes narrowed on him.
"Morning.” He inclined his head to the plate in front of the chair next to him. A few minutes ago, he had toasted the bread on the stove and slathered it with some huckleberry jam.
Ruth moved slowly across the room, and he noticed for the first time that her dress was two inches too short. She must've done some growing over the summer. The thought brought a pang. As she sat down, he saw the growth in the new angles of her face. She was changing right before his eyes. The other day, when Cecilia had told him about Ruth’s theft, he’d felt the sting of uncertainty. He wasn't qualified to be a parent. He hadn't asked for the job, and it seemed to only get more difficult with every passing day.
But as he stared at the crown of her head, he saw a tangle from where she’d hastily brushed her hair before braiding it. He also felt a swell of love.
They’d both suffered loss when their parents died. She was all the family he had left.
She sent a sideways glance at him before sliding her plate closer. She picked up a piece of toast and bit a large chunk out of one corner.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
She scowled and put the toast back down on
the plate. “I already said I would apologize to Mr. Jamison.”
"And make restitution," he reminded her. He’d spoken to Jamison about having Ruth stock shelves to repay the cost of what she’d stolen. He sipped his coffee. "That's not what I want to talk about."
Her shoulders were hunched as she picked up her toast again and took another bite. She hadn't lost the recalcitrant look on her face.
"I asked Miss White about doing some tutoring. For the both of us," he said quickly as her scowl returned.
She pushed her plate across the table, the toast only half eaten. She crossed her arms over her chest and slouched in the chair. "I don't want any tutoring."
"Well, you're going to get it. And so am I."
Her brows were lowered, angry as she slid a glance in his direction. For the first time, she seemed to pick up on the fact that he had said the tutoring included both of them. "What do you mean?"
He told her about the contract he’d nearly signed and how it would've caused problems for the mill. "Miss White offered to tutor me in reading. And you're going to join us."
She pressed her thumbnail into the surface of the table. “So she was nosin’ into your business, and you’re goin’ to let her tutor you?”
He shook his head. It wasn’t like that. “She happened to see the contract lying on my desk. Folks around here are counting on me. Counting on the mill. If I’d signed that contract, I would’ve let them down.”
“Pa wouldn’t have cared.” She shrugged a little.
He felt the dissonance of the way they’d been brought up and the way they were living now. No doubt his father would’ve taken advantage of the situation. But that was no way to live, and he didn’t intend to take advantage of the folks of Granbury.
“I do care,” he said gently.
How could he make her understand? “Just like I care about you stealin’ from the dry goods store. Don’t you like living here? Mrs. Fitzgerald takes care of us and feeds us good food.”
She had been small enough that she wouldn’t remember the terror of being chased out of town when a wealthy businessman had figured out the investments Pa was peddling weren’t real. And watching over their shoulders constantly for fear someone Pa had cheated would come after them. With bullets.
Winning the Schoolmarm: Wyoming Legacy (Wind River Hearts Book 14) Page 5
