Winning the Schoolmarm: Wyoming Legacy (Wind River Hearts Book 14)

by Lacy Williams

  "Your friend Torres is back in town." Michael made the offhand comment as he and John finished loading a rick of cut lumber in the freight wagon.

  John looked up. "What?"

  "Your friend Torres. He's passing through and heading back to New York. I'm thinking about giving him some money to invest."

  John shook his head. "Don't do that."

  "Why not? If he could earn a hundred and fifty percent…? It could be a big windfall for my family."

  John had hoped to be rid of his "friend" forever. He’d argued with himself every which way about whether he should confess to the sins of his past and ultimately decided to keep quiet for now. He hadn't wanted to risk the friendships he had built in Granbury.

  But if Torres was back and trying to scam his friends out of their money, wasn't that reason enough for John to tell the truth? He couldn't stand it if his friends lost their money, maybe even their livelihoods. Not when he could do something about it.

  "Michael, trust me. Don't give him any of your money. He's a thief, and you'll never get it back."

  The other man looked perplexed. "But he's your friend."

  "He's not my friend," John said firmly. "He and my dad used to run confidence schemes together, milk people out of their cash. If he's back in town, then it's bad news."

  Michael looked as if he wanted to press for more information, but Cecilia rushed in through the open mill door.

  She was red in the face, and he didn't think it was purely from the wind when he saw the tear tracks down her cheeks. He hurried to meet her, reaching for her gloved hands.

  "What's going on?"

  "It's terrible news." She looked over his shoulder to see Michael. "My sister Susie was just here, and she's run off from home. She's heading toward Sheridan and—" She hiccupped a small sob. He’d never seen her so emotional. "There's other stuff going on, private stuff. She's trying to marry this man who’s really bad for her. I need to find her."

  John looked over at Michael, who was studying the lumber they had just loaded. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere other than here right now.

  "I wish I could take you to chase after her," John said slowly. His mind was circling back to the fact that Torres was in town and trying to cheat folks out of their money.

  Torres had to know that John wasn't going to stand for it, which meant that he probably didn't plan to be in town for long. John needed to find some way to get the word out.

  And if he was going to act on that, he couldn't help Cecilia.

  He saw the fear and worry in her eyes. He hated this, but…

  “I’ve got to stay here," he said. “Torres came back, and I've got to stop him from stealing everyone's money."

  He saw the understanding dawn in her eyes, along with the disappointment.

  "My delivery will take me halfway to Sheridan," Michael said, interrupting them. "Cecilia, you're welcome to ride along. There's a stage from the town I'll be stopping in. It could take you the rest of the way."

  She looked at John. "What if I can't make it back by Monday morning?"

  He squeezed her hands. "Your family is important. Everyone will understand. I'm sure I can get Mrs. Stauck to fill in for you if we have to."

  She nodded, her lower lip trembling. "Oh John, I'm so scared for her."

  He folded her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. He wished he could do more than offer the small comfort. He should’ve run Torres out of town the first time he’d seen him. This situation was all his fault. He should’ve told the truth long before now.

  He kissed the top of her head. "Be safe. Come back when you can."

  17

  John hadn’t slept.

  Now it was early on Sunday morning, and he stood outside on Mrs. Fitzgerald’s front porch, the cold soaking through him as he watched the sun rise and prayed.

  He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Torres yesterday afternoon. It’d been so late in the day when Bart had dropped his news that John hadn’t considered visiting every house in town. He figured it would take time to tell his story to each family. People would have questions. He’d need to answer those questions. It would take too long to visit each house one-by-one. Plus, the bank was closed until Monday morning.

  The best opportunity to make a public announcement was right after church services.

  And maybe part of him was still scared that his friends would reject him, once they knew. He’d given himself one more night in Granbury. One more night as John, sawmill owner. Not John the crook.

  But now his time was up.

  A few hours later, he joined Mrs. Fitzgerald and Ruth as they walked to the school building for worship services. When Mr. and Mrs. Jamison waved, he returned the gesture. And wondered if this would be the last time they smiled at him openly like that.

  He wished Cecilia were by his side. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but her presence would’ve been a comfort. He kept reminding himself that she had listened patiently as he’d unburdened himself about his past. He prayed his friends would do the same, even as he prayed she’d find her sister.

  His emotions kept choking him up during the congregational singing, and he found he couldn't raise his own voice, mired as he was in worry.

  After the final song, at the moment when everyone was poised to start visiting, he stood. “Everyone, please stay seated.”

  Several restless children whispered.

  Shaking legs carried him to the front of the schoolhouse.

  "It's come to my attention that Charles Torres is back in town and that he has offered some of you an investment opportunity. I've known him for a decade. He and my Pa were friends. He's a thief and a liar, and I beg you not to give him any of your hard-earned money."

  Hushed murmurs spread throughout the gathering. He caught Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eye. She smiled encouragingly.

  "There's a lot you don't know about me from before I came to Granbury. Ruth and I grew up in an unconventional family—”

  "Are you investing?"

  "How do we know you're not just trying to keep the profit for yourself?" The two voices called out at the same time, talking over each other.

  They were focusing on the wrong thing.

  “There is no profit.” And then he told them everything. About the scams and the bank robbery and losing his parents.

  “Torres was a part of my old life. I implore you not to give the man any money. If you do, you'll never see it again."

  There was shocked silence from around the room.

  He glanced from face to face, looking for any sign of friendship from the people he loved most in the world.

  Even Mrs. Fitzgerald looked surprised and concerned. Ruth stared forward, her face devoid of expression.

  "How do we know you're not in on it with him?"

  John couldn't tell where the voice came from.

  "Why would I be up here telling you all this if I were part of Torres’s con?”

  "How come you never told any of us this before?" This was from Mrs. Jamison. He’d broken bread with her and her family too many times to count.

  "After my parents died, I wanted a fresh start for Ruth." He swallowed hard. "I thought if you knew what I'd come from, you wouldn't trust me."

  "You’d have been right about that." This was from a farmer who lived outside of town, a man John didn't know very well.

  His face flushed, shame rolling over him.

  "John's been good to us," Bart Koch called out.

  But the farmer was shaking his head. "That don't change what he's done."

  Mrs. Fitzgerald had her head bent, whispering to Ruth. She looked up, and her gaze connected with John’s. She tilted her head toward the door and mouthed something that John couldn't quite make out.

  If things got ugly, he didn't want Ruth to see. He nodded, and Mrs. Fitzgerald and Ruth edged out the door. Several heads turned in their direction.

  The accusatory glares aimed at John got worse.

  Everything he had ho
ped for, the friendships and community, was crashing down around him. And he didn't know how to stop it. Maybe Michael would've understood. The freighter was John’s closest friend.

  Was it too much to hope that Michael might even have stood by his side? But John hadn't been able to wait for him to get back from the freight delivery.

  Conversation buzzed from every corner of the room, neighbors talking to each other, sending stinging glances John’s way.

  Finally, Tellers stood and approached him. The school board member offered neither a handshake nor a hand on John’s shoulder. Yesterday, he would've offered both.

  "You should go. Lie low for a couple days and give folks some time to think about everything you've told us."

  "Does Miss White know about this?" A female voice rang out, interrupting.

  Tellers took a half-step back so John could answer.

  "I've told her about my past," he said.

  "She's in on it with him," someone else said. "She was the only teacher candidate the school board interviewed. Why do you think that was?"

  He felt sick to his stomach. "Miss White has nothing to do with anything. I met her for the first time when she came for her interview."

  "Maybe he's a born liar," someone else called out. "How can we believe him now?"

  Several folks murmured, and he heard the word schoolteacher and some very unkind notions being thrown about.

  "Miss White has done nothing wrong," he ground out. His temper was piqued. "Nothing except give me a chance. She spends hours every day preparing lessons and grading papers to give your children a strong education. She's proved outside the classroom that she's a good person. And she has been the best thing to happen to this town in a long time."

  He’d never meant for Cecilia to be a part of this conversation. He’d spent years protecting himself from the trouble his past could cause. And now, so quickly, her job was in danger because of her association with him.

  "You should go home. Cool off." John didn't know what Tellers was thinking. Was he trying to be a friend or just trying to get him out of there?

  John knew that spouting angry words wasn't going to fix any of this mess. If anything, it would land him in hotter water with the folks who now could claim he was a crook.

  He left the building with its babble of voices behind him.

  Outside, the sun was obscured by low, gray clouds. It was silent, eerie in comparison to the noise he’d walked away from. He strode toward the boardinghouse.

  Maybe this had all been a big mistake. Maybe he and Ruth were going to have to move somewhere else and start over. His heart ached at the thought of the friendships he didn't want to lose. Did the last two years mean nothing to the people he’d thought were his friends?

  Cecilia walked to the boardinghouse from John’s mill. It was nearly dark on Sunday evening. Michael had offered to walk her home, but she knew how anxious he was to return to his very-pregnant wife. She’d told him to go home and walked. It wasn’t far.

  The town was quiet, all the businesses shuttered for a day of rest. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Except she felt as if her own life had been turned upside-down.

  She hadn’t found Susie. She and Michael had made it as far as the small town where he had made his delivery.

  Her swirling thoughts had cleared some during the hours in the wagon, and it was only then that she’d thought of using a telephone to call home. She connected with Hattie, who had told her that Oscar and Sarah, along with Jonas and Matty, had hopped on a train. They were possibly already in Sheridan, looking for Susie.

  Hattie had been comforting and listened as Cecilia spoke all her worries. But she encouraged Cecilia to go home. The others would find Susie, if she could be found.

  After Cecilia had discovered that the next stage wouldn't come through until well into the afternoon on Monday, she’d known her search was futile. Susie could be married before she even stepped foot in the town.

  She had ridden home in the empty freight wagon with Michael in near silence. For hours, she’d wondered what she could've said to change Susie's mind. Her sister was stubborn, but obviously Cecilia had handled the interaction all wrong.

  Then her thoughts had shifted. Had she somehow encouraged Susie's wanton behavior during their teenage years? Could she have done anything to prevent it?

  Now she was only exhausted and cold. She wanted to see John. That impulse knocked her out of the little trance she’d been in and nearly made her miss the porch step.

  It was true. She wanted to lean into one of John's hugs, feel the strength and comfort of his embrace. He wouldn't lie to her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. But he would stand with her. He would grieve with her, if Susie disappeared forever.

  The house was dark. That was unusual at this time of evening. Where was Mrs. Fitzgerald? Where was John?

  Cecilia pushed through the front door and realized that there was a light on in the kitchen. Her foot bumped against something on the floor in the darkened front hallway. She barely managed not to trip over it. The shadow was large and bulky, and her heart pounded.

  She knelt down, recognizing Mrs. Fitzgerald in the near darkness. The woman had blood trickling from a gash at her temple. She was unconscious.

  Cecilia stood. "John? Ruth?" she called out, frantic.

  There was a rustle of clothing in the kitchen. Something glass shattered, the sound unmistakable. And then another clatter, like maybe a chair had been knocked over.

  Cecilia couldn't leave Mrs. Fitzgerald. But what good would she be against an attacker on her own?

  Where was John?

  "Help!" The cry was muffled, but Ruth's voice was unmistakable.

  With no thought for her own safety, she stepped over Mrs. Fitzgerald's prone body and rushed into the kitchen.

  Torres had his arm around Ruth’s waist. His hand was clapped over her mouth. Her hair was tumbling around her shoulders, the sleeve of her dress ripped. He was backing toward the door even as the girl struggled.

  Cecilia glanced around, panic clouding her thoughts. There had to be something she could grab. Something she could use as a weapon. The room was in shambles, as if Torres had chased Ruth around. Or maybe the girl had thrown dishes at him as she’d tried to escape.

  Cecilia was reaching for the frying pan on the back corner of the stove when the man’s voice rang out. "Don't."

  At the sound of a sickening thud, she froze.

  Ruth went limp in his arms.

  He must've hit Ruth with the butt of a pistol he now held trained on Cecilia. His other arm held Ruth’s boneless form against his side.

  "Let her go." Cecilia hated how shaky her voice sounded. If his finger slipped, she was only a second away from death.

  But she couldn’t leave Ruth.

  Torres was backing toward the door again, carrying Ruth.

  "Don't make me shoot you," he said.

  She held her hands out in front of her. "I won't tell anyone I've seen you. Just let Ruth go. You can escape."

  He gave a bitter laugh. "She's my leverage. I was going to get out of here without anyone knowing about it. But I can't leave witnesses.” He motioned with the barrel of the pistol for Cecilia to follow him. "You're coming with me too. One wrong move, and I'll shoot you."

  "Just don't hurt her."

  "Don't give me a reason to."

  When she passed the man, he forced her to walk in front, the gun pressing into her ribs. She was shaking and nearly stumbled down the steps of the back porch.

  He had a rundown wagon hitched to a horse.

  For one brief second, she considered screaming. Or maybe taking off at a run. Darkness had fallen. What if he was a bad shot? What if she could get away, alert John?

  He jabbed the gun into her side, making her cry out.

  "Get in the wagon." He dumped Ruth’s body over the side and into the wagon bed.

  She abandoned her thoughts of escape. She didn't know what he planned to do
with Ruth. The girl was unconscious. Wouldn’t it be better for them to stay together? Maybe Cecilia could engineer their escape.

  She was on her knees in the wagon when a blow to her head sent her sprawling. Blackness descended.

  18

  Cecilia woke with a throbbing pain in the back of her neck. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and the pain radiated down her spine and into her shoulders. She heard the creak of wagon wheels. Where was she?

  And then everything came back in a rush. Torres. The gun. And Ruth.

  She forced her eyes open, though it was dark and difficult to see. Thick snowflakes fell on her face, stinging with each touch.

  Torres was driving the wagon, looking forward, unaware that she was awake.

  He’d hit Ruth with the gun, too. Was the girl injured?

  She stretched out her arm, moving slowly so she wouldn’t draw Torres’s notice. The wagon jostled with every bump, and every sound made her jump.

  Her hand connected with Ruth’s shoulder. She realized with a shock that Ruth wore no coat. Cecilia felt only the thin fabric of her dress. She slid her fingers across Ruth’s shoulder and touched her neck, checking for a pulse.

  Ruth moaned, and Cecilia patted her gently, hoping both to offer comfort and keep her from making noise. Torres couldn’t know she was awake.

  Cecilia felt her suddenly tense and patted her again, trying to alert her that she was near before she sat up or did anything rash. Ruth's head turned toward her, her cheek flat on the wagon bed.

  It was too dark to make out anything other than the outline of her face, pale in the dark. How long had they been out here in the cold? Cecilia’s fingers and toes were chilled. She imagined Ruth’s lips were turning blue.

  She moved her opposite hand to hold one finger in front of her lips.

  Ruth winced. She must have the same awful headache as Cecilia.

  Cecilia let her eyes roam the wagon bed. She and Ruth were toward the back of it. Near the front was what might be a barrel. It had a piece of canvas tucked around its side. There were a few unknown shapes. Tools?

  The last thing Cecilia wanted was to attract Torres’s notice. She couldn’t see over the wagon bed without sitting up, and she had no way of knowing how far they’d traveled while she’d been unconscious. How could they escape? Clambering over the side of the wagon bed would surely draw Torres’s attention. And he still had a gun.