Isaac scanned Dash from hat to boot, shaking his head. “Your pursuit of the schoolmarm isn’t going well, from the looks of it.”
Ah, yes. The gossip. “You heard about that, did you?”
“A few ladies were nattering in the post office, and your names happened to come up. Don’t get angry, Dashiell. Folks enjoy a good romance.”
“I’m not angry, nor would I call my relationship with Abigail Bracey a romance.”
“You came a long way to find her here, didn’t you?” Isaac wiggled his brows. “That takes bravery. I envy you, pursuing a woman with such confidence. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
Isaac and his good teeth? “I doubt that.”
“Oh, it’s true. Talking to women is hard, unless I’m selling them postage stamps.”
“Is that what you were doing with Geraldine Story when I barged in?”
Isaac grimaced. “It’s not like that. Her little boy collects postage. Pastes them into a book.”
“Seemed like you were conversing well enough, and not about postage collecting either.”
“I’m not sure why we’re discussing Mrs. Story instead of you and the schoolmarm.”
“Because there’s nothing to discuss.”
“Sure there is. What did you do to deserve her wrath?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
Isaac mock-punched Dash’s shoulder. “You need some cheering. I was just on my way to the café for supper. Allow me to treat you.” Isaac dined out frequently. Clearly being postmaster paid well. Better than being an operative, anyway.
“Nah, thanks. Abby’s in there. I don’t want to upset her.”
“We’ll sit across the room. Come on, you’ve got to eat.” Isaac tugged Dash’s arm. “You can give her that sad-eyed look over your soup. My mother’s vexation with me used to dissolve when I did that. Forgave me anything.”
“Mothers tend to be forgiving.”
“Aren’t all women like that?” Isaac opened the café door for them.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
Isaac nodded.
Oh, did he have a lot to learn.
Abby’s chair in the café’s far corner gave her an excellent vantage of the restaurant, so she couldn’t miss Dash’s entrance with Isaac Flowers. She gritted her teeth. When would that man leave her be?
“Something wrong with your pork chop?” Mrs. Queen frowned.
“Oh no, it’s delicious. So tender.”
Mrs. Queen’s full cheeks rounded as she smiled in obvious relief. “Thank you, Miss Bracey. I didn’t do the pork, though—I do the sweet things. But I did the fried apples.”
“I’d love the recipe, if you’d be inclined to share.” Abby determined to focus only on her dining companions, Mrs. Queen and Kyle, not on Dash.
“I’m happy to.”
The café was not like the Chicago restaurants she’d visited with her parents, not with its family-style fare and homey decor, from the lace curtains to the plain sconces on the walls. Abby enjoyed the pleasant atmosphere and tasty, ample portions far better than any restaurant her parents had favored. The fried apples in particular were hard to eat with the dainty sense of decorum Mother had taught her.
“I appreciate you meeting with me so I can get to know you both better. I love having Kyle in my class.”
Kyle wiggled on his chair, clearly pleased.
Abby took the opportunity to discuss Kyle’s strengths, which he also seemed to enjoy. It was important for him to know he was a special young man, as each child was special. But after a few minutes, Abby shifted topics, the better to discern whether or not these two were Fletcher Pitch’s family. “Kyle did an excellent job with an assignment I gave the class the other day. He wrote about you, ma’am, and mentioned he was born in Pennsylvania. What brought you to Nebraska a few months ago?”
Mrs. Queen chucked Kyle’s chin. “The job. An uncle of mine works for the railroad and passed through Wells. He dined here at the café and learned they needed a baker, so he telegraphed me. Kyle and I came right away.”
“From Pennsylvania?”
“No, Saint Louis. We’ve moved around a fair bit.”
Interesting. Katherine Hoover would have moved around a fair bit too. “You baked for a restaurant in Missouri, then?”
Kyle sat up. “What’s for dessert?”
“Crumb cake,” Mrs. Story answered.
Abby wanted an answer to the question. “You’ve worked in restaurants before, I take it.”
“Not quite. I baked at home and sold to restaurants to supplement the savings I had when Kyle’s father passed. Kyle was a tiny thing then, and you know how it is, money runs out—this must be boring you to distraction, Miss Bracey. Ready for crumb cake?”
“Yes, please, but I’m not bored.” And so far, all she’d learned was the Queens moved frequently and Kyle’s father was not around past the boy’s infancy. Circumstantial clues. She required more. Perhaps she could inquire into Mrs. Queen’s relatives—
“Kyle, fetch us some of that cake, dear boy?”
“Yes, Mama.” Kyle was off his rump before the word cake.
“Walk, don’t run.”
Abby chuckled. “He’s a lively boy.”
“He’s my whole world. Which is why … well, Miss Bracey, I wanted a moment alone with you. Kyle says your beau has been to the school. I’m not sure that’s appropriate in front of the children.”
Oh dear. “I assure you, Mrs. Queen, nothing untoward has happened, and I have instructed Mr. Lassiter not to come to the school anymore. Besides, he is not my beau.”
“Then why is he staring at you?”
“What?”
“All supper long, with eyes like a basset hound.” Mrs. Queen widened her eyes, looked up, and turned her lips down in imitation. “Like you hurt his feelings. It’s a little sweet, you know.”
Whatever it was, it wasn’t sweet. “I’m afraid to look.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t mind a handsome fella looking at me like that. You should be grateful.”
Thankful for whatever antics he was pulling right now? Ha.
“Much as I don’t approve of a schoolmarm having a beau, you should forgive him and put him out of his misery,” Mrs. Queen added.
“If he’s in misery, I am not the cause.” She said it as lightly as she could, but she had no intention of forgiving him. Forgiving meant ignoring what he’d done to her, acting as if it had never happened. How could she do that, after he left her without a word?
Kyle returned, balancing three plates of crumb-topped yellow cake.
Grateful for the diversion, Abby smiled. “This looks delicious.”
“It is,” Kyle assured her, crumbs already coating his lips. He must have sampled some in the kitchen.
But Abby forgot to pay attention to the taste, knowing Dash was watching her with sorrowful eyes.
CHAPTER 8
Forgive, forget, forgive, forget.
The words formed a rhythmic refrain in Abby’s head, in time to the beat played by the group of fiddles and banjos Saturday evening at Mayor Carpenter’s birthday party. Strange to be mulling such a painful concept as forgiveness while she danced to an upbeat, festive reel, but the subject had been niggling at her since last night’s supper with Mrs. Queen.
She might not be able to forgive or forget what Dash had done, leaving her without a word, but she could choose to respond differently. With less anger.
Who could be angry tonight, anyway? Town hall’s yolk-yellow walls were draped in banners wishing the mayor a happy birthday, and streamers hung from the central brass chandelier. Additional kerosene lamps had been brought in to illuminate the space, and the chairs that had been set up for her meeting with parents the past Wednesday ringed the room, offering seating while leaving the room’s center clear for dancing. Abby had been inundated with partners from the moment she arrived, and every one of those partners, for reel and quadrille alike, had been her students.
Most of her pupils wer
e here, although she hadn’t yet spied Kyle or Micah. She glanced for them again and, oh, Bud’s hands reached for hers. It was their turn to sashay down the center of the reel.
The eight-year-old’s hands were slick with sweat as they skipped to the end of the rows; hers might be damp too. She hadn’t been this warm all winter, but exercise and the press of so many bodies heated the room with greater efficiency than any stove. Her nape and back felt sticky, but it also felt quite good to be warm for a change.
At the song’s final notes, Abby curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Yes, ma’am. Now I gotta dance with my grandmammies.”
“Your grandmothers? They’re here?”
He nodded. “Mama’s mama and Papa’s mama. My real papa, not my step-pa. They came for a visit.”
Interesting. Bud Grooms was one of the three candidates to be Fletcher Pitch’s son, but she’d not ranked him high on her list because of the timing of his mother’s remarriage and pregnancy. Now that Abby knew Bud’s grandmothers were here, however, it seemed almost impossible that he was Fletcher Pitch’s son. Katherine Hoover had no family, certainly not a mother and mother-in-law. Who, now that Abby had gotten a good look, strongly resembled Bud.
She crossed Bud’s mother off the list etched in her brain. “I hope to meet them later.”
“Traveling dance!” someone hollered as Bud sauntered off.
Coy Johnstone appeared at her elbow and cleared his throat. “May I have the honor, Miss Bracey?”
“My, you asked so nicely. Of course. You’ll have to teach me, though. I’ve never done a traveling dance.”
“Me neither, but you change your partner when they say so.”
“So we won’t be partners for long?”
“I reckon not.”
She didn’t recognize the song at all, but it was a two-step. She and Coy moved to the beat, although no dancing master would endorse their form. Abby didn’t care in the slightest. It meant the world that her students liked her well enough to want to spend time with her—even Coy, whom she often reprimanded for chattering.
“So, ma’am, I was talking to Almos about Stripey.”
Ah, so Coy had asked her to dance with an ulterior motive. “Oh?”
“Are you sure you won’t let ’im back in the class?”
“Almos or Stripey?” she teased.
“Stripey.” His lips twitched. “I was thinking we could study skunks’ habits and such. He’d be a good object lesson.”
“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please say you’ll think on it.”
“I shall, but I doubt I shall change my mind. There’s no telling what a skunk loose in the classroom would do.”
“Change partners,” the fiddler hollered over the song.
“To whom?” Abby asked the air as Coy released her hand and dashed to claim his new partner. Then someone came to her rescue: the bearded fellow whose property abutted the schoolyard. He tipped his head as if to ask permission. She nodded. “Hello, neighbor.”
“Good evening, Miss Bracey.” His touch was light, respectful.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Burt Crabtree.”
She’d never seen him this close-up before. His beard was thick and rather scruffy, but he presented an otherwise neat appearance. In fact, his coat fit him so perfectly it appeared professionally tailored. No wonder Hildie thought him the town’s second most eligible bachelor.
But Hildie was correct about his shyness. He didn’t look at her, nor did he speak, and the awkwardness was palpable. Abby cleared her throat. “How is your fence coming along, Mr. Crabtree?”
“Well. And your class?” Ouch! He stepped on her foot. “Sorry. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“’Twas nothing.” Her students had been clomping on her feet all evening. Good thing she’d worn her heaviest boots. “And the class is well indeed.”
“The young’uns are fun to watch, running around while I’m working. So full of life.”
“That they are—oh.” There went his boot again, square on her toes. “I’m fine.”
“I doubt it, but looks like we’re about to get new partners anyhow. I think I’ll go home after this dance.”
“You should stay. The mayor hasn’t even cut his birthday cake yet.”
“I’m not much for parties. Hope your next partner is a much better dancer than I am.”
The fiddler held his bow aloft. “Time to travel!”
Mr. Crabtree ducked out of her hold, and her hand was claimed by the postmaster. Hildie would smirk at seeing her dance with her choice for town’s most eligible bachelor, the finest-dressed man in attendance, with his blue silk tie and a suit so well-fitting her father would have asked for the name of his tailor.
“Miss Bracey. Having fun?”
“I am, Mr. Flowers. You?”
“Sure.” He didn’t sound convincing. His gaze flitted to the vestibule door. Was he watching for someone in particular?
“It’s wonderful to see so many people celebrating the mayor.”
“Agreed.” His gaze caught on a passing figure. She twisted her head to look. Maynard Yates shuffled the perimeter of the room, lips fixed in a scowl. “I don’t know why he even attends events. His disdain for the townsfolk is mutual. You think he’d learn.”
That sounded familiar. Three years ago in Chicago, after Father’s criminal activities were exposed, their well-meaning pastor invited them to attend a hymn sing in the church fellowship hall one Sunday evening. Mother felt too unwell to attend, so Abby went alone with a sense of anticipation for the first time since Mr. Welch and the Secret Service entered their lives.
Is this chair taken? Pardon me, how about this one? No? This one, then?
It had taken her a full minute to realize none of the empty seats were open—to her.
As she left, tears streaming down her cheeks, the gathered flock started the hymn sing. Sweet harmonies of “Amazing Grace” followed her out into the street.
Did any of them understand the irony of it? Clearly not, for none acknowledged knowing her when they passed in public. When Abby told the pastor why she hadn’t stayed at the sing, he declared it shameful, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Tonight might not be a hymn sing, and this might not be church, but folks avoided looking at Maynard Yates the way her former fellow parishioners had pretended not to see her on the streets of Chicago. A few people even turned their backs. When he approached the punch bowl, the woman filling cups bustled away before he arrived.
Abby’s chest ached. With pity, or kinship?
In her experience, she felt she’d done nothing wrong; her father had been the guilty party. Mr. Yates, however, was rude, insulting her at the meeting on Wednesday, and then tossing her tin of cookies to the livery floor. He bore a responsibility for how others treated him that Abby had not, back in Chicago.
Nevertheless, she knew exactly how he must feel, unwelcome among his community.
“Switch, folks!” The fiddler waved the entire violin this time.
Mr. Flowers passed her off to another partner—Mr. Ford, her students Robert and Oneida’s father—and they discussed his children until the song ended. She thanked Mr. Ford and then slipped toward the punch bowl, where Mr. Yates lurked, arms folded and shoulders hunched.
“You look thirsty.” She ladled a cup and handed it to him.
He shrugged as if to deny it but took the cup from her hand. “At least I know the punch isn’t poisoned.”
“Neither were the cookies I made for you.”
“I figgered. No dead rats in the livery.”
Abby burst into laughter. “You have quite a wit, Mr. Yates.”
“I didn’t try to be humorous-like.” He sipped. “Why don’t you go back to hoppin’ all over that dance floor?”
“Was that an invitation to dance, Mr. Yates?”
His eyes bugged. Both knew that, as a lady, she cou
ldn’t ask a gentleman to dance. Both also knew he couldn’t say no if an invitation had been perceived to have been issued.
With a grunt, he set down his cup by the punch bowl. “You’re a shrewd one, missy.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing I’m a teacher, then.”
She felt the weight of everyone’s stares as she made her way to the dance floor beside a scowling Maynard Yates. The strains of a Bavarian folk dance began—oh dear, it had been some time since she’d danced the five-step schottische. Probably even longer since Mr. Yates had. He was adept, though. Two side steps to the left and right, a turn in four steps. They didn’t speak for concentrating on the figures.
When the song ended, she dipped in a curtsy, but he was gone when her knees straightened. Oh well. Now he couldn’t say he didn’t dance tonight.
Hildie and Geraldine Story rushed to her—when had Geraldine and Micah arrived? Must have been when she was focused on her dance with Mr. Yates.
“What was that about?” Hildie’s eyes were wide.
“He asked you to dance?” Mrs. Story looked impressed.
“I tricked him into it.” Abby waved her hands over her flushed cheeks.
The baby must have kicked, because Hildie rubbed her stomach. “Why would you do that?”
How could Abby answer honestly? Because good Christian folk ignore him? Because I’ve been ignored too?
“My words burst out before I gave it much thought.”
“I doubt that. You’re kind, and too modest to say it,” Mrs. Story answered.
“No—”
“See, she’s too modest to admit she’s modest.” Hildie grinned, then gasped. “Don’t turn around, Abby, but your beau is here.”
Dash had arrived? She spun around, scanning the crowd. “He’s not my beau.”
“So you keep saying.” Mrs. Story snickered.
There he was. Damp hair slicked back from his broad forehead, clean-shaven, looking much like he did when he came calling in Chicago. Mercy, she’d tried to forget all those things that used to make her heart sputter but now ached to the bottom of her being.
Forgive, forget, forgive, forget.
She couldn’t. But she’d decided to be less angry about it, hadn’t she? Tonight was a good time to start. She decided to smile at him.
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