He lurched back, yet all he said when she landed in a heap on the marble floor was, “Upon my word, what have we here?”
Dori gawked at the man struggling to regain his footing. For once, she didn’t speak. She dared not. One hand flew to her open mouth to keep from laughing. She knew she looked ridiculous sprawled on the floor, but not nearly as absurd as Miss Brookings’s newly arrived nephew.
Tall and meticulously dressed in the latest men’s fashion, “dear Stancel” could have hung a lantern on his aristocratic, hooked nose. Neatly combed black hair—each strand in place—peeked out from beneath a bowler hat. He seemed at a loss but quickly regained his composure and offered Dori a flabby, pasty hand. “I say, miss, that was quite a—”
“Sorry,” Dori interrupted, scrambling to her feet. She ignored his outstretched hand and fled back up the stairs two at a time. Once in her room, she threw herself on the bed and released her bottled-up laughter. “Judged against the men and boys back home, he makes a mighty poor showing.” She wiped away tears of amusement. Then a new thought suffocated her laughter. “This…this…insipid Englishman is my dancing teacher?” Dori groaned. The thought of Mr. Worthington’s pale hand taking hers in a dance was repugnant.
Dori had dreaded the class, but Stancel’s presence made it pure torment. Give her a good, old-fashioned barn dance any day, not the mincing steps and low curtseys Mr. Worthington insisted the girls learn. She avoided him as much as possible and secretly rejoiced when he paid Gretchen marked attentions, to the obvious delight of Miss Brookings.
Alas for Dori! Her indifference evidently pricked Stancel’s pride. He began ignoring Gretchen and choosing Dori for a partner. Stumbling and stepping on his feet did no good. The more she attempted to escape the dancing master’s unwelcome attentions, the more persistent he grew. In addition, what little civility existed between Dori and “dear Gretchen” suffered a total collapse.
Things came to a head in early December, a few days after Matt summoned his sister home for his and Sarah’s wedding. He wrote:
When that scoundrel Red Fallon conspired with Sarah’s stepfather and kidnapped her, I knew she might be lost to me forever. I vowed then and there that if God would help me find and save her, I’d marry Sarah as soon as she’d set a date.
It wasn’t a surprise, but Dori still felt she’d been hit by a train. She’d long since given up the idea of rushing home to save Matt from the Andersons. But in spite of sympathy for Sarah, the thought that never again would Matt be all hers—as he had been since their father, mother, and Robbie died—hurt intolerably.
She looked out the window into a cheerless day, her spirits at their lowest ebb. “Maybe it won’t be so hard coming back to school in January after all,” she whispered. “Sarah might not want me at the ranch, even though her own precious brother, Seth, is more than welcome.”
Torn by emotion, she was in no mood for a confrontation with Gretchen van Dyke. When the fiery-eyed girl burst into Dori’s room and slammed the door behind her, Dori demanded, “Don’t you have manners enough to knock?”
Gretchen’s face mottled. “I know what you are up to.”
Dori had never seen Gretchen so distraught. “Anything I may be up to doesn’t concern you.”
“Indeed it does.” Gretchen raved. “Stancel Worthington is mine, do you hear?”
“Lower your voice or half of Boston will hear you,” Dori retorted. “I have no interest whatsoever in your property, if that’s what he is.”
“Rubbish! Miss Brookings told me Stancel is determined to turn the Spanish senorita into a lady, and marry her. Miss Brookings is outraged—and so am I,” she sputtered.
Dori sprang to her feet. She clenched her hands until the nails bit into her palms. “Not half as outraged as I am. You think I’d marry that English codfish? Never!”
Before Gretchen could answer, someone knocked at the door. “Miss Dolores?”
“Come in, Janey.”
The maid opened the door and stepped inside. Every freckle stood out on her frightened face. “Miss Brookings says you are to come to her office immediately.”
“Thank you, Janey.” Dori waited until the girl scuttled away, then rounded on Gretchen. “Now get out of my room or you’ll be sorry.”
Gretchen smirked. “You’re the one who is going to be sorry. Miss Brookings will surely put you in your place once and for all.” She flounced out.
Now what? Dori wondered. She had kept out of Miss Brookings’s way since the cat incident, and only a short time remained until she would go home for the wedding. How ironic for fate to ambush her just after she had schooled herself to come back for the spring term.
Miss Brookings sat behind her desk; her nephew lounged in a chair beside her. One look told Dori that the headmistress was loaded for bear and ready to fire.
“Of all the shameless hussies, you are the worst, Dolores Sterling. Coquetting with dear Stancel, leading him on, and brazenly attempting to weasel your way into society by underhanded means. Let me tell you this, young woman. Stancel will marry you only over my dead body.”
“I say. It’s not very cricket for you to disapprove before I have declared my intentions,” Stancel protested.
Dori’s heart slammed against her chest. She glared at her accuser and discharged both barrels of her fury. “What makes you think I would even consider being courted by a skim-milk specimen like Stancel?” she blazed. “God willing, if or when I marry, it will be to someone who is pure cream, not a whey-faced sissy like your nephew.”
“Get out,” the headmistress demanded. “Pack your clothes. You will leave immediately. Go—and never darken the door of Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies again.”
“You couldn’t pay me to stay after this,” Dori said scornfully. “I can’t wait to tell my brother how I have been insulted. As for you”—she rounded on Stancel, who was gaping like a fish out of water—“if you were in Madera, the Diamond S hands would make quick work of you.” Dori sailed out the open door, leaving stone-cold silence behind her. But before she turned a corner, she heard Stancel say, “Jove, but she’s magnificent. It makes a man want to—”
Dori neither heard nor cared what Stancel Worthington III wanted to do. All she wanted to do was to shake the dust of Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies from her shoes and take the first train west.
Dori’s outrage and humiliation sustained her through her final hours in Boston. If it hadn’t been for Janey, Dori’s clothing would have reached Madera in sad condition.
“Let me help you,” the little maid pleaded when Dori began tossing dresses helter-skelter into her trunks. Her eyes twinkled as she pointed to a stack of uniforms. “You’ll not be wanting these, I suspect.”
Dori glared at the garments that represented the mountain of indignities she had suffered for two years. “Keep the pinafores if you like, but tear up those ugly gray dresses and use them to scrub the floors.” Dori thought for a moment. She would soon be gone, but why not fire a parting shot? One that would echo through the halls and ensure she would not soon be forgotten. Her heart raced with anticipation. “I have a better idea,” she gleefully told Janey.
The maid cocked her head. “What are you up to, miss?”
“Deliver the dresses to Gretchen van Dyke when I’m gone.” Dori seized writing materials, quickly scribbled a note, and read it aloud. “What do you think of this? ‘Gretchen, the Bible says to do good to them that hate you. And to pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you. You can have my room and my castoff uniforms. You can also have Stancel, if you aren’t too proud to take a man I don’t want any more than I want these secondhand uniforms. The Spanish senorita.’ ”
Janey went into a fit of giggles. “Miss Gretchen will have an attack of the vapors,” she predicted. “But oh, what a perfect way for you to have the last word.”
Dori exploded with delight and felt suddenly lighthearted. Miss Brookings’s untrue accusations still rankled, but knowing she ha
d again bested “dear Gretchen” had released some of Dori’s anger and humiliation.
The girls barely finished packing before a tap came at the door. “The carriage is here to take you to the station, Miss Dolores,” Scraggs called. “And the men to carry your trunks down.”
A rush of thankfulness for the butler’s surreptitious friendship filled Dori. She flung the door open and threw her arms around his stiff, unbending frame. “I’m going to miss you,” she told him. “You and Janey.”
He coughed and smiled down at her, correct as ever but with warmth in his eyes. “And I, you, Miss Dori. I fear there will be no more incidents to liven up this rather staid place.” His droll observation sent the two girls into peals of laughter, but he quickly shushed them. Then he led the way downstairs and into a day as gray and gloomy as the one on which Dori had arrived.
Her final glimpse of the prison of her own making was of Scraggs and Janey waving to her from outside the forbidding doors.
Chapter 8
Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. Each turn of the westbound train’s wheels took Dori farther away from the scene of her disgrace and closer to the Diamond S. Exhilaration over getting in the final lick at Gretchen van Dyke kept her spirits high. When the train reached the outskirts of Boston, Dori studied the last of the tall buildings that had threatened to squeeze the life out of her.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she exulted. Yet niggling unease set in. Every incident had consequences. Was being expelled when she was innocent retribution for all the times she’d been guilty? Because of Matt’s forbearance, she’d never paid a high price for her previous escapades.
Dori scooted down in her seat. “What is Matt going to say about this fiasco?” she whispered. “He will be furious with Stancel, but he’s bound to be disappointed in me. He spent all that money, and now I won’t even graduate.” Shame scorched her, and her thoughts rushed on. If I hadn’t broken rules and made Miss Brookings hate me, she wouldn’t have accused me of trying to ensnare her pompous nephew.
Righteous indignation temporarily killed Dori’s self-chastisement. No red-blooded American girl would want milk-and-water Stancel Worthington III, at least none she knew. Too bad he didn’t come out west and meet some real men. Curly, Bud, Slim—even Red Fallon, rotten as he was—made “dear Stancel” look sick. And if what Matt said about Seth Anderson were true, the young cowboy would cast a mighty tall shadow over the insufferable Englishman. Anger gave way to mirth. Dori could just imagine Stancel’s reaction to being compared with a bunch of cowboys, let alone kidnapper and scourge of the range Red Fallon.
An outrageous plan gripped her unrepentant mind. “Why don’t I get even with Miss Brookings by inviting her precious nephew to visit the ranch? Boy, would he get his comeuppance.” She snickered and felt excitement mount. “The Diamond S outfit would laugh his high-and-mightiness off the range.” Dori sighed and reluctantly dismissed the idea. Stancel’s parting words—“I say, but she’s magnificent. It makes a man want to…”—had sent warning chills up and down her spine. The farther she stayed away from Stancel Worthington III, the better.
As the train chugged its way west, depression set in. The thought of having to tell Matt hung over Dori and troubled her conscience. “Just like the sword of Damocles,” she muttered.
“Pardon me, miss, do you need something?”
She turned from the window and gazed into the face peering down at her. “No. I was just mumbling to myself.”
“You said something about a sword?” the conductor asked.
She nodded. “Yes, the sword of Damocles.”
An interested gleam crept into his gray eyes. “Begging your pardon, but what might that be?”
“A story from my history book. Damocles was a member of the court of Dionysius II, who ruled in Sicily before the birth of Christ. The Roman orator Cicero said Damocles was a flatterer, forever talking about Dionysius’s happiness and good fortune. To teach him a lesson, Dionysius gave a great feast. He dangled a sword over Damocles’ head. It was suspended by a single hair.”
The conductor’s eyebrows shot up. “Did it ever fall?”
“History or legend doesn’t say.” Dori burned with anger. “But it just fell on me.”
The conductor patted her gloved hand. “It can’t be that bad.”
Dori gulped. “It’s worse. I just got fired, I mean expelled, from Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies. It wasn’t even my fault.”
A wise expression creased the conductor’s face. “Oh, that place. Rumor has it the headmistress is a tartar. I reckon you aren’t the first and won’t be the last to cross swords with her.” He smiled. “Cheer up, miss, and look out there.” He pointed to the window. “My old mother always said things didn’t seem so bad when the sun was shining. The rain’s letting up now, so ’twon’t surprise me if we see a rainbow.” He touched his cap and moved down the aisle.
Dori took heart from the conductor’s comments…and from the glorious rainbow that split the sky. “Thank You, God,” she whispered. She watched until creeping dusk swallowed the last shimmering remnants of the rainbow before stirring herself to go to the dining car for a long-delayed supper.
Whenever the conductor could spare a moment from his duties, he hovered over Dori like a mama cat over her kittens. He expressed indignation when she told him of Stancel’s intentions and Miss Brookings’s allegations. He also chortled about Dori’s final message to “dear Gretchen.” Although he looked nothing like Scraggs, Dori appreciated the same kindly concern the butler had shown her.
Before they reached Chicago, Dori confessed her previous experience in the train station. Fear surged up inside her and dried her mouth. “I’m just afraid it might happen again,” she confided to the conductor. “It was all so confusing with people pushing and shoving me. This time I don’t have Matt to rescue me.”
“Don’t you be fretting, miss. I’ll see to it that you don’t get left behind,” her new friend promised. He kept his word, both in Chicago and at the other stops along the way. But after they reached Denver and were well into the snow-clogged mountains, an anxious look replaced his usual caring expression. “When did you say your brother’s wedding was to take place?”
Dori felt wings of apprehension brush against her nerves. “On Christmas Day. Why?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. We just got word that avalanches ahead are causing delays.” Worry lines creased his forehead. “We may have to turn back.”
“We can’t go back,” Dori protested, appalled by the idea. “If I’m not there for Matt’s wedding, he will never forgive me.” Even though you know in your heart it’s the last place you want to be, a little voice mocked.
“Surely they will postpone it. They know you’re coming, don’t they?”
Dori clasped her gloved hands. “Yes, but not which train I’m on. I was in such a hurry when I left Boston, I forgot to send a telegram.”
“That’s actually good,” the conductor comforted. “If they don’t know you’re on this particular train, they won’t be concerned about you.” He scratched his head. “The only thing is, wouldn’t the headmistress inform them?”
Hope died. “Probably. Although”—Dori brightened—“under the uh…unusual circumstances, the Babbling Brook may have decided to keep mum. She couldn’t very well tell my brother I was sent home for refusing ‘dear Stancel’s’ unwelcome advances.”
The conductor chuckled. But he wasn’t chuckling a few miles up the track. The screaming of brakes followed by a rumble and a roar brought Dori out of a sound sleep. Dazed and only half awake, she landed in the aisle amidst screams from other similarly afflicted passengers. She scrambled up, rubbed an aching elbow, and grabbed the arm of the porter, who was helping people to their feet. “What’s happening?”
“Avalanche.” His mouth set in a grim line. “Thank God we were traveling up instead of down. If we’d hit that pile of snow at full speed, we’d all be goners.” He freed himself from Do
ri’s frantic clutch and hurried on to assist others.
Dori’s heart sank. How long would it take to get tracks cleared so they could go on? She pressed her nose to the window but saw nothing except swirling white. It made her feel even colder than during the last two winters in Boston. The door of the car burst open. A blast of freezing air rushed in. Dori shivered and huddled deeper into the blue velvet cloak she had purchased shortly after reaching Boston and discovering how miserable their winters could be. Yet in spite of its warm lining and the glowing fire in the box at the end of the car, she still felt chilly.
It seemed like hours before the conductor appeared. When he did, Dori could see in his concerned face the news was not good.
“A huge mass of snow came down on the tracks,” he told the passengers.
A murmur arose, but he raised his hand. “Help is on the way, but we don’t know how long it will take for them to get here and dig us out.”
“Then take us back to Denver,” a high-pitched, hysterical voice ordered. Others joined in, muttering complaints against the railroad, the weather, and the conductor.
Dori felt like jumping up and ordering them to be quiet, but decided prudence was more desirable than defending her new friend.
He blew out a great breath. “I’m sorry to say it won’t be possible to go back. There’s also been an avalanche between here and Denver.”
“You mean we’re trapped! We’re all going to die! Why did I ever leave home?” the speaker shouted above the clamor that arose. Dori remained silent while the conductor attempted to calm the passengers’ fears, but her heart echoed the frantic cry: Why did I ever leave home?
“Well, Lord,” she prayed under cover of the furor. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk, even though the cowcatcher is evidently stuck against a mountain of snow.” She shivered again and sent the beleaguered conductor what she hoped was a comforting smile. How anyone could blame him for an act of God was beyond her.
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