by Carla Kelly
“He’s just a bully,” Lily told the child, who obviously hadn’t noticed that Lily had backed up too.
“He doesn’t like us. He will sit there until I am late to help my mother.”
Since she was Chantal’s teacher, maybe it was time she showed a little bravery. “Chantal, would you sacrifice one of your deviled eggs?” Lily asked, keeping her eye on Freak, who looked as though he wouldn’t mind settling in for a day or two, just to intimidate them.
Chantal unscrewed the jar and took out one egg. “I don’t know,” she said, handing it to Lily.
Lily started to sidle out the door with the peace offering, wondering if Freak ever took prisoners, when an ear-splitting yell made the cat perk up what remained of his ears, and hiss louder. The fur on his back rose to amazing height. In another second, he was gone, a gray-and-white streak.
“Was he going to hold you for ransom?”
It was Preacher, coming back up the hill with a tin in his hand. “It’s safe now, little lady,” he told Chantal, who ran down the hill.
Preacher came inside, tossing the tin from one hand to the other. “Thought you might need some reinforcements. I noticed him eyeing the schoolhouse when I went down. Maybe planning a frontal attack.”
“Heavens, it’s just a cat,” Lily said, grateful the cowhand didn’t know that her knees felt like jelly.
“Boy howdy, what a cat!” he said. “You should have seen him scare off a grizzly bear last winter.”
She still held the deviled egg. Maybe I need another friend, she thought as she went outside and set the egg on a rock. “Maybe Freak could use a break from mice.”
“You’re too kind,” Preacher said. He opened the tin. “Ol’ Fothering slipped me a tin of stove black. How about I put a shine on that stove?”
“I won’t argue,” Lily said, grateful for his company, in case the timid offering of a deviled egg was an insult to a cat used to living rough. She swept the room as he worked. Her school was still a sow’s ear, but at least it would be a clean one, come Monday.
She wanted to talk to Preacher, but her years of loneliness at Miss Tilton’s, where she was merely tolerated, and other years of solitude in her uncle’s manor had reinforced her difference, and she didn’t know where to begin. It was easy with children, she was discovering, but this was a grown man.
Preacher made it easy for her by starting the conversation first. “My name’s Wally Spears, ma’am,” he said as he took a rag from his back pocket and applied it to the stove in a circular motion, working from the top down.
“Are you really a minister?” she asked.
“Ordained preacher, ma’am. Minister sounds too fancy.” He worked the stove blacking into the crevices. “I can pray and baptize sinners, marry the willing, and preach a stem-winder of a sermon that’ll chastise you and keep you humble for years to come.” He chuckled. “Well, not necessarily you, ma’am.” A few more rubs, and a faraway look came into his eyes. “Yes sirree, I got the call to serve Jesus.”
“Here in Wyoming?” she asked, fascinated.
“No, Alabama. Not so sure the Savior would waste his time on the quality of sinners in this territory.”
She laughed. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Sp—”
“Just Preacher, or you can call me Wally,” he said magnanimously. He stepped back and checked his work like an artist.
“Did preaching get slow in Alabama?”
“Not precisely,” he said, not looking at her. “Let’s just say I needed a change of venue from some of my parishioners.”
He looked so uncomfortable that Lily knew she shouldn’t have asked. She thought of that song, “What Was Your Name in the States,” and decided a massive change of subject would suit them both.
“Has Mr. Sinclair always been the foreman here?” she asked.
“Far as I know, but I heard from some of the boys in Cheyenne that he spent a fair share of time starving and eating out of garbage cans like the rest of us. There. It’ll dry and I’ll buff it.”
She offered him a stool. He scrutinized it, then pulled out two hunks of sandpaper, tossing one her way.
They sanded in companionable silence. “You’ve heard about his bull,” Preacher said finally.
“I’ve seen the bull.” Lily flicked away the bits of wood. “Do you . . . do you think he’s right about the coming winter?”
“Never known him to be wrong. Mr. Buxton doesn’t give Jack enough credit.” He started on another stool.
They sanded some more. Preacher cleared his throat and she stopped. “I might be overstepping things, ma’am, but let me tell you something about Jack.”
“As long as it’s fit for human consumption,” she joked, since he looked so solemn.
“He can’t read, ma’am, but I know he’d like to.”
Lily nodded, thinking of the menu in the Great Wall of China. “Would I embarrass him if I offered to teach him?”
“Probably.”
“Then why did you tell me?” she asked, curious.
He shrugged and turned his attention to the stove again. “That copy of Ivanhoe belongs to me.”
“And I thank you for the loan,” she said.
“I started reading a chapter here and there out loud this winter. Jack has his own house, but he always wanted to know when I’d be reading. I finally just offered to let him take the book and read on his own time, and he gave me a vague excuse, like his eyes were tired. He can’t read.”
“I wish you had just read to him,” Lily said.
“So do I now. As it was, he just sat there in the bunkhouse with us and looked at the book kind of hungry-like.”
Preacher turned his attention back to the stove, buffing with vigor until the stove shone.
“I have a lot to do here, don’t I?” Lily asked, after she finished sanding the last seat.
“Do you mean this room, or maybe all of us?” Preacher asked.
“I think you know.”
CHAPTER 13
While Lily finished sanding the last seat, Preacher gathered kindling and started a fire in the stove.
“Just leave the windows open,” he told her. “I have to go and help the others unload the wood they cut today. When the blacking heats, it’ll start to smoke. When it burns off, it’ll stop.” He tipped an imaginary hat and strolled out the door.
Rolling down her sleeves, Lily looked at the rock where she had left the deviled egg, pleased to see it was gone. It shouldn’t be hard to remember to bring a little something extra every day in her lunch bucket. Life couldn’t be easy for a Wyoming cat. She leaned against the sill, looking down at the little place she shared with her father, wondering how to help him. And how in the world was she to let a proud man know she was aware of his secret and could help?
Maybe it was a day of epiphanies. As she looked down at the Bar Dot, Lily realized that so far, she had spent her life uninvolved with people. She had observed people from a distance, as she was doing right now. Sometimes she knew this distance had been forced upon her by others, but the blame couldn’t rest there, not if she was fair. Had wariness bred wariness?
“I must reorder my thinking,” she said out loud.
She had come to the United States hoping her father had finally overcome his own demons and could provide for her, his only child. The reality was that nothing had changed for her father, and likely wouldn’t. Too much failure had ruined him worse than drink.
She had crossed the Atlantic hoping someone else was now in charge of her life. “How cowardly of me,” she said. She had thought she wanted freedom, and here it was, scaring her.
Then she remembered the optimism with which she had stood in the door of the Cheyenne Northern and looked at Wisner. She had been disappointed with the size and shabbiness of the town, and the rough edges at the Bar Dot, but that was before this moment, when she reordered her thinking.
She looked down at the Bar Dot again. Until she developed an even better plan—“Thank you, Jack Sinclair,” she m
urmured—the ranch would be a good place to start her self-improvement.
She watched a distant Chantal pumping water with her usual vigor. And there was the wagon piled with wood, all because a man was convinced this would be a terrible winter. Stretch was the short one; he and the Indian—no, Pierre Fontaine—were transferring the wood to a smaller cart for hauling to the wood lot where Preacher already stood, ready to help. Will Buxton stood back as she thought he probably always did, unused to toil, waiting for his orders.
She looked down at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Any time now, her father would leave the Buxton house and start toward his little shack. He was probably anticipating that first drink after the long dry spell of his day. She knew Madeleine was preparing their evening meal, probably working too hard so she could just fall asleep and not think about her sorrow without her man beside her.
Who knew about the Buxtons? Lily smiled to think of Luella, probably whip smart and quite aware that her mother was a hypochondriac of enormous proportions, but bending to her mother’s will, at least for now. Lily knew she didn’t care much for Oliver Buxton, who had the air of a bully about him. She had seen it when he had leaned over her father at his desk, showing his power over one of God’s weakest creations.
She watched a horse and rider loping behind the wood lot. She knew nothing about Nicholas Sansever yet, except that both his sisters had assured her that he had no interest in school. He would probably come to her classroom ready to hate everything about it. She knew he was a wounded soul, suffering the loss of his father too.
She heard horses in harness and stepped into the schoolyard to see who was coming on the wagon road. She smiled to see Amelie leaning against the foreman, probably asleep. Amelie held what looked like a coat on her lap, and Lily wondered what Jack had been up to in Wisner.
He spoke to his horses and they stopped, which woke Amelie. Jack helped her down from the buckboard, and they gathered brown paper packages.
“Success?” she asked, coming closer and feeling shy because she knew more about him now than she had this morning.
“Absolutely. We didn’t have quite enough money, because Watkins tacks on a bundle and calls it freight. But I got everything, or close enough to most.”
“Close enough to most?” she asked. “What a delightful turn of phrase. Is it Southern?”
“Mostly it’s me,” Jack said. “My ma would have said, ‘Sumpin is sumpin, sumpin ain’t nuppin.’ Would you have even understood that?”
“Doubtful, but I like it too.”
He laughed. “I convinced Mr. Watkins that as a prominent merchant of considerable renown in these parts—the only merchant, I didn’t add—he owed it to territory education to toss in a map of the world, since he had one.” He made a face. “Of course, he didn’t tell me it’s an advertisement for bitters too.”
“But it’s a map,” Amelie reminded him.
Lily took the packages he handed her and hurried into the classroom, eager to see what he had purchased, even though she knew what she had asked for. Maybe it was the fun of opening packages. Amelie brought in another armful and one more, setting them on her desk.
“And this.”
She turned around as Jack stood in the door with a lovely cane-bottom chair, all gilt and elegant. “My goodness,” she said when she could talk. “I know you couldn’t afford that from our ten dollars and fifty cents, and you had better not have used your own money.”
“Just say thank you like a lady,” he teased and set it down. “Try it out.”
She did, delighted, even though she worried. “Seriously, Jack, you had better not have spent a penny of Bismarck’s hay money for this chair.”
“And what if I did? It’s my money,” he said, then softened it. “I didn’t spend a penny.” He leaned closer. “I’ll tell you how I got it after Amelie leaves.”
“A scandalous story?” she teased.
“It can wait,” he whispered back.
Amelie took the slates out of their brown paper. “Mr. Sinclair bought one too many. He says it’s the hospitable way to do things, supposing someone new comes to school.”
Lily chuckled over the world map, which featured a fairy relying heavily on the proper folds in her gown to remain clothed. “ ‘Braxton Bitters,’ ” she read out loud. “ ‘Improving digestion from Arabia to Argentina.’ ” Jack rolled his eyes.
Amelie stayed right at her elbow as though reliving her adventure with every package that Lily unwrapped. “Mr. Watkins let me help and look what he gave me when we finished!”
She held up the Pink Pearl with a flourish that reminded Lily of the more-dramatic Chantal. “I can make as many mistakes as I want,” Amelie said. “I will share it with Chantal and Nicholas.”
“They might be a little envious,” Jack warned her.
“We will take turns carrying it to school,” Amelie said.
“That will be the most beloved eraser in the history of . . . of erasers,” Lily assured her. She touched the coat that Amelie wore. “This is something new!”
“Jack said it came from a kind lady, but I wasn’t to pry.”
“Ooh, more secrets!” Lily replied.
Jack took out his timepiece and gave it a lengthy scrutiny. “Amelie, I promised your mother you would be home in time to help with the evening meal. Look here.”
Amelie looked and became the responsible child again. She put her eraser in the pocket of her coat, patted it, and held out her hand most formally to the foreman. He shook it with equal finesse.
“I had a lovely time today, and thank you for the chop suey,” she said.
“I did too, Miss Sansever,” he replied. “Hurry along now.”
She darted for the door, but then stopped to look around for the first time at the swept room, the beautifully blacked stove, and the seats all smooth. “This is the loveliest place, Miss Carteret,” she said with such feeling that Lily had to look away to collect herself. With a wave of her hand, she started down the hill. In a moment, she was skipping.
“Hmm. I’ve been calling this room merely an improved sow’s ear,” Lily said to excuse her emotion.
“You’re not ten and desperate to learn,” Jack told her. “Remember: sumpin is sumpin.” He sat down at one of the desks and gestured for her to seat herself again. “Let us begin with the chair.”
He did not shock her. Lily had already gathered that Wyoming Territory could be a desperately lonely place for a man. His obvious familiarity with Vivian the faro dealer was understandable. And considering that he won his ranch in a card game, not surprising. That bit of news was easy enough to reorder. She had no claim on Jack Sinclair, so she listened with real amusement to his expert handling of a faro dealer.
When Jack could see that she wasn’t horrified with the implication, he relaxed. “Then I got bold and asked Vivian if she had an extra coat. Never hurts to ask. It’s a little big, but Madeleine can work it over. Amelie kept stroking the velvet collar.”
Jack looked around the room with the same pleasure Amelie had shown. “She liked chop suey better than you did. She even told Wing Li about your school.” He stood up. “Which reminds me.” He stuck his hand in the pocket of his linen duster and pulled out a paper fan. “Mr. Li told me to give this to you. It’s red, so he said it’ll bring you luck.”
Touched, Lily accepted the paper fan, just a cheap notion with painted flowers, and suddenly saw the lesson in it.
“Jack, do you think Mr. Li would come out here some time to tell my students about China?”
“Why not try?” He stood up. “Now we have to close the door on so much splendor and adjourn for supper. Madeleine hates to be kept waiting. What do you want me to do with all the brown paper?”
“Fold it and I’ll set the dictionary on it. Tomorrow the girls and I can draw the alphabet and cut out the letters. Numbers too.”
He did as she said, while she closed the windows and made sure the fire was out in the stove that had started the day as a wretched
castoff and ended it in buffed and shining splendor. She looked around with pleasure. The room was far too humble still, but she was already imagining the ABCs in brown paper, and the maps. Maybe she could color more clothing on the Braxton Bitters nymph.
Jack gave her a hand up into the buckboard and pointed to the clump of cottonwoods. “Don’t look now, but we’re being observed by Freak,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“I left him a deviled egg today,” she said. “I guess he isn’t too choosy, because it’s not still on the rock.”
“I’m impressed!” He looked at her with admiration. “Everybody has to eat. Just don’t expect to make a friend there.”
“I don’t plan to, but I would like it if Freak wouldn’t hiss at us as we pass by and scare the girls.”
He slowed the buckboard. “I should tell you: Madeleine asked me to see if I could tease out what’s bothering Amelie.”
“And? If you are half as persuasive with little girls as you are with a faro dealer, I expect you succeeded.”
“I did, and I’ll dump it in your lap, Teacher.” He turned slightly to face her. “Amelie’s worried that her mama will need help with the noon meal while she and Chantal are in school. She’s thinking about not going to school or leaving school at eleven each day.”
“She can’t!” Lily exclaimed. “She told you this?”
“Not me. She’s too shy.” He chuckled. “We stopped at my ranch and while I was talking to Manuel, she got nose to nose with Bismarck—”
“Oh, heavens.”
“—on her side of the fence—don’t worry!—and told him. She did that last spring after her father died. There’s something about animals . . . Maybe Herferds are better listeners than others, and Amelie knows the difference,” he joked. “I wouldn’t put much stock in Freak, though.” He slapped the reins. “Think about Amelie’s dilemma, Schoolmarm, and see what you come up with.”
Lily nodded. She glanced at Jack. Thank goodness you don’t need anything from me, she thought.