“Get on with repairing the desk. Then you can bring your books close to the stove, and we’ll study until you’ve made up for the schooltime you wasted taking your desk apart.”
Simon glared at her, but he turned back to the desk. Melanie opened her book to study for tomorrow’s lesson. The two of them got along very well, as long as the whole room was between them and neither spoke.
“It’s done. Can I go now?”
Melanie lifted her head. She’d gotten lost in her reading. One of the older children, Lisa Manchon, was in an advanced arithmetic book. The girl was restless, ready to be done with school and, at fifteen years old, find a husband and get on with a life of her own.
Her folks, though, wouldn’t hear of such a thing, or perhaps there were no offers. For whatever reason, Lisa was kept in school. Melanie worked hard to keep her interested in her work.
“No, you may not go.” Melanie stressed the correct grammar. “Bring your reader to the stove, and we’ll go over tomorrow’s lesson together.”
November days were short in Nebraska, and the sun was low in the sky. Obviously Henry was not yet home, or he’d have come to find his son. Melanie carried her heavy desk chair to the stove and stood, brows arched, waiting for Simon to come join her.
It helped that it was cold.
As they worked, Simon proved, as he always did when he bothered to try, that he was one of the brightest children in the school.
The school door slammed open.
“Simon is missing!” In charged a tall man wrapped up in a thick coat with a scarf and Stetson, gloves and heavy boots.
Henry O’Keeffe—here at last.
He skidded to a halt. His light blue eyes flashed like cold fire—at her. Then he looked more warmly at his son. “Simon, I told you to go home after school.”
“Pa, she wouldn’t—” The little tattletale.
“Your son,” Melanie cut through their talk, “had to stay after school for misbehaving, Mr. O’Keeffe.” Unlike her unruly young student, she had no trouble taking full responsibility for her actions.
She rose from her chair by the fire. “Is it a long way home?” It was approaching dusk. She didn’t want Simon out alone in the cold, dark town.
“No, just a couple of blocks. What did he—”
“Simon, get your coat on, then, and head for home. I need to have a talk with your father.” She noticed that Henry carried a rifle. Did he always have it with him, or was he armed to hunt his missing son?
“Miss Douglas,” Simon began, clearly upset with her.
“Is that all right with you, Mr. O’Keeffe? Will your son be safe walking home alone?” Melanie wouldn’t press the point if Henry wasn’t comfortable with it.
“Of course. There’s nothing in this town more dangerous than a tumbleweed, and even they are frozen to the ground these days. I need to get supper. It’s getting late.”
“Let Simon head for home, then. I promise to be brief. You’re right, it is getting late.” She arched a brow at him and saw the man get the message.
“Run on home, Simon. I’ll be two minutes behind you.”
Simon took a long, hard look at Melanie, almost as if he wanted to stay and protect his pa.
“We won’t be long, Simon.” Melanie tilted her head toward the door. With a huff, Simon dragged on his coat and left the building.
Melanie knew then he was really worried because the door didn’t even slam.
Chapter 3
Why did all the pretty women want to yell at him?
Hank turned from watching Simon leave, then dropped his voice, not putting it past Simon to listen in.
“What’s the problem, Miss Douglas?” Those snapping green eyes jolted him. He’d felt the jolt before, every time he’d gotten close to her in fact. And that surprised him because since Greta had died, no woman, no matter how pretty, had drawn so much as a whisper of reaction, let alone a jolt.
He’d gotten used to the idea that his heart had died with his wife. Melanie made him question that, but of course, all she wanted to do was yell at him. He braced himself to take the criticism. He deserved it.
“Mr. O’Keeffe, your son is a very bright boy. It’s possible he’s the smartest youngster in this school.”
That wasn’t what he expected to hear. Had she kept him here to compliment Simon? Maybe she wanted to pass Simon into a higher class? He was a bright boy. Hank felt his chest swell with pride, and he started to relax.
“But he is disrupting the whole school. We have to do something, between the two of us, to get him to behave.”
Hank’s gut twisted. It was fear. He tried to make himself admit it. But that effort was overridden by a need to fight anyone who spoke ill of his boy.
“You’re saying you can’t keep order in school?” Simon was all he had. Hank knew he didn’t give the young’un enough attention, but a man had to feed his child, and that meant work, long hours of work.
“I was doing fine until today.” Miss Douglas’s voice rose, and she plunked her fists on her trim waist.
Hank looked at those pretty pink lips, pursed in annoyance. He’d never had much luck with women. He still had trouble believing Greta had married him. She’d seemed to like him, too, and it hadn’t even been hard.
Now, when he needed to handle a woman right, calm her down, soothe her ruffled feathers, all he could think of was snapping at her.
He clamped his mouth shut until he could speak calmly. “What do you want from me, Miss Douglas? You want me to threaten him? Tell him if he gets a thrashing at school he’ll get one at home?”
Hank didn’t thrash Simon. Maybe he should. Maybe sparing the rod was wrong, but the hurt in the boy since his ma died had made it impossible for Hank to deal him out more pain.
“I don’t thrash my students, Mr. O’Keeffe. I have never found it necessary, and I don’t intend to start now. What I want is—”
The schoolhouse door slammed open. “Hank, come quick; a fight broke out in the saloon.”
Mr. Garland at the general store stuck his face in the room then vanished. Hank took one step.
A slap on his arm stopped him. Miss Douglas had a grip that’d shame a burr.
“I’m not done talking to you yet.” She’d stumbled along for a couple of feet but she held on doggedly.
“We’re done talking. I have to go. My Simon is a good boy. You just need to learn to manage him better.” He pried her little claws from his sleeve and managed to pull his coat open. “Let loose. You heard Ian. There’s a fight.”
“Why do you have to go just because there’s a fight at the saloon?”
“I have to stop it.”
“But why?”
His coat finally flapped all the way open, and he impatiently shoved it back even farther so she could see his chest.
And see the star pinned right above his heart. “Because just today I started a job as the town sheriff. That was the only way I could find a house in town. Now, if you can’t handle one little boy, just say so and I’ll get him a job running errands at the general store. Schoolin’s a waste of time anyway for a bright boy like my Simon. Most likely the reason you can’t handle him is he’s smarter than you.” A tiny smile curved his lips. “I got a suspicion he’s smarter than me.”
Then he turned and ran after Ian.
Chapter 4
About once a minute, while she closed up the school, put on her wrap, gathered up her books, locked the building, walked to Mrs. Rathbone’s, and let herself in the back door, Melanie caught herself shaking her head.
“He’s smarter than you.”
There was no doubt in her mind that Simon was very bright. Was Mr. O’Keeffe right? Was it her fault?
“My Simon is a good boy. You just need to learn to manage him better.”
Was it all about managing rather than discipline? She shook her head again. Not in denial, though there might be a bit of that, but to clear her head so she could think.
How long would Henry be dealing
with that saloon fight? Simon was home, and he’d be expecting his father. Had Henry thought of that?
“You’re finally here, Melanie?”
That cold, disapproving voice drove all thoughts of the O’Keeffe family from her head.
“Yes, Mrs. Rathbone.” As if the old battle-ax ever had a thing to do with her. Melanie hadn’t even gotten the back door closed before the woman started her complaining. Mrs. Rathbone had made it clear as glass that Melanie was to always use the back door, never the front—that was for invited guests, not schoolmarms living on charity.
“I’ve eaten without you.”
Melanie walked through the back entry and through the kitchen, where she saw a plate, uncovered, sitting on the table, without a doubt cold and caked in congealed grease.
She walked down a short hall that opened onto an elegant dining room and on into a front sitting room. Mrs. Rathbone called it the parlor. She sat alone before a crackling fire, needlework in hand. She glanced up from the bit of lace she was tatting, peering over the top of her glasses, scowling.
“Good evening, Mrs. Rathbone.”
The older woman sniffed. “A fine thing, a woman cavorting until all hours. The school board would not approve.”
Always Magda Rathbone seemed on the verge of throwing Melanie to the wolves, ruining her career, and blackening her name with the whole town if she was forced to tell the truth of how poorly Melanie behaved.
Melanie happened to think she behaved with the restraint of a nun—a muzzled nun—a muzzled nun wearing a straitjacket. But no matter how carefully she spoke and how utterly alone she remained in the upper room, Mrs. Rathbone found fault.
“One of my students was left at school. His father is the new sheriff in town, and he was delayed. I minded the boy until his father could come.”
“Hank O’Keeffe.” Another sniff. “Everyone knows that boy of his is a terror, and as for Mr. O’Keeffe, he’s got a lot of nerve being a lawman when he himself should be taken up on charges for the way he neglected his wife.”
Melanie froze. What was this about Henry’s wife?
“She’d still be alive if that man hadn’t been so hard on her.”
What sort of demands? Was she expected to work on the homestead? Or was there a darker meaning. Had Henry abused his wife? And was he now abusing his son?
“Go to your room now. I prefer quiet in the evening. Disturbances give me a headache.”
Sent to her room like a naughty child. I’ll show you a disturbance, you old battle-ax. Melanie had a wild urge to start dancing around the room, singing at the top of her lungs. Disturbance? She’d show Simon a thing or two about disturbances.
Melanie, of course, did nothing of the sort. “Good night, Mrs. Rathbone.”
“One more thing.”
Melanie froze. She knew what was coming, the same thing that came every Monday, after Melanie had worked hard cleaning Mrs. Rathbone’s house all weekend to earn her keep.
“Yes, ma’am?” What had the woman found to criticize now?
“I distinctly told you I wanted the library dusted this weekend. It’s as filthy as ever.”
The library. Two or three thousand books at least. And from what Melanie could see, judging by the undisturbed dust, Mrs. Rathbone had never read a one of them.
“I’ll get to it, ma’am, but Sunday you specifically stopped me from dusting to clean out the cellar. There weren’t enough hours this weekend to do both.”
“You’d have gotten far more done if you hadn’t spent a half a day idling.”
“I spend half a day in church.” Melanie squared her shoulders. She would never give in on this, even if it meant being cast into the streets in the bitter cold. “I will always spend Sunday morning attending services. I’ve made that clear, ma’am. In fact, the Lord’s Day should be for rest. But I worked all afternoon and evening on the cellar.”
Melanie clamped her mouth shut. Defending herself just stirred up the old harpy. And Melanie knew how miserably unhappy Mrs. Rathbone was. Her constant unkindness was rooted in her lonely life—a friendless existence shaped by her cruel tongue, a heart hardened to God, and her condemnation of anyone and everyone.
The people in Lone Tree endured Mrs. Rathbone, in part because of her wealth that she sprinkled onto the needs of the town, not generously, but she gave enough so that no one wanted to out-and-out offend her. Instead they avoided her and spoke ill of her behind her back.
It was a poor situation.
Melanie did her best to do as she was asked, even though the school board had said nothing about Melanie having to work as a housekeeper to earn her room. She suspected the board had no idea what was going on.
But it was a small town, most houses one or two rooms. There was nowhere else for Melanie to stay. She remembered what Mr. O’Keeffe had said about needing to take the job of sheriff to get a house. She had little doubt there were no empty houses in the raw little Nebraska town.
“I don’t appreciate your tone. Get on to your room.”
Because no tone could possibly come out of Melanie’s mouth at this moment that would be appreciated, she went back to the kitchen, picked up the plate of food, and walked up the back staircase.
Melanie worked like a slave for Mrs. Rathbone at the same time being told she lived on charity. Each step she took upstairs wore on her as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
The narrow stairs had a door at the bottom and top. Both were to be kept firmly closed, which also kept out any heat.
In Melanie’s room, a chimney went up through the roof. It was the only source of heat—a chimney bearing warmth from two floors down.
It wasn’t a small room; the attic stretched nearly the whole length of the house before the roof sloped. But Mrs. Rathbone had stored years of junk up here. There was barely room for Melanie’s bed and a small basket with her clothing. She had to walk downstairs for a basin of water and bring it back up to bathe or wash out her clothing.
She spoke the most heartfelt prayer of her life, asking God to control her temper with Mrs. Rathbone and with Simon and, while she was at it, with Henry. She prayed for strength sufficient for the day.
The prayers struck deep. Her impatience with Simon was sinful. It was easier to admit this now, with the boy away from her. While she was dealing with him, she felt justified in her anger.
Continuing to pray, she ate the unappetizing chicken—though it looked like it might have been good an hour ago. She swallowed cold mashed potatoes coated in congealed gravy. She was hungry enough she forced herself to eat every crumb of a piece of dried-out bread. She reached in her heart for true thankfulness for this food.
Only four days after Thanksgiving—a meal she’d cooked and served to Mrs. Rathbone, who had then told her to eat upstairs in her room. But Melanie knew she had plenty to be thankful for: first and foremost, a heavenly Father who loved her even if she was otherwise alone in the world.
She set her empty plate aside with a quick prayer of thanks that she wasn’t hungry. She’d known hunger, and this was most definitely better. Turning her prayers to Simon, she remembered Henry’s words: “My Simon is a good boy. You just need to learn to manage him better.”
She begged God for wisdom to figure that out. If it was about managing Simon, then how would she do it?
Changing quickly into her nightgown in the chilly room, Melanie took her hair down and brushed it out, speaking silently to God all the while.
In the midst of her prayer, she remembered that moment earlier when she’d wondered about Simon going home alone tonight. She should have gone with him and stayed with him until his father arrived.
She worried enough about the trouble that little boy could get into alone that she was tempted to go make sure he was all right, though his father had to be home by now.
Her worry deepened along with her prayers as she set the hair combs and pins aside. Then her eyes fell on a large wooden box sitting on one of the many chests jumbled into the
room. Strange that she’d never noticed it before, because right now it drew her eye so powerfully the dull wood seemed to nearly glow.
It was an odd little thing. Crudely made thing, the wood in a strange pattern, like a patchwork of little squares as if it had been put together with scraps of wood. About ten inches tall and as much deep and wide, a little cube. Four pairs of drawers were in the front, each with a little wooden knob. It wasn’t particularly pretty, but there was something about it.
Her eyes went from the box to the combs and pins. They would fit in there perfectly. She should ask Mrs. Rathbone before she used the grouchy woman’s things, but those little drawers seemed to almost beckon her.
With a shrug, Melanie decided she’d ask Mrs. Rathbone about the box in the morning, but for now, on impulse, she pulled open a drawer, which was much narrower and not as deep as she expected. Staring at the strangely undersized drawer, Melanie wondered at it for a moment then slipped her hair things in.
A whisper of pleasure that made no sense eased the worst of her exhaustion and helped her realize the waste of energy worrying about Simon was at this late hour. Her chance to help was when Henry got called away. Now she was just letting sin gnaw at her mind and rob her of her peace.
The prayers and somehow the little box replaced her worry with a calm that could only come from God.
Prayer she understood, but why would a box do such a thing?
Chapter 5
Melanie asked about the box the next morning. Mrs. Rathbone snorted with contempt.
“I remember that shabby thing. It belonged to my husband’s grandmother. His mother’s mother. He adored that strange old lady and wouldn’t part with any of her old keepsakes. That’s what most everything is up in the attic. She was covered in wrinkles and dressed in the same old faded clothes, even though there was money for better. Those rags are probably still up in that attic, too. Mamó Cullen—that’s what he called her—Mamó, what kind of name is that?”
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 16