Rose narrowed her eyes at Ben, and looked over to the stables where three other buggies were tied to posts. She turned back to Ben, whose cheeks were now crimson and he gave her a weak smile as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, all right. I suppose it’s better than not being allowed to go at all.” She scooted over and handed the reins to Ben, who was almost like a brother to her. He’d worked at Archer Ranch for years as a ranch hand, doing just about anything her father asked. Hank and Clara had gone to Tucson to see about buying a few more horses that might be suitable for more riding lessons, so it appeared that it was Ben’s turn to stand in.
They settled in for the ride, the horses’ hooves settling into an easy rhythm. Just before they arrived at the schoolhouse, Ben pushed his hat back on his head and turned to Rose. “Mind if I ask you something, Miss Rose?”
“Of course not, Ben.” Rose turned to Ben, noticing that he’d grown up and filled out—looked more like a man than a boy, which she guessed he probably should since he was as old as her older brother, Hank. She must not have been paying attention.
“What’s all this ruckus about mail order brides? I don’t even know what that is.” He lowered his eyes toward the horses and pulled his hat back down low on his forehead.
“Oh, you mean having a bride come from far away?” Rose thought of her new sister-in-law, Clara, and Sadie, Suzanne’s twin sister, who’d married Tripp. “I suppose there aren’t enough women in the western territories, so some men decide to write away for someone from a bigger town. I really don’t know much more than that, I’m afraid.”
“Heard the new teacher did the same thing. Is that right? There really ain’t many women around, I suppose.”
Rose fiddled with the bow of her bonnet as she waited for Ben to come around and help her down. “I believe he did, Ben. They were talking about it last night at dinner, and I think he has a couple of ladies he’s written to.”
Ben shook his head slowly as Rose walked toward the schoolhouse door. “I just can’t imagine such a thing. What if she was ugly? Or had fake hair? Or bad teeth and sent a picture of her pretty neighbor instead of herself?”
Rose hid her smile behind her hand. She’d actually heard of some of those kinds of things so wasn’t surprised that Ben had, too. She’d even seen a poster in the town hall that said the contract would be null and void if the woman had misrepresented her—attributes. “I do imagine that happens, Ben. I think that there’s a waiting period, just to make sure everyone’s happy, with some provisions in place if it isn’t a good match.”
“Well, I tell you, I don’t think it’s a very good thing. I know Hank is happy and all, but for me? I don’t think so.”
“Were you considering sending away for a mail order bride?” Rose was a bit puzzled and she narrowed her eyes at her longtime friend.
“No, siree. Just too big a chance for me. I think I’ll know the right one when I see her. I’m happy to wait.” Ben smiled as he pulled himself into the buggy.
“Ah, a true romantic,” Rose said as she reached for the door latch to the schoolhouse and waved goodbye to Ben.
“I’ll be back for you around two o’clock. Is that right?”
“Yes. Thank you, Ben,” she said as he turned the buggy around and headed back to the ranch.
Her hand firmly on the door latch, Rose straightened her skirts, squared her shoulders and opened the door to her new future.
Chapter 13
Rose smiled at the familiar creak of the wooden door as she slowly pulled it toward her and poked her head inside. It didn’t look quite as tall as it had when she was a young girl, but it was still imposing.
She saw no movement inside the schoolhouse, but entered slowly, pulling the door closed behind her. The scent of vinegar wafted to her, and she wondered who had been in cleaning. Mr. Tate? Not likely—or if it had been him, he’d be the only man she’d ever met who actually cleaned something indoors.
She wandered up the aisle between the small, wooden desks that had also seemed so much larger when she was young. The teacher’s desk sat off to the corner, to the left of the chalkboards, and the stack of books on it seemed larger than it had the other day when she’d been there.
The fall air was crisp still, but the sun had warmed enough that she felt confident opening the windows, at least a couple, to get some fresh air inside. When she’d attended there, the headmaster hadn’t allowed open windows, even on the hottest of days. She had to admit, birds building nests in spring and passing stray dogs didn’t help much to keep any students’ attention on what they were learning.
The wood of the small boxes that each student was assigned felt smooth as she ran her hand along its polished ends. She searched above for the piece of paper with box assignments on it but found none. Maybe Mr. Tate hadn’t made the assignments yet, not knowing which students would be attending. She could help with that.
She walked to the front of the room, glancing out the windows as she wondered what had happened to Mr. Tate. She had been sure he’d be here by now, and as she looked at the watch pinned to the bodice of her dress, she absently plopped down in the chair behind the teacher’s desk.
The door latch moved and she jumped up, realizing that the chair was reserved for the actual teacher, not her. Mr. Tate rushed in the door, his bowler hat in hand as he reached to place it on the hook by the door. His white teeth flashed as he saw Rose and smiled, nodding slightly in her direction. “Good morning, Miss Archer. I do apologize for my tardiness.”
“No problem at all, Mr. Tate. I’ve just been familiarizing myself with the classroom. Or familiarizing myself again, I should say.” She fingered the ties of her bonnet as he hung his hat. She’d forgotten she even had it on, and untied it, pushing back a stray brown curl that had come lose from her chignon.
“Here, let me hang that up for you,” he said as he reached his hand toward her, taking the bonnet and turning toward the hat rack.
She furrowed her brow at the same rush of heat she’d felt when his fingers had brushed hers the night before at dinner. Was she that excited to be in a classroom? Maria’s words ran through her mind and she shook her head, eager to get to the task at hand.
“Ah, that’s right. This was your schoolhouse too, wasn’t it?”
She nodded and took a seat in a chair set against the wall, folding her hands in her lap. “Yes, it was. And I miss it.”
He looked up from the desk and smiled. “I loved my schoolhouse, too.” He looked around at the tall ceiling and the rows of desks. “Mine was a little bit different, though.”
“Oh? How so?” Rose had only been in this schoolhouse and couldn’t imagine what would have been different. “Bigger, maybe, since you were in a bigger town?”
Mr. Tate’s eyes clouded as he looked back down at his desk. “No, not bigger. Not a big difference, I suppose. Students are students.”
Rose furrowed her brow, but when she was sure he wasn’t going to offer any additional information, she said, “Speaking of students, the other day at the ice cream fundraiser there was a group of boys behind the tree, not wanting to join the group.”
“I’ve noticed the same group, but each time I try to approach, they scatter.” He took his glasses off and set them on the desk. He rubbed the back of his neck and went to the window Rose had opened, looking both left and right.
“The same happened with me. I didn’t recognize any of them at first, but the other day I thought I saw one of them working in the kitchen at Bailey’s Restaurant.”
Mr. Tate’s eyebrows rose as he turned toward her. “Oh? Well, that explains a bit of it, then.”
“What do you mean?” Rose stood and walked to the windows on the other side of the room but saw no sign of the group of boys.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly before he looked up at Rose. “I’ve seen it happen before. It would appear that the boys don’t feel welcome, and it would be for one of only two possible reasons.”
Rose raised her own brows, waiting for him to continue. He paced in front of the chalkboard. “I’m not yet familiar with the culture of this town, so I’m not exactly sure which it is. Maybe a little of both.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Tombstone is like any other small town. At least it has been. But in the past couple of years, it’s nearly quadrupled in size, so I suppose I don’t know everyone any longer. What are you referring to?”
Mr. Tate cleared his throat. “In my experience, children do not come to school for one of two reasons. Frequently, in cultures where work is important—well, necessary—they are needed to help with the family business. It’s quite common, I’m afraid.”
Rose had lived in the area her whole life, at the ranch before Tombstone had even become an official town. She and all of her sisters had come to school and it had been important to her parents that they did. At the time, all the children that she knew had also come to school, but she supposed there may have been other children on outlying farms who didn’t. She hadn’t really thought of it before, having been immersed in her own learning.
“I have to say I’m surprised that could be the case, Mr. Tate, but I suppose I do understand. Don’t the parents realize, though, that an education is what’s best for their children? That the world is a very big place, and learning how to read and write and all about the world is what will help them?”
He looked at Rose and slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not the opinion of all parents. For many of them, the world is quite the opposite of a very big place. It centers around one location and one goal—survival.”
Rose rested her hand on her chest, not quite able to understand. “You mean that the livelihood of the family, the ability to eat, rests on the shoulders of young children? At their expense?”
“I mean exactly that. Many households struggle to have enough food, or money to buy what they can’t produce on their own. From what I’ve seen of Tombstone so far, farming is very difficult with the limited water supply. So families must rely on whatever business skill they have or work skill, and that requires workers. And children can be workers.”
“I did wonder why some of the children only came to school for a few years. Now that I think about it, when they grew a little taller, a little bigger—they stopped coming to school.”
Mr. Tate folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the desk. “My point exactly, I’m afraid.”
“I suppose not everyone was like me growing up. Or had a family like mine that really placed a great importance on education. Even when my sisters didn’t want to come and would rather play in the barn, we had to attend. It wasn’t optional in my house.”
Mr. Tate sat back down behind the desk. “Nor mine. But I also know that my family was the exception rather than the rule. I knew many boys who never came to school. And never learned how to read.”
Rose gasped, her hand on her cheek. “Is that possible?”
“I’m afraid it is, Miss Archer. Sadly so.”
“I suppose we ought to consider ourselves fortunate, then,” Rose said as she glanced again out the window. “You mentioned another possibility? Another reason why they might not come to school?”
Mr. Tate sighed as he ran his hands through his dark, wavy hair. His eyes clouded as he said, “I don’t know this town very well. I shouldn’t speculate, really.”
Rose stood at the sound of his voice, wondering what could cause him such concern. “Please, I’d like to know what you mean.”
He turned toward Rose and looked directly into her eyes. “I hope this isn’t the case, but I’ve also seen places where certain students weren’t...shall we say...welcome.”
Chapter 14
As Rose continued cleaning, sorting books and making decorations, and Mr. Tate tended to his tasks, she mulled over what she’d heard. She knew that some of her sisters hadn’t liked school very much—Sage and Pepper in particular—but they also were aware of the necessity and grudgingly did attend.
But not being allowed to attend was a completely different matter. Not welcome? She wasn’t exactly sure what he’d meant, and didn’t feel like she knew him well enough to ask. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Mr. Tate slowly go through each of the books in the schoolhouse, chewing the end of his pencil and taking notes as he went through each of the pages.
Every once in a while, he’d laugh out loud and she’d watch him scribble furiously yet again. They hadn’t spoken much for the remainder of the morning as they each went about their business. Rose was grateful that he was so engrossed in his tasks that she could be alone with her thoughts.
Each time she looked up as he laughed, she took a moment to study him—his strong cheekbones, his Roman nose and the tortoiseshell glasses that he frequently pushed back up to his dark eyebrows. He’d removed his coat hours before and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up, almost to his elbows.
She’d never known anyone who could become so immersed in books that they lost hours—anyone besides herself, that is. As she reached the final books on the last bookshelf that she had been cleaning and arranging, she opened the cover and smiled at the familiar author and title. She closed the book again, running her hand over the leather binding, and wondered who had donated this particular book, as it was her favorite. The very one she had under her pillow and read nightly.
She furrowed her brows as she wondered where it had come from. The book had only been published for maybe a decade, and it seems to take much longer than that for books to make their way to Tombstone.
Mr. Tate laughed again and she smiled, feeling oddly comfortable in his presence. Her hand flew to her stomach as it grumbled, reminding her of the lunch Maria had given her, and remembered that she’d said there was food for Mr. Tate, too.
She clutched the book as she stood and straightened her skirts, and reached up to make sure that her ringlets were still behaving and in place. She tried twice to pin back a stray ringlet that had fallen and gave up when it refused to be held by the hairpin.
Her lunch sack hung on one of the pegs by the door next to her coat and she crossed over to it, pulling it down and setting it on one of the student desks.
She untied the string around the cloth bag and peered inside. She smiled when she saw what Maria had provided. The previous evening at dinner, Mr. Tate had been very complimentary—and inquisitive—about Maria’s cooking. He’d asked question after question about what things were that he seemed unfamiliar with. So today, Maria had sent leftover homemade tamales and tortillas, all things Rose was used to having the next day without the need to heat them. “Mr. Tate, Maria packed lunch. Did you bring anything?”
“What?” he said, finishing the sentence he was writing before he lifted his head, looked in her direction and smiled. “Did you mention food?” He rubbed his stomach as he laid his pencil down and stood. “I didn’t even think to bring anything. But I don’t pretend to be a very good cook, either. I’ve grown quite fond of the meat pies at the Occidental and sometimes buy pie to take home, but I’m afraid I’ve mostly eaten out since I’ve been here. I’ll have to think about that when school starts.”
“Yes, you probably should.” Rose smiled as she picked up the bag and walked toward the back door. “It’s warmed up a bit outside. Would you like to eat on the bench? The leaves are changing color and will be gone soon.”
“That would be nice,” Mr. Tate said as he unrolled his sleeves and reached for his jacket. He pulled Rose’s off the hook and held it up, his eyebrows raised in question. “Might be a little chilly.”
“Oh, thank you.” She set the lunch bag back on the desk and turned as he held her coat open for her. His fingers brushed the back of her neck and she shivered at the heat that flashed through her chest.
“Are you cold already?” he asked as he pulled his hands away. He quickly crossed the room toward the back door, looking away from Rose.
Rose shook her head as she picked up the bag and followed. “No, I’m not. I don’t q
uite know what’s come over me.”
Mr. Tate opened the door for her and she stepped outside into the crisp autumn day, breathing in the scent of sage from beyond the shade tree. There weren’t many trees in Tombstone—some people were having cuttings of their favorite plants sent from abroad as the town grew. She had always been partial to this particular tree and sighed as she sat down on the bench.
Mr. Tate followed her gaze up into its canopy and reached out to catch a fiery red leaf as it fell to the ground. “I love fall,” he said as he handed her the leaf.
The lightness of the leaf on her hand surprised her, as it always did. She held it up to the sun, admiring the veins that ran through it and the vivid color. She sighed and noticed Mr. Tate staring at her, his deep brown eyes watching her intently as she studied the leaf.
She looked down quickly. She dropped the leaf and her cheeks flushed as she reached for the bag Maria had prepared. Handing him a tamale in a linen napkin, she spread another napkin on her lap and started to loosen the strip of cornhusk tied around it.
“Ah, Maria remembered that I loved this—tamale, was it? Delicious,” he said as he sat on the bench and began to unwrap his as well.
Rose laughed as she reached into the bag and handed him an empanada. “She sent this for you also.”
Mr. Tate’s eyebrows rose as he accepted the pastry and held it to his nose. “Ah, apple. That was very thoughtful of you. I mean, of her.”
“Maria’s very proud of her cooking. A few compliments will get you fed for life,” Rose chuckled before she took a bite of her tamale, the shredded beef as tender as the cornmeal. “After last night, I think you’re already in that category.”
“Please thank her for me, if you don’t mind. In a very short period of time, I’ve become quite fond of Mexican food. My mother would be shocked.”
“Shocked? Why? There is no Mexican food in Boston?” Rose asked.
He took the last corn husk from the tamale and bit into it, his eyes closed as he chewed. “Not that I was aware of, but I stayed mostly in my own neighborhood.”
The Teacher's Mail Order Bride Page 6