"Your son is very bright, Mr. Birch, as I'm sure you well know. And as much as I wish I could extend an invitation to him to attend this school ... I cannot. For reasons I believe we both understand." She waited, and continued after his gentle nod. "But I would be more than willing to teach him, if you're open to that. After school, or on weekends, if need be. I could instruct him in advanced mathematics, literature, and the sciences. It would open up doors to him that he might not otherwise experience.
Josiah stared. "You done talked to Sheriff McPherson about this, ma'am?"
Molly felt censure in his question and knew it was deserved. "I've made no secret to him about my views on this, Mr. Birch. But I consider time outside of this classroom as my own, and therefore believe I can spend it however I wish:"
"Don't mean no disrespect, ma'am, but the way I see it, the good folks that brought you here aim for you to be teachin' the white children. I don't have their word on it, but I'm thinkin' that's about all the children they's wantin' you to teach:'
"But if I'm willing to sacrifice my time and effort, and pay that price, Mr. Birch, that should be my decision. Do you not agree?"
He seemed hesitant. His eyes darted to hers, then away again. "That's just it, ma'am. You won't be the only one payin' the price:' He eyed her. "You from Georgia, that right, Dr. Whitcomb?"
She nodded.
"You ever wake up durin' the night"-his eyes narrowed-"peer out your front window, and see a cross burnin' bright as daylight outside your house?"
Emotion tightened Molly's throat. She steadied her voice. "In fact ... I have. More than once. My father abhorred slavery, Mr. Birch. He did everything he could to stand against it, and"-she lowered her gaze, recalling the image of looking up at her father and seeing the reflection of a burning cross in the mirror on the wall behind him-"he instilled within me those same principles, and the will to fight for them:"
Mr. Birch seemed to take this in. "I'm thinkin' your father did a lot of good in his life, ma'am."
"Yes, he did;' she whispered.
"I know some white folks who worked hard to change laws up in Washington. Who talked to anybody who'd listen, tryin' to change the way things were:' His expression was gentle. "The way things are:"
"That aptly describes my father, Mr. Birch. He was that type of man:"
His smile held understanding, and compassion. "On those nights, ma'am, when them crosses were burnin' out in front of your house, did your father send you outside? Alone? To reckon with those men hidin' in the shadows?"
Molly could only stare, hearing what he was asking, and knowing he already knew her answer. "No;' she whispered. "He did not:'
"And with all the respect I have in me, ma'am, I'm askin' you.. Earnestness sharpened the concern in his face. "Please don't be askin' me to send my child out there either. I won't do it. Not when I know what's waitin' in the shadows for him:'
16
s the week progressed, Molly carried her conversation with Josiah Birch and his love for his son-not even his own biological childwith her as she visited students and parents in their homes. She introduced herself and evaluated each student's level of progress, and by late Tuesday afternoon, she realized what a formidable challenge awaited her. Not only with parents-a few of whom seemed resistant to the very idea of school-but with her potential students.
While a handful of the children could read and write, to varying degrees, most held only a limited knowledge of language and mathematics. And by Wednesday evening, she'd discarded any hope of teaching these children Italian or French. Instructing them in proper English, along with how to read and write and work their sums, would be the primary order of business.
Thursday afternoon, when she retreated inside Mullins General Store, exhausted and covered in dust, her once-fresh curls hanging limp at her temples, she felt as though she could lie down and sleep for a week. The task before her seemed overwhelming. She'd thought teaching college was a challenge, but this ...
She had nearly thirty students ranging from ages six to sixteen, and they fell everywhere on the scale in regard to ability and knowledge. She'd visited twenty of the pupils on the list Rachel had made and still had half again that number to meet, and the list didn't even cover all her potential students.
She'd taken a lunch and snack with her that day, along with her canteen, to keep up her strength, but she still felt depleted. And the only thing she could attribute it to was the baby inside her, which somehow brought her thoughts back full circle to Josiah Birch and his son.
Josiah Birch loved Elijah as if the boy were his own flesh and blood. But he wasn't.
She didn't know Josiah and Belle's story, but she knew Elijah's-at least in part. It was written in his face, quite literally. The child nestled in her womb was part of her. He, or she, was her own flesh and blood, yet her feelings toward it didn't begin to resemble those of Josiah Birch's for his son-a son fathered by another man.
"Mrs. Whitcomb?"
Molly looked up to see Lyda Mullins, the proprietress, arranging pairs of boots on a side table. Molly offered a smile, hoping it communicated more verve than she felt. "Good day, Mrs. Mullins:"
Lyda's patient assessment was telling. "Has it been that long of a week already, Mrs. Whitcomb?"
Molly made a show of blowing a curl from her forehead, and enjoyed the giggle it drew from the older woman. "I'm afraid it has been." She sighed. `And it's not over yet:'
Lyda gestured. "Wait here:" She returned a moment later with a full glass. "Here you go. This should liven you back up:"
"Thank you:" Molly took a ladylike sip at first. But when the cool, sweet wetness hit her throat, she tossed propriety aside and downed half the glass.
"There you go!" Lyda Mullins said, laughing. "You'll be one of us in no time:"
Grinning, Molly dabbed the corners of her mouth, hoping the woman's words would prove true. She held up the glass of tea. "This is delicious. What's in it?"
"It's my mother's recipe. It has some spices mixed in and plenty of sugar. I make it with water from the stream out back, so it's nice and cold. I just mixed up a fresh batch. It's Ben's favorite:"
I can see why." Molly took another drink. "It's delicious, and just what I needed. Thank you again."
Nodding, Lyda returned to arranging boots. "So your first official meeting with the town council is this evening, I hear:"
Molly raised a brow. "You know about that?"
"Everybody in town knows about that. Mayor Davenport sent someone from his office around town earlier today. She invited me and Ben and what customers were here to attend. I saw her head on down the street, asking more folks as she went. My thinking is that the mayor wants to make a good impression on your first meeting."
Recalling Mayor Davenport's initial reaction to her, Molly wondered if he had some other motivation. "If that's what he's trying to do, then he needn't bother:" She raised her glass in a mock cheer. "Timber Ridge has already made a very favorable impression on me" She drank the rest of her tea.
"I'm glad to hear that, Mrs. Whitcomb. I hope you'll be very happy here. The children of this town deserve a teacher like you:"
"Do you and your husband have children, Mrs. Mullins?"
Lyda stilled and stared at the child-sized boots in her hand. And the question grew louder in the silence. "No, Ben and I don't have any children;" she whispered, smoothing a hand over the lace ties. "Not anymore.
Molly pressed her lips tight. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mullins, I didn't mean to pry-"
"You're not prying, Mrs. Whitcomb:" Lyda put the boots down and smoothed the front of her apron. "It's been several years ago now" Though telling by the pain in her expression, the wound was still fresh, in some ways, at least. "I'm usually fine talking about it, but today-" Lyda looked at her hands knotted at her waist. "Today would have been their twelfth birthday. Twins;' she said softly. "A boy and a girl:' Loss and longing shadowed Lyda Mullins's expression. "I don't know why, but their birthday is always harder for me to ge
t through than the day they-" She bit her lower lip, then reached out. "Here, let me take that for you:"
Molly handed Lyda the glass and their hands touched.
Lyda looked at her, hesitating. "You and your husband ... you never had any children:"
It wasn't a question, and yet Molly saw the opportunity for what it was. And part of her wanted to take it. She wanted to tell the truth. She could say it aloud right now, right this minute, and-certain that nearby patrons shopping one aisle over would hear-the news would be all over town in no time. And just as certain, her time in this town would be all over too.
No more job. No more fresh start, or new friends. For however long they might last. Heart beating in her ears, Molly slowly shook her head.
Lyda took hold of her hand. "Well, don't you worry. You're young yet, Mrs. Whitcomb, there's still time. Once you're ready to open your heart again, I'm sure there'll be a good man to come along, ready to steal it:"
Molly felt herself tearing up.
"Oh, there, there, dear. . " Lyda touched her cheek. "Don't cry. It'll be all right. I'm living proof that God gives you strength for each new day. I know you miss your husband. And I'm not sure that'll ever stop, not completely. But there'll come a day when someone else will touch a part of you in a way that maybe he didn't. And you'll know, just like you did that first time:"
Molly couldn't meet her gaze.
"Pretty as you are, you'll have your choice of men too:" She laughed softly. "I'm surprised they haven't already started lining up outside your cabin."
Molly took a hiccupped breath, wishing she had the courage to tell Lyda Mullins the truth. But she didn't.
"Excuse me, ladies.. "
Recognizing the voice behind her, Molly worked to dry her tears.
"Sheriff McPherson . . " Lyda gently touched Molly's arm as she stepped past. "How are you today, sir?"
"I'm doing well, ma'am. And you?"
"Better now that you've stopped by. Is there something I can help you find?"
Molly knew Lyda Mullins was buying her more time, and she could have hugged her for it.
"I'm interested in getting both my nephews a pair of boots before school starts. You don't happen to know if Ben has measured their feet recently, do you?"
"No, but I can check with him;' Lyda said. "I'll be right back:"
Hearing Lyda's retreating footsteps and feeling James's stare, Molly turned to greet him, aware of others nearby. "Sheriff, how nice to see you:" She forced a lightness to her voice, but the concern lining his features said he wasn't fooled.
That half smile tipped his mouth. "Pleasure's all mine, Dr. Whitcomb. I assure you:' He glanced downward. "I take it you've been out visiting your students today?"
Molly took a meaningless swipe at the layer of dust coating her skirt. "Yes, and the meetings are going very well. I'm eager to make a report to the town council tonight." Eager was stretching the truth, but she wanted to appear competent and in charge.
"Actually, I was hoping to speak to you about something before the meeting this evening. If that's possible. It has to do with the proposal I started telling you about the other day, the one Dr. Brookston-"
"Sheriff McPherson!" Ben Mullins came up from behind and clapped him on the shoulder. "I hear you're looking for boots for Mitch and Kurt. I have their measurements right here." Mr. Mullins looked her way. "Mrs. Whitcomb, how are you, ma'am? Fill me in on how things are going for our new schoolteacher."
"I'm doing well, thank you." Matching his exuberance, she told Ben Mullins about preparing her lessons and about getting the room ready, but spared him the details on her meetings with parents and their children, not wanting to bring up any unwanted memories for him. "But I'll be ready come that first day."
"I'm sure you will;' Ben said. "So what kind of boots would you like to see, Sheriff?"
James touched Molly's elbow. "Would you mind waiting for me, Dr. Whitcomb? I promise I won't be long:"
As James looked at boots, Molly picked up the soap and coffee she'd come into the store for, paid for it, and met him on the boardwalk minutes later.
"That's very kind of you;' she said, gesturing behind them to the store, thinking of what he'd just done for Mitchell and Kurt.
"They do far more for me than I do for them, I assure you." He cocked his head to one side. "Are you hungry?"
She smiled at his impulsive question. "Yes, in fact, I am. But-" She pulled her father's pocket watch from her skirt pocket-five oclock- and glanced down at the dust layering her dress. "Doesn't the meeting begin at six?"
He nodded, apparently following her line of thought. "Tell you what ... why don't you ride Winsome on to the cabin, I'll go to Clara's and bribe her into letting me have two plate dinners, with cobbler, and I'll meet you on your porch in about twenty minutes. We'll consider it a pre-town-council meeting. How does that sound?"
She stared up at him, thinking of the "friend truce" they'd made just days ago, and weighed that against her determination to keep some distance between them.
"It's just a meal, Molly. And everyone needs to eat. Even you:"
She considered his overly patient look. If only he knew her hesitance was for his sake, not hers. From how he described it though, they'd be eating on her front porch. No one would even see them together. She laughed softly. "I gladly accept, James. Thank you:'
She followed him over to the pretty chestnut mare tethered nearby, and James handed her the reins. "She's about as gentle as they come, but she'll fly if you give her the lead:"
"Then I'll make sure not to give her the lead:" Molly climbed into the saddle and arranged her skirt over her legs, halfway wishing she could see what his little mare could do. If such a thing would even be permitted in her condition.
She guided the mare down the street, drawing an occasional stare. It didn't hit her why until she was nearly through town-it was because she was riding the sheriffs horse. If she'd thought it through, she would have declined James's generous offer. As it was, she hurried the mare along.
Back at the cabin, she changed into Rachel's dress and was putting the finishing touches on her hair when she thought she heard something-an explosion. But it sounded far away. Pausing, comb in hand, she waited, didn't hear anything else, and went back to her task.
Then it sounded again. Her hand stilled.
She walked to the front door and stepped outside-and heard a chorus of gunfire erupt. She looked toward town. The blasts carried over the lake and echoed off the mountain before turning back again.
Alarm spread through her. Was there an emergency in town? A fire? Is this what they did to call for help? She grabbed her reticule and ran to where James's horse stood tethered. She yanked the reins free, swung into the saddle, and gave Winsome a good kick in the haunches.
James was right. His pretty little chestnut mare about sprouted wings and flew!
Molly held the reins, heart pounding, as Winsome's hooves ate up the path toward town. She had no idea what help she could offer once she got there, but faces of people she'd met came to mind. She couldn't even remember all their names but was determined to repay them something of what they'd already given her.
Leaning forward, close to the horse, she felt an exhilaration she hadn't experienced in a long time. She'd ridden since she was a little girl and was skilled at it. The mare's stride was sleek and smooth, and as they rounded the last corner toward town together, Molly didn't feel a pinch of fear. Not for herself, or her baby.
Her baby...
The thought caught her off guard. But when the main thoroughfare came into view, she found she couldn't give the thought the attention it needed. Throngs of people clogged the street, guns and rifles firing one after the other. She reined in, sending bits of gravel flying.
And that's when she saw him-James striding toward her through the crowd, two covered plates in one hand and his gun in the other.
17
ames slipped his gun back into his holster and negotiated a path through
the crowd, trying to get to Molly. From the confused look on her face, he realized she had no clue what was happening. People slapped him on the back as he went, hugging him, hugging each other. Someone bearhugged him from behind, and he had to steady the plates in his hand to keep from dropping them.
He turned to see Charlie Daggett hanging on to him.
"We did it, Sheriff?" Charlie yelled, liquor heavy on his breath. "We did it!"
James laughed. "We sure did, Charlie!" He clapped him on the shoulder, then looked him in the eye. "You go easy on the celebrating tonight, okay?"
"I will, Sheriff. You want me to swear on it?"
James shook his head. "You've already given me your word. That's good enough in my book:"
Charlie straightened a bit-as much as he probably could in his current state-and pointed. "She's waitin' for you over there:'
James glanced in Molly's direction, then back at Charlie. He narrowed his eyes. Maybe Charlie wasn't as far gone as he'd thought.
Charlie grinned. "I'm a little drunk, Sheriff. But I'm not stupid:"
James felt himself smiling despite knowing the reaction would reveal more than he wanted to. But he also knew that, come morning, tonight would likely be a blur for Charlie Daggett. As most of them unfortunately were. "One thing you're not, Charlie ... is stupid. Don't ever buy into that lie, friend:"
Charlie stared for a second. "Yes, sir, Sheriff." He gave him another bear hug before plunging back into the celebrating mob.
By the time James reached her, Molly had dismounted. She held the reins to Winsome and eyed the crowd behind him, a curious half smile on her face. He deposited their dinners on a nearby bench. Seeing the flush of her cheeks and the mussed look of her hair, he threw caution aside and gave her a spur-of-the-moment hug.
Eyes wide, she laughed. "What was that for?"
"Colorado's been granted statehood! We just got the telegram. President Grant signed the bill, so it's official:"
Her eyes lit. She giggled. "I heard the commotion from my cabin and thought something was wrong. So we came to see what it was." She stroked Winsome's neck. "You're right. This little girl rides like the wind:"
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 15