As soon as the thought occurred to him he tossed it away. What sweet young thing would be interested in a scarred-up widower with a difficult child, a man whose torso looked like a scale drawing of the Amazon Basin tributaries? No, Miss Maxwell was not for him.
He stood to get back into his car, and as he did he spotted the subject of his reverie walking toward him. He watched her covertly, feeling vaguely guilty, like a voyeur. Should he call out to her, reveal his presence? But he had nothing to say. He remained where he was, looking on as she unlocked a dark blue compact car and stowed her briefcase in the back seat. As she bent he caught another glimpse of those lovely legs, and his mouth went dry. She got into the front seat and started the motor, unaware of his scrutiny. He was at the other end of the school property, screened by a corner of the building. Her car backed out of its space and glided away, while Jason stood motionless, his cigarette burning away between his fingers. A spark touched his skin and he started, dropping the butt and crushing it under his heel.
Time to end this foolish whimsy and get home himself. Johnny would be waiting for him.
* * * *
The next day Carrie checked into the records of Johnny McClain’s previous teachers, trying to piece together the history of her problem student. It seemed that right after his accident his then teacher had gone on pregnancy leave. He had returned to school to a substitute who didn’t know him and had no interest in helping him through his difficulties. The following year he was placed in the class of an elderly woman who was completing her last months before retirement and had no patience with his outbursts. She dealt with him by sending him to sit by himself in the principal’s office. His despairing father had finally taken him to the counselor currently treating him, but it wasn’t hard to see how the school had failed the sensitive, troubled child.
That’s going to change, Carrie thought. Right now.
She got permission for the trip to the McClain ranch from the principal and arranged for the two class mothers to accompany them. The bus would arrive right after lunch and take them on the ten-minute jaunt to Johnny’s house and then return them in time for dismissal. That would leave two hours for the tour, and Carrie felt that two hours of her fourth graders was all that Jason McClain could be expected to endure. When she had everything arranged she called McClain from the office, trying to ignore her sudden breathlessness.
The housekeeper answered the phone, and there was a long pause after Carrie identified herself and asked for Mr. McClain. Then she heard the click of an extension and his husky voice saying, “Miss Maxwell? This is Jason McClain.”
“Hello, how are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to wait; I was outside and Rose had to find me. I hope there’s no problem with Johnny?”
“No, no. I’m calling to arrange the day for our visit to your ranch—that is, if you still want us to come.”
“Of course. When would you like to arrive?”
“Would next Friday be all right? We could come around one, after the kids have had their lunch, and leave at three so they would get back in time for their buses.”
“Sounds good. How about refreshments?”
“Don’t go to any trouble. We’ll be inconveniencing you enough with our presence. I hope you understand what you’re getting into here, Mr. McClain. I don’t think you know what it’s like to have twenty-four ten-year-olds descend on you at once. You may require a month in the country to recuperate.”
His soft chuckle came over the wire. “I think I can handle it if you can, Miss Maxwell. We’ll be ready for you at one.”
“Thank you so much. The kids are really looking forward to it.”
“Not at all. See you then. Bye.”
“Bye,” Carrie echoed, wishing she had been able to think of a pretext to keep him on the line. She liked the sound of his voice, low, resonant. She hung up the phone reluctantly to see that the secretary was staring at her.
“What’s the matter, Doris?” Carrie asked airily. “Am I turning green?”
“Not green, pink. A nice, rosy pink. Who was that on the other end, a boyfriend?”
“It was the father of one of my students, if you must know. Boy, this place is worse than the women’s dormitory at college, no privacy at all. Maybe I should do what I did then, pull the phone into a closet.” She hurried out of the office, leaving Doris to look after her with a quizzical smile.
* * * *
The night before the trip Carrie was at home, examining her wardrobe. Not that there was much to examine. Her teacher’s salary did not leave any room for frills and most of what she owned she wore to work. She didn’t know what would be appropriate for a morning teaching and an afternoon at a horse ranch, so she settled on jeans with a tailored blouse and flat heeled shoes. After she set the things out for the morning, she went to the window and stared out at the night sky.
Carrie lived in the carriage house of an estate on the outskirts of Smithfield, the township where Grovedale School was located. When the owner of the main house no longer kept horses, he converted the little house on the edge of his property into a rental unit. It had a kitchen and living room on the first floor with a bedroom and a bath on the second. It was perfect for Carrie and the rent was right, so she considered herself lucky to get it. She liked the isolation and the surrounding grounds, thick with trees and flowering bushes. Her driveway was a fork off the main entrance way, and the security guard always posted there kept an eye out for her place and made her feel protected. The wealthy owners, a couple in their sixties with grown children, were away a lot and she often had the place to herself. The only drawback was that sometimes the stillness grew so intense that she felt enclosed in a bell jar. Then she was occasionally grateful for the traffic sounds she normally was glad to escape. This was one such night and she found herself thinking of her family: her brother Jim in California, her dead mother, her father who had remarried and moved to Vermont. She gave brief consideration to calling Jim but then decided she shouldn’t bother him. Too many calls to Palos Verdes and his wife would be wondering what was up with the kid sister. Still, it was nice to know he was there if she needed him. He was always asking her to come out west and live near him, a thought that appalled her. Jim had a family, three children, and the last thing any of them needed was Aunt Carrie moving in like a damp fog, casting a pall over everything. Jim insisted that wouldn’t be the case but Carrie wasn’t willing to take the chance. She liked her independence, she told him; she liked living alone. Every once in a while the silence got to her, that was all. She could hardly admit to herself that it was happening more often since her meeting with Jason McClain.
Carrie wondered if he had been able to tell what she was thinking during their conference. It was clear to her that her co-workers could read her face and she found it embarrassing. She’d always been unable to conceal her emotions; her mother used to say that she had a “speaking countenance.” She’d hoped that she would grow out of it, become better at disguising her feelings as she grew older. But apparently that wasn’t happening.
Carrie sighed and turned from the window, glancing at the bedside clock on her end table. She’d better turn in early. Her experience with field trips, even short ones, indicated that the next day would be a demanding one.
Carrie’s intuition proved correct. Once on the bus the kids bounced in their seats, craned their necks at a view they’d seen hundreds of times before, and babbled excitedly about their coming adventure. Johnny held public court in the midst of the group, outlining the excursion he had planned with his father, answering questions like a Smithsonian tour guide. His towhead turned from side to side eagerly, and his large blue eyes sparkled with more animation than Carrie had ever seen in them.
It’s working, she thought. Johnny had proved to be an excellent hall monitor, performing his duties with solemn precision and making little notes on a spiral pad to augment his reports. He would stand in front of her, whip out his list and rattle off the perti
nent information, offering commentary where he thought it was needed. Carrie could hardly keep a straight face during his recitals. But he was so determined to do a good job that she knew her levity would not have been appreciated. She bit her tongue and listened gravely, always thanking him for his efforts. He would nod seriously and wait to be dismissed. She almost felt like saluting him.
Carrie hummed a little tune under her breath as the driver turned into the lane for the McClain ranch. It was about eight miles outside of town on a narrow road running directly off Route 13. A shout went up from the class as they realized they were close to their goal. Carrie shook her head and caught the eye of Dolores Grasso, one of the class mothers. You’d think they had traveled five days to reach the Grand Canyon in Arizona.
The horse barns could be seen in the distance as the bus pulled into the clearing that fronted the house, a long, low ranch with a fieldstone facade. There were two paddocks, one empty and one containing a series of jumps set about at staggered intervals. As Carrie moved toward the door to supervise the children’s exit McClain came out onto the lawn, standing with his hands in his back pockets, his head tilted to one side as he watched the arrival of his son’s class. The bright sun turned his hair to molten gold. Carrie felt a tensing of her muscles as his eyes moved over the descending children and settled on her, still standing in the doorway of the bus. He moved forward and blocked the exit, extending his hand upward. Carrie, halfway down the stairs, hesitated. His eyes narrowed.
“Take my hand, Miss Maxwell,” he said quietly.
Carrie had no choice but to do so. She slipped her fingers into his palm and he assisted her to the ground. Once there she stepped back from him, but he held her fast.
“Welcome to my home,” he said.
Carrie was very conscious that all eyes were on their little tableau. Even the kids were watching: why was Miss Maxwell holding hands with Johnny McClain’s father?
McClain turned his head and seemed to realize the picture they were creating. He released Carrie and gestured at the surrounding grounds.
“Mi casa es su casa,” he said with a smile. “I’ve asked my foreman and one of my top hands to help take the kids around the place. Is that all right with you?”
“Fine. I’ll divide them into three groups, and each of the class mothers will accompany one of the other two.”
Glad of something to do, Carrie split the class up and herded the kids into three separate huddles. When she looked up two other men were standing with McClain.
“Miss Maxwell, may I introduce my foreman, Bill Welch, and my best expert in the field of horseflesh, Jack Lawrence?”
The men, older than McClain and slightly uncomfortable with their tutorial role, shook hands with Carrie. It was obvious that McClain had drafted them. They shifted from one foot to the other as the boys and girls looked them over in awe: real live cowboys. Well, ranch hands, anyway.
Carrie studied McClain as he spoke to the two men, telling them where to take their groups. He was wearing a red and gray plaid work shirt with slim jeans and sturdy, well-worn boots. This attire showed his lean physique and long, muscular legs to advantage. He had been handsome in a suit but she liked him better in these clothes. Still showing the remnants of his summer tan, with his beautiful hair lifting in the breeze, he looked like a figure in a Frederick Remington painting. All he needed was a Stetson.
“And Bill, you take that group, and Miss Maxwell’s bunch will come with me,” McClain was saying. Carrie watched in amazement as the kids trotted off happily with his employees and he turned to face her.
“Shall we dance?” he asked, gesturing expansively toward the first barn.
“You seem to have everything all organized,” she commented dryly.
“You only have two hours. I didn’t think you wanted to waste any time,” he answered, shooting her a sidelong glance as he fell into step beside her. The children assembled behind them, following their teacher as Johnny came darting out of the house. He had disappeared into it as soon as they arrived.
“I got my trophy from the junior dressage,” he announced unnecessarily. He was carrying it by the cup, almost dragging it in the dirt.
“That’s fine, son,” McClain said affectionately, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let me carry it? It may not survive the trip to the barn.”
The boy surrendered his prize, and McClain tucked it under one arm as he opened the doors of the first barn with his other hand. He had arranged the tour so that the other groups would visit it later.
“This is the tack room,” he announced, as he set the trophy on a rough wooden table and lifted a bridle from a hook on the wall. “This is where we keep the riding gear. Now I’ll show you all the pieces that go on a horse before you can ride him.”
The children listened with openmouthed absorption as he described the apparatus. Carrie, who was more interested in the lecturer than the lecture, tried not to stare. As a result her gaze was fixed on a rather nasty looking bit when McClain announced, “Now on to the horses.”
The kids squealed with glee as he opened an inner door and the strong smell of hay, saddle soap and live horses assaulted them. They were moving past a bulletin board decorated carelessly with an array of ribbons when Johnny piped up with, “Tell them about your ribbons, Dad.”
“I don’t think we have to go into all of that now, John,” McClain said quickly, darting a glance at Carrie.
“Oh, please,” Carrie said, unable to resist the temptation to tease him. “I’m sure the children would love to hear about them. Wouldn’t you, boys and girls?”
The kids responded with an enthusiastic chorus and, trapped, McClain favored her with an exasperated expression. She grinned back. He went on to describe, as briefly as possible, the first and second place prizes he had won in various tournaments. When one of the boys asked if he was still entering the “contests,” McClain looked at Carrie and answered that he didn’t compete anymore at all. He had suffered an injury to his hands, which made it difficult to control the horse in the delicate maneuvers competition required. With that, he led them on to the stalls.
McClain showed them all the horses and described the type and features of each, then took the group through the paddocks, pointing out the show jumps. He finished with the grooming shed, demonstrating how the horses were combed and primped prior to shows. He gestured for one of the stable boys to lead the filly he was tending out into the yard.
“How would you kids like to take a turn sitting in the saddle?” McClain asked rhetorically.
“Oh, Miss Maxwell, could we? Please, Miss Maxwell?” This burst as one voice from eight throats.
“Are you sure it’s all right?” Carrie asked in an undertone. She had gotten written permission from the parents but was still uncertain about the risk involved.
“Positive. She’s as gentle as a bunny. Cal, get the saddle.”
Cal saddled the horse and McClain gestured for Johnny to show the others how to proceed. Johnny proudly vaulted onto the animal’s back and held the reins gathered in one hand.
“See how you put your feet in the stirrups?” McClain said to the next candidate, a timid little girl who was clearly afraid but not to be outdone by her classmate.
“Go ahead, Jenny,” Carrie urged. “Mr. McClain won’t let you get hurt.”
McClain’s eyes met hers over the head of the child as she climbed aboard. After an adjustment period of several seconds, Jenny turned her knees inward to the horse’s flanks.
“Look, Miss Maxwell, this is how they do it in the movies,” Jenny called, smiling hugely.
McClain laughed. “And this is how we do it in Connecticut,” McClain said, lifting Jenny bodily and depositing her on the ground.
“It was nothing. Don’t be afraid,” Jenny confided to the next in line, her moment of glory already fading.
“National Velvet,” McClain said to Carrie, nodding to the child.
Carrie raised her eyes heavenward.
All the children took a turn and then McClain pointed to Carrie. “Next,” he said.
“Me?” she answered, startled.
“Of course. Everybody gets a chance.”
When Carrie hesitated the kids all started to heckle her. Surrendering to the inevitable, she took McClain’s hand and allowed him to assist her into the saddle.
“How do I look?” she asked, glancing nervously at the ground, which seemed very far away.
“Like Annie Oakley,” Johnny said with authority.
“Like a schoolteacher on a horse,” Carrie answered her own question. “I think I’d better get down. I’m afraid of heights.”
Grinning, McClain reached up and encircled her waist with his hands. As he lifted her down to the ground, she slipped through his arms until she was standing with her face almost pressed against his chest. He was very close. Carrie could smell the clean scent of his shirt, his skin, and felt one of his arms drop away as the other remained clasped around her middle.
Slowly, she tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. They held hers, his smile fading. She could see the faint afternoon shadow of his beard, the forelock of light brown hair that caressed his brow, the slight dew of perspiration that spangled his upper lip. They remained locked in the same position, frozen in time, until Johnny’s voice intruded upon them.
“Can we go inside for the cookies now, Dad?” he asked impatiently.
Carrie stiffened within McClain’s embrace and he let her go. “Cookies?” she asked breathlessly, hoping she didn’t sound as rattled as she felt.
“Rose said she would put out some juice and cookies for the kids,” McClain explained.
“Rose?” Carrie said stupidly, aware that she was beginning to resemble an echo.
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