Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  He wished now he had run away.

  Ross stood stock-still as he stared at Miss Barrett. This woman was no Black Swamp witch, as Jonathan had led him to believe. This was a lovely, graceful woman who undoubtedly would not appreciate his part in the truancy of her student.

  He wished now he hadn't interfered.

  Miss Barrett rose slowly from her seat at the desk on the elevated platform. She wore a blue dress so dark it appeared black at first. Her hair, pulled tightly back, was caught in a knot at the nape of her slender neck with only a fringe of cuffs to soften the look. She came around the corner of her desk and glided toward them.

  Jonathan shrank back, hiding behind his newfound protector.

  Reluctantly, Ross stood his ground. Then, with mild surprise, he realized that he had seen this woman before, in his saloon. Well, I'll be damned, he thought to himself, grinning. His eyes stole over her once more, finding little to compare this woman of obvious gentle breeding to the one who had wielded the club and smashed his mirror.

  Irene was more than a little surprised to see Jonathan come through the door with a stranger, although something about the man seemed familiar. With little interest in the man, she focused her attention on the boy and walked toward him.

  "Jonathan, where have you been?" she asked gently, leaning forward at the waist. "We've been worried about you."

  Jonathan didn't reply, and he refused to look up from staring at his scuffed brown shoes.

  She looked up at the mustached man standing defensively beside Jonathan. It was then that she knew why he looked so familiar. Her breath caught in her throat as once more she stood face to face with the new saloon owner. She fought unsuccessfully to keep the color from rising to her cheeks.

  "He was at the canal with me, watching the barges unload." Ross placed his hand on Jonathan's blond head, hoping to transfer a measure of bravery to him. At the same time, he watched as full-blown recognition registered on Miss Barrett's now rosy face.

  Aware of the on-looking students, Irene replied noncommittally, "I see."

  "I thought I should bring Jonathan back," he went on.

  "I'm glad you did," she said, her throat constricting so that the words were strained.

  Jonathan looked up at Ross appealingly, and Ross squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.

  "Maybe we could talk," he said to Irene. Then, lowering his voice, he added, "In private."

  Irene felt sure she would die of mortification if anyone at all saw her talking to him in private or otherwise. But unable to see any way out of the situation gracefully, and especially in front of a room full of children, she acquiesced, motioning to Lydia who sat nearby.

  Lydia slid across her seat and reached out a hand to the unwilling Jonathan, pulling him onto the bench beside her.

  "We can stand in the hall," Irene said, stiffly.

  Ross nodded, then followed behind her where it was difficult, if not impossible, to ignore the gentle sway of her bustled skirt.

  Once they were in the hall, Irene held the door ajar so she could keep an eye on her students and still have a private conversation. She waited for him to speak first. Perhaps he had a clue that would help her understand Jonathan, she told herself, trying to justify why she had agreed to speak to him at all.

  "I think I've been misled," Ross began, grinning a little sheepishly, "and maybe I should apologize for stepping in."

  Glancing nervously at the only other classroom, across the hall from where they stood, Irene wanted to ask him to keep his voice low so as not to attract attention.

  "Misled?" she asked, trying to concentrate on his words and not the other classroom door.

  "Unless you happen to have a much older sister with warts on her nose," he replied.

  He had her full attention now. "Precisely what did Jonathan tell you?" She noticed the mischievous twinkle in the depths of his gray-blue eyes.

  "Well, let's just say that he and I see things a little differently."

  "You mean, you don't see any warts on my nose but Jonathan does." Irene lifted one well-arched eyebrow, submerging her bruised feelings.

  "There are definitely no warts. At least," he said, still grinning, "none that I can see."

  Irene felt the uncustomary blush once again sneak up her collar as she nervously cleared her throat. She plucked a speck of invisible lint from the sleeve of her dress and dropped it to the floor.

  "Well," she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I appreciate your concern for Jonathan, and for bringing him to school, Mr. . . ."

  "Hollister. Ross Hollister."

  At that precise moment, the classroom door across the hall opened as if on cue, and Clara filled the doorway. She glared a warning at Irene and the back of Mr. Hollister, until he turned around. Then Clara's countenance turned from one of warning to one of horror. Momentarily, the shock held her transfixed.

  "II really should get back to my class," Irene stammered. "Thank you again."

  "No need." Ross shook his head.

  Suddenly galvanized into action, Clara Wilson bent her arms at the elbows until they looked like chicken wings against her plump body and practically flew across the hall.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Her voice was lowered with unutterable contempt.

  To Irene's dismay, Ross turned to Clara and nodded,

  bowing slightly at the waist. ''Good morning, Mrs. Wilson."

  "What are you doing here? This is a schoolhouse! There are children present," Clara said, her indignation flaring.

  "Exactly my reason for being here," he said calmly. "But I'll let Miss Barrett explain it to you." He looked to Irene. "Before I go, I'd like to talk to Jonathan."

  She glanced at Clara, who stood with her arms crossed over her ample bust, then at Ross Hollister, who seemed sincerely concerned about Jonathan.

  "Of course," she said to Ross.

  She watched as he re-entered her classroom and knelt down to speak to the child; she was surprised to see Jonathan respond without hostility. Then he rose and walked back toward her.

  Smiling, he said, "Good day, ladies."

  Irene watched as he walked away, his hatless head a dark gold when he opened the door to the brilliant sunshine. When he was gone, she pulled her thoughts back to the problem at hand and turned to Clara, who continued glaring at her.

  "Do you know who that is?" Clara insisted rather than asked, her ire obviously in a fine state.

  "Yes, I do." Irene answered, piqued by the ever-present will of someone else being imposed upon her own. She could not judge, think, or decide for herself without being told the correct way to go about it or even having the decision made for her. And more often it was the latter. Her mother had assumed the privilege years ago and never relinquished it, until Andrew took her place. And now there was Clara. When would her life ever be her own?

  "Now, Irene, don't get in a dither." Clara placed a hand on Irene's arm, half as a warning, half as a placating gesture. "It's just that it wouldn't be proper for you to be seen talking to him. What if the superintendent came in?"

  There was no point in discussing it further, she decided. Clara had already made up her mind what was best for her and nothing would change it.

  "I should go back to my class," Irene said, trying to regain her composure.

  Clara inclined her head in acknowledgment of Irene's change of attitude and walked back to her own classroom.

  Turning away, Irene placed both of her cool hands against her cheeks, which burned with resentment.

  Stepping inside the room, she was met by a high-pitched shriek from one of the girls. She took a deep breath to still her nerves and closed the door behind her.

  Irene studied her students, trying to decide who had issued the scream. Then her eyes fell on blond little Mary Anderson, whose tears streamed down her cheeks, while behind her sat Jonathan with a belligerent smile on his face.

  In the three weeks past, she had hoped to bring him out of his rancorous attitude toward her and ever
yone. Only Lydia seemed able to reach him. And now Ross Hollister. During her six years of teaching, she'd met several difficult children, but none so heartrending. He needed a family, of that she was sure.

  Irene walked toward the front of the room, stopping beside Jonathan's seat, and lightly touched his shoulder. He flinched and drew away. She didn't press the matter.

  Mary Anderson sat with her hand rubbing a spot on the back of her head, no longer crying. Apparently, her long braids had presented too much of a temptation for Jonathan, so she moved Mary to a vacant seat out of Jonathan's reach.

  The day progressed without further incident, to Irene's relief and probably to her foresight in sending Lydia with Jonathan whenever he needed to go out back.

  When the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound bell in the tower rang for dismissal, it didn't signify the end of her problems. On the contrary, it only presented a different set of problems to weigh heavily on her mind.

  With a unified shout, the children jumped from their seats and raced for the door, pouring into the hall like minnows from a bucket. Everyone, that is, except Lydia, who held a struggling Jonathan by the hand. Finally, he managed to loosen her grip and dash into the melee, mingling anonymously until he fled the building.

  Irene watched him go, wishing she could do something for him. But it appeared that her only resource was to double her efforts to find their family. Tonight she would write another letter to mail the next day; perhaps the first one had been lost and that was why she hadn't heard anything.

  "I'm sorry about Jonathan, Miss Barrett," Lydia said. "He isn't really bad. He's just mixed up."

  "I know," Irene said as she straightened her desk and proceeded to collect the slates from the children's desks. Lydia picked up those on the opposite side of the room.

  "The other boys teased him this morning about not having a pa," Lydia offered.

  "Well, that's none of his fault," Irene said. "I don't know why some children enjoy hurting those who already hurt." The pain of rejection wasn't something to be explained, only experienced, and she knew it only too well herself.

  Jonathan's legs couldn't seem to propel him fast enough. All day he'd sat on that hard wooden bench thinking about Ross and what he'd said. First, Ross had said Miss Barrett looked like a pretty nice teacher to him, but he paid little mind to thatafter all, she didn't even want to keep him. She was just like all the rest. But then Ross said, "How about going fishing together sometime?" And with those words sounding over and over inside his head, like the clackety-clack of a train gaining speed, his feet fairly flew over the hard clay ground. He ran along the street, making a wide turn onto Front and down the hill into town where the canal butted up against the back of Ross's saloon. He dodged people, crates, barrels, and even a few dogs before he finally reached the back door.

  To his disappointment, he found the warped, faded door shut. He stood pondering it, undecided about how to proceed. Lydia, not to mention Miss Barrett, would skin him the way a hunter did a wild rabbit if he actually went inside. But if he didn't, how would Ross know he was there? He couldn't take the chance of sitting outside the door all night and never seeing Ross, so with his heart buffeting his ribs, he turned the knob and pushed the door wide.

  Although the sun shone brightly outside, darkness greeted him in the small back room, and a sweet, musty odor wafted past. He stared at the door to his left, then at the door straight ahead, where sounds of laughter and yelling mixed together in a sort of happy roar. Without a doubt, that had to be the right door. He pulled it open a crack, peeked inside, and skirted the deep, narrow room with his hands against the wall behind him.

  But before he'd gotten far, someone hollered, "Hey, who's kid is that?" Then everyone near Jonathan got quiet and stared.

  Bravely, he spoke up. "Where's Ross?"

  "Hey, Ross! Why didn't you tell us you got a kid?"

  They thought he was Ross's son. Jonathan puffed up with pride at the very thought.

  Then, out of nowhere, Ross appeared in front of him, kneeling down. "What brings you here?" he asked, frowning.

  Jonathan wasn't sure if Ross was angry or not since he wasn't smiling. He liked it better when Ross smiled. "I . . . I thought maybe . . . we could go fishing . . . like you said."

  "Fishing?" Ross blinked in surprise, not only to find the boy in the saloon but that he expected him to drop everything and go that minute.

  Jonathan tried to blend into the stained, partially torn wallpaper behind him, so great was his humiliation. Why did he think Ross would be any different than all the other grownups? They said one thing but did another. He slid backward along the wall toward the door where he'd entered.

  "Whoa there, pal," Ross said, reaching out a hand and grabbing him by the shirt. "I didn't say I wouldn't go fishing. After all, I asked you first, didn't I?"

  Jonathan eased up from pushing so hard against the wall when he heard Ross call him "pal."

  "Does Miss Barrett or your sister know you're here?"

  He started to nod his head, but changed his mind under Ross's heavy scrutiny and said, "No."

  "Hmm. Just as I thought." Ross rubbed his mustache. "I think we'd better get permission. Don't you?"

  Hating to agree, but seeing no way out, Jonathan nodded.

  "I have to talk to Ben first, so you wait outside the back door. And don't let Mrs. Clara Wilson see you, or we'll both be in trouble." Ross winked.

  Jonathan grinned. He knew no women went to the back doors of saloons, and the least likely of all would be someone like that stone-faced Mrs. Wilson from school.

  Happiness once more lightened his heart and his feet as he ran from the building to wait on the landing where the barges were moored. Within minutes, Ross stood beside him, two fishing poles in his hand. "Ready?"

  "Sure am!"

  Together they walked along the side-cut canal, heading for Miss Barrett's house. From across the river near the mill, a canal boat blew its horn; out of habit, both the man and the boy looked in that direction.

  When they reached her front door, they stopped and stared at each other.

  "Should I do the asking?" Ross whispered.

  "You like her better than I do," Jonathan whispered back.

  Ross grinned and knocked on the door.

  Irene opened it, her eyes wide with surprise.

  "Hello, again, Miss Barrett."

  She looked from Ross to Jonathan and back to Ross.

  "We . . ." Ross put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder and went on, "wondered if we might have your permission to go fishing for a while."

  "I . . . I don't know." Irene hesitated, looking from him to Jonathan. Was it wise to allow a friendship to blossom between this boy, her temporary charge, and this man of dubious reputation? No doubt the ladies who protested at the saloon would have an opinion about this. And it wouldn't take long for word to get around.

  "We promise to be back before supper. As a matter of fact, we're just going across the bridge to sit on the bank by the mill." Ross turned to look across the river. "I believe you'll be able to see us from your front porch."

  Irene took in the hopeful expression on Jonathan's upturned face. Did she really have the heart to dash his hopes? So far she'd gotten nothing more than "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am" from him. Now he looked to her for approval. Could this be a start?

  "Well, if you're back in time and if you're just going across the river," she said, not completely comfortable with her decision, "I . . . guess it would be all right."

  "Good!" He turned to Jonathan and said, "What do you say, pal?"

  "Let's go fishing!" And with that, Jonathan leaped down the single step as though there were at least three or four.

  As they walked away, Irene had the compelling urge to call Jonathan back and tell Mr. Hollister he was unfit company for a young boy. But the unbounded joy so apparent in Jonathan was something she hadn't seen until now, and she knew she couldn't do it.

  Alongside the mill, a canal packet boat sounded its horn
and coasted to a bobbing halt before approaching Lock Number Nine of the Miami and Erie Canal. Passengers disembarked slowly with the aid of the captain.

  Winnie Barrett extricated herself from the crowded,

  cramped quarters she'd occupied for the past few days. She'd never spent a more miserable night and hoped never to repeat the mistake. The dust and noise of a stagecoach would have been preferable, and even the bumping and jolting would have allowed some movement to keep up one's circulation. As it was, she had little feeling left in one leg and feared she might not be able to step out of the boat without falling into the canal.

  "Hope your trip was pleasant, ma'am," the captain said as he handed her out.

  "Hope all you want, sir," was all she would say as she cast him a baleful glare.

  Winnie Barrett saw to the loading of her bags, leaving nothing to chance, and refused a ride across the wagon bridge spanning the river. She let it be known to one and all that she would spend no more time in close quarters with anyone after that trip, then properly tipped the baggage man before setting out. Never had she felt so unkempt, wrinkled, and kinked-up in the legs and back as she did now. The walk was just what she needed to soothe her tight muscles and irritated nerves.

  Glancing at the water below the bridge, she thought about how long it had been since she'd visited her daughter. More than a year, she concluded. Irene had come home for Christmas with a downcast spirit, and Winnie felt the familiar tug on the strings of a mother's heart, so she'd responded with a visit of her own. And now this last letter had tugged ever so gently, but just as surely, and she could not, would not rest until she knew Irene was truly all right. If only Irene had married Andrew when she'd had the chance. Then she would have been able to relax knowing that Andrew would take care of Irene. She held little hope that either Emma or Clara Wilson would be able to help or even understand Irene's needs. The Lord knew she herself was at a loss sometimes when it came to understanding Irene.

  And that was the reason for this unannounced arrival.

  She needed to see for herself that Irene was indeed all right, and she wanted no preparation to pretend that all was well, if in truth, it wasn't.