Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Laughter gaily filled the air as the wagon approached the back of her house. In spite of their heavy, sodden clothing, both Irene and Ross felt buoyed by the day and undeniably closer. The sound of his deep throaty laugh brought a smile to her own face, and she was sorry that their afternoon had to end so quickly.

  "Whoa," Ross called softly to the horses, and they came to a halt along the edge of her yard. "Don't move," he said to Irene. "I'll help you out." He jumped out and walked around to her side, his boots squeaking soggily.

  Trying to disentangle her legs from her skirts took a little time, but at last she was able to step over the side. He grasped her by the waist and lifted her down. On the ground, face to face with the blanket still coveting her shoulders, they openly stared into each other's eyes.

  "Believe it or not, I really did have a wonderful time," she said.

  "Me, too."

  "Would you like to come in?" she asked, wishing to prolong their time together.

  He glanced down at his own soaked clothing. "No. I'd better get changed. Maybe later. If that's all right.

  "She nodded.

  Suddenly they became aware of the silence that had replaced the silly antics of Lydia and Jonathan. Turning to see what had sobered them, Irene and Ross found Clara Wilson and Superintendent Walker rounding the side of the house.

  "Uh, oh," said Lydia.

  Ross dropped one hand from Irene's waist but allowed the other to stay protectively at her back. He waited for the stiffness to enter her spine, but it didn't. She seemed calm and in control.

  With brisk, no-nonsense steps, the older pair approached. Clara's eyes danced with fire and brimstone, while Mr. Walker's were cold and militant.

  "So," Clara began, "how fitting that we should appear at this moment."

  Indeed, Irene thought. The confrontation almost seemed planned, not to mention inevitable. She kept her silence, refusing to make an excuse or give any sign of wrong-doing.

  In a clipped but loud voice, Mr. Walker spoke to Irene, ignoring Ross. "Miss Barrett. I don't believe I need to remind you of the code of ethics by which we hired you. Or do I?" His eyes roamed over her wet clothing and the blanket in disgust.

  Irene stood her ground, saying nothing and forcing herself not to flinch under his terrible scrutiny. She knew perfectly well that the hiring and firing was at his discretion even though the board must vote. They would take him at his word and accept his suggestions.

  "Your behavior has been far above reproach until lately. And today" He paused. "Well, words fail me."

  Unable to stand quietly by and allow Irene to take the brunt of their criticism, Ross stepped forward. "Wait a minute. You haven't even given her a chance. Don't you think there might be a reasonable explanation?" He was sick to death of their unbending, hypocritical attitudes. And he was sick of their treating him as though he was cow manure on their shoes.

  "Reasonable?" Mr. Walker repeated, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "What could be reasonable about a woman who consistently keeps the company of saloon owners? Especially when she's been warned by her superiors. And not only that, she goes out at all hours of the night, too. Now, here she is soaked to the . . . skin. I hardly think any of this is reasonable, Mr. Hollister."

  With her chin level, Irene spoke, "I prefer that you talk directly to me, Mr. Walker, not about me as though I'm not even present."

  "Oh, there's no doubt that you're present," he replied. "No doubt about that at all. Unfortunately."

  Ross set his jaw in order to keep from punching the man. He had to remind himself that that was what had gotten him into trouble the last time, and he had no intention of repeating that mistake. Even so, he would not allow them to treat her with such disrespect.

  "Guilty until proven innocent? Is that your motto?" he said acidly.

  "Speaking of guilty," Clara began, "I'd say you're somewhat of an expert on the subject. Wouldn't you, Mr. Hollister? Or do you just have an aversion to the truth?"

  He sensed a change in Irene's position, a shift of a foot, a tightening of the fingers she had clamped to the blanket. Suddenly, he knew they had defeated himand her. If only he'd explained everything to her before now, before they'd exposed his past in the bright light of their scrutiny and opened the closed book of his own mistakes for her to see. Why hadn't he told her when they were alone, when he could have explained?

  "Murder, wasn't it, Mr. Hollister? You murdered a man over a woman in a saloon brawl." Clara focused all of her energy and dislike on this man who seemed so intent on destroying Irene's life. Well, not if she could prevent it.

  Ross remained quiet, condemned once more, but this time the pain was infinitely worse. The woman he loved stood beside him and doubted him; he could feel it. Slowly, she turned to look at him, waiting, waiting for him to deny this awful accusation. But he could not.

  For Irene, time had slowed until it actually felt as though it stood still. Then, suddenly, it seemed to move backward, transporting her to an earlier scene, five years ago, when the man she'd loved stood before her, revealed by the awful truth of his actions.

  But now, as she stared at this apparently gentle man beside her, who had brought laughter, adventure, and especially love into her life, she wondered how could she have so willingly accepted him into her heart without really knowing him.

  Seeing the distrust in her eyes, Ross dropped his hand from her waist. What a fool he'd been to ignore the importance of telling her the truth. But then, it probably wouldn't have made any difference. She was a woman who lived her life according to a set of rules, who cared what others thought, while he was a drifter, a murderer, who cared little for the opinions of others. He had come here to make a new life for himself and found everything he wanted. But had he known it would end like this, he never would have come at all.

  Without a word, he turned away and walked to the wagon, where he lifted the hamper out. He crossed the yard, set it on the back steps, then returned to the wagon. Nobody said a word. Climbing aboard, he set his jaw and drove away.

  "Don't let him go," Jonathan whispered, standing beside Irene.

  But she couldn't stop him. She couldn't ignore the voice in her head that kept repeating: You don't know him and he didn't even trust you enough to tell you the truth.

  Mr. Walker cleared his throat. "Well, I can see that you are at least repentant of your association with the man. But I'm afraid it's come too late. Apparently, you are not of strong enough character to withstand the attentions of such a man, and so I'm going to recommend to the board that your contract not be renewed next year. I admit I'm sorry it's come to this. You were a fine teacher.''

  The words struck Irene just as the sound of thunder bombarded her eardrums. The sun still shone brightly in contrast to the brewing storm heading their way, but that was of little consequence compared to the dark clouds overshadowing her heart and the storm brewing within her breast.

  "You're firing me?" she asked in disbelief. "Because I do not do as I'm told?"

  "Because you have a moral obligation to your students and to the community," Mr. Walker said sternly, as though he were speaking to a naughty child.

  "No. That's not it at all," Irene returned heatedly. "I've been told how to think, how to act, and practically what to say until now. It's all right to dress in men's clothing and enter saloons if you intend destruction. It's all right to speak to saloon owners if you place a curse upon their lives"

  "As they have placed upon ours, Irene," Clara interrupted.

  "It's all right to judge men according to their past, point out their mistakes regardless of whether they've paid for them or not." By now she was nearly shouting, but she wasn't sure if it was because of the two who stood before her, or Ross, who had by his silence denied her his trust. "But it's not all right to think, do, or say as one pleases if it is in opposition to your views!"

  "I tried to warn you," Clara said, "but you wouldn't listen. I told you he was about devil's work a
nd apparently in more ways than one."

  Her supercilious attitude for once grated on Irene's nerves until she felt like shaking the older woman.

  "Did he pay for his crime?" Irene shot back, trying to hold her voice under control.

  "Does it matter? He committed it, and that's the important thing to remember." Then, seeing that the younger woman might be taking his side in the matter, she added, "Did he bother to tell you about this?" When Irene didn't answer, she went on, ''I thought not."

  Clara hadn't wanted to hurt Irene so publicly. She would rather things hadn't turned out this way, but Irene was young and resilient, with her whole life ahead of her. It was better that she know the truth now than when it was too late.

  Throughout the encounter their voices had risen enough to draw attention from Winnie, who had opened the back door to shake rugs. At first she'd thought Ross would handle it, but when he drove away she became concerned. Dropping the rugs absently on the ground, she made her way toward the group, becoming more irritated as she approached. They could not talk to her daughter using that tone of voice in broad daylight, where all the neighbors could listen! This had gone far enough.

  Marching up to the threesome, Winnie said curtly, "Good afternoon." Then, eyeing her daughter's wet clothing, she went on, "If you'll excuse us, Irene needs to get out of these clothes before she catches her death. I'm sure you wouldn't want to be responsible for that."

  "Of course not," replied Mr. Walker. "We were just leaving." He tipped his hat, and the two departed.

  But Irene noticed that before they turned to go, Clara hesitated as though there was more she wanted to say or ask, then apparently decided against it.

  Winnie immediately herded the children ahead out of earshot, while she protectively ushered Irene toward the house.

  "And just what was that all about?"

  "I've been fired," she replied evenly.

  "Fired! They can't do that! Who does that Clara Wilson think she is anyway? I'll have a talk with her and tell her to mind her own business for once and for all." Shaking her head in disgust as they entered the kitchen, she repeated, "Fired! Hmph!"

  "I'm going up to change, Mother. I need some time alone."

  With concern on her face, Winnie nodded her head, watching her daughter go. Turning to Lydia, she prodded, "Do you know what this is all about?"

  Biting her lip, Lydia nodded.

  "Well?"

  "Mrs. Wilson said Ross killed a man over a saloon woman and went to prison."

  "Have mercy!" Winnie exclaimed. Suddenly winded, she dropped into a chair. Murder? She would never have guessed it. Was it true? Looking toward the doorway where her daughter had departed the room, she thought, poor Irene.

  Ross left the horses and wagon at the livery, then stalked down the street, his expression matching the thunderclouds overhead. Brimming anger didn't allow him to see others who walked the boarded walks, and those that passed gave him wide berth, not even thinking to speak a pleasantry to him.

  He clenched his fists and forged ahead, his tightened jaw muscles keeping his teeth clamped like a vise. All the while his mind berated the superintendent and Clara Wilson, but mostly he berated himself.

  He shouldn't have kept the truth from Irene; he shouldn't have let himself get so close to her. And first and foremost, he should never have fallen in love with her. But it was too late for that; he already had.

  With one hand he shoved the saloon door wide and strode through the nearly empty building. He paid no heed to those who stared at him, but went up the back stairs to his room. Slamming the door behind him, he pulled his soggy boots from his feet, shrugged out of his clammy clothes, and swore as his toe snagged a sliver. Damn saloon! Damn town! Damn women!

  Plucking the offender from his skin, he ignored the drop of blood and pulled on another pair of socks before he finished dressing. How did he ever let himself get into this fix in the first place? He paused, buttoning his shirt. Because he let his heart rule his better judgment and because he wanted to leave the past behind. He'd thought he could when he got the opportunity to start over. Then he met Irene and wanted more than anything to forget what had happened those years ago, and he'd believed he had that right. After all, he'd paid for what he'd done.

  Pulling on a pair of dry boots, he crossed the floor, then aimlessly turned around and crossed it again. Feeling too confined in the small room, he headed for the outdoors once more, this time opting for the less public back door of the saloon. With no thought as to his destination, he followed the ribbon of canal toward the dam.

  He marched along the banks unmindful of the threatening storm until he stood within feet of the powerful surge of water that flowed over the dam. The sound filled his head with a steady, whooshing roar but it could not drown out his thoughts.

  She had doubted him. She had believed Clara's words and all the implications they carried. Without benefit of explanation, he had been condemned again.

  The wind increased and the first raindrops pelted his face, but he ignored them as his thoughts carried him back to that day more than five years ago. Once more he heard the shot ring out as he involuntarily jumped, saw the man's eyes stare blankly into his, while cold fear gripped his guts. And all the while, a woman cried hysterically in the background. He had never killed a man before, and as the realization overwhelmed him, damp perspiration formed in his armpits and along his brow.

  A clap of thunder brought him back to the present, his face wet with rain.

  Should he explain everything to Irene and hope She would understand? And if she listened at all, would she then treat him with cold indifference or even disdain? He didn't know. Even a compassionate woman like Irene would have trouble forgiving murder.

  In her bedroom, Irene numbly removed the clothes that had begun to dry on her body. With little awareness of what she was doing, her mind jolted over the cold words that Clara had spoken, while outside the thunder rolled and the lightning snapped and she felt the house shake with the reverberations of it.

  Rolling her stockings from her legs, she paused.

  Murder.

  How could he have actually taken another man's life? Had she totally misjudged him?

  With her damp clothing strewn across the back of a chair, she pulled her wrapper around her nakedness, trying to draw some warmth from the cotton. Sitting on the bed, she felt the thunder rock the house once more.

  Unable to let go of them, her mind played back memories of last fall, when he had taken them on their adventure. Surely a man who would take a woman and two children on a picnic, sharing, entrusting them with a part of his past, could not he capable of cold-blooded murder? And the time he'd taken her skating at midnight, holding her warmly, then kissing her passionately. Surely this was not a man so devoid of feeling that he ruthlessly took another's life?

  Gripping the edge of the bed, she felt the heaviness in her stomach and knew the awful truth. He had murdered someone and been convicted. His silence told everything. And now there was no use trying to deny it.

  She lay down upon the quilt and pulled the edge of it around her, letting the tears of disappointment flow. Not only had her heart betrayed her by letting her fall in love with him, but Ross had betrayed her by not confiding in her. She had trusted him, but he had not trusted her. He had not given her honesty.

  What was it the Reverend had said the day she was to have married Andrew? . . . Two people united in their goals and purposes, in their beliefs and, especially, in their honesty and devotion to one another . . . that was love.

  She had fooled herself this time just as she had before. Ross could not possibly love her, or he would have been honest with her. She had bared her soul to him while he had withheld his own from her.

  The click of the door drew her attention as a fracture of light entered the darkened room.

  "Miss Barrett? Are you awake?" Lydia asked softly.

  Hesitating for a moment, she replied, "Yes, come in."

  Lydia slipped int
o the room and closed the door behind her. She placed the lamp she carried on the bedside table beside the unlit one and smiled tentatively down at her teacher, who had become so much more than a teacher to her.

  "We missed you at supper. Are you hungry?"

  "No."

  Pulling a chair up to the bed, Lydia sat on the edge, her thumbs fidgeting. Neither spoke for a few minutes.

  "I don't believe what Mrs. Wilson said. Neither does Mrs. Barrett. She says the idea is preposterous and absolutely absurd."

  Under different circumstances, Irene would have smiled at her mother's about-face. Wasn't it just like Winnie to champion Ross when the odds were completely against him?

  "Ross would never hurt another person on purpose," Lydia went on. "That was wicked of Mrs. Wilson to say such mean things. And especially just to hurt you."

  Irene reached out to lay her hand on Lydia's. The touch was reassuring to both of them. "I know," she replied.

  "She just wants to keep you away from each other, but it isn't any of her business!"

  "I know that, too."

  "You aren't going to let her, are you? I mean, keep Ross away?"

  But Irene couldn't reply. Not yet.

  "You can't let her win!" Lydia declared with soft vehemence. "She's just a wicked old woman who can't love anybody and doesn't want anyone else to be loved. I mean, she doesn't even want you to love me and Jonathan," Immediately she halted, having said the words that were really in her heart without intentionally doing so. She loved this woman who had taken them in and cared for them as though they were her own children. But more than that, she had taken them to her heartat least Lydia hoped she had. Nobody had done that since her mother died.

  Irene's hand still held Lydia's, and now she clasped it tightly.

  "Of course I love you. Both of you. Nothing Clara says could stop me."