by Yvonne Jocks
Somehow, Jerome's glare faltered before hers did. “Yes, ma'am,” he admitted.
Audra held her breath, so it would not all rush out in a sigh. "Then I must know only one more thing in this matter." And she held out her hand.
“Where did you get the cigarettes?”
“I could never have faced down those boys, not in a mil ion years!” exclaimed Melissa, easily matching Audra's determined stride. "It's one thing to bully the younger children into submission, like your aunt does, but Early or Jerome could break you in half. With one hand! Whatever made you think you could make them back down?"
Audra, marching down the dirt road toward Main Street and the mercantile, pondered the
question with only the edge of her attention—otherwise, she could never stay this angry. And she must stay angry to maintain her courage.
Someone at the mercantile, not Mr. Hamilton himself but "this feller what helped him out when he busted his leg t'other night," had given tobacco to Early Rogers. Tobacco!
“I ... I had to,” she admitted absently, to answer Melissa's question. “My father is not as big as some of his cowhands, but he always makes them mind.”
But her father seemed as big. He had never propped himself against a table in the aftermath of a confrontation, fearful of swooning. Her father, she felt sure, had never come close to tears. And he would never hesitate to pursue justice.
How could young men like Early Rogers and Jerome Newton follow the moral path if adults
encouraged their disobedience?
The road from the school on Plum Street to Main, then to the mercantile, seemed almost too short. Scrubby elms and blackjack oaks sheltered the girls from even the mild breeze. Almost too soon, they arrived at the store.
Afraid to hesitate, Audra crossed the wooden porch and ventured into the building's neatly cluttered interior.
The crisp smell of new merchandise, apples, and pickles, welcomed her. At first her gaze met a man in a chair, one with a quiet aspect that made her think, Yes, I can do this! Then she saw his splinted leg. Word of the storekeeper's accident had been on everyone's lips yesterday. This must be Mr. Hamilton himself.
“May I help you?” drawled a different voice, sweet as brandy cake. Even as Audra turned to face a second man—most likely her culprit—she felt a sinking premonition of familiarity.
It was the stranger from the schoolhouse.
Mr. John Harwood still had broad shoulders and slender hands, delighted eyes—blue, she realized
—and a smiling mouth. Even now his friendly expression brightened, as if the mere sight of her had improved the quality of his day. It was her Jack of Hearts.
Guilt and indignation had already solidified unpleasantly in Audra's stomach. Now new emotions ruffled her.
Delight to see him again. Apprehension that their unchaperoned meeting could yet be discovered.
Confusion—why would a friend of this merchant stay at the schoolhouse? And relief. If he, too, were a storekeeper, perhaps her vague suspicions about him would prove unfounded.
She even felt a moment of immodest flattery that he would appear so glad to see her. As if she were someone special.
And yet mixed with that, disappointment almost suffocated her. Had he encouraged Early and Jerome's misbehavior?
Words would not come. But Audra was here for a reason, one she meant to see through.
Desperate to know the worst of it, she extended one angry hand and uncurled her fingers to reveal the confiscated muslin pouch with its unseemly Blackwell's Genuine Durham label. There! Let the man answer the proof of his misdeeds, if not her accusations.
Or better yet, oh, please, let him be innocent.
Mr. Harwood appeared neither confused, as an innocent should, nor pale with guilty admission.
Instead he gently retrieved the near-empty bag from her palm and, sapphire eyes sparkling at her, raised it near his clean-shaven face for a discerning sniff.
Audra waited, hopeful and fearful, her heart gal oping.
“Why, ma'am,” drawled Mr. Harwood, lips widening into a grin of dubious charm. “I do believe we use the same brand.”
Chapter Four
Teachers are not to loiter downtown.
—Rules for Teachers
Jack had never known so good a time could be had storekeeping. Since he had more credit than he could use himself, he offered lavish bargains and freely handed out candy to children—even the colored children from nearby Mosier Valley. He even gave credit, special one-time-only Jack Harwood credit, to several customers the serious Ferris Hamilton would never have trusted with the real thing.
“That's coming off your account,” Ham repeatedly warned from his post in the corner, one leg up, hazy from pain medication. He marked down each piece of candy, each nickel-off special, each bit of so-called “credit.” After the second scruffy, grateful recipient of special Jack Harwood credit walked out, Ham added, “That one's a lousy risk. Can't handle his drink.”
Then he took a swig of the pain medicine he'd been hitting all day—a medicine they both knew was more whiskey than not, itself. He, the swig said, could handle it.
Jack, plenty of credit to go, just shrugged. He was, after all, a gambler. “Well, if he comes back and pays, you just donate the money to some good cause.”
Ham's smile could use some work, but Jack's return grin imparted a sight more humor. He was having too much fun to get testy, so much fun he'd already stayed an extra day.
Best of all, to his way of thinking, was the sheer number of folks who stopped in. Jack generally patronized saloons, pool halls, and barbershops when he wanted company. But in the absence of such sordid establishments, Candon congregated at their mercantile. And unlike saloons, pool halls, and barbershops, the mercantile welcomed womenfolk. Their presence required that Jack check his vocabulary some, but it surely beautified the day.
especially when Miss Garrison finally swept in.
Jack had just taken a five-dollar bill from some fellow passing through, noted an unusual tear on it, and set it aside. He saw Ham notice—likely waiting for Jack to steal something—but before Jack could explain, in walked the lady of the schoolhouse herself.
Could be the fun of storekeeping wasn't all that held him here, at that.
To his delight, the gal looked every inch as fine as he remembered. Her hair still shone kind of sorrel in its backswept style, showing off the length of her neck, the line of her jaw and cheeks and upturned nose. The silver-gray, puff-sleeved dress she wore today fitted her sleek figure, from high bust to slim waist, before belling from her hips into a flare at her neatly but-toned ankles—hooray for fashion-conscious females. And those sizable eyes of her...
actually, they focused first on Ferris Hamilton. Jack fought back a surge of displeasure. After all, Ham had a busted leg. And while Jack would soon be gone, the lady would likely do business with Ham for some time to come.
That thought didn't ease his irritation one dram.
“May I help you?” Jack asked, and she turned to him. Those dovelike eyes widened in recognition and then—
Jack blinked, startled. Dovelike or not, her gaze nearly froze him where he stood. Shifting her schoolbooks to one hip like some women might hold a baby, the little gal extended her free hand and offered him a near-empty tobacco pouch.
The thrill of seeing the schoolmarm one more time, mixed with his surprise at her icy greeting, must've clouded his thoughts. Surely she wasn't after a replacement! While such an absurdity tickled Jack's sense of humor, he reckoned that he'd best take what she offered.
Definitely tobacco. He sniffed the familiar tang of Bull Durham. Uncertainty began to thaw the lady's eyes. Suddenly Jack wanted nothing more than to have her smile at him again.
“Why, ma'am,” he teased. “I do believe we use the same brand.”
She did not smile. The friend she'd brought with her, a taller gal with suspiciously pale hair, muffled a laugh. Ham said, “See here, Harwood!” But the schoolma
rm's expression stumbled into the same pained confusion that had set Jack's soul to aching back at the schoolhouse. His thoughts scrambled for a fix on how he could reverse the damage when, to his relief, the gal did it herself.
Fire, not ice, bloomed back into her cheeks and eyes.
Then she slapped him.
It didn't hurt, of course—just startled him—and at least the gal no longer looked haunted.
“How dare you!” she demanded. She began to turn on her heel, seemed to remember something, then spun back to him. “I would thank you, sir, to stay away from my pupils!”
And then she started to march out—out of the store and out of his life.
Jack vaulted the counter to duck ahead of her. Her pupils? “Ma'am?”
The schoolmarm did not slow.
Jack danced backward, narrowly avoiding a table of lanterns, and stretched his hand out open, purposefully harmless, in her direction. “Miss Garrison, ma'am. Please.”
Now the schoolmarm slowed, drawing her schoolbooks in front of her protectively. Jack's stomach lurched in answer. No wonder he rarely had truck with ladies; put him with the real thing and he had al the tact of a goat in a parlor house.
Nobody was to know they'd met.
“You are Miss Garrison, aren't you?” he insisted quickly. “I heard tell that was the name of the new schoolteacher, and here you just mentioned your pupils, so I figured ...”
She finally stood, wariness and hope battling on her face.
Jack risked a step closer. Nothing improper, nothing to frighten her off. Just close enough to catch a whiff of the light, peachy scent she wore, close enough to feel her nearness like sunshine on his face. "Please pardon my presumption, ma'am, if I assume incorrectly. But am I to understand I have somehow wronged one of your charges?"
She hesitated, schoolbooks still shielding her. She didn't trust him. Smart gal.
“I would surely appreciate you letting me know how it is I've erred,” he insisted. “Make it a mite easier to change my wicked way.” That sounded too smooth, even to him. Well, he had another cheek if the lady felt compel ed to smite him again.
But to his relief—in fact, to his sheer pleasure—the gal's lips twitched upward before she dropped her gaze and trusted him with an explanation after all .
She nearly ruined her own game in the same moment, too.
Eased by his smile, and determined to err on the side of faith instead of cynicism, Audra attempted to explain. “I caught Early Rogers smoking at school, Mr.—”
“Harwood!” he interrupted, and she jumped. Then she realized how close she had come to
exposing them both. As she stared up at him, horrified by her own slip, his eyes danced with their shared secret and her last reservations melted away. He must have a logical explanation. Despite his liberties, he simply did not look like a scoundrel. Though he was in his shirtsleeves, as befitted a man doing actual work, those sleeves had ruffled cuffs of fine white linen, stretched across broad shoulders unweighted by guilt.
Noting the brocade of his vest, his gold watch chain, and a barest glimpse of how his striped trousers fit with tailored grace over his trim hips and long legs, she thought that she had never seen so finely dressed a storekeeper. Or scoundrel. And despite the faint flush on one whisker-shadowed cheek, where she had struck him, he appeared more concerned than angry. That hinted at a character to match his well-groomed exterior.
Her hand tingled from rasping across that warm cheek.
“Jack Harwood,” he clarified, offering his hand to finish his rescue of her reputation. "And the fellow who's pulled lame over there would be Ferris Hamilton, proprietor of this fine establishment.
Pleasure to meet you ladies."
“Ma'am,” added the man in the corner, with a nod at her and then Melissa. “Miss.”
Even as she nodded back, Audra hardly noticed Mr. Hamilton, or Melissa either. Instead she thought: Jack. Jack of Hearts. That she'd guessed right about his name pleased her, and she took his hand instinctively. “Audra Garrison, sir.”
Instead of simply touching her fingers, Mr. Harwood raised them to his lips and kissed them. The sensation sang through her hand and her whole being. It was not simply his lips— though who would have thought a man's lips would be so soft?—but the rush of his breath, the smoke in his blue eyes as he smiled up through a boyish fall of dark hair. She should snatch her hand back from such inappropriate gallantry, but for a long moment, all Audra could do was stare back at him and forget to breathe. Peter Connors had never made her tingle like this.
“And this is . . .” he prompted huskily. Holding her gaze, he nodded toward Melissa.
Only as his attention belatedly followed his words, and he opened his hand, did Audra recover both her fingers and some measure of composure.
But her body still sang in a most singular way.
“Melissa,” she managed to inform him. “Smith. A boarder pupil.” Then she remembered why she had come here. "I am the new teacher, Mr. Harwood. I caught Early Rogers smoking at school.
And . .. and I am sorry to tell you this, but he said you gave him the tobacco."
Mr. John Harwood— Jack Harwood—listened politely. Oh, heavens. What if she had been wrong?
She had struck him! But before she could castigate herself, he said, "Well, no wonder you're so riled, Miss Garrison. I reckon I would've lit into me, too." This time, when he smiled in that charming way of his, she did not mind half so much. Trust me, his smile said. I can explain everything. “You mean to say that Early Rogers is young enough to attend school?”
“Why ... yes,” she agreed, and made herself stand straighter. "Both Early Rogers and Jerome Newton are eighth-level pupils. They should be learning their lessons, not dissipation."
“I have not made the acquaintance of any Jerome Newton,” Jack—Mr. Harwood—noted
pleasantly. “But I met Early Rogers two nights back at a ... a social gathering, of sorts, and I fear I did indeed overestimate his age. He is a sizable boy.”
Audra nodded relieved agreement. It took character to admit one's mistakes.
“I will endeavor to be a sight more clear on the folks to whom I extend my hospitality.”
His tobacco was hospitality? For a moment, Audra wondered if perhaps he were a tad too sincere, a touch too charming. But surely such cynicism belittled her!
Mr. Harwood's gaze drifted downward from her own, as if distracted, and she realized she had bitten her lower lip. Rushing at so childish a habit, she released the lip. Mr. Harwood swallowed, hard enough that his Adam's apple bobbed, but his gaze raised to hers again.
“Such as it is,” he added, husky.
What ? Oh. The so-called hospitality. The tobacco.
Whatever soap he used smelled wonderful. And he had a tiny nick across his jaw, she imagined from shaving. And his dark blue eyes held hers, almost like a touch ...
Audra dropped her gaze and clutched her books more securely to her chest. "I would appreciate that,“ she told him. ”For the sake of the children, I mean. Thank you."
She should take Melissa home now. They had chores to finish. Audra took great comfort in her chores; simple, regular work helped ease her homesickness. Yet for the few minutes she had been talking to Jack Harwood, she had not felt homesick in the least.
Still, she must not loiter in a mercantile, especially not with a pupil waiting. So she risked one last glance up at him. He watched her as closely as ever with those clear, blue eyes, as if committing her to memory. The sensation, not unpleasant, rather ... tickled.
“Thank you for putting my mind at ease, sir. I... I am sorry to have slapped you.”
“Oh, I reckon I deserved it,” he assured her. Again, playful sparks lit his eyes. "One of the better ways to keep rascals like me in line, as a matter of fact. Now if you'd pulled out a six-shooter and plugged me once or twice, that might've proved a shade overzealous."
Even as she blinked at him, taken aback by so wild a suggestion, he unbalanced her f
urther by asking, “May I make poor amends by escorting you two fair ladies home?”
Yes, sang her heart, with the kind of glee it normally reserved for Sunday school picnics or Christmas morning. But that had been before she became a teacher and an example.
“No need,” she hedged.
"Two such innocent gals as yourself? I am loath to contradict you, Miss Garrison, but this is Main Street. Quite a few strangers have stopped by this very store today."
Mr. Hamilton, from his chair in the corner, snorted and medicated himself with a brand of cure-all that Audra's parents never all owed in the house.
Melissa, eyes round, asked, “From Mosier Valley?”
Mr. Harwood turned to her, giving Audra a moment to catch her breath. "Now that you mention it, Miss Smith, one or two Mosier Valley folks as well."
That did not sound good, wherever Mosier Valley was.
He'd not asked to escort her home alone, Audra reminded herself. That would be almost like courting and, of course, inappropriate for a teacher. Mr. Harwood meant only to behave as a gentleman should. Any cowboy from Papa's ranch would do the same.
She must not let her personal concerns for her reputation endanger Melissa.
“Al right,” she agreed, oddly dizzy. “You may escort us home, sir. Thank you.”
Perhaps she was growing accustomed to his distinctive grin; this time it warmed more than unsettled her. He took but a moment to slip on his coat and hat, say something cryptic about "that five" to Mr. Hamilton, then open the door for her and Melissa to pass through. Then, taking their books, Mr. Harwood offered Audra his free arm as if he were, in fact, walking her home.
She stubbornly took Melissa's hand . . . but wondered what his arm would have felt like.
Mr. Harwood grinned and nodded once, as if he understood perfectly—but if he understood, why would he offer? He dropped his elbow and they continued as a threesome.
Still, Audra felt she should clarify something. “I would never carry a gun, Mr. Harwood.”