by Yvonne Jocks
And he laughed! He had a friendly laugh, joyful and open, but she would have enjoyed it better had she understood. Only then did he say, "And I'd bet you're not likely to smoke cigarettes either, are you?"
“Why no! I...” finally, so come-lately that it embarrassed her, it all made sense. He had been teasing her from the start— about the tobacco, the shooting, and likely the betting, too. Not that they should be joking with one another, of course. Hardly knowing each other as they did, it was terribly familiar of him.
But his grin engaged her, and at that silly image of herself, cigarette in mouth and six-shooter in hand, Audra could not hide her own smile. She peeked at Melissa, who seemed equally amused, and swung their joined hands amiably.
When Audra glanced back at Mr. Harwood, he leaned close enough for her to feel the solid warmth of him and said, low, "How about I handle the dissolution for the both of us, ma'am, since you seem to have full claim on the decency?"
Oh! Looking quickly forward, at the road, Audra hoped that he was joking again. After all, she should not be walking with a dissolute man.
Her own decency had not proven as constant as he seemed to think.
Jack hadn't planned to escort Audra— Audra! —Garrison home from the store. The odds of any danger between Ham's place and her clapboard fortress of morality were laughably low. Even the folks from Mosier Valley, the specter of whom had frightened her unnatural y blond friend, seemed as reputable a passel of dirt farmers as he'd ever run into. But he'd conceived the idea, he'd acted on it, and the gamble had paid off.
He might not get the lady on his arm, but he got a considerably larger dose of her fine company, anyhow. Now he just had to think up what to do with it.
No better way to learn a game than to play it. "May I ask how long you've been in Candon, Miss Garrison? Pardon my noticing, but you don't appear to be local-grown."
She seemed determined to study the rutted dirt road, but at his question graced him with a quick, skittish glance. He'd have thought she was wary of him, if it weren't for what he'd wager was curiosity in her shy attention as it swept over him. “Barely a fortnight, sir.”
“Audra came al the way from Wyoming!” provided Miss Smith. “On the railroad! She wasn't afraid of robbers, not even up north where those outlaws have been dynamiting trains!”
“My father escorted me,” Miss Garrison added. “Of course I was not afraid.”
“Wyoming,” repeated Jack, making a mental note. To judge by her clothing, Wyoming was doing better for itself than he'd imagined, the notorious Butch Cassidy's train-blasting aside. "Well, that is a far piece. Don't they have need of teachers up that away? Or were you just anxious to fly the coop, stretch your wings a bit?"
If she wanted to stretch her wings, he could give the lady a discreet lesson or two. But other than flushing pinker and watching her own leather-clad toes as they rhythmical y peeked out from beneath her flared skirt, Miss Audra didn't answer his question.
Miss Smith did. “The widow Cribb, she's the schoolteacher who we're boarding with—”
“With whom,” corrected the younger schoolteacher softly.
“—with whom we are boarding. She's Audra's aunt. Audra came here to help her.”
“Only after the school board hired me,” Miss Audra pointed out, finally raising her head to fend off stray compliments. Her composure struck Jack as a mite brittle, her eyes awfully bright, but it was a fair bluff. “Miss Smith paints me too kindly.”
Ladies must take this last name business seriously in Wyoming.
“Then you aren't escaping an oppressive family?” pursued Jack, a mite disappointed.
“My family is not oppressive, Mr. Harwood,” she insisted, meeting his gaze; her eyes warmed and her expression softened. “Far from it.”
“Her mother's a suffragette,” added Miss Smith, nearly whispering the last word.
If Miss Audra took after her mother, that could bode well for the flying lessons.
“My aunt worries more about Mother than my father ever has,” she agreed. “My older sisters are another story. One would think they'd determined the most upsetting ways...” For a moment, Jack thought she would laugh at whatever memories entertained her. Her eyes no longer focused on him at all, but she looked so happy, and her happiness was such a pretty thing to see, that he didn't begrudge the attention. In fact, it intrigued him. Imagine, having a family that made a body so happy she perked up just to think of them.
When Miss Audra's attention returned to the present, though, that tinge of loneliness crept back into her pretty face. “Where do you cal home, Mr. Harwood? I mean—” Her gaze dropped again, as did her voice, into uncertainty. “That is ... I gather you are new in town as well ?”
"Can't say as there's anyplace I do cal home, ma'am. My profession moves me around some, as did my father's," Jack admitted. As if his father's calling were any more of a profession than his own! “My mother's folks hailed from Jefferson, back in east Texas. Used to be one hel—”
Miss Audra's head came up even before he got the word out, and Jack turned it into a cough.
“Excuse me, ladies. I meant to say, one humdinger of a port town, even after the War of Northern Aggression. Nothing much to speak of there since the railroad passed it by.”
“Not even your family?” Seeing the schoolmarm's horror at such a concept, Jack faced the reality that she'd not left home to stretch her wings at all. Unless he'd lost his ability to read people, she regretted leaving. It put her selfless assistance to her aging aunt in an even finer light.
“None to speak of,” he assured her.
You poor thing, said her eyes, even if she had the grace not to repeat it aloud. Concern radiated off her so thickly that Jack automatically made a bid on it.
“Reckon that puts the both of us a mite far from home,” he said solemnly, and felt only a twinge of conscience when she nodded. Now was the moment to mention missing his departed mother's
cooking. Odds were he'd get invited to Sunday dinner, his dissolution notwithstanding.
Not that he'd meant to still be in Candon on Sunday.
“My family lives south of here,” noted Melissa Smith, roping her friend's polite attention, and there went dinner. Just as well; Jack rarely missed his mother's plain, poor cooking and felt strangely relieved he hadn't told Miss Audra “I Never Lie” Garrison that he did.
A footloose fellow like him had better things to do than dine with ladies, anyhow—especially ladies with morals.
The overly blond girl explained how her home lay a touch too far for her to walk to either Candon or Arlington, and how she, too, meant to become a teacher.... Jack only half listened. Unless he'd taken to imagining things, Audra's glance toward the house they approached held no real
welcome.
“Have you been a storekeeper for very long, Mr. Harwood?”
“Barely two days,” he admitted, scrambling to figure up some answers which wouldn't earn him that second slap after all. “Just helping out my friend Ferris during his time of need.”
“He's fortunate to have such a friend,” said the lady with a smile. Had it been true, Jack would've taken a great deal of pleasure in her approval. “You have a different line of work, then?”
“Investing.” Perhaps he drew a different line in the sand than she when it came to honesty, but Jack's word was generally considered good. No reason to compromise it here.
“really?” she asked, an easy mark. Not that he meant to mark her. “How exciting.”
How did her folks sleep nights, allowing her out in the world where she could fall in with folks like ... well, like himself? “It has its moments.”
By then they'd reached the clapboard teacherage. Audra drew her lower lip between her teeth in that concerned way she had, inspiring in him the sudden and powerful hankering to soothe it and her in a far more enjoyable manner. He'd like to discover just what the lips of a real lady tasted like, just once, before going on his way.
Yup, her
folks should be downright ashamed.
“I believe you'll be safe between here and the door,” he assured them with a smile, barely keeping himself from winking. Darned if this gentlemanly behavior didn't take effort.
“Yes,” agreed Miss Garrison, after releasing that poor, innocent lip. That old sadness again shadowed her pretty face, her lonely eyes—surely not just for Jack's imminent departure!
Jack forgot what he'd meant to say when, with the sudden slap of a screen door, a true battle-ax stepped out onto the porch. His schoolmarm began to wince and then, so suddenly that it startled him, her face brightened. Jack knew a bluff when he saw it.
“Aunt Heddy,” she said, suddenly friendly. "Meet Mr. Harwood. He is helping at the mercantile during Mr. Hamilton's convalescence, and he kindly escorted us home. Mr. Harwood, this is my aunt, Mrs. Cribb."
Jack noted the widow's stern glare and thought: Some fool actually married that?
The widow Cribb's grim gaze bore into and through Jack. She looked much as he pictured the famed Carrie Nation, who axed saloons in her crusade against liquor—as though she not only had no truck with fun herself, but resented the barest whiff of it on other folks, too.
“Mr. Harwood.” She greeted and dismissed him both.
Jack pasted on his best smile. “Ma'am—”
But she'd already turned to her charges to interrupt him. "Perhaps we had best review your agreement with the school board, Audra."
Miss Garrison raised her chin and met her aunt's gaze evenly. "I am aware of my responsibilities, Aunt." From her aunt's view, it probably looked impressive. But Jack could see the fine tremble in her shoulders, the brightness in her eyes and her otherwise pale cheeks.
Hell, board him with that widow woman and even Jack would feel homesick!
Loath to let her know he saw, Jack slid his gaze to Miss Smith. The younger girl scrunched her mouth and crossed her eyes at him in silent commentary on Mrs. Cribb. Jack decided he liked Miss Smith, whether she bleached her hair or not.
“Ladies,” he said easily. “I'll bid you good day. Miss Garrirson, thank you for keeping me in line as concerns your pupils. I sincerely doubt they could have lucked into a better teacher.”
especially if the odds were fifty-fifty between her and her aunt.
He took pleasure in watching the lady's eyes warm at him, even sparkle when he overdid things a bit with a gallant bow.
“Thank you, Mr. Harwood. Perhaps I will see you at the store sometime,” she said, and his showy pleasure stumbled to a standstill.
“The store,” he repeated blankly.
“Audra,” warned the battle-ax.
To what Jack thought was her credit, Miss Garrison did not make a face. She fumbled for the schoolbooks Jack still held. He gave them over, a mite embarrassed to have forgotten, and their hands brushed. Such a soft hand she had; by profession, he kept his sensitive enough to appreciate it on so many levels ...
Head bent over the book exchange, she whispered, “I expect a letter from my parents soon.” The mercantile doubled as the post office, he remembered as she scooped her taller charge in front of her with one hand. She did hope to see him again.
Too bad he wouldn't be there when she came looking.
Jack returned to the mercantile, still chewing at the thought of disappointing Miss Garrison . . .
assuming he merited her disappointment. He didn't much like this turn of events. It made him feel guilty to move on, and him with far less to feel guilty about than usual!
The females off in Fort Worth might not possess smiles nor eyes of her caliber, but he wouldn't have to keep his kisses reined in to mere speculation around them either.
“About time you got back,” groused Ham from his chair, as if Jack worked for him. The outer corners of his eyes and mouth looked tight, as if the liquor was wearing off.
“And hello to you, too,” greeted Jack, testier than usual himself, and noted the empty store. “I can see you're near to overrun in my absence.” Then it occurred to him that Ferris Hamilton was his only source of information just now. “What do you know about ladies?”
“That most of 'em can't be trusted farther than they can be thrown.” Ham took another dose of medication. “How did you know about the five?”
'The five?" repeated Jack. How did that relate to ladies?
Ham thunked his medicine bottle back onto the floor beside his chair. "You saved me four dollars.
How'd you know?"
Oh! The marked five-dollar bill . Jack helped himself to a stick of horehound candy and noticed that Ham was so addled, he didn't bother to mark it in his writing pad. "Someone gave you a dollar and claimed he gave you a five, did he?"
"A woman. She described that tear in it perfectly. Hell, my leg hurt so bad, I guess I would've believed her, but you'd stuck that five aside, so I knew I wasn't the one what took it."
Huh. Jack took a tangy-sweet bite of the candy and forced his attention momentarily off fine-eyed schoolmarms. It hadn't occurred to him that the swindlers had marked Hamilton specifically. Bad enough to be seriously hurt without having to fend off human vultures, too.
“Runnin' with scoundrels makes for a useful education,” he admitted. “So where's the gal what tried to hornswoggle you?”
Ham scowled at a prominently displayed plow.
Jack hitched himself up on the counter. He guessed he knew where she was—halfway to Bedford by now. Or to Irving, or Arlington, or Grapevine, depending on her direction. "See now, that's why she did the pickup instead of the drop-off. I'd wager she cried some when you caught her, too. Said she'd never do it again? Maybe gave you some story about her poor widowed mama, or the eight brothers she's raising, or the banker foreclosing on the farm?"
Hamilton continued to scowl.
“Well, that is refreshing,” acknowledged Jack, and took another bite of candy while he wondered what a real lady's lips would taste like. Sweet, or tart? If the lady were Audra Garrison, he knew where he'd lay odds. He just didn't know how a fellow went about determining the answer.
“Refreshing?” Ham demanded.
“That there's still innocence left in this here world,” Jack said, impatient to change topics.
“Innocence.” Ham snorted. “Ignorance is more like it.”
Jack shrugged—no reason he should cheer the fellow up. "Well, for your clarification, I wasn't inquiring about flimflam artists. What do you know about real ladies?"
The storekeep lifted his brooding gaze to Jack. “Ladies like that schoolmarm, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Jack agreed tartly. “What odds would you give a gal like that stepping out on the arm of a fellow like me?” Assuming a fellow like him stayed in town another week or two.
Ferris snorted. “Money's against you. Schoolteachers can't keep company with men.”
Jack stared, the taste of horehound fading against the storekeeper's certainty. “Who says?”
"School board rules about the teachers bein' good examples. Why do you think so many of 'em turn out like her aunt?“ The storekeeper's eyes warmed. ”You did see the aunt, didn't you?"
Jack nodded slowly. The thought of the sweet Miss Audra turning into that turned his stomach. “I heard the aunt's a widow. Must've kept company with men at some point.”
“Not as a teacher, she didn't,” Ferris assured him. "Her and old man Cribb came up from the hill country, but he went and fell off the roof, broke his neck, left her in debt. Some church ladies learned she'd taught school and started one here, so's she wouldn't starve. Since then, she's abided by their rules sure as if Moses made a second trip up the mountain for them."
Jack continued to stare. Miss Audra seemed thoroughly rule-broken herself. But surely ...
“It's against the rules for lady schoolteachers to have gentlemen callers,” Ferris insisted.
“I don't reckon that will be a problem,” Jack said. “Not being a gentleman.”
Ferris shrugged again, and then looked up as a colored woman entered the st
ore, carrying a basket of clean laundry. She went to the storekeeper as he was likely the one who employed her. Jack didn't bother minding their transactions, just saw that they spoke, and she took the laundry upstairs, and came down without it. Another one of those threatening Mosier Valley types.
It gave him time to ponder the disparity of the school board's mandates. If things were as fair for lady teachers as men, could be he'd have gotten his walk, even his kiss.
He wondered how such limitations sat with a suffragette's daughter. He'd glimpsed the promise of rebel ion in her at the schoolhouse, and with her aunt. It'd be a shame to ignore that.
As soon as the laundress left, even while Ham sucked down his longest draw of medicine yet, Jack asked, “Think you might could use a touch more of my assistance, over the next week?”
“Hell, yes,” Hamilton replied with a snort. “S'long as you don't implicate the store. Compromise that lady too far, you'll end up married or hanged. Folks here don't tolerate that kind of behavior.”
“Not that I plan to,” assured Jack with a slow grin. “But just how far is too far?”
He had some fairly good guesses, the kind that would, if known, get him slapped for sure. Little wonder Hamilton just rolled his eyes and didn't deign to confirm them.
They were, after all , speaking of a lady.
Chapter Five
Lady teachers may not keep company with men.
—Rules for Teachers
Good girls, went the old saying, left home only in bridal dresses or pine boxes. Perhaps for good reason. Audra would never have spoken so boldly to a man in Wyoming ... would she?
Still, if she wanted her letters she must face Mr. Harwood. So she went out.
Merchandise crowded every possible inch of the Candon Mercantile. Shelves of ready-made
clothing, canned goods, and patent medicines lined the walls from floor to ceiling—and hams, herbs, even hats hung from the ceiling. Glass cases full of jewelry and fancy soaps ran along each side of the room. Barrels of pickles or crackers and boxes of apples and cheese crowded between tables on which sat lamps, plows, and bolts of cloth.
Two old men played checkers near the door beside Audra, and a suspendered farmer stood in the back, hefting a hoe as if weighing it. She did not see Mr. Hamilton or Mr. Harwood.