Daisies In The Wind

by Jill Gregory

  She had almost managed to put out of her mind the danger from Neely Stoner and others like him who believed Bear had left her the deed to a rich silver mine. Almost. But sometimes, in the blackest soul of night, she would waken and feel cold, pounding fear at some creak of a floorboard or the moan of the wind. It was lonely out at the cabin with only the meadowlarks and an occasional bobolink for company. Yet she was content. She found herself growing strangely peaceful, quietly happy in her teaching work, and deriving satisfaction from fluffing and feathering her own little nest.

  Yet as the first week passed and the second week drew to a close, a certain restlessness came over her. She found herself thinking about Caitlin Bodine and her many kindnesses. Not wishing to neglect the budding friendship Caitlin had tried so hard to nurture, Rebeccah thought of paying a call on her one evening before sunset, but one thing held her back.

  She had no desire to chance a meeting with Wolf. It had taken days of serenity here at the cabin all alone to drive away the chaos in which his kisses had left her—she had no wish to stir up all those feelings again. Besides, she told herself, Wolf Bodine was completely different now from that young man with the kind eyes whom she’d met in Arizona, the one who had prompted a thousand sweet imaginings. He was older, ruder, meaner, and far more dangerous to her heart than she could ever have dreamed. Before, his image had haunted her sweetly, gently, unforgettably, but now, not only his image, but his words, his voice, and the sharp male electricity of his touch stayed with her—biting at her, she decided irritatedly, like a pesky mosquito who won’t go away.

  So she stayed clear of the Double B, though she wrote Caitlin a friendly little thank-you note for the fine dinner and asked Billy to deliver it for her. Billy was the only Bodine male she felt confident to handle. Because of the obvious crush he had on her, she recognized the importance of treading lightly with him. Hadn’t she, too, been smitten at an impressionable age, on the verge of adolescence? And with Billy’s own father! Perhaps if she would have seen Wolf every day, she would have outgrown her romantic illusions about him, just as she expected Billy would about her. Instead she’d had her romantic illusions dashed by the present-day Wolf Bodine, who bore absolutely no resemblance to the tender, ardently smitten suitor who had pursued her through a girlhood of fantasies.

  Pursued her? Hah! She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him in nearly two weeks—and that was just fine with Rebeccah. Who needed a lawman bothering her with his questions and insinuations when she could have blessed isolation and quiet?

  She had deliberately pushed away all thoughts of the town dance, despite the fact that it was fast approaching. But when she left the schoolhouse Friday afternoon, she did stand in the doorway for a moment and picture how it would look with the desks all pushed up against the walls, with people dancing and stomping and clapping, with fiddlers on the dais and music filling every corner of the room all the way up to the rafters.

  Just so they put everything back when they’re done and we don’t have to waste time moving furniture on Monday morning, she thought grumpily.

  On Saturday she drove to town in the new buckboard the town was providing her. The autumn weather was turning cooler, there had been frost on her windowpane yesterday morning, and she would need to stock up on food and provisions before snow and wind and freezing temperatures prohibited regular trips to town. This was only her second visit since her arrival—the first time, when she’d bought fabric and a few more staples, she’d come bright and early, before many shoppers were about, and had only encountered the store clerks. Rebeccah tried not to feel nervous as she guided the team onto Main Street beneath a pale, lemony sun.

  The citizens of Powder Creek had accepted her as their schoolteacher, so perhaps there would be no further hostility over who her father was and what his gang had done in this town. But if there was, Rebeccah tried to reassure herself, she would deal with it. The same way she had always dealt with people who didn’t want her.

  The gentle sense of peacefulness that had enveloped her over the past weeks faded away as she entered the bustling general store, bracing herself for whatever slings and arrows might come her way. With her shoulders squared, her spine straightened, and her eyes flashing cold fire, she marched beneath the wooden archway.

  “And when I told Emmy Lou Boswell that her son’s dog had torn up my yard and dug up all my potatoes and completely muddied a whole day’s wash that was hung up to dry—”

  The woman speaking, a birdlike matron attired in starched blue gingham, broke off abruptly and snapped her lips shut as Rebeccah sailed into the store’s brightly lit interior. As a matter of fact all conversation in the store ceased. The short, apple-cheeked clerk and the half dozen women gossiping and selecting goods all paused to stare at the dark-haired young beauty in the ruffled gingham dress who swept in while a tiny little bell tinkled above her head.

  They all knew who she was. That was why they were so keenly interested.

  Rebeccah pretended not to notice the stares. She began to browse the crowded countertops, studying the shelves crammed full of goods, the yards of sateen and woolens and muslins, the cooking utensils and frying pans, the fragrant coffee tins and barrels of cheeses and flour and pickles and potatoes, the open-mouthed jars of penny candies with their delightful flavors: peppermint, cinnamon, orange, and licorice. No candy had been permitted at Miss Wright’s Academy, but Bear had secretly sent her parcels of it from time to time, stuffed into the fingers of a pair of kid gloves or inside a fancy new reticule some shopkeeper or other told him was the latest rage in New York or Chicago.

  “Excuse me,” a firm voice boomed as she reached for a tin of canned milk.

  Rebeccah turned to see an imposing woman with broad shoulders; stern, ruddy features; and swooping eyebrows above piercing toffee-colored eyes. “I’m Abigail Pritchard and I believe you are Miss Rawlings. There’s something I would like to say to you, young woman. My boy, Toby, has come home lately with all sorts of notions about going to college in a year or two—to study medicine, he says and I think you are the reason behind it, Miss Rawlings.”

  Rebeccah braced herself for the tongue-lashing to follow. The riveted gazes of the other women who were crowded into the store seared into her from all sides.

  “Well, I can’t thank you enough, Miss Rawlings,” Abigail Pritchard continued, beaming. Her broad, handsome face creased into a hearty smile. “Toby’s always been good at patching up cuts and bruises and using herbs for poultices, and when folks around here can’t reach Doc Wilson, Toby’s the next one they call on, but he never thought of actually becoming a real doctor before. He says you told him about that college in Boston, and now he’s got a hankering that maybe he could go there and become a regular doctor himself. I’m right proud of him. Before, he was afraid of the thought of leaving the Montana Territory, but now all he talks about is saving up money to go east and take entrance exams for medical school.”

  Rebeccah blinked, so stunned by this turn of the conversation that for a moment she thought the floor beneath her feet was shifting like a seesaw. “I didn’t realize,” she managed at last.

  Yes, she had talked to Toby Pritchard about Harvard’s Medical School, but she had never realized that her words had had such an effect. “That’s wonderful,” she murmured.

  Abigail Pritchard bobbed her head. “Yes, it certainly is. My husband, Culley, and I are great believers in higher education and in bettering oneself. We own the Triple Star Ranch, you know—it’s the largest spread in the territory. That’s not bragging, either, Miss Rawlings, for all these ladies will tell you, it’s just the plain, simple truth. Culley’s ambitious, and he works hard, and he’s earned every penny we’ve put into that ranch. And we did it so our children could prosper and make the most of themselves. Well, it’s just plagued me to death that we’ve gone so long without a proper schoolteacher, and that’s why my Culley stood up at that town meeting when Sheriff Bodine spoke on your behalf, and my Culley said, ‘Give the girl a
chance.’ And I’m so glad folks did. Do you have an escort for the dance tonight?” she asked suddenly.

  Rebeccah wondered if all those women’s heads really craned closer in order to better hear her reply or if it was just her imagination.

  “No, I—”

  “Good. My oldest boy, Waylon, whom I believe you’ve met, will come by to pick you up. We can’t have our pretty new schoolteacher dashing around the dark countryside herself, now, can we? You look out for him about seven o’clock.”

  “But I’m not planning to attend the dance, Mrs. Pritchard,” Rebeccah spoke up firmly, as firmly as one could before this forceful tornado of a woman. “It’s nice of you to offer your son’s time but—”

  “Oh, Waylon will be pleased as punch. He told me himself that first day you came to town that you were pretty as all get out, except you had the devil of a temp—well, never mind that. Of course you’ll come to the dance now that you have an escort. Have you met Lillian Duke, the mayor’s wife? And this is Gussy Hamilton—her husband owns the feed store. And my neighbor’s daughter from the Crooked Bar Ranch, Nel Westerly....”

  She droned on with other names attached to other faces, but Rebecca’s attention focused solely on Nel Westerly. And Nel Westerly locked upon her with equal intentness.

  She’s quite beautiful, Rebeccah admitted with a pitiful sinking of the heart. She fought to keep a smile pasted on her face. Nel Westerly reminded her of a painting she’d once seen of the goddess Aphrodite emerging from the sea. She was tall and slim and graceful, with pale, silvery hair that flowed loosely over her shoulders. Her features were lovely: wide-set hazel eyes, a small, daintily uptilted nose, the slightest dusting of freckles across smooth cheeks, and perfectly proportioned lips. Her well-endowed figure was attractively displayed in a dark-green serge riding skirt, white blouse, and dark-green vest fastened with jet buttons.

  No wonder Wolf Bodine is taking her to the dance tonight, Rebeccah thought in dismay. She must be the most sought-after young woman in the territory.

  Well, fine. They will make a charming couple.

  And I am going with that oaf, Waylon Pritchard.

  She suppressed a sudden urge to both laugh and cry at the same time. How did she come to this perfectly abominable state of affairs?

  It took her nearly an hour to complete all of her purchases, what with people talking to her, asking her questions, advising her about how to deal with this pupil or that one, and informing her about who was preparing which refreshments to be served at the dance that evening, and on and on until at last she made her escape, lugging her parcels out to the buckboard. She could not stop reflecting on the friendliness with which she’d been treated. After all the warnings Wolf Bodine had thrown at her about what to expect, she had never dreamed of this kind of acceptance.

  Then she remembered something Abigail Pritchard had said: Wolf Bodine had spoken on her behalf. Caitlin had told her the same thing. Between his backing and Caitlin’s, and Abigail Pritchard’s vocal approval in the store today, the citizens of Powder Creek were responding with warmth and welcome.

  After being alone at boarding school nearly all her life, accustomed to lonely isolation, Rebeccah hadn’t quite known how to respond to all their questions and remarks and advice, but she had smiled and nodded and tried to listen to everyone at once. Her head was spinning by the time she set out for home, but there was a curious warm spot in the center of her heart.

  At precisely seven o’clock that evening Waylon Pritchard drove into her front yard in a fancy buckboard drawn by two high-stepping matched gray mares. Rebeccah watched from behind her new blue lace curtains as he clambered out and the wind blew his hat off his head. He reclaimed it from the grass and, scowling, dusted it off on his pants leg. His expensive Sunday-best suit, derby, and polished shoes could not disguise the burly oafishness of his appearance, nor the obvious reluctance with which he stomped up to her front door. Rebeccah drew back from the window, stifling a giggle.

  If ever a man looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth but here, Waylon Pritchard looked that way right now.

  She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His mother had obviously compelled him to be her escort tonight, no doubt much against his will. I’ll try to be gentle with you, Mr. Pritchard, she promised silently as she patted her upswept hair.

  The delicate muslin of her peach skirt rustled as she opened the door in response to his one short knock. For a moment as he took in her elegant appearance, the grim look faded from his large, slack-jawed face. His eyes actually widened with appreciation, and he swept off his hat in a hasty gesture.

  “You look right pretty, ma’am,” he said, and then his eyebrows swooped down, and he peered out anxiously at her, as though expecting her to make some viciously unkind remark in response.

  Rebeccah remembered the tongue-lashing she’d given him in town that first day and decided it would be cruel to intimidate him any further. He was obviously a victim of his parents’ strong wills as it was. “Well, thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” she replied in her mildest tone. “You look quite presentable too.”

  He smiled tentatively at this promising beginning. “We’d best go, or we’ll be late and miss the Virginia Reel,” he said, and once more peered at her suspiciously, in anticipation of some stinging retort.

  Rebeccah nodded. “Dear me, we wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  It was a misty night, with no moon or stars visible, and a light breeze, which tickled the back of Rebeccah’s neck as they drove along. She had pinned her hair up in a high chignon, leaving only a few dark tendrils curling daintily about her face, and the cool breeze felt good above the soft lace of her shawl. She and Waylon made polite conversation, mostly about his brother’s medical ambitions, his family’s ranch, and the rigors of shipping cattle to the eastern marketplace, but as the rig pulled up before the schoolhouse, alongside dozens of wagons and buckboards and buggies, he suddenly leaned forward with an anguished moan, stared hard at a couple walking across the open grass, and then cried, “I don’t want to go!”

  Startled, Rebeccah gaped at him. Then she followed the direction of his glance and saw a young woman with pale hair and a bright red dress sashaying into the schoolhouse on the arm of a red-headed cowboy.

  “Who is she?”

  “Coral.” He bit the name out tragically. “Coral Mae Taggett. My sweetheart.” Waylon groaned and snatched his derby off his head in a furious motion. He began squashing it in his big, calloused hands and grinding his teeth at the same time. “Why is she doing this to me? She no more wants to be here with that pompous weasel, Clyde Tyler, than I do with y—” Here he broke off, coloring furiously.

  “You are by far the rudest, most addle-brained lout of a simpleton—” Rebeccah exclaimed, but as an abjectly miserable expression settled into every crease of his bristly face, she stopped herself.

  “Oh, never mind!”

  To her disgust Waylon Pritchard still appeared ready to burst into tears. “Don’t give it another thought.” She sighed, and without thinking, reached out to pat his hand. “I know perfectly well that your mother forced you to escort me to this stupid dance. But why in heaven’s name didn’t you just stand up to her and say no? And why didn’t you ask Coral in the first place, if she means that much to you?”

  Waylon’s head drooped. He covered his face with his hands and spoke through thick fingers. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain it to me,” she ordered, curbing her impatience with an effort.

  “My ma and pa both think Coral is beneath me. Because she works as a dance-hall girl at the Gold Bar Saloon.” He tore his fingers away from his face and peered at Rebeccah with earnest, miserable eyes. “But she’s not bad or indecent, as Ma always says. She’s not! She’d like to quit, but she makes more money serving drinks and dancing with the men than she could working as a clerk in the feed mill or a maid at the hotel, and she needs money because she has a little sister living with relatives back in Missou
ri, and if she doesn’t keep sending money, they won’t be able to afford to keep her, and ... and I’d like to marry Coral and have her little sister come live with us so I could take care of both of them but ... but ...”

  “Yes?” Rebeccah prodded, her eyes intent. “Why don’t you do it, then?”

  “Because Ma and Pa won’t let me!” he burst out.

  She sat back and slowly shook her head. “Waylon Pritchard,” she said softly, “you are by far the most ...” She drew in a deep breath. A tongue-lashing wouldn’t do. He was weak and timid and wholly browbeaten by his parents. What he needed was to be bucked up, not torn down. “Waylon,” she continued more mildly, “you’re a grown man. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Then you’re old enough to do what you think is best. If you love Coral and you want to marry her, just go ahead and do it. No one can stop you.”

  “They’ll be mad at me.”

  “So? They’ll get over it when they see that it’s not going to make you change your mind. And if they don’t ... well, would you rather live at the Triple Star all your life with your ma and pa? Or worse, marry some woman they select for you, someone you don’t care a plug nickel for? Or would you rather be with Coral?”

  “Coral says the same things,” he muttered heavily. “But it wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to move out and find work as a hand on someone else’s ranch. I wouldn’t be able to buy Coral any of those fancy fripperies she likes or pretty baubles like I always bring her.”

  “Do you think that’s what Coral cares about? More than being with you?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t think that. At least not until now.” He scowled bitterly in the direction of the schoolhouse, from which boisterous music poured out into the pine-scented night. “But if she’s willing to come to this dance with Clyde Tyler, maybe she doesn’t really love me at all.”