by Natalie Dean
“You are very young,” he said, frowning. “I thought you would be a more mature age.”
“I am twenty years old. That’s mature enough to be the age of consent. And I think you will find I am mature enough to make a great many decisions on my own.”
“I wanted a woman experienced with the pitfalls of life and who has risen above them, not a complete innocent.”
“The children of Kansas lost their innocence many years ago, Mr. Marston. All we have left is our innocent belief that we can make things better. It must be enough, Mr. Marston or all will be lost.”
“All is lost I’m afraid, if I am to depend on a mere snip of a girl. Never mind. You have a good writing hand. You can add and subtract, I assume. You have a pleasant face, which will make the children more willing to listen to instruction. You can be my assistant until we figure out what to do with you.”
“What to do with me?” Greta struggled with her portmanteau, trying to lift it off the ground. His hand covered hers for a minute as he assisted her. She felt the heat pass through her and flushed, surprised at her instant reaction. If he had also noticed this crackling current, he ignored it, setting the heavy trunk up on his shoulders and fastening his eyes on the road ahead.
“Yes, what to do with you,” he said firmly, settling her luggage into the back of a buggy and stepping up on the buckboard. He held out an arm to help her into her seat. “I could send you home.”
“It would be in complete disgrace.”
“Marrying you is completely out of the question, but there are some respectable younger men in the settlement. Perhaps an arrangement can yet be made.”
“That is considerate of you, Mr. Marston, but I don’t believe it will be necessary for you to extend your matchmaking efforts. If you find my companionship displeasing, working as your assistant will be sufficient as long as you provide food and lodging for my services. Plus, five dollars a week for my own small vanities. I shall write to my brother Lester, who is further west, this week and notify him that I am still interested in working at the mission.”
“I would not have you gallivanting into Indian country, Miss Samuelson.”
“If I have heard correctly, you would not have me at all, Mr. Marston. I believe you have forfeited your right to instruct me.”
He said nothing more as the buggy squeaked its way up the packed earth road. It was pulled by a horse that wasn’t much larger than a pony, with a tail that dropped almost to the ground, twitching, close-set ears and an untrained, disinterested gait that picked up as it got closer to home. Greta marveled at the difference in terrain. A disorderly tantrum in tumultuous hills and giant stones erupted in protest over the long, smooth valley far below. It felt shaggy. The pony’s mane and tail were shaggy. The sharp needled pine, capturing trails of blue-gray moss looked shaggy, especially when the moss whipped and shuddered in the wind. The sprouting clumps of grass, gobbling whatever soil had not been consumed by briars and shrubs, leaned shagging away from the mountain wall.
The settlement was several miles outside the town. It was smaller, but just as bustling in its own way. The center of it was marked by an irregular assortment of tents squatting within the vicinity of the only permanent structures; a trading post, a tavern and a hotel that apparently housed primarily women. Joseph clicked his pony into a faster trot as they passed by the mining camp, and set his eyes straight ahead to a small scattering of houses and cultivated fields at the far edge of town.
The pastoral setting was a contrast to the loud and disorganized cluster of houses and tents that scrambled around the hotels, dancehalls and taverns of Boulder. Set between the school and a church, it was one of several recently built and freshly painted houses that had set their standards in clean, straight boards and planks, cunningly framed windows and neatly crafted doors. It was the type of construction Greta understood; quality workmanship clothed within the reserved, straight lines of modesty.
Slowly they were taming the land around them, smoothing the tumbling landscape into green fields and flowering gardens. Greta saw the vision and knew in her heart, she wanted to be a part of it. “Mr. Marston, I am quite obliged to you even if we don’t marry. My journey has just begun and already I have seen such wonders. I will always feel indebted to you even if we should go our separate ways.”
“Miss Samuelson, your optimism is refreshing but it only reinforces my opinion that you are too young for the type of responsibilities you will be expected to face. I know that what you have seen you must believe is the most terrible that men can accomplish. War is terrible, but war is fought by men of strong convictions. It is fought by men who would not ordinarily steal at gunpoint, who would not ordinarily gamble their lives on a poker game.
There is a more terrible type of man. There is the man who places no value on human life. There is the man who will leave behind the woman bearing his child, who will drink up his fortunes and allow his family to wallow in poverty. This is the type of man who roams in the wilds and preys on the unaware. This is the type of man who brings chaos to the mining camps and corrupts our settlements. Our fight isn’t for that man. It’s for the children who were abandoned. You can’t reach them by saying, ‘Yes, I know about war’. You must reach them by saying, ‘Yes, I know about hopelessness.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Marston. I will keep that in mind.”
She waited for him to help her down from the carriage. His hands circled around her waist easily and he actually lifted her instead of assisting her to climb down. Nor did he release his hands right away as her feet touched the ground. “You are a peculiar woman, Miss Samuelson.” His steely eyes bored into her a moment and his mouth twitched. “Bed down the horse for the night and I’ll put up the buggy. Mind you. Do not give him too much hay, or his stomach will bloat.”
She took the animal by the bridle and started him toward the barn. “Ah. These ponies are little piggy’s, are they? Well, he will not eat himself sick by my hand.”
She walked away, talking soothingly to the half-sized horse, petting its muzzle, feeling the softness of its mouth. He needed only a light touch for direction. She appreciated that. She removed the halter gently and rubbed him down with a cloth.
She had just finished feeding and watering the horse when she felt, rather than heard, Joseph Marston come up beside her. “What’s his name?” she asked, giving her new friend a final pet.
“Snake Bite. If you turn your back on him, he’ll bite you.” He caught her and pulled her away just as the horse started to do just that. He released her almost instantly, but once again she felt an intense heat in the brief moment that they touched that continued to burn for minutes after they pulled away. His turbulent eyes grew darker and more troubled.
He stiffened his back and smoothed his vest around the waist. “I will show you the house now, Miss Samuelson,” he said, formally offering her his arm. “Fortunately, it has a spare room so you will be comfortably accommodated until such time as you choose what to do next with your life.”
Joseph Marston’s home had taken advantage of all things of great practicality and inventiveness. Instead of an open well with a bucket to haul water, his well was closed, with a hand pump for drawing. The lamps were all holstered to the wall in polished copper brackets, providing ample light. The kitchen had a wood-burning stove with both an oven and three top burners. Mr. Marston may have a modest salary, but the efficiency in design and function of his home had been bought from the most advanced minds in manufacturing. Even the sofa was well-made and sturdy, with thick cotton stuffing inside the beautifully tanned and treated leather cushions that complimented graciously the highly polished furniture
The staircase had been built by a craftsman. Using four-inch thick saplings for the handrails, they had been picked through carefully for consistency in shape, width, and color pattern. They had been sanded until the pattern produced was a crystal-clear blend of honey to chocolate tones, and was so smooth, you could not feel one bump under your fingertips. The staircase made a s
ingle spiral, tightening up the amount of space needed for ascent, yet adding a beautiful touch to the rustic living room.
He showed her to her room first, in the loft at the top of the staircase. It was a very generous room as it occupied the whole floor. However, apart from a cot and a dresser, it was completely unfurnished. “I have extra bedding downstairs,” he apologized. “I’ll bring it to you.”
Greta sat on the cot, appraising her situation. Joseph had brought in her trunk while he was putting away the cart, and it stood now in the center of the room, demanding an answer as to whether it should be unpacked or simply drawn upon from day to day. “I don’t know,” she said aloud, as though the trunk had actually spoken. “I may have been mistaken. I thought I was being called to marriage when quite possibly, I was only being called to duty.”
She sighed and stood by the window. Her eyes soaked in the richness of the vegetation, the brilliance of the colorful mountains. The sun was setting and streaked across the sky with the most astonishing fanfare she had ever seen. It tinted the slowly turning vegetation to ruddy, early autumn colors. She had only been in the Rocky Mountains three days and already she was in love with them.
She heard Joseph come up the steps but didn’t turn around. “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” he remarked, a little gruffly. “I brought you some blankets. I imagine you’re hungry. There are some dinner preparations on the table.”
“Will you be joining me?” she asked, still staring outside.
He hesitated as though he was going to say no, then answered, “I’ll take a light supper with you. I had already shared dinner with the school administrator and his wife before arriving to pick you up.”
She turned around finally. “That is kindly of you. Perhaps then we could learn a little more about each other and you won’t be so quick to judge my character.”
“Your character doesn’t come into question at all. But I am thirty-two years old. You are little more than a child. How virtuous would I be to take advantage of your circumstances? It was my own foolishness, I know. I neglected to ask your age. I was swept into the moment, but you have to understand, Miss Samuelson, I am not the man to steal the innocence of gentle creatures. I am not that man.”
“Gracious, Mr. Marston, I should hope not.”
Chapter 3
After three days, and much deliberation, Greta sent off a letter to her brother in Oregon, telling him she was contemplating joining the mission. Joseph Marston had turned over the management of the house to her, and all other wifely duties except those that entailed intimacy, including demonstrations of affection. He wasn’t cold, just aloof, like an uncle or much older brother.
It was a difficult letter to write. Her heart had been much stricken by the teacher. Despite his stilted words, she saw in his face a man who had endured much for his faith and who had suffered the bitterness of defeat. He was lonely. His loneliness crept yearningly from his eyes and wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. She wanted so much to brush that cloak off, to let him feel how mistaken he was in his fears and doubts. He thought she was too young to love him, but he was wrong. She loved his tortured nobility and his gentlemanly manners. She loved the stubborn corners of his mouth that refused to acknowledge mistakes. She loved all that comprised the nature of Joseph Marston, and could have remained as an assistant she supposed, but it wouldn’t be enough. If he couldn’t love her, she must leave so she could find somebody else to love.
Several days afterward, he asked if she was willing to assist at the school. As it would probably take several weeks for her letter to arrive and several more before she received an answer, she felt the best way to occupy her time was to do something valuable with it, and agreed.
“You will be working with Mrs. Haldeman,” he explained. “She covers levels one through four; basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. You can do your multiplication tables?”
“And division,” she assured him.
“You will not have to teach anything complicated. Mr. Haldeman and I work at the higher levels.”
The schoolhouse still smelled of freshly cut pine, as well as chalk, ink wells and a mixture of school lunches. Mrs. Haldeman was a large woman with a very large bosom that settled just above her tightly belted waist. Her hair was pulled back into double braids that wrapped around her head then tucked into her bonnet. She looked neither happy nor unhappy and gripped Greta’s hand like a man when she shook it.
“These are our pupils,” she said, including all of them in a single gesture. “You will find they are generally well-behaved with a few inconsistencies. We keep the worst trouble-makers in the back.”
Greta glanced around the room. The children ranged from five to twelve years old, although the two twelve-year-olds were at the back of the room. “They are retarded or something,” Mrs. Haldeman said privately to Greta. “The other kids their age left this classroom two years ago. They are retarded or they just don’t want to learn anything.”
Neither boy was paying particular attention to the study guide they had been given, nor had they picked up their books. Instead, they were involved with the techniques of knotting a hook to a fishing line. “I suspect they just aren’t interested,” Greta whispered back. “At least they are thinking of something to catch for dinner.”
“Most likely so. That one’s daddy is a trapper and the other doesn’t have a daddy. He ran off before the boy was born. He has a decent mama, however. She washes clothes, scrubs floors. Does what she can to make an honest living, so we just leave the two boys alone. Coming here keeps them out of trouble.”
Mrs. Haldeman strolled up the center aisle between the desks and indicated another small group. “These are our youngest children, but these are the ones who will need your guidance most diligently. Petey is only six, yet he already knows the way of the con at the gambling table. Noel is eight and has been caught thieving so many times, the deacon said he must attend school or he will be turned over to Denver law authorities. Anna’s mother is a woman of the night and without proper guidance, she will be one, too. It is our hope and prayer that by intervening with their waywardness at an early age, we can deliver them from the den of vice and corruption.”
Greta nodded. “They all seem well-mannered and obedient.”
“Not everyone who comes here is sinful and lusting for wealth. We have many peaceful, law-abiding citizens, Miss Samuelson. We have shopkeepers, traders, farmers, and honest workers. Their orderly children have been an influence on the others, but sometimes their obedience masks devious behavior. You must always be on your toes and aware. They play their deception quite well.”
Mrs. Haldeman had a long, wooden pointer that she used for lectures, but also for retaining her pupils’ rapt attention. She snapped the stick down now on one desk, causing the young boy of perhaps seven or eight, to jump backward in his seat, startled. “Jonah, I told you to begin lesson fifteen, not draw idle pictures.” The boy scrambled to bring out his primer but behaved as though he was confused as to where to begin. Mrs. Haldeman flipped through the pages and pointed to the lesson in exasperation.
“This is what I mean,” said Mrs. Haldeman. “Jonah never does anything he is told. He’s not a mean child, mind you, and does not pursue mischief. But neither does he pursue instructions. He is slow-witted if you ask me, but Mr. Marston insists he can learn. Seven years old and he barely talks. How shall he learn anything?”
“Such children often have special gifts,” said Greta. “It is our duty to uncover them.”
“Then you and Mr. Marston are much of the same accord. I will leave the boy in your willing hands, but I confess that I believe it’s a waste of time.”
Greta spent most of her first week at the school observing the performance of her new students and familiarizing herself with the school policies and routines. Mr. Haldeman was the Headmaster, but also taught advanced mathematics. Once a week he held meetings with the staff to discuss the progress of the children. As the school was small, with no mor
e than forty pupils aged five to seventeen, they had a great deal of knowledge into the background of each child.
This knowledge generally served them well. They knew the trading post owner’s five children had a Ute mother and were very shy about attending school, slipping in and out of classes like ghosts, sometimes going weeks at a time without making an appearance. They were never graded on attendance, only on a completed assignment.
Lizbeth Montgomery was the oldest of seven girls whose father was a miner and a gambler. When she was fifteen, her father had tried to sell her to settle a debt. For the past year, she had been living at the Haldeman home, fearful that her father would once again try to give her away.
Her main focus was Jonah, however. She noticed that the closer she drew to him, the more responsive he became. When there were general instructions at the front of the room, he did not respond. “What type of family has Jonah?” she asked Joseph while they shared dinner together.
“A respectable one. They have a homestead about three miles from here. The Pratt family has eleven children and they all attend school except the oldest who is eighteen and works on the farm, and the two youngest, who are still babies. Every one of them show up on time and do their lessons conscientiously except Jonah.”
“Yet you don’t believe he is slow?”
“I believe his disobedience is deliberate.”
“You are very willing to believe in miscreant children. Were you such a ruffian in your own childhood?”
“Certainly not!” he answered, clearly ruffled. “I’ve simply seen how easily defiance perpetrates the cities and how this defiance paves the way for the more vile of human corruption. Do you see now, Miss Samuelson, how you are not suitable for administering to these tiny souls grasping for light in the middle of darkness?”
“Mr. Marston, you’ve spoken to me at length about hopelessness, but it’s not this hopelessness we desire to teach. You believe I have not seen it? With the first bloodshed and the first fallen comrades, we shed tears and held great funerals. We dressed in solemn garb and made our appearances with each death of a relative or a friend. As the war progressed, the funerals grew shorter. The mourners were fewer until the graveyards were as lonely as the empty battlefields. We mourned until we had no tears left for mourning. We were emptied out. I was a child and I saw hopelessness.