A Match Made in Texas

by Mary Connealy

  “I’ve already done that,” Hannah answered, hesitation corking her voice.

  “Then I’ll make the bed.” Grace inched forward, hands outstretched. Her shoe bounced against the chair leg. She grasped the back, reoriented herself, and set forth again to the lone bedroom.

  “Honestly, Grace. Why don’t you scoot on out?” The broom whisks paused for Mrs. Stevenson’s scolding. “You’ll only be in the way.”

  Grace’s neck tensed. A year ago she could’ve been considered the most capable woman in Dry Gulch. Now she was less help than a child. Well, she had to rectify that situation.

  She clasped the metal footboard of the bed and swept her hand over the cool feather tick until she found the stack of folded linens. She fingered the pile. A sheet on top. No, two cotton sheets, then a well-worn quilt. Leaving a sheet on the bed, she moved the pile of blankets to set them on the dressing table, but when she released them, they dropped to the floor.

  “My dust pile!” Mrs. Stevenson erupted in coughing. “And those blankets were just laundered.”

  Grace rubbed her own itchy nose. “You moved the dressing table. How was I supposed to know?”

  “Well, I had to sweep beneath it.”

  Quick steps neared. A muffled pounding and more dust. “Don’t worry. We’ll air them out and they’ll be as good as new.” Hannah spoke in the same patient tones she used for the students at the school where she and Grace taught together—had taught together before the darkness stole Grace’s profession. “Let me help you make the bed.”

  “Or even better,” Emilie said, “I’ll help and Grace can rest.”

  “Rest?” Grace crossed her arms. “I’m not tired. I’m not sick. I canna sit in a rocker for the next fifty years, waiting for me life to end.”

  Silence. She cast about, trying to catch a glimpse of a face but couldn’t land on anything recognizable. Were they watching her? More likely they were exchanging significant glances, shaking their heads, and communicating pity right in front of her because she couldn’t see it.

  “If that’s how it’s to be.” She felt her way past the bed and grasped the rocking chair. Benny, her new puppy, yipped as she stomped past. “I’m going outside.” She shoved the rocker before her, enjoying the bustle as the ladies jumped out of her way. Wrestling it past them, she picked up speed until it crashed into the doorframe. The gasps behind her only encouraged her recklessness. She might not be able to see, but she could still make decisions for herself. Even blind, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  Finally the chair cleared the threshold, and the punishing heat of late August assaulted her. From the angle of the sun, she assumed the house faced south. Were there any trees on the plot? Doubtful, knowing the ruggedness of the canyon lands. She spun the rocker to face away from the house and sat, prepared to bake in the dry shade of the porch. Prepared to pretend she liked it.

  And the pretending had only begun.

  Grace hadn’t needed the school board to tell her she couldn’t teach anymore. She’d known before they had. And since Dry Gulch hadn’t grown as predicted, they could do without two teachers. Grace wouldn’t be replaced. Merely removed.

  What stung was their practical solution to her upkeep. Unlike Hannah Taylor, Grace didn’t have any family in town, and boarding her in the homes of her students inconvenienced the parents, especially with the additional burden of her blindness. They needed a place to stash her—like a dilapidated homestead somewhere out of the way, but close enough they could administer charity. Naturally they expected her to sell it, take the money, and move somewhere more convenient, if only she knew where. The young schoolteacher with her whole life ahead had been set aside, but she wouldn’t go quietly.

  “I think you’ll want to keep this book.” Emilie laid a heavy block on her lap.

  Her Bible. Grace wiped the dust from it. She hadn’t picked it up since the encroaching darkness had obscured its words, and although she would never again be able to read it, she had to admit the weight of it in her hands comforted her.

  She had her faith, her intelligence, and her health. Surely her life still counted for something.

  Grace rocked furiously, her mind searching for any small pocket of hope that had been left to her. “Did you say there’s a barn?”

  Emilie’s skirt swished as she turned. “Yes, and a ramshackle mess it is. I don’t know how Clara Danvers kept any cattle in it.”

  “If I set out straight from here will I find it?”

  “Don’t you dare! You could wander away and never be found.”

  Grace stopped rocking. “Sooner or later I have to take care of myself.”

  “Then what excuse would I have to visit my friend?”

  From inside the cabin Mrs. Stevenson called out, “While I’m thinking of it, don’t fire up your stove. This cabin could go up like a tin of paraffin and you might not be able to find your way out.”

  Grace jutted her jaw forward. “I’m not to cook. I’m not to leave the cabin. Next thing I know you’ll be telling me to stay in me chair unless I have someone aholding me hand.”

  Another silence. Grace fidgeted, full of energy and no place to expend it. “Don’t fash yourself over me. I won’t be on your charity long. I’m mulling over a plan.”

  “A plan?” Emilie’s voice held a smile as big as the canyon. “Do share.”

  Grace expelled the breath she’d held. “Well, it’s a mite personal, but since you asked, I’d like a husband, and I’d like to find one while I still have enough sight left to see his face.”

  A shadow moved between her and the light, too tall to be Mrs. Stevenson. “Your sight could return at any time, Grace. God could work a miracle. Don’t despair.”

  “I’m not despairing, Hannah. I’m planning ahead. While I’m grateful that the school board bequeathed me this homestead, I don’t relish the idea of living alone here for the rest of my life. A husband would be useful.”

  “Possibly, but no guarantee.” Emilie’s wry smile flashed but a moment before Grace lost sight of it again. With a house filled to the brim with children and a doting husband, Emilie couldn’t complain over much.

  “Don’t you have a brother?” Hannah came nearer. “He’d want to know about your ailment.”

  Grace searched until a portion of Hannah’s concerned face appeared in the fuzzy circle. “Before I’d apply to my brother for help, I’d take a husband on the luck o’ the draw.”

  “I don’t know that anyone is raffling off men.” Emilie straightened Grace’s collar.

  Grace slapped her hand away. “Not a contest. I was thinking about an advertisement. I’ve heard that men do such things. They have land, but want a bride. Why couldn’t I do the same? I already have the homestead.”

  “This homestead brought luck to Clara Danvers. No reason it couldn’t happen again,” Hannah murmured.

  “And with the Cherokee Strip land run next month, there’ll be a plethora of land-hungry men passing through,” Emilie added. “Dry Gulch will be crammed with potential husbands who lost out in the race.”

  “What will they think of her condition?” Mrs. Stevenson asked. “And how could she marry a perfect stranger?”

  The three figures had converged before her, their forms creating a dark block. “If the stranger is perfect, he won’t be too disappointed that my eyesight is failing. I still have much to offer.”

  But no one spoke up to affirm her statement. Grace’s grip on her Bible tightened.

  Emilie recovered first. “If you place an advertisement, be sure to mention your charming Irish lilt.”

  “And your stunning beauty,” Hannah said.

  “And the homestead. After all, that’s what those men are really after,” Mrs. Stevenson said.

  Grace turned her face to the east. The golden light blurred what lay beyond, but she’d chosen to believe her land overlooked a beautiful canyon, with multicolored layers as far as healthy eyes could see. “If the farm is what they’re after, then it’d better be in ti
p-top shape.” But if her guardians were correct, it wasn’t, and she could never repair it on her own. She needed help.

  In all the world there was no sorrier sight than a cowboy carrying his saddle. Clayton Weber surged forward, sheer determination propelling him through the early September evening toward the dusty town. He had to find a shovel, had to bury Sal before the coyotes got to her. You didn’t leave your best friend to be picked apart by scavengers, no matter how many miles you’d carried your gear.

  Except for the schoolhouse, the town appeared deserted. Tightening his grip on the pommel, Clayton trudged the last quarter of a mile toward the lit building, thankful for the darkness. He’d stay in the shadows as much as possible if there were ladies present, so his face wouldn’t elicit the usual questions.

  He rubbed his marred brow. Of all the luck. He’d planned his journey for a year—ever since he’d heard about the Cherokee Strip land run. Already, most all of Oklahoma Territory had been parceled up and given away to those swift enough to outrace their peers. If he wanted a ranch of his own, this could be his last shot. But then Sal had stepped in that jackrabbit hole. The second he heard the horse’s leg snap, Clayton knew. He’d have to find work fast if he wanted to replace Sal in time for the race.

  He dropped his saddle at the hitching post. Startled by the noise, a skittish horse tugged against the reins that secured her. Poor Sal. No one should have to put their own horse out of her misery. He started to rub the mare’s muzzle to calm her, but an old memory stopped him. With a last rueful glance at the horse, he stepped into the open doorway of the schoolhouse.

  “Plenipotentiary.” The young lady at the front of the classroom chewed her lip with a nervous glance to the boy at her side. “P-l-e . . .”

  Behind the two youngsters sat what amounted to local dignitaries and a schoolmarm. Clayton slung his saddlebag off his shoulder and leaned against the frame. Spelling bees had the potential to drag on longer than a leap year.

  “. . . n-i-p-o-t-e-n-t-i-a-r-y. Plenipotentiary.”

  There was silence as the moderator bent her thin frame over a hefty book. At her nod applause erupted. The girl broke into a smile and turned to her opponent, who awaited the next word.

  “Tergiversation.” The teacher’s voice sounded uncertain—almost as uncertain as the young man looked.

  “Tergiversation.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “T-e-r . . .”

  Clayton scanned the room. Who would most likely have a shovel at hand? Who would be most likely to rustle him up a supper before he returned to his tragic duty? Who wouldn’t ask questions about Clayton’s rough appearance?

  In one giant breath, the room gasped. The boy’s head drooped. The girl bounced on her toes before she remembered to act like a lady. Applause erupted as the slender teacher handed the winner a blue ribbon.

  Clayton retreated out of the lamplight. The gathering was sure to break up soon, and people would swarm out of the building. No one wanted to find him blocking their path.

  But before he could get out of earshot, a man’s voice rang out, calling the assembly to order.

  “Before we have a benediction, the school board would like to inform you of the latest on Miss O’Malley’s situation. In our attempt to provide for our former teacher, we purchased Mrs. Danvers’s homestead, and we’d like to remind you that it’s our Christian duty to aid her while she’s still in the community. To that end we’ll have coffee cans at the back of the building for donations to her upkeep. I’m certain that you, as parents of her former students, will see the need for our continued support of Miss O’Malley, even when she is unable to be of use to us. Thank you.”

  As they prayed, Clayton moved around to the side of the schoolhouse, well out of the way. So they gave a homestead to a poor old schoolmarm who’d been put out to pasture? If only he could get one so easily.

  A boy’s snuffling reached his ears. Clayton stepped around the rain barrel and found the evening’s second-place speller huddled against the wall.

  Clayton looked both ways, but no one else was in the alley. He couldn’t leave the kid crying all alone. He inched closer, almost stepping on the boy’s shiny new shoes.

  “Congratulations on a fine performance.”

  The boy raised miserable red-rimmed eyes. “I got beat by a . . . by a girl.” He dropped his face into his hands.

  If Clayton’s worst problem was being outspelled by a girl, he’d wear a wig and dance the cancan. “No matter what your friends tell you, girls can be quite clever. I bet your schoolteacher and ma are smart enough.”

  The boy groaned. “I hate spelling. I hate school. I’m going to quit and become a cowboy like you. Nobody ever asks a cowboy to stand in front of people and spell.”

  Clayton scratched his scruffy cheek. “True. A cowboy might go hungry, get banged up by a stampede, and grow so lonesome that he sings to his cows, but he won’t have to spell nothing.”

  “Anything,” the kid corrected.

  Clayton nodded. If the boy felt good enough to fix his grammar, he’d be fine. “Run cows if you’d like, but get your lessons done first, because you might get tired of eating dust and swatting mosquitoes. And don’t worry about that smart girl. She’ll probably become a schoolteacher and won’t know what fun is even if it whops her upside the head.”

  “Oh?”

  Clayton spun at the feminine gasp. How long had the blond woman—the teacher, he assumed—been listening? He ducked his chin, praying the darkness obscured his face.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” From the corner of his eye he could tell she was studying him.

  She crossed her arms. “Andrew, your parents are looking for you. They’re at the front.”

  Andrew scrambled to his feet and trotted away. The teacher continued to regard him.

  “Good evening to you.” Clayton tipped his hat and followed Andrew, only too aware of her steps close behind.

  Two men, ranchers from the looks of them, were taking his measure as he rounded the building. As expected, an outsider didn’t go unnoticed for long. Fortunately for him, his situation was easily explained and verifiable, and he lost no time marching up to them and sharing his tale of woe.

  “A broken leg, eh? That’s too bad.” The man hooked his thumbs beneath his belt. “Without a horse you don’t have much shot at a stake in the land run, do you?”

  Clayton tugged his collar and bandanna higher on the left side of his face. “I have some savings, but if I buy a horse I’ll be hard-pressed to outfit my claim. If there’s any work to be done around town, it’d surely help me make ends meet this winter.”

  “Do you realize that only one out of every fourteen men is liable to get land in the race?” the rancher asked.

  Clayton kept his face turned from the gathering, as if they could read the accusation that had accompanied his injury. “Yes, sir, but if I don’t get to Goodwin quick, I won’t have any chance at all. I hear that the registration lines are days long.”

  Grunts affirmed his statement. “Well, I’ll be willing to help you bury your horse tonight,” the rancher said. “Then in the morning we can ask around.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Me, too.”

  Nice of them to help out. Dry Gulch seemed a right friendly place.

  “Are these your saddlebags?” The circle parted for young Andrew, who stood with the smiling teacher at his shoulder.

  “Yes, but . . .” Clayton frowned. The saddlebags were his, but the newspaper stuffed beneath the leather flap he’d never seen before.

  Chapter 2

  Gripping the tablecloth, Grace flung it high and then settled it over the table. She smoothed the worn fabric and wondered which family had donated it. Evidently they didn’t think she’d be able to tell how threadbare it was. Well, she shouldn’t be ungrateful. At least the tablecloth hid the gouged face of the table. Because she’d always boarded with her students’ families, Grace had never accumulated the necessities
for housekeeping. Who would’ve thought she’d live in a home that she’d never seen . . . and would never see?

  From the corner, Benny yipped in his puppy dream. It’d been Emilie’s idea to get the puppy. As long as he drowsed on his mat, his grumblings anchored the room. Without a reference, Grace’s world floated in endless possibilities.

  Benny stirred. His breath stopped, then his nails clicked across the floor.

  “What do you see?” Grace followed him to the door and pulled it open, the sun painfully bright on her eyes. Benny’s tail thudded happily against the frame, but he didn’t run outside.

  Footsteps on the hard-packed earth alerted her that she wasn’t alone.

  “Hello there. Miss O’Malley?”

  Grace clutched the door. A chill went up her neck at the man’s unfamiliar voice. She hadn’t heard a horse, and her allotment of food had already arrived for the day. Who else would come looking for her?

  “Hello? Who is it?”

  “I don’t mean to startle you, ma’am. My name is Clayton Weber. I’m new to town, but I saw your advertisement in the paper. I understand you’re looking for a man.”

  Grace’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t . . . How did you . . . ?” Who had sent him? She hid her hands behind her back. Grace hadn’t declared her request for a husband to more than her three friends, and she certainly hadn’t placed a notice in the paper. She stepped back. Benny yelped at the contact, further discombobulating her. “I’m sorry, but there’s a mistake.”

  “Aren’t you Miss O’Malley? I have the paper right here.”

  Footsteps echoed on the porch. A draft of air fanned her neck as he waved the paper, sending the smell of newsprint aloft. Her throat tightened at his nearness. Was this Emilie’s mischief? Grace would wring her neck.

  Cautiously, Grace eased outside, shut the cabin door behind her, and shaded her eyes. She couldn’t catch the entire swath of his butternut shirt in one pass, but he looked able-bodied. She followed the line of his buttons up to a scruffy jaw and crooked smile over straight teeth. At first she thought the white line blazed across his cheek was another void in her vision, but when he turned away it disappeared, as well.