Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Hands jammed into his trouser pockets, he wandered over to the schoolhouse. Along the way, he overrode his guilt over the paying jobs waiting for his attention on his workbench. Instead, he told himself he was only being neighborly by making sure the new schoolmarm knew how to light the stove. If he’d volunteered for the town council, this would be considered a councilman’s duty.

  On his climb up the stairs, he put pressure on the railings to be sure no unsteadiness had developed since installation. The swish-swish of broom straws against the wooden floor sounded as he crossed the threshold. Unable to resist checking his work, he tugged on each peg to verify they remained secure. Then he rounded the partition wall and stopped stock still.

  Ione stood on a desk and stretched the straw end of the broom toward the ceiling. Because of her short stature, the gap between the broom and her intended quarry—a couple of Mexican free-tailed bats—stretched to at least a foot. She gave a little hop and a big swing of the broom then windmilled her free arm to regain her balance. “Oh no.”

  Morgan ran forward down the middle aisle with his arms outstretched, hoping she’d fall in his direction. He didn’t think he was agile enough to leapfrog the desk in time. “I’ll catch you.”

  The broom clattered to the floor a moment before Ione dropped into his arms in a flurry of rustling skirts, fluffy petticoats, and curvy woman. Grunting, he braced his legs apart to take the impact then drew her close. Never had he held a woman in his arms in quite this fashion. The moment he got a whiff of her lemony scent, he considered this circumstance as the best way to find a woman to court. Present and warm, she was someone he could see. Maybe that she was within reach was the best part of Miss Ione Forrester’s allure.

  Gasping, Ione stiffened and shot him a wide-eyed glance. “Put me down, sir. Your actions are highly inappropriate.” A small hand landed on his chest and the other on his arm, and then she curled forward, which just rubbed their bodies together. Inhaling sharply, she stopped and crossed her arms. “I never asked for your help. What if someone had seen us in such a compromising position?”

  Heat bloomed from all the points of contact, and Morgan registered the racing of his heart beat. Biting back a chuckle at her feistiness, he bent and set her on her feet. “I suppose I could have stood back and let you fall.” Without another glance, he stepped onto the desk and shooed away the bats.

  Disturbed from slumber, the animals flew in different directions and battered their wings against a couple of windows.

  “Get them out.” Ione plastered herself against the blackboard, arms splayed.

  Moving the broom in slow arcs, Morgan forced first one and then the second winged rodent outside. For a moment, he watched its erratic flight until it disappeared in the trees.

  Quiet footsteps approached and stopped behind him. “Are the bats gone?”

  The tremulous note in her voice made him feel braver than the act deserved. But he savored the feeling. Crossing arms over his chest, he nodded. “You know, the critters are harmless to humans and help keep down the insect population. This pair must have gone astray from the annual migration.” He turned and looked at her expression, hoping her fear had abated.

  Eyebrows still wrinkled, she pressed her lips into a tight line as her gaze flicked from side to side.

  “When we’re gathered at the supper table, I’d advise you not mention this to Olivia.”

  Ione glanced upward, her brows lifted in twin arches. “Why would Miss Domingo care that we chased away a bat or two?”

  We. He liked how she considered this activity a team effort. “In her culture, the bat symbolizes good health and fortune, as well as family unity.”

  “I’ll remember those facts for a future science lesson.” Squaring her shoulders, she brushed her hands together and turned on her heel. “I have cleaning and organizing to do, Mister Shipley. Thank you for your assistance. Good day.”

  Her last words, a courteous but obvious dismissal, trailed over her shoulder as she re-entered the schoolhouse. Chuckling, he clambered down the wooden stairs, treading with a heavy step to test the bounce. Miss Forrester was definitely a woman he intended to court.

  ***

  Two days of cleaning, washing, and reorganizing finally had the schoolhouse set to rights enough for Ione’s satisfaction. After a quick scan of the space, she gave a nod. If she was to spend the majority of her day in the room, she didn’t want to worry about spiders or rodents. She stood at her desk and surveyed the bookshelf on the opposite wall with its meager supply of McGuffey’s Eclectic Readers and a few picture books. Hardly appropriate for young ladies on the verge of womanhood.

  While she worked, she kept adding to her list of needed supplies. A mystery existed as to why slates remained on some of the desks. Why hadn’t the children taken them home before the school closed? The training she’d received indicated the students were to be sent home with small assignments to practice their alphabet or arithmetic. Theoretically, the slates should have been with the students in their homes. Because no one she’d met so far had young children or was of the age to attend school, she’d been stumped for an answer.

  On her way back to the boardinghouse, she stopped for a visit in Othmann’s Mercantile. To the side of the entrance she set down the bucket with the dirty rags. List in hand, she stepped across the threshold to the accompaniment of a jingling bell overhead.

  “Coming right out,” called a female voice from behind a curtain at the far end of the counter.

  “Thank you.” Ione gazed at the quaint set-up with sacks of flour and sugar leaning against barrels and bushel baskets holding pickles, soda crackers, potatoes, turnips, onions, and carrots. A corner on one side seemed to be dedicated to ready-made clothing while another corner on the opposite side of the store held several types of tools—hammers and saws being the only ones she recognized. She wandered the aisles, noting lots of canned fruits and vegetables and odds and ends for the household—kitchen utensils, pots, pans, teapots, stoneware dishes. Did no one in Texas have china services?

  “I appreciate you waiting. What may I help you with?”

  Ione turned toward the voice and saw a short, brown-eyed woman with brown hair threaded with a touch of gray at the sides. “Good afternoon. I’m wondering if you have good quality parchment stationery, or perhaps a lightweight cardstock.” In a discussion with Ellen Treadwell the previous night, Ione had learned she was responsible for getting out the word about which date classes would resume. Half-page sheets would need to be written and distributed to households in town. The only way to notify the families on outlying ranches was to get shop owners to post a sign in their storefront windows.

  “I saw you get off the stage yesterday, and Kathleen over at the laundry saw you on the porch of the boardinghouse.” The woman rested her hands on her thin hips. “So, you’re the new schoolmarm.” Her gaze moved the length of Ione’s body, and she shook her head. “I sure hope you possess more common sense than that flighty Harriet Fletcher.”

  Well, there’s an introduction. Before she could stop herself, she stiffened her posture. “I’m Ione Forrester, ma’am. My goal is to do my very best for the students.”

  “My name’s Alda Othmann, and this store”—she circled a hand over her head—“belongs to my husband and me. I serve on the town council, and I have to tell you that I voted for the other candidate.” Her gaze narrowed. “A man, you know.”

  Ione blinked and avoided pressing a hand to her suddenly queasy stomach. If she had a choice, she would have spun on her heel and taken her business elsewhere. Unfortunately, this establishment looked to be the only store in Dorado. She thought back to her lessons pertaining to professional conduct. The only tip that came to mind was to always start a conversation with a compliment, or at the very least, a neutral question. She pasted on what she hoped was a genial smile. “Missus Othmann, is your child whom I will be greeting in the classroom a girl or a boy?”

  A throaty chuckle huffed from the woman, and pink f
lushed her cheeks. She lifted a hand and patted the back of her bun. “Oh, heavens no. My children are grown and gone. My elder son, Arnold, is a soldier and stationed in Fort Bliss. My younger boy, Johan, is a surveyor for the Union Pacific Railroad, and Karla married a minister who oversees a church in Lampasas.”

  Good to know she wouldn’t be holding a parent-teacher conference with a woman who hadn’t wanted her in the position in the first place. How many others on the town council voted against her? She couldn’t help how disappointment weighed her spirits. “Sounds like all three are leading successful lives.”

  “So true.” The storekeeper nodded then her brows drew into a frown. “What was it you needed? Stationery?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Parchment, if you have it, or a paper with a high fiber count.” She followed the shopkeeper to the long wooden counter and waited as the woman bent and retrieved a box.

  “This is what we have.” Missus Othmann lifted off the lid and displayed a stack of stationery.

  “May I?” Ione reached out a hand to lift the top sheet. The color looked more yellow than buff. She turned and held it up to the sunlight coming through the closest window. Thinner than she would have preferred. But… “I’ll take ten pieces, please.” Watching the woman count out the pages, Ione had another thought. “Maybe I could open an account, so I can handle my bill when I receive my monthly salary?”

  The woman’s head popped up, and she straightened. “An account for an unmarried woman? I don’t know what you’re used to in the big city, but we don’t do that here. A male relative would need to open the account in person and add you as a secondary.”

  Well, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. Clamping her lips tight, Ione waited until she finished counting to five before she reached for her reticule. “How much do I owe you?”

  “I have to start counting them all over again.”

  As the older woman worked, Ione glanced around and spotted a shelf with what looked like a collection of thick leather-bound books. She walked across the floor, her steps a bit louder than needed, gaining a smidge of comfort from expressing her irritation in even this indirect way. Several of the titles were among her favorites—duplicates of ones that resided in her bedroom in Des Moines.

  “You mentioned cardstock, miss.”

  “I did. Something appropriate to make signs.”

  “That item isn’t something we stock.”

  “Oh.” Ione didn’t know what else would work.

  “But an order came in for the carpenter last week.” Missus Othmann stretched the cotton above the brown-wrapped package and crisscrossed the strings. “He might sell you what you need before I can receive a replacement supply.”

  Huh, Morgan Shipley. Ione was dubious about this man who shaved on an erratic schedule and smelled of wood or pungent oils. Bits of sawdust always clung to the hems of his trousers.

  After finalizing the transaction, Ione tucked the parcel under her arm and collected the bucket. The path to the boardinghouse took her past Shipley Carpentry, and she paused to the left of the entrance to glance through the window. The chairs displayed at the front of the store looked sturdy, but not fancy. A bit farther inside stood a small table that resembled the one she’d seen in the boardinghouse parlor.

  Movement caught her attention and she pressed her face closer. Mister Shipley sat at a workbench in the back of the shop, arched over an item that was just out of sight, his arm moving in an easy rhythm. The fabric of his shirt stretched over broad shoulders and bulging arms that flexed with each stroke. Heat invaded her cheeks, and she ducked her head, scurrying along the boardwalk.

  What an inappropriate thought.

  Chapter Seven

  At supper when several minutes had passed in quiet eating, Ione cleared her throat. “I’m wondering how you people manage with the limited selection of items available at the mercantile.”

  All around the table, eyes widened then looked away. A few boarders shrugged and kept on eating.

  Her outspokenness may have caused offence. She ran through the jobs of those present to see if someone was maybe employed at the mercantile or related to the family, but she couldn’t think of a single connection. “I apologize if that sounds rude, but I need supplies for the classroom that were not on the shelves. Acquiring them determines when classes will resume.”

  Ellen set down her water glass. “We place an order with Alda or Fritz and wait for the items to be delivered either on the stage or by the freighting company—depending on the size.”

  Maisie helped herself to another spoonful of cooked carrots. “I’ve heard that some folks travel south to Boerne or north to Kerrville to buy supplies.”

  Hope tensed Ione’s body. This could be the solution she needed. Having the cardstock in hand by tomorrow evening would allow her enough time to create the signs. “Would you know the stagecoach schedule? I’d like to make that trip tomorrow.”

  A fork clattered to the plate. “Alone?”

  Ione turned to spot Ellen’s shocked expression and nodded. “That’s how I traveled here.”

  “Oh, Mother, let me go along.” Maisie leaned an elbow on the table to where her mother sat. “I’ve heard a new dressmaker’s shop opened in Kerrville last year. Since Miss Pendergrass married that tinker and closed shop here, I haven’t seen a new dress style in months.”

  Pressing her napkin to her mouth, Ione fought back a laugh at the way Maisie stretched out the word ‘month.’ “I’d be happy for the company.”

  “Me, too, Mother. I want to go.” Lydia bobbed in her chair.

  “Absolutely not, Lydia. You are definitely too young.” Lips mashed in a straight line, Ellen shook her head. “Two women alone is not a good idea. Both towns are at least fifteen miles from your home. Maisie, think of your reputation.”

  Lydia flung herself backward in the chair and clasped her arms over her chest.

  “Phooey.” Maisie slumped in her chair. “You never want me to do anything fun.”

  Ione barely gave Lydia’s snit a second thought. But how would a stagecoach ride be damaging to a young woman’s reputation? In both Des Moines and her college town, Ione had moved all over the cities alone or with a friend or two. Wouldn’t her mother have warned her about another act that could cause scandal?

  “I’ll serve as escort.”

  Hearing a deep voice, Ione whipped around her head to stare at the smiling carpenter. Why would he make such an offer? True, she’d caught him giving her sly looks when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Like when she’d watched him through the storefront window. How could someone ignore the prickle on the back of the neck when another’s gaze followed each move?

  “But I’ll be driving a wagon, because I need to pick up supplies at the lumber mill. I’ve shopped in Schreiner’s Mercantile and seen that the store has twice the selection of Othmann’s.” He popped the last of a roll into his mouth and chewed.

  “In that case, Ione, we can use horses from the livery.” Eyes sparkling, Maisie turned toward her brother at the other end of the table. “You’re always saying how you wish the horses were exercised more. For just ages, I’ve been wanting to take Ginger for a good run.” Leaning forward, she flashed a smile. “You want to ride Jughead?”

  Tightness invaded Ione’s chest. She hadn’t been on the back of a horse since Sarah Tannere’s tenth birthday party. Someone, although Ione had always suspected Gertie Brunhauser was the culprit, slapped the horse’s rump making the mare bolt. Ione’s dress had been ripped and muddied, and she’d gotten a split lip.

  Penn ran a hand over his chin. “Giving three or four horses that kind of distance workout would sure ease my duties, Mother. I could devote the next couple of days to the corral repairs that have been shunted aside for too long.”

  “Well, if that’s needed…” Ellen sipped at her water but an eyebrow remained arched.

  “Although, Maisie, Jughead is more suited to the harness. But Banjo is a reliable gelding.” Penn rested his
forearms on the table. “Ione, have you ridden much? What type of mount do you prefer?”

  After a mouthful of water to wet her parched throat, Ione turned to her left toward the reddish-haired man with the raised eyebrows. Silence had dropped over the room. “Living in a city, my family didn’t have a need for horses after my younger brother left home. I believe I’d prefer to ride in the wagon.” She turned to meet Morgan’s gaze. “If that’s all right.”

  “Riding with me will be mighty fine, Ione. We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

  Maisie leaned forward to look around Olivia. “This will be fun. I love exploring.”

  From the boardinghouse owner’s end of the table came a quick inhale.

  Ione braced for what she might hear, but she didn’t want to encourage any further discussion. If riding in an enclosed stagecoach in the presence of strangers hadn’t been advised against by her parents, then a ride in an open wagon with an acquaintance shouldn’t be viewed as a problem. Now that she’d set her mind on acquiring the exact necessary supplies, she didn’t want to settle for second best.

  ***

  Morgan was awake before dawn, even though he’d struggled with getting to sleep the previous night. His mind had raced with all the ramifications of spending the day in Ione’s company. Since that incident in the schoolhouse, he hadn’t been able to forget the feel of her soft body in his arms. Her warm breath had brushed his cheek. Never mind the words she’d spoken were tinged with reprimand.

  Once he’d decided on courting Ione, he’d written letters to the three prospective brides he originally considered before her arrival. He’d been as sincere as he could and relayed that his needs and focus had changed, and he wished to concentrate his pursuits closer to home. After much pacing and thinking on the matter, he could find no fault with that gentle refusal to continue the letter correspondence. He’d read copies of the Bexar Bride News, and plenty of other men were more than anxious to find a partner using those methods. On that matter, his conscience was clear.