Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her gaze to his, fighting the intimacy of the setting. “If you must know, I worked up your business plan.”
“Is it finished? May I see it?”
“Now?”
“Well, we are both still awake.” He waved a hand toward the hallway. “I’ll lock the door again and meet you upstairs.”
Eager to escape, Ione turned and hurried as quietly as she could through the house. Being caught in her nightclothes with a man close on her heels would not look good for her reputation. The best thing to do was shove the plan under his door and then get herself to bed. She’d just stooped to slide the papers when Morgan appeared at her side.
He opened the door then grasped her elbow and tugged her inside. “Is that it?”
Nodding, she passed the papers into his extended hand and wrapped her arms around her middle, knowing being here wasn’t proper, even if the door stood wide open. Still, she couldn’t resist looking around. He’d left a lamp burning so a soft light lit the space, muting the gray shadows in the corners. Throughout the room was evidence of his carpentry skills—a shelf with carvings in the brackets, a freestanding cupboard with cutouts of leaves on its side, a table and chair set with intricate carved legs and beautiful scrollwork on the backrest.
“Ione, I’m amazed at the plan you developed.” Smiling, he held up the papers. “Of course, I’ll need to study this further. I wouldn’t have thought of all these factors when considering the cost of an item. Thank you.”
The appreciation in his voice gave her goose bumps. The admiring look in his eyes set her pulse pounding. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I should get…”
Morgan stepped close and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You should, because I can’t think of a more appealing view than seeing you as vulnerable as a baby kitten.” Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss on her forehead.
She froze. Closing her eyes seemed logical, but doing so only made her acutely aware of the effect of the gesture. Warmth she absorbed from the three spots where his body touched hers. Warmth she hadn’t known she needed. Warmth she yearned to explore. Before her commonsense reared to the forefront, she tilted her head upward, waiting for his lips to move lower. Instead, she felt a rigid finger press on her lips. Her eyes sprang open.
“Not here. I won’t take advantage of the intimacy bred by the late hour.” He stepped away, his gaze intense.
As soon as he broke contact, she wanted to call him back. To throw caution to the wind so she could discover what being kissed by Morgan Shipley felt like. In that instant, the realization hit—she’d almost jeopardized her entire future. Or had he? What just transpired? Confusion pushed her stumbling feet back into her own bedroom. On the way to blow out the lamp, she caught a glimpse of the mirror and saw the twisted rags in her hair. Shaking her head at her stupid romantic notions, she flopped on the bed, venting her frustration on the pillow.
The next morning, although she’d gotten fewer than three hours sleep, Ione was invigorated as she surveyed her students. She was anxious to see how they reacted to her new lesson plan. “Today, we will be doing something a bit different. We’re taking a walking tour of Dorado. What I want you to notice are the various businesses and what is produced or displayed in the shops.”
Excited whispers flew around the room as the students leaned toward their neighbors. A hand from the back row shot up.
“Dieter?”
A youth with straight, wheat-colored hair sniggered. “Are we visiting every business?” Eyebrows waggling, he glanced at the boy to his left and grinned.
Ione shook her head. “Not all of them. I’ll have a notebook to record any of your observations. Now, line up. I want the older grade students to pair off with the younger ones. Levels five and six, you’ll be responsible for seeing the level ones and twos across streets safely. Hold hands if you need to.”
Within moments, the students had formed lines, and with Ione at the lead, the group marched down the rise then along Front Street to the corner of Fourth Street.
At the intersection, Ione held up her hand. “Stop here and take a deep breath. Tell me what you smell.”
Several hands went up into the air and waved.
Seeing the animated response thrilled her. She held a pencil to the note pad. “No hands needed. Just call out the answers.” One word was barely finished before she started on the next. The enthusiasm was wonderful. “All very good answers. Now, let’s cross the street and see what else we can learn from the place associated with the scent of burning wood.” In front of the open doors to the blacksmith shop, she had them form two lines. “Let me speak to Mister Spengler for just a moment.” Ione stepped into the darkened shop where Berg hammered on horseshoes. Knowing he probably couldn’t hear her, she moved within ten feet of the forge and waved a hand at knee height.
“Huh?” The blacksmith straightened and shoved the glowing shoe into a barrel of water.
The resulting hiss garnered a chorus of “ohs” from her students. “Berg, could my students step inside to look at your tools? Maybe you could explain a little about blacksmithing.”
The big man cleared his throat and shook his head.
Seeing his hesitation made her realize she should have asked permission beforehand. She had to salvage something educational from this visit. “Will you answer their questions?” At his nod, she turned back to the students. “Come inside and line up along the far wall.” She pointed at the space the farthest from the forge. “Mister Spengler is a blacksmith. How many of you know what that means?”
Hands went up, and the lesson progressed with a series of questions about the tools and the finished items. The students who didn’t have questions named things created or fixed by the blacksmith that were at their houses or farms. Ione practically bounced with pride at their active participation. The same was true when they visited the leather shop, the bakery, and the laundry. Mysteriously, Morgan’s shop window held a closed sign, so Ione moved the group along to the mercantile.
The bell jangled when she opened the door, and she ushered the students inside, pointing out where they should stand. “Good morning, Missus Othmann.”
Alda stood at the counter, frowning at the assembly of children. “What’s all this?”
Seeing the woman’s suspicious look, Ione flashed an extra big smile. Remember, start with a compliment. “Today my students are learning about the products and services in their hometown.” She waved a hand to encompass the whole group. “And I’m sure you recognize most of the children.”
The older woman walked around from behind the counter. “Sure, I’ve seen them shopping with their folks.”
“But I’ll bet none of them know what your role is when they’ve visited. Can you tell us what a shop owner’s duties are?”
“Well…” The woman stiffened her posture and clasped her hands at her waist. “A mercantile is a very important business in every town. We supply just about everything most folks need.” She shot a narrowed look at Ione before launching into an impromptu, but thorough, presentation of supplies, orders, and inventory.
When the details started to muddle in Ione’s brain, she watched for the next time Alda took a breath. “Thank you for sharing so much information.” She glanced at her students. “Class, shall we show Missus Othmann how grateful we are for her speech?” She clapped, and thankfully, the children followed her lead. “Now, would you mind if the students do a little task?”
Still smiling from the show of appreciation, Alda merely raised an eyebrow. “What type of task?”
“I assure you, nothing will be damaged. They’ll be looking at the goods on the shelves and bringing me a couple pieces of information.”
Nodding, she moved to her place behind the counter. “Sounds all right.”
“Thank you.” Ione turned to the students. “Paired together, I want you to move among the aisles and find one of the favorite items your folks bring home from the mercantile. Study the can or bag
—no need to touch it—and report to me the company’s name and city where it does business.” Watching the students disperse, she walked to the counter.
“In my day, schooling was done at my mama’s kitchen table or in the classroom.”
“Mine, too. But the world is changing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Have you ever counted how many places in the world your products come from?”
“Not exactly.” Alda’s gaze scanned the interior of the store.
“When I finish the lesson, I’ll share what we’ve discovered.”
Several children approached with the requested details, and Ione concentrated on recording all the information.
The bell jangled. An elderly woman shuffled inside leaning on a cane, and she recoiled, her eyes growing wide.
“Oh, that’s old Missus Walthar, the baker’s mother. She likes my complete attention when she shops.”
“I understand.” Ione heard the exasperation in the shop owner’s voice but all the children hadn’t completed the assignment. Nodding, she glanced toward the shelves. “Hurry, students. We need to finish and get back for recess.” That did the trick, and the dawdlers quickly formed a line. She wrote as fast as the students spoke and directed them to the far side of the store.
Little Lisle was last to report. Shyly, she held up a packet of carrot seeds. “I like these.”
Ione cringed that the little girl hadn’t followed instructions. She glanced around for the older student who was supposed to be chaperoning her and spotted him chatting with one of the Ottokar girls…Sybil, she thought. “Dieter, please come forward.”
As he approached, he glanced between Lisle and Ione, his head tucking into his neck like a turtle. “I’m sorry, Miss Forrester. I should have stayed with Lisle.”
“I accept your apology.” That small concession meant the world to her. A month ago, he never would have taken responsibility. In fact, she had always suspected he was the ringleader of the original stunt of refusing to speak English.
From behind came a throat clearing.
She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Alda jerking her head toward the door. “Two more minutes, please, and an indulgence. My reticule is back in the schoolroom. I promise to bring by the money as soon as I dismiss school.”
Missus Walthar harrumped.
Alda sighed and nodded.
“All right, class. Lisle has given me a great idea. As part of our science curriculum, we will plant a garden behind the school. What do we need for a garden?”
“Seeds!”
Five minutes later, Ione ushered the students from the mercantile carrying a dozen seed packets of flowers and vegetables. Everyone was thirsty and tired, but each wore a big grin—theirs as a result of Alda passing around the penny candy jar, and hers because she could find no fault in how she’d performed as a teacher.
The children came back to the classroom early from lunch, begging to know what came next in their lessons. Abandoning that afternoon’s schedule, Ione unfolded the oversized world map that looked like it had been drawn at the turn of the century and leaned it against the tray of the chalkboard. With her notebook in hand, she scanned the scribbles for the first store item. A favorite from her college state won out. “Canned corn. Who chose that one?”
Second grade Jaye Pallaton raised his hand. “I did.”
“Come up and stick a straight pin in Chicago, Illinois.” She was glad she’d brought along quilt patches to work on during lunch so she had a ready supply of pins. “All right, what’s next?”
Children started shouting out the names of their items. Too excited to wait at their desks, the students clustered around the map, their attention on where the next pin went. The afternoon flew by, and the pinned map was a sight to behold. She’d used thread to connect all the spots where food was distributed to the approximate spot in Texas of Dorado’s location.
Later, Ione’s feet barely touched the ground as she walked to the mercantile to pay for her seed packets.
Fritz was behind the counter and greeted her with a nod.
To her, the burly man looked like he was built to work as a logger or a freighter. “I believe Alda has a bill I need to pay.” She tugged on the strings to open her reticule.
“I heard about today’s excursion.”
From the man’s flat tone and somber expression, Ione couldn’t tell what to expect. “My attempt at teaching the children more about the people they know. And maybe a little about how the things they see every day in their homes are made? They loved the bakery.”
“Who doesn’t?” The bald man chuckled. “Right smart, miss. Wish I’d had a teacher like you.” He waved a hand. “No charge on the seeds. I’ll be interested in what sprouts. Might even buy some of that produce.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Mister Othmann.” She flashed him a smile and turned to leave.
A Bain and Company stagecoach drawn by a six-horse team rumbled by at the same moment she opened the mercantile’s door.
A familiar profile caught her eye. So that’s why Morgan’s shop was closed. He hadn’t been in Dorado at all this morning. Ione lingered on the boardwalk in front of the mercantile, waiting to share her good news. Hoping not to be too obvious, she read and re-read the signs announcing products carried by the store. When she figured he’d had ample time to disembark and walk toward his shop, she turned.
On the opposite side of the street and moving slowly, Morgan strolled. But he wasn’t alone. A woman of average height and figure with flaming red hair clung to his arm, and the two seemed to chat and smile genially as they walked. Another redhead, just like Bradford.
Pain stabbed her heart, sharper than when she’d caught Bradford on the trolley car in Des Moines. Tears welled, and she spun, hurrying to get around the next corner before he recognized her. Had she misunderstood the meaning of his kiss?
Chapter Ten
More than half of the ride from Boerne had passed before Morgan emerged from studying the papers in his hand, barely believing the opportunity he’d won. Wanting to test the viability of Ione’s business plan, Morgan had hopped on the morning’s southbound stage. He’d wasted an indecisive hour walking between the town’s two furniture stores, uncertain which one he should approach. When he spotted a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a tailored suit exit the store across the street, he made his move and walked over to introduce himself. The next surprise out of his mouth was an invitation to lunch.
Within five minutes, he was sitting across the table from Sherman Humphreys of the Humphreys Furniture Company, ordering a chicken potpie and peach cobbler luncheon. Morgan presented a brief overview of his stock and handed the man an itemized schedule for completing special orders and a price list. Before the men finished their meal, a deal had been struck. Swaying with the motion of the rocking stagecoach, Morgan leaned back against the padded cushion and glanced out the window. Idly, he rolled the order for three game tables and two dining room sets into a tube.
“Excuse my boldness, sir.” The female passenger on the opposite side of the coach riffled her gloved fingers.
Sagebrush and mesquite trees rolled through his view. With a jolt, he realized the woman must be speaking to him. Since the only other passenger was also a woman, who appeared to be napping. “Uh, yes, miss?”
“Are you, by chance, traveling to Dorado?” She scooted a few inches toward the middle of the bench seat.
He gave a short nod. “That’s where I live.”
Bracing a hand on the roof of the coach, the woman moved across the aisle and sat. “Wonderful. I’ve been traveling for what seems like absolute ages. All the way from Boston, you know. I’ve come to Texas to meet someone, a person I’ve only corresponded with, and hope you might set me in the proper direction.”
At a whiff of lavender, Morgan stilled, and his gut clenched. Boston, red hair, green eyes, correspondence. With each fact he listed, he sank deeper into the cushion. This can’t be. I sent those letters more than two weeks ago. “I know lots
of folks in town.” The day was warm, but the temperature didn’t account for the perspiration dripping along his neck. How could he possibly explain this mix-up to Ione?
“I’m so glad.” She smiled, and her rounded cheeks almost hid her eyes. “My name is Imogene Franklin, and I’m looking to meet Mister Morgan Shipley.”
Gulping, he glanced across the aisle at the older woman who now pinned him with her attention. The gray-haired woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to her face. Maybe a wife living on an outlying ranch who rarely came to town. Based on the glare he received, he guessed he couldn’t pretend not to be the man in question. “I’m Morgan Shipley.” He reached up to lift his hat an inch or so off his head. “But you shouldn’t have come, Miss Franklin.”
Her chin snapped upward. “What can you possibly mean?”
As the coach passed each recognizable stunted tree or rode through a familiar curve in the road, Morgan’s dread deepened. “I posted a letter informing you I wished to cut off the correspondence.”
She gasped and scrambled in her reticule to locate a handkerchief. “Cut off…” A dabbing of the cloth covered a sniffle, and she looked away and blew her noise with a honk. “But why? I thought our exchanges were quite congenial.”
Congenial wasn’t an exchange of likes and dislikes written in ink. Congenial was sitting across a table and sharing meals. Or discussing families. Or rescuing a woman when she felt threatened-twice. Ione. His throat dried. “I sent a total of three letters, and the last was to relate my intention to stop writing.”
“Well, I didn’t believe that one. The tone was all wrong.” The redhead inched closer. “I’m sure when we’ve spent time together, you’ll see how suited we are.”
He pressed himself against the stagecoach side. “Ma’am, I respectfully disagree.”
Miss Franklin slumped into the opposite corner and breathed with hitching sounds.
“Entering Dorado.” The call came from above.
The last few rods were agony. As soon as the wheels stopped, Morgan bolted for the closest door and jumped out to the street.
Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8) Page 10