Second Chance Bride

by Jane Myers Perrine

  She started again when he leaned forward, but he’d only picked up her valise. Of course.

  “Is this all your luggage?”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked at his back as he strode away toward a trim little surrey, then hurried after him. He carried nearly everything she had, and she didn’t even know who he was or the location of the ranch where he was taking her.

  “And you are?” She lifted her head and spoke in the tone that she thought Matilda would use in this situation, strong and certain, despite the hunger, exhaustion, fear and pain competing for her attention.

  “I’m sorry.” He turned back toward her. “I’m John Matthew Sullivan, a member of the school board and president of the bank. Certainly you know that from my letters.”

  He smiled at her, an expression that showed both confusion and concern, a smile that so changed his stern visage that it might have warmed her except that she knew how easily men’s smiles could come and go. Instead she said, “Oh, yes. Your letters.” She put her hand on her forehead. “It has been a difficult day.”

  “It must have been.” He placed the valise on the floor of the vehicle. “Do you feel well enough to start school tomorrow?”

  She stopped, one foot inside the surrey, the other on the ground. She couldn’t move as she struggled to make sense of his words. “Start school tomorrow?” she repeated.

  She didn’t want to go to school. What kind of school would there be in such a tiny place? What would they expect her to study and why?

  “I know it’s soon, but the students are so glad you’re here. Because it was so difficult to find a qualified teacher, they’ve been out since the term ended last April. They’re eager to get started again.”

  Teacher? I’m a teacher?

  Oh, dear. Annie bit her lip. Matilda had been a teacher.

  “Are you all right, Miss Cunningham?” he said, studying her closely.

  She placed her hand on her aching head. No, she was not all right, but she was not going to tell Mr. Sullivan that and destroy her chance to sleep in a bed tonight.

  “It’s obvious you’re exhausted. We’ll postpone class until Wednesday so you may rest.”

  “That would be nice.”

  He handed her into the surrey, touching her arm for a moment to steady her. Then, as she settled herself in the carriage, he smiled at her, a flash of warmth lighting his eyes. Annie quickly looked away. She did not like it when men smiled at her that way. It made her want to run.

  “You may have noticed that Trail’s End is not a large town, but the people are friendly.” He got in on the other side of the surrey and snapped the reins over the horses. “This area is beautiful in the spring.”

  The carriage was splendid, new and shiny with leather seats. The matched bays trotted in time with each other. Obviously Mr. Sullivan was a wealthy man.

  “Where are we going?” Here she sat, in a vehicle with a man she’d never met, heading off to who-knew-where. Curious and frightened, she wished she could have read those letters Matilda had carried in her purse. “Is the ranch far?”

  He looked at her again with a puzzled glance. “As I told you in my letter, you’ll live in a room that adjoins the schoolhouse. It’s located just a few minutes from my home and about as far from town.”

  The bays frisked along the road. After only a few minutes, he slowed and turned between stone pillars. “This is my ranch, the J bar M.” He pointed at a sign over the drive.

  J bar M. Annie carefully studied the sign. “The J bar M,” she said.

  In silence, they rode down a smooth dirt drive and turned onto a rougher trace. They traveled only a minute or two before Mr. Sullivan halted the surrey.

  “Here we are.” He jumped from the vehicle.

  Annie searched both sides of the road until she spotted a stone building on the edge of the clearing, partially hidden by trees.

  “Miss Cunningham?”

  His voice startled her, as did the way he addressed her. She must get used to her new name as quickly as possible. With a jerk, she looked to her right where he stood ready to hand her down from the carriage. What would Matilda do in this situation? No one had ever helped Annie from a surrey. In fact, she’d never been in a surrey, but she’d seen enough to know she shouldn’t leap out on her own.

  She suddenly remembered the mayor’s wife in Weaver City getting out of their wagon. She’d put her hand in her husband’s and let him steady her as she descended. So that’s what Annie did. As soon as she was on the ground, he dropped her hand and stepped away, smiling at her again with that look in his eye.

  She’d seen that expression flicker in men’s eyes before, but those were rude men, men who frequented saloons or tried to take advantage of young women in the stagecoach. Mr. Sullivan seemed different, upright. She must have misunderstood his smile, his warm gaze.

  Scolding herself, she lifted her gaze to study the building for a few seconds. “It’s very pretty.”

  “Yes, it’s made of gray limestone, quarried only a few miles from here.” He picked up her valise. “My wife chose the material shortly before her death,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Along the side of the building were three windows with clear glass that reflected the light of a bright moonrise.

  “I’ll go inside and light a lamp.” He headed toward the building, going up two steps before disappearing through a door. In no time, a glow from an oil lamp shone softly through the windows.

  As Annie entered, she saw six rough benches, each with a narrow table in front of it, and a desk—oh, my, her desk—in the front of the room, on a little platform. Stacked on the desk were a pile of slates and another stack of books of various sizes. The sight alarmed her.

  “This is the schoolroom,” Mr. Sullivan said, “as, I am sure, you must have surmised.”

  Surmised. Annie rolled the word around in her mind. It had such a weighty feeling. “Yes, I’d surmised that.” She nodded.

  He motioned toward a narrow room at the other end of the building. “That’s the kitchen. You’ll warm the students’ lunches there and may use it to prepare your own meals.”

  So that’s how schools did things. “How many students are there?”

  Even in the faint glow of the lamp, Annie could see his puzzled expression. He must have written Matilda about that, too. “Twelve. Not a terribly large group to teach, but they are in all the grades from one through seven.”

  “I’d forgotten.” She nodded again, precisely, a gesture that seemed to belong to her new character.

  “Your bed and drawers for your personal accoutrements are through this door,” he said as he put the bag on the floor in front of it.

  Accoutrements. Another word to remember. “I have few accoutrements.”

  “There is a door to the outside in your room.” He pointed. “The facility is behind the building.”

  She nodded again.

  “Several of the mothers cleaned the building to prepare for your arrival. You have a new mattress, several towels and clean bedclothes.”

  “How nice of them. I must thank them.”

  “I’ll leave you now to settle in. The children will arrive at seven-thirty on Wednesday. I trust you will be ready for them?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “A lamp is on your desk with a box of matches next to it.” For a moment, he studied the bruise on her cheek and her arm. “Miss Cunningham, may I send our cook, a fine woman, to help you with your wounds?”

  “Thank you, but I’ll take care of them myself. I’m very tired.”

  He nodded. “Then I’ll wish you good-night.”

  “Good night, Mr. Sullivan.”

  His hand brushed her arm as he moved to the door. At the contact, he stopped and glanced at her as if trying to decide whether he should apologize, and then he turned away quickly, opened the door and closed it behind him.

  A woman could fall in love with a handsome, caring man like that without trying, but not Annie. No, she’d learned a great dea
l about handsome men and ugly ones, and she didn’t trust either. With a shake of her head, she told herself to forget her past. It was over, and she was ready to start her new life, preferably without any men, handsome or ugly.

  She surveyed the amazing place to which her deception had led her. For a moment, being in a schoolroom made her feel an utter lack of confidence until she reminded herself she was no longer Annie MacAllister and straightened her posture. She was Miss Matilda Cunningham, the composed and educated schoolteacher of Trail’s End.

  Well, she would be for at least a few days, until someone discovered she was not Miss Matilda Cunningham. During that time, she’d be warm and fed and safe, which was enough for now. With that bit of comfort, she picked up the lamp in her left hand, pushed the valise ahead of her with her foot and entered her bedroom.

  It was tiny, but it belonged to her, at least temporarily. Even as her muscles protested, she turned slowly around the small space and smiled. It was hers alone! The narrow bed had been pushed against the rough, wooden inside wall. Two hooks hung beside the window, and a dresser stood next to the door out to the privy. When she placed the oil lamp on the dresser, the light wavered. Was it low on oil? Slipping her shoes off, she thought a sensible young woman would go to bed before it got so dark she would need a lamp.

  But a sensible young woman would not find herself in a position like this. Annie lowered herself onto the bed and contemplated the fix she’d landed herself in when she’d assumed Matilda’s identity.

  No, a sensible young woman would not find herself teaching school when she didn’t know how to read or write.

  Chapter Two

  John Matthew Sullivan snapped the reins over the heads of his horses as they trotted down the short road between the schoolhouse and his home. He’d chosen the pair carefully—they had exactly the right stride to pull the surrey he’d had built to his specifications. Painstaking and cautious described him well, characteristics passed on to him by his father.

  But for him, the value of the animals lay in their magnificence and spirit, the sheer beauty of their matched paces and movement.

  Beauty. His thoughts came back to the new teacher. Although he’d investigated her references carefully and heartily recommended Miss Cunningham to the school board, tonight he hadn’t felt completely confident about the young woman who was to teach his daughter and the children of the community. She’d written fine letters, had exceptional recommendations and excellent grades from the teachers’ college. However, this evening she’d behaved oddly, seeming uncertain and confused.

  Of course, she’d just been in an accident, one in which another young woman had died. She had a wound on her arm. Bruises, cuts and blood covered her.

  Small wonder she was distressed and flustered. She was understandably upset from her experience. So what flaw could she possess that now nagged at him?

  He slowed to allow an armadillo to saunter across the road and considered the question.

  She was too young and too pretty to be a teacher. Under the grime—in spite of it, actually—she was very attractive with thick, dark hair and what he thought to be rich, brown eyes. As a respectable widower and pillar of the community, he shouldn’t have noticed that. As a man, how could he not?

  Of course, Miss Cunningham wasn’t as lovely as his dear wife, Celeste, had been, but even with the dark bruise on her cheek, he could see her features were regular and, well, appealing. But definitely not as fine as Celeste’s had been. His wife, alas, had been a fragile woman. Miss Cunningham appeared to be the opposite.

  Even with the stains on it, her dress had been modest and ladylike. Her speech had been clear and precise, the tone well modulated. Neat and clean and a good example for the girls in her class. That was strictly all that mattered about the exterior of a teacher.

  But she seemed so very young. Although Miss Cunningham had written she was twenty-three, she didn’t look over twenty. Of course, there are people like that, who look younger than they are in actual years.

  Miss Cunningham seemed like a moral young woman, not the kind of young woman who flirted with men like the previous teacher. Twice when he’d approached Miss Cunningham, she’d pulled away. She’d seemed almost afraid of him, but that was to be expected from an honorable young woman.

  And yet something bothered him, something besides her looks and age. He couldn’t nail down what it was. It had something to do with her reaction when he mentioned that the students were eager to start class. Surprise, almost shock. Even her confusion after the accident couldn’t explain that to his satisfaction.

  He’d visit with her tomorrow and see if he could discover what troubled him. He’d allow her to teach for a few weeks. If she didn’t measure up to the standards of the school board, well, actually, they could do nothing. It had taken months to find a teacher of quality like Miss Cunningham. No one wanted to come to Trail’s End. The school board had been fortunate to find someone who needed a position as much as they needed a teacher. It would be impossible to find another this year.

  “Buenas noches, Señor Sullivan,” Ramon said as his boss drove into the stable.

  “Ramon, what are you doing out here so late?” He stepped out of the surrey and tossed the reins to the man. “You should be home with your family.”

  “Gracias, señor. El viejo fell today. I made the old man rest.”

  “Duffy fell?” What was he going to do about Duffy? After he was thrown from a horse last year, John had given him the easiest job on the ranch to keep him safe. He might need to hire another man to take the load off Ramon and keep an eye on Duffy.

  “Tried to put a bridle up on a hook. Lost his balance and fell off the bench he was standing on.”

  “I’ll check on him,” John said. “I still don’t expect you to work these long hours. Understand?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “After you finish with the horses, go home to your family.”

  As he spoke, John started toward the small room in the back of the stable where Duffy Smith lived. He preferred the room in the stable to sharing the bunkhouse with the younger, rowdier hands.

  The elderly man had taught him everything he knew about caring for animals. He’d always worked hard. Too proud to rest at seventy, he still expected to do his share. That caused John no end of trouble and worry, but also made him proud. He’d probably be exactly the same in thirty-five years.

  The room was barely large enough for a narrow bed, small table and a dresser. A lamp glowed in the corner. Duffy’s skinny body could barely be seen under the colorful quilt Celeste had made for him,

  “All right, Duffy. What’s this I hear about you?” John held up his hand as the older man struggled to get up. “Don’t try to get out of bed. Stay there.”

  Duffy’s expression was sheepish behind his full beard and thick mustache, both streaked with gray. “I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Stupid bench threw me, boss.”

  Just like Duffy to blame it on the bench. He hated getting old as much as John hated watching it happen. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “The boys took real good care of me. I’m going to have a good night’s sleep, and then I’ll be back to work in the morning.”

  John shook his head. “You are the most stubborn man I know. Would it hurt you to rest for a few more days?”

  Duffy glared at him. “Yes, boss, it would. I’m tough.”

  “Stubborn old coot.” John shook his head. “I give up.” He turned toward the door and said over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself.”

  “Always do, boss,” Duffy retorted.

  Once out of the building, John headed across the stable yard to enter the house. He climbed the stairs and with a few strides down the hall, he entered his daughter’s room. He knew that with the trip to town and helping the new teacher to settle in, he’d be home too late to see Elizabeth before bedtime, to tuck her in and hear her prayers. But he wanted to see her anyway.

  Silently, he moved across the floor
until he stood next to the bed and watched her sleep, the moonlight illuminating her innocent face. With a smile, he leaned down, kissed her check and smoothed the blanket over her shoulders.

  Elizabeth had always been more his daughter than Celeste’s. With her endless energy and constant chatter, she’d worn her mother out, but he’d loved riding with the child, reading to her and caring for her as she grew up.

  How have I been so blessed to have this beautiful child?

  As he readied himself for bed, he thought again of the new schoolteacher, unable to rid himself of the nagging doubt. How to handle the situation, to assure the community—and himself—that Miss Cunningham had been the correct choice, even though she’d also been the only choice?

  He’d keep an eye on her until he felt comfortable. For his daughter’s sake, for the sake of all the children in the community, he would make sure all was right with the new schoolteacher. After all, he’d accepted the challenge to find a teacher. He’d hired her. He was responsible.

  He was a Sullivan.

  Pain—excruciating pain—and the sensation of turning and twisting, of lurching and rocking racked Annie. She grabbed the side of the coach and reached out for Matilda.

  But the young woman wasn’t there. With a sob, Annie woke up and attempted to sort out where she was and what had happened, why her right arm, her head and both legs—in fact, her entire body—hurt so much.

  It was early morning. She knew that by the tendril of sunlight breaking through darkness to illuminate a narrow strip of ceiling. In the distance, a rooster crowed. In the dim light, she could make out something dark that stiffened her right sleeve. When she rubbed the cloth between her fingers, it crinkled. Blood, she realized.

  Her arm throbbed. The blue skirt had wrapped itself around her legs. She shrieked in pain as she tried to untangle herself.

  Most amazingly, she was alone on a clean bed in a room with white walls, spotless white walls. No sound of raucous celebration came from the other side of the wall.