by Jillian Hart
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a very big deal.” She brushed away the damp trail.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, knowing he didn’t deserve the gratitude shining bright in her eyes. “You’re not mad at me?”
“How can I be mad at you, after all you’ve done for me?”
“All I did was send a wire. Doc Mason relayed your personal information to Daniel. I figured the less we knew about each other the better. It was Daniel who told my family about you.”
“Generosity runs in your family.”
“I wasn’t being generous, Constance.You didn’t deserve to have your life destroyed by that fire. You didn’t ask to be uprooted and shipped across the country. It couldn’t have been an easy recovery.”
“I’m grateful for the care I was given.”
“So am I. Do your legs still hurt?”
She looked away, blatantly disconcerted by the question. “No.”
He imagined the scarring was extensive. He had yet to see her without her gloves and had noticed she didn’t even remove them to eat. “I suppose you left behind a lot of friends in Colorado?”
he asked, wanting to ease the tension between them.
“Not really. Mrs. Farrell kept me busy. But I do like the mountains.”
“Judging by all I’ve heard today, the folks in these mountains certainly like you. If they catch wind that my mistake cost them a fine teacher, they’ll likely run me out of town. Can I hold off on advertising for your position?”
Her hesitation was clear before she relented with a slight nod.
“Have you had a nice afternoon?”
“Yes. The students and parents have been wonderful. Those without a child or spouse have been a nuisance. ”
Kyle grinned, appreciating her flat honesty. “Most of the wives here would likely agree, having more than a few bachelors frequent their supper tables, eager for some semblance of family life and home-cooked meals.”
“They won’t find anything but grammar lessons and the smack of a ruler with me.”
He laughed and reached for her gloved hand. “How about I save their knuckles and keep you on my arm while the festivities wind down?”
“Full of pie, are you?”
Kyle couldn’t deny the sweetly spoken accusation. “Yes, ma’am.”
He tucked her close. Color brightened her cheeks, but she didn’t protest. He was certain she would have at the slightest objection. He found reassurance in knowing she’d shove back if he overstepped his bounds. Here he’d been worried a classroom of rowdy students would overrun her, but he was starting to believe Miss Constance Pauley could hold her own most anywhere.
Chapter Six
The school bell clanged as Kyle fitted a windowsill in the bedroom of the living quarters above the schoolroom. A departing wagon kicked up dust beyond the open windowpane, a parent heading back to town. A half mile out, a line of rooftops marked Pine Ridge—where he should be. Monday mornings were the worst, folks tracking him down at his livery or the hotel with urgent business or complaints. He hammered in a nail, wondering how the hell he’d gotten himself into this. A temporary favor to help Juniper out with the town’s construction had taken over his life. He’d barely unpacked his saddlebags when the community had nominated him for town mayor. He’d refused. Not that it mattered. As Juniper’s appointed overseer, he handled all the gripes and growing pains of a newly forged township.
A hum of activity vibrated up through the floorboards as he hammered in the last nail. Constance’s voice rang above the clamor; clear, concise, almost musical as she called her class to order. She’d been a vision this morning, walking into the kitchen in a butterscotch gown, the soft color a perfect contrast to her dark corkscrew curls and emphasizing her honey-colored eyes.
Realizing he’d frozen like a bird dog come to point, he shook his head and went into the front room for a can of paint. Constance Pauley was the last woman he needed to be setting designs on.
Since learning he’d funded her doctoring, she looked at him with a kind of open vulnerability, a trust that made him damn uncomfortable. He didn’t want her big doe eyes gazing up at him, mostly because the frankly male portion of his brain saw opportunity.
He couldn’t be less of a saint. If she were any other woman, he’d be using those smiles to get a little closer…a lot closer.
Not happening. He’d sooner nail his hands to the wall than make advances on a woman he’d nearly killed. He grabbed a paintbrush from the windowsill and was surprised to see the older boys still standing out in the schoolyard playing ball.
They’d laid out their bases with pieces of spare wood.
“Gentlemen,” Constance called out from the front of the school. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” Frank Williams stood at the center of the ball field, his cap cocked to one side, expressive of his cocky nature. He tossed his baseball into the air and caught it. “We figure since we gotta be here instead of workin’ or doin’ our chores, we’d play ball.
Won’t be time for nothin’ but chores once we get home.”
“I’m quite familiar with baseball,” Constance said, coming into view as she stepped into the yard—a ray of sunshine on the green meadow. “We can compromise on outside activities, but right now it’s time for lessons in the classroom. If you’ll come inside we can begin straightaway.”
“We ain’t needin’ no schoolin’.” His buddies closed in around him. “Do we, fellas?”
A low rumble of agreement came from the half-dozen boys standing behind him.
“I see.” She clasped her gloved hands behind her back and approached the group of defiant boys. Kyle fought his urge to rush out, not wanting to undermine her authority. She stopped directly in front of Frank, the top of her head barely reaching the kid’s chin.
“You are Francis Williams, correct?”
Snickers rose up behind him. His hands clenched into fists.
“My name is Frank. ”
“Ah, yes. Frank. Being the oldest student, I had hoped you’d set a good example for the other children.”
“I told you, we ain’t goin’ to school.” Frank broadened his stance. Afraid the boy would execute brawn over brains, Kyle turned for the door. The little uprising wasn’t anything a threat of his boot to their defiant butts wouldn’t fix.
“Are you a betting man, Mr. Williams?” she asked as Kyle reached the stairway landing at the side of the schoolhouse.
Now where the hell could she be going with a question like that? The boy’s twisted expression asked the same thing.
Frank pushed a finger under his cap and scratched at his brown hair. “I suppose.”
“It may surprise you to know I fancy myself a good ball player.”
She held her hand toward the boy holding a baseball bat. “May I?”
Toby’s freckled face lit with a gushing grin as he relinquished the wood.
Lord Almighty. They were already beat.
Constance stepped back into a batter’s stance and gave a slow-motion swing as though testing the weight of the wood.
“I ain’t never met a lady who played baseball.”
“I’ve met too many young men who cannot read and write.”
She lowered the bat, giving Frank her full attention. “Would you say you’re an adequate ball player, Mr. Williams?”
“Yeah.”
“And the other gentlemen here, are they, too, accomplished at playing ball?”
Frank shrugged. “I guess.”
“Splendid.” She turned toward the schoolhouse and Kyle eased back, not wanting to intervene just yet. “Miss Darby,” she called out. “Send the children back outside, please.”
“Wait a minute,” said Frank.
“Allow me to make my offer, Mr. Williams,” she said, talking over him.
Frank crossed his arms. “What offer?”
“I’m getting to that. Now what abo
ut the young ladies?” She gestured toward the seven girls lining up outside the schoolhouse with some of the younger boys in the class. “How would you rank their skill?”
“This ain’t no girl’s game.”
“So, if I were to challenge you to a game, one round at bat, my team against yours—”
“Us against them girls? Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”
The kid had a point. Only three of the seven girls appeared to be over the age of six. All of his buddies were ten and over.
“So you accept?”
“Why should I?”
“Very good, to the point of business. I will wager a year’s worth of schooling. If we win, you’ll come inside and begin your lessons without complaint. If you win, you boys can use our class time as you intended, to play ball.”
The kid’s eyes popped wide, as did Kyle’s. “What about our folks, what you gonna tell them?”
Good question!
“How you deal with your parents is your problem.”
Like hell! Their parents were his problem. He wasn’t about to explain that their sons wouldn’t be learning to read because the prim and proper Miss Pauley had wagered away a year of school on a baseball game she had no hope to win.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Miss Pauley?” Stella said, alarm in her voice.
Constance glanced back at her. “Just a moment, Miss Darby.”
The confidence in her smile kept Kyle rooted in place. What the hell is she up to?
“Is you gonna be playin’?” asked Toby.
“Indeed,” she said with a nod. “And the five oldest girls. Miss Darby will serve as catcher and scorekeeper. We challenge you to one inning.”
Frank gave a short laugh. “Yer on, lady.”
“You will address me as Miss Pauley.”
“Miss Pauley,” he instantly corrected.
Poor kid. She had him buffaloed and he didn’t have a clue.
“Miss Darby will need a mitt.”
Only two boys had leather mitts. Both offered them up.
“Thank you, gentlemen. You can be first up to bat. Give me a moment to instruct my teammates.” The boys walked toward the plank of wood designating home plate, laughing and nudging as Constance huddled up with the rest of her class. Fully intrigued, Kyle descended the stairs as they took their positions.
Stella sat the youngest students on the sidelines while Constance spaced her players around the field. Frank took his turn at bat as his teacher moved to the pitching position.
“One last thing before we begin, Mr. Williams. Do you regard yourself as a man of your word?”
“I sure as heck do!”
She smiled, took a step back, her arm snapping forward so fast Kyle nearly missed the pitch. The ball pounded into Stella’s mitt, sending her back onto her butt with a slight shriek.
“I’ll be a bang-tailed rooster,” he muttered, as shocked as the rest of them.
“Hey!” the kid complained.
“Strike one, Mr. Williams.”
“Do I toss it back?” Stella asked, holding up the ball. Kyle swallowed a chuckle. His sister had never played a game of ball in her life.
Tugging on his cap, Frank dug his toe into the ground and crouched lower as he readied for the next pitch—none of which helped him hit her fastball. Within minutes the girls were cheering as they ran in for their turn at bat.
“This ain’t fair!” Frank raged.
Constance met him on her way in. “What do you find unfair?
You agreed to the terms.”
“I didn’t know you could pitch like that!”
“I told you I was a good ball player.”
Frank took the ball and stomped past her.
Molly Grimshaw was the first batter, her tight orange braids tucked behind her shoulders. She was likely the only girl familiar with the sport, having five older brothers, the youngest her twin.
“Hope you boys are ready to get spanked,” she called out.
Now there’s a girl with sass. He had a notion she bore a striking resemblance to Constance in her youth.
“Molly should be on our team,” her twin brother shouted back. “She’s more boy than girl.”
“Ain’t, neither! And I’m tellin’ Mama you said that!”
Frank pitched and she knocked the ball past the third baseman.
Dropping the bat, she sprinted for first, her classmates cheering the whole way.
“Ha!” she shouted at Toby. “That’s how it’s done!”
The next girl at bat looked none too confident as she stepped up to the home-plate board. Constance moved in behind her and adjusted her grip. The girl’s brown pigtails and white ribbons bobbled with a vigorous nod as her teacher whispered instructions.
Constance stepped aside, Frank raised his arm and the girl closed her eyes.
“Eyes open,” Constance told her.
She opened her eyes in time to swing, which was more of a swat, knocking the ball to the ground directly in front of her with a hard bounce. She watched the ball roll to a stop and didn’t move.
Molly made a dash for second base.
“Run, Rebecca!” Constance shouted.
Frank’s players shouted for him to get the baseball. He scrambled forward and grabbed up the ball as Rebecca hopped onto first base and turned her gap-toothed grin toward her teacher.
Stomping and muttering, Frank went back to his spot. His sour expression darkened when he saw his teacher was next at bat, poised to swing in her fancy full dress and white gloves. None too eager to throw the ball, Frank wiped his brow with the back of his arm.
“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Williams,” she called in her pleasant, melodious tone.
Frank scowled, reared his arm back and threw the ball as hard as he could. The bat met it with a sound crack. Six young mouths dropped open as the ball sailed high over their heads, disappearing beyond the line of redwoods.
“Be damned,” he said, feeling a ring of pride as she charged to first base, her petticoats all aflutter. He laughed as the cheering section went wild. She caught up to Rebecca at second base and took her hand, the two of them following Molly home as a boy finally emerged from the woods with the ball.
Kyle walked toward the front of the school as she met her sulking opponents at the center of the field. He couldn’t hear their words over the cheers and chatter, but when she offered her hand to Frank he nodded and shook it.
“Good morning, Kyle,” Stella greeted as she ushered the younger children inside.
“Quite a morning.”
She grinned and hurried past him. Constance’s eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Miss Pauley, congratulations on your victory.” He shifted his gaze toward the long-faced boy beside her. “Frank, better luck next year.”
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, and shuffled into the schoolhouse.
“Howdy, Marshal,” Toby shouted as he ran past.
“Are you a marshal?” Constance asked.
“I was.”
“Of course. That’s why you were there,” she said softly. “I should have realized sooner.” She glanced around, but they were alone in the yard. She stepped close, her face leaning up to his.
Kyle’s gaze locked on her pink lips, and he was hit by a powerful urge to kiss her. “Did you capture them?” she whispered. “The men who tied me up and set the fire?”
Guilt stabbed at his conscience. “We did.”
“Good. I have often wondered.” Her trembling smile was another blow.
“I don’t want to keep your class waiting,” he said, easing back.
“We’ve had a delay, but I believe we have things under control.”
“I believe you do, Miss Pauley.”
He was the one needing control.
Chapter Seven
A U.S. Marshal. Why hadn’t he told her?
She stood in her bedroom listening to the low tone of his voice as he talked to Stella in the kitchen. Constance had gone straight t
o her room upon arriving home, afraid Stella might ask her to light the stove. She’d taken time to rinse her face and hands and pin stray curls that had fallen throughout the day. She opened the tin canister beside her washbasin and dipped her fingers into the cold herb-scented cream. The soothing balm eased the stiffness in the pink patches on her hands. She pulled out a fresh pair of white gloves from the top drawer of her bureau.
Didn’t he think she’d have questions? She’d awakened in California with no one to ask if anyone else had been hurt or who the horrible men had been who’d tried to burn her alive. She could still see his face, the one who’d pinned her down, his dark eyes smiling as ropes burned across her wrists.
Fear shivered through her. Did she really want to know more?
Sister Agnes would tell her to let it go, to pray for tomorrow and seek peace. Her advice had helped to stop the nightmares, but much about that day haunted her still. Constance glanced at the unlit oil lamp sitting on the bureau. After supper she’d spend the rest of her evening in the dark. If she was to stay at Pine Ridge, in that room above the school, it was fear she’d have to face eventually.
She shuddered at the mere thought of touching anything to do with fire, even a match. Certain the stove had been lit by now, she pulled on her gloves and drew a deep breath, ready to offer Stella help with supper preparations.
She followed the glow of lit lanterns toward the heat coming from the kitchen. Stella had already set the table, the white plates and sparkling silverware standing out against a red tablecloth.
Stella and Kyle huddled at the stove. Kyle’s sister stood a few inches shorter than him, but his shoulders nearly doubled the span of hers. His smooth dark hair touched the top of his collar.
Her gaze moved down his leather vest, to a lean waist. Judging by the fit of his denim trousers, the rest of him was just as lean and muscular.
Sweet Mother Mary, she thought, suddenly stifled by the heat in the kitchen.