Sycamore Hill (23 page)

“I don’t know what you mean,” I hedged, realizing my error too
late.

“You couldn’t have met Reva unless you’ve been to Eden Rock. And I
wonder what you were doing out there.” I was glad of the darkness that
concealed my guilty flush. When I did not answer, he gave a slight laugh.
“Jordan works fast.”

“Mr. Bennett has nothing to do with my visits to Eden Rock.”

Ross chuckled. “Well, you needn’t worry. I’m not going to tell the
school board anything. I’m hardly on speaking terms with the preacher, and
James Olmstead is a pompous ass I would just as soon avoid.”

“I’ve been tutoring Diego,” I volunteered, not wanting him to
think my reason for going to Eden Rock had anything to do with Jordan Bennett.

“Defiance.” He smiled.

“Well, I don’t agree with Diego’s expulsion, and until I can find
a way of having him reinstated, I intend to see that he keeps up with his
lessons.”

“I don’t see why you should concern yourself. The kid is Bennett’s
bastard. Let him worry about it.”

I found Ross Persall’s statement offensive. “Ellen Greer says it’s
all a vicious rumor.”

“Ellen Greer is just a bit biased,” Ross said. “She doesn’t
believe he murdered Gwendolyn either.”

“But you do, I suppose.”

He sighed. “Let’s forget the sins of Jordan Bennett, shall we? I’m
much more interested in learning about yours.”

I had not liked the subject, but his abrupt disregard of it
bothered me. Did he really believe Jordan had killed his wife? Somehow I could
not believe it. Perhaps because I did not want to believe it.

I relented. “I’ve no real sins with which to regale you. Dreadful,
isn’t it?”

“Not even one little one?” Ross teased.

“Scores in my mind,” I admitted, “but none committed.”

Ross took a blade of grass and began nibbling thoughtfully at the
end of it. “Those are the best sins of all. Tell me about yours.”

“I do believe you’re serious,” I emitted with a laugh.

“Of course. What’s more interesting than discussing one’s sins...
committed or merely considered.”

“Well, then, let’s discuss yours. I’m sure they’re far more
interesting than mine.”

He grinned devilishly. “Perhaps, but I’m afraid we haven’t near
enough time to even start on mine.”

“What a shame.”

“Let’s just leave it at the fact that I enjoy bending rules now
and then.”

“Social or legal?”

Ross Persall laughed. “On occasion, both.”

We went on to talk of other things, and I found him a fascinating
companion. He knew much of the valley history and a great deal about the local
people. Some of his stories were shockingly funny and usually at the expense of
someone’s overly stiff propriety. Some of his stories were not so funny. It was
from Ross that I learned about Tom Hallender, the aging local sheriff.

Two decades before, three gunmen had come into town intent on
evil-doing. Tom Hallender had been only a deputy then. The local sheriff had
left town, afraid for his own life. Hallender had been forced to face the three
gunmen himself when they had broken into a local establishment and raped a
woman. He had called a challenge to the three men, who had laughingly accepted.
The gunfight had taken place on Main Street.

Tom Hallender was not a quick draw, but he was deadly accurate and
had a strong will to survive. The three gunmen had outdrawn him and had
succeeded in hitting him, but Tom Hallender had emerged the victor. He suffered
three gunshot wounds, one bullet grazing his side and chipping a rib. He had
dropped and rolled, but not soon enough to avoid the second bullet, which hit
him in the knee. Firing off two shots, he killed two gunmen. But the last
gunman managed to get off two more shots before he was felled by Hallender. One
of the outlaw’s bullets missed its mark, but the other passed through the
deputy’s shoulder.

The lawman had recovered quickly from the two flesh wounds, but he
never fully recovered from the shattered knee cap. The doctor had used a metal
disc made by the blacksmith to replace Hallender’s patella. Fortunately, the
daring medical experiment had prevented him from being crippled, but it brought
frequent pain and made him limp.

“He doesn’t look like a man with such courage,” I said, thinking
of the lean man of middling height. His thinning gray hair was always carefully
brushed from a center part, and placid gray eyes looked out above a thick nose.
His solemn mouth was hardened slightly by the thin, well-trimmed mustache.

“No, he doesn’t,” Ross agreed, tossing away another blade of
grass. “I was surprised when Bradford Poole told me the story. He was a kid
then, and remembers it firsthand. He said he’d watched from an upstairs
window.” Ross shook his head. “I was making critical remarks about the sheriff,
and that’s how the story came up at all. I guess everyone around here figures
everyone’s heard about it.”

“What kind of critical remarks?”

“There was a bank robbery two years ago. Three men killed a teller
and got off with a hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s quite a fortune.”

“By anyone’s standards,” he agreed.

“And what about the criminals?”

“One of them was wounded. Hallender went after them, but he said
he only found the one man. His buddies had murdered him when he slowed them
down.”

I gasped. “How awful.”

“But as for the other two, they got clean away. Not a clue as to
where they went or what happened to the money. Two of them were recognized by
one of the tellers.”

“Who were they?”

“A trio called the Woodland brothers. They had pulled a couple of
other robberies in the Oakland area and points north of there. It was the
younger brother Hallender found.”

I stared at Ross. “You mean they killed their own brother?”

“I doubt if they were really related,” he commented with a shrug.
“But with that kind of animal, you never know what they’ll do.”

“And this was two years ago,” I said quietly, in awe. “Have they
robbed anyone else since then?”

“There have been rumors, but nothing substantiated. One hundred
thousand dollars will carry them a long way.”

I sighed and looked down the hill. “Everyone’s gone!” I remarked
with surprise. I had been so engrossed by my conversation with Ross Persall
that I had failed to see the last celebrants leaving for home. I had missed
most of the celebration as well.

“So they are.” Ross chuckled, not surprised at all. “We’re all
alone now.”

“Stop teasing me.” I gave a push at the arm he started to put
around my shoulders.

“Aren’t you afraid I might seduce you?” His eyes gleamed with
laughter.

“Not in the slightest,” I answered and stood up, brushing the
autumn leaves from my skirt.

“So you do trust me.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. That’s a good foundation for a
friendly relationship.”

Ross gave a deep-throated laugh. “A friendly relationship, huh?”

“Purely platonic,” I emphasized, drawing my shawl more tightly
around me as I felt the cold. I laughed at his rueful expression.

He came to his feet. “You’re more of a brat than those sixty-odd
children you beat sums into,” he drawled.

I laughed again. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Mr. Persall.”

“Ross,” he coaxed.

“Ross,” I agreed, unable to think of him any other way now.

“I hope we can do it again.”

“So do I,” I said candidly, then frowned as I realized that it
would be virtually impossible.

“Why don’t we make arrangements for that to happen right now?” he
suggested with a raised brow.

“Another clandestine meeting?” I teased.

“Put a little excitement into our lives.” He grinned.

“I don’t dare put any more in mine,” I sighed, thinking of the
chance I ran riding to Eden Rock every Saturday. If the board were to hear....

“We can meet by the old water tower east of town. I can be there
at eight each evening,” Ross whispered encouragement. “It’s not far from the
schoolhouse, and no one goes there much.”

I looked up at him through the concealing veil of my lashes. There
was a warm blaze in his eyes, a sensuous curve to his mouth. Perhaps Ross was
not as trustworthy as I thought.

“I don’t think so,” I declined.

“You don’t trust me after all,” he said ruefully.

“Let’s just say I think it’s wise to leave things like this. We’ve
had an enjoyable evening.”

“Those who are always wise have life pass them by, my dear Miss
McFarland.” His faintly mocking tone lacked the bite of Jordan Bennett’s usual
barbed comments.

“Woefully true, perhaps. But I’m not in any kind of position to
test your theory. I’m sorry.”

“Then at least let me see you back to the schoolhouse.”

My luck with the school board was thin enough. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, wise and ever-cautious maiden,” he needled.

“Good night, Ross.” I smiled and turned away to walk down the
hill. I was almost to the bottom of the incline when I turned to look back up
where I had sat with him. Ross had walked down the other way along the fence of
the cemetery. He was standing beside a marker just beyond the boundaries. He
leaned down slightly and dropped something onto the ground. Then he
straightened and walked on without another look at the lonely grave.

I stood for a long moment in the shadow of the hill, then
curiosity got the better of sense. I walked briskly back along the line of the
hill and moved toward the grave. It was unkept, with weeds growing over the low
mound of dirt, which had started to sink in on its resting inhabitant. One wild
flower lay at the base of a cross that bore no identification. The flower rustled
against the night air and then rolled off the mound, flipping away with the
wind.

For a long time I stared at that grave, wondering what poor soul
was buried there just beyond the enclosed cemetery. What had the person done to
be so excluded from the peaceful, resting places of the others? Was there no
one who cared about the person who lay here beneath the cold earth, only a
wooden marker to say he had once lived?

But Ross Persall had cared. Not much perhaps, but enough to place
one wild flower on the grave.

Suddenly, for no explicable reason, I felt very cold. Drawing my
shawl more tightly around me, I turned away and walked back toward the darkened
schoolhouse.

When I came down over the hill and saw the schoolhouse, I was
struck by the silence. It was so quiet, my ears rang. Even the crickets and the
owl that inhabited the oak seemed hesitant to perform their customary night
concert. I stood motionless in the dark shadows of the oak, feeling vaguely
uneasy but unable to explain the sensation. I stared at the lonely, dark
building that was now my home.

How ironic, I thought, that during the daylight hours from Monday
through Friday the place resounded with the chatter and laughter of children at
work and play. But at nights and on the weekends it sat in lonely desolation,
inhabited by only me, Orphan and some active, noisy mice.

The chill I had felt at the grave returned when I saw a faint
illumination move across a side window of the schoolhouse. For a moment I had
thought I had seen a woman. Then I admonished myself for being so foolish and
letting my fanciful imagination control my good sense. What would another women
be doing in the schoolhouse this late at night?

I walked across the open area between the oak and the back steps.
As I started up, I heard something in my room. There was a scurrying and a
desperate mewling sound. Orphan, I thought in alarm, and opened the door
quickly, wondering what was the matter with her.

The cat gave a panicky yowl as she saw her escape made possible,
and she darted past me. Turning, I saw her bound down the steps and race madly
across the grass, clawing her way up the oak.

“Orphan, what is the matter with you?” I asked, reaching inside
the doorway to grab a match. I struck it, lit the lantern and glanced quickly
around the room. After finding everything in good order, I looked back out
toward the oak.

“Come on down, you silly cat,” I beckoned. She refused to budge
from her high perch, and I wondered if she could get down. She made a plaintive
meow.

“You got yourself up there, so I’m afraid you’ll have to find your
own way down,” I called to her.

Orphan had no intention of coming down from the tree. I gave a
faint shrug and quietly closed the door behind me. Sometimes that cat acted
very strange indeed. I despaired of ever getting her to catch the schoolroom’s
resident mice; she never wanted to enter the classroom at all.

My room seemed colder than the night air outside. Rubbing my arms,
I moved to the stove. There were still red-hot coals burning, and it seemed
strange that their heat had not kept the room from growing so chilly. I picked
up several more pieces of wood and stoked the coals, then dropped them in to
burn. Holding my hands over the fire, I warmed myself. I thought of my
conversation with Ross Persall and smiled slightly. Tonight had been a
pleasantly quiet interlude with a very handsome and charming man. Tomorrow
would be another demanding, yet exhilarating day with my children. I was
growing very satisfied with my life.