Sycamore Hill (3 page)

I laughed slightly. “I don’t know, Mr. Dobson. I’ve never been
around many young children.” I thought of maid Ann’s three boys and frowned.
“Those I have met hardly qualify as children.”

“What do you mean?”

“Annie Callaghan’s three boys have been working since they were
six. They seem very old. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of them laugh.”

“Factory work.”

“The Haversall factory,” I clarified. Dobson muttered a sound of
disgust.

“The world is well rid of that man.”

“That’s hardly a Christian thing to say,” I commented, but smiled.
“If what we are taught in church is true, Mr. Dobson, Charles Haversall should
be pitied now that he is dead.”

“Perhaps,” the solicitor said without conviction. “But it’s been
my experience to see the takers reaping the rewards of this world while the
good Christian men and women suffer. They say the devil takes care of his own.
My vision of hell is not one of fire and brimstone, but rather a place that
reeks of greed, lust, and every kind of evil. Charles Haversall will probably
relish his eternity.”

I stared at him round-eyed with surprise. Then I laughed. “Well,
to be completely honest, Mr. Dobson, I hope Charles and Marcella Haversall are
not too happy wherever they are.”

“In that we heartily agree,” he answered. “Now, let’s see what we
can do about your future.”

The carpetbag grew heavier with each step. I shifted hands, but
that afforded me little relief in the heat of the afternoon sun. My mouth
tasted of dust. Pausing alongside the dirt road, I dropped the bag and pulled a
handkerchief from my drawstring purse. Taking a deep breath, I dabbed at the
perspiration that beaded my forehead. I discarded the prim bonnet, pushing it
back to rest between my shoulder blades. Then I loosened the top three buttons
of my high-neck blouse. It plunged daringly, exposing more than just a little
swelling and cleavage above the camisole. I debated rebuttoning it and then
gave a shrug. There was no one about to notice my décolleté, and I was too hot
to worry about propriety at the moment.

I wondered if the stage had been repaired yet. At the rate I was
going, it might come along and pick me up before I was able to reach my
destination. Ten miles had not seemed like such a long walk this morning. But
it had been cooler then, and the excitement of reaching the end of my journey
had been great.

A faint smile twitched as I thought of the picture I made now.
Good heavens! If anyone got a look at me at this moment, I would look like a
dust-covered recalcitrant of the worst kind. Perhaps I would come by a stream
where I could freshen up a bit before arriving in Sycamore Hill. Otherwise I
would arrive just as I was: hot, dusty, and exhausted.

Looking up, I was greeted by a cloudless, crystal-blue sky that
under other circumstances would have been wonderful. Now I would have welcomed
a few clouds. Around me the hills were golden, the only green relief being the
waxy spined leaves of huge scattered oaks and other native trees. Not far away
was a line of imported eucalyptus trees standing like straight-backed
sentinels. There were no flowers about, but the stagecoach driver had assured
me that these same dry-grassed hills were covered in spring with golden poppies,
blue lupines, sunburst-yellow mustard flowers and red paint brushes.

I might have had more sense, I told myself for not the first time
in the past hour. I must have already covered six or seven miles, but I had no
way of really knowing. Distances in this hot, dry world of great spaces and few
people did not seem the same as in Boston.

Perhaps if I had not run into so many delays before the stage had
broken down, I would not have been so precipitate in hiking the last ten miles.
The worst delay had come in Sacramento, where my trunk with all the books and
teaching materials had been found missing. Central Pacific personnel had not
been unduly alarmed, for it seemed such an event was not uncommon. However, the
three days it had taken to locate the trunk in Placerville had caused me
sleepless nights and an agony of nervous tension. That did not begin to mention
my feelings when I was forced to spend three days boarding in a local hotel and
paying money I could little afford to spend.

As soon as my wayward trunk arrived in Sacramento, I had boarded
the next train to Oakland. Once there, I intended to take the train on to
Sycamore Hill. However, as the Fates had it, that train had already departed,
and the next would not go for another three days. The station manager had
mentioned an old stage line that was still in business. He also warned me that
the line had a reputation for frequent breakdowns.

Forty miles lay between Oakland and Sycamore Hill. After traveling
a continent, that small distance seemed negligible. I decided to take a chance
and ride the disreputable stage. I might have known it would break down not
once, but several times. The last time, the coach had lost a wheel ten miles
from town. The driver said it would be several hours before he could effect the
repairs. So I had taken to the road with the assurance that my trunk would be
dropped off at the general store in Sycamore Hill. Perhaps I would have been
wiser to stay with the stage and take my chances on arriving in town. At least
then I would have arrived looking like a lady and not something even a cat
would hesitate about dragging in.

In spite of all the mishaps, I was filled with trembling
excitement. Only at odd moments had I felt real resentment at the Haversalls.
Bradford Dobson had been surprised that my attitude had remained so mild. I
realized after his disclosures that I had never really known the Haversalls at
all, in spite of living under their roof for 18 years. They were strangers to
me. Having never become accustomed to luxuries, I did not miss them. Yet, I
could not say I did not have moments of bitter resentment about my stolen
inheritance. The worst moments were when I realized what a fool I had been to
remain out of mistaken gratitude. How they must have laughed at me!

But now I was free. I wondered sometimes if I would have felt so
free had I possessed that fortune Bradford Dobson had spoken about. Money
carried heavy responsibility. Had I inherited Haversall’s factory, I could
never have overlooked the despicable conditions of the loathsome place. As it
was now, I had nothing but a few dollars remaining from my father’s fortune,
and ahead of me a position as a schoolteacher for a rural community.

I wondered if I would have that position after the school-board
representative had a good look at me. I stopped long enough to brush down my
doe-brown skirt. The dust made a soft cloud around me. Sooner or later the sun
had to begin its descent, and the noon-high heat would have to dissipate.

Glancing up into the sky again, I thought it must be well after
two. Another hill stretched out before me. I prayed that this one would be the
last, and beyond it would lie a nice shady community. Sycamores were trees; so
surely that meant the town had an abundance of them. Nice, tall trees to cast
cooling shadows over my sunburned brow and cheeks and nose by the feel of it.

I was so deep in my thoughts that I failed to notice the gopher
hole right in front of me. Stumbling, I fell headlong into the road. Only
momentarily stunned, I stood up quickly, straightening my blouse and brushing
down my skirt.

“Of all the ridiculous things to do,” I mumbled to myself,
checking that I had not tom something or scraped anything. “You don’t need the
Haversalls to make a fool of you. You do such a great job of that yourself.”

Then I started to laugh thinking of the picture I must have made a
second earlier. It started with a mere jerk of my mouth and then opened into
peals of sound. A voice behind me cut it off as effectively as a noose around
my neck.

“This is hardly a day to be out pleasure-walking.”

Jumping with frightened surprise, I whirled around to face a man
sitting above me on a buckboard. His face and expression were shadowed beneath
the rim of his hat. In quick perusal I took in the rest of his appearance,
noting the clean white shirt that covered a set of decidedly broad shoulders,
the leather-and-brass-work belt that circled a lean, hard waist, the brown
pants that indicated long, well-muscled legs. He sat comfortably with those
legs apart, one booted foot raised on the brake. His hands were relaxed with
the reins. I noticed those hands, work-callused but clean even unto the trimmed
nails. I felt even more disheveled beside the man’s crispness, and a surge of
unreasonable resentment stiffened my spine.

With a careless movement, the stranger took off his hat and wiped
his forehead with his arm. I was sure it was the heat that made me feel
suddenly flushed and light-headed.

He was young, not more than 35, and very attractive in a rugged,
tanned sort of way. He had thick, tawny hair, sun-streaked blond in the front.
But it was his eyes that caught my immediate, if dismayed, attention. They were
the bluest I had ever seen, and they were filled with laughter.

With sudden understanding I realized he had witnessed my
ungraceful collapse into the dirt. My face turned an unbecoming beet-red, and
the resentment altered to growing irritation.

“You could give a person some warning,” I flared, “without
sneaking up behind her and scaring her half to death!”

There was the slightest narrowing of those blue eyes, but the
smile changed to a wide grin that disclosed even, white teeth.

“Now, little lady,” he drawled, lazily mocking. “You aren’t going
to pretend it was my presence that brought on that little dance routine you just
did.”

I deserved that unkind reminder, I thought, immediately regretting
my rude outburst. Then I became acutely aware that the man’s gaze had dropped
to the part of my anatomy that Marcella Haversall had tried to bound.
Instinctively I raised my hand only to come in contact with bare skin.
Humiliated to be caught in my misdemeanor of propriety, my fingers flew to
repair the oversight.

“I liked it better the way it was,” the man commented, not
intending to spare me anything. I glared up at him. Insensitive, he continued
his embarrassing scrutiny of my form.

Snatching up the carpetbag I had dropped, I began to march down
the dusty road again. I did not hear the buckboard moving and chanced a quick
look back over my shoulder. The man was sitting there watching me with an
enigmatic expression. I jerked my head back around, afraid that if I did not
watch where I was going, I would stumble into another gopher hole and make a
worse fool of myself.

I heard the buckboard move behind me.

“Why don’t you sit down and take a load off your feet. You look as
though you’ve walked for miles,” the stranger observed unkindly when he drew up
next to me. I did have some feminine pride, and I bristled at his blunt
assessment of me. I knew I looked a mess, but I did not appreciate his telling
me so.

“Thank you very much for your kind observations,” I said dryly
without looking at him or slowing my pace. Maybe he would take the hint and
keep going. I could feel his eyes on me and hoped he blamed the heat for the
rush of color. He flicked the reins again, guiding his two sorrels toward the
side of the road. They came very close, and I side-stepped. He kept on his
path, herding me like an unruly cow until I was pressed off the road.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, just managing to back step yet
again before my foot was squashed beneath a large hoof.

“How long have you been walking?” he countered.

“Since eight this morning,” I stammered, taking several more
backward steps to avoid colliding with the horses. “Will you stop those animals
before they walk all over me!”

“Happy to.” The man grinned, setting the brake and tying the reins
securely before jumping down to tower over me. My eyes widened, and I backed a
few more paces while staring warily up at him. Then I began to ease around the
buckboard.

“I’ve no intention of molesting you,” he commented derisively.
“But I thought you might need a drink of water.”

Escape, for the moment, was forgotten. He reached under the seat
and pulled out a canteen. I didn’t move and he extended his arm offering me the
canteen. I smiled.

“Is that all you have? I was praying for a river.”

He laughed. “Take it slow,” he said when I gulped thirstily from
the canteen.

“Oh, that tastes so good,” I breathed. “I think I’ve swallowed
half the dust between Oakland and Sycamore Hill.” I started to hand back the
canteen and then realized I should wipe off the top. With what? I wondered,
looking down at my dusty skirt and the soiled handkerchief stuffed into my
pocket.

Lean, hard fingers closed over mine. I released the canteen as
though his touch burned. A smile bent his mouth as he raised the canteen and
drank from it. There was something very intimate about that action, and I felt
my embarrassment revived. When he finished, he held out the canteen to me
again.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked, a faintly taunting
glitter in his eyes.

“No... no, thank you,” I declined, unable to keep from looking at
the finely shaped mouth that had just drunk from the container I had so
recently used. He seemed to know what I was thinking and grinned again.
Nervous, I fingered the loose tendrils of hair about my face, pushing them back
into the serviceable coil. The man watched, and I stopped my tense actions,
trying to appear relaxed.