Sycamore Hill (9 page)

“Tell her, Diego,” she pleaded softly.

“No,” he snapped, glaring at her. “And you’d better not either.”
There was more pride than threat in those words, and Linda sighed.

“Well, how did it go?” came a deep voice. I looked up sharply to
see Jordan Bennett lounging in the doorway, his hat pushed back from his
forehead. He directed his question to the children and then glanced briefly in
my direction. Linda ran to him, and he lifted her up with an affectionate laugh
that did something strange to my stomach. Linda chattered with more animation
than she had had all day, while Diego approached with more dignity. Bennett
asked a question in fluent Spanish, and the boy answered with one word.

"Bueno.”
He nodded, smiling up at Jordan
Bennett. Bennett looked across the room at me as I busied myself with the
children’s papers.

“You don’t look any the worse for wear,” he commented dryly.

“How did you expect me to look?” I managed an amused laugh.

“A little more haggard than you do,” he admitted. “But as you said
this morning ... give it a day or two.”

Was he really so hopeful of my failure? It was obvious that he had
not the least respect for my capabilities. But why was he so antagonistic?

“Are you hoping I’ll only last a few days?” I dared ask. That he
considered the question seriously with just the faintest twist of his mouth was
a slap in my face. I controlled my expression, only the slight upward tilt of
my chin indicating that his silence hurt.

“The children need a teacher,” he commented. “You’ll do as well as
anyone else they could find around here.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I muttered. I looked away
from his penetrating eyes to the two children watching us curiously. “I’ll see
you both tomorrow.” I smiled, hoping Bennett would take the hint and leave. He
read my thoughts and gave a low laugh.

“Good afternoon, Miss McFarland.” He doffed his hat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bennett,” I answered politely.

For the next few days school progressed well. I kept the children
busy with class assignments. During recesses I gave them a choice of outdoor
play or painting in the classroom. Many preferred to plaster the walls with
colorful drawings of trees, people, animals and anything else they fancied.
After two days the room was a bright art display of varying talents. Several
plants sat on my desk and the corner bookshelf. Scraps of material were sewed
together by the girls to make colorful curtains for the front windows, which
were unrepaired by James Olmstead and his school-board members.

Few difficulties arose between the children. After Diego’s initial
reluctance, he agreed to move into the group of boys including Toby and Luke.
He was welcomed without comment, and the boys began to copy his writing
techniques when they heard my praise of his work. Later, Diego began to join in
the outdoor games, leaving Linda free to become acquainted with several of the
girls her own age. Still overly shy, she became friends with the more
extroverted Margaret Hudson, who hardly gave her a chance to speak.

Katrina Lane still remained to herself, even though the other
girls made some overtures to her. The only fight that broke out all week was
between Sherman and Grant Poole over who was to pitch in a baseball game that
had not even begun yet. With pick and shovel, the two boys made remarkable
progress on the latrine.

When Saturday came, I was grateful for the day’s respite. Though I
thoroughly enjoyed the classroom hours with the children, my schedule had
proved grueling. Papers and lesson plans kept me up late into the night, and I
had to rise early each morning to get everything in readiness for the children.
At least, I thought with some satisfaction, the schoolroom had become more
cheerful with the children’s artistic contributions.

Intending to do my wash, I was in the process of toting water when
I heard laughter coming from the front play yard. Coming around from the back,
I spied Jordan Bennett coming up the street on his buckboard. Behind him a
sturdy horse was tied and following. In the back of the wagon was a hand plow.
At a safe distance behind the horse I spotted Sherman and Grant following,
laughing between themselves.

From the gleam in Jordan Bennett’s eyes I knew that his malicious
intention was to make me look a complete fool. Squaring my shoulders, I started
forward to meet him at the front gate.

“Good morning, Mr. Bennett,” I greeted him pleasantly enough. “How
kind of you to come by to plow our play yard for us.”

Jordan Bennett laughed. “Nice try,” he said in a low voice only I
heard. “Just unload it over there, boys,” he instructed Sherman and Grant.
Matthew Hayes had arrived with two of his brothers. They all were more than
eager to oblige Bennett’s order.

“The horse and plow are my contribution to your cleanup efforts.”
He grinned.

“I’m sure I should be very grateful,” I said glumly.

“I’ll even be kind enough to give you a quick lesson,” Bennett
went on. I knew he expected me to decline and tell him what he could do with
his horse and plow.

“All right,” I agreed. “I’m more than willing to learn if it’s
necessary.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he considered me in silence. He jumped
down off the buckboard. “We’ll see if you have the back muscles for it,” he
commented. “A woman of your intelligence should be quick enough to learn
something as simple as plowing a field. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t imagine I’ll be the first.”

With a few succinct instructions he showed me how to harness the
horse, which was looking dubious about the whole thing. I eyed the animal
warily, half expecting it to kick me. Jordan looped the reins about my
shoulders, positioned the plow and stood back. I had watched the play of his
hard muscles through his cotton shirt. He made everything look easy, and my
confidence grew. After taking the plow for a step or two, he turned the job
over to me.

It was not as easy as it looked. I mimicked his movements, and the
knowledge that he and five of my students were watching me gave me added
strength. After about ten feet I knew it would be impossible for me to plow the
play yard myself. My back and arms were already aching.

Pausing to wipe my forehead, I glanced back to see Jordan Bennett
standing there with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was enjoying
this. He was just hoping I would quit so he could make another one of his
cutting remarks about my ineptitude. I turned back around, determined to go on.

Something scurried through the grass and startled the horse. It
bolted to the side, jerking the plow out of my hands and making me fall heavily
to the ground. My thigh hit something hard, and I gasped in pain. I barely had
enough time to get my breath when Jordan Bennett was leaning down, intending to
haul me up like a sack of potatoes.

“I can get up by myself, thank you, Mr. Bennett.” I pulled my arm
away from his far-from-gentle touch. I kept my face averted so he could not see
how much my leg hurt. I knew I had bruised it badly. He disregarded my
assertion and grasped me around the waist to lift me to my feet.

“Are you always so damned stubborn?” he demanded harshly, his face
so close to mine that his breath fanned my cheeks. “You didn’t seriously think
I meant for you to plow this damn yard, did you? Now, what did you do to your
leg?”

“It’s nothing,” I stammered, unable to pull my eyes away from his.
My heart was thudding frantically, and my breathing was shallow. His eyes
narrowed and dropped to my mouth.

“Are you all right, Miss McFarland?” Sherman Poole asked, running
over, his brother in his wake.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, my voice overly bright. I pressed Jordan
Bennett’s hand away from my arm.

“If you want to help, take over the plow,” Bennett told the boys.
“That’s if you know how!” Sherman, who was gazing moon-eyed at me, did so,
while Grant argued that he wanted a turn.

“Look, Miss McFarland, it’s easy. I’ll have this done in an hour!”
Sherman boasted.

“Come on, Sherman. Give me a chance,” Grant grumbled.

"Two conquests already. And the Poole boys, no less,” Bennett
observed sardonically.

“I think I’ve had about enough of you, Mr. Bennett,” I said in a
low voice.

“Do you now, Abby?”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my Christian
name, let alone cutting it short,” I said, growing more irritated by the
minute.

“You’re more an Abby than an Abigail,” he said, his eyes moving
with a strange intimacy over my face. “Wide eyes the color of turquoise with
gold nuggets, and red hair.”

“My hair is not red,” I denied, all the while squirming uneasily
under his gaze. If he could look at me like that, how did he look at his wife.

“Auburn then, if it makes a difference,” he conceded. “I’ll bet it
would be wild and soft if you ever let it out of that Godawful bun you wear.”
He reached out to touch it almost as though he meant to remove the pins, and I
jolted back, flushing with embarrassment and fright. Flustered, I did not know
what to say; so I stepped quickly by him. He was smiling, silently laughing at
my reaction to him.

Looking away from his taunting face, I saw James Olmstead striding
up the street. He looked anything but approving. Berthamae Poole was coming up
the opposite side of McPherson, and her expression reminded me of Marcella
Haversall in one of her moods.

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“What’s the matter, Miss McFarland? Are your teaching methods
about to bring the town citizens upon your head?” Bennett chuckled.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I evaded, refusing to look at him.

“You know exactly what I mean, Abby," he said softly.
"I've been getting rather interesting reports from Linda and Diego.”

“What sort of reports?” I asked, darting him a questioning look.

“Pilfered paints, picture-painting on the schoolroom walls,
children digging latrines. Working the children like little slaves when they’re
not vandalizing community property.”

“That’s not the truth—” I started defensively, but he cut me off.

“Fine moral example you’re presenting, huh?” He raised his brows
expressively. “You should be ashamed.” He tut-tutted his tongue. “And you have
a right to look like a scared rabbit.” He glanced at James Olmstead and
Berthamae Poole coming to the gate. “If I’m right, you’re about to be nailed to
the cross.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy staying around to watch,” I retorted,
walking away from him and forcing a greeting smile at Olmstead.

“Grant Poole!” Berthamae Poole hollered, her face an unbecoming
mottled red. “What on earth are you doing behind that plow?” The boy started
guiltily and blushed to the roots of his hair as he glanced at me. Sherman was
red-faced as well.

“You two boys get over here this minute. If you two are so eager
to work, you can just get on home and do the chores!” she shouted at them. Then
she glared at me accusingly. “And I’ll thank you not to have my sons digging
outhouse holes, Miss McFarland!” she huffed furiously.

“Ma—” Grant tried to interrupt.

“Shut your mouth and move!” his mother ordered, and the two boys
hot-stepped on down the street, their mother following along with more verbal
encouragements. The Hayes boys scattered.

“I thought you understood the rules, Miss McFarland.” Olmstead was
beginning on me next. “You’re not off to a very good start on a number of
counts.”

I heard Jordan Bennett’s approach and silently groaned. What
wonderful contribution would he make to this scene? James Olmstead looked from
Bennett to me, and his expression was insinuating. “What are you doing here,
Jordan?” he finally asked.

Jordan Bennett laughed easily. “Now, hold on just a minute, Jim!
You’re not implying there’s anything between Miss McFarland and myself, are
you?” His tone made such an idea ludicrous in the extreme. I came near to
hating him.

“No, I’m not,” Olmstead said. “But rules are made with good
reason. We’ve got to think of the children. Which brings me to another point,
Miss McFarland.” He swung back to me. “I’ve been hearing some things from
Andrew that I hope aren’t true.”

“Since I don’t know what you are referring to, perhaps you should
enlighten me, Mr. Olmstead,” I said with cool dignity.

“I’ll just look for myself and save the questions,” he said,
marching through the gate and up the path to the schoolhouse. I followed
slowly, raising fingertips to the throbbing veins in my temple. The painful
bump on my thigh hurt as I walked, but I forced myself not to limp, well aware
that Jordan Bennett was watching me.

James Olmstead appeared at the top of the steps. “Come in here and
explain this appalling mess to me!”

“Yes, Mr. Olmstead,” I replied, resigned. When I entered the
schoolroom, Olmstead was staring around him as though he could not believe his
eyes.

“I couldn’t believe what Andy told me this morning until I saw
with my own two eyes,” he said, still staring at the walls. Then he turned a
furious glare on me. “How could you do this?” he demanded. “How could you allow
the children to desecrate this schoolhouse in such an unthinkable way?”