Montana Rose (2 page)

Chapter 3

Rose defied the stationmaster to say anything. If he so much as looked pleased, she’d reach through the cage bars and choke him.

“My bags are on the platform,” she said, the words clipped. “I assume you’ll see they come to no harm. Dr. McCabe will pick them up tomorrow.” With that, she marched out the door.

Then she stopped short. The platform was empty. A headache that had been threatening now tightened her skull. Her bags were nowhere to be seen. She wanted to scream,
“What more? What possibly more?”

“Get in,” the voice growled from beside her.

Rose swirled around, coming face-to-face with the ruggedly handsome man. He was close enough she could smell his clean, masculine scent of pine, leather, and horse. Forgetting herself, she inhaled deeply.

“Look, lady, I don’t have all day. You may have the luxury of standing there daydreaming, but I’ve got a ranch and chores waiting. Now, get in.”

His curt words jarred her back to reality. Instead of being lost, her bags were stowed in the back of his wagon.

“Mr., uh, Mr.
—
”

“Rivers,” he spat.

“Mr. Rivers.” Rose drew herself up into all of her five foot three inches and tried to look him in the eye. “I have no intention of being indebted to you. I regret you took it upon yourself to load my bags into your wagon, but if you unload them, you can be on your way.”

For just a second, his mouth quirked with amusement, admiration flickering in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced with a cold glare.

With startling quickness, he spanned her narrow waist with his two large hands, picked her up, and plunked her down on the hard wagon seat.

Before she could sputter a word, Jesse rounded the wagon, seated himself beside her, and snapped the reins.

“Don’t make me regret this anymore than I already do,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she muttered.

He was a hateful bully of a man. And, he was raising a son just like him. Rose refused to look at Jesse and held on to her angry thoughts, embellishing them with relish the short distance to the schoolhouse. Short it might be in a wagon, but she admitted it would have been a long, painful walk. Well, it had been his choice, and she wasn’t about to thank him.

Rose jumped down from the wagon the second it stopped in front of the red schoolhouse perched on a small hill overlooking the town. Fields of waving grass surrounded it, dissected by the banks of a winding creek. She was so caught up in the surroundings of her new home and place of employment that the bags were unloaded and Jesse was back in the wagon, snapping the reins before she became aware of his actions. He’d dumped her like unwelcome baggage.

“Mr. Rivers.” But she was calling after a cloud of dust and a man’s broad back as the wagon lumbered out of sight.

Rose muttered a few unladylike words under her breath and vowed she’d say them to Jesse River’s face the next time she saw him. Her mouth twisted in concern as she scowled at the heavy bags by the schoolhouse step, squatting and waiting like fat, black beetles.

At least he got me here. I should be thankful of that. Now all I have to do is pray the school is unlocked. Then I’ll muster these infernal bags up the stairs and into my wonderful abode. Ha!

Jesse had no sooner rounded the corner than he regretted his actions. He should have carried her bags inside. Some of them were heavy and she was such a little bit of a thing. He stopped his thoughts right there. He wasn’t about to dwell on how right she had felt in his hands. And it was only the hot sun that had caused his heart to pound.

Sure, he was anxious to get back to the ranch, but that wasn’t the real reason for leaving the beautiful schoolmarm standing in the dust. No, it was because he knew if he didn’t get away from her he’d do one of two things
.
He’d either kiss that saucy, red mouth of hers, or shake her until that absurd robin bounced off her head. He found himself smiling at the thoughts
—
both of them.

What was done was done. He just hoped she wouldn’t be vindictive and hold his actions against Tory. The poor kid had enough troubles without his teacher taking her frustration out on him. He grinned, realizing Tory’s size alone should intimidate the school lady.
If
he could force Tory to attend school enough days for it to even matter.

Tory had a grudge against the world. A valid grudge, but darn it, he’d done his best since coming back. Didn’t the kid have an ounce of forgiveness in him?

Jesse knew the answer to that
:
No. Forgiveness would be a long time coming. Forgetting would be even longer. And the past was impossible to forget.

The day Jesse had left the Rocking R he’d turned his back on his little brother’s pleas to not leave him. He’d hugged Tory and tried to explain he couldn’t take a four-year-old along when he had no idea where he was going. He only knew that he had to escape his father’s unreasonable, and often brutal, wrath before he reacted and did something
—
something he’d live to regret. The rage and beatings were happening more often, and they were turning him into a pain-filled fuse waiting to be lit. It could happen the next time meaty fists pummeled his body or the bullwhip was grabbed.

So, like a thief, he left in the night on a nag stolen from his father’s barn. Rode out and left Tory crying in his bed, tears drying on his pinched face as he whimpered ‘please’ over and over. Jesse promised to come back just as soon as he’d made a place for the two of them. But the years tumbled one onto another, shaping him into the bitter, reclusive man he now was. Seven years of riding herd on someone else’s cattle, seven years of long, dusty cattle drives. Seven years saving every penny earned, telling himself that he’d come back for Tory when he finally saved enough. Now he was faced with a growing boy filled with bitterness that rivaled his own.

Jesse shifted. Well, he was back, not because there was enough money, or even because he wanted to be back. No, his return was due to a letter from his stepmother that had finally caught up with him.

His own mother had died trying to give birth to yet another stillborn child. Touting he needed more help on the growing ranch, his father had turned a deaf ear to warnings that any further pregnancies could be fatal. Sons were the cheapest labor to be had. Wore down from miscarriages, his mother had simply given up. Then, without her there to take the brunt,
he
had become the focus of his father’s drunken anger and cruelty.

His stepmother Emma’s letter begged him to come back to the Rocking R. She was dying, and in paragraph after paragraph, she divulged that his father’s wrath had turned on Tory not long after Jesse had left, and the boy had come to know the beatings and unending work. For the past seven years, he’d taken Jesse’s place.

His father was dead, Emma wrote. He’d been drunk and tried to ride a green-broke horse. He’d been thrown, landing head first in a rock pile and never regained consciousness. At her death, Tory would be left with no one. She’d try to hang on until Jesse returned. The ranch, despite his father’s drinking, was flourishing, and would be divided between the two boys. “
Please hurry,”
were her last words.

He had. But he hadn’t been in time. Emma died two days before he arrived to face the brother he no longer knew. To face the brother that had learned at an early age to trust no one and to smother any feelings except those of anger and resentment.

A year had passed since Jesse had ridden into the empty ranch yard. After his mother’s death, Tory had, with all the belligerence of a towering eleven-year-old boy, refused to stay with a neighbor and remained in the empty house. A house empty of love, but filled with grudging resentment.

Jesse shook off the memories as he drove the wagon to the barn and began unhitching the team. Tory was nowhere to be seen. The miles from town were nothing to the young boy. Not for the first time, Jesse felt the winter winds of loneliness sweep through him.

Chapter 4

Luck was with her, Rose thought
.
The schoolhouse wasn’t locked. With a great deal of muttering and evil thoughts about tall, lanky, cowboys, she carried her bags up the steps, leaving them in the entry porch. In spite of herself, she was eager to explore where she’d now live and work. For the first time in weeks, the gloom gave way to a ray of hope and excitement. She ventured into the main room. Rows of desks in various sizes lined the room. Blackboards spread along one wall and a potbelly stove held court in one of the corners. In another corner a rope as thick as her fist hung from a hole in the ceiling.

Rose walked over and squinted up, then smiled as realization dawned on her. A bell was housed in the tall steeple. She could see herself pulling the rope to ring the eager students in at the start of the day, and later, from lunch recess.

She would wear her best black skirt and white ruffled blouse with the high neck and small pearl buttons marching down the front. Even though they pinched, she’d wear the fashionable boots with the high heels. After all, she was an example to the young girls and to the community. She would be a teacher to be proud of, one people would point out, marveling at the luck of having her teach in Wise River. Rose paused, pondering if she should wear her hair in a bun or braid it, wrapping them as a crown around her head. That decision would take more consideration.

There was no doubt the children would love her and would greet each day with smiling faces, calling out, “Good Morning, Miss Bush.” Rose was grateful she’d taken back her maiden name. It would not have had the same, lilting sound for them to call out her married name,
“Good Morning, Miss Mulligan.” Her laughter bounced from the walls
,
hollow in the empty room.

Renewed by the whimsical musings, she continued around the room, stopping to pick up a book lying on a desk, or to tuck a ruler in the shelf under one desktop. Hers would be a tidy classroom, ready for parents or school board members at a moment’s notice. Of course, she’d warn them that, while they were welcome, classwork must not be interrupted. An education was a serious matter, and she would brook no deviation from the learning experience.

Still caught up in her daydreams, Rose glided over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room and eased herself in the wooden chair. Scooting it closer, she folded her hands on the desk and scanned the room. As she did, unexpected waves of fear and cold realization assaulted her. All her fanciful wonderings flew out the schoolhouse door.

The reality was
,
she was no more a schoolteacher than a farmer’s pig. She had no idea what to expect from her students and, worse yet, no idea what to expect from herself. She could plan what to wear, but she had no idea how to plan a lesson. In a few days, a classroom of boys and girls of all ages would look to her for knowledge. Not only that, but the school board would keep close tabs on the new teacher. Failure was imminent. Rose would fail, and in the process, she would lose the home provided her.

With a heavy sigh, Rose placed her palms on the desk and pressed up to her feet. Tilting her chin and summoning her courage, she opened the door and stepped into the adjoining room.

Sunlight streamed through sparkling windowpanes. The spacious room was inviting and clean. She held her breath, not daring to move for fear she would break the spell and this cheerful welcome was merely another figment of her vivid imagination.

But it wasn’t. Her eyes were drawn to the round oak table with a lace tablecloth and a small jar of wildflowers in the center. A pleasant odor of beeswax and honeysuckle tickled her nose.

The kitchen range with its shiny, black top and two warming ovens, would surely heat the room, and if she left the door open, some of the classroom. It took no trick of the imagination to see the teakettle, now resting on the back of the stove, whistling merrily with hot water for tea. In fact, and she eyed the wood neatly stacked in a box beside the stove, a cup of tea would be heaven right now. As soon as she finished exploring, she’d bring in her bags and start a fire. Whoever had prepared this pleasing room wouldn’t mind
—
after all, it was hers
—
at least for the time being. She smiled fondly at the beckoning rocker, snuggled near the stove.

Rose ran her hands over the cold stovetop and lifted the lid to the attached reservoir. With a fire going in the range, there would be hot water. A luxury for dishes, washings, and baths.

She drew back the heavy curtain separating the sleeping area. It was then Rose knew beyond a doubt that Wisteria had been the one who put the homey touches to her sister’s new home.

Gently, she touched the familiar quilt gracing the inviting bed. Years ago, Petunia had made it for her and Wisteria. Rose had loved that quilt and wanted it for her very own. There had been grumbling and much arguing before the girls had agreed to share. Now, Wisteria had given it to her to enjoy. And the memories of two girls snuggled beneath it, giggling and sharing secrets, would be enjoyed, too.

“Thank you, Wisteria,” Rose whispered, blinking back the tears filling her eyes.

Miraculously, all her earlier doubts left her, banished by the love-filled Morning Star quilt and the teakettle waiting to be filled. She could do this. She was a fighter. Anyone who could rope and drag a bawling calf out of a sucking mud bed could figure out a lesson plan. Today, she’d unpack and settle in. Tomorrow, she’d start the outline. Surely, the previous teacher had left some sort of curriculum.

Rose raised her arms and began removing the pins out of the firmly attached hat. Placing it gently on the bedside table, she began to free the coronet of braids. It was pure bliss to comb her fingers through her long, unbound hair, enjoying the freedom from the scalp-pricking hairpins and the heavy hat. Her traveling coat followed, as did the uncomfortable boots. A sigh of relief passed her lips. With determination, she placed one stocking-clad foot in front of the other and walked back through the waiting classroom to get her bags. Yes, tomorrow was another day. A challenge to be met and conquered.